Tyranny pointed down the length of the deck. Knotted lifelines had been tied between each of the masts to help the crew walk along the decks without being thrown overboard in the storm.
“Follow me!” she shouted. “Whatever you do, don’t let go of the ropes! If you go overboard now we will never find you!”
Shailiha followed Tyranny as best she could. The decks were slippery with rain and they pitched constantly, making her fall down more than once. They reached, then passed the first mast, and she followed the captain on, hand over hand along the knotted rope.
Finally Tyranny reached a deck hatch. It was open and several canvas tubes snaked up out of it. Their ends lay unseen over the starboard gunwales. Letting go of the rope, Tyranny went down the stairway first. Shailiha followed.
As the stricken war frigate bucked and pitched, it was all the princess could do to keep herself from being repeatedly thrown against the walls of the stairway. It was drier here, but not by much. The strange canvas tubes stretched down the staircase. Tyranny grabbed a swinging lantern from its hook on the wall and held it before them.
Two more decks down, Shailiha could hear shouting and the sounds of men at work. As she descended into the chamber behind Tyranny, they stopped midway down the staircase. The privateer held the lantern high. Shailiha could see immediately that they were in for the fight of their lives.
The room was large and had been cleared of its cargo. Seamen and Minions were working frantically to stem the seawater that rushed in through the rent in the Reprise’s hull every time she tipped to starboard. At least one of the hull planks was gone, perhaps more.
About a dozen warriors and crewmen stood shoulder to shoulder in waist-deep seawater as they struggled to repair the damage. Watching some of the warriors work mechanical pumps, Shailiha suddenly realized what the canvas snakes were for.
Frantically they pushed up and down on the pumps’ wooden handles, sending bursts of seawater shooting up and through the canvas tubes that made their way to the decks above. The warriors were barely holding their own. Each time they seemed to gain a little against the rising water, the ship would roll to starboard again and more would come rushing through the jagged tear in her side.
The Reprise pitched high in the bow and Shailiha almost fell from the stairway. Tyranny grabbed the collar of her jerkin and pulled her back.
While the warriors pumped the seawater out, Tyranny’s crewmen tried to repair the hull. A massive corkscrewlike device rested upon the shoulders of several of the men. At each end of the giant screw sat a very large, flat iron panel. One of these was placed against a sturdy, upright timber in the center of the room. The other was pointed toward the rent in the hull.
Shailiha watched as several crewmen placed thick wooden handles into holes in the sides of the giant hardwood screw. As a group they began turning them. The flat iron panel at the end of the screw slowly made its way toward the broken hull.
Some crew held high fresh boards cut to cover the hole in the hull. As the screw turned, it would force the iron panel against the boards and hold them in place. Other crewmen stood by with trowels full of pitch and tar, ready to seal off the joints between the boards. As the warriors manned the pumps and the crewmen turned the screw, Shailiha held her breath.
Just as the screw began to seat itself against the freshly cut planks, the Reprise rolled to starboard again. Another rush of water flooded in, knocking the men over and causing them to drop the screw and the boards.
As the men tried to stand, it was plain to see that the ice-cold water was even higher now, and that the situation was quickly becoming hopeless. Soon other sections of this deck would be engulfed, and the Reprise would almost certainly go down. Shailiha looked over at Tyranny. The privateer’s expression was hard.
“Scars!” Tyranny cried out.
At the sound of her voice the gigantic first mate looked up and saw the two women standing halfway down the stairway. It took several precious moments, but he finally managed to wade over to them.
“We aren’t going to make it, are we?” Tyranny shouted, raising her lantern a bit.
Without answering, Scars turned back to look at the rent in the hull. They heard a harsh, tearing sound, as yet another plank flanking the damage came loose and flew into the room. More seawater flooded in behind it. It was now nearly as high as the crewmen’s chests.
Scars turned back to his captain. “Our problem isn’t so much the damage as it is the storm!” he shouted back at her. “If the ship wasn’t rocking back and forth so badly, we might be able to repair her! But the situation only grows worse. If we do not succeed very soon, she will surely go down!”
For several moments Tyranny did not speak. Then she seemed to make up her mind. “I am going topside!” she shouted. “I will unfurl the sails! Then I’ll do what I can to heel her over! When you feel her come hard to port and the damage to the hull rises clear of the waves, you must hurry! I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold her over in these winds!”
Scars looked horrified.
“Captain, you can’t do this!” he shouted back. “In a storm like this you must leave the sails furled and allow her to nose into the wind! It’s the only way she’ll survive the stresses! You know that! Raising the sails now could rip every remaining mast from the ship and tear the hull in half!”
By now every man and warrior in the chamber had stopped what he was doing and strained to hear the argument above the raging storm. Looking down into the rapidly flooding chamber, Tyranny scanned the workers, taking a moment to stare into the eyes of every man there. Handing the lantern to Shailiha, she placed her fists akimbo.
“This is not up for debate!” she shouted at them. “True, what I propose may not work! But if we don’t try, what do you think will happen, eh? At best you have one more chance to succeed! And if you don’t, we’re all food for the fishes anyway!” Then her expression softened a bit, and she looked down at Scars.
“Don’t fail me,” she said. She turned and pushed Shailiha back up the stairway.
When they reached topside, the storm was raging worse than ever. Glancing around, Tyranny spotted one of her officers and headed for him. Snatching the lantern from Shailiha, Tyranny shoved it into the man’s hands, then put her mouth to his ear.
“I want every sail unfurled—now!” she shouted. “Be quick about it! This is a matter of life or death!” His mouth hanging open, the officer looked at her as though she had just gone mad.
Tyranny reached down to her thigh, drew her dagger, and placed its blade at the man’s throat.
“Now!” she barked. “Or I’ll throw you overboard myself!”
With a quick nod, the officer went to give the orders.
“You’re with me!” Tyranny shouted to Shailiha. Together they made their way astern, toward the ship’s wheel, which was still tightly bound with rope.
“Stand clear!” Tyranny shouted. Shailiha did as she was told.
Tyranny raised her face to the storm and watched with hope as the sails came down. The wind tore at them relentlessly, threatening to rip both them and the masts they were attached to away from the Reprise and out into the darkness of the sea. Then the sails filled and the frigate lurched forward, bounding uncontrollably through the waves. Taking a deep breath, Tyranny knew it was time. Removing her sword from its scabbard, she held it high and then brought it down with all her strength against the rope binding the ship’s wheel.
Finally free, the wheel spun madly, its spokes a blur as the ship’s rudder struggled to find its equilibrium in the raging currents. As the wheel settled down, Tyranny motioned for Shailiha to come and join her. They each took hold of it. Tyranny looked up at the straining sails and back at Shailiha.
“Now!” the privateer shouted. “And with everything you have!” Straining against the wheel, the two women began to turn it with all their might.
&nb
sp; With an agonizing groan, the Reprise did her best to heel over toward the port side. As she started to come about, Tyranny and Shailiha turned the wheel over even harder, and the great ship screamed as though she were about to come apart.
Knowing there was nothing else she could do, Shailiha closed her eyes. She thought of Tristan and Morganna. Then the great ship lurched, and another of the masts came tumbling down.
CHAPTER XXXI
_____
EYES CLOSED, FAEGAN SMOOTHLY STROKED THE STRINGS OF his centuries-old violin. As the sorrowful melody rose into the air, he focused on the many problems plaguing his nation. He had been playing and thinking for more than an hour now, yet no concrete answers had come to him. Too many pieces of the puzzle were still missing.
He suddenly sensed an extra weight upon the scroll of his violin, and felt an unexpected breeze caress his face. With a short smile he stopped playing and lowered his bow. He opened his eyes.
Caprice, Shailiha’s yellow and violet flier of the fields, perched upon his violin as if to tell him not to worry, that everything would be all right. The wizard found such a thought to be a very tempting luxury. But then his mind started to work again and he sighed sadly.
“You’re lonely for your mistress, aren’t you?” he asked. Caprice slowly opened and closed her wings one time: Yes.
He smiled. Although Shailiha and Caprice were oftentimes inseparable, the princess had chosen to leave the flier behind when she left on her mission with Tyranny.
“I know,” Faegan said. “I miss her, too.”
The wizard sat on the balcony overlooking the aviary of the fliers of the fields. This was perhaps his favorite place in the world. He often came here to be alone and to think. Located in the depths of the Redoubt, the aviary was more than three stories high and filled with soaring fliers of all the colors of the rainbow. Oil sconces on the light-blue marble walls gave the chamber a soft, welcoming feel.
Faegan gave the violin a gentle shake, and Caprice launched herself into the air to rejoin her fellows. As she went, Faegan’s sadness returned.
He hadn’t come here to punish himself, although that was what sitting here alone had come to feel like.
He was worried for all of those who were now so far afield. Geldon’s note, which had arrived the previous night, had done nothing to assuage his fears about the rampaging orb. He feared for Wigg, Tristan, and Celeste, as they probed the depths of the Recluse. But he was most concerned about the welfare of Shailiha and Tyranny, and all of the other brave souls aboard the Reprise.
He knew that the theory behind transporting something so large was basically sound. He was also reasonably sure that his calculations for the ship’s destination in the Sea of Whispers were accurate—at least to within a league or so. But when the portal had swallowed up the ship, his blood had run cold.
He had never known the vortex to make any sound whatsoever, much less the terrible screeching noise he had heard that day. He had come to the conclusion that this had been because of the portal’s unusual size, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it for the time being. But still he worried. Sending the ship through a portal had been his idea.
On top of all those concerns, something even worse gnawed at his conscience and his sense of personal honor.
Because he had broken under Wulfgar’s torture, the Scroll of the Vigors had become damaged. And as long as Wulfgar—who, he was sure, still lived—possessed the Scroll of the Vagaries, their trials and tribulations might never end.
He looked down at the simple black robe that covered his partially destroyed legs and memories of the excruciating pain Wulfgar had caused them came flooding in. A lone tear traced its way down his cheek. Taking a deep breath, he looked out over the fliers again.
He suddenly sensed familiar, endowed blood on the other side of the doors behind him. Sitting up a bit straighter in his chair, he cleared his throat and quickly wiped the tear from his face.
He heard the doors open. Swiveling his chair around, he found Abbey standing there. Her face was white and her hands trembled. She had been crying.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Abbey took a few tentative steps. She kneeled down and took one of his gnarled hands into hers. Her hands still shook.
“You must prepare yourself, for I bring terrible news,” she said, her voice breaking.
Faegan swallowed hard. Rather than ask her again he simply waited, his heart in his throat.
“Geldon is dead,” she said.
For several long moments the wizard sat there in his chair, frozen in the moment.
“How?” he asked at last. It had been a struggle to get the word out.
“Was it the orb?”
Abbey shook her head. “No. I think you had best hear the tale from Ox. Even after witnessing Geldon’s death, the Minions don’t understand what happened. It seems to be a puzzle that only a full-fledged wizard or sorceress might unravel.” She paused. “But I’m afraid there is even worse news,” she said softly. “And this does have to do with the orb.”
Not altogether sure that he could bear any more bad tidings, Faegan looked back out over the aviary. His hands tightened around the violin. “What is it?”
“Ox says that the orb has changed course,” she answered. “It has struck the Tolenka Mountains and is heading west. It is literally carving a pass through the peaks. If it burns all the way through to the other side—”
“I am well aware of the prophecy,” he answered, cutting her off. His voice was little more than a whisper.
He covered his face with his hands. Then, taking a deep breath, Faegan did his best to gather himself up and speak again. But in the end all he could do was nod. Without a last look at the fliers, he gave his chair a push and followed Abbey down the hall.
AFTER OX TOLD FAEGAN OF GELDON’S STRANGE AND TERRIBLE death, the wizard gathered up Abbey, Adrian, Ox, and Duvessa in a special room in the Redoubt. Also present was Vivian of the House of Wentworth, Adrian’s assistant in the sisterhood.
Vivian was rather short, with curly blond hair and a kind, intelligent face. The dark red robe of her office fell loosely over her slim body. Faegan was not well acquainted with the young woman, but what he knew of her he liked. Given the nature of the tragedy, he thought it fitting that she join them.
Faegan had gathered them here because he knew that a grisly service would have to be performed. With Wigg in Parthalon, only he would be able to do it.
The room in which they stood was called the Cubiculum of Humanistic Research. Here, the consuls and the late Directorate of Wizards had done extensive study of the human form and how it related to the science of the craft. Due to their understandable worry regarding the ethics involved, the Directorate had debated for nearly a decade before finally voting to build it. When construction was done, a strict policy had been established that the research conducted here was to take place only upon subjects who had already died, and only for the explicit benefit of the Vigors.
The room held several examination tables. Side tables bearing metal instruments stood next to many of them. Glass cabinets lined the walls. The floor was brilliant white. Everything sparkled with cleanliness.
On the table before Faegan lay Geldon’s dead body, covered by a black sheet. Ox had immediately ordered it packed in ice from one of the mountainside glaciers. He had then had it flown back to the palace as fast as possible. That had been good thinking and Faegan had told him so. Now, narrowing his eyes, Faegan used the craft to activate an azure field around the table that would preserve the corpse for as long as necessary.
Faegan sadly looked up at Ox. Minion warriors supposedly never cried—at least that was one of the legends they chose to propagate. But on more than one occasion today Faegan had seen the tears in Ox’s eyes, and he understood. Ox just nodded back.
Faegan found the tale of Geldon
’s death as difficult to believe as everyone else. For Geldon to suddenly commit suicide was completely out of character—especially since his coming to live with them here in Eutracia.
“Are you quite sure that he seemed perfectly normal before he killed himself?” the wizard asked.
Ox nodded. “He worried about orb, but all of us be. We eat and drink much. Then he go to sleep in tent. Ox fall asleep by fire. But when Geldon wake up in middle of night, he be crazy. He come out of tent, waving knife. He say many bad things—things Ox never hear him say before.”
“And then?”
“Then he stab himself with knife. Geldon must want die that night. Ox swear as Minion warrior.”
Faegan managed a slight smile. “No one doubts your word, my friend.”
Frustrated, he rubbed his face. After levitating his chair to a more appropriate height, he grabbed one corner of the sheet, then paused and looked over at the others.
“You might want to prepare yourselves,” he said gently. Then he slowly pulled the sheet away from the corpse and let it fall to the floor.
There was no disputing that the naked body was Geldon’s, or that the hunchbacked dwarf was dead. Ox had wisely left the knife undisturbed, its handle still protruding from the ravaged eye socket. Vitreous fluid and blood had dried splattered upon Geldon’s face. The body was white and cold.
Faegan took hold of the knife handle and, with a quick, sure pull, removed it from Geldon’s head.
The wizard held the bloody knife to the light. Turning it over, he examined it closely. Try as he might he could find nothing out of the ordinary about it.
“Was the knife his property?” he asked Ox. “Or did it belong to someone else?”
“It be his,” the warrior answered. “He bring it from Parthalon.”
“I see,” Faegan answered. “This is all so puzzling. What I can tell you is that this knife has not been charmed in any way. This weapon is only the instrument of Geldon’s death, not the underlying cause.” He placed the knife on a side table.
Savage Messiah Page 20
