Jupiter's Glory Book 2: The Pirates and the Priests

by Adam Carter

  As Arowana opened her eyes, she could feel her body radiating the warmth of ancient knowledge and knew precisely what she had to do to survive.

  Father Dumah came at her with a cry of rage and Arowana took a small step backwards, tilting her body so his sword passed her by. Snapping out her hand, she encircled his arm with her own, keeping the flaming sword before the both of them, and crouched as she twisted her entire body. Leaning Dumah into her arm, she flipped him clear across her shoulder, taking great care to keep his sword from even grazing her. Dumah fell in a heap, struggling to rise in his mass of robes, and did not even notice when Arowana used her free hand to snatch the sword from his grasp.

  From his window, Wraith whistled. “That was something else, Arowana.”

  Standing over the flailing priest, Arowana felt all the knowledge of past Japanese masters flow from her mind and back into the dungeons of her augmented brain. The sword became heavy in her hand, and she was aware now also of the heat it gave off. She looked at the blade, twisted the handle experimentally and was rewarded with the fire extinguishing itself, like a hob no longer needed. It amazed her how much information she was able to access on so short notice. It also terrified her to think what she had become without her approval.

  “Arowana? Hey, Arowana? Still in a cell here.”

  Arowana blinked, that single action removing much of her confusion. It did not matter what had been done to her, what Securitarn had turned her into – all that mattered was that when she had needed the knowledge it was there for her to pluck from the ether.

  “Arowana, come on, get me out of this cell.”

  “Wraith,” she said as another missile struck. Large stone blocks fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing where Dumah writhed. “Wraith, I …”

  “The keys.”

  “What keys?”

  “The keys Father Dumah’s going to be carrying. He’s the highest official on this world, he’s going to have the keys for everything.”

  It was something Arowana should have thought of herself, but whenever she went into one of her mind searches she always took a while to come back down to reality. It was like a drug high which heightened her senses but cut her off from reality for the duration.

  Crouching beside Dumah, she thrust her hands into his robes, searching for the man inside.

  “Women shall not touch me!” Dumah wailed.

  “Not thrilled about it, either. Where are your keys?”

  “I have failed. I, Father Dumah, high priest of Themisto, have failed to smite the Jezebel who struts through our ranks.”

  “Have a crisis of faith later, Father. Where are your … never mind.” She pulled a set of keys from the man’s belt, or at least supposed it was his belt – it was like plunging her hands into a washing machine in search of loose change she had inadvertently left in a back pocket. As she examined the keys, she saw Wraith was right: Dumah really did have a key for every lock on Themisto. “This is going to take a while,” she muttered.

  Moving back to the door, she tried one which seemed of the right size. They were mainly large iron keys, as one would find in a medieval castle, and she wondered whether the Church of Themisto had ever heard of Yale locks. The first few she tried did not fit the lock, but they enabled her to get an impression of what size she needed to try. Wraith did not say a word, for he knew he would only be hindering her progress, while Dumah wailed on the floor. Arowana had been keeping one eye upon him, but whatever threat he had once posed was over. He had been defeated by the very woman he had sought to punish and it would be a while before he could fully understand his failure.

  Arowana heard a dull click as one of the keys turned and Wraith eagerly yanked the door back. He threw himself at her and Arowana was surprised by the strength of the hug.

  She broke away as the castle rocked again. “We have to get out of here. Between the pirate bombardment and the Themistonian counterattack this whole place could come down.”

  “What about Dumah?”

  “What about him?”

  “We should lock him in a cell.”

  “That would probably kill him. You want to kill him, Wraith?”

  Wraith looked away. “Why are you always right?”

  “Because I have too much information in my brain to ever be wrong. Father Dumah, we’re leaving now. You have to be careful. These blocks could crush you. The pirates could kill you if you just lie there.”

  “The pirates,” Dumah said. “The naked bald strongman.”

  Arowana frowned. “You mean Sturgeon? First Mate Sturgeon? How do you know him?”

  “You gave us the girl, but I did not trust you, Jezebel. I knew you were hiding something. So I boarded your sword-ship. There is no crew, there are no Carpoans. Whoever you people are, you’re frauds.”

  Arowana’s stomach sank. “What?”

  “After you left with Sister Cassiel, when she brought you down here. I went to seek out the truth for myself. I have seen everything.”

  “Yes, all right, we’re frauds. Or at least two thirds of us are. Wraith actually is Carpoan. But what does this have to do with Sturgeon?”

  “You took two prisoners and surrendered only one. The pirate girl shall be judged by God and found wanting, but the other you kept for yourselves, as though you had divine right to judge.”

  “Dumah, just tell me what you did with him.”

  “I released him.”

  “On the ship?”

  “No, on Themisto. He was still bound so I was able to encourage him to move without his attacking me. I brought him to the surface and would have taken him to be judged, but then his heathen brethren attacked.”

  “Oh Lord,” Wraith said.

  “Dumah,” Arowana said, “are you telling me you took Sturgeon out of the Glory and lost him?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “We have to go,” Wraith said. “He’ll be trying to steal our ship.”

  “No,” Arowana said, “he’ll be trying to help his captain by causing as much damage as he can while he’s here on the surface.”

  “Now there are two pirates here,” Dumah said. “We are invaded.”

  “Two?” It took Arowana a moment to realise what he meant, and as soon as she did she knew precisely what Sturgeon was going to do. “He’s going after Hart,” she said, her breath catching. “She didn’t protect him when we captured him. She stood by and did nothing. Wraith, he’s going to kill her.”

  “Who’s Hart?”

  “I’ll explain on the way. We have to find Gordon. We have to save them both.”

  The castle shook more violently than ever. Whatever they were going to do, Arowana knew they would have to do it quickly, else the bombardment would do Sturgeon’s job for him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Finding one girl on an entire world should have been impossible, but Themisto was not only small, it was regulated. The pirate attack was causing mayhem, but still the acolytes and priests had their positions to get to. While Hawthorn worked his way around to the building where Hart had been taken, he watched the Buccaneer tilt and release salvo after salvo into the ancient religious walls. He could not understand their intention, for surely if they destroyed everything they would have no treasure to recoup, yet perhaps this was more a statement than anything else. For Captain Danton to be able to say she had singlehandedly brought Themisto to its knees would solidify her reputation amongst pirates throughout history. Hawthorn could not say why she had suddenly got that idea into her head, but supposed he would never know. It hardly mattered what she was doing, however, for she was doing it regardless. Hawthorn would have loved to have stopped her, to have been able to save the Themistonians, but he was no hero and would never pretend to be one. Besides, if he was somehow able to miraculously save the world, he would likely be crucified just to see whether God fancied the opportunity to thank him personally.

  Ahead of him Hawthorn could finally see the building he was after. Sister Ariel had taken Hart there to confess
her sins, which meant there would be some form of chapel within – perhaps the entire building was a chapel, in fact. He could not say how many acolytes he would need to fight his way through in order to reach her but hoped they would be too busy saving their own lives to be worrying about him getting in their way.

  The Buccaneer turned in the sky and Hawthorn watched in horror as its open gun ports spewed scores of cannonballs, each blasted from a separate explosion. He had never before seen a ship with so much weaponry, and watching those cannonballs spray out was like watching a black wave scream across the heavens.

  The cannonballs slammed into the ancient stone walls, demolishing the proud building in a shrieking death wail. Hawthorn threw his arms before his face as a cloud of dust churned outwards, chunks of rock flying in every direction. Something inside the chapel was burning, for the flames roared high even over the rocks. He could see religious drapes flapping in painful death, the symbols of Themistonian Christianity burning into nothing.

  In a single second the entire chapel had been reduced to rubble. Nothing inside could have hoped to survive.

  “Mr Hawthorn?”

  He turned, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. The person before him was as covered as everyone else, but he recognised the voice. “Sister Ariel. You’re alive.”

  “Fortunately I wasn’t in the chapel when the attack hit.”

  “Beth. Where’s Bethany?”

  “The pirate girl?”

  “Are there any other Bethanys I might be looking for?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know. Are there? Does Miss Arowana know you’re searching for random women called Bethany?”

  “Ariel, where is she?”

  Ariel glanced to the sky. Hawthorn followed her gaze. The priests were beginning to fight back. Some had gone to various towers and were shooting back with missiles of their own. “The power of God delivers us,” she said.

  “God didn’t create missiles, Ariel, humankind did. Even if I accept that God created us, all we’ve done as a species is discover new and more violent ways to kill each other. That’s what we’re good at. Telling each other what to think and killing each other. Now, where’s Beth?”

  “I … Do you truly believe that?”

  “Ariel, please.”

  “We finished her confession,” Ariel said, some of her eagerness having left her. “Fortunately, we had already moved onto the next stage.”

  “Which is?”

  “The final stage in our power. Crucifixion. Once she’s staked out, it’s all up to a power greater than us.”

  “And you don’t think I’m right? That all we do is find more horrific ways to kill each other?”

  “No, you’re wrong. We don’t kill these people. We stake them out and let God deal with them.”

  “You don’t think maybe God takes their lives as a mercy?”

  “A mercy? No, He kills the guilty.”

  “But guilty or innocent, you stake everyone out, you plunge nails through their wrists, you leave them to die by dehydration and blood loss. Did it never once occur to you that if this higher being you believe in was as good as you say, He’d take their lives because He was so disgusted by what you were doing? That He was doing what was best for His children, butchered and mutilated by the very priests who worship Him? Do you honestly think He’s happy with the atrocities you commit in His name?”

  “I … I … No, you’re wrong.”

  Hawthorn shook his head. “Just tell me where she is, Ariel.”

  “In the field,” Ariel said, too stunned to think clearly. “Out the back.”

  Hawthorn looked in the direction indicated and figured he might be able to make it there without being blown apart by pirates.

  “I never set out in life to hurt anyone,” Ariel said.

  “Fine job you’re doing there.”

  He left without another word, running as fast as he could. So far the Buccaneer was concentrating its attack on the buildings, but in firefights there was always collateral damage. Working his way around to the field Ariel had spoken of, Hawthorn caught sight of a row of giant crosses. There were about a dozen of them, but only two were occupied. From one hung the desiccated remains of a soul long lost to life, but it was as Hawthorn’s eyes lit on the other that his heart broke.

  Bethany Hart hung there, small upon the massive cross. She wore the remnants of the clothes she had been wearing earlier, although they were marked with soil and sweat and stained heavily with blood. Her arms were spread to either side and crimson rivulets dribbled down from her wrists, through which had been hammered six-inch nails, the wood of the cross hungrily devouring the girl’s life force. Her head hung limply against her thin body, her hair matted against her face where it fell down. Above her the sky echoed with the thunder of invasion and Hawthorn could not understand why the people of Themisto would ever think their god would fight for them when they were capable of such horror.

  “Beth,” he said, the word choking in his throat. He approached slowly, his head level with her waist. “Beth, can you hear me?”

  The bloody figure stirred, although Hawthorn did not know whether it was a relief that she was still alive. He saw her face, blackened by dirt and paled through fear and blood loss. She tried to focus on him, but she was groggy, her perfect hazel eyes having been dulled by the torment placed upon her.

  “Gordon?” The word was a rasp, but it lit Hawthorn’s heart immensely.

  “Don’t try to talk, Beth. I’ll cut you down. Wraith’s a doctor. When Iris reaches him he’ll fix you up good as new.”

  “Gordon, they … they …”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  He was glad at least she had come to realise her life was precious, but he supposed being nailed to a cross would have done that to anyone. He looked around frantically for something to get him up to her wrists but there was nothing anywhere nearby. Just then a thunderous explosion tore through another building and large chunks of rock flew across the field. One slammed into the ground between Hawthorn and Hart. Clambering on top, he took it as the first true sign of divine intervention he had ever seen.

  “Seems even God’s on your side,” he said. He examined the nail, nausea rising in his throat. The acolytes had hammered the nail directly through the wrist, splitting bone and arteries and whatever else was inside a human arm. The nail was slick with blood but the Themistonians knew to hammer it far enough into the wood for the blood not to act as a lubricant. The injury itself was a dark dirty mass pulsing with fresh blood at every slight movement. Hawthorn reached for the nail, changed his mind, reached for it again and fought the urge to vomit.

  “This is going to hurt,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it’s going to hurt a lot.”

  Hart closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. “It already hurts a lot, Gordon. Just pull it out.”

  Hawthorn hesitated again, but leaving the girl hanging in agony would not make the situation any easier. Placing one hand upon her arm below the wrist and hoping he would be able to keep the limb steady, Hawthorn got a firm grasp on the nail and counted slowly to five. Hart’s blood oozed through his fingers and ran down his hand but he forced himself to ignore the pain he was about to cause her.

  When he reached five, he yanked, hard.

  Hart screamed a wailing shriek Hawthorn had never heard even in his nightmares. Hawthorn struggled with the nail, jerked it from side to side, but it refused to budge.

  Finally he stopped, exhausted, his heart racing. Hart’s screams subsided into sobs and Hawthorn ran a hand through his sweat-laced hair as he fought to think of what to do. Blood dripped into his eyes and he looked at his hand, shaking and covered with Hart’s blood. He looked at the girl’s slender frame and knew she could not take much more of this. Even if he could get the nails out, she would likely die from blood loss long before he could get her back to Wraith.

  “Stay with me,” Hart said, raising her face to him. Her beautiful eyes were plead
ing from a face which suddenly looked so young. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I just have to think. I’m getting you out of this, Beth, I promise you.”

  “Please, don’t let me die alone.”

  “Hey, hey, I’m not going anywhere.” He placed his hand in hers and she squeezed tightly, the action causing further blood to seep from the wound at her wrist. “How could people of God do something like this and think it’s right?”

  When Hart did not answer, he feared she had died, but she still clenched his hand too tightly for that. Her resolve was astounding, considering she had so recently believed herself deserving of such a fate. It leant Hawthorn renewed determination to get her out alive. He placed a hand to her chin and turned her face to look at his.

  “Beth, listen to me. I’m getting you out of here and everything’s going to be all right. Now, I’m going to get those nails out and you’re going to stay with me, you hear?”

  Hart nodded slightly, although he could tell the pain was getting too much for her and she was on the verge of blacking out. Quickly removing his shirt, Hawthorn tore the thing in two and wished he had some water in which to soak them, but he would have to make do. Dropping both rags beside him, he once more placed a hand at her arm whilst taking a firm grip on the first nail. Fighting down his urge to vomit, he tugged as hard as he could. The nail resisted and Hart screamed anew, but he could feel it giving. A throbbing pain surged up his arm, but Hawthorn did not stop, for he could not put Hart through this pain a third time. Finally the nail came free of the wood and he slid it through her torn flesh before dropping it to the floor.