“Not good enough,” replied the captain stoutly.
The bosun stepped back a pace and studied the skipper’s resolute features. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You heard me. Your offer’s not good enough. I want freedom for us all. My crewmates as well as all the passengers. Either we’re all set free—or we die together.” And he glared up at the thunderous sky.
“I’ll set your crew free,” said the bosun hastily. “But the others will still have to be dealt with—” Just as he spoke a tremendous blue-charged flash of lightning lit up the blackened sky, swiftly followed by three deafening claps of thunder. The rain began to whip furiously in the wind.
Captain Osari looked at his adversary evenly and shook his head. “No compromises, bosun,” he said. “All or none.”
“Don’t listen to him!” cried Oro, growing frantic. The very thought of seeing Ramagar set free from his bonds left the hunchback shaking with terror. “It—it’s a trick! They’ll try and win back the ship!”
Osari scowled. “The hunchback talks like a fool,” he said, his voice regaining its vitality. He knew he had played his hand well; the bosun would have to make a decision quickly. The storm was bearing down too fast for any debate.
With an untried sailor now at the helm, the twin-masted ship was already steering badly, yawing beneath the punishing blows. The bosun bit tensely at his lower lip and glanced about at his increasingly anxious companions.
“The storm’s a killer, for sure,” sighed his crony. “And she’s overtaking us faster than I’ve ever seen. If we’re hit with the stern to the wind she’ll tear us apart…”
“Make up your mind,” said the captain. “While you still can.”
The bosun drew his knife and freed the captain’s hands. “All right,” he rasped. “You win. Get us through this weather and I promise to set the lot of you down at the nearest land.” Then he turned into the wind and faced the crew. “Untie them all, and get them below.”
“You can’t!” screamed Oro. His beady eyes focused intensely on the thief, and Ramagar smiled grimly. “I order you to throw them over!”
The bosun glared at the little man who stood at his side shaking from limb to limb, and grabbed him by the collar. “You what?” he shouted. “You order me? I’m in charge of the Vulture now,” he reminded. “And I make the rules. Understood?” And he dug his knife lightly into the hunchback’s exposed throat. “Bucky-boy don’t play no more games…
Oro’s face drained of any remaining color. He nodded submissively, knowing the bosun would kill him without a second thought if he gave him any more trouble.
“All right, Captain,” said the bosun. “I’ll keep my part of the bargain. See that you keep yours. Any false moves and the passengers die—the girl first.”
Captain Osari rubbed at the rope burns on his wrists and agreed. He didn’t trust the bosun’s word for a minute, sure that the treacherous sailor would do him and the others in as planned the moment the ship was out of danger. But any counterplan would have to wait. The storm would have to be dealt with first.
“Every man to his post,” he called. And as the crew dashed to their places and the passengers were shuttled below, he turned to face the coming wrath of the Northern hurricane—the most dreaded tempest a mariner could battle.
The sea raged all around like a battering ram, dealing blow after blow after blow. “Two points into the wind!” shouted the captain, and slowly his sure-handed helmsman battled to bring the lumbering vessel closer to the wind. Cold, icy waves exploded over the decks time and time again. Every man, even these misfits, though waist-deep at times in the frigid water, fought deftly with the lines and strained to keep the sails trimmed. They yanked at the lines, spared no effort in turning every wheel, even as ice-crusted water sprayed their hands and faces and left their skin raw and bleeding.
For hours they clung to their tasks, while the lightning flashed and the constantly shifting winds tossed the boat like a hapless cork. Captain Osari ordered the ship rounded-to first on the starboard side, then on the port. Again and again the angry sea lashed out, smashing them broadside and pounding in frenzy. The bow dipped and rose, dipped and rose; planks and pins and barrels went flying, shattering like tinder above their heads. And still the storm grew worse.
“We’re being pulled deeper into it, Cap’n,” called the helmsman.
Osari, lashed to a line at the bridge, nodded darkly. “We’re running across her face,” he replied. “And we’ll be lucky to make the eye by night.”
It was a gloomy dawn, the sky colored in shades of gray and blacks, broken only by the hideous lightning and the white-foamed rolling waves. As the ship canted with a sickening blow, the loft masts strained. Lines tore loose, a section of rigging flapped about furiously. Osari screamed a warning to the handful of sailors working at the block. When the lash lines parallel to the quarterdeck broke, they hit whip-like into everything in their path. It was a horrible sight. Frightened men tried to run, sliding, feeling the weight of the tearing waves crush over them, screaming hollowly as flying spray choked them and filled their lungs. Then over the side a handful were carried, hurled into the air like toys until they disappeared completely.
The rain became tiny pellets of ice, limbs became numbed. The captain knew that a few more hours of this and every man topside would freeze to death. But neither he nor anyone else faltered for a single moment. They were going to fight their way through like mariners, match the weather until it passed—or die in the effort.
Down below, meanwhile, the passengers had been huddled together in a single spartan cabin, the door bolted with an armed crewman posted outside. Helplessly they sat waiting while the tremor-wracked vessel fought for its life.
The beamed ceiling groaned under the weight of rushing water and Mariana looked up in trepidation. The Vulture was a sturdy ship, a fine ship, but it was plain that she could not take much more.
Ramagar sat at her side sullenly watching the steady trickle of dripping water pour through the cracks; he rubbed sourly at his whitened knuckles and prayed for the chance to get his hands on the hunchback for just a single moment before the end.
The haj stood leaning beside the porthole. He listened to the crash of the waves and the howls of the wind, lost in thought. Homer restlessly paced back and forth, from time to time putting his ear to the door and trying to determine if their guard was still posted.
Of them all, it was only the tall, yellow-haired Prince who sat calm and controlled.
The cabin shook from a tremendous blow above; the ship heaved heavily to port. Everything in the cabin that was not firmly bolted suddenly flew pell-mell from one wall to the other. The passengers grappled to grasp anything solid to break their awkward slide. The Vulture strained, slowly righted, and everyone regained his footing.
The thief wiped salt water from his eyes and scowled. “We’re pinned like worms in a bucket,” he complained. “I’d rather take my chances above, on deck with the others. At least we’d die in the open, not drowning like rats.”
The haj pulled a long face, deep worry lines cracking across his tanned features. “If only there were some way to get ourselves out of here,” he said. “Once the storm breaks …”
Ramagar’s shoulders sagged as he stared at the triple-locked door, impossible for them to break. “It seems,” he sighed, “that we are all trapped. Caught between the raging of the sea and a band of ruthless cutthroats. What chance do we have?”
Mariana looked about uneasily. “But what about the promise to set us free? The bosun gave his word. Surely if Captain Osari pulls the ship through this weather—”
“That will be one promise never kept,” interrupted the thief. He rapped a fist into an open palm and cursed under his breath. “One way or another they will have us dead. I’m afraid this time we’re sunk.”
“Doomed to the ocean’s cold floor,” agreed the haj, tapping a nervous foot against the sodden planks. Then he raised and shook an imp
erious fist. “By the Seven Hells,” he growled. “If only we still had our weapons!”
In the heated discussion everyone was too preoccupied to see when the Prince shifted his posture and closed his eyes as if in deep meditation. He crossed his legs, bowed his head low against his chest, and began to rock slowly back and forth, oblivious to both his companions and the surging sea.
“What are you doing?” said the thief, suddenly taking notice of his puzzling behavior. That their companion and leader was a strange sort of man they all knew; but now Ramagar wondered if he had begun to take complete leave of his senses.
“Shh … Don’t speak,” whispered the Prince. “Stand back and leave me to my thoughts.” And as everyone stared bewildered, he reached inside his tunic and drew the scimitar—the Blue Fire.
A single oil lamp swung wildly from the ceiling as the cabin heaved and rocked. At best its light had been dull; now, though, Mariana saw that it was growing steadily dimmer—until the flame was all but extinguished.
Something was afoot, she knew. Something strange and unexplainable. She felt the short hairs on the back of her neck rise and she shuddered. Staring at the blade, held lightly in the Prince’s open palms, she saw it begin to change color, change from its glittering gold and slowly pale into new hues. The cabin was almost black; she could see nothing except the dagger itself. She blinked her eyes and gaped, thinking that her mind must be playing tricks. But no—-Ramagar, the haj, and Homer all stood equally entranced, their faces tight and motionless. They had seen what she had seen.
The blade glimmered in the darkness for a time and then it began to glow. Deep, deep blue, then lighter and lighter until it took on a blue-white pall. “Az’i!” she gasped. “What’s happening?”
“Quiet!” snapped the Prince tensely. And he clutched the scimitar tighter, holding it before his shut eyes. He slipped off the scabbard, let it clang to the floor. The tiny rubies and emeralds dazzled in white heat, sending speckled prisms dancing up and down and along the grim, bare walls. The blue of the dagger itself became a brilliant tiny sun, burning intensely, and now it was not merely glowing as before, but burning, raging in terrible shimmering light.
Mariana’s mouth opened involuntarily, forming the soundless words: “Blue Fire …”
Flickering shadows cascaded eerily over the dumbfounded companions, spreading bit by bit until everyone in the cabin had been encased within the pall. At that moment time seemed to stand still, as if there were no storm around them, as if the sea were as calm and as quiet as a sheet of glass. No pounding of waves, no rocking of the ship. Only an extraordinary, incomprehensible silence overtaking everyone and everything in the cabin.
And then, very gradually, the blue shadows started to fade; the room was no longer shrouded as before. The walls slowly changed back to their normal colors of brown and yellow; the oil lamp was burning again and swaying; the crashing of waves filled their ears. But still the dagger kept its mysterious bizarre glow, softer, yet still intense, its effect holding the onlookers totally transfixed.
Mariana was the first to shake out of her daze. Her dark eyes continued to reflect the blue-white tones of the blade. “It’s alive,” she whispered aloud. “The scimitar is alive!”
The Prince still sat cross-legged and rigid. He opened his eyes and stared at the glow, and then he smiled. “No, Mariana,” he said, sounding drained of all energy. “Don’t be frightened. The blade is not alive. All I’ve done is call upon the Blue Fire to help us. Its powers are limited, but they are strong enough to free us from this prison.”
The haj swallowed tensely and stared at the knife. “Then it’s bewitched, cast with spells—Druid spells.”
“No,” flared the Prince. He glanced at each of his friends one by one, his eyes glowing with the same ice-blue fire as the dagger he held. “You must trust me,” he said. “The Blue Fire can do no evil. It can only aid us. There are no spells upon it. Although perhaps it would be to our benefit if there were. You see, the scimitar was blended with a rare alloy, as I once told you, an alloy discovered in Speca a thousand years ago. Its powers and abilities are dormant—unless you know the secret of bringing them into focus, as I do.”
“And how can your glowing blade help us escape?” queried Ramagar, as he knelt down beside the Prince and reached out to touch the scimitar.
“Don’t!” cried the Prince, recoiling. “You must never touch it when it glows.”
At this frantic warning, the stunned thief quickly pulled back his hand. “But why?” he asked, shaken. “Will it harm me?”
“The Blue Fire may be our ally, good thief, but it is also dangerous. It will harm, nay kill, anyone who knows not the secret of using it. See how the blade glows? Do not let the blue color fool you,” he explained severely. “The dagger burns as fiercely as any fire ever made by men. No one but the rightful owner may touch it in this state. Yet, even I must be careful. Look.” He stood cautiously, sweeping the blade above his head, and put the tip close to an overhead beam. Without even being touched, the dampened wood sent off a charge of tiny flames—blue flames—scattering the breadth of the cabin. The beam crackled and sparkled until the blade was pulled away. And even then it continued to smolder, with a thick cloud of dark blue vapor billowing across the ceiling.
“Now we understand,” said Mariana, watching in awe.
“Yes,” agreed the Prince darkly. “Now you understand. No more of this alloy exists, and Blue Fire was the only weapon ever forged with it. The blade has the ability to bum through a wall of solid iron, when properly used. There is no prison that can hold it—or us.” He glanced to the lock-encumbered door. “Not even this one.”
A cunning smile broke across Ramagar’s rugged features. “This blade of yours becomes more of a mystery to me every day,” he admitted. “Tell me, are there other tricks it can perform?”
“A few,” replied the Prince. “Never fear. They will be there when we need them. But for now …”
Ramagar’s eyes twinkled; his hands tingled excitedly with the idea of escape. Again the Specian Prince moved his eyes to the door and said, “We have to move fast; there’s not a moment to lose. The guard outside must not get a chance to warn the others.”
“Leave him to me,” snorted the thief.
“And I’m ready too,” added the haj. Burlu rubbed his hands in anticipation. “What is the plan?”
The Prince signaled for Ramagar to cover one side of the doorway and the haj the other. “The moment the locks burn we strike,” he said. Then without another word he slipped across the cabin and kneeled at the base of the heavy oaken door. His fingers ran gently along the locks, inspecting them, noting the thickness of the aging, rusted iron.
“Stay back,” he whispered to Mariana and Homer; then he raised the blue-fired scimitar and placed the tip lightly against the heavy metal. Slowly the black iron began to smoke, making popping and sputtering noises. The locks turned color as they began to melt misshapenly and grotesquely, dripping hot blue flame.
Suddenly the door was burning. “Now!” cried the Prince.
Ramagar and the haj set their shoulders and heaved with all their weight, crashing against the wood. The iron hinges groaned and gave, the door burst open dramatically, a slab of blue-hot timber still clinging haphazardly to the melted locks and bolts.
The crewman on duty at the edge of the dim corridor gasped in horror at the sight of the terrible flames and the two men charging from the room. He drew his knife, then turned and ran in fear, heading for the small stairwell leading to the forward hatch.
Ramagar was after him like a swift panther. The thief lunged and grabbed the sailor by the legs. Spinning around, the mutineer slashed at empty air as the cunning rogue lithely ducked the swinging arm and slammed the sailor against the wall. Ramagar pinned him savagely, drew back his fist, and thrust it with all his might. The crewman caught the blow directly on the mouth. Sputtering blood, he gurgled incoherently, eyes rolling, and slid to the bottom of the slippery steps.
Panting, the thief adroitly scooped up the sailor’s fallen knife, tucked it safely in his belt, and went back to the corridor to beckon the others.
The ship was still rocking violently, taking a fearsome beating at the hands of the Northern winds. “Come on!” the thief shouted above the din of the sea. “The way’s clear.”
Mariana and the rest scrambled out of the cabin, over the burning door, and into the waterlogged passage. They reeled and fell sharply against the opposite wall as the Vulture pitched with a new broadside onslaught. The corridor was already permeated with clouds of thick, swirling blue smoke, and coughing and wheezing they made their way to the hatchway steps.
Suddenly the hatch banged open. A rush of water came tearing down with brutal force, swilling over Ramagar and the writhing sailor and flooding the passage waist-deep in ice-cold frothing liquid.
The haj fought to pick himself up, and with Mariana at his side, clinging to his flowing robe, he managed to push his way forward to Ramagar’s outstretched hand. Mariana barely held her balance as a new oceantide slammed through the hatch, tearing the door off its hinges and sending it flying. She peered bravely up the flight of stairs and gasped at the sight of the grim morning sky: a foggy black sky, as turbulent as it was frightening.
Hand over hand Ramagar grasped his way up the railing with frozen fingers. The hyperborean wind was blowing mercilessly, pushing him backward. His eyes were clogged with rain, his mouth continuously spat frigid seawater. But on he pressed, until at last he had climbed his way to the entrance.
Dark forms of running sailors crossed his line of vision briefly. Electric-charged flashes of blinding light exploded furiously above. And then the brightness was gone, obliterated in a rush of grays and blacks that swirled directly atop the ship.
A cold wind nearly crushed the life out of him as he crawled onto the deck. Amid the tumult no one noticed his presence—and for that much at least he was glad. Regaining his feet, he glanced to the bridge, sheltering his eyes with his arm, and caught sight of able Captain Osari lashed with his helmsman beside the wheel, both men struggling valiantly to keep the ship aright for just a while longer.
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 21
