Isle of Fire (2 page)

Spar-collar:
(sometimes known as a gooseneck) a moveable iron collar used to hold horizontal spars to the mast.

Spar:
long horizontal pole that a sail is attached to.

Square-rigged:
ship's sails that are square in shape.

Starboard:
if standing on the deck and facing the front of the ship, starboard is right.

Stern:
the back of the ship.

The watch:
a four-hour period when a sailor is on duty.

1
SHADOWS OF THE PAST

D
ead leaves swirled across the cold stone as Cat approached the deepest corner of the empty cobblestone courtyard. He could feel the sentinels watching from hidden places within the surrounding walls and towers. His eyes darted about for any sign of a threat. Behind the ever-sleeping volcano, the sun struggled to midday height in the steel-gray sky.

Without warning, a fierce cry came from the parapets above. A shadow passed overhead, and Cat ducked. Instinctively his grip tightened on the quarterstaff as he prepared to defend himself against one of the most peculiar men he'd ever seen. His skin was very dark like the islanders, but his hair, eyebrows, and moustache were whiter than the sand on Aruba. He wore a silver ring in the lobe of his left ear and a small gray cross on a thin black cord around his neck. He held a quarterstaff of dark wood that was at least a foot longer than Cat's.

“I am Dmitri,” said the man, removing his robe. He was shirtless beneath but wore an odd, baggy kind of breeches that bunched at his waist and ankles. His gaze was dark and seemed to smolder like volcanic rock. The warrior slapped his staff hard on the cobblestone and stepped forward menacingly.

Cat held up his own staff. He thought he was ready.

Dmitri's strike was swift and heavy. His dark staff crashed into Cat's staff with such force that Cat reeled sideways. Cat didn't see the second stroke, the one that swept his feet out from under him. He felt a sudden jolt on his backside as he hit the ground and found himself staring at the sky.

Cat swallowed, tightened his grip on his staff, and levered himself to his feet. He rolled his shoulders and his neck and then brought his staff up hard to his chest.
He's toying with me,
Cat thought. Determined not to let Dmitri strike first, Cat feinted with a sweeping right-handed attack to Dmitri's body. The moment Dmitri showed a vertical guard, Cat brought a furious left-handed stroke at Dmitri's right thigh. But Dmitri's initial guard was itself a feint. He turned in a blur, batted down Cat's attack, and shoved the left end of his staff into Cat's shoulder. Cat staggered backward, his weapon clattering to the ground.

The pain was sharp and throbbing. Cat tasted bile in his throat. He grunted indignantly and picked up his staff.

Dmitri swung at Cat's left shoulder and followed it with a swift poke at Cat's chest. Cat didn't block it but turned to let the blow glance off. Cat jabbed the end of his staff at Dmitri's legs, but Dmitri countered too quickly. Cat grunted. He grew fatigued and increasingly frustrated. It was like dueling Red Eye with a sword—Cat knew he was overmatched and hated it.

Cat grunted again, trying to clear his head and make himself think. He knew he needed to slow Dmitri's countermoves, needed to buy time. He had to think ahead—way ahead. Then he had it: a combination of attacks he felt sure he could pull off. It began with a high feint. Cat went at Dmitri's left ear with a strong, hacking stroke, but instead of bouncing off Dmitri's guard and spinning back inside, Cat stepped away and let his staff slide off. He spun quickly outside of Dmitri's sweeping reply, brought his staff under his arm, and stabbed it backward into Dmitri's midsection. As Cat expected, Dmitri parried away the jab. Cat used the momentum to spin a second time. This time, as Cat came around, he used both hands to deliver a crushing high-to-low chop at Dmitri's head. It was like splitting wood with an axe—just aim for the center. Cat knew Dmitri would have to block the blow with the center of his own staff, between his hands. When Dmitri did so, Cat kept the pressure on, momentarily pinning Dmitri. But in the span of a heartbeat, Cat jerked back with his left hand and wrenched a sudden upward thrust with his right. He meant to bring the right end of his staff under Dmitri's left shoulder, a devastating blow . . . if only he could connect. But he could not.

Dmitri ignored the coming attack. He simply let his own high block collapse down to shoulder level. Then he exploded both fists forward, burying them and the center of his staff into Cat's chest. Cat flew backward, his feet scrambling for ground but to no avail. He sprawled onto his back, and in a daze, he blinked at the sky. His ears rang, and he tasted blood.

Cat wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, grabbed his staff, and tried to stand. He had been beaten soundly, and as he gained his feet, he found himself shaking. But it was not from fatigue. Rage boiled up inside of Cat such that every breath felt hot in his nostrils. Energy surged into his muscles, and his heart raced. He approached Dmitri with singular purpose.

Dmitri did not know Cat, did not recognize the intensity of Cat's glare. Thinking the battle was over, Dmitri dropped his guard. Cat lunged and cracked his staff against Dmitri's left wrist. Dmitri dropped his weapon, clutched his hand, and began to backpedal.

“Cat, NO!” shouted Father Brun. But Cat heard nothing but the thunderous cadence of his own heart. Cat slammed Dmitri's right shoulder. Then he spun and drove the end of his staff into Dmitri's gut. Dmitri doubled over, and Cat went to finish him off. He raised his quarterstaff high and brought it crashing toward Dmitri's head. But a dark staff caught the blow and flung it away.

It was Father Brun. Quickly, he stepped between Dmitri and Cat. His eyes glinted as he stared at Cat. “What's the matter with you?” he shouted. He took a step toward Cat.

“No!” said Dmitri as he stood. He grabbed his own staff back from Father Brun and gestured for him to stand aside. “The lesson is not complete.”

Father Brun reluctantly moved, but stood ready to intervene. Dmitri glared at Cat. Cat wanted to look away, but found he could not. “Is that the man you are?” Dmitri asked. He held up his staff and then cast it aside. “I am unarmed, you see? Would you like to strike me again?”

Cat's lips thinned. He swallowed, and all at once the rage drained away and he felt empty . . . and ashamed. He threw away his staff and sprinted back across the courtyard. He ran clumsily up a flight of steps, half stumbling as he reached the top. He raced back to his chamber and slammed the door shut behind him.

Cat turned and saw the mirror. He'd meant several times to ask one of the Brethren to remove it—to make his room as austere as their own, but the almost constant training had pushed the mirror from his mind. Until now. Now, it taunted him . . . drew him with the treacherous gravity one feels looking over the edge from some great height. Despondently, he drew near and gazed at himself in the glass.

Blue eyes, gleaming intensely beneath thickening brows, high angular cheekbones sliced by sideburns, a narrow tapering nose, and thin frowning lips—in all but the hair, the visage of his father.

“I . . . I am just like him,” Cat whispered. Bartholomew Thorne's cruel image lingered like a scornful ghost. Cat wished he'd never remembered his father's face, his sickening voice, his heinous deeds. And worse yet were the newest memories to return, the ones concerning Cat himself. A horrifying image from the island of Roseau flickered in his mind. “NOOOOO!!” In a rage, Cat picked up a chair and flung it. The mirror shattered, scattering shards of glass all over the room.

Cat fell to his knees and grabbed a jagged knifelike piece of the mirror that lay nearby. He clutched it so hard the glass bit into the flesh of his palm. He dropped the shard and looked at the blood glistening on his hand. Cat wondered at the irony and felt the cold finger of fear on his spine.
Blood on my hands. If only I could remember.

2
THE SEA WOLF GOES HUNTING

T
hat's Cutlass Jack Bonnet, or I'm an eel,” said Declan Ross, handing the spyglass to Stede.

“Uh-huh . . .” The quartermaster of the
Robert Bruce
nodded. “Him b' the only pirate this side of the Barbary Coast sailing a xebec. Him b' calling it the
Banshee
.”

“Quicker than a sloop,” said Anne, who stood at their side. “But not quicker than the
Bruce
, right, Da?”

“Yes,” he said with a smile that conveyed a mixture of pride and affection for his daughter and her love of ships. Then he shouted, “Mister Hack, more sail!”

“Aye, sir!” called the musical voice of the ship's new master carpenter from some unseen nook on the main deck. A huge, square sail dropped down on the mainmast and filled with wind. The
Bruce
, a formidable Portuguese man-of-war with three masts loaded with square sails, lurched forward and gained on the smaller
Banshee
. Cutlass Jack's sleek xebec had three long shark-fin sails that allowed it to outrun or outmaneuver most vessels, but even with a gale wind it could not escape. The two ships raced along the northern coast of South America.

“That's more like it!” Ross bellowed.
This is going to be fun
, he thought. In the lean years, long before Ross and his crew found their fortune on the Isle of Swords, Cutlass Jack had beaten Ross to a plunder of silver and smoked meat—and this when Ross's crew hadn't eaten for a week. Ross still wasn't sure how Bonnet had gotten there first. But he couldn't wait to see the look on his one-time rival's face when he . . . Ross's smile disappeared. “He's making to lose us around that bend!” Ross pointed at a tall fist of rock that jutted out into the sea.

“No, Cap'n, him won't,” said Stede. “We'll catch the rascal just after him b' making the turn.”

Ross took back the spyglass. The
Banshee
still had a half mile to the bend. “Jacques, ready a few of the portside cannons!”