Vampirates: Tide of Terror Page 5

  Their eyes were locked as tightly as their swords. Combat was, as Connor had learned, as much a battle of will as of strength. Jez was doing really well. The wound he had cut into Sarakakino’s arm was only shallow, but it had sent a warning to the cocky fighter and doubtless made him reassess his opponent.

  And now, once more, it was Jez who took the gamble. He lifted his épée, throwing back Sarakakino and his sword for a moment. Jez leaped up and forward, lunging toward Sarakakino’s chest. But his opponent recovered fast and swung his scimitar out to block the attack. Never mind, thought Connor. Again, it had been Jez who had made the attack. Again, Drakoulis’ hulk was on the defensive. His friend had a real chance of victory here.

  Connor glanced over at Narcisos Drakoulis, hoping to see some sign of fear in his eyes, but the captain’s face gave nothing away. In contrast, Connor saw that Molucco was smiling softly, willing Jez on to keep up the momentum of attack. Beside him, Cate was also watching the fight intently. Connor knew that she’d be thinking through every move Jez made. To her, it was all about tactics — like a game of chess. She might be on the sidelines, but in her mind she was there with Jez, maneuvering the blade. He wondered how she thought Jez was doing.

  A sharp clash of metal drew Connor’s eyes back to the duellists once more. Their swords were high, giving Sarakakino an advantage in height. Sarakakino held the posture, knowing that the longer he did so, the more of Jez’s fire would be drawn away. Jez would have to do something amazing — and fast — to regain the advantage now. But could he take the risk of disengaging his épée?

  In the end, it was Sarakakino who broke off first, as if bored by the stalemate. He drew down his sword and leaped beyond Jez’s clutches. It was a sign that, though bigger in frame, he too was nimble. The two men were getting the measure of one another and discovering with every gambit that they were in fact quite evenly matched. And, with that knowledge, the fight proceeded with more fluency. Instead of posturing, Sarakakino let his scimitar do more of the work. Jez too realized that he could not rely on being more fleet of foot than his more muscled opponent.

  Connor watched as the swords spun through the air, colliding and then flying away again. It was as brilliant a display of fighting techniques as he had ever seen. His own adrenaline was pumping now, and a good part of him itched to reach for his own sword and try out some of the dazzling moves he was witnessing. Of all the sports he had learned, there was something unsurpassable about sword fighting. But there was more to this than mere sport, Connor reminded himself.

  Jez parried Sarakakino across the full stretch of deck left open to them. They came to a stop just in front of Captain Drakoulis, Jez holding the advantage. Then Sarakakino broke free and parried Jez’s sword back across the boards to where Molucco and Cate were standing. The transfixed crowd was utterly silent. The only sounds were those of the duellists. The effort of their breath. The thud of their boots. The infinite echo of steel on steel.

  Jez and Sarakakino were like two wild beasts, and yet there was as much poise and synchronicity in their movements as if they were dancing. Although they were adversaries, they were partners in this strange dance. It was a beautiful thing to watch, full of skill and grace. Connor marked every move, mesmerized. One day, he would fight such a fight as this.

  A new noise.

  A cry.

  Jez Stukeley is bleeding — profusely from his chest. He tumbles, slow motion, back toward the deckboards. The boards seem to buckle to meet his body, which crashes down, arms and legs flying out. It has happened so quickly that only now does Connor see Sarakakino’s blade withdraw, stained with Jez’s blood. The dance is ending. The elusive beauty is gone. It is revealed as a dance to the death. Connor and the others stare at Jez Stukeley, whose body jerks like a fish on a hook — the life running out of him in a dark, pulsing river, all over the deck.

  6

  DEATH OF A BUCCANEER

  Connor could not believe his eyes. The fight had changed so quickly. Only a few minutes earlier, he had been lost in admiration of Jez’s swordplay. Now, his friend was lying on the deck, fatally wounded. It was the most horrible of sights. Shock and stunted adrenaline rose up inside him and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit. He felt the bile rise in his throat, but somehow he managed to keep it down.

  Connor turned to Bart, in time to see him rush forward. Two of Drakoulis’ men raised their swords to halt Bart’s steps, but Drakoulis signaled to them to drop their weapons and let him through.

  Bart approached their dying friend, dropping down to his knees and reaching out a hand to clasp Jez’s. His friend’s were already white — life was draining out of him at a terrifying speed. Then Connor realized — Jez’s hands were still smeared in chalk dust. It was a momentary relief.

  “You fought well, buddy,” Connor heard Bart say, as he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his friend’s chest with his neckerchief. “You’re a real hero.”

  Connor turned his eyes to Gidaki Sarakakino. He wanted to hate the killer, but found he couldn’t. The fight might just as well have gone the other way, and it could have been Sarakakino laid out on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Even now, the victor was not gloating. He had only done his captain’s bidding, like any pirate. Now, sedately, he unwrapped his wrist bindings and wiped his sword clean. He seemed to have withdrawn mentally, finding his own way, perhaps, to justify his actions and their consequence.

  So it was to Narcisos Drakoulis whom Connor now glanced, awash with hatred. Jez’s blood was on his hands, though they might appear perfectly clean and smooth in the pale pink light of the setting sun.

  “Your price has been paid, Wrathe,” Drakoulis said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You and your crew are free to go.”

  Molucco Wrathe was incandescent with rage and not afraid to show it. “That lad gave his life in vain, Drakoulis.”

  “No,” Drakoulis snapped, “he gave his life to remind you that piracy is not merely sport.”

  “Don’t lecture me about being a pirate,” Molucco roared. “No one here knows more about what it means to be a pirate than I do.”

  Drakoulis remained calm, in spite of Molucco’s outburst. His voice, as he continued, was passionless — robotic. “Your actions, your transgressions, have consequences, Wrathe. Let this be a timely reminder for you. Stick to your own sea-lanes. Respect the domain of other captains. Pay heed to the rules of the Federation. Next time, it could be your fetid blood on the deck. Now, round up your crew and leave The Albatross.”

  “Captain!” Connor heard Bart cry.

  Molucco and Drakoulis turned at once.

  “Captain Wrathe,” Bart clarified, “Jez isn’t dead yet. His pulse is weak, but I think there’s a chance he can be saved if we could just get him back to The Diablo and see to his wounds properly.”

  Molucco broke into a smile but Drakoulis stepped in front of him, his body blocking out the setting sun so that it seemed to form a halo of light around his dark frame.

  “Leave now, without the vanquished.”

  Molucco was incredulous. “You taught me a fine lesson today, Drakoulis. And your henchman has nearly butchered this boy. Are you really so twisted that you’d see him die on your deck rather than have us carry him back to his ship and let him take his chances?”

  “He fought a duel and lost. He should be grateful that death is coming to wash clean his failure.”

  Molucco was momentarily speechless. Connor was stunned. Just when you thought you’d descended to the base depth of Drakoulis’ darkness, you fell deeper and deeper into the well.

  Bart took up their friend’s cause. “Please, Captain Drakoulis. You’ve made your point. I don’t reckon he’s long for this life anyhow. At least let us take him and give him a proper . . . farewell.”

  Drakoulis didn’t flinch. He looked straight at Molucco. “Please remind your subordinates not to address me directly.” The two captains glared at each other. Drakoulis sneered, “Take the fallen man if you wish
, Wrathe. Just get off The Albatross. I’m weary of you and your miscreant crew.” He turned and walked away, dispensing orders among his own company. The black-clad crew began herding the pirates of The Diablo into lines to disembark.

  Connor stepped forward to join Bart and Captain Wrathe at Jez’s side. Molucco put a hand on Bart’s shoulder and leaned closer to look down at Jez. Captain Wrathe had removed his hat, and Scrimshaw (the pet snake who lived in Molucco’s hair) was inching forward to see what was happening. The snake stretched out over Jez. Stukeley’s face was as pale as his chalk-stained hands and, in spite of Bart’s efforts, he was losing too much blood for his pain to last much longer.

  “You did a fine job for us today, Mister Stukeley,” Molucco said. “A fine job, d’ye hear? We’ll fire the cannon in your honor. And each of your comrades will drink a cup of rum for you at Ma Kettle’s. Just like the old days, eh?” There were tears in Captain Wrathe’s eyes as he forced out the words. “And whenever we have a chance, we’ll speak of Jez Stukeley as the very stuff that pirates are made of. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Jez managed to rasp. Then he looked up at Bart and Connor and a faint smile flickered across his violet lips.

  “Time for this buccaneer to say good-bye.”

  He closed his eyes. His head rolled slowly to the side.

  Scrimshaw recoiled at the sight, burrowing back into the safety of his master’s dreadlocks.

  “He’s gone,” Molucco said softly, placing a hand on Bart’s shoulder.

  Connor turned away in disbelief. His crewmates were already leaving the deck, flowing back across the three wishes to The Diablo. There was no sign of Drakoulis. But Gidaki Sarakakino stepped forward, his boots heavy on the deck.

  “He fought well,” he said, surprisingly softly. “He carries no shame.”

  The words had not come easily to him, thought Connor.

  Perhaps even this brief speech might be construed as disrespectful to his own captain. He nodded briefly, then withdrew.

  “Let me help you to carry him,” Connor said to Bart.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Bart said, biting back his tears. “Come on, Stukeley, shift a leg. Time to get you back home again, mate.”

  Grace heard the noise above deck. The pirates were back. She couldn’t wait to see Connor. She had to tell him all about Darcy’s phantom visit to her cabin. She flung open the door and raced along the corridor up toward the top deck.

  As she stepped out into the open air, she sensed immediately that something was wrong. The deck was crowded with both the returning pirates and the crew they had left behind. But Grace could tell from the quiet aboard the deck that the attack had not been a success. Her heart dropped, like an anchor plummeting to the ocean floor. Where was Connor? She had to see Connor.

  She began pushing through the pirate hoard, trying to stem her rising panic. Where was he? At last she caught sight of some of the pirates who had led the attack. They looked all right. They bore a few cuts and bruises but she had got used to seeing these during her time on The Diablo. Cuts and bruises were all part of the pirate’s trade.

  “Where’s Connor?” she asked.

  The pirates seemed dazed.

  “Where’s Connor?” she repeated. “Is he all right?”

  At last, one of the pirates stepped aside and she saw Connor standing behind him.

  “Connor!”

  His shirt was stained with blood. But no one was tending to him. Someone should tend to him . . .

  “Grace!”

  He smiled wanly and opened his arms to her. She ran into them, not caring about the mess his blood might make. They hugged. He held her tightly. She could feel the strength of his arms and his beating heart. She knew instinctively that he was okay.

  “I’m fine,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m fine.”

  After a few moments, he released her from the hug, but kept her in a looser hold. She looked down at his bloodied shirt. “I thought you were . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. The thought itself was too upsetting. She had tried to be so cool, so matter-of-fact, about him going off into battle. But she wasn’t cool with it. She never wanted to see him go off into attack again.

  “I’m fine, Grace,” Connor said. “But we lost a man today.”

  Grace nodded. It wasn’t Connor. That was all that mattered.

  Then Connor stepped back and she saw, behind him, Bart — kneeling on the deck, also covered in blood. She instantly regretted her previous thought. But Bart looked up at her sadly, then dropped his face once more. She looked down onto the deck and saw the motionless, butchered body of Jez Stukeley. His eyes were closed. Now, she understood.

  She stepped closer. “Jez,” she said. Her eyes moved from Connor to Bart and back to their fallen comrade. She knew how much the three of them meant to each other. “Oh no,” she said, “I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”

  Bart nodded sadly at her. He was still holding Jez’s hand. Connor took her in his arms once more.

  “Don’t ever leave me,” he said. “You won’t, will you? You’ll never leave me.”

  “No,” she said. But an image of Darcy flashed through her head. Then Lorcan. Then the Vampirate ship.

  Connor pulled her in closer. She felt him shaking.

  “No,” Grace said, shutting out all the images. “No, Connor, I promise I’ll never leave. And you have to make me a promise, too.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t want you to fight again. No more attacks. No more fighting.”

  He said nothing but drew her closer, planting a soft kiss on the very top of her head.

  That night — the night following Jez Stukeley’s death, the night before his funeral — Connor stayed with Grace in her cabin. After everything that had happened, they needed to be together.

  It was a tight fit on Grace’s narrow bunk but it didn’t matter. It was like being kids again. Sometimes, when one or other of them had had a bad dream, they would share a bed at the lighthouse. With their father upstairs, tending to the lamp, they had learned to draw comfort from one another.

  As the bedside candle burned low, Connor told Grace all about the attack and how the pirates of The Diablo had been tricked by the evil Narcisos Drakoulis. Grace listened with mounting horror. How could Captain Wrathe and his deputy Cate have been so easily tricked? Were there other crews out there planning similar attacks? Where would this end? Grace couldn’t help but feel that Molucco himself bore at least some responsibility for Jez’s death — he had received more than one warning about venturing into other captains’ sea-lanes. But she didn’t voice her thoughts. There would be a time to share her concerns. Tonight what Connor needed was comfort, not confrontation.

  “He was so brave,” Connor said.

  “Jez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Connor,” she said, reaching out her hand and twisting his face toward hers. “If it ever happens again, don’t be the brave one.”

  7

  THE CLADDAGH RING

  Morning came all too soon. Grace opened her eyes. She had slept only fitfully, her mind churning with thoughts. Connor was standing over her, bleary-eyed.

  “I’d better go,” he said. “I want to make sure everything’s set for the funeral.”

  Grace nodded. “I’ll see you there,” she said, “I won’t be long.” She stood up from the bunk and hugged him once more.

  As the door closed behind him, she sat back down. Her lack of sleep and all the anxieties running through her head had made her feel rather sick.

  Grace steadied herself sufficiently to look out through the porthole. There was little to see out there, beyond the slap of water and gray sky and sea, for the most part indistinguishable from one another. It was appropriately grim weather for Jez’s funeral.

  Suddenly Grace felt a searing pain in her eyes. It was so sharp, it threw her away from the window and down onto the bunk. She lay there, catching her breath, her hand instinctively covering her eyes. What had ha
ppened? She opened her eyes again but, as she did so, felt another stab of pain. She closed them once more, trying not to panic. She didn’t understand what was going on.

  Instinctively, she moved her hand up to Lorcan’s Claddagh ring. As her thumb and finger closed around it, she felt instantly calmer. Was it her imagination, or was the ring slightly warm to the touch? She gripped it and, as she did so, the heat of the metal increased.

  As it did, she began hearing noises in her head. She heard the sound of footsteps and distant voices. Somehow, without opening her eyes, she knew that the noises were not from The Diablo. She was having a “vision” — if you could call it that when she could see nothing, save a dull, foggy darkness.

  The ring grew still warmer in her hand. She had the sense that she was moving. Her footsteps were far louder than any she had ever made before. It was as if she were wearing heavy boots, thumping irregularly onto deck boards. She felt her hand reach out and push against something. A door. Her hand extended. The door must be opening. She could hear the creak of an old hinge. And then a voice.

  “Lorcan.”

  The name electrified her.

  She listened, waiting to recognize the voice.

  “Lorcan,” it said again. It was a girl’s voice, but she could not place it. “What are you doing here? It’s morning. Time to rest.” There was caution in the girl’s voice, fear, even.

  The ring was almost too hot to touch now. But Grace was desperate not to let go, sensing that if she did, the vision would be lost to her.

  “I’m sorry.” She immediately recognized Lorcan’s soft brogue. It was magical to hear it again, whatever the circumstances.

  “Have you lost your way?” It was the girl again. Fear had given way to pity. Grace could hear it in the changing tone. Lost your way? What did she mean?

  If only Grace could see the ship as well as hear it. She pressed her thumb and finger to the ring even more tightly. It was burning her now. Still she saw nothing beyond the fog but, as the metal seared into her skin, Grace heard the sounds of the Vampirate ship even more clearly.