Isle of Fire (12 page)

Raukar warriors kindled torches all around the circumference of this vast round chamber. The ceiling was very high and vaulted, like the dome of a cathedral, but made entirely of wood. Except for a wide outer hall, sections of cunningly wrought grandstands filled the round building, rising up to within a dozen feet of its high ceiling. And as Hrothgar led Thorne and the others into the center, the Raukar poured into the stands and stood waiting.

In the middle of the grandstands, a great circle of the floor, at least forty feet in diameter, was cut away, revealing a vast black hollow. It yawned like the mouth of a gigantic beast and, in the dark, seemed bottomless. Hrothgar took a torch from one of his men and lit six fire pits that surrounded the great opening. Angry orange light flooded into the chamber below. Thorne and his men stepped to the edge and looked down. They saw walls made with layers of stone as if the chamber were a wide well. But between the stones, protruding from the mortar in irregular patterns, were dozens of long spikes, sharp as dagger blades and white as if made of ivory or bone.

“The Bearpit!” announced Hrothgar with his arms outstretched. He lowered his hands, and the hundreds of Raukar who stood in the stands took their seat. “Ever has this chamber purified our race. For two men may enter, but only one man, the strongest, most cunning man emerges.” Hrothgar summoned Bartholomew Thorne and his opponent to approach. Then he said to them, “Bjorn Ingalad, you know well the rigors of the Bearpit.” Bjorn fingered the bear teeth around his neck and grinned at his inexperienced opponent.

Hrothgar continued. “But for you, outlander, know this: Once you enter the Bearpit, you will not leave until one of you is dead. There is no surrender, no submission, no change of heart. So I offer you now this last mercy: Bartholomew Thorne, admit you are a liar or worse—a coward—and I will allow you and your men to depart with your lives. Should you fail, your men will die with you.”

“I am neither a liar nor a coward,” said Thorne. “I pronounce again my claim to lead the Raukar to their rightful place in the world. I accept the terms of the Bearpit—and my fate.”

Teach and the other pirates shifted uneasily where they stood. Their lives now depended on Bartholomew Thorne.

“Very well,” said Hrothgar grimly. Then he pointed past Thorne into the pit. “At the base of the walls you will find all manner of weapon: sword, axe, spear, bludgeon—these you may use at any time in the course of combat. But you may not use your firearms.”

“I have the only weapon I need,” said Thorne, opening his coat to reveal his bleeding stick. Bjorn examined Thorne's weapon curiously and shrugged. Thorne removed three pistols from his belt and handed them to Guthrum. He gave his outer jacket to Mr. Teach.

Hrothgar loosed a blast from his war horn, and six Raukar warriors wheeled in a strange device. It was mostly made of wood, but had a pulley system of some sort running along a lengthy arm that reached out from a locking hinge. Hrothgar stared into Bjorn's eyes and then to Thorne. “Die well,” he said.

The six warriors maneuvered the pulley device to the edge of the Bearpit. A looped rope dangled high from its long, wooden arm. Bjorn approached, and once the others lowered the wooden arm, he put a foot into the loop and grasped the rope. Two men turned iron cranks and, in so doing, lifted Bjorn into the air. Then they swung him out over the hole in the ground and lowered their champion gently into the Bearpit.

The Raukar repeated the process for Thorne—though with much less care. Bartholomew Thorne stepped awkwardly out of the rope loop and watched as it was withdrawn. Thorne loosed his bleeding stick from its holster and looked at the spikes all around. They were longer than they had first appeared, each one more than a foot in length and sharpened to a fine point. Where each spike inserted into the mortar, there was a ring of dark red.

Excitement buzzed from the stands above, and Thorne looked up to see the eager faces of this people. Men, women, and children, descended from the most efficient warriors the world had ever known, all looked down with great anticipation. Then Thorne looked up and saw a mural of a fearsome warrior-god on the domed ceiling above the pit. This being had greatly exaggerated musculature and swung his mighty ball and chain weapon, toppling a massive tower. But the most unusual feature of this deity was that he had but one hand. Thorne thought back to the tapestry of Tyr, the god of war, with his hand in the great wolf's mouth.

Chanting began overhead, and Hrothgar sounded his horn once more. Bjorn charged. He lashed out with the axe. Thorne ducked, and the axe whooshed above his head. Thorne knew the axe would return low, so he snapped a sharp kick into the side of Bjorn's knee. The huge warrior crumpled for a moment, one hand clutching his knee. The crowd above gasped. Thorne swung the bleeding stick at the side of Bjorn's head. But he only caught Bjorn's helmet, sending it clattering across the stone floor.

Bjorn stood tall and grinned. “Not so easily, outlander!” he barked. His axe came on again swiftly. One slash to Thorne's gut, and then back across near his chin. Thorne leaped one attack and batted away the other, but Bjorn threw a mighty punch with his free hand, connecting with Thorne's jaw and knocking him onto his back. The crowd roared.

Thorne rose quickly and checked his periphery to measure his distance from the wall of spikes. He had about six feet behind him, but that was all. Bjorn came on again, and his axe crashed down. Thorne blocked with his bleeding stick, making sure to catch the haft with his own. Again and again, Bjorn chopped, trying to strike Thorne's weapon with the blade and break it asunder. But each time, Thorne moved inside and forced the wood to strike wood. Bjorn grew angry and unleashed a savage chop. When Thorne blocked it, the iron blade of the axe snapped off and whizzed by Thorne's ear. Thorne had a brief advantage. He swung his bleeding stick at Bjorn's midsection, but the warrior dodged backward. Thorne swung again at his enemy's stomach but followed it with a powerful kick. The blow connected with the Viking's gut and sent Bjorn stumble-stepping backward to within a few feet of the spikes. He stopped easily in time, glanced over his shoulder at the spikes, and laughed.

The crowd grew restless, for they had not expected the battle to take so long. They cheered Bjorn on and yelled insults at his smaller enemy. Bjorn reached down and picked up a long spear. Thorne recognized the trouble coming. With the spear, Bjorn had tremendous reach and would seek to drive Thorne into the spikes. But Thorne had his own attack that his opponent would never expect. He just needed the right opportunity.

As expected, Bjorn thrust the spear at Thorne. He dodged and parried, never backing up but moving left to right in a circle. Bjorn's skill with the spear was considerable, and he began to press in on Thorne without fear. He jabbed high as if he might ram the spearhead into Thorne's skull, but the moment he missed, he whirled the opposite end of the spear around and cracked it across Thorne's shoulder. Thorne rolled sideways, but not shallow enough. When he stood, one of the spikes tore through his clothing and ripped down his back.

The pain burned as if a branding iron had seared his back. Thorne growled. Moving quickly he pressed a sliding latch near the end of his bleeding stick and turned the spiked head counterclockwise. As Bjorn was charging, the spiked head of Thorne's weapon came free. It dropped nearly to the ground, attached to the handle by a length of chain. Thorne began to whirl the mace-like weapon at his side.

The sharp tip of Bjorn's spearhead grazed Thorne's shoulder, but Thorne swung his weapon around and caught Bjorn solidly in the middle of his back. If it had not been for the chain mail, Thorne would have torn loose a chunk of his enemy's flesh. As it was, the blow was swift and hard. Bjorn groaned, arched his back, and turned to face Thorne. The crowd chanted in a frenzy above.

The temptation grew for the Raukar champion to bull-rush the enemy who had wounded him. But Bjorn was no amateur, and he was no fool. He knew that momentum in the Bearpit was a dangerous—and perhaps, deadly—force. The plan crystallized in his mind, and Bjorn knew just what to do. Keeping the spearhead way out in front, Bjorn came after Thorne. He jabbed at Thorne high, then low, keeping Thorne moving backward and waiting for him to counter. At last, Thorne began to swing his flail weapon again. Bjorn dodged and ducked and was rewarded for his patience. Thorne swung his bleeding stick high overhead, and Bjorn blocked by holding his spear horizontally with both hands. The heavy head of Thorne's weapon wrapped itself around the shaft of the spear. Bjorn summoned all of his superior strength and jerked the spear backward, wrenching the bleeding stick from Thorne's hands. Only . . . Thorne did not let go.

Instead, Thorne leaped and let Bjorn's strength propel him up and over his enemy's head. Thorne released the handle of his weapon and dropped down behind the stunned Raukar warrior. Thorne drove a thunderous kick between Bjorn's shoulder blades, and Bjorn careened forward—into the spikes. The raucous Bearpit fell as silent as a mausoleum. Bartholomew Thorne untangled his bleeding stick from his enemy's spear and then stepped into the rope loop.

He was lifted out of the Bearpit, and the chamber around him filled with furtive whispers. Some wept for Bjorn and uttered curses at the outlander, but many more spoke fearfully. Some pointed to the mural on the dome. One warrior said, “See how he wields his mace. He is a messenger from Tyr!”

When Thorne stepped off the rope, he received his pistols from a thunderstruck Guthrum and his coat from a grinning Mr. Teach. He then turned to face Hrothgar and Lady Fleur. “Bjorn was a magnificent warrior,” Thorne said. “We might have used such as he as we sail to conquer the Atlantic.”

Tears ran angrily down Lady Fleur's blood red cheeks. She looked as if she might scream, but Hrothgar laid a hand on her shoulder. He stood, and his great chest heaved as he spoke. “Bjorn died valiantly,” he said. “The Valkyries will bear him to Valhalla.” His eyes seemed to gaze right through Thorne into a realm that no one else could see. But he blinked, and his back straightened. “The Raukar have hoped for such a day as this for six hundred years. Long have we prepared for the day when we might burst forth from seclusion and reclaim what has been stolen from us.”

“Lord Hrothgar,” said Thorne, letting the chain of his weapon fall a link at a time into the handle, “today is that day.”

Hrothgar nodded, slowly at first, then with greater and greater conviction. The warriors in the chamber began to pound their fists to their chests and stamp their feet. They began to sing in their language, and even to Mr. Teach and the other sailors who knew nothing of that tongue, it sounded like an anthem or a call to arms.

Hrothgar raised his arms for silence and said to Thorne, “To do what you propose, we must wage the war of all wars. The British have become a force to be reckoned with.”

Thorne screwed the spiked head back onto his bleeding stick and said, “I have a plan for the British.”

10
CHASING GHOSTS

T
horne's gone back to Dominica?” said Ross.

Stede's only reply was a long, exasperated sigh. His hands never left the ship's wheel, and he stared straight ahead at the sparkling blue sea.

“If this wind keeps up, we could make it to Roseau by sundown.” Ross wrung his beard between thumb and fingers and stared at his quartermaster. “Well, are you going to answer me?”

“Declan,” said Stede, “what do ya want from me, mon? For the last six months, we b' sailing all over the Caribbean. Trinidad, Rogue's Cay, Death's Head Island—we been to them all and not a sign of that outrageous mon! We b' wasting time and provisions.”

“It is not a waste,” Ross argued. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Thorne is still out there somewhere. And we have to—”

Stede interrupted. “Do ya want to know where we can b' finding Bartholomew Thorne? On New Providence, that b' where.”

“But the British have rebuilt the fort,” said Ross, puzzled. “Why would he—”

Stede shook his head. “Have ya no sense, mon? I said New Providence because that b' where Thorne's body lies—in the shallows or strung across a blasted reef. The wave took him, Declan. And we best b' looking after other concerns . . . rather than chasing ghosts.”

Ross retied the green bandana around his forehead. “Stede, my friend,” he began, his voice tight and words clipped. “We've sailed together a long time. Through storm and cannon fire . . . you've always trusted me. I need you to trust me now.”

“I b' trusting the real Declan Ross,” Stede said. “But ya have not been yerself, mon. And since we left Anne and Cat with the monks, ya b' warse.”

“Blast it, Stede!” Ross smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. “The sea did not take Bartholomew Thorne. He's alive. I don't know how I know. I just do.”

The two old friends gritted their teeth and looked away from each other. For several awkward moments neither said a thing. Mumbling something about not having enough herbs for the stew, Nubby climbed up the ladder to the quarterdeck. But when he saw the smoldering look on the captain's face, he quickly disappeared back down the ladder.