Eventually it was Inaia that steered the Red Virgin to a remote island, capturing the looks of many black eyes as she did, for they had never seen a woman handle wooden bars so good. And such a white woman too. As for the Sgt. Eotigan, he sat back as the vessel streamed to shore and studied his new brethren with calm yellow eyes.
"Is he a Djinni?" One hunk debated with a close brother. "Me not sure, man. But surely he is nat mortal man," the second man replied.
The 300 all sat on places in the open deck of the Red Virgin. Some, on barrels punctured by iron bullets of the gunfight earlier. Many, on the stiff, headless bodies of the slavers they'd killed. To each their own. But one thing their gazes all shared was the one enigma who'd freed them. It wasn't just those two men who were talking about Eotigan. To a Moor with midnight skin, his confusion was why this red-haired soldier could not maybe be their Messianic prophet—maybe with a poor choice in jobs—but still.
