Isle of Fire by Wayne Thomas Batson

all.” Edward Teach turned his head and glanced sideways at his captain.
    Thorne took the satchel from his quartermaster. From it, he withdrew a thick, leather-bound book. He held the volume aloft and answered in a halting version of the same language. Then, to the horror of his men, Thorne kicked aside the arrows in front of him and marched forward. He held the book open and gazed up at the tower as if daring some unseen archer to loose a shaft. Thorne disappeared into the shadows of the gatehouse. He waited in the darkness for several moments until, at last, a great grinding came from within, and one of the huge arched doors began to open.
    Teach and the others watched the shadows and waited for some sign. At last their captain emerged and motioned for them to approach. As they neared the walls, they saw silhouettes between the torches, tall men, motionless and silent. Thorne met them beneath the gatehouse and . . . he was not alone.
    Standing behind Captain Thorne, and yet a head taller, was a warrior bearing a long spear and a stout round shield. Clad in a jerkin of chain mail with massive bare shoulders that shone in the torchlight, he seemed a storybook character come to life. His conical helmet stretched down in a kind of mask. And his eyes were like Thorne’s, pale blue but merciless and cold.
    â€œThis is Guthrum,” said Thorne. “He is the door warden of the Raukar. We will follow him in silence and make no sudden movements.”
    Some of Thorne’s men began untying their baldrics and removing their swords. Thorne shook his head. “Keep your weapons,” he chided them. “The Raukar have no fear of us.”
    Guthrum led Thorne and his men down a stone hall and out again under the night sky into a compound of houses. These were tall, built of dark timber, and unadorned except for gilded geometric patterns on the eaves of their high roofs. Each building was as long as a galleon and looked to be able to house hundreds of warriors. Thorne was impressed. If these warriors sail as well as the Vikings of old , Thorne mused, then I shall command an unassailable fleet .
    They passed eight such houses until they came to one grander than the rest. Guards were posted, one on either side of a pair of massive wooden doors. Each guard inclined his head as Guthrum led Thorne and the others inside. The smell of rich smoke hit them first. More like the smoke of a cooking fire, it was not unpleasant, but it was pervasive.
    They passed through a small anteroom and then into a vast, vaulted chamber lit with a golden light from dozens of mounted torches and a crackling fire that burned in the center of the room. Many warriors like Guthrum, as well as tall women adorned with colorful, multilayered dresses and glistening jewelry, dwelled in this place. Some stood in clusters, some sat at long tables, and others reclined on the stone floor. But all of them turned to see the newcomers, and in their collective gaze, welcome could not be found.
    Guthrum brought them through the crowd of suspicious eyes, past the loud fire, and to the far end of the building. Tapestries bordered with more intertwining geometric patterns hung there, each one depicting a myriad of images: Viking ships full of warriors landing on anonymous shores; fierce, curling serpents doing battle with a hammer-wielding hero; and even a strange scene where a mace-wielding champion had his hand caught in the mouth of a gigantic snarling wolf. Thorne recognized the figure as Tyr, the Norse god of war. Beneath this massive image rested three magnificent chairs on a raised platform. They were thronelike, made of dark red wood and gilded intricately with crisscrossing strands of gold.
    A broad warrior sat in the leftmost chair. This man wore a studded silver helmet and had long black hair that draped over his shoulders. He was lordly and fierce and wore a triple necklace of sharp, curving white talons . . . or perhaps, teeth. Thorne took this