Firestorm

by David Klass

  Such as?

  Curses and spells. And by far the rarest power is prophecy. The greatest seer of the future, the Mysterious Kidah himself, divined that you were the one who could find Firestorm and change things. If he said it, it must be so. And yet it cannot be so if they drown us, which they seem very intent on doing. Oh, woe is me.

  Why didn’t you get the Mysterious Kidah to save my father and pinpoint Firestorm?

  Because Kidah is gone. He disappeared. Vanished.

  Is that what made him so mysterious?

  How can you joke at a moment like this?

  It’ll all be over soon. Here they come to finish us off.

  The captain steps close. “You have no one to blame for this but yourself,” he whispers. “Do you have any last words?”

  “A last question,” I tell him. “Exactly how did you lose your arm?”

  He doesn’t like that. “I forgot my place,” he answers, “and it cost me very dearly. As it will now cost you.”

  He steps to the winch and begins to work the controls.

  Goodbye, Gisco.

  Farewell, old bean. You did well to save the reef. It was a brave act. I’ll show them what Gisco is made of.

  The big dog looks right at the captain and lets loose a ferocious growl.

  For a moment, even the tough old captain is thrown. Then he recovers his poise and pushes a button. There’s a whirring sound.

  The steel cable begins to move slowly downward. I look away from the captain and the crew and fix my eyes on the farthest sweep of azure ocean.

  There are banks of fog, white wisps on the water, but we are in a clear patch, showered with sunshine.

  I feel that sunshine on my neck, my hair, my face. Such a bright, sweet world to leave forever.

  I try to remember P.J.’s eyes. They merge into Eko’s eyes. Did either of them really love me? I hope so.

  Wait! I see something. Far out on the rim of azimuth, where sea meets sky.

  A black dot. A ship!

  No, not a ship. Not like this trawler, anyway. It’s under sail. The sails are black and billowed with morning breeze. It sweeps forward, swift and beautiful.

  Heading our way!

  They’ve seen it on deck, too. Men shout and point.

  A crewman runs from the wheelhouse. “Sir, it’s Dargon! We let him know what happened, as you ordered. He was cruising nearby. He wants to take care of this himself.”

  The black yacht races closer. Tall masts. Ebony sails. Lovely yet ominous.

  Gisco and I are winched back up to the deck, where we await our fate.

  I can see a man stride out onto the prow of the yacht. He’s tall and has the build of a weightlifter, but he moves with the grace of a ballet dancer. Even from this distance I can tell he’s movie-star handsome. There’s something familiar and unsettling about him.

  “Dargon,” the captain murmurs near me, and crosses himself. Then he looks away from the man on the yacht, and his old eyes meet mine. “I was right,” he whispers. “You are an unlucky boy. I was going to kill you quickly. Now you belong to him.”

  A crewman finishes cutting me loose, and I rub my wrists to restore circulation.

  “When you meet Dargon’s pets,” the captain whispers, “you can ask them what happened to my arm.”

  58

  A ladder is lowered, and Dargon comes aboard.

  He inspects the wrecked winches, while I strain to get a good look at him between the bodies of the assembled crewmen, who stand straight and silent.

  I can tell that he’s quite a specimen. Big. Colorful. Somewhere between pirate king and male model.

  Mid-thirties. At least two inches taller than I am. Sandy brown hair hanging down to broad shoulders. Bird with bright plumage perched on right shoulder.

  Dargon’s dressed like a seafaring dandy. White linen shorts. Gold-chain-link belt. Black silk shirt, tight enough to show off muscles. Abundant abs. Precipitous pecs. Bulging biceps.

  Don’t mess with this guy, Jack. Underneath the silk and linen, he’s hard as a mountainside.

  For ten long minutes he doesn’t give Gisco or me so much as a glance.

  He’s the Boss. We’ll do this his way. First check out the damage. Then punish the culprits.

  He discusses repairs with the captain and first mate. Where to go. What to do. How much time it will take.

  He’s clearly not pleased by the delay.

  Dargon finally turns toward the crew, who all but salute as he walks past. Tough men of the sea, now hushed, fearful.

  Gisco and I are shoved forward, into his presence.

  Careful, Jack.

  Don’t worry, I’m planning to be on my best behavior.

  I am worried. He likes birds, but he may not understand the joys and rewards of friendship with dogs.

  Probably not too fond of beacons of hope, either.

  There’s something oddly familiar about this guy.

  Yeah, I feel it, too.

  Strange. We don’t know many people in common.

  Suddenly I’m face to face with Dargon. Realize what was so unsettling. It’s not just that he’s got plucked eyebrows. Not his perfect teeth—dental wonders. Nor even his manicured toenails, painted gold.

  It’s the leonine shape of his face. And the aura of it. A shape and an aura that I’ve seen somewhere before.

  Visions of my own death. Nightmares of being hunted.

  Jumping between buildings in Manhattan. The same face watching me from windows, all the way down.

  Aristocratic. Handsome yet sad features. Strong jaw. Aquiline nose. Perfect teeth. White hair. Raptor-like eyes. The wise and knowing visage of death.

  Again, on my first night in the Outer Banks beach house. A lion’s roar of a voice sounding through my nightmare. “Jack. Jack.” The same fine-boned face, with demonic red eyes. “Jack. You can’t hide. Give up.”

  And here, on the deck of the trawler Lizabetta, is a younger version of that death face. Just as handsome, as assuredly aristocratic, with the same strong jaw and refined cheekbones. But the hair is sandy brown instead of white, and the eyes are soft and liquid gray.

  “Who damaged my ship?” Dargon asks. Rich bass voice. Could probably sing the hell out of a whaling chantey.

  “That would be me,” I answer.

  He smiles. Understands that I’m the only one on the Lizabetta who’s not afraid of him. “Why did you do it?”

  “Because they were getting ready to trawl a virgin reef,” I tell him honestly. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  He shrugs. “Your personal feelings are irrelevant. It wasn’t your ship. It was my ship.”

  “Your ship,” I agree, looking right back into those liquid gray eyes. “But not your reef.”

  The moment of silence stretches as he decides my fate. Trawler sails slowly into a fogbank. Morning sun is dimmed, filtered. Dargon’s gray eyes darken to a majestic purple-black flecked with tiny seeds of blood red.

  The parrot on his shoulder shrieks unexpectedly, breaking the silence. A shrill whistle: “Kill the dog.”

  Shut up, tweezer beak.

  Easy, Gisco.

  Did I ever mention that I hate birds?

  No, you never did.

  This feathered fathead in particular belongs in a nice roasting pan with some rosemary potatoes.

  “Kill the dog,” the parrot repeats in a loud trill. “Cut him up. Kill the boy, but butcher the dog first.”

  “No, Apollo,” Dargon says, “but there does need to be punishment here. Bring the boy to that flensing table.”

  The first mate is strong, but no way he can drag me there by himself. So he has a few thuggish sailors help. In seconds I’m dragged to the table and forced to my knees.

  “Press his hand flat and hold him still.”

  I fight like hell, but my right hand is pulled onto the table. They dig into the pressure points between my knuckles, and my clenched fist flattens on the tabletop.

  “Look at me, boy,” Dargon says.


  I look up at him. He opens his mouth wide.

  I hear the crew gasp before I see it for myself. Red and orange flames shoot out through his mouth. The heat from the flames singes my forehead and hair.

  The flames subside and he’s holding something in his right hand that glints in the sunlight. A knife.

  He bends till our faces are level, six inches apart. “You ruined something of mine, and now I’m going to ruin something of yours,” he whispers. “Pain for pain. Don’t fight, or it will be worse.”

  I try to fight, to rear up and break the grip of the men who hold me. No chance. Too many of them.

  The sharp blade slides over the back of my right hand. He moves it to my pinkie and probes for the knuckle joint. When he finds it, Dargon presses down with all his weight and saws off half of my little finger as I watch helplessly from a few inches away.

  Hear myself scream. Start to faint from the shock of seeing it happen, and then the sudden searing pain.

  Deck tilts and swirls.

  Vaguely aware of blood spurting.

  Ronan cursing, and being restrained.

  Crewman clumsily tying on a tourniquet.

  Does the inch-long piece of my severed pinkie end up in the parrot’s beak, or is that my imagination?

  The last thing I hear is Dargon telling the captain, “I’ll take them both with me. They’re mine now.”

  59

  Hoisted aboard yacht. Still woozy from shock and pain.

  Gisco is leashed and led away. Where are they taking me? Do you think they’ll feed me or kill me? I hope they at least believe a condemned dog should get a last meal.

  I try to focus for a second. If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it on the trawler.

  Good point, old bean. And it’s close to lunchtime. Let’s hope for the best. Take care of that hand.

  I assume he’ll be locked in some kind of nautical dog cage while I’ll be thrown in the brig.

  Wrong.

  A very tall black man in a flowing African robe hurries up. “I am Femi, the butler,” he says with a British accent. “I will show you to your room. Can you walk or do you need assistance?”

  I take an experimental step. Light-headed, but fairly steady. “I can make it.”

  “Good. This way, please.”

  He leads me down a flight of stairs to a small, bright room, elegantly furnished. Wood paneling. Leather-bound books on shelves. Tiny but functional bathroom. Porthole.

  Much nicer than the captain’s room on the Lizabetta.

  “There are clothes that will fit you in the closet,” Femi says. “Let me see your hand, please.”

  One of the sailors on the Lizabetta had packed my hand in ice and wrapped it in a white towel. The towel is now crimson with seeped blood.

  Femi unwraps the bloody package. Doesn’t seem at all fazed that half my pinkie was just hacked off. They must have warned him. In fact, he’s come prepared, with a small medical kit.

  He cleans what remains of the finger with antiseptic. “Neat cut,” he says. “No bone fragments.” Expertly bandages it and puts on a small plaster cast. “Leave this on for one week.” Gives me some blue pills. “Take two with water. They’ll help the pain.”

  “Where’s my dog?”

  “Safe,” he says. “Dinner will be at six. My master requests that you join him.” Femi stands. He must be almost seven feet tall, and he has to bow his head to avoid knocking it against the sloped ceiling of my room. “Someone will come to fetch you. Please be dressed and ready. My master values promptness.”

  “Well, I value my fingers,” I shoot back. “Tell your master if he cares so much about good manners, he might want to go easy on the forced amputations.”

  Femi looks back at me inscrutably. “Rather than remain bitter at your loss, it might be more profitable to learn a lesson from your punishment and move forward.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I mutter, feeling the throbbing in my bandaged hand.

  In answer, Femi draws his right foot out of his slipper. He’s missing two toes. Inserts his foot back in the slipper and walks away.

  My door is locked from the outside.

  I decide not to take the pills. Who knows what’s in them? My situation is bad enough without my being drugged.

  I last about five minutes. Each throb of the finger is a separate agony. Give up, and swallow two pills.

  Pain subsides a bit. Not totally. But tolerable.

  I explore the room. Comfortable, but there’s no escape. Just a sealed porthole. Nothing I can use as a weapon.

  No clues about Dargon.

  Who is he? Why did he bring me back here? Is it possible that he knows about my mission? How could he? Why didn’t he kill me on the trawler? Does he have something slower and more painful in mind?

  No answers to my questions, so I end up checking out the books. They have something in common. History. Ancient history. Ancient military history. Hannibal.

  That’s right, they’re all about Hannibal Barca, perhaps the greatest general who ever lived. In the third century B.C. he did what no one else had ever even thought possible. Led a huge army and elephants over the Pyrenees and then the Alps. Descended into Italy, won battle after brilliant battle, and brought the Roman Empire to its knees.

  Don’t ask me why this is Dargon’s favorite reading material.

  I try to forget about my throbbing hand by losing myself in the books. Five-thirty rolls around. I take a shower, and dress in the clothes that have been left for me. They fit perfectly.

  Five to six. Three soft knocks on door. Bap, bap, bap. I open it.

  Babe-a-licious blonde standing there, unsteadily on one leg, as she scratches her freckled ankle with her other foot. Looks nineteen. Dressed, if you can call it that, in micro bikini. Sipping tropical drink complete with cherry and tiny umbrella. Smiles at me and then giggles. “He didn’t tell me you were so cute.”

  Even Hannibal would have slipped off his elephant at this. Who is she and what the heck is she doing on Dargon’s yacht? Besides flirting with me? “I beg your pardon?”

  Perky, playful, shamelessly sexy smile. “What’s your name, sailor boy?” she asks in a soft purr.

  “Jack.”

  “I’m Kylie,” she whispers back, sways, and grabs the doorknob for support. She giggles again, and it’s the kind of frolicsome laugh that makes her whole body jiggle so that the top of her bikini almost pops off. “That’s what I get for drinking in the sun. I know better. I really, really do.”

  “I believe you,” I tell her, trying not to stare at her breasts, which is virtually impossible.

  “Mistake, Jack,” she warns mischievously. “Never, ever believe anything I say.” She fishes the cherry out of her drink and pops it in her mouth, watching me all the while. She teases it with her soft lips for a second, and then, as if remembering something important, glances at her watch. Snaps to attention with mock seriousness. “Follow me, sailor hunk. Dargon’s a grouch when he’s kept waiting. You can believe that for sure.”

  60

  “How kind of you to join us for dinner,” Dargon says with a mocking smile.

  He’s seated at the head of a polished teak table in a little jewel box of a ship’s dining room. China and crystal place settings. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of an ocean sunset spreading itself like a magician’s cloak over endless small waves. Changing light coaxes a fireworks display of sparkles from the chandelier overhead.

  Dargon has traded his white shorts and muscle shirt for a flowing purple robe. Gold crest on back—ferocious serpent devouring helpless crane. Am I the crane? The charisma of the man is startling. The strength and definition of his features. The vibrancy of his physique. His grace of movement as he helps Kylie into a chair and then bows to me. “Welcome.”

  “Don’t try to shake my hand,” I warn him. “It’s still sore where you hacked off my finger today.”

  “Yes, it would be.” Dargon nods, as if this is polite table conversatio
n. “Did you take some of Femi’s pills? By tomorrow it should feel better.”

  “Great. Maybe tomorrow you can cut off one of my feet.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Dargon says. “Doesn’t Kylie look radiant in this light? Please be seated.”

  We sit. Look at each other. Mad tea party atmosphere.

  “Shall I say grace?” Dargon offers.

  Didn’t exactly see him as the pious sort. I shrug. “Say whatever you want.”

  He folds his hands, throws me a look of thinly veiled menace, and says, “Lord, help us to enjoy each day as if it is our last.” His gaze shifts to Kylie, and unmasked lust flashes in the gray eyes. “And may we always remember that beauty exists so that it can be consumed by the bold and relished by the strong.”

  Strange prayer. I don’t say amen. But I also glance at Kylie. Can’t help it. With the sunset behind her and the chandelier sparkling above her blond hair like a diamond tiara, she does look radiant.

  She feels my glance, smiles, and turns her head as if to offer me the very best viewing angle.

  Femi pours wine and sets out a first course of what looks like slivers of raw fish. “Bluefin tuna crudo on ruby grapefruit,” the tall butler announces.

  “Isn’t the bluefin tuna endangered?” I ask, recalling Gisco’s environmental harangue.

  Dargon shrugs. “It’s too late for this one anyway.” He devours a heaping forkful. “Endangered but delicious.”

  Since I’m starving, and nothing will bring this poor bluefin back, I follow suit. The raw fish has a meltingly delicate taste, set off by the sour grapefruit.

  Dargon nods approvingly. “You’re willing to break your own rules. I like that. Your room is comfortable?”

  “Fine.”

  “I trust you found something interesting to read?”

  “A hundred books about the same man seems like a waste of shelf space.”

  “Not when the man is interesting enough,” Dargon says. “Hannibal is a role model for me.”