Imperialist: The Voyage

Chapter Ten; The Black Sheikh

Moutassim took a deep breath as a waft of cold, salty air washed over his face, along with a healthy spray of ocean wave rocking his flagship. Dawn was breaking, the sky a gunmetal grey colour that was reflected by the vast body of water underneath it. But Moutassim, who had just completed his prayers while struggling for balance, was undaunted by the bleak scenery before him. He was leading an expedition of ten ships across the Atlantic Ocean. He was finally carving out his legacy.

As he traced the name on the side of his ship, The Black Shiekh, Moutassim pondered legacies. His grandfather, Abdullah I, was known for bringing all the tribes together and forming the empire of Mesigan, with himself as emperor ruling over his vassal kings.

"The creator." Moutassim mumbled to himself.

His father, Abdullah II, had consolidated the empire and protected it from its enemies, both foreign and domestic. He had kept the empire together during the secession crisis of 1109 and had stabilized it's economy and army, as well as solidifying the tribute system.

The nurturer, Moutassim thought, idly fixing his arm guard.

And what would he be known for? Continuing his father's legacy? No, it was time to step out of his father's shadow and carve a path of his own. A path straight through the Atlantic ocean, in search of new lands.

"The grower," Moutassim muttered.

"What was that?" Tigrita's voice came from behind him. He spun around, his breath catching at how beautiful she looked, her wavy bundles of hair blowing across her face by the ocean breeze. He'd never get used to the way her presence made him feel.

"Nothing," he said, clearing his throat. "How did you sleep?"

Tigrita came to the side of the ship and looked out at the scenery.

"In Mathus, I'm used to roughhousing it and sleeping wherever I can," she said quietly. "I slept fine. You, my emperor?"

In truth, Moutassim had tossed and turned in excitement for hours before falling asleep. Excited about the trip, but also about Tigrita's presence. He couldn't explain it. He was always dutiful, always responsible, always noble. Yet he was increasingly finding it difficult to hang on to those qualities around the beautiful nomad.

Tigrita had begged him to come along, desperate to escape from his vindictive wife who had found every pretence to saddle her with extra work or to holler on her. But that was not his only motive for bringing her on this voyage.

"I slept like a baby." Moutassim lied.

Someone yawned loudly. Moutassim reluctantly tore his eyes away from Tigrita's clear grey ones, as his brother stretched and got up.

"Where's the wine?" Tarik muttered, scratching his bald head. "I hope you haven't hidden it. I swear I'll jump overboard if you have."

Moutassim pointed to one of several crates on the forecastle deck, struggling to keep the distaste off his face as his brother hurried to the crate, fell to his knees and began prying it open with his knife.

"Oh, stop judging," Tarik said, as he freed the bottle and held it up to examine it's cherry red contents. "I never wanted to come on this trip, you literally ordered me to come. I'll need wine if I'm to make it through."

"Knock yourself out," Moutassim said, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to Tigrita.

"So... when do we reach land?" She asked.

"We should be reaching the volcano islands in a matter of days," Moutassim said. "They have never been properly mapped before, so I can only average and go by word of mouth from other explorers."