Salamaine's Curse

by V. L. Burgess

  Turning away from Porter, he nodded to his men. “What about the others?”

  Tom had already been searched. The crewmen now turned to Willa and Mudge. One crewman jerked the cloth satchel from Willa’s shoulder and tossed it to his leader. Another gave Mudge a cursory patting down.

  Tom stiffened, horrified the man might discover the Sword of Five Kingdoms. Mudge caught Tom’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head, then flicked his forefinger toward his boot, indicating without words where he’d hidden it.

  “What is this?” Zaputo boomed as he pawed through Willa’s satchel.

  “Herbs,” she said. “Medicines, balms, and the like.”

  Zaputo carelessly pitched it back to her. “Worthless.” Then his eyes narrowed as he surveyed them suspiciously. “You came from the Purgatory. Umbrey’s ship. He is rumored to be a man of honor. A lie. He gave up his crew without a fight.”

  “We’re not crew,” Willa said. “We … stowed away.”

  Zaputo considered that for a moment, then seemed to accept it. “You picked the wrong ship to hide in,” he sneered. “Just as I thought. The people of Divino have no honor. They will give away their own children if it saves their skins.”

  Mudge, who had remained silent until that moment, stepped forward. “Salvador Zaputo,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  Surprise flashed across Zaputo’s face. He looked Mudge up and down. His lips curved in a smile of cruel condescension. “Oh? Is my reputation so fierce? Do I strike fear in the hearts of little children? Does my very name give you nightmares?”

  Refusing to be baited by his words, Mudge said calmly, “You have children of your own.”

  Zaputo puffed out his chest. “Five,” he said. “Three sons and two daughters.”

  “You say the people of Divino won’t fight,” Mudge continued. “Tell me about the people of Aquat. What would you do if your children were threatened?”

  Rage darkened Zaputo’s eyes. He leaned down, bringing his face inches away from Mudge’s. He hung there for a long, tense moment, then he roared out, “I would fight for them!”

  Mudge seemed to consider that. His young face glowed with satisfaction as he gave a solemn nod. “Good.”

  Zaputo frowned, apparently disconcerted by his inability to intimidate Mudge the way he’d meant to. His gaze locked on Mudge for another beat, as though trying to figure him out, then he straightened to his full height and gave an impatient shake of his head. “Ridiculous. I’ve wasted enough time talking with children.” He nodded to one of his crewmen, saying as he turned to leave, “Get rid of them when we dock at Vespa tomorrow night.”

  “Wait!” Porter called out, stepping after him. “My map.”

  He’d barely gotten the words out when Zaputo spun around. Using just one hand, he caught Porter by the front of his shirt and lifted him off his feet. With his other hand, he raised the rolled parchment. “My map,” he said. “My ship. My cargo. You and your friends belong to me now. Don’t forget it again.” He released Porter abruptly, shoving him back into the bulwark.

  Before Tom could think of what to do, or react in any way, Zaputo’s crewmen herded them toward the ship’s stern, back to the crowded deck where the rest of the captives waited.

  Icy panic shot through Tom’s veins. They’d made it aboard the Crimson Belle. But unless he could think of something fast—really fast, considering Vespa was apparently less than twenty-four hours away—they’d be sold as slaves the moment the ship docked.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  POOR PLANNING

  “The folly’s rattle,” Tom whispered to Porter. “It’s our only way out.” Through carelessness on the part of Zaputo’s crew when they frisked him—or perhaps because the four of them hadn’t looked threatening enough to warrant a thorough search—Tom still had the rattle in his pocket.

  Porter shook his head. “Too risky,” he whispered back. “We’ll save it as a last resort, and only if we get the wording exactly right.”

  Tom ground his teeth in frustration at Porter’s stubborn refusal to use the wish. Did it really matter if he got the wording exactly right? Wasn’t avoiding spending the rest of their lives as slaves a little bit more important?

  It was late. Past midnight, Tom guessed, though there was no way for him to really know. He glanced overhead. The stars had shifted, but that meant little to him. He wasn’t good enough at reading the movement of constellations to understand how they marked time. As he’d seen aboard the Purgatory, Zaputo’s crew changed shifts at the ringing of the bells. But again, Tom wasn’t sure how that corresponded to actual time. He only knew the constant clamor, combined with driving panic over their situation, kept him awake.

  That wasn’t true for everyone else aboard. Their snores and grunts filled the air. He glanced across the deck. He estimated there were at least one hundred captives aboard, all crowded together on the aft deck. Mostly men, though there were a good number of women and children among them as well. Perhaps one or two of the captives had the menacing air of hardened criminals. The majority were average citizens of Divino who’d been down on their luck, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Their sentences varied. Some were to spend the rest of their lives slaving in the ice mines of Ventus, others would work the fiery forges of Incendia, and still others would labor in the deadly jungles of Terrum. What troubled Tom most was how they accepted their fate. They had abandoned all hope of changing their futures.

  His gaze turned to Willa and Mudge. They were sitting up, just as he and Porter were, with their backs resting against the rail. Somehow, despite their uncomfortable position, they’d both managed to fall asleep.

  Tom’s stomach clenched as he studied them. If he failed and couldn’t find a way to take control of the ship, or at the very least find a way off it, whatever happened next would be his fault. He pushed the morbid thought away, refusing to give up. As Umbrey had said, the game wasn’t over yet.

  He glanced upward. The red sails of the Crimson Belle worked to render her nearly invisible at night—he could barely make them out billowing directly over his head. The same wouldn’t be true of the Purgatory, however.

  For perhaps the hundredth time since boarding the slaver, he scanned the horizon, searching for a glimmer of white sails reflected in the moonlit sea. Nothing. No indication that the Purgatory was still in the vicinity. For all Tom knew, Umbrey could have cast them off in the dinghy and just sailed away to safety.

  He leaned in closer to Porter. “You think Umbrey is still out there?”

  “I’ve been looking. I haven’t seen him,” Porter said.

  “But he wouldn’t have just left us.”

  “Forget that. Listen. I have a plan.”

  Porter’s gaze shot around the deck. The crewmen Zaputo had posted as guards stood at a distance of several feet, but at the moment they faced away from them. In the hours Tom had been aboard the Crimson Belle, he’d witnessed no overt cruelty on the part of Zaputo and his men. But neither had they shown any sympathy. They provided food, water, and nothing else, moving about the ship with expressions of stoic indifference, as though the transport of human beings to forced labor camps was an unpleasant but necessary chore.

  “I’ve worked everything out. We storm the helm at daybreak when they bring our morning meal,” Porter said. “I’ve been watching. Most of the crew goes below deck to eat at the same time they bring our food. Things are most unsettled then. If we all rush out together and charge them—”

  “Wait a minute. All? Who’s all?”

  “Every man here.” Porter said. “We may not have weapons, but we outnumber them by four-to-one. If we charge them together we have a chance.”

  “A chance? A chance to do what?”

  “Take over the Crimson Belle,” Porter snapped. “What else? That’s the whole point. That’s why we’re here. We storm the crew, lock Zaputo and his men in the cargo hold, and take over the ship. We’ll sail it through the Cursed Souls Sea ourselves.�
�

  Tom stared at Porter, not sure where to begin. In the first place, even supposing that by some miracle they were able to overtake Zaputo’s men—and now that he’d seen them up close, he put those odds at slim to none—how were they supposed to navigate their way through one of the most treacherous passes in the Cursed Souls Sea? It didn’t make sense.

  Tom took a shaky breath, searching for the right words. Granted, he had a brash style of his own (acting first, thinking later) but he didn’t see Porter’s way of doing things (hitting as hard as he could at anything that got in his way, Tom included), was necessarily better. His plan had failure written all over it. At the same time, they had to do something.

  His gaze traveled once again to Willa and Mudge. They might have thought of something he and Porter hadn’t. He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself now, but he could talk to Willa in the morning. If she’d come up with a smarter approach, it was worth waiting to hear about. She still had her bag of herbs. What if she had a sleeping powder they could give to the crew to knock them out—wouldn’t that be a whole lot smarter than trying to overpower them?

  “Maybe if we wait and talk to Willa …” he ventured cautiously.

  Porter’s face tightened. “No. There’s no time to wait. For once, we do this my way, not yours. I’ve already spread the word. These men and I will storm the crew tomorrow morning at dawn. If you don’t want to help us, you can stay here and wait with the women and children.”

  “You there!” bellowed one of the crewmen, glaring at Porter. “Quiet!”

  Porter abruptly turned away, presenting his back to Tom.

  Tom clenched his fists and stared at him for a long moment, then he tipped his head back and looked to the starry sky. He studied the heavens without seeing them, his focus too absorbed by the dark emotions brewing within him. He silently swore at his brother, calling him every vile name he could think of. Then a different kind of emotion settled over him.

  Despair.

  At daybreak, Porter was going to get himself killed. The men who followed him would likely be killed as well. Porter’s plan wouldn’t work. Tom knew it wouldn’t work. But he could think of nothing he could do to stop it.

  The night dragged slowly past. Tom rested, but couldn’t sleep. Instead he drifted in and out through a cloudy haze of exhaustion, worry, and uncertainty.

  Finally the stars dimmed, their brilliant pinpricks of light becoming paler and paler until they were completely extinguished. A soft lavender glow lit the edges of the horizon. The sun, like a fiery ball tossed up from the depths of the sea, slowly rose.

  Dawn had arrived.

  In the distance, Tom heard the shuffle of Zaputo’s crew, followed by the clatter of tin pots being scraped empty. Breakfast. A line of crewmen approached, bearing enormous trays laden with plates of food.

  Beside him, Porter shifted slightly, drawing one knee up in a position that would allow him to spring to his feet. He dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as though bracing himself.

  Tom tensed. Dread, as thick and heavy as soured milk, filled his mouth. His stomach churned. His heart beat at triple its normal rate.

  “Wait,” he whispered.

  Porter shook him off.

  The first of Zaputo’s crewman waded into their midst.

  Porter shot to his feet. Letting out a defiant roar, he lowered his head and charged like a bull, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut. The breakfast tray, along with all the plates atop it, crashed to the ground. The man staggered backward. He fell over, bringing Porter down with him.

  All around Tom, captives leapt to their feet, their voices raised in fury as they rushed the crew.

  The fight for the Crimson Belle had begun.

  Tom dove into the fray. It didn’t occur to him to do anything else. Not when the fight was erupting on all sides of him with fists flying, bodies tumbling, and skulls cracking. Tom wasn’t sure he could even call it a fight. It was more like a prison riot.

  Zaputo’s men were enormous, their bodies solid walls of muscle. But they were outnumbered by four-to-one. And while the captives had no weapons, they brought something even more important to the battle: the savage desperation of men who had nothing to lose. In the end, it was a simple matter of fight or die.

  The brawl spilled out of the aft deck where the captives were held. A few combatants tumbled and rolled across the deck, their fingers clenched around each other’s throats. Others swung at the crewmen with trays, bowls, ropes—anything they could get their hands on.

  One of Zaputo’s men lashed his sword at Tom. Tom twisted past him, but barely. The man’s blade caught his coarse linen overshirt, the one he’d borrowed from Umbrey’s crew, and ripped it open from hem to throat. Tom spun away, sending the man stumbling with a vicious kick to his knee. He weaved through the sprawling chaos, pitching himself into the fight.

  Through the blur of battle, Tom saw Porter slammed to the ground. The crewman Porter had initially knocked down was now positioned above him with his fist raised, ready to deliver a teeth-shattering blow. Tom leapt toward him in a flying tackle. He caught the man in the shoulder, shoving him hard into the wooden deck. The diversionary tactic worked, but not for long.

  The man was up in an instant, this time swinging at Tom. Tom ducked, but he wasn’t fast enough. The man’s fist connected with his ear. Tom’s vision went black and the world spun, the ground shooting out from beneath him. He hit the deck face-first. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

  He shook his head to clear it. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a golden braid shoot past him, followed by a dark-haired boy. Willa and Mudge. Tom bit back a groan. He’d assumed Willa had fled the battle and taken Mudge away with the other captive children to hide somewhere safe. An idiotic assumption. He’d never seen either of them run from trouble.

  Sure enough, Willa charged headlong into the fight, furiously swinging her bag of herbs over her head. She let the bag fly, aiming for the crewman who’d punched Tom. It hit him squarely in the throat, sending an explosion of powders and herbs up into his face. The man coughed and wheezed, temporarily blinded. He staggered backward.

  A rope dangled from the main mast. Porter grabbed it with both hands and swung around hard, raising his feet to kick the man squarely in the chest. Mudge ducked down behind the crewman as Porter’s boots struck. The man went flying backward, toppling between decks and tumbling down a hatch leading to a lower level.

  For one brief, incredible moment, Tom sensed the momentum shift in their favor. He dragged himself up on all fours and looked around. A smile of pure, astonished joy curved his lips. A painful smile, for he felt his swollen lower lip crack and bleed at that slight motion. It didn’t matter. They were winning. Now all they had to do—

  An explosion rocked the air around them. A cannonball tore through their midst, sailing across the deck just inches above Tom’s head. He instinctively went flat, as did every other man, woman, and child caught up in the fray.

  “Enough!” roared Salvador Zaputo.

  Zaputo stood with his scimitar sword raised at his side. His fiery bird rested on his shoulder, its flame-colored feathers shimmering in the early morning sun. Flanking Zaputo on both sides were the remainder of his crew, at least two dozen strong, all armed with swords.

  Five cannons had been rolled into position between Zaputo and his men. One, presumably the one that had just been fired, belched out smoke. The remaining four were primed and loaded, their fuses ready to be lit. Those were aimed directly at the captives.

  Tom froze, as did everyone around him.

  “I see you’ve chosen this morning to die,” Zaputo said, shattering the tense silence that had fallen over the ship. “Very well. I shall grant your wish.” His dark eyes scanned the crowded deck. “Bring me the four who came aboard yesterday. We will begin with them.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MANA SEED

  Before Tom could move, or even think about moving, two
of Zaputo’s crewmen grabbed his upper arms and jerked him to his feet and dragged him forward. Porter, Willa, and Mudge each received the same ruthless handling. The crewmen shoved them against the rough wood of a bulwark, pinning their backs against it and holding them there.

  “You were warned,” Zaputo said. “We had peace until you came aboard. You attacked my crew. The punishment is death.”

  Four crewman stepped forward, their swords raised. Shock and disbelief tore through Tom. It couldn’t end. Not like this. He heard Willa’s gasp of distress, Porter’s dark oath, Mudge’s cry of, “Wait! Listen!”

  But there was no waiting, no listening.

  “It was all my idea!” Tom burst out. “I started the fight! Not them!”

  Zaputo looked at Tom. “You?”

  “Yes! Me! They were against the idea. They told me it was foolish and they were right.”

  “No!” Porter shouted, but he was too late. Now that Tom had Zaputo’s attention, he wasn’t going to stop.

  “Don’t kill them,” Tom said. “It was all my idea.”

  Zaputo studied him for a moment, then nodded. “So be it.”

  Tom struggled to break free, but his movements only caused Zaputo’s men to tighten their grip on his upper arms. As though witnessing events unfold from very far away, he watched as a crewman brought his blade to rest just above his heart. The razor-sharp tip of the sword pierced the thin cotton of his tee shirt.

  He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the searing thrust of the blade.

  “You are not the man you claim to be,” Mudge burst out. “The ruler of Aquat is said to be a man of honor. You’re nothing but a murderer!”

  Tom’s eyes flew open. He stared at Mudge in horror as Zaputo’s face darkened with fury.