"Lord Nasatya!"
Manu called out from the foot of the stairs across the deck, peering into the dim, creaking vestibule before making his way to where Nasatya was huddled by the oar.
"We need more hands!" Nasatya shouted an order, glancing once at the tall, dark figure.
Lord Manu, sharp and quick as he was, did not need to be told twice. He called some men of their camp and then promptly grasped the empty oar behind Nasatya, swinging it with the ease of a hoister.
The rain was beating down on the hull, and the lashings of the thunders were relentless, deafening. The gale-force rocking the ship told Nasatya the storm would be upon them any moment. The men felt it too, fervently pulling and pushing at their oars, their cadenced shouts becoming a rallying cry to keep their spirits up.
"The storm will tear this ship apart if it does not soar now," Nasatya raised his concerns, feeling the increasing shove of the wind against the bellows.
Suddenly, the ship began to shake and lurch, more than before, followed by a loud screeching of the rigs and gears. Nasatya almost tripped and fell but caught himself. The shaking did not stop, neither did the hands pulling at the oar.
"Look," said the stocky hoister to Nasatya's right, pointing at one of the portholes.
Through the rain-hazed curtain outside the hole, Nasatya peered at the horizon. It seemed to have lowered the way the world descended when you go up on those giant wheels at a fair. The galleon was shuddering, its wood and metal wailing loudly as it began to surge.
For a second, Nasatya felt he was sinking, that was cut short by a violent lurch. It happened again and again and again. Yet his hands gripped the shaft of the oar with all he had, his arms wielding it like a weapon, plowing against the violent and hostile winds.
But that was him, a divine god, a horseman. Most other hoisters were simple mortals, and they had their limits. The violent jerks and rocking sent the men sprawling to the floor, the oars falling away from their grasps. The friendly hoister suddenly began to retch, emptying his stomach's content right on the floor, and he was not the only one.
"Bring down more of our men," Nasatya yelled to two of his asura men, "call every one of them. They are needed here. Where is my brother?!"
Rebha arrived shortly with ten more pairs of hands, lending their powers at once to the hoisting device. There was no sign of Darsa, but it was no time for Nasatya to be furious at his twin's disregard and willfulness. The Great Swan was taking to the air, and they needed every hand on deck to keep it afloat. Men were rolling and heaving on the wooden planks of the deck, hurling out vomit now and then. Perhaps it was not something that their air drills in a quaint weather had taught them.
There was another violent jerk from the left side of the ship that almost toppled it over. All goods and cargo that were not secured to the vessel slid to the right before it partly lurched back to as it was.
Manu peeked through the porthole. "The storm is here; lord help us."
The frenzied gales once smashed against the galleon. Shouts became shrieks, and this time, even the divine ones stumbled to the ground. The hoisting device was failing. Nasatya released his oar and dashed over to Rebha near the entrance.
"We need to steer the ship away from this," he told her, breathless, "search for Darsa and find me on the main deck."
Nasatya took to the stairs, two, three steps at a time, until he found himself at the top of the deck. The gales threatened to blow him off the ship, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the wet floor. When he looked around him, his heart dropped.
What they thought was a storm was a full-blown hurricane, and they were squat in the middle of it, water splashing all around him from both the rain and the waves. It was not the mechanical bellows that lifted the Swan but the whirling force of the wind. Men were clamoring to find shelter where they could. Some tied themselves to the masts and riggings; others scrambled over to the stairs to slip into the lower deck.
Nasatya struggled his way to the bottom of the main mast. There was no sign of the quartermaster or the king himself. Terrified of what might have happened, Nasatya looked around him desperately, the downpour making it hard to see or breathe.
It was not until he saw the fogged silhouette latching onto the top of the main mast that he let out a single breath of relief. Far above, King Saudipta was perilously hanging from the top of the pole where the hurricane had battered the crows nest into a wooden ruin.
"Hang on to it," he shouted to the king, unsure if his words carried over the storm's roar.
"Brother." Darsa had arrived, standing ready, with Rebha behind. The nasty smile on his face from earlier was gone, only a hard look that meant business.
"Take care of the front and the back," Nasatya ordered, wiping off the water trickling down his face, "I will carry the middle."
Darsa snorted with disdain. "Ever the hero," he said but did as Nasatya told him.
The two of them waded past the beating of the rain and waves and jolts of the angry winds towards each end of the galleon. It had tilted so dangerously that Nasatya fell to his hands and knees, hanging to the floorboard. He clawed his way to the side of the main deck, facing the wild turbine of the hurricane head-on. He pulled himself up to the ship's side rails, his hair and body entirely soaked in the surging sea water, and took a deep breath before he closed his eyes.