Isle of Swords by Wayne Thomas Batson Page A

the monks.
    â€œHe’s got to be here somewhere!” he yelled. Damaged long ago from inhaling smoke as he escaped from a fire, Thorne’s voice rasped and grated like a sustained hacking cough. When he grew angry, his breathing could be heard across a room as a low, scraping rumble.
    As Mr. Skellick, the quartermaster of the Raven , entered the sanctuary, he heard his captain’s breath and knew immediately that things went ill.
    â€œWhat did you find?” Thorne demanded.
    Skellick kept one eye trained on Thorne’s walking stick. The four-foot-long stave was originally carved from a large white oak bough, but Thorne had a dozen talonlike iron spikes embedded in the wood. The walking stick still leaked sap from the places where the spikes had been installed. For that reason—and others—the crew of the Raven called Thorne’s weapon the bleeding stick.
    â€œCaptain, there are signs of a great gathering at the shoreline,” Skellick told him, swallowing back the fear. There was nothing Thorne despised more than weakness, so Skellick gave it to him straight. “A large ship was moored there. A frigate maybe, or a brig.”
    â€œYour opinion?”
    â€œIt would seem that they heeded your warning,” Skellick said. “Boarded a British frigate and fled for the mainland. But . . . I do not believe that is what they did at all. The Brothers of Saint Celestine are nothing if not proud of their lineage and the history of this island. I believe they are still here, trusting in their God to keep them safe,” Skellick said.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œI suspect underground or in a cave up in the hills. They may even have some kind of fortified chamber in the middle of this monastery.”
    â€œThat’s why I keep you around, Skellick,” Thorne said with a sinister chuckle. “You think like I do. They’re still here, all right, but not in the abbey.” He was quiet a moment, letting his eyes wander about the sanctuary. He scanned the tapestries, the altar, and paused for several heartbeats on the floor. “Come here,” he said. Skellick followed his captain over to a huge stained-glass window. It depicted the apostle Paul’s encounter with the risen Christ on the road to Damascus. Bartholomew Thorne lifted his walking stick, smashed it against the window, and stepped out of the way as huge shards of glass fell and shattered on the tile floor. Then, crunching on glass with every step, Thorne walked to the now open window. Skellick joined him, and Thorne pointed up into the hills. “That’s where I’d go.”

    After following the many twists and turns in the catacombs, Father Valentia caught up to Father Gregory at the stair beneath the bell tower. The narrow, climbing steps led to a recessed door hidden behind a tall tapestry in the vestibule.
    â€œTake the others to the bowels of the monastery,” Father Valentia whispered. “I will keep watch from the bell tower and will return for you when I know it is safe.” Father Gregory did as he was told and led the monks farther into the maze.
    Father Valentia made his way up the stairs and paused at the five-foot door. He pulled the lever door release. He pushed on the heavy door, and, with a low crack, it pushed free of the wall. Quietly he closed it tightly, so only the monks could find it. Finally, he left the room and dashed up the steps to the tower room. He pushed open the door. “Good evening, Father,” came a strained and raspy voice. “It is time for confession.”

11
ILHA DE ESPADAS
    T hank you.” The whispered voice startled Anne. She turned. The wounded lad’s eyes were open, and for the first time they didn’t look like they would roll back into his head at any moment. “Thank you,” he said again. “You stayed with me.”
    Anne felt herself blush and turned her head, trying to make it stop. “I didn’t know you were