by Raelle Logan
Striding to the circle known as the spear, Lochlanaire saw no one.
Thorn suddenly swaggered alongside a tall rock pillar, leering. But just as he was about to raise his pistol, Zore strolled into the ring directly behind Lochlanaire. The two stood together in an obvious alliance of defiance. Thorn realized he’d been tricked. “You swore to meet only me, Lochlanaire,” Thorn scolded.
“No. No, I distinctly said we would meet at dawn, Thorn. I never said I’d be alone.”
“You despise Lochlanaire as much as I, Zore. Why not ally with me and we’ll cut Lochlanaire down together,” Thorn asked of Zore, hopeful to tip the debauchery in his favor.
Zore cackled. “No, Thorn. Lochlanaire lives. He’s my captive. He’s sacrificin’ himself to save Shevaun. I’m just here to witness your duel.”
“Liar. You’re here to arrest the treasure,” Thorn damned.
Before Thorn could speak of the Royal as being the treasure Zore pursued, Lochlanaire shattered their conversation, “Are you going to fight me, Thorn, or just chatter with Zore?”
“My name is Wolf, Lochlanaire, and yes, I’m here to hack you to pieces.” Drawing his sword along its scabbard, Thorn confronted Lochlanaire, though his crazed eyes flicked to Zore. He suspected that Zore might oppose the battle.
Lochlanaire flipped his cloak backwards and rose his sword, pointing it at Thorn, grinning. Thorn swiped his sun-splashed weapon, and their sharp blades clanged, sparks flew. Afar, Zore bore witness to his brothers’ battle. As Lochlanaire lunged his blade, crossing toward the heavens, Thorn shifted, daring to slice Lochlanaire’s chest. Ere Thorn could conquer with his deadly blow, Zore shot Thorn, slicing his throat. Blood surged with Thorn’s demented screech. Outraged, Thorn clenched his pistol and fired, shooting Lochlanaire’s shoulder, bolting him to stagger and drop his sword. Aynore split the stones and shot Thorn in his side, for she and Siren crossed into the spear, having rowed ashore, desperate to end the duel.
Zore wrestled with Lochlanaire, jerking him to stand. He lanced downward the pistol Lochlanaire grappled to raise against him. The weapon was thrown to the sand and never shot. Zore challenged Aynore, who clenched her spent, smoking pistol, realizing her folly. She couldn’t shoot Zore and liberate Lochlanaire from his brother’s betrayal.
Pain infused his body, Lochlanaire stuttered, “Shevaun…release…Shevaun.”
Zore whistled. Shevaun was presented, for she’d been sheltered behind a godly tall spire. At Zore’s approval, the pirate restraining her arm freed her. Shevaun ran to Siren, but Siren’s teary eyes remained spellbound by Lochlanaire’s. He floundered just to stand and blood stained his shirt.
Thorn gasped for his breath, flopped on his knees and groped for his sword. Furiously, he threw the weapon, slitting the air. Zore saw the sword from the corner of his eye and whirled Lochlanaire to confront the weapon. Lochlanaire’s leg was brutally impaled. His feral screech echoed.
Zore wrenched the sword from Lochlanaire’s thigh and threw the blade to whip. It lanced Thorn’s heart. As Thorn clasped the weapon’s bloodying length, he collapsed on the altar stone, his eyes locked over those of the woman he knew deceived him. Sputtering his dying breath, he muttered, “Ayynnoorre…”
Zore faced Siren, Shevaun and Aynore, his knife tip pierced Lochlanaire’s throat. He began to step backward. Zore availed of his prey for protection. “Sail after me, Aynore, and Lochlanaire’s dead. I promise.”
“Zore, please. I beg for Lochlanaire’s life,” Siren beseeched.
Zore counseled, “We garnered an accord, Siren. Lochlanaire’s life is mine. Run while you can.”
Siren screamed for Lochlanaire and fell on her knees, agonized.
Lochlanaire was dragged away. Zore’s mischievous laughter defiled the breeze.
Aynore hunched next to Siren, who sobbed. “We sail, Siren. Once Zore heaves anchor and is long away to sight, we sail. You must thread together the pieces of your love for Lochlanaire, and we’ll save him. Come, you’ve a ship to captain. The Royal is yours.”
“How, Aynore, can we save Lochlanaire, tell me this? He’s imprisoned in the stranglehold of a demon who wants nothing more than to spill his blood. How do we spare my husband’s life?”
“Zore sails to England, Siren. He schemes to relinquish Lochlanaire to the entrapment of viciousness endowed by King William’s noose. We’ll barter for Lochlanaire’s life. You’ll see. He’ll be spared,” consoled Aynore.
“Will he survive the wounds Thorn inflicted?”
“Lochlanaire’s a titan assassin. He’s survived worse and his desperation for you empowers. Come.”
Siren swiped the tears away and stood. Soothed by the comforting arms of Aynore and Shevaun, Siren took one step and then another, strengthening her miserable soul. Valor fired. She peered upon the regal, gold-glistening Royal that awaited her rule.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Captain Siren
In sailing from Satan’s Labyrinth, Zore tended Lochlanaire’s oozing wounds but meagerly. He cared little if his brother died from the loss of blood or infection. Below decks, as a dog doomed to death, Lochlanaire was shackled by his brother in irons that rubbed his ankles, throat and wrists raw. Zore refused to lose his prey should he somehow free himself. Bonny England awaited. It was time for Lochlanaire to hang.
Aboard the Vengeance’s bridge, Zore currently stood, his spyglass surveying the seas for any daring pirate ships, which might affront. In his sights, he did not see the Ranger or the Royal, smiling with his deviousness. Sadly, he couldn’t be certain that Grayson did not lurk in wait somewhere aboard Satan’s Victory. He ordered his men alert and heavily armed.
Meanwhile…
Aboard the Royal, Siren felt immeasurable relief, for Satan’s Victory sailed into the ships’ sights with Grayson standing as the ship’s captain, just as they were about to cast sail from Satan’s Labyrinth. Although, she desperately wished that he’d arrived earlier. Perhaps then they could have spared Lochlanaire and seized Zore’s life. Now, Grayson rowed his longboat to the Royal. He boarded the ship and strode straight to her. Siren knew she must explain everything to him. She longed for a reprieve.
“Where is Lochlanaire?” Grayson asked, uneasy, for his brother remained fretfully absent.
Siren pitched her attention to the men awaiting her command and yelled, “Drag aboard the longboat. Slice the anchor. Away the sails.”
“What the devil? You’re captain?”
Siren pondered Grayson. “Lochlanaire was wounded by Thorn in a duel and is now prisoner aboard Zore’s ship. He’s sailed for Britain. Aynore and I sail for the island ourselves. I presume you will desire to follow, or else you must jump ship, for we’re departing this moment, Grayson.”
“Wait…Lochlanaire is Zore’s captive?”
“Yes. Lochlanaire sacrificed himself to Zore in an accord. Zore promised to release Shevaun once Thorn died, which Zore did. Unfortunately, Zore imprisoned Lochlanaire aboard his ship and we couldn’t oppose him. Zore plots to surrender Lochlanaire to King William, swearing to the bloody monarch that Lochlanaire killed me in treason as he sought King James II’s treasure. Zore is utterly unaware that the treasure is actually this ship I presently sail.”
“All of your words are certain?”
“Yes. Shevaun affirms Zore’s deceit. He confided in her. Lochlanaire assumed that Zore would want him alive so he could witness his death at King William’s command. Zore schemes to receive all of the reward Lochlanaire was to obtain after my relinquishment to the king,” gravely professed Siren.
Grayson waved to the men aboard Satan’s Victory, giving them the signal to pursue the Ranger and the Royal. “You bear no expertise in sailin’ a ship, Siren.”
“And such is why I’m begging you to stand as my quartermaster. Please, Grayson, I require your skill. The men aboard Satan’s Victory are surely seasoned sufficiently for you to assist me until we reach England.”
Grayson considered and then nodded. “Aye. I accept.�
�� He mulled further. “Lochlanaire’s injuries?”
Siren turned the tiller in the direction Grayson pointed, for he searched for their bearing on gold gilded instruments. “He was shot in the shoulder and Thorn’s sword pierced his leg.”
“Zore shall pay little heed to his wounds, uncarin’ if Lochlanaire lives or dies. His lifeless body shall be adequate evidence for Zore to achieve his venomous gains.”
Siren fought to assuage her terror at Grayson’s grim description. “Will Lochlanaire survive the wounds, Grayson? Tell me truthfully.”
“It depends on how strong he is and how stubbornly he craves to survive. I believe Lochlanaire’s love for you will strengthen him immensely.”
“His love?”
“You never saw it, Siren. Lochlanaire, however, loves you.”
Tears flooded Siren’s stricken eyes. “I’m terrified that I may never hear those words from him because of Zore’s wickedness.” Siren wished to have confessed of her love for Lochlanaire, horrified that she would never be gifted the day for which to drop to her knees and proclaim her feelings. Forcing herself to captaining the Royal, Siren glanced backward toward the two ships, dipping in her wake. Praying, Siren whispered to herself, “Please, God, spare my love. My life and our child’s depend on Lochlanaire’s survival. My heart cannot beat for a moment without him. Help me save my love.”
Sunlight spread an angelic glow between fluffy clouds and twinkled over the signet Siren wore. The ruby flared blood red, splashing the hand that ensnared the ship’s tiller.
Deviously she smiled. Siren unveiled the answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Treason
The Royal, the Ranger and Satan’s Victory anchored in a cove near the British coast. Months after Zore imprisoned Lochlanaire on the island of Satan’s Labyrinth, the ships lingered out of sight, for they did not want anyone to hear about the Royal’s presence and the precious treasure it had become.
Aboard the Royal, Siren impatiently waited, seeing the four horses drawing a coach arriving from London stalled ashore. Aynore nobly exited from the carriage and sashayed alongside the Royal’s pirates to a beached longboat. The craft immediately rowed to the ship. Siren peered downward from the vessel’s rim upon the woman, hollering to Aynore, “What occurred?” Shevaun halted directly beside Siren, and chastised her sister to be calm, reminding her of her frail condition. Siren had suffered an arduous pregnancy thus far, and the lass was now heavily burdened by Lochlanaire’s babe.
Siren ignored her sister. She swooped on Aynore. “Tell me,” Siren insisted.
Aynore caught her breath as she boarded the ship and said, “An immediate audience is bestowed to you, Siren. Lochlanaire’s been jailed for your death and for his treason as was sworn to the king by Zore. And he, the brutal rogue, has been bequeathed a grand reward for his lies he told, damnin’ Lochlanaire guilty. Zore’s received Lochlanaire’s title, his manor, gold, everything. Lochlanaire’s sentence is death, Siren. I cannot say if you brandish the power to soothe the beast that is this diabolical king. It may be folly to challenge William. You could easily be imprisoned.”
Siren darted to the ship’s edge. “I refuse to allow my husband to die, no matter what wickedness I confront. Grayson, accompany me.” Pleating her regal gown’s hem, Siren cautiously descended the ship’s ladder to the longboat, assisted therein to sit.
Grayson rowed them ashore and to the enclosed carriage that awaited for which to ferry them to the king’s palace in London.
Hours lapsed. The rattling coach arrived at the palace, roaring behind the magnificent stone structure. Siren exited from the stalled carriage and Grayson attended with the beauty’s stern insistence as her guard and chaperone. Wearing a stylish ruby dress that sparkled with gold flecks woven throughout its broadly flared skirt and low-dipping bodice, Siren brushed the skirt and patted her upswept ebony locks. She situated the fan-shaped, diamond-encrusted comb skewering her hair. Siren then proceeded along the imposing palace, escorted to the mirrored, gold-glittery throne room where once Lochlanaire tended the king upon being pardoned months earlier. Entering, with Grayson pacing the chamber as a feral panther, Siren prayed for her deception to ensue in accordance to her longing.
With a flip of his regal purple robes, King William entered the chamber, his rancorous glance skimmed from Grayson to Siren. She approached the throne while the king sat. He pondered them succinctly.
Siren curtsied. At King William’s approving nod and flourish of his hand, she straightened, a princess valiantly challenging his snooty eyes. “I come, Your Majesty, to plead for Lochlanaire Blackheart’s life. I am his wife, Siren Rain Blackheart. I bear his child, so you may attest by my appearance. These parchments announce our legitimate marriage.” She tendered to him the parchments that her bodice concealed.
“I fail to see…”
“If I may be bold, Your Highness, I am the woman you commanded Lochlanaire to hunt and convey to you. I am King James II’s daughter, the daughter borne of an illicit affair he had with my mother, Emerald Aiden Rain. She was a commoner, of whom Lochlanaire as well was ordered to chase and execute.”
“I was given to understand that you were slain at Lochlanaire’s traitorous mutiny. Zore Blackheart enlightened me of his devious treason, for which Lochlanaire is now prisoner and awaits the noose of death. What evidence lies in your grasp which provides proof of your claim that you’re King James II’s true daughter?” Forthrightly, King William recognized the woman the moment he’d walked into the chamber.
“I guard a ring. It is King James II’s ruby signet. I trust it is what you hunt. The ring possesses a carving and reveals a seafaring chart that depicts an island where a treasure is said to be entombed. However, I shall not sacrifice my father’s signet to you until Lochlanaire is freed of his prison and my decree is satisfied,” Siren assured.
“You barter for a rebel’s freedom?”
“Yes. I trust the fortune of King James II significant treasure for Your Majesty to bequest one man’s life. And he is no rebel, Your Majesty. Lochlanaire forfeited his life, wanton to spare me of you so I would not be beheaded.”
King William was insulted by her suggestion that he itched for her death. “You surely do not wage such adulterous words against me. You shall find yourself jailed for sacrilege.”
Siren mischievously smiled. “I think not, Your Highness. My father’s ring is not in my protection presently, and it will not be furnished to you unless I walk from this chamber alive, unharmed and unshackled.” Reaching inside her gown’s throat again, Siren produced a piece of parchment, which depicted the ruby signet but only vaguely detailed. “At Lochlanaire’s freedom, I shall forgo the signet. You will immediately pardon Lochlanaire of all treason, murder, and any other dishonorable desecration he’s said to have wrecked, and will absolve his assassin ties to this kingdom. He and I shall sail from this island’s shores, never to be a burden to you -- that is after you have everything scribed on parchment. I, as well, will never be hunted by you or any man, assassin, or otherwise. I renounce all claim to the crown. Am I understood?”
Procuring no other choice, King William relented. “Agreed. And if I recover no treasure with this chart the signet is said to portray?”
Siren shrugged. “I cannot say if a treasure ever existed. It could be a ruse. Nevertheless, it is the chance you assume when chasing elusive gold.”
King William nodded. “We’ve struck an alliance.”
Siren nodded her agreement. “Have the parchments scribed and bring Lochlanaire to this location.” She offered another parchment sliver. “The signet will be transported to you by messenger once we are far distant of these shores.”
“You distrust me?”
“I possess absolutely no reason to trust you, Cousin.” Siren lurched her head haughtily high and sashayed from the royal chamber.
Grayson grinned and reflected her slipper-clad footfalls.
Peeved, King William shouted for his guard, studying the
parchment painting that illustrated half of the signet’s details, never aware of the treason, which had justly befallen him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Deliverance
Caged in the asylum of Heathgate Castle, Lochlanaire paced, his feral eyes scorned the iron bars surrounding him while lanterns haloed the pit that is the reeking dungeon. Groaning, for the death knell song was struck up freshly by the prisoners, Lochlanaire cursed the torturous chant, knowing it had become a ritual to sing it amid those who are captive. He despised Thorn for his skill to destroy his sanity. He stomped to the cell’s rear wall, craving to crush the memories stabbing his violated soul. Rats shied away from his footsteps.
The sneering guard jingled brass keys along the iron bars, jolting his prisoner to the plaguing moment. He flipped to Lochlanaire the shackles that were linked, a chain dangling between them. The guard’s loaded pistol motioned for Lochlanaire to lock the blood-bathed irons ‘round his dirt-smudged wrists.
“Come to torture me, eh?” Lochlanaire quipped.
The guard huffed, gesturing the pistol afresh. Lochlanaire obeyed as he requested, dragging the cuffs off the dirt floor. He positioned them around his wrists and locked the irons. Unlocking the gate, the guard jabbed his pistol mid of Lochlanaire’s back and urged him toward the stone stairs. They ignored the mad rants of which echoed, the other prisoners moaning, weeping and wailing. Lochlanaire was cruelly reminded of the day upon which he’d been granted a reprieve of this hellish cavern belonging to Lucifer. He opposed his memory, wishing that it was smothered, as then, in a blackened void, not infused with rapturous images of Siren which crushed his heart.
