Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  Only the tall steeple tower of a church and a few of the other buildings on the outskirts burned. But in the huge cobblestone square that divided the two sides of the town, a fierce battle raged. Västervik had a larger standing army than Hrothgar and Lady Fleur had anticipated. Their numbers were more than equal to the invaders’ count. But this army was divided between fighting the invaders, fighting the fire, and escorting the women, the elderly, and the children to safety. And even had the Västervik army been four times its size, they still would have been at a disadvantage.

  The Berserkers cut a bloody swath through the defenders. Screeching and growling like a pack of wolves, six Berserkers came upon a band of soldiers. These men looked at the red bear emblem, the dark, smoke-wreathed faces, and gleaming eyes of these wild men—but did not cower. The men of Västervik were skillful with their long swords and came at the Berserkers. One man, thinking his foe was dead, went to pull the sword out of his enemy’s body. But the Berserker was not dead. He grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled him close, and then butted his head with his own. The Västervik staggered backward. His enemy’s sword still deep in his gut, the Berserker charged after him and hewed him with an axe. Then the Berserker yanked the sword from his stomach and howled to the sky. He ran off and looked for more prey until, finally, he had lost so much blood that he collapsed to the ground.

  And that was the way it was with all the Berserkers. They did not feel pain, they did not tire, and they did not show mercy. Edward Teach watched as the Berserkers broke through the initial line of armed defenders and surged into the fleeing citizens of the town. And as he watched the carnage, Teach found he enjoyed it.

  Hrothgar swept out a pair of fighting hammers and bludgeoned one foe after another until he stood on the edge of a fountain near the burning church, blowing his war horn, and called out to the combatants for someone worthy to do battle with the Lord of the Raukar. At first, no one answered and the battle in the courtyard became a rout.

  Then Hrothgar began to watch one of the soldiers from Västervik. This golden-haired man wore green armor and had a very long, double-edged sword. His skill with the blade was considerable, and he moved with great speed. Once he dodged one Raukar’s axe swipe and wickedly slashed the back of the man’s knees. He rolled to his feet just in time to plunge the blade into the chest of a second Raukar.

  One of the Berserkers spied this man’s exploits. He lowered a bloodied pike-spear, howled, and charged across the courtyard at his new prey. Hrothgar watched from his perch, wondering if the warrior in green armor would turn in time. He did—at the last possible moment. He spun and brought his long sword down on the Berserker’s spear, cleaving the shaft. The Berserker snarled at the man, tossed away the useless weapon, and unsheathed a jagged sword. He charged again, but the Västervik man did not quail at the onslaught of this bestial warrior. He made a “C” out of his body to avoid a swipe at his midsection, and then he slashed the Berserker’s forearm.

  It made a deep cut, and the Berserker dropped his blade. He looked at his own arm, gashed and bleeding, and seemed to wonder why it wasn’t working. By the time the Berserker looked up, his enemy’s sword was inches from his neck. Hrothgar’s mouth fell open. He’d never seen a man move like that. No one except . . .

  Hrothgar leaped down from the fountain and closed the distance between them in an instant. His hammers descended upon the green-clad warrior, but found nothing but the cobblestone. The target had rolled deftly away. He stood out of reach and looked up in astonishment.

  “Hrothgar?” Surprise contorted into pure fury. “YOU brought this bloodthirsty storm upon us?”

  “A very long time overdue,” said Hrothgar, “but a coward cannot cheat death forever.”

  The man was incredulous. “You attack Västervik . . . you attack my people while we sleep and call me a coward?”

  “You abandoned your people, Ulf,” Hrothgar replied. “You abandoned your family, and for what? This Christian myth?”

  “It is no myth,” Ulf declared. “Did you not ever wonder why the Raukar was the last remnant of the Vikings of old to cling to the ancient superstitions?”

  “Superstitions, bah!” Hrothgar swung again with his hammers. The first missed but the second struck Ulf in the ribs. He sprawled backward on the stone. “You sicken me, Ulf. Now you will die . . . under my boot.”

  Suddenly, there came a crack from above. The church tower, still burning furiously, pulled away from its foundation. It began to fragment into fiery sections as it fell. Hrothgar took one step toward Ulf before the falling inferno slammed him to the ground. It crashed upon the stone, blasting out red and orange embers, burning planks, and a wave of searing heat.

  Ulf stood up and swayed a moment, for he was still dazed. Pain from his ribs sharpened and called him to his senses. He stared at the collapsed structure, which, like a smoldering log poked into flames, began to burn all the brighter from the fall. Hrothgar was nowhere to be seen.

  Still somewhat in shock, Ulf shook his head and started to turn away when something hit him so brutally hard in the shoulder that he spun. Ulf stumbled backward and crashed to the ground. Thorne advanced quickly on the fallen warrior but found him lying very still, not the slightest movement or sign of life. Ulf’s long sword lay in a pile of charred debris by his motionless hand. Thorne took the sword and glanced sharply at Ulf. Had he stirred? Better make sure, Thorne thought. He was about to swing his bleeding stick when he heard a faint voice from behind.

  Thorne turned and stared at the fallen church tower. It couldn’t be. “Gunnarson . . . Thorne!” the voice called more urgently. Thorne searched the edges of the burning structure and found Hrothgar pinned under the wreckage . . . but still very much alive.

  “Gunnarson,” Hrothgar cried urgently. He struggled to move, but there was too much pressure on his chest and torso. Licks of flame crawled across the heavy lumber and threatened to leap down upon the fallen Raukar warrior. Hrothgar had one arm free and reached for Thorne. “P-pull me out! . . . Thorne! The fire . . . you must hurry!”

  Thorne glanced over the wreckage out into the courtyard. There, the battle still raged. No one will know.

  Thorne moved closer to Hrothgar. “Ulf . . . did you, is he—” Hrothgar’s eagerness amused Thorne.

  “Ulf is dead,” Thorne said, raising Ulf’s sword. “You see, I have his blade.”

  “Well done, Gunnarson. Well done. Now, release me.” The helpless Raukar chieftain smiled and held out his hand. But Bartholomew Thorne did not pull the man free. Instead, he tightened his grip on Ulf’s sword and slammed it down once. Thorne left Hrothgar there, the scream still frozen on his lips and fire inching closer.

  The massacre ended before the sun rose. Fires had spread, devouring more than half of Västervik. Hrothgar’s remains had been separated from the burning timber and borne with care back to the Raven’s Revenge. Thorne told the story of Hrothgar’s valiant battle with Ulf the traitor that ended tragically when the building collapsed upon Hrothgar. Thorne told of how he avenged the fallen leader of the Raukar by slaying Ulf. No one questioned Thorne. Nay, the Raukar celebrated, for Hrothgar had died in battle, and surely he had been taken to Valhalla to dwell with the gods. And while the loss of Hrothgar was great, the Raukar had not been left leaderless. Bartholomew Thorne, whom some of the Raukar now believed descended from the mighty Tyr, had thrown down the betrayer and led the Raukar to victory.

  For the remainder of that day, Thorne and Guthrum led the invaders to scavenge what was left of the city. Their haul was considerable, for Västervik was a prosperous port city. Tons of gold bars and silver, rich, heavy fabrics and tapestries, spices and food stores—but the greatest wealth of Västervik was in its jewel trade. The Raukar found caches of diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies the size of a child’s fist. When Thorne and the raiders had taken everything of value, the Raukar fleet sailed for Gotland.

  Late that night in the captain’s quarters, Thorne and his quartermaster discussed recen
t events. “Hrothgar’s loss was . . . regrettable,” said Thorne. “He was my most powerful ally among the Raukar.”

  “Hope this doesn’t put a bad taste in their mouths,” said Teach. “If they pull back, we have no chance against the British.”

  Thorne’s upper lip curled in a sneer, and he glanced at Heather’s portrait. “The Raukar will turn to Lady Fleur,” he said. “I cannot imagine that she would shrink back—even with such a loss.”

  “But what will we do if she refuses to sail against the British?” Teach ducked his head as if he expected to be smacked. “She didn’t exactly take a shining to us right off.”

  Thorne fingered the prongs on his bleeding stick and thought. “If Lady Fleur is unfit to command her people, then . . . someone else will have to take her place.”

  23

  AWAKENINGS

  Anne heard voices. She whirled around frantically in the water, but saw only dark sky and dark sea. Wait! There was something there . . . a patch darker than the sky and moving across the water. It was a ship. Anne was sure, and it seemed to be coming closer. “Help!” she screamed, but even as she took a breath to call out again, she had an overwhelming feeling that she was in danger. Of course, I’m in danger, she thought humorously. In danger of drowning! This ship could be my last chance. But for some indefinable reason, she did not cry out again.

  She heard the voices again as the ship advanced. They sounded English but not the polished, studied English like Commodore Blake. No, this was the heavy slurring talk of London’s West-Enders. Anne thought the ship was a brigantine like her father’s old William Wallace. But as it came closer, she saw the third mast and realized it was probably a barque or even a small frigate.

  Anne watched as it passed within fifty years of her, feeling like she was watching her life sail away. But just a moment later, the ship’s sails went down and stopped only a hundred yards away. Thinking maybe she’d been given a second chance, Anne swam as hard as she could for the dark shape on the water. She came up behind the ship and thought, Definitely a barque.

  “Oi, watch it, ye ruddy fool!” came a voice from a small cutter being lowered from the main ship. “Yer gonna drop the lot of us in the water!”

  “Bah, Henry, ye have to swim anyway,” a voice answered from the deck. “What’s it matter?”

  “I’ll tell ye how it matters,” Henry fired back. “Mess around, Percy, and I’ll tell the Merchant what you done.”

  Silence from the deck. The Merchant! Anne cringed.

  “Yeah,” Henry jeered. “Thought that would shut you right up. The Merchant would likely spend the whole trip to Gotland teachin’ ye discipline at the edge of that dagger a’ his. Ye know he likes t’teach real slow like.”

  Anne cringed back behind the stern of the ship and clung to an exposed piece of the rudder. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She thought about moments earlier when she had nearly revealed herself to the ship . . . the Merchant’s ship.

  Anne swam to the starboard edge of the barque and peered around. Her eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, but still, she could see nothing more than silhouettes. Men rowed the little cutter out about forty feet. She heard three sudden splashes and thought that several men had gone overboard. She stared at the cutter and tried to make out shapes in the water. She counted two heads . . . three, but then they disappeared below the surface. What are they doing? she wondered. Several minutes went by and still they did not come back to the surface.

  No one can stay under that long on one breath, Anne thought. Just then, she heard voices from the cutter. Heads popped up again at the surface. Dark figures clambered into the cutter. “Of course,” Anne whispered. “That’s how he does it.” Anne reasoned that if the Merchant’s tidal lair was submerged so much of the time, he’d need a way out.

  Then she thought of Cat . . . drowned by the Merchant like Father Brun and the others. She wondered what the Merchant had done with all the bodies. Anne watched the cutter being hoisted up the side of the barque. The sails went up immediately after, and the three-masted ship cruised silently away. Anne swam to the spot where she thought the cutter might have been. If there was another way into the Merchant’s lair, she meant to find it. Once in, she wasn’t sure what she would do . . . maybe find some way to give her friends a decent burial. After that . . . look for something she could use to start a signal fire for the next time the tidal island surfaced.

  Anne dove beneath the surface and swam using only her feet to propel herself down. She was blind in this night-blackened water, so she kept a hand out in front of her head at all times. She went down as deep as she could and stayed down until her lungs burned. But she found nothing . . . just endless water. The second and third dive produced the same. But on the fourth dive, her hand struck something solid. It was hard like stone, smooth in some places, barnacled and rough in others. She surfaced for air and then dove back down. It was cylindrical and went down ten or twelve feet. When Anne descended to its end, she felt around. Her fingers touched a ridge that traveled in a complete circle, but there was nothing that she could pull. The bottom of the cylinder was closed off. She slid her hand toward the center of the disk and hoped for a hatch of some kind. She found it—or something like it—just as she ran out of breath.

  Up again she went and then down to what had to be a wheel latch of some kind. She grasped it with one hand and then the other. She tried rotating it to the left, but it didn’t budge. She worked it as best she could in every direction, but, floating virtually weightless in the murky water, it was hard to get any leverage. She tried to grip the outside of the cylinder with her knees and found that she could put more of her strength into the wheel. But still, it would not move more than an inch in any direction. Again and again she tried to no avail. Anne broke the surface of the water after her last attempt, took in swift breath, and screamed. She’d used so much energy and come away no better than she was before.

  She was back to treading water, and now it was a grueling effort. She knew her chances of survival were very slim, but she had to try. She found she could float on her back for short spans to conserve energy. But she never let herself float for long. She had to remain over the tidal island. So after floating, she’d dive back down to check for the cylinder. But her energy was nearly spent.

  And the next time Anne let herself float on the surface, she found her mind too willing to wander. Anne thought it odd that an image of Padre Dominguez popped into her mind. He was leaning on the rail on the Wallace’s forecastle and reading the small leather Bible he always carried. Anne laughed to herself. He made me read the Twenty-third Psalm to him as he protected me. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

  Anne stopped there. She’d never really thought hard about God until Padre Dominguez had come along. What was it the monk had said? “You have the writing of God on your heart.” She let her eyes dance from star to star. God has to be real . . . doesn’t he? Something so beautiful couldn’t be there without a creator. There’d be no painting without a painter. No song without a composer. Anne decided then and there that God was real, and without thinking, she whispered, “God, if you’re listening, I think . . . I think I’d like to meet you.”

  A shooting star streaked across the sky and disappeared.

  Anne blinked. She had no idea how long she’d been floating there. The sky was still dark, though it looked somehow different. The reality of her situation became suddenly clear. Even if she could somehow last until the tidal island appeared, the Merchant had no doubt sealed it up tight. She’d have a few hours on the island until it dipped below the water again. But no, Anne knew she’d probably not last the night. She wondered when death would come. She wondered how it would happen. Would it be sudden? The little bumps she’d felt on her knee and heels—they could have been the exploratory nudges from sharks. Any second one of the silent undersea predators could clamp down on
her thigh and pull her beneath the water. Even a nip from a small shark could finish her. A little blood in the water, and sharks would come from fifty miles. Or maybe she’d simply fall asleep and slide below the water.

  Anne wriggled her fingers. They were pruned. She laughed. And then the tears began to flow. I’ll never see my father again. And Cat . . . Cat’s gone. But the despair was fleeting. Peace settled over her like a blanket. The stars . . . how very beautiful they are. And then she closed her eyes.

  Cat opened his eyes to very unfamiliar surroundings. He lay on a firm but not uncomfortable cot in a small room lit by flickering candlelight. To his left were three long cabinets with glass windows and a dark counter resting on many drawers. On top of the counter and within the cabinets there was an endless array of jars, bottles, canisters, and boxes.

  Cat turned his head and flinched. A man sat next to the cot. His legs were crossed. He had one hand resting on his knee, and in the other, he held a dark brown root that he chewed on absently. His head was nearly bald. A few wispy strands of white hair rested on his scalp, but that was all. His prominent brow was arched in concern, and his eyes were kindly but very dark. He removed the root from his mouth and smiled in a close-lipped sort of way. “Finally awake?” he said. “Good, good.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Cat asked.

  “You might say that,” he replied. “After a fashion, I suppose. You would have drowned if I hadn’t saved you.”

  Cat rubbed his temples and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Least I could do for you, lad,” said the old man.

  “This ship,” Cat said, “I don’t remember it.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’ve never been aboard the Perdition’s Gate.”