Captain Cavendish released a small bit of his heat into the flare and sent it into the sky. Then he turned and addressed what was left of his crew. Of the eight hundred sailors that had once crewed Dauntless, only sixty-two were fit for work. Another four hundred and thirty-four were below in the hold, laying still and unconscious with heat from nearly burst furnaces burning them up.

"That was the last flare, and we have no messengers left unless you count prayers to the gods. And I fear they are occupied with weightier matters than one ship adrift in the smoke. Still, let us give thanks for what we have and pray to Evergreen that she will deal with this heat and send us aid in our hour of need."

A few men said prayers, but most had long since said what they needed to speak to their gods and now waited for an answer. The rum had run out two days ago, and the food would only last another week, even with so few men eating and only one meal a day. The ship had been low on food and heading to the port to restock when the current emergency had occurred, leaving them with little but the fresh fish they could catch. Many of the sailors wished for less food and more rum. The wood wrights had given away their food to their best friends and were chewing on scraps of pine. It was hard work on their jaws, but chewing wood gave more fuel than the thin broth and porridge the cook was reduced to making.

Cavendish saw that the lookout was signaling him of danger overhead. He aimed his telescope skyward and felt his heart miss a beat. Thunderheads were dropping from Skye. Evergreen had grown angry and was striking back at the eruption. Sadly, Dauntless was in their path and had no way to sail away. He was aware of the irony of his words to the crew, hoping that the gods would deal with this heat. He'd gotten an answer to his prayers, but not one he liked.

At least the lookout had seen the Thunderheads and given a warning. They were leagues away and had disappeared over the horizon as they got lower. They would form up and march across the smoke, dropping their cargo of water from the great oceans, and the smoke would explode into steam, and the heat would be carried up to heat the coldest areas of Skye. The smoke would return to normal, but not before Dauntless was turned into a ghost ship, sailing with a charred and steamed undead crew.

"Officers, report to my cabin. Mr. Trask, you have the helm." With only one top sail and a forward staysail lit up, even a half-trained midshipman could keep Dauntless on a slow and steady course. Again, the irony of the situation was painful. Hundreds of men were too hot to move, and yet he had not enough people to light the larger sails. Dauntless had three tall masts that supported a total of thirty-three sails. The largest of the three sails took over 50,000 heat create and more to bring them to full.

This would usually be done in port when a large complement of captains could aid in the task. While sailing the smoke, the sails were kept full by Cavendish and his officers. Two of his captains had died in the eruption. Poor Captain Sawyer had collapsed two days later in an attempt to light the mainsail, his furnace bursting as he tried to hold excess heat. Two more, Thompson and Carallo, were down below, unmoving. With only himself, Captain Shively, two midshipmen, and a 2nd mate, it would only be possible to get a fraction of the sails lit. The middies and his mate didn't have enough heat or rank in Heating the Sails. They had planned to slowly light the smallest of the sails, with Cavendish bearing the bulk of the work. Their course would eventually put them back to the nearest island, even with a fraction of their sail alight. But with rain coming, slow and steady was no longer an option.

"Gentlemen, we have a problem." Usually, his quarters would be cramped for a full meeting of the ship's officers. Today there was only himself, Captain Shively, Doctor Littleton, and Starsky, the Quartermaster. "The lookout has spotted Thunderheads dropping. A great amount of Thunderheads. They will bring rain to ease this damnable heat, and with rain comes the steaming fog that cooks men where they stand."

He paused, letting them process the dilemma. Shively was the first to speak. "Can we shield against it, captain?" Cavendish shook his head. "Not without Thompson and Carallo, at the very least. The ship is too big, and the volume of steam we would need to push aside is too much."

Doctor Littleton looked stricken. "The injured below will never survive! They are too close to being claimed by the Burning Man! Can't we flee? I know that's not a word to use in the Queens' Navy, but we can't let them die."

Cavendish brought out a map. "Here is our current position, and the eruption point is far too close to us. The Thunderheads won't just be ahead of us. The gods will drop thousands of them in a great circle around the eruption and then tighten the circle, forcing the excess heat up to Skye. We could turn and run, but the rain hits us when the circle is smaller, and the steam is heavier and hotter. If we move toward the cyclones, we have a slim chance to slip between two of them, and some of us live."

Captain Snively looked at the map and nodded. "That's the plan, then. We'll make it through." His smile was forced, and his eyes showed he didn't believe they had any chance.

Cavendish paced back and forth and made a decision. "I commend you for your bravery, Captain, but I must ask something hard of you. I must ask you to leave the Dauntless and save who we can."

"Leave, sir? I don't understand."

"Dauntless has little hope of surviving, but we have a longboat left. I want her rigged for sailing immediately and loaded with what provisions we have. You will take command and flee the area. You have two ranks in Shielding and four in Aura, enough to cover the ship and push away the steam if you are moving fast. You will be taking our good Doctor and Midshipman Styles. Style's old family heritage grants him two Aura, even at a young age."

Littleton's eyes narrowed. "And who else? You know you risk a mutiny. Every man will want to be in that boat."

Cavendish smiled. "It would be a weak one, and I still have my aura. You will take Thomspon and Carallo in hopes they might recover. I'm sure the first mate will not leave me, but the 2nd mate will be happy to save his own skin. Pick a dozen more of the best we have left. I'll light your sails to save your heat. You'll need speed to make it through. Now let's get to it."

With only bad choices and the habit of following orders, the longboat was loaded, and chains were rigged to hold the sails. It would be a month of sailing with little navigation, food, and a slim chance of making it home. But it was better than what would happen to the rest of the crew.

"Ship Ahoy!"

The lookout's excited voice came from the top of the main mast. "Dead ahead, sir, and coming in fast. She has a full set of sails on fire, sir, cutting through the smoke hard."

Hope stirred inside every man who heard the lookout's voice.

Cavendish was up the chains in a moment, climbing two-thirds of the way to the top for a better view. His spyglass quickly found the ship. Her sails were hot, and her hull was bright. The ship was ancient. It had been at least six centuries since the navy had commissioned a ship with an auric hull. "Damn me, what ship is that?"

The lookout took his spoken question as an order. "The Splinter, sir. Commanded by Captain Woodrat. She'll be on us in half a bell, sir."

The Splinter! Cavendish stayed in the rigging, looking at the small ship. It seemed Captain Woodrat had a few tricks up his sleeves besides riding whales during an eruption. He slid down the ladder, showing off skills learned in a career at sea and settling many bets about whether the Captain could still run the chains. He might have a last bottle of wine hidden in his cabin under the carpet. Best get that out so he could at least drink to Captain Woodrat's health as promised.