Perdition’s Gate? Cat thought. What a horrible image to associate with your ship—No! Fear shot up his veins like liquid fire. Cat started to sit up and found a dagger at his throat . . . the same dagger the Merchant had so expertly wielded in the tunnels.
“I had begun to wonder if you’d recognize me,” said the Merchant. “It is not often that people forget one of my unique countenance.”
“You tried to kill me!” Cat roared.
“Come now, my lad. All of that unpleasantness is over now.”
“Where’s Anne?”
“The girl?” he asked. “I really do not know. She got sucked out of one of my auxiliary hatches. My guess is she made it to the surface, treaded water for a while . . . and then drowned.”
Cat tried again to sit up. “You black-hearted—”
The Merchant pressed the dagger firmly to Cat’s throat. “Yes . . . you understand me now. But have you wondered why I spared your life?”
Cat gritted his teeth and shook his head.
“I know you,” said the Merchant. “You are Griffin Lejon Thorne, son of Bartholomew Thorne, a pirate of some infamy. I didn’t believe Scully when he told me, but now I see it—your eyes, your jaw. Oh, you are Thorne’s boy, all right . . . and in more than appearance. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees you.”
“Bartholomew Thorne . . . he’s here?” Cat’s eyes widened.
“Nay,” said the Merchant. “Not on board my ship. No, but we are sailing, making all possible speed to be witnesses of your . . . reunion.”
“He’ll kill me,” said Cat. “He’s already tried twice.”
“Not getting along with your father, eh?” The Merchant laughed. “Well, if he will not take you . . . I will. You see, I’ve been searching for an apprentice. Searching for some time now.”
Cat nearly gagged. “I know all about you,” he said. “Remember? I read your logs. But even if I hadn’t, I learned enough from Father Brun to know I would never serve a demon like you.”
“That,” said the Merchant, “would be an unconscionable waste of talent.”
“I’m not like you!” Cat yelled.
“No,” said the Merchant. “Someday you will be better than I am. But make no mistake: You were born a killer. I saw firsthand the blood lust in your eyes . . . down in the tunnels of my lair. I believe you meant to take my head.”
“You’re mad, if you think I’ll follow you.”
“Why delay the inevitable, Griffin Thorne? You cannot change the cloth from which you were cut.”
“No.” Cat’s voice was just a whisper.
The Merchant jerked Cat up off the cot. Keeping the dagger in the small of Cat’s back, the Merchant led Cat out of the room, down a narrow hall, and into an iron cell.
“In any case,” said the Merchant, slamming the barred door shut, “you have a long voyage ahead of you to decide.”
Anne closed her eyes and wriggled down beneath the blanket. It was so warm and comforting. She felt all her muscles relax as the blanket went up over her head. Down, down she went, her thoughts drifting . . . so tired . . . drifting . . .
Something bumped her hard on the leg. A shock of electricity. Her eyes opened to impenetrable murk and the sting of salty water. Under water! She opened her mouth to scream. Sea water poured in instead. Anne flailed, coughed, and spat. She climbed somehow to the surface. There, she hacked and gagged and struggled against the panic to stay afloat.
At last the mindless terror subsided and Anne realized just how close she’d come to drowning. Something had hit her leg again beneath the water—that had saved her, she realized. But still, she was anything but safe. The next bump could come with teeth.
It was still dark, and Anne treaded water, turning in slow circles. She found herself starting to fade again. Her muscles just couldn’t keep going forever, and she was emotionally spent. BUMP. Something hit her in the rear end this time, and once more, Anne startled awake. She spun around in the water, looking frantically. Then she saw it: a triangular shadow protruding from the dark water . . . a dorsal fin. A huge dorsal fin. All those tentative bumps, the shark had been prodding her, testing her, and biding its time.
The fin sliced toward her. Anne readied her boots, intending to kick the shark, to try to drive it off. She had to. If the creature drew blood . . . it was over. It was just a few feet away, and Anne could see its familiar shape. It began to surface. It was going to attack. Anne kicked her feet out and flailed backward. And then she heard very strange sounds.
Whistles, clicks, and chirps. Anne stopped kicking and stared. The dark shark-shape suddenly broke the surface. It was not a shark at all. A large dolphin floated there. It turned its sleek head this way and that, spun around two or three times, and chirped loudly. Anne tentatively swam forward and patted the dolphin on the head. The creature whistled and spun around once more. Then it disappeared below the surface.
“No, come back,” Anne called to the dark water.
Suddenly, the dolphin surfaced beneath Anne, and she clung to its back. The creature began to swim in lazy circles, clicking softly as if talking to itself.
Anne awakened to voices. “A fine catch, Captain!” bellowed one voice.
“Yes,” a quiet voice replied. “But who would want such a wrinkled thing as this for dinner?”
“Maybe we should throw her back.”
Anne saw a man with his right arm in a sling. He had very dark skin and yet very white hair—even his eyebrows and moustache. “Brother Dmitri?” Anne whispered. She turned her head and saw another man. He had pale skin, wispy light blond hair, and pale blue eyes. “Father Brun?” Anne blinked. “Are . . . are we in heaven?”
“Not yet!” said Dmitri.
“No, dear Anne,” said Father Brun. “The Almighty has chosen to let us all elude death in the most extraordinary ways. A dolphin . . . who would have believed it?” The monk started to say something more, but closed his mouth. He seemed to be weighing some decision, and at last asked, “Where . . . where is Cat?”
Anne’s lower lip trembled, and she shook her head. “He’s gone,” she said, urgency building in her voice. “The Merchant, he—”
“It is too soon for speech,” Father Brun said quickly. “We will exchange such testimonies another time. For now, you must rest.”
“No,” said Anne, sitting up and throwing her legs over the edge of the bed. She winced and held her throbbing wrist. “No, I want to talk now.” She was quiet a moment, trying to remember. Then she told the tale of running through the tunnels, the Merchant always seeming to know exactly where she and Cat were heading. She told how they realized the Merchant’s lair had tubes delved through it, a network of tubes that carried sound. She told of discovering a potential way out only to be trapped there by the Merchant. And then, tearfully, she described how Cat had given his life so that she could escape. “I tried,” she said, weeping quietly. “I tried to swim back down to him, but the water . . . it . . . it pulled me out.”
Father Brun put an arm around her shoulder. “I am so sorry you had to endure such a tragedy,” he said.
Anne quickly dabbed her tears with her sleeve. She cleared her throat and said, “We were cut off from you . . . down in those tunnels. How did you escape?”
With colorful interruptions from Brother Dmitri, Father Brun told their story. “The Merchant meant to drown us like rats in that chamber,” said Father Brun. “But the Almighty, as he often does, transformed tragedy into triumph.”
“By the time we surfaced, the Celestine had already gone below the waves,” said Brother Dmitri. “The damage from the reef was too severe. We boarded the Constantine with scarcely enough time to catch our breaths. The Merchant’s ship, it came from the darkness and sent the Dominguez to the bottom before we realized what was happening.”
“We had no time to react,” said Father Brun. “And we couldn’t match its firepower. We did the only thing we could . . . we fled.”
“The Constantine is lighter,” said Broth
er Dmitri. “We harnessed the prevailing wind and sped away. The Merchant’s ship gave up the chase and turned back.”
“It was then that we took a chance,” Father Brun explained. “We used our instruments and the stars to double back on them. We found that they had anchored near the Merchant’s tidal lair.”
“Dropped our sails and doused all our lanterns,” said Brother Dmitri. “We let the darkness and distance hide us.”
“We sent out a few men in a cutter to watch,” explained Father Brun. “The Merchant’s ship departed just before sunrise.”
“We sailed in after,” Brother Dmitri said, “hoping to dive and find some way into that accursed place. We found several hatches, but they were all sealed tight.”
“We found you not long after,” said Father Brun. “You were floating in the water. We thought you dead.”
“Miraculous!” Brother Dmitri exclaimed.
“Where are we now?” Anne asked.
“We are north of Cuba, headed to New Providence,” said Father Brun. “We hope to find your father there . . . or at least Commodore Blake.” He was silent a moment and then added, “The Merchant has eluded us once more . . . and now we don’t even know where to begin to look.”
“Gotland,” said Anne.
“What?” the two monks asked.
“When I swam behind the Merchant’s ship,” Anne explained, “I overheard sailors talking. They said something about a long trip to Gotland. But I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“It is an island south and east of the Swedish mainland,” Father Brun explained. “I was born in Sweden, lived my childhood in Stockholm. My grandfather used to tell me of the men of Gotland, men who still lived the old ways.”
“What would the Merchant want with the Swedes?” asked Dmitri.
Father Brun ran a hand through his hair and said, “I wonder . . . no doubt some dark designs. What do you suggest we do about it, Captain?”
Anne didn’t answer at first. Then, with the two men staring at her, she said, “You mean . . . me?”
“Cat agreed to sail on this mission only if you could be his second,” explained Father Brun. “We will honor his wish.”
Anne swiped at her watering eyes. She missed Cat now more than ever. She wished he was there by her side, there to take command. She never wanted it to happen this way. “I think we should continue for New Providence,” she said. “We’ll need help if we are to fight the Merchant and that fortress of a ship he sails. Then we sail for Gotland and get this man once and for all.”
“For the Almighty,” said Father Brun.
“Amen,” said Brother Dmitri. “And . . . for Cat.”
24
TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCE
Cutlass Jack’s Banshee sailed alongside the Robert Bruce, keeping pace as they journeyed across the Atlantic. Aboard the Bruce, it was time for the evening meal. “I made ’his special for you, Mister Slash,” said Nubby, placing a large bowl in front of their newest crewmen. “Cap’n Ross told me it was your favorite.”
Rather than using his captain’s quarters, Ross and his senior crewmen ate the evening meal with the rest of the crew. They sat around a hodgepodge of tables. Those who couldn’t find room at an actual table used the tops of crates and barrels instead. All eyes turned to Slash to see what he would do with the “special” course he had been served.
Slash stared down at the bowl. He picked up his wooden spoon, dipped it into the creamy greenish stew, and nudged a chunk of something around the bowl. “What, what is this?” he asked, looking up with a rueful expression on his face.
St. Pierre covered his mouth with his hands. Jules pounded a fist on his barrel-table. But Ebenezer Hack couldn’t contain himself any longer. He let out a deep, chesty guffaw and had to lean on Red Eye to keep from falling out of his chair.
“It’s . . . it’s iguana stew!” Captain Ross exclaimed. “You said if I let you join the crew, you’d eat iguanas!”
“This”—Slash held up a glop on his spoon—“is iguana?”
“Go on!” Hack bellowed. “Take a bite.”
“Just shove it on in there,” said Jules. “It’s really quite good.”
Slash figured he didn’t have much choice, so he pinched the bridge of his nose and put the spoon in his mouth. He tasted garlic right off, a little onion, a lot of pepper. Then he chewed a hunk of meat and experienced a flavor that took him by surprise. It was spicy and hearty, full of savor and salt. “Hey,” he said, plunging the spoon into the bowl for another bite. “This is good!”
“Ha!” Nubby exulted. “That’ll teach the lot of you to doubt my cooking!”
Ross and everyone except Jules, who generally enjoyed Nubby’s iguana stew, sat in stunned silence for a few moments before the entire deck erupted in laughter.
Later that night, Ross, Stede, Cutlass Jack, St. Pierre, and Red Eye met in the captain’s quarters aboard the Robert Bruce. Ross had a sea chart spread wide upon his desk. He pointed emphatically at England. “What’s Thorne going to do?” he asked.
“Shoot King George?” St. Pierre suggested.
“Jacques!” Red Eye slapped him on the shoulder.
“Well . . . that is what I would do,” said St. Pierre. “What better way to exact vengeance upon an enemy nation.”
Ross shook his head. “No, half of London would line up to shake Thorne’s hand if he got rid of King George. The English have little love for their imported king.”
“Maybe Thorne will blow up the palace?” said St. Pierre. “Or some other English landmark.”
“I think that is likely closer to the truth,” said Ross. “Thorne’s hate of the British is an obsession. In his mind, they murdered his first wife and took away his chance to become the dominant naval power in the Atlantic.”
“But can we believe Bellamy?” asked Cutlass Jack. “Thorne could be intendin’ an attack in the Caribbean fer all we know.”
“In life, I b’ not believing a single word from that bedeviled mon,” said Stede. “But with him dying I think him b’ trying to hit us with the only thing him b’ having left . . . the truth.”
“I am convinced that Bellamy told us the truth about Thorne,” Ross said. “It makes sense. He has it in for the Brits—that’s clear. But what can he do? He’s lost his ship, his fleet, his stronghold in the Cape Verde Islands. More than a year, we hear nothing from him.”
A comical smile appeared on Stede’s face. “I don’t suppose him b’ rowing a little cutter up the Thames . . . just to say hello.”
“Not likely,” said Ross. “A man with Thorne’s contacts could do a lot in the time he’s had. And yet we’ve scoured the Caribbean and Thorne’s usual haunts. None of his previous suppliers have done business with him. More than anything else . . . it’s the not knowing that worries me.”
Half an ocean away, the Raven’s Revenge sailed into Sigvard Bay and found a familiar British ship of the line anchored among the limestone rock formations. “That’s the Oxford,” said Bartholomew Thorne. “Commodore Brandon Blake’s ship . . . in Gotland.” His breathing deepened to a throaty rasp.
Teach had the wheel but wished someone else did. Thorne looked like he was ready to skin half the crew. Nonetheless, Teach managed to guide the ship to port without getting a taste of his captain’s bleeding stick.
Thorne suddenly felt like everything was falling apart. Intending to take command of the Raukar, he’d secretly slain Hrothgar. The Raukar did not suspect, but what if, as Teach suggested, they decided to pull out? And now, Blake appears? Thorne thought perhaps Wetherby had completed his mission and simply brought back the Oxford as a trophy. But seeing that ship, a symbol of British might, anchored here led Thorne to believe that something had gone terribly wrong.
The fortress of the Raukar was in chaos. Word had spread rapidly about Hrothgar’s fall. Men and women alike wept openly. There was talk of the British invaders and of the captives who were taken. Thorne and Guthrum led a procession up the winding avenue that led to Hroth
gar’s Hall. Torchbearers surrounded the stretcher upon which Hrothgar’s remains lay. Six men on either side bore their fallen leader to his home.
“What has befallen me?” Lady Fleur cried out. “Where is my husband?”
“He is here!” Thorne exclaimed. “We have borne him to his great hall in honor.”
Lady Fleur did not run down the stone stairs, but there was a quiver in her gait as she descended and went to her husband.
“I urge caution, Lady of the Raukar,” Guthrum said. “He was badly burned.”
The stench hit her like a wall, but she waived Guthrum off dismis-sively and looked beneath the great red banner that covered Hrothgar. After only a moment, she lowered the banner and looked up abruptly as if catching her breath. “Tell me,” she said, “how comes he thus?”
“By unhappy chance, my lady,” said Guthrum. “He—”
“He led the Raukar valiantly,” Thorne interrupted. “Västervik is razed to the earth as you desired. But in the battle, Hrothgar fell.”
“Who slew him?” Lady Fleur asked.
“No man slew him,” Thorne lied. “For no man could. One of the gods deemed it time to bring Hrothgar’s heroic soul to Valhalla. He had confronted Ulf the betrayer when a burning building fell upon him.”
A single cold tear ran down Lady Fleur’s cheek, but she did not weep aloud. And she wore a proud smile, for surely it had been the gods who had taken Hrothgar. It was just and honorable to die in battle. “What of my traitorous brother?” she asked suddenly. “Did he burn as well?”
“Ulf did not deserve to share Hrothgar’s fire,” said Thorne. He slid the bleeding stick out of its holster and held it aloft. “I slew him. His blood remains even now on my weapon.”
“HRAH!!” the whole assembly cheered.
When the ruckus died down, Lady Fleur turned to her people and exclaimed, “Raukar, Hrothgar lived courageously and died all the better!”
“HRAH!!” they answered.
“Tonight, we will lay Hrothgar in the bosom of an able ship,” she said, a tremble in her strong voice. “We will fill it with such things as he will need as he does battle until Ragnarok, the final battle of all our gods and heroes. Then we will let the ship depart, and we will weep no more.”