Blackheart (25 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Legend

The majestic ship plunged toward the eerie island heralded Legend beneath a waning sun, followed by the
Ranger,
the vessel swept through
Satan’s
Victory’s
frothy wake. Siren had no further contact with the death dealer who secluded himself aboard the ship, despaired by Thorn’s silence. Lochlanaire resumed his isolation, only speaking to her after another crewman was hanged across a lesser mast’s yardarm, his body surging aflame, violating Lochlanaire that he’d warranted this death sentence against some unsuspecting soul in his past. Lochlanaire itched to trust that his slaughters were justified by his knightly accord afforded to the king. Nevertheless, he felt guilty, for if he’d never inflicted these executions, the present crewmen wouldn’t be webbed in a war to the death of which only the satanic faction waged and they were pawns of lunacy.

Stalled, the ship’s anchor lanced whirling waves. Lochlanaire speculated on the ghostly island, which emerged before him dubbed Legend and wondered at its craggy rocks. Dead trees bearing grizzled, skeletal fingers clawed for a cloudless sky. He ordered a longboat lowered and Lochlanaire abandoned the tiller. He advanced on Grayson, who awaited him upon the main deck.

“Do we go ashore?” Siren royally spoke, having paused near the quarterdeck stairs’ foot. From there, she observed her brooding husband.

Dressed in a dark blue silk shirt untied at the throat and body-bracing sable linen breeches, black boots clasped to the thighs, Siren seduced Lochlanaire to starved for her. He silenced his obsession and gruffly announced, “Aye, Grayson and
I
go ashore. Not you.”

“You’ll not be able to explore the island without Shevaun’s signet.” Siren approached Lochlanaire, her eyes contentious.

“Yield the ring. Grayson and I will see to the treasure.”

“No, Lochlanaire. If I do not depart with you, Shevaun’s signet stays in my protection. Your venture is hopeless,” Siren rebuked.

Lochlanaire guided Siren to where they couldn’t be overheard. He berated, “Your
condition,
and the fact that you once suffered pains, compels me to conclude otherwise.”

Siren dug in her heels and folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not submitting, Lochlanaire. Take me with you.”

“I could easily drag that bloody signet from your finger, Siren. Do not tempt me,” grumbled Lochlanaire.

Gnarled amidst a heated impasse, Lochlanaire and Siren refused to relent; each glowered at the other.

Grayson stepped in, irritated by their quarrel. “Perhaps it is wise for Siren to accompany, Lochlanaire. She’s guarded the signet for years. Her assistance could hasten the expedition.”

Infuriated by Lochlanaire’s lacerating eyes, Siren cocked her head to the side and fluttered the ruby before him. “Well?” She thumped her foot, waiting.

Lochlanaire trudged to the ship’s starboard edge. “Come, Siren,” he muttered.

Siren trotted to the ship’s ridge and descended the wood ladder dimpling the vessel’s flank. Effortlessly, she hopped to the moored longboat. Lochlanaire and Grayson followed. Grayson heaved two oars. Lochlanaire choked two oars nearest the boat’s stern behind Siren. All the way to Legend Island’s white shores, Lochlanaire’s glare scalded his wife’s back. Siren felt Lochlanaire’s feral eyes but she refused to be soured under his annoyance. She flagrantly ignored him.

The longboat surged, squashing Legend Island’s pristine shore. Lochlanaire anchored the vessel by braided rope to a weathered tree stump. Grayson aided Siren to alight from the boat. Arms crisscrossing his broad chest, Lochlanaire’s scowl scoured Siren’s. She, of course, knew what the rogue wanted. She withdrew the signet and outstretched it to her husband, who cuddled the ring in his palm. Lochlanaire trampled the shore for the island’s inner reaches. Grayson soon employed a flint and lit the torches he’d carried with them, for darkness descended. He relinquished one of his torches to Siren. The two of them trailed Lochlanaire’s sunken footsteps. The enveloping trees spoke in spooky murmurs, for a breeze danced between those grim boughs frozen in death, the chants of sorcery chilled. Halting, Lochlanaire lowered Grayson’s torch, its luminescence skittered over the signets. Siren waited impatiently, for the men discussed the rings. Somehow, she bore the disturbing sensation that they were not alone upon this mysterious land. Siren shivered, searching tree to tree, but she did not see anyone. The haunting, however, persisted. Freshly, she mirrored Grayson and Lochlanaire, who broke through a heavy copse of ragged trees.

A remarkable log cabin was mysteriously erected in the center of the dead forest. Cautious, they approached. Grayson and Lochlanaire un-holstered their loaded pistols, suspicious. Lochlanaire pitched open the screeching cabin door and skirted ahead of Grayson and Siren. No living soul defied in nefarious wait. Dusty furnishings greeted. Forefront of one wall was a single-sized bed. A hearth had been carved in a multi-colored stone crevasse, and a paltry table and rickety chair waited in somber repose mid room. Lowering his torch, Grayson sparked ablaze the logs where they cluttered the hearth as if guests were expected for the eve and a wealth of light speckled the dim structure. Lochlanaire rummaged about, looking for anything which might suggest that there could be some mystical explanation for the cabin, which could be applied to the signets. Why construct a cabin upon a deserted island?

He sought the only window available. It peered to the east and Lochlanaire reviled the muted silhouettes of the ships while they swam in the distance, anchored. Icily, he announced, “We sleep here this night. I have the feeling there’s a reason for this cabin’s structure.” Raising the signets, he inspected their gold.

“Perhaps the morn sun will shed light on its purpose,” Grayson concurred.

Siren roamed to the bed and flipped its coverlet. Dust fogged the air. “I cannot imagine what semblance a cabin could provide.”

“Nevertheless, morn light will accompany our venture. Darkness hinders.” Lochlanaire strolled across the wood porch and sat on rough planks. His eyes roved along the darkness to those trees, which ghostly whispered. He studied the signets anew, but he could no longer distinguish anything further of the chart. He slid both jewels to garnish his fingers.

Siren wandered across the porch and stood by a slivery pillar that clawed a portion of the roof. Lochlanaire dragged his attention away from her.

“You continue to shun me,” she said.

Lochlanaire jeered, “I have thinking to do.”

“Thinking?”

“Aye.”

“Of me?” His refusal to gaze at her with her question summoned Siren to recognize his rancor. “Questioning the future?
Our
future?”

“Fate.”

“And its devastating twist on throwing us together?”

Lochlanaire nodded.  

“I believe it was webbed for you to pardon me of the depravities leveled against me,” Siren offered, wistful.

“Your words are intriguing, since I am your cutthroat hunter,” Lochlanaire berated.

“Yes, once you
were
my hunter. However, you’re now my savior.”

Jaded, Lochlanaire stood, his arm rounded the pillar farthest distant. “It is peculiar that you’d hail me, an insane assassin, as your savior.”

“Sometimes those you trust least in the position are precisely that.” Siren smiled.

“I dishonor that sacred title.” Lochlanaire bowed his head, despondent.

Siren rushed to him, her risen hand urged him to search her raven eyes. “You may have been unworthy in the past, Lochlanaire, but this day, you’re far more than worthy. You are my liberator, my
only
savior.”

Lochlanaire’s burdened gaze enthralled hers. “I herald you gravely mistaken. You’re
my
savior, Siren.” His lips lowered to hers, the whisper soft kiss crushing to their shuddering souls. His arms laced around her body and braced her to his heated form.

“I’ve got somethin’,” thundered a distant shout.

Lochlanaire broke Siren’s hold and raced around the cabin to its rear. Here, he and Siren found Grayson straddling a grave but no stone bore witness as to who was buried there. Lochlanaire glanced at his amused brother, who cleverly determined the same conclusion as Lochlanaire. Grayson ran back to the longboat for the shovels they’d left behind.

Siren’s gaze sought her husband, mystified. “What is it?”

Lochlanaire stepped amidst the cabin from its rear door and retrieved a lit torch. He spiked it in the sandy ground. “The grave faces an erroneous direction for a sincere burial, and no stone depicts a name. We, therefore, conclude it is a ruse employed for anyone who might stray along.”

“The grave secludes mysteries other than someone who’s died?”

“Precisely.”

With Grayson’s return, he and Lochlanaire began to dig.

Siren anxiously paced and still she was burdened by the feeling that someone scrutinized their every digging action.

The shovels thudded against a barrier but delivered no coffin. Lochlanaire and Grayson dusted off the blockading wood and heaved. They swung open the entry. An extraordinary stone warren was displayed in front of dazzled eyes, for torch light swept the crypt that they discovered with entering baited them to journey along an underground cavern. It broadened beneath every footfall. Eventually, they crept to the cave’s mouth, which echoed the waves roaring at the dominate surge of the sea below. Bats squeaked above their heads. Unknowingly, they progressed upward of a hill. The lofty, domed cave opened before the sharp decline of a gnarled cliff. Lochlanaire wondered if their strenuous journey was simply a ruse pursued for the sake of trickery.

Grayson ignited a pile of wood that stones mysteriously ringed, central of the cavern, and there he sat, cross-legged. “I presume, Lochlanaire, perhaps this wood was positioned here intentionally and the cause might be for awaitin’ the risin’ sun.”

Possessing no other recourse, Lochlanaire sat next to him, disturbed by the curly plume of smoke the flame sputtered, shadows skipped as serpents over the stone edifice’s walls. “We wait.” 

The morn sun eventually cracked the horizon.

Siren was lolled awake, lying next to Lochlanaire, who soundly slept. His arm he’d wrapped around her body, and he caressed her stomach.

The flame-red sun spiked the cave’s mouth as a celestial angel the Heavens directed. Its radiance flared over the wall behind.

Curious, Siren unwound Lochlanaire’s arm and tiptoed to the stone where the sunlight tickled. The light splashed a lock, beautifully carved in its midst. Siren studied the carving and suddenly she realized it reflects the image the signets revealed. Running to Lochlanaire, she gently removed the rubies from his slackened fingers and ran to the stone wall. Siren anchored the signets in the fashion they first appeared to her and positioned them in the wall’s crevice. Light brilliantly streaked, akin to the brooking of Heaven’s gates. Siren sheltered her eyes. The stone wall lazily fractured and opened. Lochlanaire and Grayson awoke with the thunderous rumble. Siren was beguiled, standing as witness to the orifice of another breath-wrenching cave that the signets are the key to exposing. The men leapt to their feet, grabbed the torches and the shovels and trailed Siren’s footsteps after she withdrew the signets from the cave wall. Immersed within, they skirted cramped fissures until the cave sloped substantially.

What appeared in front of them was absolutely astonishing…

Glorifying the cavern that seawater splattered, teetered a magnificent three-masted frigate, anchored in an arched slip, encircled by a disguised harbor, the ship held just shy of launching into the ocean. Patiently the vessel waited for its captain and crew to board.

“My God,” Lochlanaire muttered.

Trampling to the shoreline, Grayson and Lochlanaire stared, awestruck by the titanic vessel. “It is the bloody
Royal,
a notorious ghost ship. It was thought to be sunk in a gale years ago. All hands were assumed dead. Numerous seafarers supposedly have seen it sailin’ the seas. All were christened daft at their heathen oaths that could not be substantiated.”

Straying closer to the infamous vessel, Grayson, Lochlanaire and Siren ascended the wood ladder piercing the ship’s hull and boarded the main deck. The ship lay frozen in time as if prepared for its first launch, missing its crew, enchanted or cursed.

They explored closer and spread out around the vessel. Siren noticed a golden lilt sprinkling nearly every object seducing her speculating eye. She caressed the ship’s rail and realized it was not brass, which is the custom. “Gold! It is
gold
!”

Perplexed, Lochlanaire took a stride, approaching her. “What?”

Siren pointed, whirling in a tight circle. “The ship does not
carry
a treasure. The ship
is
treasure, Lochlanaire. The ship is gilded gold.”

Chilled, Lochlanaire staggered his glance to Grayson and he appeared as baffled, for indeed the ship was formed of gold that someone melted, etching the vessel’s hull, masts, quarterdecks, everything, with jewels glittering.

“Mother of God,” Grayson stammered. “The ship is King James II’s bloody fortune.”

“Aye, it is. How fortunate for me that you’ve recovered the treasure,” these disembodied words hove above them at the quarterdeck bridge.

Twirling toward the voice, Lochlanaire, Siren and Grayson stared. A man stood in challenge. He grasped pistols in both hands, two others he’d stowed in a leather brace, buckled across his chest.

“He’s the reaper who murders aboard your ship, Lochlanaire,” Siren stuttered, shaken.

“Him?” Lochlanaire questioned.

Siren nodded.

Disgruntled, Grayson glanced from Siren to Lochlanaire. “No, it cannot be. That’s Thorn.”

“Thorn?” Lochlanaire asked, muddled.

Siren shook her head. “He’s the man I danced with at Pirate Quay. I swear he’s the same man. He said his name was Wolf Larnon then. He
is
the man who’s been massacring the crew.”

Grayson confirmed, “He’s our brother, Thorn
Blackheart
.”

Siren almost swooned. “But you’re…you’re…”

Thorn leered. “Aye, Siren, I’m Thorn Blackheart.” Wolfish gray eyes trounced Lochlanaire and as ghoulishly Grayson. “And, yes, my name is also Wolf Larnon.”

Grayson nearly fainted himself. “What? No, Wolf Larnon. This cannot be. You’re
our
brother.”

Thorn shook his head. “Aye, Grayson, I am your brother, but only by
half
. Our mother was married previously. She never confided this to anyone, except to your father. Blackheart adopted me when I was a wee babe. Elias, sadly, was already cradled in the arms of another family, although, he applied his blood name when older. I always hoped for an opportunity to present itself for me to disown my Blackheart brothers. It was a matter of time and here it is.”

“All these years, you
lied
to us,” Grayson pronounced, stunned.

“No, our villainous
mother
lied. She did not wish to admit to weddin’ Larnon, a beastly devil by whom she was beaten every day of her pitiful life. After he was slain by her bloodied knife-thrust in a rage, the crown declared it self-defense. Mother, unfortunately, couldn’t support us alone, therefore, she wed Blackheart. I was so young, he thought to raise me as his own child. Mother felt riddled by guilt because she lost Elias, and eventually she spilled her treasonous secret to me. She confessed that I was never a Blackheart. Once aged sufficiently, I traced my brother’s footsteps and found Elias, kindlin’ our brotherhood. I sensed Blackheart despised me for not being his full-blooded son. He spoiled you three: Lochlanaire, Grayson and even Zore, you all were the lights of his eyes, for you were spawns conceived by his seed. Not me. He must have witnessed my displeasure. Still, he never conveyed to any of you ‘bout how I became a Blackheart. I was insulted. I despised you all, but I especially
abhor
Lochlanaire.” His lightning silver scowl wandered to Lochlanaire. “You killed my brother, my only
true
brother of which none of you ever were.”

“The duel. You testified in the name of Wolf Larnon that Lochlanaire cold-bloodedly stabbed Elias, knowin’ your words false so you could…”

Thorn interrupted Grayson, “So Lochlanaire would be imprisoned, flogged bloody, tortured unmercifully every day and would eventually die at
my
oath for slayin’ Elias. Yes, I swore out the death warrant for Lochlanaire murderin’ Elias. He
is
a murderer. Everythin’ was perfect ‘til that milksop King William released Lochlanaire from his prison cage.
He
ruined everthin’.” Thorn stared into Lochlanaire’s eyes and ominously he sang, “Evil’s cast ye here. Hell has spat ye out. Heaven will not weather ye, prisoner shall ye be. Crazy, crazy, were Satan’s whispers, hang, hang, hang ye, dead, dead, dead ye be. Sound familiar, Lochlanaire?” he leered.

Lochlanaire’s skin crawled. “The death dirge… you…”

“
I
sang it to you every day of your imprisonment to mire you deeper amidst insanity’s fiords. Your memory loss, Lochlanaire, lies under
my
request. I ached for you to be destroyed. Each day you faltered lower, drownin’ in the cavernous pit of Hell where you belong.” Thorn maniacally chuckled.

“My God,” Lochlanaire murmured.

“How… have you been killin’ aboard our ship?” Grayson stammered.