Savage Messiah

CHAPTER XXXIV

"Put your backs into it!" Scars shouted at the top of his lungs. Even his booming voice could barely be heard above the raging storm. "Pump those handles with everything you have and turn that screw quickly! This is our last chance to stay alive!"

As the Reprise heeled hard to port, the Minions and Tyranny's crewmen struggled to repair the great ship. Scars watched anxiously as his men turned the screw and K'jarr's warriors manned the pumps. He knew Tyranny wouldn't be able to hold her over for long, and they had to get the fresh boards into place before she righted again.

The frigate groaned in protest. Scars cast his gaze upward. He couldn't imagine what it must be like above decks. He knew the ship wouldn't be able to take much more of this.

With one of its flat iron braces firmly against a supporting timber, the screw inched the opposing brace toward the damaged hull. Crewmen were busy hammering the fresh-cut planks into place. Finally the brace seated, and the crew slathered on pitch and tar, covering the gaps between the planks. Scars barked out orders, spurring the men on. Their lives depended upon the next few moments. Scars knew they needed just a little more time, if only their captain could give it to them. Then he felt the heavy ship come to starboard again, and he knew he had a decision to make.

As the Reprise came back over, the shifting stress on the hull would transfer through the screw and against the timber. The already weakened timber might well break under the strain. If it did, the freshly seated planks would cave in again, and this time all would be lost.

There were only two choices, and neither was good. He could order the screw removed to protect the mast, and hope that the hull would hold on its own; or he could leave the giant screw in place, and hope that the mast didn't buckle under the stress. Once the tar had dried, the screw could be removed. Over time, the seawater on the outer side of the hull would swell the fresh wood and seal the boards together, ensuring the job.

But the pitch had just been applied, and they were clearly out of time. As his crewmen began to counterturn the screw, Scars made his decision. He pointed at them.

"Belay that!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Leave the screw as it is! The timber will just have to hold!"

As the Reprise settled back down to starboard, they all held their breath.

Seawater slammed against the fragile repairs, and the Reprise let go another tortured groan. The men watched in horror as sharp, twisted bits of timber popped and splintered away to splash into the shoulder-deep seawater. The beam actually buckled a bit, as the ship came over hard. Then the Reprise settled and once again angled into the wind. The mast and the hull repairs held.

The Minions and crewmen cheered. But the next few moments were important, and Scars had no intention of letting them be wasted.

"Stop celebrating like a pack of fallen virgins!" he roared at them.

"There is still work to do!" He raised a beefy arm.

"You men, there. Tighten up that screw until the slack has been taken up! And keep those pumps going until the cabin is completely dry! Slather on that pitch and tar until not a drop of seawater can come through! This night is not yet over!"

Looking over at K'jarr, Scars finally allowed himself a smile. The exhausted Minion warrior smiled back.

"Let's go topside!" Scars said. "The captain will need a report!"

They waded through the water and started up the gangway. Scars was desperately worried about what they would find above.

As they reached the deck, they could see that the storm had abated. With its passing, the first welcome rays of dawn crept over the horizon. Between the storm and the stresses of Faegan's portal, the Reprise had suffered badly.

Two of her masts were down, their splintered pieces rolling to and fro across the deck. The sails and sheets that had fallen with them lay in ruins. Many of the sails still aloft had great tears in them, and much of the rigging had come down. The bowsprit was missing altogether. The ship wandered east-northeasterly.

Looking back to the ship's wheel, they saw that the boatswain had at some point taken control from the captain. He struggled to keep her on a steady course. Most of the crew and warriors who had been below were now topside, hurrying about their duties. Knowing that his captain would be sure to ask, Scars ordered an immediate count of the crew and warriors.

But they could not find Tyranny or Shailiha. Fearing the worst, Scars shouted out their names. After a time he and K'jarr engaged several warriors to help them search.

Soon one of the warriors called out. Scars and K'jarr ran to the aft starboard gunwale and found the women there.

Shailiha lay prostrate on the deck. There was a bleeding gash on her forehead. Although Tyranny did not appear to be injured, it was clear that she was both physically and mentally exhausted. Both women were soaked to the skin, shivering. Tyranny was using a cloth to staunch the princess' wound.

Calling for a Minion healer, K'jarr knelt beside her, and was heartened to see that Shailiha was alert. When she saw him, she managed a smile through the pain. K'jarr took her hand.

"How bad is it?" he asked the captain.

"The wound is deep," Tyranny said. "When the second mast came down, part of it struck her. Even so, she refused to let go of the wheel. If it hadn't been for her persistence, I doubt I could have held it over by myself. We owe her much." Then she stood.

"Where do we stand?" she asked Scars.

"The rent in the hull has been repaired. The screw is still in place, and the new planks seem to be holding. I believe the breach was caused by the added stresses of Faegan's portal." Scars surveyed the damage around him. "But it seems that the rest of her hasn't fared so well."

"Have we lost any people?"

"I don't know yet," Scars said. "They are doing a count as we speak."

Turning east, Tyranny saw the rising sun. She looked back at Scars.

"Take the princess to my quarters," she ordered. "Have the Minion healers tend to her there. As soon as she has been treated, I want a report on her condition. And bring me the teak box I keep there. You know the one. Then I want a full report on our damage. We still have a mission to perform, and I intend to see it through."

She cast her gaze back over the mangled ship. "We might be down, but we're not out," she said. A hint of a smile crossed her face. "It will take more than the miscalculations of some crazy old wizard to sink the Reprise."

Scars smiled back. He picked up the princess as if she weighed nothing, turned, and carried her below decks. As the war frigate plowed her errant way east, Tyranny and K'jarr remained silent.

Scars soon reappeared carrying a large teak box. He set it upon the deck. Tyranny bent down to open it. K'jarr raised an eyebrow.

"What does it contain?" he asked.

"My navigational tools," the privateer answered. "Faegan supposedly made some alterations to them, so as to make my job easier. I can only hope that the wizard's calculations for my sextant were better than the ones he used to alter his portal," she added dryly.

The sextant was a triangular-shaped affair made of shiny brass. At one end there was a small, horizontally mounted telescope. The telescope faced two mirrors mounted on the opposite side of the apparatus. The bottom portion of the instrument was curved, and it was marked off in degrees. A lever led down from the apex of the sextant and counted off the degrees at its pointed end.

Tyranny gazed eastward through the telescope, focusing it upon the horizon. Then she moved the lever in order to align the two mirrors with both the horizon and the rising sun. Taking the sextant from her eye, she noted the number of degrees indicated by the lever. A worried look came over her face.

She reached into the box and removed her charts. She closed the lid, then spread the charts out upon it. Using her dagger to point to a position on the chart, she looked back up at Scars and K'jarr.

"It's just as I feared," she said. "By my reckoning we are a good forty leagues northwest of where Faegan's portal was supposed to deliver us. I cannot be completely sure. Now let's see what Faegan's way of doing things has to say," she said skeptically.

Tyranny pushed the point of her dagger through the chart and into the teak box, so that it was now standing upright at the location she had just calculated. Holding the sextant with one hand directly over the center of the chart, with her free hand she reached into her jacket and removed a small piece of parchment. She held it up.

"Ristutatem appricitamitat onovenatu!" she read loudly.

Almost at once her sextant began to glow with the craft. When she released it, it hovered in the brisk sea air. Then it turned in the direction of the sun. K'jarr and Scars watched in awe as the lever on the sextant began to move of its own accord. The lever seesawed back and forth a bit before it finally settled down.

Without warning, a slim azure beam suddenly shot from the base of the sextant and burned a small "X" into the parchment. Then the beam disappeared. Tyranny took the sextant from the air, and the glow surrounding it disappeared.

"How did you do that?" K'jarr asked. "It was my understanding that your blood was not endowed."

Tyranny smiled. "It isn't," she answered. "Faegan enchanted the sextant before we set sail. It responds to my voice, rather than my blood. Provided I say the Old Eutracian command properly, the sextant will do the same thing for me every time. At first I thought the old wizard was going to suffer a nervous breakdown, trying to teach me the words. He finally gave up and wrote them down for me instead." She shoved the parchment back under her jacket.

She studied the chart. The charred "X" was about ten leagues away from the calculations she had just made manually. That put their position slightly closer to the planned exit point from the portal. Running one finger southeast across the chart, she pointed to the Isle of the Citadel. She looked up at K'jarr.

"Can a warrior scouting party make the flight there and back?" she asked.

K'jarr examined the chart, then turned to stare up at the sky, noting the direction and strength of the wind.

"Yes," he answered, "provided I send our most gifted fliers. The wind will be in their faces on the outward leg. But if it holds, it will be at their backs for the return trip. Do you wish me to lead them?"

Tyranny nodded. "Make your course southeasterly. I want you to fly high and survey the Citadel without being seen. Make a count of any demonslaver vessels you might encounter. If you can capture a demonslaver, do so. Go now."

K'jarr bowed, and with a click of his heels, he was gone.

She was about to speak to Scars when she saw a female Minion healer approach. The white feather of her craft stood out proudly on her black body armor. She came to stand at attention.

"Permission to speak?" she asked. Tyranny nodded.

"I have just tended to the princess," the healer said. "Her wound will heal. She will remain dizzy for another day or two, but she should suffer no lasting effects. I have given her something for the pain. I suggest she remain in bed until tomorrow."

"Very well," Tyranny answered. "And thank you. Please remain by her side until I order otherwise." With a short bow, the healer went back to her patient.

"I want that damage report as soon as I can get it," she said to Scars.

"We need as much speed and maneuverability out of this wallowing whale as she can muster."

Scars nodded. "We will do all we can, Captain," he said.

Tyranny nodded and her expression softened. "I know," she said. "Now go."

When Scars was gone, Tyranny opened the teak box again. Reaching in, she removed one of her cigarillos and a common match. Then she walked over to lean her tired body against the gunwale.

Hearing the familiar sound of Minion wings, she looked up to see a party of six warriors leaving the deck. They flew in the shape of an arrowhead, with K'jarr at the lead. After circling the ship once, they turned southeast.

Tyranny watched them until they disappeared. Then she stabbed the cigarillo between her lips, struck the match against her scuffed knee boot, and lit the tobacco. Taking a welcome lungful of smoke, she raised her face and blew it back out into the air. The spent match went over the side.

She looked with sadness down the length of her mangled flagship, thinking about her mission. Its beginning had not been auspicious.