Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  Steel shrieked against steel as the two swords ground together. A thumb jabbed the old bullet wound in John’s shoulder. Naim held off Ace with the kilij while pressing hard into the old wound. The hot spike of pain reduced John’s shoulder to bread pudding. The kilij slid off Ace and sliced a gash beneath John’s ribs.

  Now it was Naim’s turn to lock with John’s blade, driving the Navy sailor into a bookshelf. Naim began to inch the kilij down, the superior length of his sword bringing the curved point ever closer to John’s jugular. The sweat beading on the Chronicler’s forehead revealed his effort, but his yellow-green eyes were placid pools of calm. Dust burned in John’s lungs as more of the stuff rained down on his head. He wheezed for air, his strength ebbing away. Naim’s kilij inched down.

  Defeating Naim had always been a long shot. As the kilij edged closer to killing John with a tiny nick, he prayed Kaitlin was free and on her way to the boat. She only had to make it to Independence. Ethan and the others would look after her. She would be free, and that was enough for John. The edge kissed John’s neck.

  Something thudded into Naim’s back, and he winced. Kaitlin appeared a few steps behind Naim, a burned board in her hand. She swung at Naim’s back again, and he lost his footing. John roared and charged with all his might, driving Naim back and throwing him backward over the desk. A cloud of soot exploded upward as Naim landed against a support beam. The beam trembled, then all the shelves began to shake. The weakened timbers wailed and groaned, and dust rained down from the rafters. John was about to charge over to Naim, but Kaitlin grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  And not a moment too soon.

  The remainder of the upper floor came raining down between John and his enemy. The Chronicler was soon buried under a rain of broken wood. As the rest of the room caved in, John heard his sister’s voice.

  “Johnny, this way!”

  He ran after Kaitlin toward the corner of the library. She reached for the sole unburnt book. She pulled it, and there was a grinding of gears. The shelf swung inward, and Kaitlin pulled John into a secret passage. A second later, the entire library collapsed, the upper floor coming down inches from where John and Kaitlin stood. They were in a hidden corridor between walls, barely wide enough for a single person to pass.

  When the collapse finally ceased, and the manor again fell silent, John found rubble piled up in the hidden doorway. A dark corridor led west. John coughed on the polluted air like a man on his deathbed.

  “What now, Kait?”

  “There’s another way out.” Kaitlin took John’s hand and led him into the yawning dark.

  ###

  John followed Kaitlin down the mesa path. They were almost to the bridge when he stumbled against the rock face.

  “Johnny!” Kaitlin cried. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  But John wasn’t fine. His thigh and ribs throbbed with fresh cuts. His old wounds burned as though under a fire poker. Blood sweated through his clothes. For the last five days, John had been borrowing strength from sheer will and paying the interest with Buford’s Arabian plant. Now, the debt was coming due.

  Kaitlin helped John up, and they walked arm-in-arm across the catwalk. When they reached the platform at the top of the broken tower, beneath the shade of the sycamore, she pulled the torch sconce. The chain holding the counterweight started to spool, and the catwalk slowly retracted.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” asked John. He wouldn’t feel safe until Naim—buried or not—had no path to follow.

  Kaitlin shook her head.

  John gave a weak smile. “When we get back to Gibraltar, I could use some shore leave.”

  “This isn’t funny. You’re hurt.”

  “Don’t fret so much, Rabbit.” John fought through the pain to stand up straight. “When we get back to the Independence, Ethan will have me stitched up in no time.”

  “This is all my fault. I was so arrogant. If only I hadn’t—”

  “We can swap regrets later,” said John, still short of breath. “But right now…I need to know: Did you get it?”

  Kaitlin blinked.”What?”

  “Did you get it?” John looked at her intently, and he could see she took his meaning. Yes, Nora’s journal was only a book. Yes, John ought to have chided Kaitlin’s arrogance. And no, he wouldn’t have done a damn thing different.

  Kaitlin slipped a corner of the vellum journal from her robes. “Aye. I picked Naim’s pocket in the library.”

  The sight of Nora’s diary filled John with a storm of emotions, both of joy and grief. He never saw her again after she disappeared into the Tunis bastedan. The journal represented the only goodbye he would ever get. John laid a hand on Kaitlin’s shoulder. “Good work, Kait. You really are a master thief.”

  Kaitlin smiled and swept a curl of red hair from her face. “And—old enough to play brag.”

  “Aye.” John laughed. “Old enough to…”

  John trailed off when he saw Kaitlin’s look of horror. He whirled around, sword flying out of his sheath.

  Varlick Naim charged at a full sprint down the path in the cliff face. A cloud of black soot trailed off his clothes. He was only a few strides from the cliff edge, and the catwalk was only halfway retracted.

  “Kaitlin, go!” John said. She hesitated, and he raised his voice. “Run, damnit!”

  Kaitlin dashed under the branches of the sycamore tree. She ran down the spiral steps of the tower.

  A part of John held out hope the bridge was too far for Naim to jump. At a dead run, the long-legged assassin leaped off the ledge. His feet thudded on the very edge of the bridge. He wobbled as if he might fall backward, and John charged. At the last second before John’s thrust landed, Naim flailed his sword, barely managing to deflect the blow. Naim lunged forward, cutting lethal arcs, driving John back across the catwalk. John ducked under the limbs of the sycamore as he fell back. The kilij came down, slicing through thin branches like butter, narrowly missing John’s skull. A swarm of tiny bees buzzed out of the fallen tree limbs.

  The duel flowed around the trunk of the tree. Naim chased him through the cramped space, and it took all John’s concentration to avoid tripping or banging his head. The kilij slashed upward for John’s groin. John stepped right, barely missing the blade. The kilij whistled toward John’s gut, and he caught it on the parry, a shot of pain buzzing through his arm. Naim drew his dagger and sliced open John’s left shoulder. The Chronicler swatted Ace out of John’s hand with the kilij, and it tumbled down the tower, bouncing off branches. John lunged to grapple Naim’s arms. Naim kicked him in the gut before he could.

  And then John was tumbling. Down the wooden pegs, then the stone stairs, every step clubbing his body like a truncheon. He felt the vertigo of falling through space. His hands jumped out in the nick of time, and he caught a wooden rung with both hands. He dangled over a thirty-foot drop, branches crossing the darkened space like spokes on a wheel, the mound of jagged stone piled at the bottom. Naim was already trotting down after him.

  “Johnny!”

  Kaitlin was perched on a branch overhead. She tossed a coil of rope down to him. Naim pounded down the last few steps, sword raised high to cut off John’s fingers.

  “Swing!” Kaitlin cried.

  The kilij sang through the air. John caught the rope, the sword chopping a notch where his fingers let go. His stomach swam with nausea as he hurdled across the tower. A higher branch caught the rope, and John pitched forward, tumbling onto the opposite landing.

  John hauled his tired body upright, grabbing a rusty torch sconce for support. He looked across the tower and spotted Ace on the lowest landing, right at the door leading down to the beach.

  “Watch out!” cried Kaitlin.

  John saw a flash of metal. He dodged, and a throwing knife pinged off the sconce. The Chronicler was higher up the tower, on the opposite side. Ace lay on a landing directly below the Chronicler’s feet. John and Naim locked eyes.

&nbs
p; The two men broke into a sprint, one racing to recover his weapon, the other to kill him in the attempt.

  ###

  Varlick Naim sped down the tower steps. He passed a window and caught a glimpse of the crystal blue sea. The bey’s stolen flagship still lay at anchor, sails furled, flying the gaudy striped flag of Sullivan’s adopted country. Good, thought Naim. Let his shipmates watch. Heroes look distressingly ordinary when a sword is spilling their guts.

  Naim came around a bend and saw Sullivan’s rapier laying on the landing. There was no sign of Sullivan or his sister—only the mound of rubble on the left and the tower door on the right. Naim cut roots from his path, which snarled out of the mound of wet earth. The point of his sword flicked upward as he reached the bottom of the steps. He darted through the door. The flight of stone stairs was empty as it wrapped around the tower and descended into the sand. Naim turned back to the fallen rapier, eyes sweeping the tower for signs of his quarry.

  Feet whispered on stone. Naim whirled and found Kaitlin Sullivan crouching at the top of the steps outside the door, framed by the brilliant Mediterranean. Her feet had been quiet amid the splashing surf, but her soft landing from above failed to escape Naim’s ears. The girl froze, eyes wide as she looked up at him.

  The point of Naim’s kilij hovered between her eyes. “Where is he?”

  Kaitlin retreated a step but didn’t answer.

  A shower of dirt rained onto Naim’s back. He spun around to see John Sullivan bursting out of the mound of soil like the rising dead.

  “Right behind you,” said Sullivan.

  Naim brought his sword around. Sullivan barreled into his gut before he could land a blow, driving him backward. Kaitlin crouched into a ball behind Naim’s feet. Sullivan’s momentum drove him over the edge of the landing. As the beach rushed toward him, Naim braced for the impact.

  ###

  John watched the Turkish assassin smack the beach. Naim’s body rolled down a bank of sand, kilij falling out of his grasp. He lay face down, one arm kinked under his body, other arm splayed outward. The surf washed over his jade ring. The fall had been ten feet—surely lethal for a man of Naim’s age.

  “Is he dead?” Kaitlin looked down at the motionless assassin.

  “I don’t know.” John picked up his fallen rapier and limped down the steps, hand clutching his bleeding side. “I’m not taking any chances. Stay there.”

  “John, wait…”

  “Stay there!”

  John stepped onto the sand and crept toward Naim, Ace pointing down, ready to stab. The breeze ruffled Naim’s kaftan. The low sun ran across his kilij like molten steel, close to Naim’s reach. The point of John’s sword came to hover over Naim’s back. He moved it toward the base of Naim’s skull.

  The Chronicler spun onto his back, eyes alive and feral, and threw a handful of sand. John flinched, granules stinging his eyes. A kick swept straight into John’s bad calf, and he fell to one knee. Naim pressed his palm to the flat of John’s blade and guided the point into the sand. John punched Naim and opened a gash on his temple. Naim mule kicked John’s gut, throwing him back in a fit of coughing. The two men scrambled away from each other, sand flying. By the time John had an uneasy fencing stance, Naim had regained his kilij.

  The fall hadn’t left the Chronicler unscathed, however. Naim kept his right wrist tucked against his side, the fingers bent at wrong angles. He favored his right leg as he limped toward John. Naim spun the kilij in his left hand with elegant flourishes, every inch the swordsman with his weaker side. Rather than fight a mirror image, John switched to his own left hand. Fortunately for John, Pavia had made him fight with both hands.

  The two men trudged toward each other. John struck first. Naim turned Ace aside and jabbed John’s face with the flat of his crosspiece. John staggered back, his nostrils spraying blood. He slashed at Naim’s left flank. With a spin of his blade, Naim sent the rapier flying through the air. It landed in the sand ten yards away.

  Time slowed as Naim swung for the killer blow. With no weapons to hand, John lunged forward, caught Naim’s arm, and sank his teeth into his sword hand. Far from the screaming agony of Clyde Tindall, Naim responded with mild annoyance. John grappled with Naim over the kilij, biting harder, his mouth filling with the iron taste of blood. The Chronicler’s brow beaded with sweat, but his yellow-green eyes were as ironclad as ever. Naim jabbed his own broken fingers into the slash across John’s ribs. The young sailor’s whole abdomen collapsed in pain, and he fell back.

  “Your mother bit harder.” The Chronicler raised his sword to John, who scrambled back in the sand.

  “No!” cried Kaitlin. She leaped onto Naim’s back, scaling him like a monkey. Her legs wrapped around his throat, her arms around his sword arm.

  Naim thrashed, stumbling back across the beach. Kaitlin’s grip held firm. Naim’s face reddened with Kaitlin’s chokehold. John tried to get to his feet, but a pang in his side doubled him over. Naim threw himself back against the tower, smashing Kaitlin against the stone. She lost her grip with the withering impact and flopped onto the sand. Naim belted her in the face, knocking her senseless. By then, John was close enough to punch at Naim, but the assassin sidestepped and slashed John’s other side.

  Naim said, “For once, Sullivan, your anger cannot help you win.”

  John stumbled for balance and threw another punch. Naim bent out of the way. With an elegant backstroke, he sank the point of his kilij into the meat of John’s bicep. John cried out in pain.

  “Your will cannot carry you.”

  The kilij poked a hole in John’s good calf, and he sank to his knees. He roared with impotent fury. A few paces away, he saw Kaitlin struggling onto her haunches. She was conscious, if groggy. Her lower lip was split open and pouring blood.

  Naim came to stand behind the kneeling John. “All your clever tricks are not enough to save you.”

  The fearsome Turkish sword flashed up to John’s throat. The towering Ottoman crouched low over John and trapped him in a headlock. Naim pressed his palm against the back of John’s neck. As easily as one might bend a doll, he made John present his throat to the blade. Another hair of pressure and the razor edge of the kilij would part the skin.

  There were no cards left to play. No plans left to hatch. No help coming. John had lost—and he was going to die. Was this how Da felt? John wondered. The day the pirates came…

  “Look at her,” Naim murmured into John’s ear.

  John and Kaitlin locked eyes. He shed a tear as he looked at his sister. Kaitlin had been right all along. You can’t beat him, she had warned. No one can. If only John had listened. To believe the Chronicler of Constantinople could lose to a penniless Navy deserter had been a joke. John opened his mouth to tell Kaitlin that he loved her, but the pressure of Naim’s blade stifled his voice.

  “Really look at her.” Naim’s words were soft. His beard brushed against John’s cheek. “I want the last thing you see…” the kilij pressed harder now, “…to be the look in her eyes when you fail her.”

  Despair gurgled from John’s throat. He squirmed under Naim’s hold, but there was no escape. His eyes pleaded with Kaitlin for forgiveness. For his weakness as a man. For his failure as a brother. Tears ran down her cheeks. In her despair, her hand tapped nervously at her side.

  “You fought as a wolf, Sullivan,” said Naim. “But you’ll be slaughtered like a lamb.”

  The moment approached. Kaitlin’s tears flowed free. Her fingers tapped at her side and…John’s eyes widened. Kaitlin was tapping her upper left thigh—two fingers only. The escape from the Lake Fort flashed in John’s memory. He remembered Kaitlin’s words.

  A pocket is always easier to lade than pick.

  Back at the Lake Fort, when Kaitlin had planted the coin purse on the Nizam-I Djedid guard.

  “I am the magnificent Red Hart.” Kaitlin flashes a grin. She taps two fingers on her belt, showing where she hung the coin pouch on the soldier. “That’s the thief sign for ‘
the loot is planted.’”

  Kaitlin was still tapping her upper left thigh. She tackled Naim moments ago. She possessed John’s dagger Spade. She lacked the skill to successfully stab Naim, but she had another skill…

  “You’re right, Naim.” John rasped.

  The kilij loosened slightly. John could feel Naim’s curiosity.

  “It wasn’t enough to be a wolf.” John slipped his right hand slowly up to Naim’s belt. He felt the cool grip of Spade, lodged in the empty sling that once held crossbow bolts. He closed his fingers around the grip. “I needed the Hart.”

  John yanked the dagger free and plunged. Naim howled in pain as the dagger drove through the thick meat of his upper thigh and punched through the other side. John launched onto his feet and smacked the crown of his head into Naim’s chin. He spun out of Naim’s grip and limped toward Ace, which lay in the sand several yards away. Naim dragged his ruined leg across the beach, kilij at the ready. John would never make it to his sword before Naim caught him.

  Kaitlin raced past John. She felt through the sand and found what she was looking for. “John, catch!” She tossed Ace across the beach.

  John thrust his hand into the air. Naim swung his sword. John caught the rapier, spun, and parried the strike. The Chronicler slashed with abandon now, desperate to cut John down at any cost. But John parried with careful, patient swings. Naim’s blood ran down his leg, wetting the sand. His eyes raged, but his body slowed. The swords pinged off each other. John moved his blade in small, quick circles. With each parry, the circle grew smaller. And then Naim swung a touch too high. John thrust.

  Ace slid between Naim’s ribs with barely a shudder. The Chronicler paused mid-swing, eyes bulging in surprise. The kilij fell from his grasp. The only sound was the breaking waves. John felt a beating against his blade, and he knew he’d pierced the heart. Naim’s eyes flashed surprise, then something serene, as if he were looking past John, toward a sight of great beauty. Then they drifted off. His heart beat once, twice, and then was still. John withdrew the sword. The Chronicler dropped to his knees, blood spreading across his kaftan, and sprawled in the chuckling surf.