THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (26 page)

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 imperious 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.

A voice was shouting from behind. “You there! You there!” Ramagar spun to face a heavyset bear of a man he recognized at once as the third mate.

The sailor’s eyes flickered with recognition; he glanced down at the blown hatch and immediately understood. Ramagar gave no time for thought. The ship rolled and he leaped at the man, feeling the sting of rain on his face as they grappled and rolled across the deck.

“It’s the thief!” came a dim scream of someone at the quarterdeck. “He’s escaped—catch him!”

The cunning master rogue leaped to his feet, grasping for the lash line, and kicked his boot at the third mate’s face. The sailor took the blow and tumbled back with his arms flying out to reach the rope. But as he did, another wave hit broadside, catching him off guard. Choking water, the mate slipped helplessly, sliding between Ramagar’s open legs, rolling over barrel-like until he came to a crushing halt at the block of the second mast.

At that point another member of the mutinous gang battled from his station at the halyards and made toward the crouching thief at the lower portion of the deck. A small single-edged knife was set between his teeth and he carried a thin, weighted pin in his hand. Ramagar saw the club come flying, tearing down against the wind in his direction. He twisted to avoid it, but not quite in time. The pin hit a powerful blow against his shoulder and the thief winced, fighting off the stinging hurt and adeptly swinging himself under the lash line and grabbing for another. Desperately he tried to make for the bridge.

A salvo of roaring thunder shook every plank and board from stem to stern, and the battered vessel staggered yet another time as a mountainous wave crashed over the bow and came tearing down the main deck, splintering spars and railing and masts alike. Screams of drowning men filled the air and Ramagar, water high over his head, swam up from the deluge in time to fill his bursting lungs with air. His assailant also had managed to survive the wave. A companion cried out to him for help, but he shook off the man and came lunging at Ramagar with the knife firmly in hand.

Holding onto the line with all his energy, the injured thief lashed out, yanking the oncoming sailor by his tunic and sending him spinning. The quartering seas caused the ship to cant with a sickening heave. Driven rain fell like pricking nails. Ramagar shoved at the dazed sailor and sent him tumbling over the buckling planks. The crewman staggered only as far as his knees before he started sliding backward. And when the
Vulture
rocked with the ensuing pounding, he lost all control and fell headfirst over the steeply angled broken foremast, down into the sea.

Straining with every step, the haj, too, had managed to climb from the hatch. He swung himself up and around barely in time; a sailor jumped directly for him from his place at the quarterdeck and sent both of them tumbling into the rolling froth. The haj’s leg tangled in the lash line. As the sailor’s knife came up, the haj shifted his weight and swung his clenched hands powerfully into the mutineer’s face. The sailor tottered with surprise. The haj barreled forward, caught him by the wrist, and wrenched loose the knife. Both men lunged for it as it slid by, the haj straining to keep it in sight. Both touched the blade at the same moment. Then they became a tangle of bodies, flesh so closely mingled that it was impossible to determine who was who.