The Eye of Neptune by Jon Mayhew

Dakkar’s core, making his teeth chatter and loosening his grip on the plank. He kicked his legs as best he could but the sea had numbed them. His vision began to whiten, light filling his sight, blotting out the details until he couldn’t see. He felt the grain of the wood slide from out of his grasp. The sting of water on his face brought him to and he splashed feebly.
    ‘There’s one here!’ a voice cried. ‘A boy. We can’t leave him.’
    Dakkar felt strong hands grip under his arms and he became weightless. The water vanished and instead he felt the press of planks at the bottom of a rowing boat.
    ‘Take him and these others to Blizzard,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Find out what they know. The rest of you, save anything valuable that’s floating.’
    The voices faded and darkness finally filled Dakkar’s vision as exhaustion took him.
     
    The market square buzzed with life. Bordering the square, stalls were piled high with spices and fruit. The sweet smell of spiced chicken roasting on hot coals taunted Dakkar’s nostrils as he looked down at the throng from his balcony. Traders in colourful robes jostled with travel-weary merchants. Women with heavy baskets chided ragged children who chased in and out between the grumbling adults. In the centre of the square stood a wooden platform.
    ‘Look at them, my son,’ his father said, placing a hand on Dakkar’s shoulder. ‘They are the herd. Farmers, shepherds, cooks and merchants. They need a leader. They need someone to fear.’
    ‘Yes, Father,’ Dakkar said, puzzled, as the rajah raised a hand.
    The crowd parted and three royal guards dragged a struggling man through the dust to the platform. Two guards slammed the ragged man to his knees on the platform while the other one read a proclamation.
    ‘He spied on me for the English,’ Dakkar’s father sneered. ‘For the British East India Company.’
    ‘But doesn’t the Peshwa tell us that they are our friends?’ Dakkar wondered aloud.
    His father’s face darkened. ‘The Peshwa is a fool!’ he spat. ‘He is meant to govern us all but he is a mere puppet, controlled by the company.’
    Dakkar stared at the hatred on his father’s face. Then a scream snapped his head back to the square. Blood pooled on the platform and the guard tossed something into the crowd. Dakkar turned away.
    ‘Watch, my son,’ his father whispered, close to his ear. ‘That is how a true leader deals with enemies.’
     
    Freezing water smacked Dakkar in the face, stopping his breath and making him sit upright. His hands gripped dirty straw strewn on a damp wooden floor. The smell of tar and stale bodies filled his nostrils and drove the roast-chicken scent of his dreams far away.
    In the semi-light, Dakkar saw rough walls, a small door with a barred window. Two seamen blocked the door. One tall and bony, with protruding cheekbones and ears like trophy handles. The other filled more of the doorway, with his round belly and broad shoulders. His goatee beard made him seem as though he had a constant smirk on his face.
    ‘The boy, Mr Slater,’ said the fat man. ‘He wants the boy.’
    ‘Aye, Mr Finch,’ said the bony Mr Slater, with a long sad smile. ‘None of you others now. Stand back!’
    Dakkar turned round and saw a gaggle of eight evil-looking men. He suppressed a whimper as he took in eyepatches and hooks, scars and sneers.
    The nearest pirate leered at Dakkar with one good eye, his grin displaying crooked brown teeth. ‘Put a good word in fer us, eh, lad?’ he cackled, and poked Dakkar in the shoulder. The other pirates all joined in, shoving and laughing at him.
    Finch grabbed Dakkar’s shoulder with pudgy hands and dragged him out of the room. Slater slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.
    ‘You’re in with a bad lot there, lad,’ Slater muttered, shaking his head.
    Dakkar stumbled through the darkened lower decks of the ship. Men scurried around, hammering wood, heaving broken barrels and