Isle of Fire (20 page)

The hulls of these amazing warcrafts were assembled from the darkest wood Thorne had ever seen—else they were painted black. The dark, overlapping planks from stem to stern gave each ship the appearance of being armored. Raukar warriors stood in precise rows on the main deck of each ship. The sun gleamed off their weapons, armor, and mail.

Thorne thought the Raukar ships sat amazingly high on the water for their size and the weight of so many soldiers, but he did note the absence of one essential ingredient for war at sea.

“Cannons?” Thorne whispered.

“RAUKAR!!” Hrothgar thundered as he held his battleaxe high.

“HRAH!!” came the reply from the ships, followed by the sound like a thousand waves crashing simultaneously. And on each Raukar vessel hidden cannon bays had slid open, and myriads of thick cannon muzzles protruded from them. And upon the main deck there were other devices. They appeared to be cannons of some kind, but the barrels were uniform—not tapered—and longer.

“The twofold might of the Raukar,” said Hrothgar.

Thorne, still in awe of the fleet that would be his to command, whispered, “The sea and . . .”

“And fire!” Hrothgar exclaimed, gazing out proudly upon his kin. He clenched the haft of his axe so hard his knuckles whitened. Then he turned back to Thorne. “Would you care to sail with me?”

Hrothgar had led Thorne to a cutter at the water's edge, and a dozen bare-shouldered warriors quickly rowed them out into the deeper water beyond the first two rows of warships. There waited a craft so formidable and perilous that Thorne felt an electric chill skitter up his spine to the nape of his neck. Nearly black like the others, this vessel would be invisible at night. It was taller and longer than the others, and Thorne could actually see the outline of its cannon bays. He counted four gun decks, each with fifteen cannons. “One hundred twenty guns,” Thorne muttered under his breath.

“More,” said Hrothgar, “when you count the dragon necks on the main deck.”

“Dragon necks?”

Hrothgar snorted a laugh. “You will see.”

“But so many weapons . . . it must make the vessel exceedingly heavy . . . slow.”

“Not so, Gunnarson,” Hrothgar said as the cutter drew near to the great ship's keel. “Have you noted the masts and the spars? Four masts and one lanteen sail on the bowsprit. But the wood is treated and sealed with a special mixture of elements that hardens it without sacrificing flexibility. From those masts and spars we can fly sails much wider than even the English warships. We Raukar harness the wind like no other seafaring race.”

Thorne exhaled sharply.

“I take it you like the ship,” said Hrothgar.

“I have never seen its equal,” Thorne replied.

“That is because there is none.” Hrothgar looked upon the ship as a father might gaze with pride upon his offspring. “This ship is our command vessel. It is yours now.”

A different sort of man would have lavished gratitude over the giver of such a gift, but not Bartholomew Thorne. The ship was indeed marvelous, but for Thorne, it was merely a tool. And he felt he deserved it. “I accept,” was all he said.

“Come now, Gunnarson,” said Hrothgar. “What name will you give this proud ship? The Raukar shipwrights who, by sweat and toil, built it have made some suggestions, but . . . I thought the ship's captain should have that honor.”

“First, I will sail upon the ship,” said Thorne, “and let the ship earn its name.”

Hrothgar smiled a great toothy grin. Surely Erik the Red's blood flowed freely in Thorne's veins.

Unseen crew from the deck far above threw down long rope ladders, and the passengers on the cutter clambered aboard. Thorne had never seen a deck so vast, and it appeared nearly flat. The forecastle and the quarterdeck were very low, and a dark tarp stretched at an angle in front of each. Thorne guessed this design would cut down on the resistance to the wind. All along the side rails were more of the strange long-barreled cannons Thorne had observed before. Up close, he could see why they had been dubbed dragon necks. The barrel of each cannon was as black as ink, but some other silver metal had been skillfully wrought around it like reptilian scales right up to the muzzle. And there, a dreadful dragon's mouth opened. Thorne was anxious to see what sort of cannon shot would come forth from the jaws of each of these beasts.

Hrothgar began shouting orders, and Thorne heard a series of sudden snaps. He craned his neck up to follow the mainmast skyward and saw the last of three gigantic sails fill taut with wind. Thorne took an awkward step backward, for the ship lurched forward with incredible, sudden acceleration. The long hull stabbed effortlessly through the water, and the ship—with all its cannons and crew—moved faster than any ship Thorne had ever captained.

“We sail south,” explained Hrothgar. “Near the inlet where you have moored your barque, the
Talon
, you called it?”

“Yes,” answered Thorne. “Fast little ship, but not fit for battle.”

“Not fast like this?”

“No,” Thorne replied. “Not even close.”

This pleased Hrothgar. “In a few minutes, we'll come to a rocky tidal island just a mile from shore. I will show you something then.”

Hrothgar said nothing more to Thorne for quite some time. He stomped around the deck, checking hatches and rigging. Many words could be used to describe the Raukar, but careless was not one of them. Thorne went to the prow and was surprised to see how high above the water he stood. It was quite a view, and Thorne imagined hunting a British ship of the line from this vantage . . . watching its masts crack and fall and smiling as its hull slipped below the wa—

“There it is,” said Hrothgar, appearing behind Thorne. He pointed over Thorne's shoulder to a pyramid-shaped piece of stone several hundred yards off the starboard bow. A twisting gray tree was the only vegetation on the little cay, and waves crashed constantly against it.

“It is your custom,” said Hrothgar with a wry grin, “a pirate custom . . . to fly a black flag, is it not?”

Thorne nodded. “The banner is used to paralyze the enemy, to frighten him into submission or a tactical error.”

“Fear is a powerful tool,” Hrothgar said. He studied Thorne for a few moments and then said, “I took the liberty of discussing this matter with your second . . . quartermaster, I believe you call him.”

“Teach?”

“Yes,” the Raukar chieftain replied. “He told me something of your previous ship, about the flag you once flew. But I did not choose to replicate the design. Correct me if I am wrong, but this ship was defeated by the British?”

Thorne did not answer, but sour hatred churned in his gut.

“Now that you have the might of the Raukar behind you, Gunnarson, you will fly a new banner on this ship, and no Christian will stand against us. RAUKAR!!”

The entire crew responded, “HRAH!!”

Hrothgar nodded to a giant by the mainmast who immediately hauled a length of rope. Thorne watched as a great black banner unfurled and flapped in the wind. Thorne looked once and looked again at the design. At first he thought it was the same as the
Raven
's. The skull, the raven taking flight, and the hourglass were all there. But then Thorne saw the difference: instead of two cutlass swords crossed behind the skull, Hrothgar had a pair of crossed hammers.

“Do you approve?” Hrothgar asked.

Thorne felt his throat thickening. It was almost too good. “Yessss,” he rasped.

One of the warriors on the starboard rail yelled something in Norse. It was spoken too fast for Thorne to translate.

“We are in range,” Hrothgar said as he led Thorne over to a dragon neck cannon near the fore starboard rail. “We have assembled a formidable fleet, and the valor of the Raukar who will sail it is unmatched. But even so, the British so outnumber us that victory cannot be assured and would be costly beyond reckoning. Watch now and see the means by which our victory is assured.”

Hrothgar motioned to the team of Raukar stationed there. He watched one man jam a black powder charge down the barrel until its fuse appeared in an eye-hole at the rear of the cannon. Thorne wondered again what sort of cannonball these dragon necks fired.

He scanned the feet of the loading team but saw none. There was, however, a stack of odd-looking black canisters. One of the loaders grabbed one of these, and Thorne watched the man turn the canister carefully so that a wiry fuse stuck up. He unsheathed a dagger and cut off about ten inches of the fuse. Then, with the fuse on the canister sticking up, the man slid the canister into the barrel of the cannon. Another man took a ramrod and pushed the canister to the back of the cannon until the canister's fuse popped up next to the firing cartridge's fuse.

Then, two men went to work, each turning a crank handle so that the barrel of the cannon tilted upward.
Too high
, Thorne believed.
It'll sail right over that little island.

A man approached with a torch and looked questioningly at Hrothgar. The chieftain nodded, and the man put the torch to both fuses. The fuses began to burn, and the Raukar warrior looked up, grinned at Thorne, and said, “Eldregn!”

The charge went off. The cannon shuddered. And Thorne watched with some satisfaction as the shot went well over the rocky island.
Terrible aim
, he thought.
I expected bet—
Thorne never finished his thought. There was a painfully bright flash followed by a concussive blast. A harsh orange fireball kindled above the island, and it began to spread in the sky. Flaming streamers like tentacles stretched forth and descended upon the island. The lone palm tree was instantly consumed. But it continued to burn. Fire continued to pour down from the sky, and licks of flame sprang up all over the rocky formations of the island. To Thorne's utter amazement, fire burned even on the surface of the water.

“Greek fire,” Thorne muttered. “You found the formula for Greek fire.”

“Nay, Gunnarson,” said Hrothgar. “It was a gift from Tyr. And the Raukar have made it even more . . . effective. It is eldregn!”

“Fire rain,” Thorne whispered. Then, with his throat constricting, he grasped the armor on Hrothgar's shoulders and said, “The British . . . they will burn.”

“Yes,” Hrothgar replied.

Thorne looked up to the black flag once more and said, “I am ready to name this ship. I will call it . . . the
Raven's Revenge
.”

“It is no coincidence,” said Hrothgar, “that the servant of Tyr would distinguish himself under the sign of the raven. We Raukar call the raven the chooser of the slain.”

“This eldregn, this fire rain . . . what would it do to a ship?”

“You will see . . . soon enough, Gunnarson. The British will see as well.”

Thorne shook his head. “I need to know its range . . . the distance it spreads, and I need to see how quickly it consumes a ship.”

“But we have no ships to waste,” said Hrothgar. “There is a shipwreck on the western side of the island. Part of the hull is still visible above the waves. Perhaps that will serve—”

Thorne shook his head again. He had other ideas.

Edward Teach stood on the beach with a group of Thorne's crew. A long cutter rowboat rested half in the water, half on the pebbly shore. “So let me make sure I understand you,” said Teach. “You want me to sail the
Talon
out into the harbor about two hundred yards and then anchor? But you want me to raise all the sails—even the lanteen?”

“That is correct,” said Thorne.

“And then what?”

“Then,” Thorne said, pulling the tarp off a skid and revealing a dragon neck cannon. “Then I suggest you and the lads explore the Baltic Sea.”

“Awww, but, sir?”

“Quartermaster,” said Thorne, loosening his bleeding stick, “this is not a request.”

Teach lowered his eyebrows and glared at his commander, but only for a moment. Then he turned on the other lads and shoved them one by one into the cutter.
Teach will make a decent second-in-command
after all
, thought Thorne.
If not the smartest man, he at
least has some backbone.