Vampirates: Tide of Terror (19 page)

“Stop!”

She recognized the voice immediately. How could she not? It was strong and firm, yet it did not rise above the volume of a whisper.

She scanned the deck and saw the captain striding out across the boards, calling to someone.

“I said, stop!”

She turned and saw that the captain was not addressing one vampire, but three of them. They turned their faces back to the captain. Grace recoiled. Their eyes were aflame. She had seen Sidorio look like this before, but witnessing a group of them in this frenzied state was all the more terrifying. She recognized two of the vampires. She had seen them talking — conspiring, she now realized — on her previous journey to the ship.

When they spoke, their words were like flames, licking across the deck toward the captain.

“Need more blood. Need more . . .”

“No,” said the captain. “You have taken your fill. More than your fill.”

“Need more . . .”

Now Grace saw, as they turned in her direction, that the gaggle of vampires held three donors tightly within their grasp. The donors looked terrified.

“Stop,” said the captain once more. “Release the donors. Return to your cabins.”

In answer, the vampires let out a communal hiss, their words now unintelligible. Grace shivered, glad that she was hidden from view. She did not think that these vampires would be able to see her, but she didn’t want to take any chances all the same.

“I will tell you only once more,” the captain said now. “Release the donors.”

“Or
what
?” crackled a reply.

“There is no alternative,” the captain said coolly. “You have only one option. Release them.”

“The captain’s way is not the
only
way,” returned the hiss.

“The captain is not the
only
captain,” crackled another.

“The ship is not the
only
ship,” added the third.

“Enough! Release them!” said the captain. At his words, the deck was ringed with a sudden flash of light. The vampires leaped out of its path, pulling in their limbs to protect themselves. At the same time, the donors threw themselves toward the light.

“Go inside,” the captain said to them, calmly but urgently. Weak as they were, they needed no repeat of the order.

The vampires had thrown themselves together upon the deck and now the captain approached them once more. Darkness restored, the creatures rose again, their eyes bright, though the fire that had burned before was now dull.

“I have been patient,” the captain said, “but my patience has run dry.”

The vampires looked at him with eyes that were now full of fear and regret. In a matter of moments, thought Grace, they had gone from being monsters to looking like guilty schoolchildren. But it was all too easy to remember the horror she had seen before.

One of them addressed the captain. “Sometimes this need grows out of control, Captain,” he wheedled.

“We are not all as disciplined as you,” said a second.

“Sometimes our desire seems to feed upon itself,” spoke the third.

“I am aware of all these things,” the captain said, still in his measured whisper.

“Then help us,” hissed the first.

“You have rejected my help, Lumar,” the captain said, sadly. “There is no more I can do for you. It is time for you to leave this ship.”

“No, Captain. Do not say such things.” Lumar cowered before the captain.

“If Lumar goes, then we must follow,” said one of his companions. Some of the vampires’ former malevolence was returning in their voices — the wings of the threat opening out like a moth.

“Indeed,” said the captain, unmoved. “It cannot be any other way.”

“But where shall we go?” asked the third — a girl.

“To find Sidorio,” hissed her companion, greed spilling from his voice. “Sidorio will help us to meet our needs.”

Grace shivered. So they knew — or at least suspected — that Sidorio was out there in the night, waiting for them. Was it wise of the captain to let others out to join the first exile? Wasn’t he just swelling the risk of an enemy force building?

“Go, then,” the captain said. “Go and find your other way.”

His voice was heavy with disappointment, Grace thought. He turned and headed back toward his cabin.

The three exiled vampires still clung to the deck rail, as if to conspire further.

“I
said
— leave!” The captain turned suddenly and ran toward them. As he did so, the cape he was wearing flashed with veins of light. Above them, the sails of the ship glowed and began to flap. Bolts of fire shot across the wooden boards of the deck.

Grace had to close her eyes to protect them from the glare. When she finally opened them again, the vampires had disappeared.

The captain stood at the deck rail, his head in his hands.

Grace left her shelter and went over to him.

He seemed unaware of her until she was at his side, reaching out her hand toward the strange material of his cape. Even this, she found to her frustration, was beyond her touch.

“Grace,” he whispered, “Grace. What are you doing here?” He did not sound pleased to see her.

“I came back to help,” she said. “I know things are wrong. I just want to help.”

“You cannot help.” His whispers filled her head. “You must leave at once, and do not think of returning.”

“But, Captain . . .”

“This is how it must be, Grace.” He did not turn toward her, his mask facing straight out to the ocean.

“But, Captain,” she said again, with tears in her eyes, “Lorcan is so badly wounded. And it is all my fault . . .”

“Yes,” the captain said, turning at last. “Yes, so now you know the result of your coming to the ship. And that is why you must stay away.”

Tears were flowing down Grace’s face now, but she would not give up. Not yet.

“Please, Captain. If I came back properly perhaps I could help.”

“You think you could cure Lorcan’s blindness? How do you propose to do that? Tell me!”

His voice remained a whisper but she could hear the anger within it nevertheless.

“Speak, child!”

“I don’t know, Captain. I don’t know how I could help. Or even
if
I could.”

“It’s very simple, Grace,” said the captain. “There is only one way you can help. Go back. And stay away.”

Grace couldn’t believe her ears. Was this how it ended? Here, on this deck? Was Lorcan destined to stay blind? And now that he refused to take blood, what then? She couldn’t bear to leave things like this — his fate unknown. But the captain had spoken and he had no more words for her. He turned and walked slowly back across the deck.

Grace stood there, at the edge of the deck, tears falling once more. They were still falling as the mist enclosed her and she was carried away from the Vampirate ship —

never to return.

25

ZANSHIN

“Grace! Grace, it’s Connor!”

“What do you want?”

“Can I come in?”

“All right.”

Connor and Jacoby waited outside.

The door opened and Grace poked her head around it.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Connor said, reaching out his hand to ruffle her hair.

“Stop it!” she said. “You know I
hate
that!”

“You look rough as guts, sis. What’s up?”

“I slept badly, okay? What time is it anyway?”

“Ten to seven. Jacoby and I are going to SSM. It’s T’ai Chi with Captain Solomos today. Are you up for it?”

Grace shook her head. “I’ll catch you later,” she said, closing the door. Connor shrugged and smiled at Jacoby. “I told you, she’s
really
not good in the mornings!”

Connor knocked at Grace’s door again. He waited.

“Yes?” The cry was faint.

“Grace, it’s me!”

He heard footsteps. The door opened again.

“I told you, I’m not coming to SSM —”

“Grace, we’ve
done
SSM. It’s almost half past eight. What planet are you on this morning?”

“I’m just really tired, okay?”

“You look upset.”

“I’m upset you woke me up at ten to seven! And now again! I just need to rest. Is it really such a big deal?”

“But it’s breakfast time. And then Commodore Kuo’s giving this cool lecture about swordsmanship. It’s for the final year students but he’s asked us along.”

“I don’t think I’m going to make any classes today,” said Grace. “Not this morning, anyway.”

“But, Grace, this is the headmaster —”

“Enjoy!” she said, closing the door in his face.

Connor frowned. It was a real honor being invited to attend this class by Commodore Kuo. But he knew from experience that once Grace’s mind was made up, it was implacable. Well, let her sleep! He wasn’t going to let her put a cloud over
his
day. He turned away and set off in search of Jacoby.

On the other side of the door, Grace slumped down onto the floor and put her head in her hands. She couldn’t stop thinking about the Vampirate ship — about Lorcan’s fading well-being and the captain’s cruel words to her. He might as well have run a blade through her heart.

Commodore Kuo nodded to Connor and Jacoby as they entered the lecture theater.

“Ah, Mister Tempest and Mister Blunt. Good morning, my friends. Do take a seat.”

Connor wondered if he should explain Grace’s absence, but the headmaster didn’t seem perturbed so perhaps it was best to say nothing.

Commodore Kuo was standing by a podium, on which he had set some papers and a small, leather-bound book. The lecture theater had enough seats to accommodate the Academy’s entire student body but, for this morning’s lecture, a semicircle of sixteen chairs had been formed at the front, close to the podium. There were two spare seats at the center, which Connor and Jacoby now claimed. Further along the line, Jasmine Peacock gave them a discreet wave. Connor nodded back, smiling.

The headmaster stepped in front of the podium and looked out toward the audience. The faces of sixteen eager teenagers looked back at him. “Today,” he began, “we shall consider the notion of
zanshin.
. . . But before we do, for any of you who have not yet met him, let me intro-duce you to our guest at the Academy, Connor Tempest.”

The Year 10 students now turned toward Connor and he felt as embarrassed as if a spotlight had been turned full-blast upon him.

“Connor and his sister Grace,” Commodore Kuo continued, apparently oblivious to Connor’s unease, “have spent three months aboard
The Diablo
, under the command of Captain Molucco Wrathe.”

It was clear from the muffled gasps and nods that Connor had suddenly risen in their estimation. He smiled to himself. Evidently, whatever doubts the staff had about Molucco’s brand of piracy had not filtered down to the student body. To Connor’s peers, Molucco Wrathe was simply a celebrity pirate, whose fame was now rubbing off on Connor himself. All of the other students were two or more years older than he — but in one significant respect, Connor was ahead of them, having already lived the pirate life for real.

“And I daresay that in those three months, Connor has had cause to perfect his swordsmanship. Would I be right in thinking that, Connor?”

He nodding, hoping with all his will that the headmaster wasn’t about to call upon him for a demonstration.

“May I borrow your sword?” Commodore Kuo asked now.

Connor was surprised but he nodded. He stood and drew his rapier from its scabbard. Then, as Cate had taught him, he gripped the sword at the bottom of its hilt with his left hand and extended it toward the headmaster, the point of the blade facing away from him.

Commodore Kuo reached out his right hand and placed it above Connor’s hand on the hilt. As Connor released his left hand, the headmaster nodded and placed his own hand on the hilt.

Connor stepped away and sat down.

“Your training has been good,” Commodore Kuo said with a smile. Connor nodded. Cate had taught him many of the rituals involving swords. He remembered her explaining that, in some cultures, offering your sword with the right hand was seen as crude or aggressive. Therefore, it was always best — on those rare occasions when you offered your sword to another — to do so with your left hand.

Now, Commodore Kuo took his own left hand from the rapier and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a square of silk. He rested the blade on his left palm, the small silk cloth preventing his own flesh from touching the metal. This went beyond Cate’s teachings but Connor imagined that it was another part of the infinite — and endlessly fascinating — ritual of swordsmanship.

“There’s a difference between Mister Tempest and the rest of you,” Commodore Kuo said, looking up from the blade. “And the difference is this. We’ve been teaching you sword-fighting techniques ever since you arrived at the Academy, when we placed those little sticks of bam-boo in your hands.”

Connor noticed the students smiling at the memory.

“And then you progressed from Basic Combat to the day when you held a real sword in your hands for the very first time — a day I expect all of you remember and will do for the rest of your lives.”

Again, Connor saw the quick recognition of the students. He remembered the excited faces of the junior class the day before as they had held their daisho for the very first time.

“You are the cream of the crop,” the headmaster continued. “You’re in your final year here and we have high expectations of you. We set up this Academy to educate the pirate captains of tomorrow — the best of the best — and here you are. In a few short months, you’ll leave here to take up apprentice positions on real pirate ships.”

“You bet!” Jacoby exclaimed, unable to rein in his excitement at the prospect.

“That’s right, Mister Blunt,” Commodore Kuo said, turning to face him. “And you’ll doubtless excel at being a deputy; then, before very long, you’ll be a captain yourself.”

Connor thought again of the vision he’d had — of that curiously familiar scene aboard deck, when he was captain and his crew were calling to him because someone was hurt.

“You have learned much since you arrived here at the Academy,” Commodore Kuo continued, “but the biggest lessons still lie ahead of you. And one of those lessons will come the day you use your sword — not in practice, not in Combat Workshop, but for real — to defend your life.”

Sunlight streamed into the room and bounced up from the blade of Connor’s rapier onto Commodore Kuo’s face.

As the light met Connor’s eyes, Commodore Kuo’s voice receded and Connor found himself back on that deck, just as before.

There he was, in the heart of a battle. The swords clashed against each other. He saw rigging being torn and heard cannon firing and the cries of pirates running in and out of the fray. Then came the cries.

“Captain,” he heard. “Captain Tempest.”

Connor smiled to hear himself addressed once more as “Captain.” It sounded great. It sounded right. But then the vision changed.

“Come.” He heard a distraught voice. “Captain Tempest . . . Come . . . Captain Tempest. He is wounded . . . He needs . . .”

They were the exact same words he’d heard before, but this time the vision was clearer. The first time, he had thought they meant a wounded crew member. Now, he knew that it was he who was wounded.

He heard the voice once more, cut through with sobs.

“Captain Tempest is cut. Please come . . . please come . . . so much blood . . . I’m not sure how much longer he can last. . . .”

Connor felt a sense of coldness flooding through him. The vision was so clear, so precise. Was it a foretelling of his own death? He couldn’t believe it.

“Mister Tempest. Connor . . . Connor!”

Connor came back to reality and saw that the headmaster was addressing him.

“I’m sorry, Headmaster.”

“Did we lose you there?” Commodore Kuo smiled at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “The light caught my eyes and —”

“I was just asking you,” Commodore Kuo’s voice cut across his own, “have you, these past three months, had to use your sword to defend your life?”

As he spoke, he offered the sword back to Connor, reversing their previous gestures so that now he held the rapier in his left hand as he extended it by the hilt.

“Yes,” Connor said, as his hand gripped the hilt above Commodore Kuo’s, “yes, I have.” His hand was shaking — a reaction perhaps to the vision. He did his best to steady it. He could see that Commodore Kuo had noticed his trembling arm. He steadied it with his other hand and eased the rapier back into its scabbard. Commodore Kuo placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder. The solidity of his touch helped to calm Connor.

“Before you sit down again, can you share with the rest of us what it feels like to use your rapier in that way?”

Connor thought back to his first attack with the pirates of
The Diablo
through to their last, ill-fated venture onto
The Albatross
.

“It’s a mixture of feelings,” Connor said.

“Go on,” encouraged Commodore Kuo.

“It’s exciting. After your training, you want to use your sword as best as you can. It’s a challenge — like any sport.”

“You bet!” Jacoby exclaimed again, his hands miming the swipe of swordplay.

“But,” continued Connor, his hand touching the hilt of his rapier, “the very first time you hold a sword in your hand, you’re aware that this isn’t a sport like any other. This isn’t a toy. It’s an instrument of death. You hold this awesome power and responsibility in your hand. You have to respect the sword and honor your opponents.”

“Okay,” said Commodore Kuo. “And you have all these thoughts in the heart of the attack?”

“No.” Connor shook his head now. “Before. These are the thoughts that go through my mind beforehand. Cutlass Cate — she’s the weapons trainer on
The Diablo
— she teaches us to empty our minds before the attack itself.”

“Excellent,” Commodore Kuo said. “Okay, Connor, please take a seat again.”

Connor did so with no further urging, glad to slip out of the spotlight again. He was still shaken up by his premonition, if that’s what it was. But maybe it was nothing of the sort. Maybe it meant nothing at all.

As he sat down, Jacoby leaned across and whispered, “You looked a little freaked up there. What happened? Did Jasmine flash you a smile?”

Connor shook his head. “It was nothing,” he said. That’s what he had to believe. But his hands were still shaking a little.

When Connor looked up again, he noticed that Commodore Kuo had written a single word on the blue chalk-board at the front of the class. It was the strange word he had spoken a couple of times before.

zanshin

Commodore Kuo surveyed the class through his spectacles.

“Connor told us just now that before entering into attack, he has been trained to empty his mind. This is one way of viewing the concept of
zanshin
. Now, as you know, here at the Academy we draw on some very ancient warrior traditions and this notion of
zanshin
goes right back to the ancient flowering of Japanese martial arts, or
bujutsu
.” He wrote out
bujutsu
on the board in his immaculate script. “Now, can anyone remember from our previous discussions the Japanese word for engaging in combat?”

His eyes scanned the room, as did Connor’s. He noticed that several hands were raised.

The headmaster gave a nod. “Yes, Aamir?”

“Kamae,”
said the boy confidently.

“Absolutely,” said Commodore Kuo, adding
kamae
to the list of words on the board.

“Now,
zanshin
is the state of mind that every successful combatant must employ before entering into
kamae
, or combat. It means an exceptionally high state of alertness in which you will be ready to defend and attack in all directions, a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees about the body. You will have no area of weakness.” He smiled lightly. “
Zanshin
will then combine with your doubtlessly flawless combat technique to result in perfect action and a successful result.” He turned to write another few words on the chalkboard.

“Now,” he said, stepping to one side and tapping the board, “who can tell us about the concept of the ‘one-stroke-victory’?”

Connor wished that he could answer the question, but though the sensations the headmaster described were utterly familiar to him, his language was new. He watched as the well-educated finalists raised their hands in the air.

“Yes, Jasmine,” said Commodore Kuo.

“The one-stroke-victory is another concept dating back to the flowering of
bujutsu
,” Jasmine said, “and more specifically to the technique of
iai-jutsu
or,” she smiled at Connor, “the immediate drawing of the sword.” Turning back to Commodore Kuo, she continued. “The true art of
iai-jutsu
rests on bringing down your adversary with one stroke of the sword. Any additional stroke required constitutes a failure of the true art.”