Pirates of the Arabian: The Curse of the Gauntlet by Nez
Summary: Aladdin and Pirates of the Caribbean collide to create something...somewhat insteresting.
Rating: PG
Categories: Aladdin
Characters: Other, Abis Mal, Aladdin, Genie, Iago, Jafar, Jasmine, Mozenrath, Rasoul, Sadira, Sultan
Genres: Crossover
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 06/23/05
Updated: 07/19/05
Index
Chapter 1: A Chance Meeting
Chapter 2: I'm in the Market
Chapter 1: A Chance Meeting
An Aladdin/Pirates of the Caribbean crossover
Based on an idea by Hourglass
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Chapter 1: A Chance Meeting
The morning fog descended upon the ship “Sirocco”, homeward bound from a spice trade in India. Alone upon the bow, there stood a girl, no older than six of age. Despite her trappings of European-inspired fashion, she was clearly a beauty from the Arabian Peninsula with her deep tan skin, a ponytail of raven hair, and coffee-brown eyes. Upon her lips, there was a song, one she had learned from sailors on her father’s trips abroad.
Oh, I come from a land, from a far away place
Where the caravan camels roam
Where they cut off your ear
If they don’t like your face
It’s barbaric but hey, it’s home...
As she sang her song in the fog, the young girl wore the appearance of a wispy sea dryad; one that sailors believe would lure them to a watery grave with her song.
When the wind’s from the East
And the sun’s from the West
And the sand in the glass is right
Come on down, stop on by
Hop a carpet and fly
To another Arabian nigh-
Her song interrupted by the touch of a heavy hand upon her tiny shoulder, she turned and saw the stern face of a sailor.
“Miss Jasmine, I would stop singing,” he chided, “if I were you. These be pirate waters and they swarm like sharks when they hear singing.”
“Sailor, that would be all,” said the low, rumbling voice belonging to Lieutenant Rasoul, a formidable-looking man.
“She was singing to the pirates,” the sailor pointed to Jasmine. “Mark my words; we’re just begging to be attacked in these waters.”
“Consider them marked,” Rasoul replied, gruffly. “Return to your post.”
The sailor walked away from Rasoul and Jasmine, grumbling beneath his breath. “Bad luck to have a woman aboard, especially a miniature one.”
Jasmine stuck her tongue out, upon overhearing, but a reprimanding glare from Rasoul stuck it back in.
“Your father worries about you, taking you along,” the lieutenant said to Jasmine as he took her by the hand and escorted her along the deck. “Merely out of safety, with these threats and these degenerates and their talk of pirates filling your head.”
“Actually,” Jasmine replied brightly, “I think it’s all fascinating.”
“That’s what he’s worried about.” Suddenly, the whistle blew and the grip upon the girl’s hand was lifted as Rasoul ran to meet the call of the Captain. Jasmine sighed, boredom setting in. She leaned against the railing, staring down into the water.
Suddenly, her eye caught something floating in the water. No, not something. Someone!
“Hey!” she screamed. “There’s a boy in the water!” The rumbling of feet running and the shouts of three sailors could be heard as they quickly lowered a longboat and paddled up to the figure floating upon a barrel. When they emerged back onto the deck, they set down a small boy upon the deck in front of Jasmine. One called out an order to get the Captain when the bosun’s whistle could be heard. Black smoke could be seen overhead.
“Stay with him,” one of the sailors said to Jasmine as he ran off. “If he wakes up, inform either your father or one of the commanding officers.”
Kneeling down, Jasmine inspected the boy. He was about year older than she was. His complexion was that of an Arabian youth though his attire was a mish-mash of Hindi and Arab fashion. However, what caught her eye was a medallion, the sole fine accessory on this child’s body, peering from under his shirt. She reached towards it when his hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. She jumped back as the boy released his grip.
“Are you all right?” Jasmine asked, worry in her tone. “What’s your name?”
“A-Aladdin al Ababwa,” the boy slurred. He looked at Jasmine, eyes wide. “Are you one of my seven virgins?”
Jasmine blushed, unsure of how to react. She sighed, shaking her head. “No, I’m Jasmine and you’re on the ‘Sirocco’.”
Aladdin smiled as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Seeing her chance, she pulled out the medallion and, upon inspecting it, an expression of shock appeared on her face. The tribal face upon that coin had reminded her of a picture in a book, the description recalling the symbols of pirates who ruled the East coast of Africa and its islands.
“You’re a pirate.”
Suddenly, the treading of feet upon the deck could be heard and she stashed the medallion into her bodice. She looked up and saw the gentle round face of her father, looking down on her.
“Jasmine, dear, how’s the boy?” he asked, warmly.
“He’s resting,” Jasmine replied. “He said his name was Aladdin al Ababwa.”
“Ah, I see. I can imagine he would be relieved to be among friends. Poor boy, to be a lone survivor.”
“What?” Jasmine stood up. “Was there an accident? It has something to do with the smoke?”
“Dear, you don’t need to worry yourself,” her father placed his soft, pudgy hands upon her shoulders. “He needs all of the care you can give now.”
Jasmine frowned slightly, defeated, but looking at Aladdin, she managed a smile.
“That’s my girl.” The graying man chuckled warmly when a soldier came and hurried him along.
“al Malik, you and your daughter must return to your quarters. Orders from the Captain.”
“Yes, yes. Come along, Jasmine-” He turned to his daughter, but found that she had run off. “Jasmine? Jasmine!”
Dodging the sailors, Jasmine made her way to the bow, a great smoldering wreck of a ship laid in front of her. She gasped at the sight. She scanned the wreckage floating by when she saw it.
A ship of black, right down to the sails, was sailing away, flying a banner of dark blue and gold.
Ten years later...
Jasmine laid in her bed, restless from a dream. She sat up, her diaphanous nightdress clinging to her curvy form, and walked to her vanity. Opening up a box, she pulled out a piece of finery that was in desperate need of dusting. It stared back with its tribal façade as she clasped it on and looked at it in the mirror. Suddenly, a knock came upon the door and Jasmine quickly tucked it into her cleavage and hurried back into her bed.
“Come in,” she called out to those at the door who, when they opened the door, turned out to be her father, rotund and jovial, along with two maids bearing a parcel which she eyed immediately. “Good morning. What’s the occasion?”
“Does a father need an occasion to dote upon his daughter?” al Malik chuckled as Jasmine got up from her bed and walked towards the maid bearing the parcel. Her eyes became lit with interest as she pulled out a Mantua-styled dress in a very pale lavender floral design.
“It’s gorgeous,” Jasmine replied, “but am I allowed to wear it?” European trade relations had introduced strange customs into the city of Agrabah, along with fashion such as these. Hamed al Malik, a merchant as well as the governor of this city, was delighted by these customs and this was often reflected on the gifts he gave his daughter, however strange or inappropriate.
“Oh, yes,” he answered as Jasmine and the two maids ducked behind a changing screen. “In fact, I was hoping you could wear it to Captain Rasoul’s promotion ceremony or Admiral Rasoul, as it is now.”
“I knew it,” Jasmine sighed as she took off her nightdress and allowed the maids to dress her in the strange undergarments, including a peculiar vest that cinched her tiny waist further.
“I believe that dress is all the rage in Europe.”
“European women must have learned not to breathe,” Jasmine groaned as they tightened her up.
Downstairs, Aladdin al Ababwa stood in the foyer, holding a quickly wrapped package. He rubbed the back of his heel with his other foot. He didn’t like wearing shoes. Since childhood, he had grown accustomed to being barefoot. In the forge where he worked, he was barefoot as well though common sense would tell him otherwise. Boredom descending upon him, he turned to the torch fixtures upon the wall. He tugged on it and, to his surprise, it broke off. A conviently placed vase covered up his deed, placing the fixture into the vase. Aladdin smiled as a servant passed by.
“Young al Ababwa,” al Malik called as he descended the stairs, “I see you have our parcel.”
Aladdin nodded and unwrapped the cloth, revealing an elegant. al Malik inspected it, enthralled by the inlaid gems and intricate calligraphic incisions in the hilt.
“It is made from a combination of steel and iron,” Aladdin explained. “Tempered to be lightweight but retains balance and strength.” With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the sword and grabbed it from the air with great fluidity.
“My,” al Malik gasped, astonished as Aladdin handed him the sword, “it’s quite a beauty. Give your master my compliments.”
The smile of pride Aladdin had dissolved as he bowed his head. “Y-yes. A craftsman is always pleased to hear his work praised.”
“Aladdin,” Jasmine said as she walked down the stairs, the fabric of her dress rustling. Aladdin looked up and smiled. “So good to see you.”
“Miss al Malik,” the youth replied, looking starry-eyed as Jasmine approached, uncomfortable in her gown.
“How many times must I ask for you to call me ‘Jasmine’?” Jasmine said, playfully.
“At least once more, Miss al Malik,” Aladdin replied. Jasmine chuckled softly when she heard her father clearing his throat.
“Ah, Jasmine,” he said, the doorman opening the door, “the ceremony starts soon. We best get a move on.”
“Yes, Father,” Jasmine replied. She curtseyed for Aladdin and walked out, followed by her father. Aladdin watched as Jasmine and Hamed al Malik climbed into the cab and disappeared into the crowded streets of Agrabah.
“Good day, Jasmine,” Aladdin said quietly.
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Chapter 2: I'm in the Market
Chapter 2: “I’m in the Market”
The sun was high and the salty breeze blew through the sails of those entering Agrabah’s harbor. It felt particularly fine to one man, who sat perched atop the mast, the very romantic image of a seafarer. The stray curls from his raven hair hidden beneath his hat swayed in the breeze, tickling his unnaturally pallid complexion. He then glanced down and grabbing a rope, slid below. The romantic image that many may have expected fled when he landed ankle-deep into seawater that leaked into not a galleon, but rather a row boat that had been equipped with a mast and sail.
“Great, great, great,” the young man muttered under his breath as he began to bail the water out. “Come on, just close enough for Moze-” He stopped for a moment as he looked up. Off in the distance, from an arch of sea-worn rock hung a trio of rotting corpses, dangling in the breeze. The sign that hung from one of the bodies read “Pirates Be Warned”. Mozenrath sighed, whether it was wistfully or envious, when he held his hands close and bowed.
The port of Agrabah grew closer, ships of varying heights and widths congregating along its shore. Fishermen and dock workers turned and gazed at the ships coming in, most notably the young man standing atop the mast, coasting towards the dock as his boat sunk deeper into the harbor. He then leapt (more of, stepped) on to the dock as the boat slowed to a halt, the top of the mast barely visible above the water.
“Sir!” Mozenrath turned as a portly man carrying a ledger waddled towards him. “Sir, it’s a dinari to tie up your ship.” The young man glanced back at his...“ship”. “And we’ll need your name.”
“What do you say to three dinari and we forget the name?” Mozenrath dropped three small coins into the harbor master’s hand. The man looked at the coins and looked back to the young man.
“Welcome to Agrabah, Mr. Muhammad.” Mozenrath bowed as the harbor master walked down to the dock. The young man turned to the desk at his side; one can only assume it’s the harbor master’s. He nonchalantly picked up the small purse upon it, gave it a shook and then pocketed it as he went on his way.
The garrison, a great structure of stone that overlooked the port, was alive with trumpets as officers and soldiers, dressed in their regalia, and civilians, dressed in their finery, gathered, looking on as Rasoul, dressed in his uniform, marched down the aisle formed by his underlings in salute. As he marched towards Governor al Malik, he tried to keep a straight face, thinking that he could only wear so much brocade without being classified as a parade float over in his head. Indeed, it was a full suit, white cotton shirt and a long jacket of blue brocade along with his usual pants and boots, more than he was used to wearing on a daily basis.
Rasoul wasn’t the only one feeling the regret of overdressing. As the hot Arabian sun beamed down, Jasmine was growing very exhausted, just by standing there in her corset and Mantua gown. Beads of sweat were rolling down her face and even the aid of a fan at hand wasn’t going to make it stop.
Meanwhile, back at the dock, Mozenrath was swaggering down a dock, a sleek clipper parked beside it. He looked at it, a glint of interest in his eye. That ship would certainly be a vast improvement over his previous...means of transportation.
“Hey!” A pair of guards had stepped in front of him. “No civilians beyond this point,” the fat one said to him.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Mozenrath sighed. “I didn’t know. If I see one, I will let you know.” He continued to walk, but the two guards took a step towards his direction, thwarting him. “Apparently, there’s much there’s a sort-of formal engagement up at the fort, hmm?” He laid on the charm as he spoke. “How is it that two...upstanding gentlemen, such as yourselves, could not get an invitation?”
“Well,” the fat one, Fazal, shrugged, “somebody has to make sure this stays off limit to civilians.”
“And a fine job you two gentlemen are doing,” the young man oozed, “but, it seems, that a ship like that one over there-” (he pointed out to the waters where a massive galleon stood) “-makes this one look, I don’t know, rather insignificant.”
“Oh, the Kismet over there is the power in these waters,” the thin guard, Hakim, replied, “but there’s no matching the Magic Carpet for speed.”
“Oh, really,” Mozenrath replied, inspecting the glove upon his right hand. “It’s just I’ve heard of one that supposed to very fast...no, uncatchable: The Gauntlet.”
Hakim snorted, “There’s no real ship that can match the Magic Carpet.”
“Uh,” Fazal interjected, “the Gauntlet is a real ship.”
“No, it isn’t,” Hakim replied.
“Yes, it is,” Fazal retorted, “I’ve seen it.”
“You’ve seen it?” Hakim asked, not aware that Mozenrath was walking right past him and Fazal.
“Y-yes,” Fazal stuttered. “I have.”
“You’ve seen a ship with black sails that’s crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that not even Hell will take him?
“Uh, no, but I’ve seen a ship with black sails.”
“Oh, and no ship that’s not crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that not even Hell will take could possibly have black sails, so couldn’t possibly be any other ship than the Gauntlet. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Fazal looked at Hakim, rather confused. “Uh, no?”
“So, like I said, there’s no real ship that could match the Magic Carpet-” Hakim turned to speak to Mozenrath, but has found that he was on the ship, throttling the steering wheel. “Hey, you! Get away from there!”
Mozenrath looked up as the guards climbed upon the ship.
“You’re not allowed to be here!” Fazal said, breathlessly.
“I’m sorry,” Mozenrath said, fingering the steering wheel, “but it’s such a pretty boat- ship.”
“What’s your name?” Hakim demanded, pulling out his scimitar. Mozenrath looked at the point of the guard’s weapon.
“Muhammad,” he lied.
“What’s your business in Agrabah?” Hakim demanded.
“And no lies!” Fazal added. Mozenrath pursed his lips as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel thoughtfully.
“Well, since you asked,” he finally said. “My intentions are to commandeer one of your better ships, pick up a crew in Para-moor, and raid, pillage, loot, pilfer, and all that jazz.”
“We said, ‘no lies’!” Hakim cried.
“Uh, Hakim,” Fazal replied, “I think he’s telling us the truth.”
Hakim looked at Fazal, caustically. “If he was telling the truth, he wouldn’t have told us.”
“Yes,” Mozenrath interjected, “unless he knew you wouldn’t believe the truth, even if he told it to you.”
Hakim nodded affirmatively before stopping himself and looking at the corsair, bewildered.
The post-ceremony crowd mingled upon the fortification. Hamed al Malik was conversing with a pair of fair-skinned merchants in their stiffer attires, fanning themselves rapidly. Rasoul approached Jasmine, leaning against a buttress and fanning herself. She looked very wan.
“Jasmine,” Rasoul spoke, “may I have a moment?” Jasmine nodded. “You’ve become such a fine woman, a fine woman very much suitable for, um, marriage to a fine man.”
“I can’t breathe,” Jasmine wheezed.
“Well, uh, yes,” Rasoul replied, not noticing that Jasmine has fainted and fell over the buttress. “I’m a bit nervous too.”
“...and that is how you get legions of fan girls,” Mozenrath explained to the enraptured guards when they heard a splash. They turned to the source of the splash, just below the garrison.
“Jasmine?” Rasoul looked around and then straight down, a concern look appearing on his face. “JASMINE!” His scream brought fellow officers running towards him as Rasoul began tearing off his uniform.
“Sir, the rocks!” one lieutenant yelled to him, trying to restraint him. “It’s a miracle she missed them!”
“So, you gentlemen going to jump in after her?” Mozenrath asked casually. Fazal shook his head helplessly. The young man turned to Hakim.
“I can’t swim,” the thin guard replied. Upon hearing this, Mozenrath let out an irritated groan.
“I hate babysitting,” he said as he took off his coat and hat and handed it to Fazal. He then turned to Hakim and thrust into his hands his sword and belt with a pistol in its halter. “Lose these and I will kill you.”
Hakim turned pale as the young man dived off the Magic Carpet.
Jasmine limply sunk towards the bottom of the bay, the medallion dislodging from her bodice. Suddenly, it began to vibrate and soon a massive shock wave shot out upon the surface of the water. Then the gentle breeze that blown through Agrabah became a gale, any paper that wasn’t held down blew away, tents in the bazaar had their canvases ripped off their very frames. Even the skeletons hanging from the rock arch were swaying in the wind like grotesque windsocks.
Mozenrath swam in closer to Jasmine, placing his hand upon her neck. There was a pulse. Faint, but still beating. He grabbed her arms, but found that even in the water, she felt heavy. The young man ducked down and began to untie the laces upon her soaked-gown. Now loose, the dress was roughly pulled off and allowed to drop to the sandy floor.
Hakim and Fazal ran to the dock as Mozenrath, with Jasmine flung over his shoulder, climbed up.
“I got her.” Fazal took Jasmine from the young man and laid her on the dock. The girl sat there limply. “She’s not breathing!”
Mozenrath rolled his eyes as he unsheathed the knife on Hakim’s belt and sliced the laces of Jasmine’s corset. As soon as he ripped the corset apart, Jasmine gasped and coughed up water. The corsair handed the corset to Fazal who looked at it with boyish curiosity.
“I would have never thought of that,” Fazal said.
“Obviously, you’ve never been to Getzistan,” Mozenrath replied. He glanced at Jasmine when he spotted the medallion. His eyes widened with curiosity as he knelt down closer towards the drenched girl. “Where did you get that?” he demanded in a deadly whisper.
Before Jasmine could reply, Mozenrath was roughly pulled back by the shoulder with the massive hands of Rasoul who was accompanied by al Malik and seven armed soldiers. Muttering with concern, Hamed waddled quickly towards his daughter. Fazal immediately dropped the corset, sheepishly.
“Jasmine,” he helped her to her feet, “are you alright?” He turned to Rasoul. “Arrest him.” Smiling nastily, Rasoul turned to Mozenrath, who in his drenched clothes and without his coat appeared much thinner, and pulled out a pair of hand irons.
“Wait!” Jasmine spoke up. “Do you truly intend to punish my rescuer?”
“Oh, well,” Hamed stammered for a moment, “that’s a very different matter. Rasoul.”
The Admiral Rasoul rolled his eyes and turned to the young man, removing his hand from his shoulder.
“I suppose thanks are in order,” he said, indifferently as he held out his hand. Mozenrath looked at it, skeptically at first but held out his gloved hand. Suddenly, Rasoul grabbed the gauntlet by its hem and pulled it off. Gasps followed as it was revealed that the young man’s right hand was of nothing but clean bone. Rasoul had a particularly smug look upon his face.
“Keep your swords on him,” he barked to the soldier who immediately unsheathed their scimitars. “We have a former pirate prodigy on our hands, isn’t that true, Mozenrath?”
“Captain Mozenrath,” the young man corrected, indignantly.
“Well, Captain,” Rasoul approached him, threateningly, “where is your ship?”
“I’m in the market for one as it were.”
“He’s come to commandeer a ship, Admiral,” Hakim spoke up, handing Rasoul Mozenrath’s sword and belt.
“I told you he was telling the truth,” Fazal whispered to Hakim. Hakim shot a derisive glare at Fazal. Rasoul took the pistol off of the belt.
“A pistol, very antiquated with no additional shots or powder,” Rasoul observed, now pulling out a compass, or what would appear to be one, “a compass that doesn’t work.” He then partially unsheathed the sword. “Hmm, and I almost expected it to be a toy. The years have not been kind to you.”
“I could say the same for you, sir,” Mozenrath retorted, when Rasoul struck him across the face. The Admiral then grabbed the young man by the collar of his shirt and threw him to his underlings, irons ready to be latched on.
“Admiral,” Jasmine broke from her father and followed Rasoul, “I must protest. Pirate or not, this man saved me.”
“It’s not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness,” Rasoul explained.
“But it’s enough to condemn him, apparently,” Mozenrath added as the snap of iron cuffs was heard.
“Indeed.” Rasoul moved away from Mozenrath and Jasmine when the young man suddenly threw his irons around the girl’s neck and pulled her towards him. Rasoul quickly unsheathed his sword, but a frightened Hamed grabbed his wrist.
“No, don’t!”
“Gentlemen,” the corsair smirked, still holding the irons tightly against Jasmine’s neck, “my things, please. To her.” He took a moment to sniff Jasmine’s salty hair as Rasoul handed Jasmine the sword in the belt, along with the coat and hat. “Now, if you would be so kind, princess.”
“It’s Miss al Malik to you,” Jasmine scowled as she placed the hat on Mozenrath’s head. The corsair smiled oily to Rasoul as Jasmine strapped on his belt. The Admiral looked on, appearing to be very uncomfortable. Suddenly, the young man felt a quick jerk to his waist and he looked at Jasmine.
“Easy on the goods, babe.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Jasmine seethed. Mozenrath smirked.
“Quid pro quo,” he replied. “I saved your life and you’re saving mine. We’re even.” He spun her, face now towards her father and the Admiral. “Gentlemen, Jasmine, you’ll remember this day as the day that you almost caught Captain Mozenrath!” He then pushed Jasmine into the men’s arms and, kicking the release lever with the heel of his boot, grabbed a rope that flew the corsair up on to a beam above them.
“Shoot him!” al Malik screamed. With a wobbly balance, Mozenrath narrowly avoid the bullets whizzing up past him.
Idiots couldn’t hit the broad side of a camel, he thought to himself as he threw the slack of the chains over a rope and slid down to the bridge several feet away. Shots fired at his heels as he ran.
“Look alive, men,” Admiral Rasoul barked at the soldiers as they scattered though the city. “Mozenrath has a dawn appointment with the executioner’s block. I hate for him to miss it.”
The smithy was filled with the gentle snoring of the portly Omar, slouching in a chair besides the forge. Deep he was in drunken slumber; he didn’t even notice Mozenrath’s stumbling through the window, the chains of the corsair’s irons rattling loudly. The young man stood up, eyeing the man. He cautiously approached Omar and then, with his bone finger, poked him in the gut. Omar doesn’t stir. Mozenrath turned away, but then shouted “Whoa!” at Omar. Satisfied with the portly man still asleep, the young man set his hat down and began to work.
Having tried the hammer with less than effective results, Mozenrath growled as he fumbled with his irons. Then his eyes laid upon the wheels of the massive machine. Kicking the mule that ran it, he swung the chains over the wheel’s teeth as it cranked. The sounds of metal snapping were heard when suddenly the door swung open. Panicking, the newly freed Mozenrath ducked aside as Aladdin walked into the smithy. The teen turned to the mule, gently rubbing the beast’s snout. The mule grunted as it calmed down. Aladdin then turned to Omar and smiled.
“Right where I left you,” he said, when his focus turned to the hat on the anvil. “What the-”
Aladdin reached for it, when he suddenly grabbed a sword and pointed at Mozenrath, sword also unsheathed and pointing at Aladdin.
“You’re that pirate they’re looking for,” he said.
“Guilty,” The corsair smirked as he backed away towards the door. “So if you’ll excuse me.” Aladdin followed, undeterred and still pointing the sword at Mozenrath’s face. “Do you really think it wise, boy, to cross blades with a pirate?”
“Boy? You’re no older than I am,” Aladdin scoffed. Mozenrath rolled his eyes.
“More of your problem than mine.”
They began to parry.
“Hmm, you actually know what you’re doing,” Mozenrath commented, “but how’s your footwork?” Mozenrath took a step to his left, Aladdin followed with one to the left as well. “Well, this was a fun review, but I got to go. Ciao.”
Mozenrath walked to the door when a sword came flying and got stuck in the door. The pirate looked at it with a fair amount of surprise before turning to Aladdin who was looking at him smugly.
“That is a good trick,” he said, “but once again you are between me and my exit and now you don’t have a weapon.”
Just then Aladdin proved him wrong by pulling a sword from the forge, still glowing red at the tip. Mozenrath cocked a curious eyebrow and they began to fight once more, though more heatedly.
“Did you honestly make all of these?” Mozenrath asked, looking pointedly at the swords that hung upon the wheels of the big machine.
“Yes!” Aladdin replied, “And I practice with them three hours a day!”
“You definitely need to find a girlfriend.” Just then Mozenrath began to chuckle mid-parry.
“What’s so funny?” Aladdin asked.
“Oh, I just think that you’re compensating for something,” the pirate replied, “to be practicing three hours a day and to be without a girl.” He then grinned cheekily. “You’re a eunuch, aren’t you?”
Aladdin thrust the sword towards Mozenrath’s stomach, who just avoided it just barely. “I practice, so when I find a pirate, I can stop it!”
The fight moved to the cart in the middle of the smithy, teetering beneath them as they parried. Mozenrath spotted the loose board upon the cart; the one Aladdin was standing right on. Dropping his heel, he launched the boy into the rafters, but just as he turned his back, a massive sand bag crashed onto the cart and catapulted the pirate up to the rafters as well. The boy had cut the rope holding it and was now balancing up on the beams in a fencing position. As Mozenrath climbed up, the fighting continued, the pair alternating upon the beams. Just then, Aladdin twisted the pirate’s sword from his grip, falling to the ground. Mozenrath then leapt off with a cat-like grace, followed by Aladdin. However, as Aladdin landed upon the ground, Mozenrath sliced the end of a hanging sand bag and pointed it towards the boy. Sand spewed out, blinding Aladdin. As the youth wiped the sand from his eyes, he found that the barrel of a pistol was pointing straight at his face, Mozenrath holding it.
“You cheated!” Aladdin snapped.
“Pirate,” Mozenrath snorted.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of men ramming at the door. Mozenrath sighed as he took a sidestep, only to be deterred by Aladdin.
“I can’t let you escape,” Aladdin firmly said.
Mozenrath hissed, “You’re not worth wasting a shot.”
Suddenly, the pirate fell to the ground as a glass bottle was shattered on his head from behind. Aladdin looked and saw Omar, staring at the fallen Mozenrath upon the floor. Soldiers rushed in and gathered around as Admiral Rasoul made his way in.
“Excellent work, Omar,” Rasoul rasped. “You succeeded in stopping a dangerous fugitive.”
“Just doing my civic duty,” Omar slurred. Aladdin only stood there, knowing full well what happened.
“Gentlemen,” Rasoul said to his men, “I trust you will remember this as the day Captain Mozenrath almost escaped. Take him away.”