Isle of Fire (32 page)

“What?”

“Even if this is a way out, the tide's come over the island by now.” Anne's eyebrows bunched. “If I open the hatch, the water will wash us back down the tube.”

“The island can't be that far under,” Cat said with little conviction. “We've got to try.”

They stared at each other for a moment then, and it seemed to each that so many things were spoken in that glance: respect, fear, regret, and . . . farewell. Then Anne put a foot into Cat's hands and leaped up for the bottom wrung. She lithely pulled herself up and grabbed each consecutive handhold until she had made room for Cat to ascend beneath her. But then she heard something that chilled her blood. “He's here,” Cat said.

“Yessss, I am here,” came another voice.

Anne looked down and saw Cat staring forward. He was unarmed. “Cat!!”

The Merchant advanced on Cat and lifted his dagger. Cat had nowhere to go. Some part of his awareness heard Anne say, “Catch!” Suddenly, Anne's cutlass fell right into Cat's hand.

Cat lunged at the Merchant's chest and might have stabbed him through the heart, but the Merchant jerked sideways. Cat's sword sawed across the Merchant's dagger. Cat went swiftly back to the attack. He grew increasingly frustrated, for even though his cutlass was the superior weapon, he could not get to the Merchant. They fought back and forth beneath the opening.

Cat glanced upward just a moment and saw Anne descending. “No!” he yelled. “Don't you come down here, Anne! Don't you do it!” She took one more hesitant step down. “ANNE!!” Cat yelled in desperation. At last, she reversed course and began to climb up the tunnel.

“Drop your weapon, boy,” hissed the Merchant.

Cat turned on the Merchant with a ferocity he'd not shown before. Now, the fear was gone, replaced by reckless rage. And Cat's first strike was a wheeling wide stroke made heavy by the lunge of his legs, the turn of his trunk, and the snap of his wrist. The Merchant caught the blow with the dagger at chest level, but he couldn't absorb the force and staggered backward toward the entrance to the chamber. Cat pressed his new advantage and drove his cutlass at the Merchant's throat. In so doing, Cat left himself off balance. The Merchant slipped away from Cat's killing thrust and lifted a solid kick into Cat's ribs. Cat stumbled backward, coughing, gasping for air.

“Cat!” Anne screamed, but her voice was distant.

Good
, Cat thought.
Get out while you can.

The Merchant took advantage of Cat's distraction and stepped backward out of the chamber. “You have made this very difficult,” he said, and his voice trailed off. The iron chamber door began to shut. “Pity for your friend.” Cat charged the door only to see it clamp shut in his face. He heard one more word through the door: “Pity . . .”

Suddenly, huge vents in the sides of the chamber burst open, and torrents of seawater gushed into the small room. The surge knocked Cat backward again and he fell into the water that was already boot deep and rising. By the time he struggled to his feet, it had risen to his waist. He slowly waded to the center of the room, directly beneath the tunnel. He tried to leap up to grab the wrung. Again and again he tried to no avail. “Anne!” he shouted, but only once. He did not want to risk Anne's life.

Anne was nearly to the top of the tunnel. She could see the hatch, a gray disk ten feet above. But she heard a grinding of metal from somewhere behind the tunnel walls and then a great roar. She looked down, but couldn't tell what was happening far below. Then she heard him call for her.

Anne had listened to Cat's desperate plea for her to go on. But now, even so close to the top, she had to go back for him. Her boots nearly slipping from the rungs, she descended. Then she saw that the chamber below was filling quickly with water. And there was Cat, standing chest deep in the water and looking up at her with eyes strangely dark and sad.

Anne uttered a muffled cry and tried to descend the last dozen rungs, but three valves in the side of the tunnel beneath her erupted. Pressurized water blasted out. She saw it pour like a greenish wave down onto Cat until she could see him no longer. Knowing it probably meant certain death, Anne let go of the rungs and let herself plunge downward.

Anne found herself submerged completely in water and darkness, but she wasn't sinking. Her momentum had reversed, and she felt her body being propelled upward in the narrow tunnel. Her speed increased. She stifled a scream, trying desperately to keep her breath. She realized suddenly that if she didn't slow her ascent, she would slam into the iron bulkhead door at the top. She began to flail, trying in vain to grasp one of the rungs and slow herself down. The back of her wrist struck one of the iron rungs, and the pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder. She struggled to lift her arms over her head and succeeded for a heartbeat before hitting the iron door.

This time, she did scream. The stale air blasted from her mouth until she somehow cut it off. Agony radiated from her elbows all the way to her heart. But the pain was fortunate. It kept her from blacking out. With precious little air left in her already burning lungs, Anne felt above her head for a latch or a catch. There was none. She pounded on the iron of the door and tried to push it open. It did not move. At last she was able to put her feet on the highest rungs, and using the strength of her legs, she tried once more to budge the door. She felt the tiniest give. It moved just slightly but fell immediately back into place.

Sharp pain lanced through her chest. She was suffocating and would soon lose consciousness and drown. She pushed lamely on the door for a few moments more and then gave up.

My knife!
New energy surging in her veins, Anne reached down into her boot, found the handle, and withdrew the small blade. Feeling with one hand, she guided the tip into the small crack between the top of the tunnel and the door. She guessed that any latch would be on the side of the tunnel where the rungs were and began to poke and prod with the knife. She felt a small but definite resistance and pressed the blade hard against it. Something moved, and with one final urgent push, Anne threw open the door and surged out of the tunnel.

But her air was long gone and she was still underwater—how deep, she did not know. She kicked her legs and clawed wildly at the water. She broke through the surface and flailed frantically before she realized that her lungs were filling with new air. She found herself under a dark, star-studded sky. She waved her arms back and forth to keep herself afloat—like her father had shown her all those years ago.

Anne turned round and round and saw nothing but the dark sea. Father Brun was gone. The ships were gone. Then she remembered Cat's sad eyes, and she began to weep. Hard, gut-wrenching sobs followed, driven forth by a hollow ache that she felt would never cease.

Something bumped at the bottom of her boot, and she jerked her leg up. Anne's tears ceased, and her skin prickled. There was no place to go. She was alone . . . totally and completely alone.

22
ONSLAUGHT OF THE BERSERKERS

I
hoped you would come,” said Hrothgar. He and Bartholomew Thorne sat in the Raukar's war room, a vast chamber full of weapons, armor, and tapestries depicting great battles. Thorne noticed that much of the room was coated in dust.

“You are the Lord of the Raukar,” said Thorne. “And the tenor of your summons piqued my interest.”

“I thought it might,” said Hrothgar. “But I must confess this meeting was at Lady Fleur's request.”

“Lady Fleur?” Thorne was immediately suspicious.

“Yes,” Hrothgar replied. The long red curtains behind his chair rippled though the air was still. “Do not judge her harshly. She is overly wary of those who claim to be of pureblood, for others have failed her before. In fact, it is because of such betrayal that she brings this request.”

“My brother,” said Lady Fleur as she appeared from behind the curtains, “forsook the ways of the Raukar and mingled shame with the blood of conquerors.”

Thorne stood as she entered, hoping to thaw the ice between them. “How does this concern me, Lady of the Raukar?”

“You are one of us now,” she replied. “Our fight is your fight.”

“His name was Ulf,” said Hrothgar. “Once as true a warrior as Guthrum or myself. But on one of his trading ventures, Ulf befriended a Christian man. Ulf changed then . . . an inexplicable change. He came before the council one night and renounced our gods in favor of the Christian deity. Then he, his wife, and several of his best friends sailed to Västervik on the Swedish mainland.”

“Even now,” Lady Fleur added, “some of the Raukar forsake our ways and flee to my brother Ulf. We have lost several of our finest craftsmen . . . and even some brilliant warriors.”

Thorne's eyes narrowed, and he stroked his knifelike silver sideburns. “You want to conquer Västervik,” Thorne concluded.

“Not conquer it,” said Lady Fleur. “I want to burn Västervik to the ground and wipe it from the face of the earth. And I want Hrothgar to plant a banner of Tyr in the ashes of their Christian church.”

“We will test the eldregn on that city,” said Hrothgar. “We will wear down their defenses with the fire rain. And then we will unleash the Berserkers.”

“Berserkers?” This surprised even Thorne. “The practice of turning men into Berserkers was outlawed six hundred—”

“Outlawed by an outlander,” said Lady Fleur. “We do not honor their paper decrees.”

“We have one hundred such men . . . men more fearsome than Bjorn whom you defeated,” said Hrothgar. “The Berserkers are the pride of Raukar, a special breed . . . brutally strong and utterly fearless.”

Thorne was intrigued. In truth, he very much wanted a trial run with his new fleet and his new weapon. And . . . such an invasion offered a possible solution to a problem he'd been pondering for a long while.
Yes
, he thought.
In the chaos of battle, there will be opportunity
enough.
But he must not seem too eager. “How long will this take?” Thorne asked. “For we must be mindful of our true objective.”

“There will be time for the British,” said Hrothgar. “Västervik will require no more than three days.”

“When do you wish to sail?”

“Tomorrow at sundown,” Hrothgar answered.

Less than a third of the Raukar fleet, twenty ships in all, left Gotland and sailed into the red setting sun before turning north for Västervik. The winds were steady, if not strong.

Bartholomew Thorne was not at the helm of the
Raven's
Revenge
. Teach had the wheel, and he was more than capable. Thorne was alone in his quarters . . . and yet not alone. The time had come.

The painting had arrived two days earlier. Thorne had had an artisan mount it on the wall across from his desk and cover it, but Thorne had not yet removed the cloth to appraise its quality. Thorne felt sure it would be good. Noldi, the old Raukar artisan who had painted the portrait, had a reputation of being supremely talented. Thorne had spent hours with the man, describing every detail, and his original sketch had been quite breathtaking. Still, Thorne was nervous. Would the painting capture her beauty? Would it capture her fire? Would it . . . bring her back?

With a tremor in his hand, Thorne loosened the linen covering and let it drop away from the portrait. A blast of air rushed from his lips. His mouth remained open wide as he stepped away from the painting. “Heather,” he gasped. It was no likeness. It was her. Pale, heart-shaped face, crimson hair that shone like fire in the hot Caribbean sun, and those fierce, deep-green eyes—Heather.

He backed slowly to his desk and sat down. “My wife,” he whispered. “How I have longed to look upon your face again.”

The cabin was silent. No sound from the wind. No sound from the ocean. Except for the slow roll of the ship, no one would have even known they were in motion. Thorne stared at the painting and waited.