by Tom Abrahams
Lucius shook his head. “Not specifically.”
Uriel chuckled. “How about nonspecifically?”
“I knew what you knew. A storm. Beasts. That’s it.”
Zeke ran his hand along his jaw. “Does that mean you can’t tell us what’s next?”
Lucius swallowed. He bit his lower lip and wiped his face with the towel. Then he locked eyes with Zeke and said, “Only that it’s worse than what we just survived.”
Chapter Seventeen
“What is this?” Le Grand asked.
Anaxi wasn’t sure who he hoped would answer the question. She didn’t know what to say. And from the stunned look on his drawn face, neither did Desmond Branch. Though all three of them could hazard a good guess.
Fire was fire. It was unmistakable.
Out of nowhere, the distant sparks of flame surrounded them. It was as if the ocean itself was fuel for the inferno that encircled the ship. At first, Anaxi thought the water was on fire. She looked to the sky. Above them, visible beyond the smoke, was the constellation of stars her father told her was Orion’s Belt. “Find the belt, find where you are in the world,” he’d often said.
Smoke thickened above her, and her eyes fell back to the water. The flames took on almost recognizable shapes. They were other boats. They were smaller than the Saladin, but the flames that outlined their hulls and masts and sails were impressive. They shone against the dark night, the orange, flickering glow reflected off the dark water, burning mirror images of the floating conflagrations that inched closer and closer.
The heat on her face forced her eyes shut. Fire was everywhere, it seemed. The smoke was thickening, making it difficult to breathe. Anaxi dropped to her knees on the deck and then lowered herself to her stomach while the men barked or followed orders.
She’d led them into this. And despite not wanting Branch to find the sword, to have the power, she didn’t want to die either. She didn’t want to burn alive.
Cannons exploded from the deck. Each percussive shot rang through her body. The deafening blasts boomed but appeared to do little to the burning ships. They didn’t sink them. They didn’t stall their approach.
Crew crossed the deck and manned their posts. Some loaded bags into the catapults. Others carried buckets with water. Still more hauled cannonballs. The deck was awash with frantic activity. None of the men seemed to know what to do other than what they’d always done.
The smoke choked out the blood moon, but the Saladin may as well have been bathed in light. The flames cast long shadows across the deck, tracking the harried movements of the crew. With her body as flat against the deck as she could get, Anaxi used her elbows and knees to squirm along the deck.
Particulate burned her eyes. She blinked back tears and kept moving until she bumped into a post. Reaching out almost blindly, she ran her hand along it. It wasn’t vertical, and she was too far from mid deck for it to be a mast pole. Through the wisps of glowing smoke, she saw the bucket. This was a catapult.
An idea popped into her head.
Her heart racing, adrenaline powering her across the deck, she scrambled back toward the helm. Even if Branch wasn’t there, she’d find Le Grand. From memory, she scurried across the planks, avoiding the heavy boots of deckhands running aimlessly from one end of the ship to the other as if they could help anything.
The smoke thickened. The ring of fire closed tighter. She reached the helm and pushed herself to her knees.
Anaxi coughed. “I have a plan. Where’s Branch?”
Le Grand glanced at her. He blinked his reddened eyes and coughed. A bandana was wrapped over his nose and mouth. “What plan?”
She told him her idea, explaining how she couldn’t do it alone and they were running out of time. He stared at her for a moment, tears streaming down his cheeks from the smoke, and nodded.
“I’ll get the ship in position.”
One hand pressed to his shirt, he called to a pair of deckhands and ordered them to help Anaxi below deck. The men obeyed. They flanked her and guided her through the chaos toward the hatch.
The burning ships were close enough now they formed what looked like a completed circle around the Saladin. The flames cast a haunting orange and red glow, illuminating the thick pillows of black smoke that crowned the ring of death.
Below deck, the air cleared. Anaxi took a deeper breath and swiped the sheen of sweat from underneath her eyes. Now clear of the frenzy above, she explained what she needed from the deckhands. They stood motionless; their faces squeezed with confusion.
She raised her voice. “Do it, or I’ll tell Branch you’re the reason his quest failed.”
Anaxi hadn’t finished the sentence before they sprang to action. It was an empty threat. If they didn’t do what she instructed, they’d all die. There’d be no need to tell Desmond Branch anything.
Both men disappeared, climbing up through the hatch. Anaxi put her hands on her hips and took stock of the stores surrounding her. There had to be at least fifty lumpy burlap sacks holding grain. It should be enough. All they had to do was escape the circle. If they did, they were a step closer to the third feat.
A step closer to the sword.
A step closer to ending this nightmare one way or another.
Anaxi spun toward the hatch at the sound of boots bounding down the steps. Branch led six of his crew into the space.
His face was dark with soot. His eyebrows were singed. He marched to her and directed his men to start grabbing bags of grain.
She studied him for a moment. “Where the hell were you?”
“Commanding the cannon fire,” he answered, as if that should’ve been obvious.
“That’s not working,” she said. “You have to extinguish the flames.”
“Your poem doesn’t say that.”
She groaned. “Does it need to say it? It’s obvious.”
Branch wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You came up with this?”
Anaxi nodded. “The cannons aren’t working. Putting out the fire is the only way.”
He pursed his lips. Then he moved past her and slugged a bag onto his shoulder.
She followed him up the steps and through the hatch, avoiding the crew returning below deck to grab more bags. The smoke was thicker now on the deck. She took a breath that burned her throat and chest. Choking back a parade of coughs, she weaved her way through the confusion, keeping close enough to Branch to find a path.
Le Grand kept his promise. The catapult closest to Branch was aimed at the smallest of the flaming vessels. A bag was already loaded into the bucket.
Branch dropped the bag on his shoulder. It fell onto a stack of bags. Before Anaxi could stop him, he ordered the men manning the catapult to do their jobs.
“Fire.”
The men followed the order. They released the tension line and the bucket whipped forward. The bag launched into the black, disappearing for an instant before a loud crash echoed from the target. The flames were unaffected.
The men worked to load the next bag. Branch frowned at Anaxi.
“It didn’t work!” he yelled.
“You have to cut the bag,” she advised, quickly realizing the error. “Otherwise it’s no different than the cannonballs. Slice it open, let the grain free.”
He grumbled under his breath as if to start arguing with her, but didn’t. Instead, he drew his sword and sliced the next bag loaded onto the catapult. The flames glinted across the steel blade.
“Now, fire,” Anaxi said.
The team launched the second bag. It vanished into the smog. A moment later, when it landed, Anaxi saw its impact. The fire flickered and dimmed in the spot where the bag exploded on impact. The shower of grain deprived the flame of oxygen, smothering it. Her plan was working.
Branch must have seen it too. “Again,” he ordered. “Faster. Move!”
The men obeyed. They launched the next bag. He stopped abruptly after only a handful and turned to Anaxi.
“Come wi
th me,” he said.
Together, they crossed the deck to the other side of the ship to the second catapult. Men were already working to spin the mechanism to face the same direction as the other.
“It’s not happening fast enough,” Branch said. “We need both working. Tell these men what to do.”
He pulled a knife from his waist and offered it to her.
She studied the weapon. It was long with an upswept point at the tip of its steel blade. He motioned to her. She glanced up at him, unsure why he would give her a blade.
“Take it,” he urged. “I need you to cut the sacks of grain on this side. I can’t be in both places, and we need both catapults working at the same time to put out the fire. Otherwise, we won’t make it.”
She took the knife from him. For a brief moment, she considered jabbing it into his gut.
She wouldn’t be fast or tall enough. He’d run her through with the sword. Even if she succeeded in hurting him, he’d do the same to her, with a much deadlier weapon. It was better to bide her time. This wasn’t the moment.
“Get to work!” Branch ordered.
He spun and vanished into the smoke. She turned and did as instructed. In quick succession, the men loaded the catapult and fired. After several volleys from the twin siege weapons, the fires on the smallest ship and the one next to it were weakened.
Anaxi drove the blade into one bag after another, dragging the knife in a downward motion in the burlap to open wounds that seeped grain.
It was a satisfying exercise. Empowering. She worked faster and faster.
She was so focused on her task that she didn’t hear the men cheering. She didn’t sense the movement of the Saladin through the ring. She wasn’t aware they’d cleared the feat until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Startled, she spun around with the knife raised. It was tight in her fist, ready to keep stabbing.
It was Le Grand. He backed away, hands in front of him, palms facing her in surrender. “Whoa, ease up,” he said. “We did it.”
She blinked. Focused on his face. Saw the clean tracks of tears streaked through the soot on his cheeks.
Her tension eased and she lowered the knife. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. But why don’t you give me the knife before you hurt someone.” He extended his hand and wagged his fingers.
Anaxi again regarded the blade. “I don’t think so.”
She imagined what she could do with it. Le Grand wasn’t any better than Branch. In some ways, he was worse. She was convinced that, at his core, Le Grand was a good man who knew better than to follow a depraved sadist like Desmond Branch, but lacked the fortitude to do anything about it.
“What do you need the knife for?” he asked. “You’ve got nowhere to go. Even if you use it against me or Branch, you won’t get away with it. We’re the only ones keeping you alive. Only he and I understand your importance to the mission. The others on board would just as soon…”
He let the thought linger, let her imagine what might come next. Anaxi didn’t like any of the possibilities. Le Grand was right. Having the knife was useless.
She flipped the knife in her hand and offered him the handle. He took it and tucked it into his waistband. Then he offered her a hand up. She was on her knees beside a triple stack of bags.
Anaxi waved off the help and used the stack to leverage her weight as she stood. With the backs of her hands, she wiped the sweat from her face. Her skin came away black from soot.
The smoke remained thick, but it dissipated enough for her to see across the Saladin to the other catapult. Branch stood near it with his hands on his hips, looking out onto the sea.
They’d turned, and the burning circle of ships was behind them. It wasn’t burning anymore though. The flames had been reduced to patches of glowing embers. Arms of gray smoke drifted into the sky. It was as if their escape had extinguished the threat figuratively and literally.
Branch spun on his boots, spotted Anaxi, and marched toward her. A broad grin dominated his features. His teeth were a sharp contrast to the dark smudges that darkened his face.
He extended his arms as he approached. Anaxi thought he might embrace her. She recoiled. Her shoulders turned in on themselves and she shrank from him.
“You did it!” he exclaimed. “Incredible. Just incredible. I never would have thought to use the stores of grain as a way to escape. Brilliant, really. I’m impressed, little one. Maybe you have a future on the Saladin. I might have to keep you around.”
Anaxi’s thoughts immediately went to Le Grand. Would she become like him? If she stayed aboard too long, might she keep quiet for self-preservation? No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. These people killed her father. They’d ripped her from the only home she’d ever known. They wanted power to which they weren’t entitled.
A thousand ways to respond cycled through her mind. Instead, she said nothing. She glowered at Branch, hoping her dour expression rife with anger and disgust would provide the answer to his proposition.
It must have worked. His smile evaporated. His eyes narrowed.
“Or not,” he said. “To be determined.”
Le Grand cleared his throat, cutting the tension. “I need to get back to the helm. What course should I chart?”
He was obviously asking the question of Anaxi. Only she knew what came next. Branch answered the question instead.
“Keep your course for now. The men need time to clean the ship. They need to eat. Drink. Sleep. They’ve had a time of it.”
Le Grand nodded, stealing a glance at Anaxi as he did.
Anaxi wiped her eyes again and looked off the port side of the ship, watching the smoldering ring of ships grow smaller as they moved away from them. A colony of large gulls glided alongside the Saladin, riding the current. They mirrored each other’s movements, traveling in unison.
“Head east,” she said, with the vim of a captain. “The men can eat, rest, and pretend they’re heroes regardless of our course.”
The birds dipped together and flapped their wings. They drifted away from the ship and caught a draft back toward the port side. Anaxi felt the heat of both men’s stares as she focused on the flock.
Branch huffed. “Do it. Head east as she says. She knows the way.”
She did. They both knew it. And they both knew she was commanding the ship. Slowly and surely, the Saladin and its crew were becoming hers.
Chapter Eighteen
Zeke stood on the aft deck of the Riva Cantata. He had his hat in his hand. Wind swirled around him, the warm current of air feeling good against his skin. He focused on the wake fanning out from behind the yacht. The ride on the much larger boat was markedly smoother than his speedboat, even if it was less exhilarating.
They were headed south, and the sun was low to his left, peeking above the horizon to signal a new day. They’d powered through the night. Zeke hadn’t slept. Neither had the trio of Watchers. They crowded around the helm, drinking and singing songs.
Zeke could hear them from the aft deck. They sounded happy, but he couldn’t find it in himself to rejoice. Not with so much at stake. They’d unsuccessfully tried to cajole him into imbibing with them. Uriel had teasingly and perhaps accurately called him a self-loathing martyr who enjoyed wallowing in despair.
Lucius slept through the night. He’d found one of the salons on the lowest deck of the ship and disappeared. As far as Zeke knew, Lucius was asleep.
“Coffee?”
Zeke turned around to see Uriel holding large ceramic mugs in both hands. One of them read PUNCH TODAY IN THE FACE. The other displayed a cartoon cat hanging upside down from a tree branch. It read “MONDAYS”.
Zeke forced a smile. “Sure. Thanks.”
Uriel handed him the cartoon cat mug. Then she cupped the other in both hands and took a sip. The bottom of her mug had a fist painted on it.
He toasted her. “Figures you would pick a mug with a fist on it.”
She licked her upper lip and eased next to him,
facing the ocean off the stern. The spray danced above the generous fan of the boat’s wake.
She raised her mug and said, “The caffeine doesn’t do anything. It’s all psychosomatic for us. If you feel a buzz, it’s in your head.”
“Like the alcohol?”
“Exactly.”
He took a sip and winced. The coffee was bitter. Uriel giggled.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she said.
“That’s the issue with the coffee. You don’t cook it.”
She shrugged. “Did you get much coffee where you came from? I mean, given that water was in short supply?”
“A couple of times. Both times it was a shot. What do they call that? Expresso?”
Uriel corrected him. “Espresso. There’s no X in it.”
He tried to correct his pronunciation. “Es-press-oh.”
“Yep. It’s Italian. The full name is caffè espresso. It means pressed-out coffee.”
“Italian?”
“The language of a country called Italy. It existed before your time.”
Zeke took another sip. “I think I’ve heard of it. From a book Li had in her library.”
Uriel ran her thumbs along her mug. The early morning light cast a glow on her face. Her eyes sparkled.
“Which one?” she asked.
“Which one what?”
“Which book?”
Zeke closed his eyes. He envisioned the walls of books in their apartment. They were prohibited in their city, but she’d flouted the law and collected as many rare volumes as she could find. Zeke had helped her with his black-market connections.
“I think it was actually a play about two star-crossed lovers,” he said. “An Italian play by an…English writer, or something.”
“Romeo and Juliet,” Uriel said.
Zeke shook his head. “I don’t think so. I wasn’t—”
“Two families hated each other? Girl from one fell for a boy from the other? They profess their love. Girl pretends to be dead. Boy thinks she’s dead and kills himself. She wakes up. Sees he’s dead. Kills herself. That it?”