Simna eyed him uncertainly. Along with everyone else, he had to shout to make himself heard above the howl of clashing winds. “Hoy, long bruther, what do you want with that? We need less wind, not more of it!”
“Not less, Simna.” Ehomba wiped perspiration from his eyes and forehead. “What we have is what we need. It only wants some guidance.”
Climbing back onto the helm deck, he made his way to the stern railing. There he tried to assume a solid stance, but the pitching and rolling of the ship made it impossible. Without using at least one hand to grip a stay or line, he kept stumbling from side to side, forward or back. Leaning against the railing helped a little, but when the bow of the Grömsketter rose sharply, the motion threatened to pitch him over the side.
“This is not working,” he declared aloud.
“I can see that, bruther!” Spitting seawater, Simna clung to the railing next to him. “What do you need? What do you want?” Spume-flecked wind shrieked in their ears.
“My feet nailed to the deck, but that could cause problems later.” Grimly searching the ship, the herdsman espied the big cat standing foursquare and four-footed to the left of the helm, as stable as the mainmast. “Ahlitah! I need your help!”
“What now?” Grumbling, the cat released its grip on the battered teak and turned. His extended claws held the decking as firmly as crampons on a glacier.
“I need someone to brace me,” Ehomba told him. “Can you do it?”
The big cat considered, yellow eyes glowing like lamps in the darkness of the rising storm. When lightning flashed, it was the same color as the master of the veldt’s pupils. “It’ll be awkward. My forelegs are not arms.”