Vampirates: Tide of Terror (5 page)

5

DUEL

“I’ll fight him, Captain,” Jez Stukeley called once more.

Connor turned to his friend in shock, but Jez was already pushing forward through the crowd. Up ahead, Connor turned toward Bart. He was clearly as shocked as Connor was. This couldn’t be happening to the Three Buccaneers!

Some of Drakoulis’ henchmen barred Jez’s way, but Captain Drakoulis himself berated them. “Let him through. Let him show himself.”

The ranks of black-clad warriors duly opened up and Jez Stukeley walked bravely through them, coming to a stop in front of the two pirate captains and the mountain of muscle that was Gidaki Sarakakino. Sarakakino looked down at Jez and smirked. You didn’t need to be a mind-reader to guess what he was thinking.

“Mister Stukeley,” Molucco Wrathe said, placing his hand on the young pirate’s shoulder, “you’re a brave and honorable man, but I can’t let you put yourself into such danger.”

Jez shook his head. “It’s my duty, Captain Wrathe. When I signed the articles, I agreed to defend
The Diablo
, my captain, and my crew mates. There’s no way off this ship unless one of us agrees to this duel.”

“He’s right,” Narcisos Drakoulis cut in. “All I require is one of your pirates to enter a duel with Sarakakino. Fail to submit to that and neither you nor the rest of your crew will ever see
The Diablo
again.”

Connor trembled at Drakoulis’ threat, made all the more tangible by the sight of the scimitars poised across the deck. He weighed this up against his friendship with Jez. There had to be another way. Wasn’t it Captain Wrathe’s responsibility to head off the danger? It couldn’t fall to Jez. It just
couldn’t.

Molucco shook his head. “I never cared for you, Drakoulis, but you used to have morals — of a fashion. I don’t know where you’ve been rotting all this time, but your years in the wilderness have made a putrid villain of you. Your actions today cannot have been endorsed by the Pirate Federation. You act out of your own twisted desires and some warped notion of revenge for a small and ancient grievance.”

In spite of this verbal assault, Drakoulis said nothing for a time. His face was a mask, betraying no emotion. At last, he spoke. “If your lecture is over, Wrathe, let us get down to business. The duel will commence on the fifth strike of the ship’s bell.” He turned to his company. “Clear the center deck now.”

At his word, Drakoulis’ pirates surged back to open up a fighting area on the center deck, about the size of a boxing ring. And, just as in the preamble to a boxing match, Drakoulis now drew to one side to conspire with Gidaki Sarakakino, who was binding dark ribbons of cloth around his hands.

“No!”
Connor wanted to cry. This was madness. Why had Jez put himself forward to the slaughter? And why hadn’t anyone stopped him?

Jez walked over to join Molucco and Cate on the other side. Connor took advantage of the movement of the crowd to slip through and nearer to the front. He found Bart and darted in beside him.

“Hey, buddy.” Bart flashed Connor a weak smile, but could not maintain his pretense of lightheartedness for more than a moment. He turned away and looked over at Jez, his eyes heavy with concern.

“Has he got a chance?” Connor whispered to his mate.

“He’ll give it a bloody good go,” Bart said, “but look at that Sarakakino guy. He makes
me
look puny.”

Connor wondered if Bart was tempted to take Jez’s place in the duel. But, he reminded himself, although Bart had more bulk, Jez was the more skilled swordsman. He was strong enough and, what he lacked in bulk, he more than made up for in technique and agility. Connor thought of Molucco Wrathe’s watchwords of “good training and good fortune.” In the next few minutes, Jez Stukeley would need to draw upon every last drop of each.

The bell of
The Albatross
tolled once and all eyes turned to the two men. For Connor, the next few moments seemed to stretch out, as if in slow motion.

A second toll. Sarakakino dipped his hands into a bucket of chalk dust, presumably to enable a better purchase on his sword. As he leaned forward, the spread of muscles on his back and shoulders became even clearer — the tattoo of the albatross stretched out as if about to fly away.

A third toll. One of Drakoulis’ men offered the bucket of chalk to Jez. Turning from Molucco and Cate, Jez stepped forward and rubbed the chalk over his hands, shaking off the excess. Then he wrapped his left fist tight around the hilt of his épée and looked to the sky, perhaps sending up a quick prayer through the pink ribbons of cloud.

A fourth toll. Sarakakino was motionless, his back to his opponent — gathering himself, perhaps, with a prayer of his own. Jez waited, his body balanced and poised to fly in either direction.

The fifth and final toll.

Now, all hell broke loose.

Sarakakino turned and faced his opponent, his scimitar slicing through the air in a warning of what it would do if it met Jez’s flesh. Undeterred, Jez moved from side to side, holding his own sword in a ready position. Even Connor knew that Sarakakino’s swordplay was all mental war. Cate trained her pirates to blind themselves to such bravado. How well Connor remembered her and Bart telling him to watch the eyes of your adversary — even more so than the tip of his sword.

And now Sarakakino’s sword drew still. He stared into Jez’s eyes, as if questioning him.
Do you really want to do this? Do you really think you can fight me?
In answer, Jez stared back coolly but, as he did so, he thrust with the épée. It cut across Sarakakino’s muscled forearm and slashed the skin. First blood had gone to Stukeley and
The Diablo
. Connor watched the crimson drops of Sarakakino’s blood spill onto the deck boards.

“Bloody hell,” whispered Bart, “I wasn’t expecting
that
!”

Connor grinned.

Sarakakino was clearly surprised and Jez wasted no time capitalizing on that, moving lithely around the bigger man and darting in for a second attack. But now Sarakakino was primed and, like a monster stirring from sleep, he gave a roar and thrust out his scimitar to meet Jez’s épée. Steel clashed upon steel and Connor could see Jez struggle to maintain his grip as the full force of his adversary transferred through the sword like an electric shock.

Now the two opponents’ swords were held together like magnets. Whoever broke away first, and dared to attack, risked exposing himself for an instant — a fleeting instant, but potentially a decisive one.

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.”