A voice was shouting from behind. “You there! You there!” Ramagar spun to face a heavyset bear of a man he recognized at once as the third mate.
The sailor’s eyes flickered with recognition; he glanced down at the blown hatch and immediately understood. Ramagar gave no time for thought. The ship rolled and he leaped at the man, feeling the sting of rain on his face as they grappled and rolled across the deck.
“It’s the thief!” came a dim scream of someone at the quarterdeck. “He’s escaped — catch him!”
The cunning master rogue leaped to his feet, grasping for the lash line, and kicked his boot at the third mate’s face. The sailor took the blow and tumbled back with his arms flying out to reach the rope. But as he did, another wave hit broadside, catching him off guard. Choking water, the mate slipped helplessly, sliding between Ramagar’s open legs, rolling over barrel-like until he came to a crushing halt at the block of the second mast.
At that point another member of the mutinous gang battled from his station at the halyards and made toward the crouching thief at the lower portion of the deck. A small single-edged knife was set between his teeth and he carried a thin, weighted pin in his hand. Ramagar saw the club come flying, tearing down against the wind in his direction. He twisted to avoid it, but not quite in time. The pin hit a powerful blow against his shoulder and the thief winced, fighting off the stinging hurt and adeptly swinging himself under the lash line and grabbing for another. Desperately he tried to make for the bridge.
A salvo of roaring thunder shook every plank and board from stern to stern, and the battered vessel staggered yet another time as a mountainous wave crashed over the bow and came tearing down the main deck, splintering spars and railing and masts alike. Screams of drowning men filled the air and Ramagar, water high over his head, swam up from the deluge in time to fill his bursting lungs with air. His assailant also had managed to survive the wave. A companion cried out to him for help, but he shook off the man and came lunging at Ramagar with the knife firmly in hand.
Holding onto the line with all his energy, the injured thief lashed out, yanking the oncoming sailor by his tunic and sending him spinning. The quartering seas caused the ship to cant with a sickening heave. Driven rain fell like pricking nails. Ramagar shoved at the dazed sailor and sent him tumbling over the buckling planks. The crewman staggered only as far as his knees before he started sliding backward. And when the Vulture rocked with the ensuing pounding, he lost all control and fell headfirst over the steeply angled broken foremast, down into the sea.
Straining with every step, the haj, too, had managed to climb from the hatch. He swung himself up and around barely in time; a sailor jumped directly for him from his place at the quarterdeck and sent both of them tumbling into the rolling froth. The haj’s leg tangled in the lash line. As the sailor’s knife came up, the haj shifted his weight and swung his clenched hands powerfully into the mutineer’s face. The sailor tottered with surprise. The haj barreled forward, caught him by the wrist, and wrenched loose the knife. Both men lunged for it as it slid by, the haj straining to keep it in sight. Both touched the blade at the same moment. Then they became a tangle of bodies, flesh so closely mingled that it was impossible to determine who was who.
A low groan was the only sound: slowly the sailor righted himself, clutching his hands to his belly. Then he doubled over and slid, Burlu watching in fascination as dark blood swilled and blended with the foaming water.
The Prince reached the bridge, fighting his way to the startled captain and helmsman. All around them was mayhem; the two mariners from Cenulam battled evenly at the out-of-control wheel and desperately made every effort to stop the ship from spinning dizzily into the vortex.
From the block of the mainmast the bosun and his henchman looked on in biting terror as they saw the ship begin to flounder and the handful of passengers wage a distressful conflict with the remaining mutineers. The ship was unable to right itself as they half-crawled, half-stumbled their way along the slippery lash line to the bridge.
Icy waves came exploding into the hull, over the battered sails. The pressure of the wind was terrific; the yardarms had all but broken and were slashing into the crests while the ripped sails flapped torturously.
“It’s no good,” cried the frantic helmsman to the captain. “We’re falling off to starboard and ready to capsize!”
“We’re not done yet!” replied the captain with resolve. And though his hands were numbed and bloody, he pushed his weight against the immobile wheel with all his might, point by agonizing point turning it until the Vulture returned to a precarious balance while it tore through the vengeful waves.
“See there!” shouted Osari, waving his hand toward the high cirrus clouds suddenly appearing to the west. It was a curious sight that the helmsman strained to see; a patch of near blue surrounded by thick gray and black.
“It’s the eye!” called the helmsman with glee.
“Aye, that it is,” flared Osari. “And if we can reach its calm the ship still has a chance!”
Muscles taut and aching, veins popping, the two mariners struggled to bring the ship around hard enough to let the eye of the hurricane pass directly above them. The bosun, meanwhile, and several others had crept closer to the bridge and the bold men determined to save the ship from total destruction. One sailor agilely clambered up, a long knife held loosely in his right hand. The Prince, who had been securing the ropes from behind for Ramagar, caught sight of the man from the corner of his eye and turned as the sailor daringly leaped to cut the lash line.
The Prince crouched, blue fire flaming from his hand. At the sight of the dagger the seaman hesitated, debating whether to attack or run; but anger burned in his eyes and hatred smoldered in his heart. With a loud cry on his lips he scrambled forward, slashing out wildly and forcing the Prince to backstep dangerously close to the shattered railing. The Prince dodged the whistling knife and thrust the dagger. The blade touched wet flesh and everything that followed happened so quickly that all became a blur.
The sailor dropped his knife and put his hands to his face as he screamed. Blue fire ignited and exploded, his tunic becoming a flaming torch, his skin charred and blackened. Crying for mercy and insanely running across the bridge, the hapless mutineer tumbled down to the main deck, where the flames caught the block of the forward hatch and set the entrance to the hold raging in blue-tinted conflagration. Men called to heaven to help them as the lash lines, soaking as they were, burned like heavy fuses up and down the length of the ship. Out of control, the fire was spreading swiftly, fanned by the hostile winds and unhampered by the deluge of pouring rain.
The bosun shouted for his men to follow, but few heard, and those who did were either too frightened or were themselves being encompassed by the fire.
Ramagar had no feeling in his frozen fingers as he climbed to the wooden guard railing and hoisted himself onto the bridge. The bosun had lunged for Captain Osari, eyes glowing madly, aware that his plot had been spoiled, and now determined to kill the brave captain before the ship keeled over for the final time and smashed into ten thousand raging embers. Ramagar made it to his feet, shaking off fatigue, and slid his way between the lashed captain and the racing mutineer.
The mizzen and topsails burst into glorious color, dancing fingers of fire rising ever higher and lighting up the black sky. Relentless winds rocked the mainmast until it split and fell, crushing a few cowering crewmen taking shelter beneath the lifeboat. The fires were burning more freely now, dousing momentarily with every wave that crashed over the deck, only to fan again when the cold water subsided.
The bosun trembled in horror as chunks of flying mast came bounding over his head. Ramagar forced his body up and slammed himself clumsily into the sailor’s ribs. The bosun wheezed with the blow and a savage gush of freezing water; pushing forward, groping for the slipping thief, he kept firm control of his knife and swung out wildly. Ramagar rolled in the bracing salt water, fighting off the sharply growing pain inflaming
his shoulder. Through the driven rain the bosun grinned acidly; he knew the thief was hurt, knew he could no longer give him much of a fight.
Charging into the flying sprays, he wielded his weapon at arm’s length, cutting against the air with quick, slashing movements and forcing Ramagar to huddle beside the rail-guard overhanging the bulwark. His eyes stinging so painfully that he could barely see, the salted water adding punishment to the already swollen and raw wound, the thief of Kalimar shielded his body, twisting and turning to avoid the oncoming thrusts.
Licking flames rose all about the bridge, great tongues of blue fire, scorching everything in their wake and throwing off terrible heat. A thick swirling pall of bluish smoke hung low above their heads.
Metal clashed on metal as Ramagar’s knife met the flat edge of his adversary’s vicious thrust. Angrily the two men parried and stalked while the captain and his helmsman watched helplessly, lashed to the wheel and daring not to lift a finger while the ship yet pitched. But the eye of the hurricane was drawing closer; the shattering winds had already begun to slacken. Straight ahead the sea was strangely calm, and the burning ship was inching its way toward it.
Ramagar slipped again, this time just before the white froth slammed over the side. His knees buckled and he tumbled, knife flying from his hand. The bosun held his balance, whipping his own knife in frenzy. Ramagar was cornered, caught between the still flaming lash lines and the fractured rail. Face and beard drenched and dripping, lips blue and unfeeling, he dodged this way and that, constantly moving, seeking only the slightest opening to topple the bosun and send him crashing over the side. But the excruciating pain only worsened, spreading down his arm, and he could barely find the strength to shift fast enough to skirt the bosun’s well-delivered thrusts.
The sailor saw this and laughed cruelly. The bent and staggering thief was at his mercy, waiting to die at his whim. Pacing now in a semicircle, careful to avoid the lash line, he glared callously at the thief, taunting him to attack. “Say a prayer, if you know any,” he hissed to Ramagar. “And remember that you’ll never touch that whore of yours again!”
In the wind and the rain Ramagar could not see clearly what happened. A dark form slipped behind the bosun, slowly moving between lines and crossing the bridge. But the blue flame in his hand told all there was to know — it was the Prince, finished with his own skirmish and coming to the thief’s rescue.
Blue Fire plunged into the sailor’s back. The mutinous bosun bolted upright, jerking in spasms, trembling witlessly. Then his tunic burst into flame, his hair a mass of bluish coils, stinking as it singed like brushfire and the flame ate into his scalp. His face distorted horribly, a death mask of contorted misery, fire rotting him to the bone before the thief’s startled eyes. And his scream was a scream no man who heard it would ever forget. Ramagar put his hands to his ears to stifle the pain of it. He shuddered; no man should die like this, he thought. No man — not even the cruel, spiteful leader of the mutineers.
Another wave crashed and the bosun was lifted up and hurled from the ship. The blue flames carried far and wide; both the Prince and Ramagar stared in wonder at the bright glow from the water which lasted long after the charred corpse had sunk into the bottomless bowels of the sea.
Ramagar pulled himself up, gratefully looking at the man who had saved his life. But before a word could be passed between them, they turned abruptly at the helmsman’s cry: “The eye! We’ve reached the eye!”
And suddenly there was a strange quiet. Looking beyond the shattered ship, Ramagar could clearly see the terrible storm dealing thunderous blows at every side — every side, that is, except where the sky glistened above them in soft blue and the rain had ceased.
“We made it!” called the helmsman happily. “We made it!”
“Aye,” growled Captain Osari as he surveyed the incredible damage done and the fires nipping at the edges of every sail. “But what good will it do? The Vulture is doomed. She cannot survive the fires. We’ll burn to ashes.”
And so it seemed. In the swiftest of glances it was obvious that the vessel would be lost long before the eye was passed and the storm began anew.
The Prince looked about at his friends, aware of the fear and anger in their eyes. The haj and Mariana stood together below, the old man virtually encompassed by spreading flame and holding the anguished girl in his powerful arms. Young Homer stood bravely beside the lifeboat, which also had begun to spark. The Prince looked on motionlessly as the thief sighed a long sigh and hung his head. Even Captain Osari and the helmsman seemed to accept their fate. They had given it a good fight, one and all, each of them doing his share. But now the battle was lost; it would take a miracle to save them. And none of them believed in miracles.
Scattered across the deck lay the still bodies of a few mutineers, drowned or burned to ghastly deaths. Among them was also the Cenulamian first mate, close beside the smoldering corpse of the cabin boy, who had given his life while bravely entering the fray.
It was a sad sight that the Prince gazed upon: a handful of dejected survivors helplessly waiting for the fire to flare out of control and consume them all.
“How far to the nearest land?” asked the Prince, turning to Captain Osari. “Can your ship hold through the storm to get us there?”
Osari looked at him as though he was mad. “We’re burning to cinders,” he said with bewilderment. “We’re days from land — any land. But what matter? The ship will be a total ball of flame in less than an hour.”
The Prince shook his head. “No, Captain. It won’t,” he replied mysteriously. “Believe me, it won’t. Just tell me, is the ship too badly damaged to make it to shore?”
Osari couldn’t believe his ears. By now he was thoroughly convinced that his passenger was a raving lunatic. But still, even though demented, the man would have an answer.
“No,” he drawled slowly. “If the fires could be put out, and if we all fought together to keep ourselves afloat, maybe, just maybe, we could hobble to some safe harbor.”
The Prince smiled. “Then do it, Captain Osari. Guide your ship to land.”
Osari glanced at Ramagar and the thief shrugged.
The Prince held out his dagger for all to see, and laughed. The blue fire had begun to dull, diminish to the point that it was all but extinguished. “Look to the sails,” he said.
The survivors raised their heads wearily, and each peered at the shattered yardarms, cracked masts, tattered sails. To their amazement they could see the fires begin to blow themselves out, one by one, slowly and deliberately. There was no rain to douse them, no waves to smother them. They were extinguishing themselves.
Mariana stared incredulously; she turned her gaze up toward the bridge and the mirthful Prince, saying, “I don’t understand …”
The Prince laughed merrily, his eyes dancing, taking in the mystified looks on their faces and enjoying their confusion.
“But don’t you see?” he called to them all. “The solution is simple. When the scimitar returns to its natural state, as it must after a single hour’s time, all fires it has caused will cease. If the dagger does not glow, the blue fire cannot breathe. The two are inseparable.”
And even as he was speaking, the uncanny glow ebbed and vanished. The dagger once again returned to its normal state, gold blade glittering, rubies and emeralds dazzling profoundly along the hilt.
“By the Seven Hells!” gasped the haj. “The ship no longer burns!”
“Nor will it again,” answered the Prince as he bounded from the bridge and joined his companions on the main deck. “Set your course, Captain Osari,” he called. “We’ve no time to lose.”
The captain nodded, glancing at the other side of the hurricane, now moving dangerously close off the starboard bow. The helmsman looked at him wide-eyed and baffled, and Captain Osari, in no small bafflement himself, merely shrugged, as if to say that such things as they had seen were a common occurrence and he would treat them as such.
“It take
s a crew to fight through a storm, my friend,” he called at last to the Prince. Then he peered at the lonely corpses. “Mine is dead. Who will replace it?”
“I sailed the sea once, when I was young,” offered the haj.
“Nor am I a stranger to the sea,” added the Prince. “So you see, you already have the beginnings of a new crew — small in number perhaps, but willing and eager.”
“And loyal, at least,” chimed in Ramagar. “We’ll all help in every way we can. What about it, Captain? Shall we fight our way to land? Or give up now for lost?”
Captain Osari scowled, though inwardly his heart was bounding with joy. They were only a handful, to be sure. But with the helmsman at the wheel, and himself to direct the others and show them what to do, well, his ship just might have a chance. And compared to his feelings of only a few minutes earlier, that in itself was a miracle.
“No,” he said at last, in response to Ramagar’s question, “we do not give up for lost. No true sailor would ever yield and lose hope.”
“Then we fight?”
Osari laughed. “We never stopped.”
13
The flickering oil lamp swung slowly in its davits above the table in Captain Osari’s cluttered cabin. Exhausted and aching, the fatigued mariner looked briefly at sleeping Mariana, cuddled in his bunk and wrapped tightly in a quilted blanket. In the corner Ramagar was waking from his doze; the haj snored quietly, sprawled out beside him on the polished floor.
These past eighteen hours had been the hardest of his life, Osari mused as he glanced down at the plethora of navigational charts scattered across the tabletop. But Fortune had been with them, there was no question of that. Time and again the damaged ship had nearly floundered and sunk, yet time and again the Vulture managed to raise her bow and resume the fight. Now, the terrible storm had passed and the broken ship was limping its way toward land. Osari knew he had lost everything. His spice cargo, so carefully stored, was in ruins, worthless. His creditors in Cenulam would demand recompense for their loss; no new crew could be found without at least some cash, which the captain did not have: and perhaps worst of all, the cost of repairing the Vulture would be staggering. There was just no way he could raise the money; he was already in deep enough debt as it was. No, on this tranquil night, with his companions catching some well-deserved rest and only the helmsman up on deck, Osari was sure his captain’s days were over. The best he might now hope for was to sign on as first officer on some other ship, and thank the Fates that at least he was alive.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 22
