by Ron Miller
“Bronwyn!” Rykkla cried, rushing over to the still groggy princess. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” the latter replied, as she was helped to her feet. “He didn’t really hurt me, I think, just caught me in the right place. I’ll be all right.” She licked at the blood that trickled from her split lip and grimaced. “Is the son of a bitch dead? I hope.”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.” Together they turned over the doctor’s body. To Bronwyn’s disappointment, he was still breathing, if shallowly and a little irregularly. There was a circular depression in the middle of his forehead into which a golf ball could have easily snuggled.
“That looks like it’s going to hurt,” observed Rykkla.
“Good,” replied Bronwyn.
“Think we need to tie him up?”
“Yes. I don’t trust him even unconscious.”
Using the cord that had been destined for Bronwyn, they trussed the doctor as securely as they could, the princess taking some satisfaction in seeing the man’s hands slowly begin to turn purple. I hope they fall off, she thought maliciously.
“Where are the others?” she asked Rykkla. “Have you seen them?”
“No. I came here directly from the fo’c’sle. I didn’t see a soul.”
They exited the cabin and found the deck outside still vacant. As they approached the waist of the ship, both women were startled by the sudden appearance of two looming figures and Rykkla had nearly loosed another of her deadly projectiles before she recognized Gyven and Thud.
“I’m certainly glad to see you two,” said Bronwyn only a little irony.
“What happened to you?” asked Gyven, with concern in his voice, stepping up to the princess and touching her lightly on the face, turning it gently to bring her wound into view.
“It was Tudela,” she replied, wincing but not moving away from his fingers.
“Tudela? He did this? You found him, I take it?”
“We found him all right,” answered Rykkla.
“What about you?” asked Bronwyn, who had just noticed that Gyven’s nude body was marred by a dozen small and large wounds, some of which were still actively oozing blood. Even Thud was smeared with blood, which looked like black oil in the waning moonlight, but little of it seemed to be his own. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”
“We’re fine,” answered Gyven. “We would have been here sooner, but there was a little unreasonable resistance. Fortunately, Thud and I make a pretty good team.”
“Yeah,” agreed Thud, “I hold ‘em and he smacks ‘em.”
“It makes them much more reasonable.”
“Where is the crew?” asked Rykkla, who had vague misgivings about the five of them having to operate and navigate the hugely complex vessel themselves.
“They’re all right, most of them. Several. At least enough, I’m sure, to operate this ship.”
“It’s getting chilly, don’t you think?” Bronwyn observed, shivering a little. “Maybe we should find some clothes somewhere.”
“It is getting cold,” agreed Rykkla. “There’s a wind getting up.”
The last glimmering remnants of the larger moon and the glowing ring had disappeared behind dense, opaque clouds that closed over them at the same time that the wind was, indeed, freshening.
“We’d better pick up the professor,” observed Bronwyn, “and do something about getting under way, or whatever it is that needs to be done if a storm is in fact coming.”
“He’ll be all right for a few more minutes,” said Gyven. “Let’s see if we can find something to wear first, although you need be in no hurry on my account.”
It was a fairly gallant remark, such as it was, especially for the romantically clumsy Gyven, but Bronwyn nevertheless ungraciously sneered at his effort.
A cursory search located the ship’s slop chest in a storeroom adjoining the galley. There they found spare blouses, jackets and trousers of poor quality, and obviously uncounted years and owners removed from being new, but clean and well-mended. They were able to sort out something for each, except for Thud who, of course, presented his usual difficulty. He would, it was decided, have to wait until the captain’s quarters could be searched. That man had been nowhere near the size of the ex-Kobold, but perhaps close enough to make do. If that failed, perhaps they could rig something together from the sail locker.
Loathe to disturb the captive crew, they elected to launch the ship’s boat to rescue Wittenoom. This was easy enough to do and in less than an hour the professor had rejoined the group and stood on the now gently rocking deck, shivering in the gusting breeze.
“It was interesting,” he said, as the girls wrapped his cadaverous body in blankets, “watching my tail retransform into legs. I must make some notes right away while the memory is still fresh.”
“We’d better get the crew up here,” said Gyven, “and let them know how things stand. I don’t much like the looks of this weather.”
Neither did the crew, once they had been released and admitted onto the main deck, a huddle of fifteen or sixteen surly men. They understood the simpler and most salient facts of the situation, mainly that the captain was dead, Doctor Tudela was imprisoned and that the ship now had new masters. This seemed acceptable to them; after all, it wasn’t their vessel and, so far as they were concerned, nothing about their personal situation had changed. They accepted the leave given them to resume their respective occupations with a unanimous shrugging of shoulders. Steam was presently gotten up, the engines started and the ship swung easily into the gale. There seemed little else to do, except perhaps make some decision as to where they ought to go once the storm had passed. Being almost dead center in the Great Sea there seemed to be little to choose between west and east, though the former had a slight edge in being the most direct route to any civilization, enough to swing the decision in the end. That settled, the quintet looked forward to an uneventful and pleasantly restorative cruise.
The storm seemed unlikely to get any worse; though lightning was flashing all around them, there was no sign of rain. Thunder monotonously rumbled from the distant horizon. The chill was replaced by an almost suffocating heat and the atmosphere, tense with electricity, was misty. The ship’s wheels were slackened to only three or four revolutions a minute; volumes of unused steam were allowed to escape from the valves in hissing clouds that failed to dissipate in the already oversaturated atmosphere.
Gyven and Thud had gone to the captain’s cabin to find clothing for the big man. There they found the captain’s body, which they resolved to dispose first thing in the morning, but in the meantime would do the glaring Tudela no harm for company. The doctor said not a word but with some considerable success vied with the electrical tension in the atmosphere and Gyven expected at any moment to see lightning begin spitting from his eyes. Ignoring these attempts at psychic electrocution, Gyven located a voluminous mackintosh that would serve to make Thud less startling until more suitable garments could be found.
The next matter that concerned the refugees was food. Bronwyn told the others of the galley and Gyven reported that he and Thud had found a well-stocked pantry below. Now that the ship’s cook was at liberty, hot food ought to be forthcoming. Rykkla and the professor elected to find someplace to sleep, their exhaustion overwhelming even their need to eat. Gyven and Thud descended the companionway to the officer’s mess. Bronwyn, however, was neither so hungry nor so tired that she wanted to miss the spectacle of the thunderstorm. She told the others that she would join them once either sleep or famishment overcame her. Finding a comfortable canvas deck chair on the fo’c’sle she reclined in it, folded her hands over her stomach and allowed her mind to be soothingly occupied by the looping, crackling lightning.
The electrical storm had now burst in all its fury. There was neither wind nor rain, but the thunder was continuous, breaking out in deafening reports like a battery of ten-inch guns. The air was now so supercharged with electricity that the masts an
d yards were gilded with luminous sheaths. The princess could feel the hair on her arms bristling, and the hair on her head crackled like cellophane.
There was a odd sound behind her, almost lost in the crashing of the storm and the creaking and groaning of the ship. She realized that someone was there and turned to see which of her friends it might be. It was no friend at all, but Doctor Tudela, a livid and uncanny figure all in black, with his white skin shimmering violet and blue in the light of the storm, as though he was filled with energized neon gas. He bore a cutlass in either hand.
Bronwyn leaped to her feet, but the doctor did not move. He was, she was distressed to see, between her and the stairs. The sickening plummeting she felt in her stomach had little to do with the pitching deck. Tudela uttered not a word, but his face revealed signs of an ill-concealed excitement. He cast a look of malignant hatred at the girl, who in all honesty thought it perfectly understandable, given the doctor’s point of view. One of the cutlasses he jammed by its point into the deck, where it quivered like an erect cobra. The other he took in both hands, flexed it, measured it, and then extended it hilt first to the princess. Understanding what Tudela wanted, and desperately seeking some alternative that remained elusive, and probably nonexistent, she removed her jacket and rolled the sleeves of her blouse above her elbows. Then she seized the offered sword. Tudela plucked the other from the deck and Bronwyn noticed for the first time that the doctor was left-handed, a decided advantage in facing a right-handed opponent such as the princess. She glanced at the glittering steel that extended from her fist, that seemed to dance under the flashing illumination as though it were something electrical itself. She settled it in her grip with a firm hand.
“Right!” she said.
They immediately crossed swords. There was at the first clashing of steel several tentative passes on both sides, certain extrications, parries and thrusts that allowed each to test the strength of their opponent, which proved to be fairly equal. However, Bronwyn was cool, self-possessed, almost indifferent. Tudela, on the contrary, scowled at her with flashing eyes and clenched teeth, his head bent forward, his whole countenance indicative of a hatred that deprived him of all composure. He had come there to kill and kill he would, if he could.
After the first obligatory engagement, which lasted only a minute or so, the swords were lowered. With the exception of an insignificant scratch on Bronwyn’s shoulder, no wounds had been inflicted. She wiped away the perspiration that bathed her face. Again they fell to their fatal work.
Now the fight was more animated. Bronwyn defended herself with amazing calmness as Tudela madly attacked her. Suddenly, the doctor made an unexpected stroke that almost caught the princess in the chest. Warding off the blow, she struck Tudela’s cutlass smartly. The latter raised and covered himself by a swift semicircle, all the while lightning rent the clouds overhead.
They were sword to sword and the princess cursed the absence of a revolver at her waist. If she had, she would have shot him down without compunction. They fought silently, sternly and hard. Bronwyn was the better swordsman, but Tudela was stronger and with greater reach and gradually drove her back against the railing. She saw a smile on his face that chilled her more than the wind, and with an almost careless swipe of his blade cut a swath diagonally across her breast that parted the fabric of her blouse like damp tissue yet only left a thin red line across her bosom. Bronwyn was certain that he would ultimately master her, slay her and butcher her, for he was the most forceful opponent she had ever faced. She could only prevent his blade from doing her further injury, she could not press the attack. Sparks struck from the steel joined those of the livid atmosphere, and the blades would run up one another with sharp, grating slithers. Gasps tumbled over each other in their anxiousness to escape her throat, as though each was a breathless rat deserting its doomed ship. Sweat poured down her face, stinging and half blinding her eyes; her breast was sure to burst, like an overcharged steam boiler, from the effort of breathing. As the atmosphere fizzed with electricity, she could think of only one thing to do.
Suddenly and inexplicably, Bronwyn dropped her sword. Tudela was stunned and withheld his attack. Had he wounded her without noticing? Was she surrendering without further defense?
“Defend yourself!” the doctor shrieked, drawing into himself like a tiger about to spring on its prey. His uplifted blade gleamed as though it were on fire. A brilliant flash of lightning burst over the bow of the ship. Bronwyn was knocked to her knees, suffocated with the overwhelmingly sulfurous atmosphere. She rose and looked around with dazzled, stinging eyes. Tudela seemed petrified, still in the same position as she had last seen him, cutlass raised high above his head. She approached the scientist warily, but he didn’t move. She placed her hand on his shoulder. Even this light touch was enough to disturb the equilibrium and Tudela fell to the deck a smoldering corpse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DÉNOUEMENT
The remainder of the voyage was welcome anticlimax. The corpses of the captain and the doctor were sewn into canvas bags, weighted with scrap iron and unceremoniously dumped overboard. The former first mate was promoted to the temporary post of captain and under his able direction the ship at last sighted the coast of South-South-Western Rabutin after an uneventful six week’s sail.
Thud had willingly joined in the work of maintaining the ship, eagerly trying his hand at every task, from holystoning the decks to shoveling coal. His assistance was encouraged by the regular crew, since he easily did the work of any half dozen of them. Rykkla, too, enjoyed learning the ropes, which the sailors, already with too much time on their hands, enthusiastically enjoined her to do. They often came to blows whenever there was a dispute as to who would have the privilege of providing her current lesson, disputes the girl found immensely amusing, and she quickly became as adept as any of the most experienced hands at scrambling monkey--like up and down the rigging . . . or like a circus aerialist, for that matter. But with a dozen eager instructors, it was no wonder.
The professor spent his days hauling unhappy and vaguely shapeless objects out of the sea with his nets and neatly cataloging them in notebooks.
Bronwyn had little interest in the activities of her friends, beyond encouraging them to keep busy, and even less interest in joining them. There were new continents to discover, new worlds to conquer, new depths to plumb and new heights to achieve and they were all contained within the six sides of her cabin. Until the ship finally nestled into a slip in the wharves of Kallidassa, Bronwyn was certain that she would be perfectly happy to spend the rest of her life as a kind of Gyvenological cartographer.
But that proved to be only a dream, an idyll, a reverie, a whim, for what true explorer can remain happy once she has thoroughly mapped an unknown shore?, so by the time she again trod dry land Bronwyn had other, better ideas.
THE END OF BOOK FOUR