Isle of Fire
Page 20
Cat glanced upward just a moment and saw Anne descending. “No!” he yelled. “Don’t you come down here, Anne! Don’t you do it!” She took one more hesitant step down. “ANNE!!” Cat yelled in desperation. At last, she reversed course and began to climb up the tunnel.
“Drop your weapon, boy,” hissed the Merchant.
Cat turned on the Merchant with a ferocity he’d not shown before. Now, the fear was gone, replaced by reckless rage. And Cat’s first strike was a wheeling wide stroke made heavy by the lunge of his legs, the turn of his trunk, and the snap of his wrist. The Merchant caught the blow with the dagger at chest level, but he couldn’t absorb the force and staggered backward toward the entrance to the chamber. Cat pressed his new advantage and drove his cutlass at the Merchant’s throat. In so doing, Cat left himself off balance. The Merchant slipped away from Cat’s killing thrust and lifted a solid kick into Cat’s ribs. Cat stumbled backward, coughing, gasping for air.
“Cat!” Anne screamed, but her voice was distant.
Good, Cat thought. Get out while you can.
The Merchant took advantage of Cat’s distraction and stepped backward out of the chamber. “You have made this very difficult,” he said, and his voice trailed off. The iron chamber door began to shut. “Pity for your friend.” Cat charged the door only to see it clamp shut in his face. He heard one more word through the door: “Pity . . .”
Suddenly, huge vents in the sides of the chamber burst open, and torrents of seawater gushed into the small room. The surge knocked Cat backward again and he fell into the water that was already boot deep and rising. By the time he struggled to his feet, it had risen to his waist. He slowly waded to the center of the room, directly beneath the tunnel. He tried to leap up to grab the wrung. Again and again he tried to no avail. “Anne!” he shouted, but only once. He did not want to risk Anne’s life.
Anne was nearly to the top of the tunnel. She could see the hatch, a gray disk ten feet above. But she heard a grinding of metal from somewhere behind the tunnel walls and then a great roar. She looked down, but couldn’t tell what was happening far below. Then she heard him call for her.
Anne had listened to Cat’s desperate plea for her to go on. But now, even so close to the top, she had to go back for him. Her boots nearly slipping from the rungs, she descended. Then she saw that the chamber below was filling quickly with water. And there was Cat, standing chest deep in the water and looking up at her with eyes strangely dark and sad.
Anne uttered a muffled cry and tried to descend the last dozen rungs, but three valves in the side of the tunnel beneath her erupted. Pressurized water blasted out. She saw it pour like a greenish wave down onto Cat until she could see him no longer. Knowing it probably meant certain death, Anne let go of the rungs and let herself plunge downward.
Anne found herself submerged completely in water and darkness, but she wasn’t sinking. Her momentum had reversed, and she felt her body being propelled upward in the narrow tunnel. Her speed increased. She stifled a scream, trying desperately to keep her breath. She realized suddenly that if she didn’t slow her ascent, she would slam into the iron bulkhead door at the top. She began to flail, trying in vain to grasp one of the rungs and slow herself down. The back of her wrist struck one of the iron rungs, and the pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder. She struggled to lift her arms over her head and succeeded for a heartbeat before hitting the iron door.
This time, she did scream. The stale air blasted from her mouth until she somehow cut it off. Agony radiated from her elbows all the way to her heart. But the pain was fortunate. It kept her from blacking out. With precious little air left in her already burning lungs, Anne felt above her head for a latch or a catch. There was none. She pounded on the iron of the door and tried to push it open. It did not move. At last she was able to put her feet on the highest rungs, and using the strength of her legs, she tried once more to budge the door. She felt the tiniest give. It moved just slightly but fell immediately back into place.
Sharp pain lanced through her chest. She was suffocating and would soon lose consciousness and drown. She pushed lamely on the door for a few moments more and then gave up.
My knife! New energy surging in her veins, Anne reached down into her boot, found the handle, and withdrew the small blade. Feeling with one hand, she guided the tip into the small crack between the top of the tunnel and the door. She guessed that any latch would be on the side of the tunnel where the rungs were and began to poke and prod with the knife. She felt a small but definite resistance and pressed the blade hard against it. Something moved, and with one final urgent push, Anne threw open the door and surged out of the tunnel.
But her air was long gone and she was still underwater—how deep, she did not know. She kicked her legs and clawed wildly at the water. She broke through the surface and flailed frantically before she realized that her lungs were filling with new air. She found herself under a dark, star-studded sky. She waved her arms back and forth to keep herself afloat—like her father had shown her all those years ago.
Anne turned round and round and saw nothing but the dark sea. Father Brun was gone. The ships were gone. Then she remembered Cat’s sad eyes, and she began to weep. Hard, gut-wrenching sobs followed, driven forth by a hollow ache that she felt would never cease.
Something bumped at the bottom of her boot, and she jerked her leg up. Anne’s tears ceased, and her skin prickled. There was no place to go. She was alone . . . totally and completely alone.
22
ONSLAUGHT OF THE BERSERKERS
I hoped you would come,” said Hrothgar. He and Bartholomew Thorne sat in the Raukar’s war room, a vast chamber full of weapons, armor, and tapestries depicting great battles. Thorne noticed that much of the room was coated in dust.
“You are the Lord of the Raukar,” said Thorne. “And the tenor of your summons piqued my interest.”
“I thought it might,” said Hrothgar. “But I must confess this meeting was at Lady Fleur’s request.”
“Lady Fleur?” Thorne was immediately suspicious.
“Yes,” Hrothgar replied. The long red curtains behind his chair rippled though the air was still. “Do not judge her harshly. She is overly wary of those who claim to be of pureblood, for others have failed her before. In fact, it is because of such betrayal that she brings this request.”
“My brother,” said Lady Fleur as she appeared from behind the curtains, “forsook the ways of the Raukar and mingled shame with the blood of conquerors.”
Thorne stood as she entered, hoping to thaw the ice between them. “How does this concern me, Lady of the Raukar?”
“You are one of us now,” she replied. “Our fight is your fight.”
“His name was Ulf,” said Hrothgar. “Once as true a warrior as Guthrum or myself. But on one of his trading ventures, Ulf befriended a Christian man. Ulf changed then . . . an inexplicable change. He came before the council one night and renounced our gods in favor of the Christian deity. Then he, his wife, and several of his best friends sailed to Västervik on the Swedish mainland.”
“Even now,” Lady Fleur added, “some of the Raukar forsake our ways and flee to my brother Ulf. We have lost several of our finest craftsmen . . . and even some brilliant warriors.”
Thorne’s eyes narrowed, and he stroked his knifelike silver sideburns. “You want to conquer Västervik,” Thorne concluded.
“Not conquer it,” said Lady Fleur. “I want to burn Västervik to the ground and wipe it from the face of the earth. And I want Hrothgar to plant a banner of Tyr in the ashes of their Christian church.”
“We will test the eldregn on that city,” said Hrothgar. “We will wear down their defenses with the fire rain. And then we will unleash the Berserkers.”
“Berserkers?” This surprised even Thorne. “The practice of turning men into Berserkers was outlawed six hundred—”
“Outlawed by an outlander,” said Lady Fleur. “We do not honor their paper decrees.”
Thorne was intrigued. In truth, he very much wanted a trial run with his new fleet and his new weapon. And . . . such an invasion offered a possible solution to a problem he’d been pondering for a long while. Yes, he thought. In the chaos of battle, there will be opportunity enough. But he must not seem too eager. “How long will this take?” Thorne asked. “For we must be mindful of our true objective.”
“There will be time for the British,” said Hrothgar. “Västervik will require no more than three days.”
“When do you wish to sail?”
“Tomorrow at sundown,” Hrothgar answered.
Less than a third of the Raukar fleet, twenty ships in all, left Gotland and sailed into the red setting sun before turning north for Västervik. The winds were steady, if not strong.
Bartholomew Thorne was not at the helm of the Raven’s Revenge. Teach had the wheel, and he was more than capable. Thorne was alone in his quarters . . . and yet not alone. The time had come.
The painting had arrived two days earlier. Thorne had had an artisan mount it on the wall across from his desk and cover it, but Thorne had not yet removed the cloth to appraise its quality. Thorne felt sure it would be good. Noldi, the old Raukar artisan who had painted the portrait, had a reputation of being supremely talented. Thorne had spent hours with the man, describing every detail, and his original sketch had been quite breathtaking. Still, Thorne was nervous. Would the painting capture her beauty? Would it capture her fire? Would it . . . bring her back?
With a tremor in his hand, Thorne loosened the linen covering and let it drop away from the portrait. A blast of air rushed from his lips. His mouth remained open wide as he stepped away from the painting. “Heather,” he gasped. It was no likeness. It was her. Pale, heart-shaped face, crimson hair that shone like fire in the hot Caribbean sun, and those fierce, deep-green eyes—Heather.
He backed slowly to his desk and sat down. “My wife,” he whispered. “How I have longed to look upon your face again.”
The cabin was silent. No sound from the wind. No sound from the ocean. Except for the slow roll of the ship, no one would have even known they were in motion. Thorne stared at the painting and waited.
A knock at the door. “Captain Thorne?” came Bill Tarber’s tentative voice. He was one of the gunners from the Talon. “Teach sent me to get you,” he said. “We’re in sight of the mainland.”
“Very well,” Thorne growled. “I will be right there. In the meantime, alert Hrothgar’s man Brandir. I want the broadsides and dragon necks loaded and ready.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
Thorne stood, glanced once more at the painting, and then went to the door.
Burn them all.
Thorne smiled. She’d come back after all. “I will,” he replied. Then he left his captain’s quarters and went to the deck.
“How far to Västervik?” Thorne asked. He put down the spyglass. It was so dark on deck with all the lanterns hooded and the clouds hiding the moon that it was hard to measure the distance to the mainland.
“No more than two hundred yards,” Brandir replied.
Thorne smelled the mineral salt in the cool air. He looked down the deck at the crew, both the men he’d brought on the Talon and the broad Raukar warriors . . . they were a cold-hearted and menacing group. But Thorne knew there were a dozen men below, the Berserkers, who could, under the right conditions, slay everyone on the ship.
Twenty dragon necks lined each rail, and sixty broadside cannons on the four decks below. Thorne wondered if any ship’s captain in history had ever sailed with so much firepower. No, probably not. Brandir nodded to his captain and descended to the main deck. It was time.
“Bring her about, Mister Teach,” commanded Thorne, his voice thickening.
Teach turned the wheel and the ship glided, turning its cannons toward the Swedish mainland.
The Viking Raukar leader Hrothgar stood at the rail next to Thorne and lifted his head to the dark skies. “Long has this day been coming,” he said. “And yet . . .”—he turned to Thorne—“I wonder if the Raukar would have awakened if you had not come.”
Thorne smiled and said, “I believe it is foolish to dwell on the past. I have come, and the Raukar have awakened. Let us just be certain that we do not cause our own future regrets. We control our own destiny.”
“You mean the gods.”
“What?”
“The gods control our destiny.”
“Yes,” said Thorne, “of course.” Thorne didn’t believe any of this primitive god-speak, but he knew it was what Hrothgar wanted to hear. Then the captain of the Raven’s Revenge removed the hood from the lantern on the quarterdeck rail. Crewmen on the main deck did likewise. And with mounting satisfaction, Thorne watched ghostly orange lights kindle one by one over the dark sea. The signal had been given. And like Brandir, the gunners on the other ships lit their fuses. Whump, whump, whump! The dragon necks disgorged their deadly breath. Each canister, as it rose and fell, left a thin, arcing trail of angry red in the sky. It looked as if some mythical giant-clawed beast had slashed the flesh of the night.
Then, all at once, over the sleeping city of Västervik, the sky exploded as canister after canister detonated, and liquid fire bloomed and streamed down upon the now-visible rooftops and steeples awakening the people. Ships in the Swedish port kindled, and tall masts went up like matchsticks. The city and the people in it were dying.
“Again!” Thorne commanded. He watched as the second volley careened through the sky, but these flew at a much higher trajectory—a height at which they would sail far deeper into the city. Flashes like lightning flickered behind the buildings near the water, and church bells began to toll. Cannon fire erupted on the coast as the men of Västervik sought vainly to defend themselves. But the shots were frantic and poorly aimed.
“Mister Teach, advance.”
“Yes, sir,” the quartermaster responded, and he brought the ship in closer to shore. That had been the plan: two volleys, then advance; two volleys, then advance. After six volleys it would be time to bring the ships in and let the foot soldiers go ashore.
The initial barrage lasted just two hours, and the northern horizon seemed aflame. The burning city of Västervik no longer even returned fire. Hrothgar, who had disappeared below, returned as the ships neared the shore. Behind him loomed the one hundred Berserkers. Thorne had seen these men before. He’d watched them train. He’d even eaten meals with them. But now, under the canopy of night, in the moments before battle, they took on a new visage. They wore menace like a cloak, and peril smoldered in their eyes. So grim and fell were these warriors that the other crewmen, the Raukar and Thorne’s men alike, stopped what they were doing to stare. But none could look upon the menacing Berserkers for long without averting their gaze.
They were tall and broad as were most of the Raukar. But the Berserker warriors wore leather armor—sleeveless at that—so their bare shoulders and arms made them seem all the more immense and strong. Each man had a charging red bear emblazoned crudely upon his breastplate, and each man bore an array of weapons: spears, axes, swords, maces, daggers, and hammers. But none of these weapons gleamed as if polished, and none of them were smooth as if for display. These weapons were tarnished and gray, jagged and cruel.
Edward Teach watched the Berserkers line up on deck, and he found himself fascinated by the dread that these men projected. He watched curiously as Hrothgar uncorked a black bottle and passed it in turn to each of the Berserkers. Whatever was in that bottle must have had a bitter, biting taste, for each man grimaced as he drank it.
Hrothgar ushered his Berserkers into the waiting cutter ships. Bartholomew Thorne boarded a cutter with Teach and the rest of his men. Then came the Raukar warriors filling up six similar small craft that
were lowered slowly to the surface. The slender cutters sliced swiftly through the water, the faces of the invaders lit eerily in orange from the raging fires. Thorne’s cutter rode alongside Hrothgar and the Berserkers, and Teach found himself staring agape. “They . . . they burn,” he whispered. And so it appeared to him at first. Thin, writhing tendrils of white smoke swirled around the faces of many of the Berserker warriors and then dissipated in the sea breeze. A Berserker suddenly turned. His eyes, huge and bulging, stared out from the ghostly wisps of smoke. Teach looked quickly away.
“Waxed hemp,” Thorne explained. “The Berserkers weave strands of it into their hair and beards. It smolders very slowly, and the smoke gives them a most fearsome appearance.”
“It does indeed,” said Teach, thoughtfully rubbing the stubble on his chin. “And the drink . . . was that some kind of ritual they perform before battle?”
“Much more than that,” said Thorne with an ominous, gravelly laugh. “That flask was filled with a potent mixture of the strongest rum and ground-up bog myrtle roots. It enflames their blood lust until it is nigh unquenchable and deadens the pain that they feel. When the Berserkers reach the field of battle, it will be with such blunt violence . . . such a bloody frenzy, that few—if any—who come in contact with them will withstand it. My advice to you, Mister Teach: stay out of their way.”
The first cutters hit the stony Västervik shore and found it uncontested. Howling and shrieking, the Raukar Berserkers leaped from their boats and charged up the incline. Hrothgar and the other Raukar warriors sprinted after them. Thorne and his men followed.
The docks and boathouses had been abandoned to the flames, and the dwellings closest to the water were either engulfed in fire or already reduced to smoldering husks. Hrothgar’s horn sounded from somewhere up ahead. Thorne and Teach led the others in pursuit. They found the heart of the city largely untouched by their eldregn barrage of fire rain. That had been a mistake—one Thorne did not intend to repeat against the British.