Read Online The Wicked Passage (A Blake Wyatt Adventure) by N.M. Singel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: N.M. Singel
Tags: ya fantasy, ya adventure
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the Rellium’s power. Your world will become their dark world.”
Blake struggled to get air. “ Whatever, just make it go away!”
“You must understand this,” MacArthur said. “It’s crucial.”
“I get it! We can’t let the bad guys win.”
The bulldogs vanished into the mist. The stench intensified.
Blake hacked out more foul air. “Guine--” he called out, and sank onto his knees. The mist thickened. “Book!” He tried to pull himself to his feet but collapsed. “Everything’s gone black! I can’t see!”
CHAPTER 7
THE ADMIRAL
Rat picked bits of dried fish from his teeth as he watched the sunrise paint the Atlantic Ocean the color of sour wine--the same wine that swirled around the remaining barrels of drinkable liquid on the ship. He spat the scales from his teeth into the ocean, then turned to watch a cabin boy climb the mast and perch in the crow’s nest.
Rat knew the boy would spot the New World within days. He needed to start the mutiny now. He pulled his knife from his belt and licked the blade. The honed edge cut his tongue. None of the eighty-nine sailors in the doomed fleet would make it back to Spain, and the only remnant of the so-called admiral would be the plunder from his cabin.
Rat bit off another piece of dried fish and chewed until it stopped crunching. The taste disgusted him, but he needed to maintain his strength for the riot.
The grand assembly counted on him, but that mattered little. More important, the imperial regent had vowed to promote him to general after the success of the Columbus mission. Then all this miserable time travel would be over.
Rat bit off the head of the fish and savored an eyeball as he surveyed the horizon. The Atlantic seemed like a giant pond in this early morning hour--no waves, no wind, just limp sails over his head. He thought about his plan for revolt. Now was the time.
“Rat!” Diego de Araña yelled from the bow of the Santa Maria. “The admiral needs these decks cleaned now! No need to live in filth just because we’re at sea.”
Rat waited until Diego turned his back. Then he spat the remaining wad of dried fish head onto the deck. Why should he waste energy cleaning anything on a condemned voyage? Scrubbing slime off a rotting ship was beneath him anyway. He looked up at Columbus’s cabin--the only cabin on this leaking boat--and palmed the weathered handle of his knife. The cabin’s rough-hewn plank door was slightly open, sending out snippets of the admiral’s morning prayers. The man would need more than prayers to escape the rebellion.
“Rat!” Diego shouted over the rumble of freshly oiled ropes being unwound. “You have orders! The admiral will be inspecting every inch of timber after he speaks with God.”
Rat didn’t answer. Instead, he staggered to the other side of the ship, intentionally bumping several crew members along the way. The men, who were lowering the sails for repairs, nodded their complicity.
The men on all three ships were ready for the mutiny. Rat could feel it. Their fear and anger exposed the crack in loyalty he needed. He merely had to choke off their allegiance, and every man and boy on the Santa Maria would be a murderer.
Niña and Pinta cruised westerly, but he could still see tiny outlines of the two caravels. By day’s end, all three ships would be heading back to Spain, and each sailor would be begging God to protect his remaining rations for the voyage home. The great Christopher Columbus would be gone forever, erased from the Chronicle of the Rellium as though he never existed, and Rat could finally get back to his comfortable life.
Diego yelled louder, “Rat!” The master-at-arms tripped over partially coiled ropes and misplaced buckets, stumbling toward Rat. His face, overripe from days in the sun, looked as though it was about to explode off his head. “Do you have rocks in your pants? These decks are filthy. Clean them now! The admiral is tired of your
Blake struggled to get air. “ Whatever, just make it go away!”
“You must understand this,” MacArthur said. “It’s crucial.”
“I get it! We can’t let the bad guys win.”
The bulldogs vanished into the mist. The stench intensified.
Blake hacked out more foul air. “Guine--” he called out, and sank onto his knees. The mist thickened. “Book!” He tried to pull himself to his feet but collapsed. “Everything’s gone black! I can’t see!”
CHAPTER 7
THE ADMIRAL
Rat picked bits of dried fish from his teeth as he watched the sunrise paint the Atlantic Ocean the color of sour wine--the same wine that swirled around the remaining barrels of drinkable liquid on the ship. He spat the scales from his teeth into the ocean, then turned to watch a cabin boy climb the mast and perch in the crow’s nest.
Rat knew the boy would spot the New World within days. He needed to start the mutiny now. He pulled his knife from his belt and licked the blade. The honed edge cut his tongue. None of the eighty-nine sailors in the doomed fleet would make it back to Spain, and the only remnant of the so-called admiral would be the plunder from his cabin.
Rat bit off another piece of dried fish and chewed until it stopped crunching. The taste disgusted him, but he needed to maintain his strength for the riot.
The grand assembly counted on him, but that mattered little. More important, the imperial regent had vowed to promote him to general after the success of the Columbus mission. Then all this miserable time travel would be over.
Rat bit off the head of the fish and savored an eyeball as he surveyed the horizon. The Atlantic seemed like a giant pond in this early morning hour--no waves, no wind, just limp sails over his head. He thought about his plan for revolt. Now was the time.
“Rat!” Diego de Araña yelled from the bow of the Santa Maria. “The admiral needs these decks cleaned now! No need to live in filth just because we’re at sea.”
Rat waited until Diego turned his back. Then he spat the remaining wad of dried fish head onto the deck. Why should he waste energy cleaning anything on a condemned voyage? Scrubbing slime off a rotting ship was beneath him anyway. He looked up at Columbus’s cabin--the only cabin on this leaking boat--and palmed the weathered handle of his knife. The cabin’s rough-hewn plank door was slightly open, sending out snippets of the admiral’s morning prayers. The man would need more than prayers to escape the rebellion.
“Rat!” Diego shouted over the rumble of freshly oiled ropes being unwound. “You have orders! The admiral will be inspecting every inch of timber after he speaks with God.”
Rat didn’t answer. Instead, he staggered to the other side of the ship, intentionally bumping several crew members along the way. The men, who were lowering the sails for repairs, nodded their complicity.
The men on all three ships were ready for the mutiny. Rat could feel it. Their fear and anger exposed the crack in loyalty he needed. He merely had to choke off their allegiance, and every man and boy on the Santa Maria would be a murderer.
Niña and Pinta cruised westerly, but he could still see tiny outlines of the two caravels. By day’s end, all three ships would be heading back to Spain, and each sailor would be begging God to protect his remaining rations for the voyage home. The great Christopher Columbus would be gone forever, erased from the Chronicle of the Rellium as though he never existed, and Rat could finally get back to his comfortable life.
Diego yelled louder, “Rat!” The master-at-arms tripped over partially coiled ropes and misplaced buckets, stumbling toward Rat. His face, overripe from days in the sun, looked as though it was about to explode off his head. “Do you have rocks in your pants? These decks are filthy. Clean them now! The admiral is tired of your
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