Outlanders 14 Hell Rising, page 27
Kane hesitated, looked at the gleefully malevolent smile on Quayle's face and began undoing the buckles and Velcro tabs of his holster.
Chapter 27
Quayle easily worked out the intricacies of the Sin Eater's power holster. To Kane's disappointment, he unleathered the weapon without shooting himself in the foot. Once it was drawn and in his fist, he released Fand. She went to stand by Kane, wiping at the blood on her neck but maintaining a calm demeanor.
Quayle ordered them to turn around, to face astern. Kane expected to receive a bullet in the back of the head, but he then understood Quayle wanted to take a final look at the Northstar 40 drilling platform.
The entire three-tiered structure listed dangerously toward the surface of the Atlantic, barely kept afloat by the remaining ballast tanks. Flammable materials on board had ignited, and columns of black smoke corkscrewed into the morning sky.
In a lovely contralto voice, rich with mockery, Fand sang, "'Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves."'
Even as they watched, the ninety-foot-tall derrick rig slowly bent at the midway point, folding in on itself like a jackknife. They saw pieces of it raining down.
"'Britannia needs no bulwarks,' sang Fand, a cruel note of laughter twisting around her voice. " 'No towers among the steep...her home is o'er the mountain waves, her home is on the deep.'
Quayle didn't react to her taunting melody.
From the surf lashing at the giant support columns, a sharp-keeled boat appeared, turning in a wide, swinging curve then arrowing on a direct heading for the Cromwell.
"Your friends," Quayle intoned. "That boat doesn't have the legs to catch this ship."
He didn't sound absolutely certain, however. Over his shoulder, he bellowed, "Dodd! Mr. Dodd!" Dodd leaned out of the bridge door. "Captain?" "Deploy the fog. Rig for silent running."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Kane and Fand exchanged mystified glances. Although Kane had been aboard the Cromwell before, he hadn't been privy to the craft's full capabilities. From equidistant points around the deck, apertures opened. With a prolonged hissing as of faulty steam valves, wreaths of mist floated up and around the Cromwell's hull.
Within seconds, the mist thickened to the consistency of a cloud, billowing and rolling across the deck, diffusing the sunlight. The steady throb of the diesel engines diminished to a mutter, replaced by a faint electric whine. There was only the foggiest outline of the ship's superstructure to be seen, brief glimpses of the gray water through the vapor shrouding the hull.
"Well-done," Quayle said in satisfaction. "You may turn around now, Mr. Kane and Sister Fand."
The two people did so, seeing Quayle as a looming shadow, his scarred features blurred by the fog. "Mr. Kane, I believe you've been on this vessel before, when you were in the employ of Lord Strongbow."
"I was never in his employ," Kane replied stolidly.
"Nevertheless, I recall your presence and that of your other American friends in New London. I know you set sail to Ireland under Strongbow's directive. I also know you apparently perished during the selkie attack. Was that all a ruse to gull Strongbow?"
"More like a beneficial accident, Captain."
Quayle grunted. "As this is, I suppose. I surmise you've been deeply involved in the insurrection against the Imperium for the past half year, plotting and scheming away all this time in Ireland. I always knew the Celts couldn't have managed military affairs on their own."
"They did," Kane shot back. "You're the one who couldn't handle Imperium affairs on your own, without Strongbow."
Quayle didn't seem angry, only mildly bemused. "There's a pawky irony in how Strongbow himself placed you among the Celts, thinking he was planting his own agents."
Without waiting for Kane to deny the observation, Quayle addressed Fand. "I know who you are, too. The much-debated Danaan sorceress, the Celtic goddess who so obsessed Strongbow. Most of us rank-and-file imperial soldiers believed you to be only a myth, a symbol concocted for the Irish to rally around."
"As Atlantis and Lyonesse are only myths?" Fand asked, voice purring with scorn.
"That is something we all shall learn in short order." Quayle stepped back, waggling the barrel of the Sin Eater "Come with me."
Kane didn't move. Forcing a nonchalance into his voice, he said, "If you're going to kill us, why not do it here instead of making us walk someplace where it's convenient for you?"
"You think I intend to execute you?"
"I just want to know how to plan the rest of my day."
Quayle chuckled. "As tempting as the prospect is, I'm afraid I'm going to keep you alive a little longer. I intended to have a crew on this voyage, but as you can see, that is not the case. I'll need labor once we reach our destination, and since you two are all I have, you're the best I have. Besides, having the self- proclaimed spirit of Ireland in my hands may turn out to my advantage."
Doing his best to minimize his limp, Kane allowed Quayle to herd him and Fand across the mist-cloaked deck to an open gangway. It pitched downward into a dimly lit passage. They descended a short flight of stairs, and Quayle marched them beneath naked, wire encased light-bulbs. He directed them into the brig, a small, sour-smelling cell with a pair of fold-down bunks chained to the bulkhead and a small stainless- steel toilet in the corner.
Kane kept alert for an opening, but Quayle maintained a safe distance behind them, and the passageway was so narrow he and Fand were jammed shoulder to shoulder. With his wounded leg slowing him up, he couldn't have made any sudden moves if he had been so inclined. Quayle could easily run him through with his sword or shoot him in the back with his own gun.
Quayle pulled the barred door closed on its floor and ceiling tracks, then flipped up a lever on the opposite bulkhead. The locks snapped shut with a blood- chilling click.
"I'll return when I can," Quayle said. "Once I'm certain we've eluded pursuit. I do hope you will both be reasonable and remain patient. If I were you, Mr. Kane, and I were left alone with a woman of Sister Fand's obvious charms, I should certainly not let time hang heavy on my hands."
He favored Fand with a one-eyed leer. "And perhaps when I have some leisure time, you can help me while it away."
Fand smiled coldly. "Not in this or any other incarnation, Balor."
Quayle snorted out a laugh and lumbered away. As soon as he was out of sight, Kane pulled down a bunk and plopped onto it, straightening out his stabbed leg. Although the flow of blood had ebbed, the wound ached as if he had been bitten by a shark.
Sitting down beside him, Fand ripped the rent in his trousers wider so she could examine the injury. The cutlass had slid in under a layer of flesh, and pierced a layer of muscle before Quayle had withdrawn it.
"Not too serious," she said. "Provided it doesn't get infected." She saw him massaging his shoulder, wincing as he worked it up and down. She murmured sympathetically, "You've really taken your blows on this trip, Kane. I'm sorry."
He smiled wryly. "I don't consider it a worthwhile month unless I get stabbed, shot or blown up at least once."
Her golden eyes became troubled. "You're joking, I hope."
He started to assure her that he was, then considered all the injuries he had incurred over the past year and said, "I wish I were."
Fand opened her vest and ripped a strip of cloth from the hem of her shift. Taking it to the toilet she examined the water. "It looks and smells clean," then dipped the roll of fabric into it. Returning to Kane, she dabbed at the cut, wiping most of the blood away.
From the pouch at her waist, she removed two little packets of powdered herbs. She poured heaps from both into her hand, squeezed water from the rag into it, and rubbed her palms together vigorously until the mixture acquired a paste-like consistency. Gently, she kneaded the substance into the sword wound on Kane's thigh, spreading it evenly over the edges. Almost immediately, the bleeding stopped.
"It's a natural coagulating agent," she said. "It'll nip infection, too. If I had my staff, I'd ease the pain, as well."
She wrapped the wet cloth around his thigh to keep the poultice moist. "Try to keep off your feet for a bit, let the herbs do their work."
"Thanks," Kane said. "I'll know better than to duel that fat bastard with just a knife next time."
Fand's lips turned down at the corners. "I failed to disable the Cromwell. I'm sorry. The role of warrior-queen is new to me. It doesn't come naturally."
Kane grinned crookedly. "You could have fooled me."
"I don't think I fooled Quayle."
"The day is still young. You might surprise him yet."
She stared at him reproachfully. "I sincerely hope not. Once Quayle is dealt with—"
"There'll be another like him," Kane interrupted bitterly. "Sooner or later, another megalomaniac will show up to make your life miserable. There's always some coldheart with the attitude that out of everyone on the planet he's the most important and anything he does to force the rest of the world to acknowledge it is justified. My land is divided up among nine of those kinds of egos."
"And you contest with them?"
"Them and others like them."
"Perhaps you could turn those ego-structures against one another, exploit that self-aggrandizement, destroy them from within, rather than without."
Kane began to explain how difficult her suggestion would be, but the Cromwell suddenly changed direction, causing them both to sway against each other. The thud of the diesel engines began again, a distant rhythmic pounding which set up corresponding vibrations in the bulkheads.
"We're changing course," Fand said tensely. "Heading for the open sea, probably around Land's End to avoid the blockades. Then to Lyonesse."
"How long will it take?"
Fand shrugged. "It all depends on our speed, the weather and the accuracy of Morrigan's coordinates. We could be talking as little as eight hours or as many as sixteen."
"I found Morrigan," Kane told her. "She'll be aboard the Wraith, so she'll provide the same coordinates she gave Quayle."
Farad's eyes brightened with hope. "Even if they lost us in the fog, they may be able to intercept us."
"Let's hope they maintain a safe distance. The weapons systems on this tub are almost completely automated. Quayle could blow the Wraith to match- wood by pushing a few buttons."
Fand shook her head in disgust, hope in her eyes replaced by a cold gleam. "Technology. How did we ever get along without it?"
Kane laughed, but Fand didn't join in.
As the minutes they spent in the brig crept into an hour, Fand grew more agitated. She twined and untwined her fingers as she paced the cell from one bulkhead to the other. She stood at the door, peering past the bars down the featureless passageway, first in one direction then the other. She slapped the thick bars in angry frustration and resumed pacing.
"Try to relax," Kane suggested. "We're not going anywhere until Quayle decides we are."
Fand spun and threw him such a glare of molten fury he felt a jolt of unease. In her hot aureate eyes he saw a glint of the old Fand, mad and boiling with a regal wrath. Between clenched teeth, she bit out, "I've never been confined, imprisoned before. I don't think I can stand much more of this."
Kane reflected that since she had spent her entire life wandering through the open glades and dells of Ireland she was probably claustrophobic to the point of psychosis.
"Think of something else," he said gently, reaching for her hand. She evaded his touch and returned to the door, rattling the bars like an animal in a cage. She uttered a keening whimper of mounting panic.
Pitching his voice to a low, unemotional level, he said, "Don't go simple on me, Fand. I'm going to need you clearheaded and alert if we're to get out of this with a whole skin."
Her shoulders sagged in resignation, and she bowed her head, pressing her forehead against the bars. She murmured, "A thuismitheoiri' Fad saol agat agus bhi' conai' air ansin go dti' go raibh."
Kane didn't know if she was praying, cursing or lamenting so he said nothing. At length, Fand turned around to face him, tears glistening on her cheeks. "'Tis not an easy thing, Kane."
"Very few things in life are. Survival and sanity are probably two of the most difficult to achieve." He threw her an insouciant grin. "I guess I've spent my life focused on the one to the exclusion of the other."
She smiled at him wanly. "Which one?"
"If you take Brigid's word for it—"_ His grin faltered and his words trailed away. He cast his eyes to the deck.
"You miss her very much." Fand had not asked a question; she'd made a statement.
He inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly, running a hand through his soggy, salt-stiff hair. Raising his gaze to Fand's face, he said levelly, "I miss her presence on an op like this. I miss her annoying-as-hell strict rationalizations. I miss the way she tries to keep me toeing the line. The way she keeps me honest."
Softly, Fand interjected, "And sane?"
In a rustling whisper, Kane replied, "Yes. And sane."
A sad, almost pitying smile ghosted over Fand's lips. "But you're not lovers?"
"Not in this life, anyway. Mebbe someday." "Someday when?"
"When I can focus more on sanity than survival."
Fand regarded him inscrutably for a long moment, then nodded as if she understood completely. Kane doubted she did.
HE AWOKE INSTANTLY, upper body snapping erect and dislodging Fand's head from his shoulder. For a split second, he wasn't certain what had awakened him. Then he realized it wasn't a noise, but rather a sudden cessation of one. The steady throb of the diesel engines had faded completely. The disappearance of the sound had penetrated his sleeping mind and prodded his pointman's sense into raising an alarm.
Consulting his wrist chron, he saw by the glowing digits he had been sleeping for around three hours, which meant he and Fand had been in the brig nearly twelve.
Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, Fand stifled a yawn and asked in a drowsy, little-girl voice, "What's going on?"
Kane didn't answer immediately. He cocked his head, listening intently, hearing the clanging rattle of what sounded like a chain, then a faint, distant splash. The Cromwell had dropped anchor. A moment later, he heard the clicking of a door latch and the scrape of metal on metal.
"I think we've arrived," he said quietly.
Heavy footfalls thumped down the passageway. Quayle appeared on the other side of the bars, smiling benignly, like a maimed Buddha. A Beretta M-92 was nestled in his huge hand, almost swallowed by it.
"I trust you did not let time hang heavy on your hands, Mr. Kane?"
"Not at all. I was more than ready for a little peace and quiet."
"Disappointed to hear that, Mr. Kane. Perhaps Sister Fand was, as well. I might be able to assuage her disappointment in a little while."
Fand made a spitting noise of contempt.
Quayle ignored her. "We're in sight of our destination, and your presence is required above." He nodded toward Fand. "I'm sure our spirit of Ireland here will have some fascinating observations to share with us.
He reached out with one beamlike arm and pulled the lever on the bulkhead. Solenoids clicked open loudly, and Quayle slid back the brig's door. Not waiting for the man and woman to stir from the bunk, he walked carefully backward down the passage. "Let's not dawdle," he said, an iron edge slipping into his oily voice.
Fand and Kane exchanged brief glances and left the cell. Kane's leg was stiff and each step sent little flares of pain through the thigh, but he managed to walk without limping.
By the time they reached the stairway, Quayle was already standing on the deck. "Move along, now."
They emerged under a sullen sky and a cloud- wreathed sun sinking to the horizon. The windless ocean swelled in long, slow waves that rocked the tangled kelp and sea grass up and down.
Quayle wordlessly pointed to starboard, and they turned in that direction. At first glance, they saw only dark crags rising from the languid surf. Upon second glance, Kane felt the prickling of dread at the nape of his neck.
The first thing he noticed was it wasn't an island at all, but more of a rocky atoll, projecting out of the ocean like the fist of a stone giant. The rim of the atoll rose straight up from the water. No shoreline was visible, nor any kind of beach at all. A deep, asymmetrical cleft climbed from the breakers between the rocks, and in the depression Kane saw a great flight of green-slimed stone steps.
They led up to a tumble of rock blocks, like the ruins of a huge wall, behind which loomed an edifice covered in dried mud. Barely visible behind the coating of mud, a huge bas-relief carving of a squid or an octopus waved its tentacles, as if in greeting.
