“We be havin' a situation,” Redbeard said as he got out of the boat.
“Not to do with her? She still is—”
“Don't be a worryin'.” Redbeard cut Sludge's words short. “She still sits chained.”
Sludge wanted to slap the silly smile off the pirate captain's face. He would have if he didn't need the brothers to transport Mona Lisa to the Portal.
“But she be a little more lonely, now.” Redbeard jabbed Hizar in the ribs. “Ain't she?”
“What do you mean, lonely?” Captain Sludge demanded.
“It be nothin' to worry you about. Just a turncoat Photo we dealt with.”
“What?”
“Some Photo double-crossed us, so we fixed him the pirates' way.”
“Won't be bothering us no more,” the brother added.
Sludge's mind raced. They'd freed the Deliverer? “Where is he?”
“Drowned.” Hizir jerked his head toward the sea.
Could a Deliverer perish here? Sludge licked his lips. No, taste there. He sniffed. The faint odor of human was in the air, but it could be from when the Barbarossa brothers had him. There was only one way to know for sure.
“Where's the body?”
“He be at the bottom of the sea. Under heavy chains.”
“You have no proof?”
“Believe me.” Hizir shook his head. “No Artanian could survive.”
Sludge almost corrected him by shouting that they were dealing with humans not Artanians. “You better be right,” he snarled.
“Now what be the plan?”
Sludge showed them the map. This new route would take them away from the watchful eyes on shore and any possible rescue. Then he would meet them in Venice and continue to the Portal.
Redbeard murmured about all the riches they'd have once they were turned into Mudlarks. They were so stupid that Captain Sludge would have felt sorry for them if he knew how, but Shadow Swine can't feel pity. Oh, they can sense fear and build on it to make nightmares, but a Swiney was never born who could put himself in the jackboots of another. Sludge ran his tongue greedily over his teeth. Yes! One Deliverer dead and the other lost. Lord Sickhert will be most pleased.
He stopped. Something gnawed at the back of his mind like a rat chewing on the bars of its cage.
Something wasn't right, but try as he might, Sludge couldn't figure out what it was.
Chapter 46
Gwen leaned over the railing to let sea spray hit her face. After the monster battle, they'd immediately set sail and now headed northeast. Gwen didn't understand it, but every time Venus laid a hand on Alex's back to keep them on course, it irritated Gwen. Whenever Venus put a too beautiful hand on Alex's shoulder, Gwen wanted to slap it away.
Everyone else was grinning from ear to ear. The Graces sang, Leonardo brushed his long beard as if expecting to see Mona Lisa any minute, and even Michelangelo strutted like a crowing rooster.
Yeah, it might have been a victory, though not one she liked. That Leviathan almost sank their ship. Even though the two-headed snake was still guarding them, she still couldn't shake the hunchbacked monster's warning. “There will come a time when your friends will ask you to act, and you won't.”
Yeah, right, like she'd betray her buds. Loyalty was her middle name. Even when kids laughed at Jose's ponytail she'd stood by him and threatened to sock the next one who said a word.
But that was just teasing.
Gwen made her way across the deck to Alex. “Dude, good job.”
He turned toward her slowly, his face a stiff mask.
“Some job,” he replied in a dull voice.
“Huh?”
“Death is a great thing,” Alex's eyes looked right through her.
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Just ranting.” Alex shook his head.
“Dude, are you okay?”
“Never better.” His voice about as convincing as a doctor saying this shot won't hurt a bit.
Gwen didn't like all this cryptic avoidance. If you have a problem, deal. Don't hide your feelings away like some model putting a fake face on for the camera. She started to argue when a cry came from the crow's nest. “Vessel! Off the port bow!”
Gwen turned and gaped. A lifeless ship bobbed in the bay. It must have once been beautiful, but now its charred remains were gouged with jagged holes. A cracked mast hung from tangled lines,and the boom swayed back and forth like a cemetery swing.
What Gwen saw on deck made her turn away.
She glared at Alex. Why had he brought her along? Glen wasn't an artist. She couldn't create ship-sized snakes or axes from dirt. She couldn't paint organ players like Landini. She was just a skater girl who didn't belong inside this nightmare of Leviathans, pirates, and hunch-backed monsters.
“Ease the mainsail! Ready a starboard tack!” Michelangelo cried.
Then their caravel turned toward the dead ship, and Gwen's nose twitched. Heart racing, she almost dove into the sea. Swimming toward Dad's bear-like arms.
As if such a thing were possible when trapped in this freaky place.
As soon as they dropped anchor, Alex dashed to the rowboat tied to the gunnels and undid the knots. “Vulcan! Give me a hand.” He cursed at each uncooperative knot while the god of the forge hobbled up to help with the opposite lines.
A few moments later, Michelangelo barked at the crew. “Now, lower it into the water. Easy.”
Alex, Vulcan, and Leonardo followed three sailors into the rowboat before Michelangelo passed swords and muskets to them.
Gwen squeezed her arms tighter about her waist and whispered, “Be careful, Alex.”
The search party rowed toward the wrecked ship. Meanwhile, everyone on deck was as quiet as death. Even Michelangelo stopped his usual bluster. Gwen hugged herself.
After long minutes, they docked and climbed aboard. Why did Alex have to go first? The sailor guys were used to this sort of stuff. Even their weapons didn't reassure her. Muskets seemed about as effective as toys against the power she'd seen in Artania.
Barely breathing, they watched Alex lead Vulcan and Leonardo across the ghost ship's deck. Behind them, the sailors' muskets swept the air. So far, the enemy was invisible.
When Alex reached the hatch, he waved them back. Without a heartbeat of hesitation, he descended into the dark hold. Alone.
Gwen held her breath, wanting to scream. Don't go in there. You're just a kid. She counted while waiting for him to come back up. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven. Finally, curls emerged, and Alex shook his head. Gwen sighed.
Then Alex gave an excited cry. He waved his arms and pointed toward the beach. “Look!”
Gwen and saw the footprints on shore. For the first time in days, her heavy heart lightened. Waving to the others, Alex sprang into the boat and plopped onto the rower's bench. As soon as Vulcan, Leonardo, and the search party scrambled onto the other wooden seats, Alex pushed off.
And on that breezy morning, he rowed them all to shore.
Chapter 47
Bartholomew woke with a start. He'd heard gravely laughter—or had it been a dream? He rolled over. Sand was everywhere. It covered his face and body, clung to his hair and grated against his teeth and tongue.
He spat, but it didn't help. His mouth was still full of grit, and his throat ached. With an effort, Bartholomew sat up.
He rubbed at the raw places where his shackles dug into his wrists and thought about the night before. Exhausted, he'd made his way into the forest to a broad-leaved tree covered in long banana-shaped pods. There, he'd gathered some of the fallen leaves into a pile to use as a mattress. When his carob leaf bed was reasonably soft, he'd stretched on top of it.
But didn't sleep.
When the moon set, strange shapes emerged from the forest. Bartholomew's imagination turned shadows into icy arms, reaching out like claws. He'd pulled a carob leaf up to his chin as something howled in the distance. Squeezing his eyes shut and plugging his ears, he'd ke
pt the cold chains across his face all night.
Bartholomew turned to one side and cringed. The manacles scraped his raw skin. He had to get them off.
He glanced around until he found a large boulder entwined in twisted roots. Gathering what little strength remained, Bartholomew shuffled to it, raised both hands, and brought the shackles down hard.
The iron cut deeper.
He picked up a rock, placed the chains back on the slab, and struck. Didn't even dent the metal. Breathing heavily, he stared at the stone in his hand. “Useless … like me.” He let the rock slip from his fingers. It hit the ground with a soft thud, and Bartholomew crumpled alongside it, burying his face in the crook of his arms.
“Is that any way to greet a friend?” a voice from behind him teased.
Bartholomew looked up. There on the forest path stood a grinning Alex, hands firmly jammed onto his hips.
Bartholomew blinked. “Alex?”
“In the flesh. How ya doin', B-three?”
Not sure if he was dreaming or awake, Bartholomew took a tentative step in his friend's direction. He stopped and gaped, but in two leaps, Alex closed the gap between them and shook Bartholomew's hand until he winced from the cutting pain. “You look like Rembrandt after a rainstorm.” Then Alex asked what happened.
Bartholomew just stared.
While Alex explained events during their separation, Vulcan limped to them. “We should return. There will be time for talk later.”
Nodding, Alex took Bartholomew by the elbow and followed the hobbling god.
“…and Cobra is still guarding us,” Alex finished when they reached the beach where Leonardo waited with some sailors. He helped Bartholomew into the lifeboat and took a seat next to him.
After the sailors pushed off, Alex kept turning to Bartholomew as if waiting for him to say something. About twenty yards offshore, he blurted, “What happened?”
But a numb Bartholomew only watched the oars dip in and out the water, his lower lip quivering.
Leonardo laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. His ocher eyes searched for good news that Bartholomew couldn't give. “Easy, bambino. Take a deep breath and then tell us. How is my dear Mona Lisa?”
“Safe … for now,” Bartholomew said in a halting voice. He licked his chapped lips, tried to moisten his achingly dry mouth, and slowly recounted what happened. “We almost escaped, but the fish's hypnosis wore off. Even so, Mona Lisa was so brave. You should have seen her.”
He went on and told about the ship's boy, Pico, whose grapes were supposed to cure everything. Bartholomew paused when he got to how he'd complimented Redbeard. He wouldn't let them know how this eventually led to the pirate's attack. Fighting the nausea gripping his gut, Bartholomew skipped ahead to his warning shout before the pirate raid. “But I was too late.” He looked into Leonardo's tortured face. “And they still have her. I'm so sorry.”
“We'll get her back. Don't worry.” Alex smiled his confidence.
Alex. Always so strong.
Bartholomew glanced back at the forest of twisted pines and shivered, trying to forget the troubled night he'd spent there.
He rubbed at his wrists again.
Aboard ship, Vulcan used an anvil and hammer to remove the chains, while everyone gave him sympathetic pats on the back and said how brave he'd been. Their kindness only made him feel worse. If only they knew the truth.
Unable to meet anyone's eyes, he kept his head down and stared at his now gray shoes. Then he saw Gwen who wanted to go home so much. “Hey, dude, good job.”
She was only being kind. She obviously thought he was a wimp for getting himself stranded there. He could hear it in her voice. He didn't answer—just rubbed at his finally free wrists.
“So where's this Mona Lisa?” Gwen asked. “Can we go get her now?”
Bartholomew shook his head.
“No way.”
He knew she was waiting to hear the whole story. He cleared his throat, but when those horrible images flashed in his brain, he couldn't speak. There was an awkward pause. Bartholomew rubbed the deck with one toe.
“Hey, I bet you're tired,” Gwen blurted, finally filling the uncomfortable silence. “Want to crash in Alex's bunk?”
Bartholomew let himself be led to the sailors' sleeping quarters below. Gwen pointed to a niche in the wall and handed him a blanket.
Mumbling his thanks, he lowered himself onto the bed.
But sleep didn't come. Instead everything replayed over and over in his mind. If it hadn't been for me, those little boys wouldn't be slaves right now.
And the others wouldn't be….
He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help. He kept seeing those people trying to escape. With nowhere to hide, daggers in their sides and scimitars cutting them down. Gaping wounds bleeding onto the deck.
All the blood … on his hands.
His chest ached, and salty tears brought no relief. They only pulled him further down, back to the ocean floor where the pirate ship sailed out of reach.
Then he decided. He was done. No more. They all were better off without him. Let Alex save them. Alex was the real hero. When he finally surrendered, when all confidence was lost, and he had given up hope, Bartholomew let the blackness of sleep cover him.
Sensing a Deliverer's defeat, Lord Sickhert rubbed his bone white hands together and smiled. Victory would soon be his.
Chapter 48
Lord Sickhert looked down upon his assembled army from the balcony of his stalagmite castle. The Great Window of Red outside wept lava, turning his long white cloak and chalky hands the color of blood.
Down on their knees, row after row after row of his soldiers gathered. The River of Lies next to them bubbled, filling Caustic Cavern with salmon-colored mist. He breathed in. Once. Twice. Three times. “Servants, underlings, minions! The time of creation is nearing its end.”
His subjects barred their jagged teeth, smacked their gums, and pounded clubs on the ground.
“We have bleached the desert of Egypt, and now we have their most beloved daughter.”
“Mona Lisa,” a few Shadow Swine grunted.
“I did not hear you.”
“Mona Lisa,” more cried.
“Not good enough. Who will become a Mudlark? Who will turn the Renaissance nation to blank white?”
“MONA LISA! MONA LISA! MONA LISA!”
Lord Sickhert nodded appreciatively when he saw Captain Sludge slap a few of the whispering soldiers who weren't paying attention.
“Now listen!” he hissed, then waited for every yellow eye to train in on his balcony before continuing. “Soon she arrives in Venice. All must be ready.”
“But what of Deliverers?” an extremely fat Shadow Swine blurted. “I hear they come.”
The silence that followed this outburst was quieter than death. Lord Sickhert fixed his gaze upon the soldier, anger burning as hot as the lava flowing next to them. His bone white eyes rolled back in his head. Slowly, he brought his desiccated hands together in the shape of pyramid.
The fat Shadow Swine rose in the air and floated up the castle wall until he was directly in front of his master. The terrified face brought no sympathy. It only incited Sickhert more.
“I s-sorry, my lord. I not think.” His piggish nostrils flared as viscous sweat dribbled down each swollen cheek.
“I have no place for disobedience.”
“I obey, I promise.”
Lord Sickhert unfolded an arm and pointed one of his bony fingers at the Great Window of Red.
“No, please. I sorry. Please. No!”
Sickhert snapped his fingers and an invisible cannon ball shot into the squealing soldier's gut, propelling him backwards. When he hit the lava with a fiery splash, his clothes burst into flames. The soldier screeched as molten rock covered his fat arms and hunched back. His round face sank back into the burning liquid going from red to white and red again until it finally disappeared in a whorl of smoke.
Lord Sickhert flicke
d his serpent-like tongue to taste the death smog. He then raised a crooked finger over the remaining Shadow Swine. “Any who dare say those names will follow! The Portal opens at the stroke of midnight. Ready yourselves.” He raised his voice to a roar. “Now go.”
Led by their captains, row after row filtered out of Caustic Cavern. Mudlark mutations of wolves, rats, and spiders scurried out the exit tunnel while snakes and legless lizards slithered behind them. Whale-like creatures with bent fins and flukes backed into the waters. Finally, the Shadow Swine raised their battle axes and marched toward the Portal.
The rhythmic pounding of jackboots throbbed reminding Lord Sickhert of Mona Lisa's beating heart. He smiled, imagining Mudlark Maker squeezing all that sickening kindness from it as he transformed her into a slave.
And then the Renaissance nation would fall.
Chapter 49
Alex was worried. Bartholomew refused to get out of bed. Three days had passed, and no matter how much Alex wheedled, goaded, or yelled, Bartholomew still muttered, “I'm done. I'm done.”
The only other thing Alex could coax out of his friend was a bit of information. He discovered Redbeard was supposed to deliver Mona Lisa to Venice, but it was a secret, and only the ship's boy, Pico, knew the plan.
Alex might be able to get the boy to help them.
Of course, finding him was another thing. Although they knew what the Red Raven looked like, it was a common design. Alex knew that Venice was a city of waterways and canals, so finding it would be like trying to find a single stroke in one of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel paintings.
From his bench in the captain's cabin, Alex rifled through the sketches that he and Leonardo had been working on. Crossbow machines, a catapult, and even an armored chariot drawing littered the roughhewn tabletop. The real Leonardo de Vinci had drafted them hundreds of years before, and although most were too heavy or complicated to work on Earth, they presented no problems in Artania. Here, when a Deliverer gave it form, the creation became real.
“I just don't see how this armored car works under water,” Alex said, holding up one of the sketches.
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