Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  A soft whistle echoed to the soldiers’ right—as if a bird were cooing in a ground nest. Barefoot stopped mid-sentence. Hairy Back sat up straight. They both looked in the direction of the sound.

  Melisande whistled again, hand cupped over her mouth, throwing the sound a few strides to her right.

  Barefoot rose and drew his scimitar. He walked into the grass, beyond the firelight.

  Melisande glided toward Hairy Back, still sitting at the fire. She slipped the antler-hilted dagger from her belt. Hairy Back hummed a tune as he continued digging under his fingernails, unaware of the sharpened copper hovering near the base of his neck. She closed a hand over his lips and thrust. The blade sank into the meat below his skull. Hairy Back went rigid, muscles trembling, a groan dying in his throat. The spasm passed, and the man went limp.

  Barefoot shook his head, having found nothing in the grass. He turned around and saw his comrade slumped forward, blood running off his chin. He raised his scimitar. Melisande leaped out of the grass to Barefoot’s right. She tumbled under his sword swing, war club whistling. The beak of the raven head bent Barefoot’s knee backward. The soldier collapsed with a shriek of pain, quickly silenced as Melisande buried her wet dagger in the side of his throat. Barefoot stared at the feral creature twisting the knife in his gullet, eyes frantic and searching, scream coming out in a silent gasp. She pulled her knife and left him to bleed out in the scrubby weeds.

  A great mound of earth loomed before Melisande. It was once a Roman watchtower at the edge of the island. Now, it was a pile of dirt and stone. A hole yawned open like a door into the underworld. It led into the Lake Fort sewers. Hours earlier, she, Declan, and Ethan had escaped through that very route. Now, it was her way back in. The Djedid were aware of the tunnel and would be patrolling inside. But they still didn’t know about the hidden passage in the Grand Tower.

  A part of Melisande wondered why she was doing this. Risking her life for someone who never wanted her help.

  “Have you ever asked what I wanted? About my dreams? What makes me happy? No. You just want me to be your Indian sister. Another squaw in your little tribe. Well, I’m not.”

  Dominique’s words stung like nettles. All Melisande ever wanted was to do her big sister proud, and somehow, all she ever did was get in her way. But this was no time for doubts. Melisande knew her target.

  She stepped through the earthen doorway, subsumed by darkness.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  The Slave Pens

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, After Midnight

  Lieutenant Kimble whimpered like an animal dying in the wild. He lay on his back, his upper body glistening with sweat, skin sickly pale. The underclothes bandaging his lower leg were soaked red. For hours he lay quietly, but misery now got the better of him. His wordless pleas floated over the courtyard, and they broke Dominique’s heart.

  Dominique sat beside the wounded lieutenant, who was in the next pen over, and she held his hand through the bars. Aubert and the Larocques sat in the opposite corner of her cell, Aubert staring at the sky, Sebastien Larocque holding his wife and stroking her back.

  The voice of a Djedid lieutenant echoed in the fort tunnels. “Move, Christian dogs!”

  Dominique looked past the crowded slave pens to torchlit passages, which lead to the castle. Fifteen Allegheny sailors marched across a junction of halls, their ankles connected to one another by yards of chain, each of them carrying casks or sacks. Before Naim and the rest of his soldiers left for the city, they unloaded all the valuable goods from the Wolf of Tunis, leaving only a skeleton garrison. Now, several Nizam-I Djedid were forcing a detail of sailors to move the supplies.

  Lieutenant Kimble tossed in his delirium and let out another moan of agony.

  “Really!” Angele Larocque’s French accent was more exaggerated than ever. “Must your man carry on so?”

  “Yes, really,” said Marquis Larocque, rolling the “r” with extra affront. “He is giving me a headache.”

  Several of the officers, Ryland included, frowned at the remark, but none dared speak. None except Dominique.

  “Can’t you see Mr. Kimble is badly hurt?” Dominique said. “He is in pain.”

  “Mon Dieu,” snipped Angele. “We are all in pain, and cold, and hungry. At least some of us act with dignity.”

  Dominique’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe their callousness.

  “Now, now,” said Captain Aubert. “No need to go into hysterics. Mr. Ryland, quiet Lieutenant Kimble, will you?”

  “Richard—” Dominique began.

  “Of course, Captain,” said Ryland, cutting Dominique off. He stood up, vainly tried to brush the dirt from his white breeches, and walked over to the wounded man. He knelt beside Dominique and reached through the bars, patting Kimble on the chest. “There, there, Mr. Kimble. Hush now, we’ll have the doctor see to you soon.”

  The delirious lieutenant opened his sunken eyes, nodded, and closed them again. Ryland looked at Dominique with a knowing expression—the surgeon was in another cell, and the Djedid had ignored all pleas to let him tend the wounded.

  “This is intolerable,” Dominique whispered to Ryland. “This man needs laudanum. And care. He’s the ship’s first officer, for God’s sake.”

  “Patience, Mrs. Aubert,” said Ryland. “There’s nothing for it but to wait—either for the captain to negotiate our release, or Midshipman Sullivan to come to our aide. We’ll make Mr. Kimble as comfortable as we can.”

  “It’s not right,” said Dominique, eyeing the two Djedid soldiers standing outside their cell. “That key was our chance to end this nightmare. How can we just sit here, listening to the cries of the wounded? Waiting for our fate?”

  “I know how you feel, but once the captain has made a decision…” Ryland trailed off as if distracted. He angled his ear toward four Djedid jogging by their cell. They were running into the tunnel where the chained workers marched. Ryland’s eyes searched back and forth as if he were listening. “That’s odd.”

  “What?” asked Dominique. “You can understand them?”

  Ryland shook his head. “Not when they’re speaking Turkish. But they’re speaking Arabic.” He tilted his head more in their direction, listening to another burst of conversation. “I know a little of that language.”

  “What are they saying?”

  The alarmed quartet of soldiers broke off the conversation and disappeared into the tunnels.

  “I only caught bits,” said Ryland. “But it sounds like someone—or a group of someones—have killed soldiers elsewhere on the island. They’re looking for the culprit.”

  Dominique’s heart started to beat faster. Could John be fighting his way into the castle to rescue them? It was a hope she desperately wanted to believe, but no—that wasn’t his plan. But who? The only other companions with John had been Kaitlin, his father, Ethan, and… “Melly!”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Ryland.

  On the Allegheny, Ryland had confided his knowledge that Dominique’s sister, Melisande Dufort, had joined the Navy disguised as “Michael Dufort.” As a friend of John’s, he’d agreed to keep Melisande’s secret, but it wouldn’t do to speak her name loudly before the other men. So Dominique lowered her voice as she explained, “My sister was with John and the others. She must have stayed behind. It’s her.”

  Ryland’s eyes darted back and forth. “How can you possibly know that?”

  “I know my sister, Mr. Ryland. She crossed an ocean that terrifies her just to protect me. Sully is busy getting us that ship, but I’ll bet she couldn’t leave me stranded.”

  “Now it’s becoming clear,” said Ryland with a wry smile. “Why she would masquerade as a man on the Philadelphia. I saw her when we engaged the pirates—she’s a competent fighter. Fights like a demon, actually.”

  “Our brother, Grey Feather, taught her the ways of Tuscarora warriors—after years of her wearing down his resolve, that is.”
Dominique’s eyes drifted to her husband, sitting with his back against the cage bars, staring aimlessly toward the keep. “But if they know she’s here…”

  “She’s in danger,” Ryland said soberly. “By the sound of it, the soldiers wanted to search, but the lieutenant said no. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re laying a trap.”

  “I have to do something.” Dominique let go of Kimble’s hand and laid it on his chest. The wounded officer’s face twitched, but his eyes didn’t open.

  “Mrs. Aubert…” Ryland looked askance at the captain. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but let’s not be rash…”

  “You said it yourself—they’re laying a trap for my sister.” Dominique studied the two guards outside their cell. The one on the left had a sprinkle of grey hair under his felt hat, and his eyes were sharp and alert. He looked at her and Angele with contempt when he earlier escorted them to their cell. But the one on the right had a young face and a slight frame, with the barest wisp of a mustache. Dominique had caught him looking at her more than once. She gathered the folds of her burgundy dress and got to her feet. “I’m not sitting here on my hands, Mr. Ryland. Not while we have wounded men suffering and my sister out there on her own.”

  “Wait, Mrs. Aubert.” Ryland got to his feet and whispered behind her. “You don’t know for certain that your sister is even here…”

  But Dominique wasn’t listening. She strode to the gate and yelled at the two guards, “Hey! You two!”

  The guards turned around, thumbs hanging on the straps of their rifles. The older one glowered, his slightly pudgy face covered in grey stubble. But the younger of the two narrowed his eyes. Seeing him more closely, Dominique judged him to be a man of about nineteen. There was curiosity in his eyes. She could work with that.

  “We have wounded that need care,” Dominique said. “I demand you let me bring them water and fresh bandages.”

  “Silence!” said the older guard. He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and banged the bars.

  Dominique flinched but didn’t back down. “Your master is Varlick Naim. I know he ordered you to treat the prisoners well. How will he react when he finds dozens dead of their wounds?”

  The older guard’s scowl deepened. His younger companion watched her with interest.

  “Forgive my wife,” said Captain Aubert as he strode up to the gate beside her. “She can be impulsive at times. She doesn’t understand—”

  Despairing that she might lose her chance to sway the handsome guard, Dominique grabbed the bars and looked into his eyes. “These are the Chronicler’s prisoners. He will punish your incompetence.”

  The pudgy-faced guard barked a Turk word at her. It appeared that neither understood English, but Dominique could see recognition at her references to Naim. The handsome guard turned to his comrade and muttered a few words. The older guard looked askance at Dominique.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Aubert said.

  “What’s right,” Dominique said.

  The guards finished their exchange, and a key clattered in the lock. The older guard opened the gate, barking at Aubert until the captain backed off a step. Handsome stepped in and took Dominique’s arm. He led her out of the cell.

  “Where are you taking my wife?” Aubert demanded.

  The older guard’s puffy cheeks flushed red, and he banged the bars with his musket. Handsome was already leading Dominique away.

  ###

  The Lake Fort

  Underground Sewer

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, After Midnight

  Melisande trekked through the tunnel, caked in thick black mud and wrapped in the pitch dark. She couldn’t see her own hand, but she didn’t need to. Melisande could feel the walls of dirt around her. She could smell the dank, dusty air. She could hear every echo of a footstep. Every whisper of a breath. The first torch she saw lit up her quarry like the noon sun. She crept into an alcove in the earth and let herself become the wall. She waited for the slow approach of her prey.

  But as the blood pulsed in her veins, Melisande couldn’t stop thinking of the fight with her sister.

  “Papa Grey Fox didn’t raise you to be some Frenchman’s mule,” Melisande says. “To not even fight back.”

  “Grey Fox wasn’t my father,” Dominique replies. “Or yours. Can I never have my own life? Can I never have one good thing without you fucking it up?”

  The day after Dominique’s wedding to Aubert, Melisande had come to visit her at the Piping Plover Inn. Seeing the bruise on Dominique’s face had been one of the worst moments of Melisande’s life. She had wanted to kill the poncy Frenchmen then and there. But like always, Dominique saw Melisande’s intervention as a threat and shooed her away.

  As a droopy-eyed Djedid sloshed ever closer through the stream of water, Melisande gripped her war club. I’m a threat, all right.

  He didn’t even look in Melisande’s direction as his torchlight poured over her. At the last second, Droopy-Eyes looked left. Before he could even register the creature melting out of the strata, the club snapped down on his forehead. He blinked as a waterfall of blood opened on his crown, spilling down his face in a thick wave. The Djedid went down like a sack of flour, torch hissing out in the puddle.

  Another soldier yelled something from a hundred feet down the tunnel. His torch was a distant point of light. When there was no answer, he waved to another guard farther behind him, and the two started toward Melisande’s position, walking side-by-side.

  Melisande dropped into a crouch, filled with exhilaration, and crept forward.

  The two Djedid soldiers kept to either side of the tunnel so as not to dirty their shiny black boots. The one on the left had his sleeve torn off and his upper arm bandaged. The one on the right rattled louder than the others, his scimitar sheath hanging too loose on his bandolier belt. Torn Sleeve carried a sword in his free hand. Rattles carried a pistol. They slowed their pace as they reached the position of their fallen comrade. Their torchlight swept over the body of Droopy-Eyes, face down in the knee-deep stream. The torches waved about as the two men searched for the phantom attacker.

  “I saw the bruise, Dom. The kind you only get from a fist.”

  “That was a year ago!” Dominique snaps. “I told you he apologized. It’s none of your business.”

  Melisande jumps off the chair. “Of course it’s my business. You’re my sister. I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe.”

  “You sailed three thousand miles out of spite for Richard. You have gone completely mad!”

  Melisande lay on her stomach, submerged under the water, right at the feet of her prey. Dominique’s words flowed through her veins like venom. I am completely mad, she thought. Slowly, she rose behind the two guards. The water slid off of her in rivulets. Her dagger and war club floated up in her hands.

  Rattles and Torn Sleeve spun at the sound of the dripping water.

  Crunch!

  The raven-head war club shattered the soldier’s elbow before he could aim his pistol. He shrieked and dropped the weapon. Melisande’s dagger sliced through Torn Sleeve’s hamstring. He growled as he dropped to a knee, making a clumsy swing of his sword. Melisande darted out of the path of the sword. With a backhand stroke, she slashed open a throat. Rattles fell back against the wall, gulping for air. Melisande caught Torn-Sleeve’s sword with her bloody dagger, then hammered his gut with her war club, striking repeatedly. Torn Sleeve emitted a wheeze as Melisande turned his insides to tenderized meat. She raised her club high and cracked the soldier’s skull like an egg.

  The war-painted woman didn’t bother to admire her work. She hurried off down the tunnel.

  A few minutes later, Melisande crawled through the small hole in the foundations of the castle. She emerged into the crumbling cell in the far corner of the fort’s dungeon—the very cell where Sully had locked them in the previous night. She made her way through the dungeon halls, to the intersection guarded by the four Roman statues�
��the philosopher, the enchantress, the soldier, and the warrior goddess. She pulled one of the enchantress’ torches to open Kaitlin’s secret passage.

  The statue trembled, jerked, then slid forward, revealing the hollow space behind. Melisande started up the rungs carved into the stone wall. She pulled a lever inside, and the statue slid back into place. She looked up into the gloomy heights. A few pinpricks of light shone through the peepholes near the top of the tower. It would be a long ascent to Naim’s tower room.

  “Out,” Dominique commands. “Now.”

  Melisande is more hurt than she’s ever been in her life. She would do anything for her sister. She would die for her. But to Dominique, she’s nothing but a silly trollop. A troublemaker. An embarrassment. Melly wants to cry at the hurt, but she refuses. She wipes a tear from her cheek. “Fine. Let him beat you to a pulp. See if I come running.”

  In the darkness of a sarcophagus, Melisande began her climb.

  ###

  “This one,” said Dominique, stopping before Lieutenant Kimble’s cell. “Open it, please.”

  The handsome Nizam-I Djedid soldier stepped forward and slipped a bronze key from his belt. He opened the padlock. A few other guards cast suspicious looks in their direction. Handsome offered a few words of explanation, which appeared to satisfy them.

  Handsome barked an order in Turk.

  “Yes, yes,” said Dominique as she stepped past him into the cage. “I’ll hurry.” She had a bucket of water and some bandages. A paltry comfort, but better than nothing. The smell of rotting blood assaulted her nose. Kimble lay in the same spot near the bars, his bandaged leg dripping into a red puddle. There were other wounded—a young midshipman with a browned bandage over his head. An older seaman with his first two fingers missing. One of Aubert’s lieutenants dead from shrapnel in his gut.