“I need every available hand to start shoveling,” Kirby said darkly. “If the storm doesn’t abate, this ship is going to be landlocked by nightfall.”

Turnbaugh and Ryder rousted their respective crews and using coal shovels from the engine room, pans from the kitchen, and a hip bath from the captain’s washroom they ran into the raging storm. With scarves covering their mouths and the wind so strong that talking was impossible, they pushed mounds of loose sand off the deck and into the water. They raged against the tempest, cursing it because every shovelful they heaved over the side only seemed to come back into their faces.

It was like trying to hold back the tide. They managed to get one hatch scraped clean only to see the amount of sand piled onto the other three had doubled. Five adventurers and a ship’s compliment of twenty was no match for the storm that had traveled across thousands of square miles of seared earth. Visibility was cut to almost zero, so the men worked blind, their eyes tightly closed to the stinging grit that assaulted the Rove from every point on the compass.

After an hour of frantic work, H. A. went to look for Charlie. “It’s no use. We have to wait and hope the storm slows.” Even with his lips touching Turnbaugh’s ear Ryder had to repeat himself three times to be heard over the shrieking wind.

“You’re right,” Charlie screamed back and together they went to recall their men.

The crews staggered back into the superstructure, shedding cascades of sand with each step. H. A. and Jon Varley were the last ones through the hatch, H. A. out of duty to make sure everyone was all right, Varley because he had a rat’s cunning to never give in when he was certain of a reward.

It was still difficult to hear out of the wind inside the companionway.

“Dear Jesus, please let this end.” So awed by the force of nature arrayed against them, Peter was almost in tears.

“Do we have everyone?” Charlie asked.

“I think so.” H. A. sagged against a bulkhead. “Did you do a head count?”

Turnbaugh started counting off his people when there was a sharp rap on the hatchway.

“Good God, someone’s still out there,” someone called.

Varley was closest to the hatch and undogged the latches. The wind slammed the door against its stops as the gale whipped into the ship, scouring paint from the walls with the merest touch. It appeared no one was there. It had to have been a loose piece of equipment rattling outside.

Varley lurched forward to close the door and had it almost shut when a bright silver blade emerged a hand’s span from his back. Gore dripped from the spear’s tip, and when it was pulled from the raw wound blood sprayed the stunned crew. Jon pirouetted as he collapsed to the deck, his mouth working soundlessly as his shirt turned crimson. A dark wraith wearing little but feathers and a cloth around his waist stepped over Varley with an assegai in his hands. Behind him more shapes were primed for the charge, their war cries rivaling even that of the storm.