Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  When they parted, Ethan’s eyes were hard as steel. “Now, go get our sister back.”

  Emotion welled up in John. For all of his failings, for all of his mistakes, Ethan still considered him family. And Kaitlin was part of that family too, now. He returned a steely gaze of his own. “Count on it.”

  With a deep breath, John started aft toward the gangway. He hadn’t gone three steps when a sudden shift in the men’s demeanor stopped him in his tracks. The idlers swabbing the decks stopped their scrubbing. Crew climbing in the rigging paused and looked down. Marines and sailors all around the deck abandoned their chores. Without a single command, they shuffled into two neat lines on either side of his path. They stood at attention, shoulder-to-shoulder, a river of stoic faces. Not one of them said a word. John realized his mouth was open, and he snapped it shut. He had no idea what to say, so he headed for the boat.

  Each man touched his brow in salute as John passed. They murmured a greeting, patted his shoulder, or simply nodded.

  “Sully.”

  “Good luck, sir.”

  “Bloody Sully.”

  “Sully.”

  “Godspeed, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Thomas Keane gave John a stern nod as he passed. “I know your da’s proud, lad. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, Tommy,” said John.

  He passed under the shadow of Buford. “Aim for the sweetmeats. Never fails.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” John reached the ladder amidships. The boat waited below.

  A thin voice caused him to turn around. “Sully.”

  Melisande was standing next to Old Man Meadows, leaning on him for support. Despite her pallor, there was energy in her wolf-like eyes. “Show ole Scruffy why I named you Bloody Sully.”

  “Aye,” said John, tipping his hat. He looked at the old sailor. “Look after my friend, will you Meadows?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Meadows. “Godspeed, lad.”

  John descended the ladder and climbed into the boat. He shoved off, picked up the oars, and seated himself by the tiller. When he looked back at the men lining the port side of Independence, he was surprised to find Chester Ryland standing among them, his arm around Midshipman Merrick for support. The acting captain’s face was gaunt and clammy, with dark circles under his eyes. Blood was sweating through the bandage of his severed hand, but Ryland kept a stiff posture.

  John touched his hat brim by way of salute. He looked for Dominique’s face among the crowd, but couldn’t find her. Just as well, he thought. He was soon rowing hard, watching the beautiful snow brig recede. Her painted black hull, even pocked with cannon holes, shimmered in the low sun. Her sails made a crisp rippling sound.

  There was a thunderclap and a gout of smoke. John started—a port gun had fired. The next gun fired, then the next. So it went, each port gun firing a blank charge of powder. Emotions crashed in him like breakers on a reef.

  With a ten-gun salute blaring over the Mediterranean, John Sullivan rowed to the island of Red Mortar Redoubt.

  Chapter 70

  Red Mortar Redoubt

  Island off the Coast of Tunis

  Wednesday, September 14th, 1803

  Day 5, Late Afternoon

  The soft sand of Red Mortar Redoubt pulled at John’s boots. He dragged the small boat out of the splashing surf and onto a white sandbar. It was one of many satellites to the larger island, encircled by a barrier of cliffs. John’s eyes traced up a red brick watchtower at the center of the beach, to the branches of the great sycamore growing out of the top like a potted plant. Waldrapps nested in the cliff face beyond, filling the sky with their eerie calls.

  John looked behind him. Beyond the shallows and the submerged reefs, the Independence floated at anchor. The black hull shined in the afternoon sun, her masts tilting with the waves. The beautiful American brig was a reassuring sight. He drew in a deep breath and started up the watchtower. He climbed the spiral patchwork of stone and wood steps. At the top, beneath the canopy of the sycamore, he found the catwalk already extended to the cliffs—an open invitation.

  A few minutes later, John passed through the double doors of the Silver Hand manor. He walked through the courtyard of the three-story mansion. Once a garden of fruit, flowers, and trees, the place was a graveyard of ashes. Another sycamore dominated the square, its branches twisted and black. Under the dead tree lay three concentric rings of fountains, their waters stagnant.

  “Naim!” John called. His eyes wandered over the empty windows of the compound, curtains flying up like ghosts. The walls were bright red in the warm sun. “I’m here. I accept your challenge. Show yourself.”

  Something banged nearby, and John spun toward the sound. A shutter hung by a single hinge, stirred by the wind.

  “Johnny.”

  The voice came from beyond the trunk of the burned sycamore. John dashed around a bank of charred hedges, and the trio of fountains came into full view. Kaitlin sat on the edge of the lowest pool, her ankle tethered to a padlocked chain, which was wrapped around the central fountain pedestal. A trickle of blood was crusted to her upper lip, and there were bruises on her cheeks. Red sand dusted her blue kaftan.

  “Kait!” John ran toward her. “Are you all right?”

  Her eyes brightened. “I’m okay, Johnny.”

  “That’s far enough, Sullivan.”

  John stopped ten paces from Kaitlin. The erudite voice came from everywhere and nowhere. There was no mistaking the speaker.

  “Take off your coat,” said Naim. “Show me your belt.”

  John grudgingly pulled off his Navy coat and held it high. “I’ve honored my original terms. No guns—only blades.”

  “Turn out the pockets of your waistcoat. Your breeches as well. Throw the coat toward the fountain.”

  John did as he was told. Nora’s watch spilled out of his waistcoat pocket and dangled from the chain around his button. He turned out the pockets of his white trousers. All were empty. John carried only his rapier and dagger. To have hidden anything in his clothes would have been folly.

  Varlick Naim emerged from a door on the right, his eyes fixed on John as he took long strides toward the fountain. He was dressed in a shorter kaftan, the dark thread shimmering green in the sunlight. His trousers and boots were more practical than his usual diplomatic attire. The Turkish kilij swung from his belt. The jade pommel of his dagger gleamed on his hip. He picked up the Navy coat, checked the pockets, then tossed it back.

  John put his coat back on. He would face Naim wearing the uniform of his new home—the United States Navy. “I offered you a duel three days ago, and I haven’t gone back on my word. I suppose I should ask to see your pockets.”

  “Please.” Naim curled his lip. “The fact you’re still alive proves my good faith.”

  “Good enough for me.” John’s words dripped with venom.

  The kilij flowed out of Naim’s sheath like water, humming a baritone note. Ace sprang out of John’s, singing a soprano.

  “Please!” Kaitlin cried. “Don’t do this. Don’t kill each other for spite. It won’t bring back anyone we lost.”

  Naim smiled fondly at Kaitlin. “Your sister and I have been discussing matters of the soul. A young girl with such insight—a pupil to be the envy of any master. Alas, she is yet naive.”

  “There’s nothing you have to teach her,” John said.

  Naim’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger. He ran a thumb over the perfectly cut emerald in the pommel. In the distance, the waldrapps crowed. Kaitlin watched the exchange with a haunted look, as if searching for the words to end the madness—and finding none.

  John said, “You once told me the Barbary Pirates built the crucible that forged Bloody Sully. You said I loved what I became. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to believe I was serving a higher cause, and not myself. Today, I finally faced the truth.” John’s voice sank low. Deadly. “I came here to kill you, Varlick Naim.”

  The curved dagger scraped out of Naim’s sheath. T
he Chronicler’s gaze ran along the smooth curve of the blade to the fang-like point. His eyes were distant as if every inch of the weapon brought back a different memory.

  “Men like us can’t go back to the way we were,” John continued. “But Kaitlin showed me we can choose a new path. A better path.”

  Kaitlin met her brother’s eyes, her lips bending into a smile.

  “We can’t go back, Naim. But we can walk away, right now, and keep what we have left. You can still be a father. A husband. Let Kaitlin go, and set yourself free. And…” John let his sword fall to his side. “I will go with you.”

  “What?” Kaitlin cried.

  Naim’s eyes flashed to John, widening with surprise. A rare betrayal of emotion for the stolid assassin.

  “Let Kaitlin go free,” said John. “And I will surrender to you. You can take your justice. Or your revenge. I will not resist.” John dropped his sword, the basketwork clanging on the cobbles.

  “Johnny, no!” Kaitlin took a step, the chain snapping taut. “Please.”

  “It’s all right, Rabbit.”

  Naim’s eyes slid to Kaitlin in his periphery, then back to John.

  “Well, Naim? I’m offering you everything you want. What say you?”

  Naim turned the dagger in a beam of sun. “Did you know God used to grant me visions? As a child. They came in my sleep. I believed He intended a great purpose for my life. A belief that carried me through years of loneliness, suffering, and blood. For so long, I believed it my duty to save an empire. The day came when I realized—no man is so grand. His true purpose is so much smaller and so much more important. So, I set out to reconcile with my son.”

  Something was different. John could see a trembling in Naim’s brows. Pain. For the first time, a crack in the man’s facade, however hairline small.

  Naim sheathed his dagger. “When this began, Sullivan, you asked me what I want. I had to kill my finest pupil to learn the answer. I wanted one small reward from God in return for all my years of service: a chance to make amends with my son. When I learned a nobody Irish slave sent him to his death, I finally understood God’s chronicle. He does not grant rewards. He does not call us to grand duty. His visions are a mirage. He grants mankind but two gifts: Life and the power to take it.” Naim’s eyes fell, and he was quiet for a moment. “I will not accept your surrender, Sullivan.”

  The wind blew a spiral of ash between John and Naim, carrying the scent of burned wood. The shutter banged.

  “Kaitlin will watch as I cut your throat,” said the assassin. “I will bathe her in your blood. I will sell her in the slave markets of Istanbul and consign her to a life of such defilement, she will lack the strength to weep. And as for God, He mocked me as His servant, so He shall have me as His enemy. And He shall weep. Well, Sullivan? What say you?”

  Warmth pulsed through John’s veins. A dark part of his soul answered Naim’s call. The animal under his skin stirred, filling with bloodlust. The pain of his injuries, new and old, faded to a dull ache. A bloody day must get bloodier still, and John was glad. He kicked a foot under his sword, launching the hilt up into his hand.

  Kaitlin’s shoulders slumped. She was powerless to stop the inevitable.

  “Aye.” John ground the words like chaff under a millstone. “I knew you’d understand. Chronicler.”

  Bloody Sully sprang into his charge. Waldrapps scattered from the rooftops. He lunged at Naim with Ace. Naim’s kilij whistled through the air. The blades met with a resounding peal. John pushed Naim back. Naim’s feet barely disturbed the ash as he wheeled and side-stepped. John hacked and cut, and the two swords were a blur. Echoes of ping-pang-clang chased each other around the walls. Despite the younger man’s fury and speed, the older assassin moved with calm and precision.

  Spit flew from John’s teeth as he thrust under Naim’s guard, expecting him to parry and evade. But Naim exploded forward with a whirlwind of blows. John gave ground, feeling his back muscles tighten with pain. His most practiced strikes from Ace clanged harmlessly off the whirling kilij. More than Naim’s inhuman speed and endurance, nothing seemed to surprise him. John tried every feint and riposte he’d ever learned. Naim evaded or parried, more bending than stepping, more turning aside than blocking.

  John’s feet scraped on the ash as he sidestepped a lunge. He swung for his opponent’s head, playing for a miracle blow. Naim darted aside, and Ace decapitated a shriveled palm. Naim darted back in, delivering a shallow cut to John’s thigh. A boot landed in John’s side, and he flopped onto the cobbled square. The rapier clattered away toward the fountain, and John chased after it. He snatched up Ace, scrambled to his feet, and spun around, hoping to meet the kilij before it impaled his back.

  But he found the Chronicler pacing around the edge of the square, turning his sword in graceful circles. Naim’s pupils were black as pitch. He waited for John to come again.

  ###

  Blood pooled around Kaitlin’s ankle. The iron scraped her flesh raw, burning like a hot brand as she struggled. Try as she might, she couldn’t squeeze her foot out of the shackle. Her brother’s sword moved with dazzling speed. But for all John’s passion, Naim was the better swordsman. The Chronicler batted John’s strokes away, patiently taking his opponent’s measure. Naim would take his time, learn every weakness, and strike without mercy.

  The cut on Kaitlin’s hand bled through the bandage, slickening her raw ankle. Her heel wouldn’t slip through the shackle. John grunted in pain, and she looked up to see Naim duck John’s dagger and land an offhand punch. John sprawled on the ground. His dagger spun away from him and clattered against the fountain a few feet from her. Her brother scrambled to his feet just in time to parry another blow. The swords flashed with blinding sunlight.

  Kaitlin dashed for John’s dagger. The chain snapped taut, yanking her off her feet. Her hands landed an inch from the weapon. The tapered blade was beyond her grasp, but the silver basketwork was closer. She cried out against the iron collar eating into her foot, her finger barely brushing the fleur-de-lis pommel. The peals of smashing swords became more distant. The battle carried John and Naim far down the garden path and into an open door of the manor. She reached again and managed to spin the dagger closer. Once more, and she was pulling the it to her.

  She set to work, holding the blade as an artist might hold a brush. She dug the point into the keyhole of the padlock. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the point to reach a tumbler. The dagger slipped and cut her right thumb.

  “Feck!” Tears stung Kaitlin’s eyes.

  She dropped the dagger and screamed. There was no point—a dagger couldn’t pick a lock. There was no escaping fate. The Sullivans had ever been destined for ruin. The pirates had killed Isaac and Da. Naim had killed Rune and Mam. And now, her last sibling was going to die fighting for her. There wasn’t a damn thing Kaitlin could do about it. Tears pooled on the cobbles beneath her, turning ash into mud.

  “I don’t want to be the Red Hart,” Kaitlin said to the empty garden. “She was no great thief—just a silly girl’s fantasy. Because of her, Naim is going to kill me and Johnny both.”

  Her only answer was the distant clanging of swords. The caws of a few waldrapps. Wind brushing through dead leaves.

  “It’s not your time, Katie.”

  Rune’s voice returning to Kaitlin from the past. She looked up at the twisted branches and was surprised to see tiny green buds. They were so small, buried in the blackened crooks of the wood. She hadn’t noticed them before. The late sun warmed the walls to a bright rose color. New vines were climbing through the cracks in the stone. A pair of birds were bathing in the fountain, flicking drops of water from their wings. In the midst of decay, life sprang anew.

  “You have more to do in this place,” Rune said. “Your brother is going to need your help.”

  Kaitlin felt a tear cool on her face.

  “The body dies…”

  “But the Ātman lives on.” Kaitlin wiped away her tears. “We’ll meet a
gain, Rune. But not yet.”

  She pried a loose brick out of the paved square. She held it high in her uninjured hand and positioned her ankle underneath. There would be pain—probably more than she’d ever felt in her life. Likely she would lose the foot if she even survived the day. There would be no more running rooftops and scaling walls. But it was a chance to save her brother’s life. She took a deep breath, raised the flagstone chunk, and…

  …dropped it harmlessly aside. John’s dagger, Spade—there was something odd about the hilt. The leather wrapped around the grip was lumpy. She crawled to the weapon and picked it up for a closer look. Kaitlin recognized the soft clay sold by Buford. The same puddy Dominique used to copy Naim’s signet ring. She peeled it away.

  John’s loss of the dagger had been no accident. He allowed Naim to knock it from his grip and then guided it towards Kaitlin. And now, he was leading Naim away—so she would have her chance. She pulled a pair of steel tines from the clay.

  Kaitlin was smiling at a perfect set of lock picks.

  ###

  A kick landed square in John’s stomach, and he slammed back into a support beam. Black dust rained down from the burned out rafters of a library. Shelves from floor to ceiling lined every wall—those not burned away or collapsed. They trembled every time John or Naim crashed into a surface. Burnt pages fluttered through the air like snow. With half the load-bearing columns gone and much of the upper floor caved in, the whole room was on the verge of collapse. Naim charged through a pile of charred upholstery, sword swinging. John rolled off the beam, and the kilij cut a notch in the wood.

  Naim was relentless, pursuing John around the collapsed library desk as he gave ground. John hacked and coughed on the ash-choked air. He thrust fast at Naim, trying anything to throw him off balance, but it was no use. Swordmaster Fernando Pavia once said to John, “If anger is your master, it is your enemy’s servant.” As John roared with impotent fury, those words suddenly sounded truer than ever. He brought his sword down on Naim as if wielding a two-handed claymore, locking their blades together and using his youthful strength to drive the older man back against the burned out desk.