Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  The man in black saw nothing, just a gaping black hole where the top half of the door had been. “Were you successful?”

  “Of course.” The Merchant lingered on the “s” drawing it out to a hiss. “Given the time . . . and the motivation, I can get anything a mortal soul could desire.” A long case of gray leather was placed on the ledge of the bottom section of the door. Then a thick, leather-bound book was slid next to it. “Mind the blood,” said the Merchant. “It was . . . required.”

  The man in black put the pouch into a great pocket in his coat. Then he grasped the book. Eiríkr Thorvaldsson was the title carved into the leather flesh. “It’s in there?” he asked. “Not just the saga, but the family tree?”

  “Yes,” the Merchant replied. “All that you need. But now to the matter of my compensation.”

  “This should be more than suitable payment,” he said as he placed a new pouch on the ledge where the other had been.

  A shadowy hand took the pouch. Suddenly, the pouch flew out of the darkness and smacked against the brick wall behind the man in black. Jewels, white and green, lay at his feet.

  “This will not satisfy your debt to me,” said the Merchant, his voice low and menacing.

  “I assure you, the gems are real.”

  “I care not. They are baubles . . . trinkets. I know who you are. And I know your plan. None of it will come to pass without that book I recovered for you. But with it, you will succeed, and when you do, I want a contract.”

  “Contract?”

  “A guarantee of sorts . . . compensation, favors, protection. This will be in writing and signed in blood. But for now, I simply need your word.”

  The man in black looked at the book and then into the void in the doorway. Who knew what the Merchant actually wanted? He seemed capable enough. Whatever he wanted . . . it would be worth it. “I accept your terms.”

  “The word of a pirate is hardly reliable,” said the Merchant laughing quietly. The mirth in his voice disappeared, replaced with a deep, menacing whisper. “But mark me, you are now bound to your promise. And we will meet again . . . soon.”

  The top section of the door closed without a sound. The man in black held the book tightly to his chest. He picked up the discarded jewels. Then before leaving the dark door and the cold alley behind, he stood quietly for a few moments.

  The Saga of Erik the Red lay open on the desk where the man in black furiously flipped its pages. The Merchant had assured him that the family tree was in this volume, but so far nothing but mythic stories of—Wait! And there it was at last. The script was faded in some places, smeared in others. The various hands that had updated it over the years were anything but examples of great penmanship. And it was all written in Norse, but the man in black had learned that tongue as a child and still remembered it well enough to read. The first name in the tree was, of course, Erik the Red. Dozens of generations later, another familiar name appeared, and the man in black grinned.

  Gunnar Thorne. Dear Father, thought Bartholomew Thorne. For once you didn’t lie. His throat constricted, and his breathing became rough and raspy.

  There were two names beneath the old bloodfist. Thorne traced a finger across his own name and sneered at the other. He closed the Saga of Erik the Red. And from a long, leather case he withdrew a dark stave carved from a bough off a Jamaican ironwood tree. Thorne hefted it in his hand. It was heavier than his previous bleeding stick. But the weight felt good. How ironic that the natives called it the “wood of life” due to the curative properties of its resin.

  Thorne reached into an open leather satchel, took out a handful of sharp metal spikes that curled like talons, and began to screw them into the top portion of the stave. He held his new weapon in the light of the oil lantern on the desk and watched with satisfaction as the dark red sap bled down the shaft. Thorne knew it was only a hint of what was to come.

  5

  THE NIGHTWALKER

  Cat had been with the monks of the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel for more than a week, and Father Brun hadn’t uttered another word about joining the Brethren order. And yet almost every waking moment, the decision had weighed upon Cat’s heart like an anchor.

  Day after day as he supped with the monks or as he took part in their physical activities, Cat became more and more confused. The monks of the Brethren were so kind and welcoming. They went about embracing each other as if they were all family.

  And the Brethren prayed—a lot. In every corner of the Citadel, he found monks praying. Some prayed alone in small alcoves or closets. Others prayed in pairs upon stone benches, while others huddled in masses in the sanctuary or even out in the fields. As strange as the relentless prayer seemed to Cat, he also thought it intriguing. Tonight, for example, he found himself wondering what the monks said to God and whether God answered back.

  A blackbird’s harsh croak from outside the chamber window startled Cat from his thoughts. He rose from the cot, went to the white basin on the table, and rinsed his face with the cold water. A knock at the door caused Cat to jump. When he turned, Father Brun stood in the doorway holding a flickering candle.

  “I have just returned from prayer,” Father Brun said. That was no surprise to Cat. The monk motioned for Cat to sit at the small table near the window. He took a seat across from Cat and placed the candle on the table between them. Cat watched the wavering flame and noted its movements were not unlike Father Brun’s restless eyes. Those pale eyes did not dart to and fro out of nervous preoccupation but rather in continuous observation. But now, they stopped, and the effect was like sudden silence in the midst of a raging storm.

  “The Brethren solemnly request your services, Griffin Lejon Thorne,” said Father Brun. “But we would not have you decide out of a fleeting passion or in ignorance of the danger you will face.” The room seemed to darken, and Cat glanced through the shutters as if some frightening thing might be approaching. The wind strengthened and the shutters rattled.

  “We seek an ancient enemy—elusive and shrewd—malevolent on a level far beyond the darkest pirates of history. And history does not record this villain’s true name. He is known only as the Merchant.”

  “I have never heard of him.”

  “And he would like nothing more than to keep it that way,” said Father Brun. “For his effectiveness waxes in his anonymity. But tell me, Cat, have you ever wondered what has caused some of the great calamities of the world? Has it ever amazed you that throughout history, evil men have somehow had the means to carry out their infamous deeds? Black-hearted emperors and kings, despots and tyrants, and yes . . . even pirates—they have all risen to power on the might of a blood-soaked fist. But who provided the dagger for that fist? The sword . . . the cannon? Who first whispered malice into the eager ears of these violent souls? It was the Merchant.”

  Father Brun saw the question in Cat’s expression and said, “No, history does not speak his deeds—nay, only the deeds of his customers. But the Brethren have collected traces of the Merchant’s activity, and in our annals you will find his black thread weaving through the years like a serpent. The first mention of him comes from a letter dictated by Emperor Nero in AD 68, a month before he killed himself. In the letter, Nero claims that the gods sent him an advisor who helped him in times of great duress. It was this advisor who encouraged Nero to blame Christians for the burning of Rome . . . leading to the persecution and martyrdom of thousands.

  “The Merchant turns up again in AD 334. Having failed in his attempts to worm his way into Emperor Constantine’s council, he tried to poison him instead. The Brethren order was newly formed at that time, and Constantine was spared. But the Merchant escaped. And over the centuries, he returned, supplying and exhorting the most ruthless villains the world has ever known. Torquemada, Báthory, Chevillard, Bellamy—but always in the shadows, just out of reach . . . until now.”

  “How can that be possible?” Cat asked. “No man can live for centuries.”

  “True,” Father Bru
n replied. “And yet a man’s evil can live on long past his death. You see, the Merchant is not one man but many. In 1580, we captured the Merchant. He was ill and near to death, but from him we learned that he had trained an apprentice to assume his role upon his death. And so it has been for these many hundreds of years. One Merchant trains the next, and so, his malice lives on.”

  Cat leaned forward, his chin nearly over the candle’s flame. “But you said, until now. Now we can get him?”

  “You’ve made your decision,” said Father Brun. “You said we.”

  Cat hesitated, realizing his mistake. “Well . . . no, what I meant was, you can get him now?” Father Brun smiled and studied Cat like a sea chart.

  “We have a member of the Brethren secreted among Edmund Scully’s crew,” Father Brun explained. “Scully is sort of a go-between. He seems to have connections everywhere and exploits them for the highest bidder. He has provided information for many pirates, as well as foreign governments. The Brethren recently discovered that Scully once kept watch on the British for your father—”

  “My father?” Cat echoed. He could not remember meeting anyone named Scully. “Would I know this Scully? Would I recognize him?”

  “Only you can answer,” said Father Brun. “You may have a chance. Scully now gathers information for the Merchant. Unfortunately, our spy inside Scully’s crew became compromised, and he had to flee. But . . . not before learning a few of Scully’s regular haunts. Saint Vincent, Inagua, Jamaica—we will scour those islands until we find Scully. And then we will force Scully to take us to the Merchant.”

  “But what if Scully won’t?” Cat asked. “The Merchant doesn’t sound very forgiving.”

  “I have been praying about this for some time,” Father Brun admitted. “If greed motivates Edmund Scully as it seems to, the Brethren certainly possesses enough treasure to make his information worth the risk. But if not through riches . . . there are other ways. Cat, you must understand . . . it may be our best and only chance to stop the Merchant’s dark influence on history. For the Merchant is growing old, and he will soon choose his next apprentice. We must get him before he does.” A gust of wind thrust open the shutters. Lightning flashed in the distance, bathing vaporous shreds of clouds in purple and blue.

  “A storm is coming,” said Father Brun.

  Cat stared out onto the dark sea. “And that’s not all,” he said, pointing. “It’s the Robert Bruce.”

  Father Brun watched for the next flash, saw the sails of a tall ship, and said, “Cat, the time for your decision has come.”

  Father Brun and the monks had prepared a special banquet in the Brethren’s dining hall for Declan Ross and his senior crew members. Cat, seated between his captain and the leader of the Brethren, felt like a mooring line stretched between two drifting ships. Father Brun had agreed to give Cat one last night to make the decision, and the tension was relentless.

  “Ha-ha!” Jacques St. Pierre cackled proudly from the end of the table. “The look on this man’s face—the man we caught that day in Bristol—what was his name again?”

  “Fremont,” said Red Eye as if he’d heard the story a hundred times.

  “Oui, Fremont, that was it. The look on his face when I lit the fuse, and he could not snuff it out—that was, how you say . . . priceless!”

  “He stole the wrong barrel!” said Jules, his voice so deep the silverware rattled.

  “Actually,” said St. Pierre, “Fremont stole the right barrel. It was full of grain, not black powder. But Fremont did not know this. Ha-ha!”

  Even Red Eye had not heard that part of the tale. “You put a fuse in a barrel full of grain?”

  “I put fuses in everything, ha-ha!” To emphasize the point, St. Pierre held up his arm and showed all that a small length of hemp-fuse stuck out of his sleeve.

  “You shouldn’t be so careless with explosives,” said Red Eye. The unfortunate accident with black powder that scarred the left side of his face also rendered his left eye blind, its pupil permanently colored dark red.

  “You’ve never told me,” said Ross, “how did you know Fremont had taken a grain barrel and not the black powder?”

  “It is élémentaire, mon capitaine. I carve a letter ‘B’ on the side of every barrel that contains explosives.”

  “Ah,” said Jules. “‘B’ for black powder.”

  “No, my gigantic friend, ‘B’ as in BOOM!!”

  Cat absently shoved a little bean around his plate with a fork. How can I abandon them? Cat wondered. They’re my friends. The bean skittered off the plate, so Cat went after a wedge of apple. More than friends—they saved my life. He recalled the day Anne had found him. He had been bloodied, wounded near to death, left alone on the island to die. At Anne’s insistence, Jules had carried Cat to safety.

  Anne. Cat stared across the table at her. Her long crimson hair swirled over her shoulder and across her neck as she playfully bickered with Red Eye and Jules. Her hazel eyes flashed with intensity even as she pretended to threaten Red Eye with a fork. The word friend didn’t quite cover what Cat felt for Anne. He wasn’t sure he knew of a word that would. But to leave the Bruce meant leaving her, and something about that thought twisted the pit of Cat’s stomach. Anne looked up at him, but the instant their eyes met she turned demurely away. Twist. Cat’s stomach continued to churn, as it would until late that evening.

  “Ah!” Cat growled and thumped the mug on the table. The candle teetered. He caught it just before it fell and held it so that some melted wax would dribble into the holder. Then he reinserted the candle and . . . exhaled. He’d almost lost control again—AGAIN! Cat shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. What’s happening to me? he wondered. He cleared his mind as best he could. He needed clarity of thought tonight of all nights.

  If only there was some compromise, he thought . . . some way to stay with the Bruce and help out the Brethren. But he knew that Ross’s plan was to coordinate the Wolf fleet with Commodore Blake. So there was no way to . . . Cat stood up so abruptly his chair fell over. He looked out the window. It was late, and Cat had no idea if Father Brun might still be up. But what about Ross, would he agree to—? No, first things first.

  Cat grabbed the candle, slowly opened the chamber door, and quietly stole out into the hall. He passed by several doors, each leading to rooms occupied by his friends from the Bruce, but he could not stop there. Not yet. So Cat stealthily made his way through the corridors of the Citadel until he came at last to Father Brun’s chamber. He was surprised to see light beneath his door. Cat knocked once lightly on the door, and Father Brun said, “Come in.”

  Cat opened the door and found Father Brun sitting at a small round table. He had several candles lit—one on the table, one on the windowsill, and several on various shelves. There was a second chair at the table. It was turned invitingly toward the door. Father Brun had a book open in front of him and did not look up. He said, “I thought you might be along about now.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Cat said as he eased in and pulled the door shut.

  “No,” said Father Brun. “I expect not.” He motioned for Cat to sit down.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, Father Brun not looking up from the pages and Cat not knowing how to begin. At last, Father Brun said, “The Holy Scriptures tell of a young man named Samuel who heard a voice calling his name. He went to his master and said, ‘I am here. What do you want?’ But his master said he did not call. This happened twice more—a voice calling Samuel’s name, but Samuel’s master saying it was not him. But Samuel’s master had an idea who might be calling . . .” Father Brun looked at Cat expectantly.

  “God?”

  The monk nodded. “People do not always recognize the call of God when they first hear it. He does not always choose to speak with a voice. For some, the call is a felt passion for service. Powerful—even tragic—events seem to conspire against some others until, at last, they stop running and surrender. That was how it was with me. I would tu
rn to the left, but something occurred inexplicably and closed that road. I’d turn to the right and find hardship behind every door. It was only then, exhausted of my own stubborn will, that I said, ‘Yes, Lord.’ I wonder, Cat, is that what you’ve come to do?”

  Cat hesitated. “I . . . I don’t think I can join the Brethren.”

  If Father Brun was troubled by Cat’s answer, he did not show it. “But?”

  “But I will sail for you if . . .”

  “If?”

  Cat took a deep breath. “I will sail for the Brethren, captain one of your ships, and help you catch the Merchant if . . . if Anne can sail with me.”

  Father Brun finally showed some surprise. “Anne? Anne Ross, the captain’s daughter?” Cat nodded. Father Brun’s pale blue eyes narrowed, but then he smiled as if the solution to a complex sum had just become clear. “She is very fond of you also,” he said. “But can she sail? We could face any type of sea, and the stormy season is not far off.”

  “Anne is a brilliant seaman,” Cat said. “Uh, sea-woman . . . person. I mean, she can sail very well. She practically grew up with a ship’s wheel in her hand.”

  “I do not need to tell you again how dangerous this journey will be.”

  “Anne can take care of herself. She’s smart and good with a sword. I’d make her my quartermaster.”

  Father Brun drummed his fingers on the book. “You must first seek permission from her father,” he said.