Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  Lady Fleur gave commands for Hrothgar’s remains to be made ready. Then she led Thorne and Guthrum to a chamber behind the throne.

  “You have done well, Thorne,” she said. “I am in your debt.”

  Thorne nodded. “He was a fearless man.”

  “As are you,” she replied. “When you first came to us, I thought you haughty, arrogant . . . or foolish. Now, I know differently.”

  “You are kind,” Thorne said.

  “Kind,” echoed Lady Fleur. “That has never been a word associated with me. Think rather that I am precise.”

  Thorne accepted the rebuke without comment. He waited to see what the Lady of the Raukar would say next.

  “We have much to discuss, Thorne. My grieving will wait until tonight. Guthrum tells me that there were flaws in our attack, flaws we do not wish to repeat against the British.”

  Thorne found himself tongue-tied. “Then,” he stammered, “the Raukar will—”

  “Still sail?” Lady Fleur asked. “Of course. The Raukar may have lain dormant for centuries, but now that we have been awakened, nothing, not even death, will stop us from seeking our right to the seas.” She motioned for the Raukar door warden to step forward.

  Guthrum spread a large chart on the table. “As I see it,” Guthrum said, “we must strike the heart of the Britains. When London burns, the country will fall.”

  “I agree,” said Thorne. “We must sail up the Thames right into the Port of London. It is certainly vulnerable to attack—so close to the water, easily within reach of the eldregn. But we must send our fire much farther into the city. Firing too short was the most serious of our mistakes at Västervik. England’s standing army will be much more formidable.”

  “What of the British navy?” Lady Fleur asked.

  “Ah,” said Thorne rubbing his hands together. “You are precise. The British fleet is our biggest obstacle, for it is by this weapon that they control the Atlantic and the Spanish Main. At any given time, a scant third of the fleet occupies the Port of London. Others are scattered between Liverpool, Manchester, Essex, and the like. But the bulk of the fleet patrols the trade routes of the Atlantic and guards the settlements of the Caribbean. We may destroy London and leave the fleet headless, but—”

  “But the rest of the fleet will still be unconquered.” Lady Fleur pursed her lips and asked, “How many ships would the British still have to bring against us?”

  “More than twice the Raukar fleet,” said Thorne. “Given our weapons and our will, we could hunt them all down and defeat them, but . . . I suggest another course.” Thorne waited, allowing the suspense to build. “What if we could have the majority of the fleet together at one time?”

  “That would be an opportunity indeed,” she replied.

  “But such a force,” objected Guthrum, “would be beyond us.”

  “I am afraid Guthrum is correct,” admitted Thorne. “The entire British fleet might overcome the Raukar out of sheer number. But . . . not if we could be assured that most of the ships maintained only a skeleton crew.”

  “Speak plainly, Thorne,” said Lady Fleur. “Will there be such a time?”

  “Saint Alfred’s Day.” Thorne crossed his arms and then explained. “Every May twenty-first the British celebrate Saint Alfred’s Day . . . commemorating their great Saxon warlord’s defeat of the Danes in eight-seventy-eight.”

  “I know the occasion well,” said Guthrum. “My namesake, Guthrum the Old, led the Danes in that battle. The Saxon king was victorious only because the Danish army was decimated by injury and sickness.”

  “Nonetheless,” Thorne continued, “the British celebrate this battle as one of the greatest military campaigns in their history. The majority of their fleet will gather in the Port of London to take part in the festivities. And here is where we gain our biggest advantage. The might of the British navy will be so preoccupied with making merry that they will turn a blind eye to the sea. The Raukar fleet will come upon them like a fiery storm. We will cripple the British fleet, its government, and its commerce. King George, if he’s even in the palace, will be left with few choices.”

  “To destroy the British while they celebrate a victory over our Viking kindred . . . that would be a glorious day indeed,” said Lady Fleur.

  “Night,” Thorne corrected. “We will come at night at the height of their celebration. We will use black sails and hood every lantern . . . until it is too late. There is, however, one problem.”

  Lady Fleur’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And that is?”

  “The British may already know of our plans.”

  “How could they?” Lady Fleur demanded.

  “The British ship in Sigvard Bay,” said Thorne. “I must know who sailed it and how they came here.”

  “They came in the morning . . . just before the sun,” said Lady Fleur. “They fired a few cannon shots but surrendered when they realized that twelve Raukar ships had them hemmed in. It was sailed by a British commodore named Blake.” Thorne cringed. If Blake was still in command, then Wetherby failed in his mission.

  “As to how they came here,” Lady Fleur continued, “you may ask them yourself.”

  “They still live?”

  “For now,” said Lady Fleur. “I will leave their fate in your hands.”

  “I need a chamber,” said Thorne. “There must be only one way in. It must be private. And it must be a place that can get . . . wet.”

  “We have such a place,” said Guthrum. “Plåga hus, we call it.”

  Thorne nodded. “It sounds ideal. Have four trustworthy warriors bring the British commodore—and his quartermaster if you can find him—to me in this plåga hus. I will find out everything we need to know.”

  “Oh, there is one other thing,” said Lady Fleur. “One of the captives claims to be your friend, says he’s working for you.”

  “Nigel,” Thorne whispered.

  “You know him then?”

  “Regrettably,” Thorne answered. “Have the guards bring him as well.”

  The guards arrived with Commodore Blake, his quartermaster Mr. Jordan, and Nigel Wetherby—all shackled at the ankles and hands bound behind them. Wetherby’s eyes brightened the moment he saw Thorne.

  “Captain Thorne,” exclaimed Wetherby. “At last you’ve come. Tell these brutes to unshackle me.”

  Thorne nodded to the guards, and they freed him. The moment he was released, Wetherby threw a vicious punch into Commodore Blake’s jaw. Blake swayed, but his knees did not buckle. He spat and glared up at Wetherby. Mr. Jordan struggled against his captors, but the Raukar guards held him fast.

  “Did you enjoy that, Nigel?” asked Thorne.

  “Very . . . very much,” Wetherby replied. He grinned up at Thorne.

  Thorne motioned to him. “Come, my friend, sit with me a moment.”

  Wetherby did as he was told, sitting in the chair across from Thorne. “Tell me, Nigel, did you complete your mission?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Wetherby, crafting his answer carefully. “As you requested, King George disbanded the pirate-hunting fleet and spurned the monks. Blake was relieved of his command.”

  Thorne smiled but scratched his sideburns. “I was told that Blake commanded the Oxford when it arrived here. How did that happen?”

  Wetherby was silent, but Blake spoke up. “My crew mutinied on him, that’s what happened. They know a real commander from a traitorous—”

  “That will be all from you,” said Thorne sharply, and his rebuke was so abrupt and full of rancor that Blake felt as if his breath had been stolen away. Thorne stared at Blake for several long seconds. Then he cast his stare back to Wetherby. “Is this true, Nigel?”

  “Yes . . . ,” Wetherby answered, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Sir Nigel . . . why wouldn’t you have Blake’s loyal crew replaced or even hire a new one of your own?” Wetherby had no answer. “And, if Blake took command, how did he manage to find his way to Gotland?”

  “He to
ld us,” Mr. Jordan blurted out.

  “No!” exclaimed Wetherby, holding up his hands as if to keep Thorne away. “No, I didn’t tell them. They found my sea charts. I would never betray you.”

  “Nigel.” Thorne sighed and shook his head.

  Wetherby saw the pistol a mere second before it went off. The shot hit him with deadly accuracy, sending his lifeless body crashing to the floor. Thorne motioned to the guards, and they brought Blake over. One of the guards picked up the toppled chair and put it upright. “Sit,” Thorne commanded.

  Blake looked at the chair. It was spattered with blood. Blake said defiantly, “I think I’d rather stand.”

  One of the guards drew a long sword, and Thorne said, “If it will help, I can have the Raukar remove your legs.”

  Blake sat immediately.

  “Commodore,” said Thorne, “it was very foolish of you to sail here with just one ship. What did you think you were going to do?”

  “Surrender,” said Blake. He never once broke eye contact with Thorne.

  Thorne’s face betrayed no emotion. “Explain,” Thorne commanded.

  “They put me on trial, ridiculed me,” Blake argued. “King George stripped me of my command . . . made me an outlaw in the country I worked so hard to defend. When my crew and I stole command of the Oxford, our lives in England became forfeit.” Blake stole a glance at his quartermaster and said, “I thought . . . I thought I might be able to make a deal with you.”

  “So you’ve become a pirate?” Thorne laughed. “Of course, I don’t believe you, but tell me the terms of your offer anyway.”

  Blake’s cheeks reddened. “I don’t know what you are planning to do in England,” he said. “And honestly, I no longer care. My wife and I have said our good-byes to England. But spare New Providence. It is my home now. The island’s been through enough already. Leave the island alone and prohibit others from attacking it.”

  “In exchange for?”

  “British battle tactics,” Blake replied. “I know most of the other commodores and captains. I know their strategies. I know where they are weak. I’ll even show you our trade route coverage.”

  “Ah, Commodore Blake, you are a horrible liar,” said Thorne. “British battle tactics? You’d lead me right into their teeth. But as transparent as you are, I must be sure of what you know.” Thorne stood and took the sword from the guard. He leveled it at Blake’s throat. “Now, tell me again, how did you know you would find me on Gotland Island?”

  “Wetherby told my men,” Blake said.

  “Yes, and what else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing else.”

  “I see,” said Thorne. The tip of the sword touched Blake’s neck. “And who else knows I am here?”

  Blake jerked his head away from the blade, but it followed him. “No one but my men . . . we took command from Wetherby at Ipswich. We made no other stops.”

  “Did you send a courier from Ipswich?”

  “No, Thorne! No one else knows you’re here.”

  Thorne raised his sword. “I think you are lying to me, Commodore Blake.” He made as if to swing the sword. Blake closed his eyes. But the blow never fell. “You don’t care,” said Thorne. “You’ll die with your secret, won’t you? Guard, take him.” The Raukar warriors took Blake from the chair. “I wonder what your quartermaster’s life is worth to you.”

  Thorne grabbed Jordan by the elbow and slammed him into the chair. “Blast it, Thorne!” yelled Jordan. “Brandon’s telling the truth!”

  “No, I won’t be asking you any questions,” Thorne said. He rammed the pommel of the sword into Jordan’s temple. His head rocked back and forth. Blake gasped, then sighed with relief as Jordan shook his head and opened his eyes. “The questions are all for you, Blake. And it will go poorly for Jordan here if you lie.” Thorne paused and then asked again, “How did you know I would be on Gotland Island?”

  “Wetherby told us,” Blake said, glancing from Thorne to Jordan and back.

  “And what did Nigel tell you about my activities?”

  “Nothing else . . . just that you would be here.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Thorne thrust the sword two inches into Jordan’s right shoulder. Jordan screamed and struggled in his chair.

  “THORNE!” Blake yelled, straining against the guards. “Wetherby didn’t tell us anything else . . . nothing . . . I swear to you.”

  “I believe you,” said Thorne, his voice thickening and hoarse. He did not remove the tip of the sword from Jordan’s wound.

  “Now, did you send word to London telling them where I could be found?”

  “No,” answered Blake, now drenched in sweat. “They wouldn’t have believed me if I did. I told you they stripped my commission.”

  Thorne slowly began to turn the sword blade, widening the wound. Jordan winced and then groaned.

  “How easy it is for you to harm a helpless man!” Blake growled. “You weak, conniving—”

  “Be silent,” said Thorne. He removed the sword, and blood poured down Jordan’s arm. “I am a reasonable man. Just one more question. Did you or anyone on your ship send word of my location to anyone who is not on the Oxford?” Thorne watched Blake and Jordan, looking for just a hint of betrayal. He saw it: just a flicker of the eyes between the two . . . a questioning and an answering.

  When Blake answered, “No, we sent no word at Ipswich,” Thorne had already drawn back the sword. He rammed it into Jordan’s upper thigh and pulled up. Jordan howled in agony, growing louder and more frantic as Thorne lifted the blade. “You’re lying,” was all he said.

  Blake’s lips disappeared and his eyes bulged. He struggled violently with the Raukar guards. Jordan’s screams filled the chamber, and Thorne continued to pull at the flesh on the quartermaster’s leg. “Tell me!” Thorne growled.

  “Don’t you say a blasted thing!” Jordan cried out, but Thorne twisted the blade.

  “ROSS!!” Brandon Blake bellowed. “I left word in Edinburgh . . . for Ross . . .”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you’re on Gotland Island . . . that’s all. I didn’t know anything else. I still don’t!”

  “Did he get the message?”

  “No,” seethed Blake. “No one in Edinburgh had seen Ross for months, and . . . he didn’t show up while we were there.”

  “Thank you, Commodore Blake,” said Thorne. “That will be all for now.”

  “Wait!” Blake exclaimed, as the guard dragged him bodily from the chamber and out into the sunlight. He heard Jordan cry out again—a wretched, guttural cry. “Thorne, wait! NOOOO!” And then there was silence.

  Thorne had all of his belongings taken aboard the Raven’s Revenge. Since the fire long ago, he never liked to put down roots on land. Thorne stared at the portrait and wondered if Heather would respond to his news.

  Declan Ross? she said in his mind. Those are ill tidings.

  “Likely he won’t be coming to Scotland any time soon,” Thorne countered. “Last I heard, he was skirting around my old haunts in the Caribbean.”

  Still, he must not be underestimated.

  “No, I won’t make that mistake again.” Thorne picked at something in his teeth. “Ross knows nothing of our plans. If he comes here, he’ll be taken just like Blake. In any case, I’ll lead the Raukar fleet by the most southerly route. If Ross sails from Edinburgh, he’ll miss us entirely by a hundred miles.”

  “Sir?” Teach’s voice came through the door.

  “What is it?” Thorne growled.

  The door cracked open just enough to let Teach’s head appear. “Lady Fleur wants to know what we’ll do with the Oxford.”

  “Do?” Thorne replied. “We’re going to use it to destroy London. That’s what we’ll do with it. Few ships have that kind of gunnery.”

  “And what about the prisoners . . . Commodore Blake and his wife?”

  “There was a woman on the Oxford?”

  “Yeah, a real fine lady . . .” Te
ach stopped suddenly, staring up on the cabin wall.

  “What is it, Edward?”

  “Well, sir,” he replied, swallowing. “If you’ll beg me pardon. She looks a fair bit like the lady in your paintin’ there.”

  A chill scratched across Thorne’s scarred hand. He found himself oddly short of breath, but he wasn’t sure why. “Bring Commodore Blake,” he said at last. “Bring his wife here as well, and imprison them below. Tell Lady Fleur she can do whatever she wants with the rest of the Oxford’s crew.”

  Bright blue eyes gleamed from the Oxford’s crow’s-nest. They’d missed him somehow. Then again, he knew every place to hide on the ship. But they took everyone else . . . rowed away to shore. Hopper prayed they weren’t killed. He waited silently up in the crow’s-nest. He waited and watched, hoping there might be something he could do to help.

  25

  CLUES AND COLD TRAILS

  Well, let Thorne take England!” said Cutlass Jack as he and Declan Ross stomped up a long pier toward their ships. They had just returned from a maddening discussion at the palace in London. “What did I tell ye, Declan? The Brits have cut us off.”

  “I’ll see to it that you and your crew get taken care of,” said Ross, glowering.

  “I’ll thank ye fer that,” he replied. “But ye can’t be payin’ the whole Wolf fleet! With the king cuttin’ ’em off like this, men’ll be twice the enemy of England!”

  “And what’s more,” said Ross, “they’ve stripped Blake of his command. He was the one man in the British navy I could trust.”

  The two captains stopped on the pier directly between their two ships. “What now?” asked Jack.

  “There’s no sign of Thorne,” said Ross, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “No sign of Blake . . . ah! I need time to think this through.”

  “Not here, though,” said Jack.