The Caldera by John Flanagan
“Is there any such thing as ‘a little bit extinct’?” Lydia asked. But nobody was in a mood for jokes.
Nervously, they waited to see if the phenomenon would be repeated, scanning the surface of the lagoon. After several minutes, there was no sign of a further disturbance and Hal shrugged.
“Whatever it was, it’s finished now,” he said. He turned his attention back to the problem of the winch handle, chewing his lip thoughtfully as he studied the five-armed cog.
Thorn moved closer to him and asked in a low voice, “Can you rig a replacement?”
Hal looked doubtful. “Maybe,” he said. “The original will have been cast in iron or bronze to fit over that axle. I’ll have to use wood to make a replica. But it might work.”
He stepped a little closer to the windlass, studying the axle intently. In his mind’s eye, he could see a hardwood winch handle, shaped to fit over the central axle and the five arms. He’d need to reinforce it with metal strips, he thought. And he’d need to use the hardest wood he had.
“It might work,” he repeated, with growing conviction. He called to Edvin, who was still on board. “Edvin, bring me one of the wax tablets you use for writing, will you? I’ll take an impression of this thing.”
Edvin kept a supply of wooden frames filled with wax. He used them to make notes and lists, wiping them clean when he was finished. He selected one now and stepped onto the dock, bringing it to Hal.
The skirl positioned the tablet over the windlass axle and gently but firmly pressed it inward, making sure to keep it at right angles to the axle. When he withdrew it, he checked and saw that the shape of the axle was clearly imprinted on the wax. He grunted with satisfaction.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” he said. “It’ll take me most of the afternoon to make a wooden replica for this.”
Lydia was still gazing up the cable to the top station of the elevator. “I could always climb up the cable,” she said. “There’s sure to be another windlass at the top and I could let it down from there.”
Olaf shook his head, following the direction of her gaze. “I doubt they’d go to the trouble of removing this winch handle and leaving another one at the top,” he said. “After all, I think they’d foresee the possibility that someone could climb up and let the elevator down.”
“Maybe.” Lydia looked unconvinced. “But I could always climb up and see.”
Hal vetoed the idea. “It’ll take too long. And Olaf is probably right. Let’s get back to the other side of the island, and I’ll get started on a winch handle.”
Reluctantly, Lydia agreed. They reboarded the ship and poled her out of the narrow inlet into open water. Hugging the cliffs still, they rowed back the way they had come. Once they were out of the caldera lagoon, Hal had them hoist the sail for the trip back to the village.
They beached the ship again. In spite of his stated intention to anchor out in the bay, Hal wanted to work onshore. He would need a good hot fire to work and shape the metal components of the handle, and they couldn’t have such a fire on board ship. He set up a workbench on the sand, and carried his tools and a selection of pieces of timber ashore. He found a length of flat iron and took that as well. He could use it to form an iron tire around the axle piece, to strengthen it.
“Light a fire for me, Ingvar,” he said, gesturing to a spot on the beach. If he was going to work the metal, he’d need to heat it. He had a small leather bellows and he placed that by the fire. Then he selected a thick piece of hardwood and cut it into a circular shape. Once that was done, he marked the shape of the axle on it and began to chip it away with a mallet and a razor-sharp chisel. The others watched for some time. He was a master craftsman and they could see the shape growing in the piece of blank wood. He measured as he went, referring to the wax impression to make sure he had the dimensions right. As he got closer to the end, he continued to make tiny alterations.
At this stage, the crew grew somewhat bored. It was interesting to see him shaping the outline at first. But as the work became a series of fiddling adjustments and alterations, it grew less fascinating. They drifted away and left him to it—all except Ingvar, who was tending the fire and building a bed of red-hot coals for Hal, ready for the time when his skirl would need to work the iron into a hoop.
Hal had been working for about two hours when the two locals reappeared to see what he was doing. Edvin called a low warning as the mismatched figures strode down the beach.
Hal glanced up. “Keep them away,” he said to Stig. He had no idea if they would recognize the shape he was forming, or if they had ever seen the windlass handle. But there was no sense in taking the chance that they might.
The tall first mate, who was sitting in the sand, his back against the ship’s hull, rose gracefully to his feet and strode out to meet the visitors. Thorn followed after him, trotting to catch up with Stig’s long strides, then falling in beside him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the path of the two new arrivals, and effectively screening their view of what Hal was doing.
“What are you up to?” the shorter man demanded. His manner was as abrupt as it had been earlier in the day.
Stig smiled disarmingly. “Bit of minor repair work,” he said. “Our rudder has a split in it, and Hal is making a replacement.”
From where the local stood, it didn’t look like a rudder that Hal was working on. He craned to one side for a closer look, but Thorn stepped to block his view, smiling as well—although the smile only went as far as his mouth. His eyes were definitely not amused.
Or friendly.
“We’ve got workshops in town that could have taken care of it for you.” The taller man had a more approachable tone.
“Aye. I’m sure you do. And I’m sure they would have charged us for the privilege,” Thorn replied.
The tall man shrugged. “A craftsman is worth his wages.”
Thorn nodded agreement. “True enough. And Hal is as good a craftsman as any carpenter.”
The words had barely left his mouth when they sensed, rather than heard, a deep rumbling underground. The surface of the beach seemed to heave, and they all staggered. The crew, who had been relaxing on the sand, sprang to their feet nervously.
“What in Gorlog’s name was that?” Thorn said, addressing the two locals.
The taller man shrugged. He and his companion seemed unconcerned about the sudden movement under their feet.
“It’s just the island,” he said in a superior tone. “It does that from time to time. It used to be a volcano.”
“Seems like it still is,” Stig said, his voice tight with nerves.
The Santorillans dismissed his concern.
“It’s been doing that for years,” the shorter man said. “Sometimes, it lets steam out through the fissures in the rock.” He paused to scan the rocky slope leading up to the escarpment, then pointed to a spot below the rim. “See there?”
They followed the direction he was pointing and could see several spots where thin jets of steam spurted from the rock face. After a few minutes, the white clouds dissipated.
“And it doesn’t bother you when it does that?” Thorn asked.
The two men exchanged a look, and the shorter one screwed up his lips in a disparaging expression. “It’s never done us any harm,” he said. “It’s nothing to get excited about.”
There was an awkward pause as the four men stood facing one another, neither side showing any inclination to continue discussing the phenomenon. Finally, Stig broke the silence.
“We won’t keep you any longer,” he said. His tone left no room for discussion. After a few seconds and a quick exchange of looks, the two locals turned and departed back up the beach.
Thorn watched them go, then pointed to a large pile of firewood heaped into a beacon at the edge of the village. “I’d say Hal’s right about them working hand in glove with Myrgo
Stig nodded agreement and Thorn continued. “And look there. That’s a heliograph, for sure.” He was pointing to a tripod-mounted piece of equipment covered in canvas. “There’ll be a polished metal reflector under that cover. They can send messages up to the top with it during the day.”
The sound of a hammer ringing on metal distracted them. Hal had finished shaping the axle seat and was bending the flat piece of iron into a hoop to fit over it. As he formed the shape, he heated the two ends until they glowed red hot, then began pounding the heated metal to seal them together.
With that accomplished, he placed the circular hoop into the fire and had Ingvar work the bellows until the entire piece glowed red-hot. Then, carefully handling it with a pair of tongs, he slipped it over the carved wooden cog wheel he had shaped. The metal smoked and burned against the wood until Ingvar doused it with a bucket of cold seawater. As he did, the iron ring contracted and sealed tight around the timber cogwheel, holding it firmly in position.
Hal looked up at them and smiled, wiping a grimy hand across his forehead and leaving a stain of ash there.
“Let’s get my gear back aboard. Once this has cooled properly, we can head back around the island and see if it works.”
Stig hesitated. “You want to do it tonight?”
Hal nodded emphatically. “Those two locals are suspicious already. If we give them too much time to think, they’re likely to pass the word on to the pirates that we’re up to something.”
“So you want to strike while the iron’s hot?” Lydia put in, with the ghost of a grin.
Hal rolled his eyes at her and glanced at the still-smoking iron rim.
“Actually, I thought I’d wait till it’s cooled a little,” he said.
chapterthirty-one
They repeated their trip around the island to the huge lagoon. As before, once they entered the calm, enclosed waters, Hal had the crew bring down the sail and man the oars—two a side. He steered a course close to the base of the steep cliffs, keeping the ship hidden from any possible eyes at the top.
“Lydia,” he said quietly—the location seemed to demand lowered tones—“keep your eyes peeled on that top station. Let me know if you see any sign of movement there.”
She nodded and sprang up onto the railing, holding on to a mast stay to maintain her balance.
“No sign of anyone up there,” she said.
“Keep watching,” Hal told her. “Stefan, you watch the lagoon. Let me know if there’s another one of those infernal bubbles.”
Wordlessly, Stefan nodded and found a vantage point on the bulwark opposite Lydia. Under reduced power from the oars, Heron glided into the narrow inlet. As before, Jesper ran a line round one of the bollards, gradually tightening it to take the way off the ship. She bumped gently against the timbers of the dock and he made the line fast, then ran forward to take another line ashore from the bow. Heron nestled gently against the dock.
Edvin looked around nervously. “It’s a little creepy mooring up here in Vulture’s spot,” he said. “I keep expecting to see her rounding the point there.” He gestured to an outcrop of rock that blocked their sight of the entrance they had taken to enter the caldera.
“If she does, we’ll be trapped here,” Jesper pointed out, ever the bearer of glad tidings.
Edvin regarded him with a disparaging look. “That’s why it’s creepy,” he said.
Jesper made a small moue and went about coiling a spare rope.
It was impossible to put Jesper down, Edvin thought. He had a hide as thick as a bull walrus.
Hal picked up the cumbersome winch handle he had fashioned and laid it over his shoulder. He stepped to the side and dropped down onto the dock.
“Let’s get moving,” he said. “We’ve wasted enough time . . . Loki’s beard!”
The last two words were torn from him as the dock lurched under his feet, sending him staggering for several paces.
“I wish it would stop doing that!” he said angrily.
Stig made a calming gesture. “Those two locals said it happens all the time,” he pointed out.
Hal glared at him. “I’m aware of that. But it doesn’t make it any less unpleasant.” He waited to see if the movement would repeat, but everything seemed calm. He strode out toward the windlass. Thorn, Stig and Ingvar followed him. The others stood by the oars, at his orders. He agreed with Edvin. There was a certain naked feeling about being moored here in Vulture’s dock. He wanted to be ready for a quick getaway if it became necessary. Then he shook off the unpleasant feeling. Vulture was hundreds of kilometers away, he told himself, intent on the business of taking and sinking other ships. There was no reason why she should suddenly appear back here in her home base.
• • • • •
“Burn her,” said Myrgos. In spite of his harsh tones, his face creased in a cruel smile as he anticipated the sight of the tubby merchant ship burning to the waterline.
Although, he knew, once he withdrew the Vulture’s ram from the side of the ship and exposed the massive rent in her hull that the ram was currently plugging, it would be a race between the flames and the inrushing seawater to see which finished the ship off first.
They had spotted the trader just after noon, almost hull down on the horizon. At the sight of the long, low black ship, she had turned away, hoisting her clumsy square sail and fleeing downwind.
The ship was built to carry large amounts of cargo, not for speed. It had taken them barely an hour to run her down. Once they did, Myrgos attacked without any preamble or mercy. He brought down the sail and had his men run out the oars. Then, at double speed, they had swept in on an oblique angle from the ship’s starboard quarter. The nine crewmen on board watched in horror as the bronze-plated ram rose and fell above the surface, speeding inexorably for the unprotected planking of their ship.
At the last moment, the trader’s helmsman tried to avoid the ram, swinging the tubby ship to port. But Myrgos was ready for the maneuver. He heaved on the tiller and swung Vulture to starboard, then, having regained his attacking angle, he swung back to port and sent the ram crashing into their quarry.
“Grapple her!” he shouted, and his men hurried to fasten their ship to the other. He wanted to keep the ram plugging the hole as long as possible. That would give his men time to search the trader, and strip her of her valuables. His men swarmed aboard, hacking and chopping at the unfortunate crew, even though they showed no sign of resistance. After half a dozen of them had fallen bleeding into the scuppers, the remaining three retreated to the bow of the ship, where they cowered anxiously, eyes wide, watching the pirates, fearing for their lives.
“Leave them for now,” Myrgos ordered. Even with the ram deep in the other ship’s vitals, he knew they had only a limited amount of time before she filled with water and sank. The pirates, yelling triumphantly, levered the hatch covers aside and dropped into the hold, hurling the cargo out onto the deck. Myrgos stepped across the gap between the two hulls and strode to the stern, where the master’s quarters would be.
And where the ship’s strongbox was most likely to be found.
All traders like this carried a strongbox. Usually, it held substantial amounts of gold and silver in different coinage. Traders needed money to buy new cargoes. And they usually kept it in the same sort of predictable hiding place. It would be in the master’s cabin. There would be no sense placing it anywhere where the crew could access it and pilfer the money. The most common spot was under a trapdoor in the deck, usually concealed by a rug or by the master’s sleeping cot.
This time, there was no rug visible. Myrgos shoved the cot aside with one booted foot and was rewarded by the sight of a square outline cut into the deck, with a brass ring inset in it. He hauled the trapdoor open a
His ugly face lit in a smile of satisfaction as he saw the dull gleam of gold and silver within. Even without the cargo, he thought, this would have made the trader a worthwhile capture. He slammed the lid shut, closed the hasp and hoisted the chest under one arm, making his way out into the sunshine again.
Demos saw him coming and raised his eyebrows in a question. Myrgos nodded and smiled. He slapped a hand on the black box under his arm.
“There’s a small fortune in here,” he said. “Either she’s been trading very profitably or she hasn’t got round to spending any money so far.”
Demos grunted in satisfaction. “What do you want done with the crew?” he asked.
Myrgos looked forward. Sometimes, he liked to take his pleasure in torturing and killing the men he captured. But today, the weight of the strongbox had him in a good mood.
“Leave them to drown,” he said. “They can go down with the ship.”
Demos nodded. “The cargo’s a good one,” he said. “Some olive oil and a lot of excellent furs. I’ve had them taken to the Vulture. We’re almost ready to go.” He paused. “You’re sure you don’t want to take any of the crew as hostages?”
And as Demos said the word hostages, the answer to the question that had been plaguing him on and off throughout the past several days suddenly came to him. Ever since the meeting in the tavern on Cypra, he had been trying to remember where he had seen the bearded Skandian before. Not the one-armed man. He knew he’d remember him if they’d met previously. But the other older one. His face had been familiar, but Demos couldn’t place him. And the more he’d tried to remember where they had met before, the more the memory evaded him.