Isle of Fire (19 page)

“Now I know you b' truly out of yer mind,” said Stede. “Ya won't b' getting halfway across the Atlantic in the
Bruce
.”

“He's right, Declan,” said Cutlass Jack. “Your ship's full of holes. Mine too. We need to be gettin' someplace safe for repairs. That, ah, Commodore Blake you were tellin' me about . . . he be in New Providence, right? We could harbor there, eh?”

“That's backtracking!” Ross exclaimed. “If Thorne's in England, we've got to go now.”

“And if we do,” Stede replied, “we b' doing that black-hearted mon a grand favor.”

“Pardonnez moi,” came a voice from the doorway. “But I think I have an idea.”

“Jacques!” Ross said. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I pretend to be asleep,” Jacques replied proudly. “When Nubby went chasing after a rat, I made my escape.”

“Are you well?”

“It was just a little bump on the head,” the Frenchman replied. “I have had worse. Now then, do I understand correctly? Bartholomew Thorne is still alive and in England? And yet we cannot chase him because neither ship is seaworthy?”

“That's about it,” Ross said.

“Ha-ha!” said Jacques. “Then we do this: we sail just a bit farther north to Bellefontaine. I know a man there who can supply just what we need to repair the ships . . . for a reasonable price, of course.”

“But how long?” asked Ross, gesturing toward his shattered window. “The stern is wrecked, our first cannon deck is ruined, and we've lost a mast!”

“This man I know, Spencer Montant is his name, but we call him Slash. If anyone can get this accomplished quickly, it is Slash. But for such speed, he will charge a fortune.”

“I don't care what it costs,” said Ross. “But even if our ships are finished in less than a fortnight, what then? Thorne is already in England. We could arrive too late to stop him.”

“Ah, that is the second part of my plan,” Jacques explained. “From Bellefontaine, we find outgoing ships, sloops or something fast, and we send messages to Commodore Blake—one to New Providence and one to England. That way we warn the British as fast as sailing there directly ourselves. Ha-ha!”

“Excellent,” said Cutlass Jack. “The Brits handled Thorne once . . . they can do it again. What do you say, Declan?”

Ross was quiet a moment and then answered, “It galls me to wait. But in our current condition, I think it's the best we can manage. We sail for Bellefontaine.”

Ross stood at the starboard rail and rubbed his eyes. A pink glow to the east suggested the sun would be up soon. Ross glanced back to the west where Jack's xebec kept pace with the
Bruce
. It had been a long, terrible night. The next day couldn't be any worse, but it wasn't likely to be much better. They had lost too many men in the battle with Bellamy. Nubby had said two of the injured didn't make it through the night, and that brought the total to an even forty to bury at sea.

Ross thought about burying his dead. He thought about the dead left behind in Le Diamant and the other small towns in Martinique. Bellamy had caused all of it in a matter of weeks. And Bartholomew Thorne was a man capable of far worse than Bellamy.
Thorne has been missing for more than a year. What has he been
doing all this time?
Ross wondered.
And what does he have in store
for England?

15
ELDREGN

T
horne looked in a smudged mirror and scraped a sharp knife across his neck and chin. “Yes, Mister Teach?” Thorne answered his quartermaster.

“Shavin', Captain Thorne?” asked Teach, coming into the chamber and rubbing a hand on his own chin. “I'm thinkin' of lettin' me beard grow meself.”

“What beard?” Thorne replied. “I doubt there'll ever be a beard on that boyish chin. Now, Mister Teach, I'm sure you didn't come to my chamber to entertain me. Have you news?”

Teach didn't much like being the butt of Thorne's joke, but he didn't want a taste of his captain's bleeding stick either. So he measured his tone before he spoke. “It's the Raukar, sir. Hundreds—I dunno—maybe thousands of them in full arms gone marching out of the main gate. You must have heard them.”

“Yes,” said Thorne, wiping his knife on a cloth and then putting the blade to his throat once more. “The walls of this longhouse shook for more than an hour. They are a formidable army. But this is not news, Teach.”

“It's Hrothgar, sir. He's requested your presence at the gate.”

Thorne raised an eyebrow. The knife hesitated a moment on his chin, and a thin line of blood appeared. “Are we traveling to Ostergarn?” Thorne asked, his voice thickening and eager.

“I think so, Captain,” said Teach. “Hrothgar said his ships have all returned.”

Thorne wiped his chin and neck and tossed the cloth on the chair. “Now we will see at last if Hrothgar's fleet is anything like what he promised.”

Lord Hrothgar and Lady Fleur stood near the gray stone gatehouse at the front of the Raukar's fortress. Beside them waited a huge carriage drawn by six massive black warhorses. The ground was broken and pocked with muddy ruts where innumerable boots had trod.

“You have kept us waiting,” said Lady Fleur, and as usual, her deep blue eyes blazed out at Thorne.

She never ceased to measure him . . . never ceased to provoke him with those eyes. Thorne wondered if something would have to be done about Lady Fleur, but that would need to wait. For now, he could do nothing to arouse the Raukar's suspicion. “Your pardon, my lady,” he said with a subtle bow. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“Gunnarson Thorne,” said Lord Hrothgar, “today you will come to the coast of Ostergarn. Then, and only then, will you be fit to witness the twofold might of the Raukar.”

“Twofold?” Thorne asked.

Lady Fleur's eyes narrowed but did not leave Thorne for a moment. “Surely a descendant of Eiríkr Thorvaldsson would know,” she said.

“Peace, woman,” Lord Hrothgar said, and his voice was deep and commanding. “You speak to one of pureblood, even if his ways seem strange to you.”

Lady Fleur said nothing more. She turned and marched rapidly away from the gatehouse. Hrothgar clapped Thorne on the back and ushered him into the carriage.

Thorne smelled the sea air even before the carriage came to a stop. It was much different from the Caribbean. There was a purity in the air. Thorne thought of his heritage.
I am a pureblood descendant of
Erik the Red
. And for a moment he allowed himself to imagine victory over the British. He'd see their vaunted fleet crippled and sent to the bottom. With the seas under his control, the Brits would not trade anything without his consent. And Thorne would install the Merchant to oversee the whole new operation. Riches beyond reckoning would be Thorne's and then he would build his own altar . . . but not to some ridiculous one-handed god.

Heather
. So many years had gone by since the fire had taken her life. He remembered tearing through the burning timber of the stateroom, trying desperately to reach her in time. But the roof had caved in, and the flames engulfed her.

Somehow she had come back to him . . . speaking velvety words in his mind that no one else could hear. But since his failure on the Isle of Swords and subsequent capture, Heather had not spoken to him. Thorne felt sure she'd come back. He'd already commissioned one of the Raukar, a painter of incredible skill, to paint her portrait for him. It was to be ready within the week.

When the carriage stopped at last and the door opened, Thorne thought there must be some mistake. He'd expected to be taken to the docks of Ostergarn, but they'd come to a huge outcropping of patchy gray and white rock. It was a massive knee of stone that seemed to have burst through the tall grass and trees. Thorne could not see over or around it. Hrothgar seemed to note nothing amiss and walked directly toward the tall stone face. Thorne followed cautiously. He started to call out to Hrothgar, for the Raukar chieftain increased his speed and looked as if he were about to walk right into the stone. Only he didn't. Hrothgar stepped past where he should have been able to step. He turned slightly and winked at Thorne and then disappeared.

Thorne looked to the warrior who drove the carriage, but he did not explain. Thorne thought he saw the slightest hint of a smile flickering in the man's eyes. Thorne looked back at the stone and noticed the path leading up to it was as rutted as the path near the gatehouse. The massive marching procession had come this way. Their footsteps went right up to the stone where Hrothgar had disappeared. But at the stone, the trail stopped.

“Come, Gunnarson,” came Hrothgar's voice as if spoken from within the stone.

Thorne put a hand on the haft of his bleeding stick and walked toward the rock face. All of his senses warned him that he was about to smack straight into the mountain of stone, but after a few more steps, he hadn't struck a thing. He reached out his hand and found that the rock face was still out of his reach. The warrior near the carriage laughed aloud then. Thorne ignored him and walked forward. Then he noted a tall fin of rock to the left and behind it a cavelike opening. Thorne took a few steps back and stared. “Amazing,” he said aloud. The rock face was a perfect illusion. It explained how Hrothgar had seemed to disappear. In reality, he'd only stepped behind the rock fin and entered the cave.

Thorne laughed to himself and entered the cave. Hrothgar stood a few paces inside and gestured for Thorne. The cave was merely a passage, a forty-foot tunnel, and bright light gleamed up ahead. “Prepare yourself, Gunnarson,” said Hrothgar, shaking with anticipation. “You will not likely see a sight so glorious this side of Valhalla.”

Hrothgar stepped aside and let Thorne pass out of the tunnel and onto the pebbly shore of Ostergarn. After the darkness and narrow confines of the tunnel, the sudden, panoramic view of the coastline was dizzying.

There were more of the contorted rock formations in the shallows of the Baltic, but anchored in both directions as far as the eye could see were massive sailing ships. Thorne had seen etchings of the Viking ships of old, and these clearly borrowed from that tradition. Each one was a long, slender vessel with numerous round shields hung along its rails and a high, elegantly curving prow that ended in the fearsome visage of a dragon or some other fierce beast. But the ships of the Raukar were by no means antiquated like their predecessors. These vessels were much taller and boasted two, three, and even four masts, each one with two to three spars upon which vast sails could be flown.