“Reload, Mister Radoslaw.”
“But they’re...”
“Reload Mister Radoslaw; that’s an order.”
“Loaded, sir.” The voice sounded reluctant.
“Fire!” The gun belched, and the second fireball flew, just as precisely as the first; disappearing through an open gunport on the lower deck of the Dreadnought.
“Hard about, Mister Idzy!” Jorse yelled out. “Get us the hells out of here.”
The Raider shuddered and creaked as she came about, then sails boomed in the stiff wind and she began to fly. One cable more was added to their distance, then another, then another.
The Dreadnaught, aflame from stem to stern, disappeared in a blinding flash.
“Everyone, get to the deck and hang on for dear life! Lookouts down, NOW! Hurry men, hurry!” Jorse shouted at the top of his lungs.
He grabbed the reluctant gunner and dragged him to the deck just as the concussion of the blast hit their ship. Vaguely, Jorse heard the foremast snap, sounding almost like a cannon shot itself, and rigging came down on his shoulders and back.
The Donner-kind was bobbing gently as she drifted in the wind a seaman somewhere was groaning. Someone else cursed. The air smelled of burned wood and tar and sulfur. Jorse opened his eyes reluctantly; and slowly, with agonizing stiffness, pulled the block from its resting place between his shoulder blades. A length of shredded cordage came with it.
Radoslaw had been knocked into his cannon, and was turning the air blue with his blistering curses while Mister Idzy, rubbing a knot on his head, was standing on the lower deck looking dazed.
“Wot appened, sir?” The First Mate’s voice was slightly slurred.
“She exploded, Mister Idzy.” At the blank look on the sailor’s face, Jorse elaborated. “That ship carried enough gunpowder for thirty big cannons. The ship was on fire. What happens, Mister Idzy, when you mix gunpowder with fire?”
Idzy stared out at the mushroom cloud. “She blows up, sir.” His face was shocked at the sight.
“Before you get too sentimental, remember what those men on that ship would have done to us and to the Dagfred if they could catch her. Remember what her masters did to that girl.”
The First Mate frowned, and then spat into the water. “It was too quick fer em, sir.”
“Let’s get this lady patched up and go find Dagfred.” Jorse said more calmly than he felt. “We still have a long trip before us.”
Chapter 11
The dead had been sent home to their Great Mother, and Jorse had felt a wrench as the canvas wrapped body of Hulagu, the lean mainmast lookout, slipped quietly over the side of the ship and disappeared into the dark waters with hardly a splash. The man had sharp eyes and a dry wit, and Jorse would miss him. He had made it down from his lofty perch, only to be run through by a flying splinter, probably from the Dreadnought, as long as his leg. Two others had disappeared overboard from the blast. Seamen, he knew, seldom knew how to swim. The rest had survived and they sailed on, but somehow, Jorse still felt defeated.
There was a wicked little giggle in the back of his mind.
Jorse felt his face flaming.
“Land ho!” The new masthead lookout shouted. Jorse didn’t even know the man’s name yet. “Two points off the starboard bow.”
“You have good eyes!” He shouted back and the lookout grinned. It was always better; Captain Svetla had lectured him, to offer a man a bit of praise occasionally, rather than the stick all the time. It was a hard thing being a leader.
“We’ll let the Dagfred move in ahead of us to make anchoring arrangements.” Jorse said as Mister Idzy came up beside him. “It should only take us a few days to purchase and load the cannons, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“An where be that, sir?” The First Mate asked.
“South to Elandia where I have business with the Mother Temple, and then east, heading around the southern end of Aios.”
“Aios.” Mister Idzy frowned. “They say there be monsters in the warm tropical waters south of Aios. Great Sea Serpents and such, if ye get me meanin, sir. They spawn in the brackish waters at the mouth of the great river Klarr. They say that the great river is so wide that from the center you can’t see either shore.” He reddened briefly. “So they say, sir.”
Jorse just nodded. “I figure we will sell the goods from the Dagfred in Rakiura, and Captain Svetla agrees with me. We will get the best price there. After that, well, we’ll see. Maybe some extended shore leave for the crew. I’m sure they have a few coins they’d like to spend.”
“Aye, sir. They’ll all be rich men, and some few might just want t’ give up the sea, like.” A low scud of cloud whipped aside, letting a thin shaft of ring tinted sunlight blink and sparkle rainbow colors off the water before them. The ocean scent was strong, but lying subtly underneath was the damp smell of growing things.
“Are you thinking of giving up the sea too, Mister Idzy? It HAS been a long trip, and we’re only half way home.”
“No, sir. Not quite yet. There’s a few more things te see, I’m thinkin, sir.”
Jorse gave Mister Idzy a level look. “Good, because sometime after we leave Elandia I’m making you the Captain of the Donner-kind.”
“But, sir...” Idzy seemed to sputter, at a lack for words.
“I’ll still be aboard, Mister Idzy, aboard the Donner-kind or aboard the Dagfred, but as owner, not captain. I’ll tell you where we need to go. You will get us there. The same will apply to the Dagfred.”
The grizzled First Mate studied the young captain for a moment, his face unreadable. “Aye, sir. As ye wish, but I knows there’s more goin on here than meets the eye, sir. Yev saved us all, any number of times. Hells, yev saved folks ye didn’t even know. The crew and I are behind ye whatever ye choose, sir.” The bearded man began to turn away and then stopped, and turned back. “I know that s
ymbol on are pennant, sir. Remember it right good, I do. The king’s ships all flew that standard, sir. King Hedric, not this new fella. Just thought ye should know.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Jorse murmured, and Idzy just nodded before he turned away.
The sand was hot, almost burning, and the white glare of the sun off of the beach was enough to blind them. The small cove along the northern side of Greater Wassaw was as private as the one they had found on Xicocu. Sea gulls wheeled shrieking overhead, and fought for scraps of food washed up on the pristine shore, or dove into the clear aqua waters. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers: Jasmine and Hibiscus. Anya sat next to Jorse, shadow form wavering, almost solid, her shoulder just touching his, her bare feet buried in the white fine sand. Neither felt like kissing just now, although her almost physical form even allowed her to speak aloud.
“It will never work, you know.” Her voice was intense, as she read his dark thoughts.
“I have to try, Anya.” Jorse lobbed a round shell at a bunch of black-headed gulls, sending them screeching in all directions. Thirty new cannon barrels were being loaded onto the Donner-kind as they spoke, and Jorse had studied the grove where the long green tubes were grown with a morbid interest. The fields, actually only about twenty acres, sat in a bowl of a valley crouched in the shadow of a looming volcano on the edge of the harbor. Extinct, the locals all said. Necessary others said, because of the special nutrients vomited out by the mountain in past ages. Jorse just looked and took it all in. “If I bring back my cannons I may win the first few battles I engage in. Then the King will buy his own cannons, and I will have gained nothing—save getting a lot of good people killed. If we can destroy those groves, then we will have a chance to build a lasting peace.”
“People will eventually figure out how to build other types of cannons, you know.” Anya pointed out. “Or some other vile weapon.”
“I know. All I want to do is to buy a little time. Give me ten years and maybe, just maybe we can build a lasting peace; and put the cannon makers out of business.”
“Never happen.” Her voice held a cynical note.
“I know, but what do I do, Anya? What do we do? Give up?”
Anya was silent for some time, and her shadowy toes wiggled in the warm beach. “I don’t think that we were put here to give up, Jorse. As much as I would love to find a little island to live on with you, I think that we have a job to do. If we don’t do this thing, then who else will do it for us? Without help, this world will tear itself apart, each small island attacking his neighbor, and on and on. So, what do we do now, Jorse?” Her hand crept into his at the word “we.”
Jorse brought the half solid hand to his lips and kissed it. Anya shivered. Then he stood, turning to face the towering mountain. “The answer is before us, dear heart.”
Anya shivered again, and wrapped her arms about her, crossed under her breasts. The sunlight didn’t seem so inviting anymore, or the beach so warm.
The clothes Jorse had on would have done any thief proud. The black pants were tough cloth and snug, the loose fitting shirt long sleeved and high collared. The new boots he wore were designed for mountain climbing, and the gloves that were cinched to his hands were soft black leather. He stopped, puffing, and looked down on the faint lights of the cannon factory, far below him. In the distance off to his right were the bright lights of the port of Baruun-Urt, some six miles away. It should be far enough, he hoped. His gaze swung back to the mountaintop, a short hundred feet above him.
Jorse grumbled as he placed the charges in the thin cone wall, burying the bag of gunpowder he’d carried up under several large stones. He hoped they would be enough to blast a notch through the volcanic cone; a notch right over the fertile twenty acre valley that grew the cannons. He attached the fuse carefully, remembering what Radoslaw had told him about the explosives, and then began the slow climb to the top.
The inside of the volcano seemed to be the inside of a vast bottomless well. Jorse sat on the edge of the crater and tossed a stone down into the central vent. It fell for a long time.
Jorse leaned back against the rocks and frowned. What was she...? The world blazed with light, faded, came back. After a few minutes of stomach wrenching pulsing, the strangeness in his eyes died out. The details of the volcanic crater stood out clearly, as if it were lit by a full moon.
“Well, well.” He muttered under his breath. “This would have been handy when I was a thief.” He stood. “Ah well. I guess there’s nothing more to do than go on.” He walked gingerly to the edge of the crater and looked over the edge. A whiff of warm sulfurous air met his face.
There is no such thing as an extinct volcano. An old old bit of lore floated up from his mind. Only a dormant one. He grinned to himself. By the end of this evening, this volcano would be neither. It would be active.
He took a deep breath and began to concentrate.
The air was thicker now, and the smell of rotting eggs so thick he could taste the gasses on his tongue. He bent over, coughing, trying to catch his breath.
It wasn’t a flight so much as a semi-controlled fall. Behind him he heard the gunpowder charge he had planted on the side of the mountain explode. As if in sympathy, the volcano followed suit.
The mountain swatted him. No, it was more than that. The mountain plucked him out of the air and hurtled him. Jorse curled into a ball. From somewhere there was a dull boom and Anya muttered something about the speed of sound. Then he was falling, and falling, and falling.
Soft. Lying at his side, his limp left arm was definitely resting on something soft. A bit lumpy but still soft. He opened his eyes. The bottom of a stained mattress hung two feet over his face. A bed! He thought in wonder. It had been a long time since he had slept in a real bed - no matter how rude. He shut his eyes and savored the feel. Smells came to him—mildew from the mattress, and the sharper salt smell of the ocean, the spices of food cooking. His stomach rumbled. He was alive and he was in a bed. He wiggled in sheer pleasure, and then he frowned. He had done this before. Even the bunk seemed familiar. The deck swayed gently, and he could hear the rush of water against the hull. He lis
tened for a minute to the normal sounds of the ship. He recognized them. He was on the Dagfred; he was sure of it, but how...
Jorse swung his legs off the small bed and stood. Like the first time, he was naked and a small pile of neatly folded clothes rested just under the bunk. Anya giggled, and it reminded him of Dala, that time in Boktor.
“Well.” Captain Svetla walked into the small cabin, a broad smile on her face. “I’m glad to see that you’re up and...” Her eyes lit on Anya. “I’m sorry, Jorse, I didn’t know you had com...” The captain frowned. “You’re not part of my crew, young lady. Who are you?” Her eyes widened as she took in Anya’s ghostlike transparency. “What are you?” The captain took a step backward, toward the door.
The Corsairs of Aethalia: A Thalassia novel Page 17
