Salamaine's Curse (18 page)

“But he wouldn't have just left us.”

“Forget that. Listen. I have a plan.”

Porter's gaze shot around the deck. The crewmen Zaputo had posted as guards stood at a distance of several feet, but at the moment they faced away from them. In the hours Tom had been aboard the
Crimson Belle,
he'd witnessed no overt cruelty on the part of Zaputo and his men. But neither had they shown any sympathy. They provided food, water, and nothing else, moving about the ship with expressions of stoic indifference, as though the transport of human beings to forced labor camps was an unpleasant but necessary chore.

“I've worked everything out. We storm the helm at daybreak when they bring our morning meal,” Porter said. “I've been watching. Most of the crew goes below deck to eat at the same time they bring our food. Things are most unsettled then. If we all rush out together and charge them—”

“Wait a minute. All? Who's all?”

“Every man here.” Porter said. “We may not have weapons, but we outnumber them by four-to-one. If we charge them together we have a chance.”

“A chance? A chance to do what?”

“Take over the
Crimson Belle,”
Porter snapped. “What else? That's the whole point. That's why we're here. We storm the crew, lock Zaputo and his men in the cargo hold, and take over the ship. We'll sail it through the Cursed Souls Sea ourselves.”

Tom stared at Porter, not sure where to begin. In the first place, even supposing that by some miracle they were able to overtake Zaputo's men—and now that he'd seen them up close, he put those odds at slim to none—how were they supposed to navigate their way through one of the most treacherous passes in the Cursed Souls Sea? It didn't make sense.

Tom took a shaky breath, searching for the right words. Granted, he had a brash style of his own (acting first, thinking later) but he didn't see Porter's way of doing things (hitting as hard as he could at anything that got in his way, Tom included), was necessarily better. His plan had failure written all over it. At the same time, they had to do
something.

His gaze traveled once again to Willa and Mudge. They might have thought of something he and Porter hadn't. He didn't want to draw too much attention to himself now, but he could talk to Willa in the morning. If she'd come up with a smarter approach, it was worth waiting to hear about. She still had her bag of herbs. What if she had a sleeping powder they could give to the crew to knock them out—wouldn't that be a whole lot smarter than trying to overpower them?

“Maybe if we wait and talk to Willa …” he ventured cautiously.

Porter's face tightened. “No. There's no time to wait. For once, we do this
my
way, not yours. I've already spread the word. These men and I will storm the crew tomorrow morning at dawn. If you don't want to help us, you can stay here and wait with the women and children.”

“You there!” bellowed one of the crewmen, glaring at Porter. “Quiet!”

Porter abruptly turned away, presenting his back to Tom.

Tom clenched his fists and stared at him for a long moment, then he tipped his head back and looked to the starry sky. He studied the heavens without seeing them, his focus too absorbed by the dark emotions brewing within him. He silently swore at his brother, calling him every vile name he could think of. Then a different kind of emotion settled over him.

Despair.

At daybreak, Porter was going to get himself killed. The men who followed him would likely be killed as well. Porter's plan wouldn't work. Tom
knew
it wouldn't work. But he could think of nothing he could do to stop it.

The night dragged slowly past. Tom rested, but couldn't sleep. Instead he drifted in and out through a cloudy haze of exhaustion, worry, and uncertainty.

Finally the stars dimmed, their brilliant pinpricks of light becoming paler and paler until they were completely extinguished. A soft lavender glow lit the edges of the horizon. The sun, like a fiery ball tossed up from the depths of the sea, slowly rose.

Dawn had arrived.

In the distance, Tom heard the shuffle of Zaputo's crew, followed by the clatter of tin pots being scraped empty. Breakfast. A line of crewmen approached, bearing enormous trays laden with plates of food.

Beside him, Porter shifted slightly, drawing one knee up in a position that would allow him to spring to his feet. He dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as though bracing himself.

Tom tensed. Dread, as thick and heavy as soured milk, filled his mouth. His stomach churned. His heart beat at triple its normal rate.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Porter shook him off.

The first of Zaputo's crewman waded into their midst.

Porter shot to his feet. Letting out a defiant roar, he lowered his head and charged like a bull, driving his shoulder into the man's gut. The breakfast tray, along with all the plates atop it, crashed to the ground. The man staggered backward. He fell over, bringing Porter down with him.

All around Tom, captives leapt to their feet, their voices raised in fury as they rushed the crew.

The fight for the
Crimson Belle
had begun.

Tom dove into the fray. It didn't occur to him to do anything else. Not when the fight was erupting on all sides of him with fists flying, bodies tumbling, and skulls cracking. Tom wasn't sure he could even call it a fight. It was more like a prison riot.

Zaputo's men were enormous, their bodies solid walls of muscle. But they were outnumbered by four-to-one. And while the captives had no weapons, they brought something even more important to the battle: the savage desperation of men who had nothing to lose. In the end, it was a simple matter of fight or die.

The brawl spilled out of the aft deck where the captives were held. A few combatants tumbled and rolled across the deck, their fingers clenched around each other's throats. Others swung at the crewmen with trays, bowls, ropes—anything they could get their hands on.

One of Zaputo's men lashed his sword at Tom. Tom twisted past him, but barely. The man's blade caught his coarse linen overshirt, the one he'd borrowed from Umbrey's crew, and ripped it open from hem to throat. Tom spun away, sending the man stumbling with a vicious kick to his knee. He weaved through the sprawling chaos, pitching himself into the fight.

Through the blur of battle, Tom saw Porter slammed to the ground. The crewman Porter had initially knocked down was now positioned above him with his fist raised, ready to deliver a teeth-shattering blow. Tom leapt toward him in a flying tackle. He caught the man in the shoulder, shoving him hard into the wooden deck. The diversionary tactic worked, but not for long.

The man was up in an instant, this time swinging at Tom. Tom ducked, but he wasn't fast enough. The man's fist connected with his ear. Tom's vision went black and the world spun, the ground shooting out from beneath him. He hit the deck face-first. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

He shook his head to clear it. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a golden braid shoot past him, followed by a dark-haired boy. Willa and Mudge. Tom bit back a groan. He'd assumed Willa had fled the battle and taken Mudge away with the other captive children to hide somewhere safe. An idiotic assumption. He'd never seen either of them run from trouble.

Sure enough, Willa charged headlong into the fight, furiously swinging her bag of herbs over her head. She let the bag fly, aiming for the crewman who'd punched Tom. It hit him squarely in the throat, sending an explosion of powders and herbs up into his face. The man coughed and wheezed, temporarily blinded. He staggered backward.

A rope dangled from the main mast. Porter grabbed it with both hands and swung around hard, raising his feet to kick the man squarely in the chest. Mudge ducked down behind the crewman as Porter's boots struck. The man went flying backward, toppling between decks and tumbling down a hatch leading to a lower level.

For one brief, incredible moment, Tom sensed the momentum shift in their favor. He dragged himself up on all fours and looked around. A smile of pure, astonished joy curved his lips. A painful smile, for he felt his swollen lower lip crack and bleed at that slight motion. It didn't matter. They were winning. Now all they had to do—

An explosion rocked the air around them. A cannonball tore through their midst, sailing across the deck just inches above Tom's head. He instinctively went flat, as did every other man, woman, and child caught up in the fray.

“Enough!” roared Salvador Zaputo.

Zaputo stood with his scimitar sword raised at his side. His fiery bird rested on his shoulder, its flame-colored feathers shimmering in the early morning sun. Flanking Zaputo on both sides were the remainder of his crew, at least two dozen strong, all armed with swords.

Five cannons had been rolled into position between Zaputo and his men. One, presumably the one that had just been fired, belched out smoke. The remaining four were primed and loaded, their fuses ready to be lit. Those were aimed directly at the captives.

Tom froze, as did everyone around him.

“I see you've chosen this morning to die,” Zaputo said, shattering the tense silence that had fallen over the ship. “Very well. I shall grant your wish.” His dark eyes scanned the crowded deck. “Bring me the four who came aboard yesterday. We will begin with them.”

B
efore Tom could move, or even
think
about moving, two of Zaputo's crewmen grabbed his upper arms and jerked him to his feet and dragged him forward. Porter, Willa, and Mudge each received the same ruthless handling. The crewmen shoved them against the rough wood of a bulwark, pinning their backs against it and holding them there.

“You were warned,” Zaputo said. “We had peace until you came aboard. You attacked my crew. The punishment is death.”

Four crewman stepped forward, their swords raised. Shock and disbelief tore through Tom. It couldn't end. Not like this. He heard Willa's gasp of distress, Porter's dark oath, Mudge's cry of, “Wait! Listen!”