by Tim Lebbon
“That there’s the HMS Oxford,” Parker said. “What a beauty.”
Gabriel took the spyglass offered to him by O’Grady and peered at the huge warship. It bristled with weaponry, and was flanked by two much smaller ships. There were maybe a dozen other vessels anchored in the bay, brigantines and crumsters and a captured Spanish galleon that had had its superstructure stripped back for speed and manoeuvrability. Rowing boats bobbed on the sea’s surface, ferrying men back and forth between ships, and to and fro from the island. Fires were burning on the beaches, and even from this distance they could hear the sounds of revelry.
“The two either side of the Oxford I don’t know,” Parker said. “Captured ships, I suspect. They look French.”
“Henry always did like to gloat,” O’Grady said.
“You say they’re going to attack Cartagena?” Parker asked.
“Aye, that’s what I heard.”
“Well, you think Henry will welcome another sail?”
“If he’s still alive, I’m sure he’ll reward us all for intervening in his murder,” Gabriel said. Time is pressing, and these two animals can think of nothing but plunder!
“Damn, and I’ve said it before, but this Temple is just one man,” Parker muttered.
“And I’ve said it before, he’s no ordinary man.” Gabriel handed back the spyglass and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” the captain challenged.
“To arm,” Gabriel said. “To prepare myself to spill blood. You should be familiar with that.”
“We’re going with you,” O’Grady said. “You go on your own, you’ll have a dozen musket balls in yer head before you get within fifty feet of the Oxford. Besides, Henry will believe us. He’d probably just kill you.”
“I’d welcome you along,” Gabriel said. The two pirates smiled and nodded, so secure in what they thought was true. Soon they’ll see, Gabriel thought. If Temple is already on board the Oxford, soon they’ll see.
Sparks came with them in the boat. He had seemed to gain Parker’s trust, and any pirate would welcome a clergyman if he thought it might bring him luck.
Gabriel had loaded his pistols and brought along additional powder cartridges. He did not expect the opportunity for more than two shots, but he had no idea how the fight would go. Temple versus three hundred pirates? Demon he was, but there is always a limit to everything. He also carried a cutlass, knives, and several more pistols hanging from his belt by silk sashes. Parker had given him these, but Gabriel would not trust them. Though he had cleaned and loaded them himself they had a worn look, and a stink which testified to them being well used in murder.
“Have you told them the manner of the thing we chase?” Sparks asked quietly as they sat at the bow of the boat.
“I’ve hinted at it,” Gabriel said.
“I’m frightened,” Sparks whispered.
Gabriel closed his eyes to try to will away the pain. He concentrated on the ache in his thigh where Parker had stabbed him just a few days before, hoping that the honest pain of a wound like that would drive away Temple’s marks. But there was no such hope. And as they came closer and closer to the Oxford, his entire body began to burn. He felt as he had all those centuries ago, stumbling through the forest toward his slaughtered family, wood ants stinging him as if to preempt all the agonies to come. “He’s here,” he whispered, and he felt Sparks tense beside him.
As they approached the ship they heard the sound of merriment from up on deck. Drunken sailors sang, clashed cutlasses, fired musket volleys out over the open sea in celebration of some recent victory. It seemed that they had sailed into the middle of a vast celebration, and even from this far away Gabriel could smell the familiar tang of spilled rum punch, the warm aroma of salted pork.
“Ahoy!” Parker shouted, standing on the boat’s bow. “Tell that old vagabond Henry Morgan that Captains Parker and O’Grady wish to board!”
“Who’s to say he’ll listen?” a voice called from the Oxford. A shape leaned over the deck railing, a bottle in one hand, a tricorn hat on his head, a musket held in its other hand, aimed in their general direction.
“Damn you, just tell him, you speckle-shirted dog, or I’ll drub you to within an inch of your life!”
Gabriel kept his head down in case Temple was on deck. The longer he kept his presence secret, the better.
“Are you still with us?” Sparks asked.
Gabriel nodded. He stared at his hands, and hoped that today they would bear vengeance. Feed your hate, he thought, and he fed it with memories of his wife, his son, his daughter, the smell of their rent flesh, the feel of them cooling beneath his hands, the memory of their voices long lost to him now, their innocence spilled to the ground for nothing but the joy of the kill, for nothing so pure as hate.
“Come aboard,” a voice said. “Captain Morgan is entertaining the captains of his fleet in the quarterdeck, and he’d welcome you join him.” A rope ladder clattered down the flanks of the HMS Oxford, and Parker and O’Grady went to board.
“Wait,” Gabriel said. “You go to Morgan and warn him. I seek Temple.”
“That wasn’t the agreement,” Parker said.
“That’s the way it works,” Gabriel said. “Your business is with your friend, mine is with the man I came this way to kill. Morgan will believe you without my being there, and if he does not, then he’s a fool who doesn’t need saving.”
“Henry Morgan is no fool,” O’Grady said. “And he will not thank us if he knows we left a stranger wandering his flagship.”
“He’ll not know. And if he does find out, it’ll be when I give him the head of the Twin.”
“Twin?” Parker said.
Damn! It’s getting to me! The pain, the coming violence. Even after all this time, I still can’t keep my head. “Temple’s other name,” Gabriel said. “Believe me when I say he has many.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sparks said.
“No. You stay with your new captain.”
“But—”
“No, Sparks. You told me you carry your faith with you still, no matter what it is you’re fleeing. Well . . . pray for me.” It’ll do no good, Gabriel thought. God shunned me centuries ago.
But Sparks touched his shoulder, squeezed and nodded. “I will see you again,” he said.
“Aye.”
But Gabriel knew that from now on the only guarantee was that there would be death aboard this ship.
Gabriel was hardly surprised to discover that the HMS Oxford was crewed entirely by pirates. He climbed up on deck between Parker and O’Grady; then when they parted company Gabriel saw just how much of a celebration was in progress. Drunken sailors lay across the deck, crawling through pools of vomit, sleeping, glugging from bottles. Others—those less drunk—danced and sang and careered into each other as they staggered from one end of the main deck to the other.
There was a prisoner tied to the mainmast, and around him lay the remains of broken bottles. He was naked, his body covered in lacerations, blood pooled around his feet. The pool was spreading even now; the prisoner writhed, groaned, sagged down against the tight ropes. As Gabriel watched, a pirate broke away from his group, smashed a bottle with his cutlass and threw it at the prisoner. It struck the man’s shoulder with a splash of blood. The pirate laughed, the prisoner cried out. There was still plenty of life in him yet to gash away with broken glass.
Gabriel walked across the deck, dodging drunken pirates. He drew some aggressive stares but gave them back, and he experienced no real trouble. Perhaps in such a drunken state these men would prefer to torture a tied man than pick a fight with someone armed and sober.
The forecastle was as dark and stinking as Parker’s ship, and if anything the conditions seemed even more cramped and uncomfortable. Sailors’ beds were made up between water barrels, behind piles of supplies, and beneath benches. A few of them were occupied, most empty. Oil lamps hung around the walls, giving just enough spare light by which to move around wit
hout tripping or stumbling. As Gabriel descended the first set of stairs, the lamps were shielded behind sooty glass enclosures. He must be close to the powder magazine.
He passed through a short, narrow corridor, squeezing by two men sleeping against the bulkhead, and found himself on the gun deck. The ceiling was supported by two dozen heavy beams, each as thick as a man’s thigh, and the guns were separated by timber screens. The oaken floor was gouged and splintered, the walls and ceiling peppered with shot. There were at least fourteen guns to each side, and each was surrounded by piles of powder barrels, shot and heavy rope to lash the guns’ carriages to the deck. There were bloodstains in the wood. This was a battle-hardened ship, and the smell and the taste of the air was testament to that.
The sound of the party from overhead was tremendous, and that was good. It would mask the sound of Gabriel’s search, at least.
Does he know I’m here? he thought. He must. Gabriel’s scars were burning him now, casting deep agonies into his flesh, and his left eye drifted in and out of focus. He was close . . . very close. And as Gabriel passed the fifth set of guns and saw the body, he knew that Temple had started his work.
The pirate was splayed across the cannon with his back broken. Even upside down his face showed the sheer terror that had accompanied him into death. “What scares you?” Gabriel muttered, passing the man by. He had seen enough of Temple’s victims over the centuries, and all of them bore the same expression. That, at least, was one way to track the Twin: by noting the faces of dead men.
He drew his pistols and moved on. The geography of this ship was a mystery to him, but he decided he would simply explore, moving from corridor to hold to cabin until he found his quarry. Now that he had started killing, it would not be long before Temple made his move. His blood would be up, his faces smiling, changing, delighting in the murder. And his hand, that monstrous, damned hand, glowing with the promise of the very worst nightmares. Gabriel cared little whether Morgan lived or died tonight, but he knew that his own chance was best before the kill. After that, the Twin would be on his guard, and—
“Gabriel,” Temple said, “I wondered whether you’d join me on this little foray.”
Gabriel spun around and loosed a shot into the dark. He heard it ricochet from a cannon and bury itself uselessly in the ceiling. There was no sign of the Twin, no shifting shadows, though the voice had sounded from nearby. “Show yourself!” he said.
“After,” Temple said. And the pain of Gabriel’s wounds lessened just slightly as the demon moved away.
Now he knows I’m here, Gabriel thought, and there’s only one place worth waiting for him. He doubled back on himself, ran along the gun deck and back up the staircase to the forecastle, reloading his pistol as he ran. His heart was thudding, energy thrilling through his body, priming his limbs and sharpening his senses. He cast aside the aches and pains, the agonies of past wounds, and in his mind’s eye he maintained the image of his family lying dead. Feed your hate. If he could reach the quarterdeck before Temple, there might still be a chance that he could save the pirate captains. It would do him no harm having allies like them.
He ran straight into the shape. The man lashed out at Gabriel’s face, nails leaving searing lines across his cheek and nose. Gabriel pushed back from him and brought his loaded pistol up, but then he heard a shout.
“Gabriel!” Sparks.
“I told you to go with Parker and O’Grady!” Gabriel said. “Has someone come this way?”
“No, but—”
“Sparks, out of my way.”
“Gabriel, I’m scared, please.” The shape came closer with its arms outstretched, and Gabriel thought, I never told him my name, and a shadow-arm lashed out and struck him across the face with something sharp, cool wetness across his cheek, something thicker than blood there now, and then the pain kicked in for real, no memory of pain this, but the pure whiteness of a brand-new agony.
Gabriel screamed and cursed.
“That’s no way to talk to a friend,” Sparks said, and he stepped forward into the glare of an oil lamp, his thin frame clad in clothes Gabriel did not recognise, his face that of Sparks yet the eyes far, far older. Temple.
“I’ll kill you!” Gabriel spat, tasting the juice of his left eye on his lips.
“Aye aye,” Sparks said, and his face melted in the half-light, twisting and flowing, his body bulking out and filling the clothes, until it was the image of another pirate standing before Gabriel. “Have to leave you now, Gabriel. I’m impressed, you coming this far just for me. I’m . . . touched.”
“I’d find you a hundred times farther than this.”
“Perhaps,” Temple mused. “Perhaps one day you will. Meanwhile, I’ll take this.” He snapped the remains of Gabriel’s eye from its socket, and then he was gone.
Gabriel fell to the deck vomiting, the pressure driving more blood and fluids from his ruined eye socket. He screamed but it did not sound right; it sounded weak. He rolled along the cramped corridor and struck something soft. Another body. He opened his right eye, ignoring the look of frozen terror on the corpse’s face, and saw that this pirate had once suffered as he just had. He wore an eyepatch. Gabriel tore it off, slipped it over his own head and tied it tight. He ignored the stench of the dead man’s patch, the feel of the dead man’s hand cupping his knee as he knelt up.
The pain was a fire in his face. It throbbed through his head, tightened his scalp, set his skin crawling with the thought of what he had lost. His eye. His eye! But time was short, he was old, his quarry was still within reach. And as for his eye . . . he had another.
As Gabriel staggered up the flight of stairs, the sounds of revelry from the main deck changed. Slightly at first—a laugh to a cry, a shout to a scream—and then the celebratory gunshots lessened for a few moments before coming in again. This time there was an aim to them. Volleys of musket- and pistol-fire accompanied the sound of metal on metal; men shouted, screeched, calling out the names of friends and shipmates before killing them. Gabriel reached the deck door and stood there for a few seconds, stunned at what he saw.
The pirates were slaughtering each other. Temple spun among them, slicing one man’s throat, his image melting and becoming that man, moving on, gutting another pirate, becoming him, moving on, snatching a musket and putting a ball through a kneeling man’s throat, face melting again and becoming that screaming dead man . . . and in the total confusion pirate shot pirate, friend stabbed friend. There was a kind of desperation about it all; they were killing in terror, not rage. There was no bloodlust here, only a desperate sense of survival. Instincts kicked in and pulled triggers, practise swung cutlasses, and when the men saw what they had done they moved on again, looking for the thing that had come between them all.
Removed from the action, and even with one eye cut from its socket, Gabriel could focus on Temple. For these few moments the demon was occupied, his guard was down, and he probably believed that his hunter was still squirming below in the jelly of his ruined eye. He had never before had an opportunity like this.
Gabriel raised his pistols, tracked Temple across the deck, saw him tear out a big pirate’s throat and suddenly transform into that pirate and pause as he slipped on spilled blood . . . and he let fire with both pistols.
Temple flipped over onto his back and thrashed like a landed fish. His hands rose slowly and then dropped again, and he lay still. His face was a mask of blood.
That easy? thought Gabriel. But of course, it was not. He caught sight of a pirate darting into the quarterdeck, his long hair suddenly shortening and going from black to silver. Wrong man!
He crossed the deck. It took him twenty heartbeats, and each one he thought would be his last. Though Temple had gone the pirates were still fighting. Gabriel ducked beneath a cutlass blow and hurried on, not wanting to get embroiled in a useless scrap. A pirate staggered before him and raised a cutlass in both hands, roaring. Gabriel raised his eyepatch to reveal the mess of his eye. “I’m not so e
asy to kill,” he said, and the pirate moved away, looking for a safer fight.
He slipped in blood, tripped over a dead man, rolled through something that did not belong outside a body, and when he stood again he was facing the door into the quarterdeck. He opened it, expecting to find it guarded inside, but perhaps Morgan and his fellow captains had yet to notice the different sound between celebration and slaughter.
Stepping inside, for a moment he was blinded by the dinginess. A couple of oil lamps barely beat back the dark. Sweat ran freely, and blood from his eye, and he felt an urgency in his actions now, a need to get this done as quickly as possible, while he still could. The agony assaulted him in molten waves, a phantom pain no more.
“What’s happening?” Sparks asked.
Gabriel dropped his spent pistols, grabbed an oil lamp from the wall and swung it at the shadow of Sparks’s head. It shattered, spilling burning oil.
Sparks screamed. As he gasped a new breath it carried fire into his mouth, and Gabriel saw teeth illuminated by his burning tongue. The next scream gushed fire, and Sparks fell past Gabriel onto the deck, his face melting, changing . . .
“There!” Gabriel shouted. “There, you bastard! Change back now, eh! Change back when you’re burning from the inside out!” Sparks stood and stumbled away, and fighting men moved out of his path. And as Gabriel chased him, lashing out with a cutlass and opening him to the spine, he saw his mistake yet again.
He’s fooled me!
The man with the burning head was wearing a clergyman’s black attire, not the clothes Gabriel had seen Temple wearing in the forecastle.
“No!” Gabriel shouted, but Sparks was way beyond hearing. Somehow he kept running, and for some reason the pirates moved out of his way, amazed and fascinated, or perhaps simply too cruel to put him out of his misery.
Gabriel turned and faced the quarterdeck again. “Temple!” he screamed. “I’m going to gut you like a pig!”
The men behind him suddenly fell silent. Then one of them spoke, in a voice so quiet and resigned that it halted Gabriel in his steps: “Oh, no.”