Isle of Fire (6 page)

“Your first request was easy enough,” said the Merchant. “But the second . . . well, now, that required some digging.”

“They exist, then?”

“Oh yes. That proud race will never die out. I have done business with them before. But they will not suffer anyone who is not of their blood to be among them for long. And . . . they demand much of a leader.”

“And the other item . . . can you find it or not?” demanded the man in black. He hadn't climbed the 259 steps to play games.

Laughter drifted eerily across the gap. “I already have. Locating it was nothing for a man of my means. Wresting it from the hands of its current owner . . . that will demand time and my . . . unique methods.”

“My errand cannot wait,” said the man in black.

“No, I expect not,” said the Merchant. “Nonetheless you will wait six days. Upon the sixth, you will find me in Whitechapel. Third alley west of Sullivan's Tavern. After nightfall, knock on the third door from the road. I will have the items you want. But . . . my price is high.”

“I am quite sure I can cover it,” said the man in black.

“Can you?” asked the Merchant, a note of contempt in his bodiless voice. “You and Edmund Bellamy are so alike. Arrogant.” The word hung in the air. “In six days, I'll have what you ask for, and then we'll see what you are willing to part with in return.”

The voice disappeared like a wisp of smoke. The man in black heard no footsteps, but he felt certain the Merchant was already gone.

His boots scraped on the cobblestone of the alley in spite of efforts to approach his destination in secrecy. Most Londoners had gone to bed long before. Still, the vacant passages between ever-crowding brick buildings amplified every sound.

He approached the third door from the road and raised his hand to knock. His gloved fist suspended in midair. The man in black had waited impatiently for six days for this, and yet he hesitated now. There was something foreboding about this door. It was tall and covered in dark filth as if blasted by fire. The doorknocker was a thick, tarnished ring clenched in the teeth of a hideous gargoyle of a face that seemed in the act of a scream. An icy chill pooled in the pit of his stomach. Fear was entirely foreign to the man in black, except that which he himself inspired. He drew back his hand and stroked a gray sideburn all the way to his jutting chin. Then he knocked. Before he could rap a second time, the top half of the door swung away. “Welcome . . . to my shop,” a voice slithered out of the darkness.

The man in black saw nothing, just a gaping black hole where the top half of the door had been. “Were you successful?”

“Of course.” The Merchant lingered on the “s” drawing it out to a hiss. “Given the time . . . and the motivation, I can get anything a mortal soul could desire.” A long case of gray leather was placed on the ledge of the bottom section of the door. Then a thick, leather-bound book was slid next to it. “Mind the blood,” said the Merchant. “It was . . . required.”

The man in black put the pouch into a great pocket in his coat. Then he grasped the book.
Eiríkr Thorvaldsson
was the title carved into the leather flesh. “It's in there?” he asked. “Not just the saga, but the family tree?”

“Yes,” the Merchant replied. “All that you need. But now to the matter of my compensation.”

“This should be more than suitable payment,” he said as he placed a new pouch on the ledge where the other had been.

A shadowy hand took the pouch. Suddenly, the pouch flew out of the darkness and smacked against the brick wall behind the man in black. Jewels, white and green, lay at his feet.

“This will not satisfy your debt to me,” said the Merchant, his voice low and menacing.

“I assure you, the gems are real.”

“I care not. They are baubles . . . trinkets. I know who you are. And I know your plan. None of it will come to pass without that book I recovered for you. But with it, you will succeed, and when you do, I want a contract.”

“Contract?”

“A guarantee of sorts . . . compensation, favors, protection. This will be in writing and signed in blood. But for now, I simply need your word.”

The man in black looked at the book and then into the void in the doorway. Who knew what the Merchant actually wanted? He seemed capable enough. Whatever he wanted . . . it would be worth it. “I accept your terms.”

“The word of a pirate is hardly reliable,” said the Merchant laughing quietly. The mirth in his voice disappeared, replaced with a deep, menacing whisper. “But mark me, you are now bound to your promise. And we will meet again . . . soon.”

The top section of the door closed without a sound. The man in black held the book tightly to his chest. He picked up the discarded jewels. Then before leaving the dark door and the cold alley behind, he stood quietly for a few moments.

The
Saga of Erik the Red
lay open on the desk where the man in black furiously flipped its pages. The Merchant had assured him that the family tree was in this volume, but so far nothing but mythic stories of—
Wait!
And there it was at last. The script was faded in some places, smeared in others. The various hands that had updated it over the years were anything but examples of great penmanship. And it was all written in Norse, but the man in black had learned that tongue as a child and still remembered it well enough to read. The first name in the tree was, of course, Erik the Red. Dozens of generations later, another familiar name appeared, and the man in black grinned.

Gunnar Thorne. Dear Father
, thought Bartholomew Thorne.
For once you didn't lie
. His throat constricted, and his breathing became rough and raspy.

There were two names beneath the old bloodfist. Thorne traced a finger across his own name and sneered at the other. He closed the
Saga of Erik the Red
. And from a long, leather case he withdrew a dark stave carved from a bough off a Jamaican ironwood tree. Thorne hefted it in his hand. It was heavier than his previous bleeding stick. But the weight felt good. How ironic that the natives called it the “wood of life” due to the curative properties of its resin.

Thorne reached into an open leather satchel, took out a handful of sharp metal spikes that curled like talons, and began to screw them into the top portion of the stave. He held his new weapon in the light of the oil lantern on the desk and watched with satisfaction as the dark red sap bled down the shaft. Thorne knew it was only a hint of what was to come.

5
THE NIGHTWALKER

C
at had been with the monks of the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel for more than a week, and Father Brun hadn't uttered another word about joining the Brethren order. And yet almost every waking moment, the decision had weighed upon Cat's heart like an anchor.

Day after day as he supped with the monks or as he took part in their physical activities, Cat became more and more confused. The monks of the Brethren were so kind and welcoming. They went about embracing each other as if they were all family.

And the Brethren prayed—a lot. In every corner of the Citadel, he found monks praying. Some prayed alone in small alcoves or closets. Others prayed in pairs upon stone benches, while others huddled in masses in the sanctuary or even out in the fields. As strange as the relentless prayer seemed to Cat, he also thought it intriguing. Tonight, for example, he found himself wondering what the monks said to God and whether God answered back.

A blackbird's harsh croak from outside the chamber window startled Cat from his thoughts. He rose from the cot, went to the white basin on the table, and rinsed his face with the cold water. A knock at the door caused Cat to jump. When he turned, Father Brun stood in the doorway holding a flickering candle.

“I have just returned from prayer,” Father Brun said. That was no surprise to Cat. The monk motioned for Cat to sit at the small table near the window. He took a seat across from Cat and placed the candle on the table between them. Cat watched the wavering flame and noted its movements were not unlike Father Brun's restless eyes. Those pale eyes did not dart to and fro out of nervous preoccupation but rather in continuous observation. But now, they stopped, and the effect was like sudden silence in the midst of a raging storm.

“The Brethren solemnly request your services, Griffin Lejon Thorne,” said Father Brun. “But we would not have you decide out of a fleeting passion or in ignorance of the danger you will face.” The room seemed to darken, and Cat glanced through the shutters as if some frightening thing might be approaching. The wind strengthened and the shutters rattled.

“We seek an ancient enemy—elusive and shrewd—malevolent on a level far beyond the darkest pirates of history. And history does not record this villain's true name. He is known only as the Merchant.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“And he would like nothing more than to keep it that way,” said Father Brun. “For his effectiveness waxes in his anonymity. But tell me, Cat, have you ever wondered what has caused some of the great calamities of the world? Has it ever amazed you that throughout history, evil men have somehow had the means to carry out their infamous deeds? Black-hearted emperors and kings, despots and tyrants, and yes . . . even pirates—they have all risen to power on the might of a blood-soaked fist. But who provided the dagger for that fist? The sword . . . the cannon? Who first whispered malice into the eager ears of these violent souls? It was the Merchant.”

Father Brun saw the question in Cat's expression and said, “No, history does not speak his deeds—nay, only the deeds of his customers. But the Brethren have collected traces of the Merchant's activity, and in our annals you will find his black thread weaving through the years like a serpent. The first mention of him comes from a letter dictated by Emperor Nero in AD 68, a month before he killed himself. In the letter, Nero claims that the gods sent him an advisor who helped him in times of great duress. It was this advisor who encouraged Nero to blame Christians for the burning of Rome . . . leading to the persecution and martyrdom of thousands.

“The Merchant turns up again in AD 334. Having failed in his attempts to worm his way into Emperor Constantine's council, he tried to poison him instead. The Brethren order was newly formed at that time, and Constantine was spared. But the Merchant escaped. And over the centuries, he returned, supplying and exhorting the most ruthless villains the world has ever known. Torquemada, Báthory, Chevillard, Bellamy—but always in the shadows, just out of reach . . . until now.”

“How can that be possible?” Cat asked. “No man can live for centuries.”

“True,” Father Brun replied. “And yet a man's evil can live on long past his death. You see, the Merchant is not one man but many. In 1580, we captured the Merchant. He was ill and near to death, but from him we learned that he had trained an apprentice to assume his role upon his death. And so it has been for these many hundreds of years. One Merchant trains the next, and so, his malice lives on.”