Isle of Swords

  Thorne waited longer than any man could possibly hold his breath. His eyebrows lowered. He turned from the water and looked at the crew. “Five hundred pieces of eight for the man who brings me the key!” Thorne looked first at Skellick.

  “What?” said Skellick, clinging to the ship’s wheel. “I can barely swim.”

  Thorne started to growl, but turned when he heard three splashes. “It’s Oliver!” cried one of the crewmen. “Christopher and Douglass too!”

  The men crowded the rail and watched bubbles form three foamy rings on the water’s surface. Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours, and still they watched the water for any sign. “Look!” someone yelled. They all turned. Forty yards from the bow, a large irregularly shaped blotch of foam appeared on the surface. And swirling beneath the foam like a gigantic submerged rose was a massive plume of blood.

  “Apparently,” Thorne said, “the priest knew what he was talking about. Your turn, Anne.”

  Anne crossed her arms defiantly. “I won’t do it. You kill me, and you’ll never get your key.”

  Thorne looked amused. “I predicted you’d say as much. Stupid girl. Mister Flagg is very imaginative. If I must turn you over to him to be persuaded, I think you might find there are some agonies worse than death.” He watched Anne shrivel as she thought about the possibilities. “And I promise you, Anne, if you fail me here, I will hunt your father down, him and the rest of his crew, and string their entrails across the entire Caribbean.”

  Anne knew she could not win. One way or the other, she knew Thorne would kill her. But if she could get the key, at least she had a chance. Slowly, she climbed up on the rail. Anne took several breaths, inhaling and exhaling longer each time. She wanted slower, more even breaths. Anne had done a fair amount of diving in the islands, mostly to retrieve hunks of coral that she could carve. She hoped her previous experiences would keep her alive here.

  She held her next breath and dove into the water. Her momentum carried her far beneath the surface, and as she slowed, she opened her eyes and began to kick. The dark shadow of the Raven’s hull loomed on her right, and a faint pale glow beneath her must have been the sandy floor. She swam rhythmically, not rushing, not panicking. She needed to pace herself if the breath would la— The heel of her right foot had struck something. She spat out half of her air, turned, and looked frantically behind her. She saw nothing, just the deep blue of the sea and the shadow of the ship. She regained her composure. It could have been a fish, a piece of seaweed . . . anything at all. She swam deeper, pinching her nose a couple of times and blowing to depressurize her ears. The stale air in her lungs began to burn, and she had to suppress the panic. Thorne had said the key was encased in wax and held within a stone chest.

  As she neared the soft sandy bottom, she found large sea rocks, a few massive patches of brain coral, and old timber from a long-submerged wreck. She was about to give up and return to the surface when she spotted something on the seafloor to her far right. She swam toward it, and it grew darker.

  Her lungs were fairly screaming at this point, but she pushed herself on. The vision was still cloudy, but as she grew near, she realized there were large stone rings on the seafloor. The gigantic rings coiled one on top of the other, and there in the center was the stone chest. Thorne didn’t say anything about stone rings. Feeling confused and somewhat disoriented, Anne swam toward the chest.

  She found the lid was on tight, but once lifted, slid easily off. She saw a square glob of white. When she touched it, she realized it was the wax case. It dangled upward, anchored by a hook embedded in its side.

  Anne yanked out the hook, grabbed the wax case, planted her feet on the ocean floor, and pushed off with all her might. Her mind felt muddled, and she began to see little flickers of light. Some corner of her awareness recognized that as she lunged away from the chest, the dark rings slowly uncoiled.

  Anne found herself being hauled carefully onto the deck of the Raven.

  “Well done, Anne!” Bartholomew Thorne cried, holding up the wax case. Anne blinked. Mr. Flagg put something with a sharp smell under her nose, and her eyes opened wide.

  Thorne took out a dagger and stabbed it into the wax. A few moments later, he had a dark iron key in his hand. “This, gentlemen,” he said to the crew, “is the beginning of a new life for us all!”

  The crew whooped and cheered. Someone helped Anne to her feet and put a blanket around her shoulders.

  Thorne laughed aloud as he slid the key into the pocket of his coat. “Fetch me my Viking horn, Mister Skellick!” he said. “We’ll launch the longboats. Once we’re ashore, I want you to take the ship. Lead the others into hiding among those coves. I am not expecting any company, but I don’t want our unmanned ships lying in the open.”

  “Aye, Captain Thorne,” said Skellick. He disappeared below and returned a moment later with a long, curved white horn. It had gold bands at the narrow blowing end, as well as at the wide opening.

  “Ah! I feel like a Viking!” Thorne reveled. “After all, they were the first pirates!” He grinned at Anne and gave a long blast on the horn. It made Anne’s ears ring and echoed off the cliff walls.

  “I will wait for your signal and come quickly,” said Skellick.

  Thorne grabbed Anne’s wrist, sending a bolt of pain shooting up her arm. “Now, Anne,” he said, “it is time to plunder the Treasure of Constantine!”

  43

  THE WATCHER

  When the Bruce arrived at the shards, the wreckage of Thorne’s destroyed ships had burned itself out and slid beneath the water. “I can’t believe it!” Declan Ross exclaimed from the quarterdeck.

  “Where is he?”

  “There are only two possibilities,” said Ramiro. “Either we beat him here or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or, he’s already come and gone.”

  Ross’s shoulders fell.

  “If the ships Caiman saw off Cape Verde b’ Thorne’s fleet, the mon has not had time to b’ here, load the treasure, and scoot back off,” Stede said.

  Ross shook his head. “He had a good five hours on us at least. I don’t see how we could have beat him here.”

  “Unless the monk deceived that outrageous pirate!” said Stede hopefully. “Mayb’ Thorne b’ still sailin’ around the North Atlantic looking for the island!”

  It was possible that Padre Dominguez had misled Thorne. Ross couldn’t be sure. One other thought had occurred to him as well, but it grieved him to consider it. The waves in the deadly crosscurrent could have claimed Thorne’s life. But that would most likely mean that Anne was gone as well.

  “Too many possibilities,” said Ross. “And they’re all out of our control. We will sail through the shards and dive for the key. Then we’ll know.”

  Stede had guided the Bruce through the shards without mishap. They dropped anchor as far inland as they dared to go. “I’ve got pure intentions!” Ramiro said indignantly. “I should be the one to dive.”

  “Aw, yer too old,” said Red Eye. “I’ll go.”

  “Right,” said Midge with a cough. “’Ave you ever had noble intentions?”

  There was general laughter. But Captain Ross said, “I am the captain of this ship. I have led you into peril. But I will not ask any of you to do this task. Padre Dominguez said that the key is encased in a stone like any other, that he alone knew what to look for. I will dive and see if my knowledge of the sea is as vast as it should be!”

  “But,” said Cat, standing rapidly on the rail, “this ship needs its captain!” And before anyone could stop him, Cat dove into the water.

  “I’ll go after him,” said Red Eye.

  “No,” Ross ordered. “No. We will wait.”

  As soon as he hit the water, Cat knew something was wrong. He’d dived close to the ship and begun kicking too soon. He felt a pinch on his ankle and knew he’d slashed it pretty deeply on a barnacle.

  Still, he kicked and swam down, down, almost to the ocean floor.

 
His breath already beginning to thin in his lungs, Cat searched among the sea rocks and debris but found nothing.

  From his perch in the crow’s-nest, Midge cried out, “Captain, off the port rail!”

  Ross and the others ran across the deck. There, not fifty yards away, three dark fins closed in on the ship. “Sharks,” Ross whispered.

  “The devils,” said Red Eye, and he drew pistols from his bandolier and opened fire. Others did as well. But Ross yelled, “Stop!

  You might hit Cat!”

  They immediately stopped firing. Midge suddenly let out a high-pitched screech. “What was that, Midge?” Ross said. He’d never heard such a sound come from a man.

  Midge jumped up and down in the crow’s-nest, pointing at the surface. “The water!” he cried. “A shadow . . . a shadow in the depths!”

  Cat saw it, just yards away in a great wide-open area of seafloor. It wasn’t a sea rock at all, but a huge stone chest. A bloody cloud trailing behind him, he swam for the chest. As he closed in, he choked out a mouthful of air. The lid to the chest had been thrown aside.

  He swam up to it, reached in, and felt frantically about. He found a hook. There was a small hunk of something soft on it, but no sign of a key. Cat felt a presence and looked up.

  Three large sharks—dark on top, white beneath—raced toward Cat with alarming speed. Cat planted his feet on the chest and pushed off, dispelling most of his remaining air. He expected to feel the sharks’ jaws clamp down on his ankle, but the water all around him surged rapidly as if an unseen current had just begun to stream through. Cat turned to look behind him, just as one of the sharks raced forward. Cat strained to see. Something huge was behind the shark. Jaws the size of a small ship’s hull crashed shut upon the shark, and the shark was gone. Gigantic claws stretched out from the darkness. They grabbed the other two sharks, constricted, and released. The sharks floated slowly out from the claws but made no motion to swim.

  Cat blasted out the rest of his air and clawed for the surface.

  Through the bubbles and the graying fringes of his vision, Cat saw an enormous webbed fin and luminous yellow eyes.

  “Lad, open yer eyes.” It was Nubby . . . and half the crew.

  Cat sat up quickly. “Monster . . .” He coughed.

  “What?” said Ross.

  “Something down there,” Cat said.

  “Sharks,” Red Eye whispered.

  “No . . . something else.”

  Ross squinted. “What about the key? Did you find it?”

  Cat shook his head. “It wasn’t in a rock at all. There was a stone chest.”

  Ross thought of Padre Dominguez’s story. “That son of a gun.”

  “The key, it was gone!”

  “Thorne has been here already,” said Jacques St. Pierre. “But how could he have done it so quickly?”

  “I don’t know,” Ross said. “But I’m not leaving the Isle of Swords until I’m sure. If Thorne is here, perhaps Anne is too. Stede, get the men ready to go ashore. Red Eye, make sure every man is armed to the teeth. Swords, pistols, daggers, grenades—everything.”

  “Aye, sir!” Red Eye sped off with a spring in his step.

  “Jacques, did you finish that special barrel I asked for?” Ross asked.

  “Absolument!” he replied. “Light the fuse and let it fly. There will be enough smoke to see it for miles.”

  “Good.” Ross turned to Ramiro. “You will have the helm. I will leave you with enough men to move the ship, but nothing more.”

  “As you wish,” said the old shipwright. “I will take care of the ship as if it were mine—which, of course, it is.”

  Ross patted him on the back. “Once we are on land, sail the Bruce to the base of the cliff beneath the castle. I don’t know how long it will be or what we will find when we get up there. But when you see the smoking barrel, be ready to receive cargo!”

  “Midge, make sure we have the rope and the baskets.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “Oh, and get the barrel of monkey pee. We can’t forget that!”

  “Awww, Cap’n!”

  44

  THE RED TRAIL

  Declan Ross watched the Bruce come about and sail beneath the cliff. Smart, he thought. Ramiro had let the ship coast behind an outcropping, a sort of root at the base of the rockface. Ross couldn’t see the ship at all from the shore. They formed three teams of twenty men. Some carried rope. Some carried woven baskets. All of them carried weapons. And Jacques St. Pierre and Midge each carried a barrel.

  “Declan, look,” said Stede. “Footprints.”

  “And not very old,” said Ross. “Let’s go.” They had about thirty yards of easy footing as they marched across the narrow shore. But after that the ground became rocky and uneven. As they clambered up, they found long-cooled lava deposits and marveled at their size. Every few moments, the volcano rumbled. Midge cringed looking up at the smoking mountain. “You don’t think it’s goin’ to go off, do you?”

  “Nah, mon,” said Stede. “Those lil’ rumbles b’ just the mountain lettin’ us know it’s here.”

  Still, the crew marched on warily. After an hour’s uphill journey, they came to an area where they could climb no farther. There was no place to go . . .

  But in.

  In the side of the rockface, a wide cavelike entrance beckoned.

  “Okay, men,” announced Ross, “it’s time.” Midge came forward reluctantly and popped the top off his barrel.

  “Oh, that is horrendous!” bellowed Jules, who stood near Midge.

  “Yes, but that’s what keeps the wee beasties away,” said Ross.

  “Padre Dominguez said we need to rub it on every area of exposed skin.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Red Eye. “I’m not putting that on.”

  “It’s an order!” said Ross, and, being the captain, he went to the barrel first, put his hand in, and brought out a dripping fistful of the rancid liquid. In all of his years of commanding a crew, Ross had never heard so many complaints. In truth, he would have complained too, but he was the captain. A distant part of him wondered if Padre Dominguez had made this part up . . . some sort of practical joke.

  A reeking, griping lot, the crew of the Bruce entered the tunnel.

  And in the closed space of the tunnel, it was ripe indeed. Four crewmen in all—including Red Eye and Caiman—found a way to slip by without putting on the potent primate perfume. The sunlight ended almost immediately, and the men lit small lanterns. The walls became smooth, almost glassy, and the footing was fairly even. As they traveled on, they began to notice pockmarks and holes in the walls. Some of these were only an inch or two deep, but others went as far in as the men could see with the lantern light.

  “What do you suppose these creatures are?” Cat asked.

  “Mayb’ some kind of bat,” said Stede. “But I’ve never heard of a bat that’s drawn to the heat of the body.”

  Jacques St. Pierre laughed. “And how in the world did the monk know that monkey pee would keep these—these things away?”

  “It’s keeping me away!” said Red Eye. “You gentlemen smell right horrible!”

  “STOP!!” Ross shouted from the front of their line. He leaned over and held out his lantern to get a better look. The others gathered behind the captain, nearly pushing him over in their effort to see.

  “What do you see?” whispered Jacques.

  “Blood,” he replied. “And lots of it.” They looked on the stone floor and saw a wide splash of blood. Several spatters led up the tunnel.

  “That is fresh blood,” whispered Stede. “Footprints on the sand.

  Fresh blood. They still b’ here.”

  The trail of blood spatters was inconsistent for the next forty feet. There were other large puddles, even splashes on the walls in some places. But in other spots, no blood at all. Farther still, and they found side tunnels shooting off from the main. These were smaller, perhaps large enough for a man, if he crawled. The concentration of
blood was heaviest around these smaller side tunnels, and the crew gave them a wide berth whenever they found one.

  “What’s that sound?” Cat asked. Everyone froze.

  “I don’t hear anything,” said Jules.

  “Nor I,” said Ross. “Wait.” Then he heard it. A short, high-pitched whistle.

  “Where’s that coming from?” Cat asked. No one answered. They heard it again, many times more. Many at the same time. “It’s all around. It’s getting louder.”

  “Daggers, men,” Ross ordered. “Give yourselves a little room.”

  Metallic rings filled the tunnel, joining the strange whistling. All sixty men spread out. The men with lanterns held them high so all could see. The whistles grew even louder and more frenzied.

  Suddenly, the tunnel filled with the sound of flapping, but there was nothing in the air near the roof of the tunnel. “Ah!” St. Pierre exclaimed. “Something just ran across my foot!”

  “Ahhhh, get them off!” Caiman cried out. Cat ran toward the sound of his voice. He stepped on several things that squished. The lanterns were being swung about as the men stabbed their daggers into the darkness. In the swaying light, Cat saw things darting across the floor and leaping out of the holes on the wall. They were stark white and fast, whatever they were. “Ahh, they are eating me!”

  Caiman was in agony. “Help! I didn’t use the monkey—ahhhghh!

  Where’s that barrel?!”

  Cat grabbed a lantern out of another man’s hand and ran on. He found Caiman near the end of the line. White creatures the size of rats were all over him. Cat flashed his dagger and cut at the creatures.

  Pieces of them fell away, but their heads remained somehow attached to Caiman’s skin. “Midge!” Cat screamed. “Midge, where are you?”

  “Ahhhh48” Caiman thrashed about. One after the other, he tore them from his body, but their teeth and jaws stayed clamped to his skin. Screams echoed from up ahead.

  Cat continued to cut. “Midge!!”