The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  A low rumble sounded from behind; Mariana whirled, almost losing her footing on the slippery planks. A hefty chunk was sliding clumsily from its place near the jagged crest. It cracked as it rolled, shattering into a half-dozen deadly boulders that came crashing fiercely into the water and sent huge sprays swelling knee-deep over the afterdeck.

  Ramagar had also been awakened; he lumbered his way up the steps toward the hatch. Finding Mariana startled and also angered him; but the sight of the incredible bergs left him so transfixed that he just stood by her side speechless, unable to convey his thoughts.

  Moments later Osari called for the ship to adjust for the wind, but the command came a hairsbreadth too late. A second ice pack ground against the hull’s thin wood; the ship jerked, the bow dipped, slowly pushing away. But the deck remained slanted at its incline with a definite bias to the starboard side. Lumber crunched, a brittle snapping sound in the cold, and rushing water heaved through the hole.

  “She’s damaged us, sir,” called the first mate calmly. “We’re taking on water.”

  “Damn,” growled the captain, and he kicked his boot savagely onto the floor. Then he quickly regained his composure, barking for the first mate and a handful of sailors to get below and inspect the damage.

  The Vulture heeled, and it was obvious that the gash was a bad one, allowing the sea to flood wildly in at least one section of the hold. Normally such a tear could be repaired in a matter of hours — but not now, not here between these all-powerful monsters where even the slightest miscalculation could send them roaring into the mountain’s face.

  “More trouble ahead, Cap’n,” shouted the lookout.

  Captain Osari clenched his teeth and stared. From some distant edge of the closer peak the ice wall cracked and split; a section of the mountain was breaking away, ripping itself like sackcloth and pulling toward the center of the valley. Rocking horribly as it broke loose and free, it celebrated its birth by causing a tremendous upheaval before them, displacing water in rivers and splashing it up along the smooth walls.

  The captain expertly calculated the needed adjustments, and gave precise directions to the helmsman. The sturdy little ship, sleek and proud, seemed to him now to be like a tiny matchstick, fragile and helpless, next to the awesome forces nature had set against them.

  The helmsman was at his very best, calling long years of experience to the fore. He maneuvered the craft like an eel, slipping the ship between lumbering floes with barely inches to spare. The cliffs of white hovered over their heads, pale sheets of solid ice, trembling and ready to crumble.

  The wind slackened as they reached the center of the canyon, and the new prevailing silence made them shudder. Save for the occasional command the captain issued, no one uttered a word. Crew and passengers stood by breathlessly, watching the hideous walls slowly slide by, and anxiously keeping an eye on those yet to come. Mariana bit at her frozen lips and clung to the arm of the thief.

  The ship was tilting more sharply as it sliced ahead through the frozen debris. There were muffled noises coming from below, where the first mate and his hands were frantically trying to plug up the yawning hole in their side. The clang and clatter of hammers became louder and Captain Osari tensed. Then suddenly the rush of swelling water against the hull eased; inch by inch the ship began to right itself and he smiled grimly. A shipwreck here was certain death for them all, he knew. A man would last maybe three minutes in the freezing water, or even less; but in such a dreaded circumstance, less was probably better.

  A heavy fog had begun to swirl above. Thick and clammy, it shrouded the peaks of the bergs, then gradually moved lower. “Steady as she goes,” Osari whispered, straining his vision to peer beyond the exit of the valley. He brushed his ice-flecked hood and clasped his hands behind his back. He saw that the fog would make further progress impossible. Although he was doing everything he could to guide the Vulture through, he knew it would take far more than a sailor’s ability to push safely out of this mess.

  The mist descended faster, at an alarming rate. Soon they could hardly even make out the walls of the bergs at their sides, even though in places they were only meters away.

  With all but the mainsail furled, the ship seemed to halt abruptly, then continue its movement forward at a snail’s pace. A dozen lookouts were placed along the prow, each man holding a torch and measuring with careful counts the pitiful distance that could be seen ahead.

  Blocks of ice danced before the bow, bobbing and weaving, clumsily knocking into the straining ship. The cold fog had settled above the waterline, totally shrouding the ship and covering it from yardarm to deck, stern to stern, with a thin veneer of frost.

  By this time no one was still asleep. Every man aboard had come topside to see. They gasped and they groaned, understanding the fate they faced if the Vulture veered from her precarious course and came into contact with the jagged mounds strewn on either side.

  The mists writhed demonically across the high and ragged scape. As the ship wallowed, Captain Osari stepped from the bridge and worked his way to the prow, following the burning light of the torches and watching the deep shadows the flames cast on the faces of his men.

  “What are we going to do?” asked a distraught Burlu as the mariner passed.

  Osari turned sharply, a look of anxiety etched into his searover’s features. “I suggest we pray,” he replied dourly. “I tear there is little else we can do.”

  Mariana swallowed. “You mean we’re trapped until the fog clears?”

  The mariner smiled thinly. “Yes — if we can make it that long. But we’re as blind as a ship can ever be. Chances are we’ll smash up long before the mist rises …”

  “Our torches won’t help?” asked Ramagar.

  Osari shook his head. “See for yourself. The only hope we have is to anchor, stay put in a single place, and hope we don’t find ourselves embedded in ice …”

  “Or have the bergs come crashing atop our heads,” Mariana added gloomily.

  They stood in silence. Captain Osari had been frank with them, and the picture he painted would only grow more dismal as the night wore on. Mariana envisioned what would happen if the ship couldn’t keep moving; and the image of the Vulture encrusted in solid ice made her shudder. In a day, two at the most, they would all have been frozen to death. And a grim monument would stand forever in the far North — a monument warning all other ships: Keep away! Or share the same fate.

  Ramagar rubbed at his whitened knuckles, blowing large volumes of smoky frost from his mouth. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  The captain sighed. “If you know of something, I’d love to hear it.”

  “Maybe I can help.” It was the Prince who spoke, and all eyes quickly turned toward him. With bitterly cold hands he reached inside his heavy fur jacket and pulled out the scimitar.

  Mariana shuddered. “Blue Fire,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” said the Prince. “Blue Fire. Perhaps the glow can cut through the fog —” His eyes darted to the prow and the huddled sailors still holding their torches high in the air. “But we must be careful,” he cautioned. “You’ve all seen the strength of its flame. If the blade touches the ice, even fleetingly, it could set off a terrible explosion — an explosion which would melt the bergs in an instant and send an ocean of water flooding down from above.”

  “We’d be drowned in seconds,” gulped the haj. And the Prince nodded darkly.

  Oro moved out from the shadows, trembling. Since Tarta he had never ventured from his cabin, and his sulking presence had hardly been missed. But now, with this new threat to them all, he had come onto the deck, as worry-filled and frightened as any.

  “You can’t use the magic!” he blurted out. “You saw what happened the last time! We’ll be engulfed!”

  The captain stepped into a circle of melted snow formed at his feet and glanced up and down barely visible ice walls on the port side. “It will be dangerous,” he agreed. “A very tricky business …”
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br />   “Is it better to wallow until we freeze?” snapped Mariana. She looked at the Prince. “Use it,” she said. “Use your blade. Call forth the power of the alloy and light up the night.”

  The Prince looked at her evenly. “Then you’re not afraid like the others?”

  She laughed hollowly. “My dear Prince, I am petrified. My flesh is crawling. But what alternative do we have? Anchoring is only begging for our deaths. At least the Blue Fire gives us a chance — no matter how slim it may be.”

  “Mariana’s right,” said Ramagar. “We must act. The more time we lose debating, the faster these bergs will close in.”

  The Prince turned to the captain. “This is your ship,” he said to Osari respectfully. “Only you can give the command. Shall I use the dagger? Or not?”

  It was a dilemma with no easy solution. Captain Osari thought long and hard to make his decision. But in the end he realized that Mariana had been right. The scimitar was the only way. And in any case, if the bergs exploded, the water would drown them so quickly that they would never know what happened. If they were to die, that would be the best way.

  “All right,” he said at length. “We’ve nothing to lose. Do what must be done while the rest of us pray for your success.”

  The Prince sat down cross-legged on the open deck, oblivious to the stares of incredulous sailors, oblivious to the tiny particles of frozen snow rushing against his exposed hands and face. Then with his eyes tightly shut, he once more went into his trance, calling forth the strange secrets of the unknown alloy. Careful not to touch anything solid, he lifted the dagger in his open hands, bowed his head, and concentrated as hard as he could.

  Oro gazed intently at his first demonstration of the dagger’s power brought to life. As the blade lost its golden aura he gasped, then watched raptly as the first tones of swirling bine glowed above the gold and reflected across the Prince’s clean-shaven face.

  Suddenly the wondrous blade began to burn, as before, sending tiny slivers of blue light scattering into the night. Crewmen doused their flimsy torches; the lamp swinging freely from the bridge sputtered and went out. Bathed totally in the peculiar blue light, the Prince slowly rose to his feet, holding the scimitar now in one hand high above his head, and made his way slowly and cautiously across the deck to the prow. And everywhere the blade met the mist, the fog was pushed back. Not far, but enough for everyone to see clearly the walls of ice that surrounded them.

  The Prince reached the prow and grasped the iced-over lash line. The dumbfounded sailors scurried aside and left him to stand alone. Holding out his arm, the Prince slashed the dagger through the air. Tiny flakes of ice buzzed wildly, like sparks from a firecracker, burning up and plummeting dizzily into the sea.

  And the fog itself recoiled, drifting eagerly out of harm’s way as the blue flame licked upward into the shroud. The sailors cheered loudly.

  “Full ahead,” called the captain, gazing with astonishment as the path before the ship cleared. No time was to be lost, no effort spared. The Vulture crunched over a blockage that had already formed off the prow and lurched forward.

  Like a statue the Prince stood, fixed in his place, holding Blue Fire aloft. Here and there the monumental ice packs thinned or lowered, only to regain their height and thickness suddenly. The ship weaved in and out, dodging floes with regularity.

  But as Blue Fire singed, much of the loose snow along the edges of the cliffs began to dislodge. A low malevolent rumbling filled their ears before they could understand what was happening. The mist had turned hot, its vapor rushing madly against the packed walls in its frenzy to escape the flames. In so doing, it was melting some of the ice, causing great fissures to burst and boulder-like chunks to slide from the mountains. And as they rolled they picked up speed and even more ice, dislodging other chunks as they fell.

  The ship rocked; Mariana screamed. A huge misshaped block came crashing onto the bridge, nearly crushing the helmsman. Then came another from the opposite side. The melting slab thundered from the cliff, splitting into two and hitting beside the afterdeck. Two sailors scrambled for cover — but not in time. Their terrible wails pierced the frigid air; the ice hit with such impact that both men were sent dying over the side, sucked down into the water right before the eyes of their stunned companions.

  Lines were thrown, a dozen men raced to help, but nothing could be done. Mariana looked on in horror as a lonely hand rose from beneath the murk, splashing about and causing tremendous ripples before it slid below again, never to reappear.

  “Off the prow!” came a howling cry.

  And there, a huge slab, a virtual berg by itself, began to totter. Then it tipped to its side and rolled over. The bottom of the berg rose, larger than the top had been, displacing incredible amounts of icy water and spilling it violently across the prow. The Prince slipped with the swell, holding onto the line for his very life. For an instant it seemed the dagger would fall. Mariana’s eyes grew wide with panic. One touch to the wood, the barest glance, and the entire prow would shoot up into roaring blue fire. But the Prince lost control only fleetingly. Finding his feet, he let go of the line and reasserted his control over the blade. The scimitar glowed brighter under the hovering mountains and the Prince drew back his arm slightly when he saw the smoothed wall of ice at his side slowly begin to melt.

  All through this period of uncertainty and fear the Vulture never wavered from its course. More slabs crashed and submerged, rose again. Sailors came running with pikes and axes and deftly pounded the closest of them until their razor edges were dulled and could no longer pose a threat if they struck the tender wood of the hull.

  Suddenly thunder echoed behind, and Mariana turned aghast to see the far side of one mountain fall with frightful slow motion into the black water. A rush of sea swelled and slammed against the stern. Wind was rushing at them once more, cold and harsh. But Captain Osari grinned and clapped his hands. “We’re breaking free!” he shouted gleefully. “We’re passing the valley!”

  And in the weird blue of the dagger’s glow they could all see the way ahead beyond the bergs: dark, choppy seas, menacing and stormy — but at last they were in the open.

  The sails filled with a whomp! The Vulture pitched and lurched forward. The mist above the masts began to fall back in a rush. Stars began to glitter, a bright half-moon now brightened the sky.

  Laughter, tears, and merriment filled the ship. The haj scooped up Mariana in his arms and smothered her with kisses. The crew danced, sang, complimented each other, and congratulated the weary captain and helmsman. Homer and Ramagar rushed to the prow, glowing with gratitude to the Prince. Exhausted from his feat, still holding the ebbing Blue Fire, he sighed deeply and smiled.

  “That’s the second time you’ve saved us,” exclaimed Ramagar.

  Dark shadows flickered from the Prince’s worn face. The dagger’s magic had its price — and it was beginning to show. “How far to Aran?” he asked the beaming captain.

  Osari glanced at the stars, reckoning. “A day and a half.”

  The Prince let his shoulders sag. “Good,” he replied. And while the others continued their frolicking, he placed the scimitar carefully away under his jacket and slowly climbed down the hatchway steps to his cabin.

  “Land to port!” cried the lookout, waving madly from his post in the crow’s nest.

  The main deck suddenly teemed with life, passengers and crew eagerly racing topside and straining their bodies over the rails to catch a glimpse. Shading eyes from the glaring afternoon sun, they stared intently at the distant range of tall, brooding mountains that spanned the horizon. Snowcapped near the tops, they glistened with hints of rich green grass steadily creeping up the slopes. As the ship moved closer through the choppy waters the watchers could make out the vast forests of spruce and aspen that cut sharply away from the hills and covered the landscape in every direction. Where rivers and fjords watered the land, wide expanses of fertile plain could be seen. A stunning array of beautiful wild
heather dotted the dales and valleys.

  There were birds as well, great flocks of them everywhere: grouse, ravens, wrens, and jays — and of course the ever-present seagulls, who had massed themselves by the thousands beyond the rocky reefs, waddling in the roaring surf between flights.

  After the grueling adventures the companions had endured the sight of land — any land — was joyous indeed. Yet there was a strange character about the land, one that only dawned as the Vulture drew close to the coastline. Mariana grasped the railing with both her hands, the wind blowing through her hair, and stared out at the grazing lands along the range of low hills at the base of the mountains. She could plainly make out a large herd of caribou feeding peacefully beside the banks of a river. There were other animals as well, moose, and deer, in plain sight. But as for human inhabitants, there seemed to be none.

  “Where are the people?” Mariana wondered aloud as the ship furled sails and slipped into a tiny inlet. “The ports? The towns?”

  “Aran must be deserted,” said Ramagar. The thief looked at the haj and saw that he was as perplexed as the rest of them.

  The Prince filled his lungs with the pleasant, warm air, and bowed his head. Eyes closed, he said a silent prayer for his fortune in having at least reached this island. Then he said, “Aran has no cities, my friend. Nor any ports. At least not the type of ports I think you mean …”

  “Then where is everyone?” asked Mariana. “Do they hide from us? Are the inhabitants hill folk and shepherds?”

  At this the Prince smiled. “You will see them all, Mariana, when they are ready. Be assured they have already seen us. First they will ascertain whether we be friends or enemies. Then they will come.”

  “A mistrustful lot,” grumbled Oro, pulling a face and nervously tapping his foot against the freshly swabbed deck. “They must be cowards to hide from a merchant ship.”

  The Prince’s brows angled down sharply. He glared at the hunchback. “You will not feel that way for long, little man,” he said. And he stretched out his arm to the west. “Look!”