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  Praise for Michael Cadnum

  “Not since the debut of Robert Cormier has such a major talent emerged in adolescent literature.” —The Horn Book

  “A writer who just gets better with every book.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cadnum is a master.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Blood Gold

  “A gripping adventure set during the 1849 California gold rush. Complementing the historical insight is an expertly crafted, fast-paced, engrossing adventure story full of fascinating characters. This is historical fiction that boys in particular will find irresistible.” —Booklist, starred review

  “This novel is fast paced.… The well-realized settings, which range from remote wildernesses to sprawling cities, create colorful backdrops for Willie’s adventure. An enticing read.” —School Library Journal

  “The prose is lively.… A spirited introduction to the gold rush for older readers.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Breaking the Fall

  Edgar Award Nominee

  “Tension hums beneath the surface.… Riveting.” —Booklist

  “Eerie, suspense-laden prose powerfully depicts the frustrating, overwhelming and often painful process of traveling from youth toward adulthood.” —Publishers Weekly

  Calling Home

  An Edgar Award Nominee

  “An exquisitely crafted work … of devastating impact.” —The Horn Book

  “Probably the truest portrait of a teenaged alcoholic we’ve had in young adult fiction.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  “Readers … will never forget the experience.” —Wilson Library Bulletin

  “[Readers] will relate to the teen problems that lead to Peter’s substance abuse and the death of his best friend.” —Children’s Book Review Service

  “Through the prism of descriptive poetic images, Peter reveals the dark details of his sleepwalking life.… An intriguing novel.” —School Library Journal

  Daughter of the Wind

  “Readers will enjoy the sensation of being swept to another time and place in this thrill-a-minute historical drama.” —Publishers Weekly

  Edge

  “Mesmerizing … This haunting, life-affirming novel further burnishes Cadnum’s reputation as an outstanding novelist.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “A thought-provoking story full of rich, well-developed characters.” —School Library Journal

  “Devastating.” —Booklist

  “A psychologically intense tale of inner struggle in the face of tragedy.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Forbidden Forest

  “Cadnum succeeds admirably in capturing the squalor and casual brutality of the times.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Heat

  “In this gripping look at family relationships Cadnum finds painful shades of gray for Bonnie to face for the first time; in her will to grasp the manner and timing of her healing is evidence that she is one of Cadnum’s most complex and enigmatic characters.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Compelling. Adopting the laconic style that gives so much of his writing its tough edge and adult flavor, Cadnum challenges readers with hard questions about the nature of fear and of betrayal.” —Publishers Weekly

  In a Dark Wood

  Los Angeles Times Book Prize Finalist

  “A beautiful evocation of a dangerous age … Readers who lose themselves in medieval Sherwood Forest with Cadnum will have found a treasure.” —San Francisco Chronicle

  “In a Dark Wood is a stunning tour de force, beautifully written, in which Michael Cadnum turns the legend of Robin Hood inside out. Cadnum’s shimmering prose is poetry with muscle, capturing both the beauty and brutality of life in Nottinghamshire. In a Dark Wood may well become that rare thing—an enduring piece of literature.” —Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War

  “[T]his imaginative reexamination of the Robin Hood legend from the point of view of the Sheriff of Nottingham is not only beautifully written but is also thematically rich and peopled with memorable multidimensional characters.” —Booklist

  “Cadnum’s blend of dry humor, human conflict and historical details proves a winning combination in this refreshing twist on the Robin Hood tale.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “A complex, many-layered novel that does not shirk in its description of [the period], and offers an unusually subtle character study and a plot full of surprises.” —The Horn Book

  The King’s Arrow

  “The King’s Arrow is an adventure story full of color and romance, as resonant as a fable, told in clear, clean, swift prose. A wonderful read.” —Dean Koontz

  Nightsong: The Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice

  “Cadnum (Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun) once again breathes life into classic mythological figures.… Skillfully creating a complex, multidimensional portrait of Orpheus (as well as of other members of the supporting cast, including Persephone and Sisyphus), Cadnum brings new meaning to an ancient romance.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Another excellent retelling of one of Ovid’s mythical tales. This well-written version is a much fuller retelling than that found either in Mary Pope Osborne’s Favorite Greek Myths or Jacqueline Morley’s Greek Myths. The story is a powerful one, delivered in comprehensible yet elevated language, and is sure to resonate with adolescents and give them fodder for discussion.” —School Library Journal

  Raven of the Waves

  “[A] swashbuckling … adventure set in the eighth century, Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) shows how a clash of cultures profoundly affects two distant enemies: a young Viking warrior and a monk’s apprentice.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Convey[s] a sense of what life might have been like in a world where danger and mystery lurked in the nearest woods; where cruelty was as casual as it was pervasive; where mercy was real but rare; and where the ability to sing, or joke—or even just express a coherent thought—was regarded as a rare and valuable quality … Valuable historical insight, but it’s definitely not for the squeamish.” —Booklist

  “Hard to read because of the gruesome scenes and hard to put down, this book provokes strong emotions and raises many fascinating questions.” —School Library Journal

  Rundown

  “Deep, dark, and moving, this is a model tale of adolescent uneasiness set amid the roiling emotions of modern life.” —Kirkus Review

  “Cadnum demonstrates his usual mastery of mood and characterization in this acutely observed portrait.” —Booklist

  Ship of Fire

  “Brimming with historical detail and ambience, this fact-paced maritime adventure will surely please devotees of the genre.” —School Library Journal

  Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun

  “Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) once again displays his expertise as a storyteller as he refashions sections of Ovid’s Metamorphoses into a trilogy of enchanting tales. Readers will feel Phaeton’s trepidation as he journeys to meet his father for the first time, and they will understand the hero’s mixture of excitement and dread as he loses control of the horses. [Cadnum] humanize[es] classical figures and transform[s] lofty language into accessible, lyrical prose; he may well prompt enthusiasts to seek the original source.” —Publishers Weekly

  Taking It

  “Cadnum keeps readers on the edge of their seats.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Cadnum stretches the literary boundaries of the YA problem novel. This one should not be missed.” —Booklist, starred review

  Zero at the Bone

  “Riveting … [an] intens
e psychological drama.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Much more frightening than a generic horror tale.” —Booklist, starred review

  “A painful subject, mercilessly explored.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Ship of Fire

  Michael Cadnum

  For Sherina

  Shadow fish

  around the shadow

  of your hand

  Chapter 1

  The bear was led into the pit, and the dogs went mad, barking and lunging, straining their tethers.

  “This will be the day of our great good fortune, Thomas,” my master William Perrivale cried through the din. “Have you ever seen such a beast?”

  I answered with a laugh. “Never, indeed, my lord!”

  In truth, I was host to the gravest misgivings.

  The bear was indeed a fierce brute, bound about his middle by a coarse hemp rope. The five dogs leaped, shrilling at the smell of him. For all their tumult, they were kept from setting eyes on their prospective opponent by a stained linen screen.

  The great bruin sniffed the air, shuffling sideways to the extent of his heavy rope. This was a beast new to London, just arrived by ship from the far seas and deep forests, according to ale-house rumor. My master leaned forward over the partition of our stall and appraised the dark furred giant. He gave a satisfied nod at what he saw.

  The Bear Garden was filling with its usual throng, merry noblemen and even merrier poor folk. Bright-eyed gamesmen accepted bets from every purse. A recent act of Parliament had forbade bear-baiting on the Lord’s Day, and it was murmured that such sport might be closed down altogether—some preachers expressed the opinion that the sport encouraged vice. And so the traditional Thursday fight was all the more popular, and even our Queen Elizabeth was rumored to place a bet by proxy, one or two of the silked-and-plumed noblemen among us wagering royal gold.

  “I bet my entire purse,” cried my master, raising his voice to get the attention of one of the Bear Garden employees. “My entire fat purse I bet on the bear’s victory.”

  “And how much, my lord, would your purse weigh?” said Bob Chute, the veteran gamesman not wanting to accept a wager not easily paid off.

  My master had schooled in Magdalen College, Oxford, and had earned a name as one of the best medical men. He was now well established in London as a merciful and worthy doctor who lived by his knowledge of phlegm and spleen. He spent effort and silver on teaching me, reciting with me the wisest medical writings under Heaven, from Hippocrates to his own Latin discourses on medicinal roots.

  Further, he swore that he would live up to his loyalty to my deceased father by making me, inch by inch, a gentleman. He hired a sword master from Mantua, the famous Giacomo di Angelo, to teach me the art of the rapier, and a scholar from Paris to teach me the history of kings and emperors of the world.

  But my worshipful master William had a weakness—recurring and overpowering—for games of chance. This gambling fever gripped him now as he tossed the leather coin sack in his hand. Bob Chute’s smile gleamed with professional avarice.

  “I wager my entire purse of new silver,” my master asserted in a tone of care-free certainty. “I bet that the bear will outlast the dogs, and more, that every dog will be flayed or gutted and flung to the penny-public.” This was not the reckless wager it seemed. A sailor friend of my master had predicted the bear’s fighting prowess at the Hart and Trumpet the night before.

  Bob Chute cocked his head, ignoring the general hubbub. “To be doubled, coin for coin, if the bear dies,” said the gamesman. “Or if the bearward judges the brute beyond recovery.” Bearwards were wily men, and could coax a carcass back to life by blowing pepper into its nose.

  “Done!” said my master with a laugh.

  My heart sank. We could not afford such a heavy wager if we lost. The entire city of London, it seemed, took freshly painted wherries and other hire-craft across the river on such an afternoon, but our meager purses had forced us into a leaking, badly patched vessel, the boat fighting the strong current and nearly capsizing. One more unlucky afternoon, and we would have to pawn our cloaks—or worse, our swords.

  Now the dog handlers soothed and kissed their fighters. Bear-dogs are even more fierce than ban-dogs, animals the law requires be tied or caged. The bear-fighting dog is bred and tutored to his craft, and this was a spirited pack, well muscled and trembling with eagerness.

  The restless giant padded back and forth on the hard-packed earth, his rope alternately slack and taut as he paced. It was true that the bear did not look drunk on wine, as fighting cocks often were, or drugged with some sleeping philter, as a bear had been not a fortnight before. That creature had been so piebald and sluggish the crowd had howled the bearwards to shame, and a special display of minstrelsy had been added to calm us, players of string instruments and tambours, with merry dancing.

  I had liked that music as well as any bear-fight, or even better. I often accompanied my master on his river-crossings to this district of the Rose Theater and taverns and cockpits, and even trugging shops—houses where whores plied their trade, arrayed in finest taffeta and silks. Bear-baiting is lusty sport, but before God I think I prefer a good story and a cup of strong cider.

  Now, at a toss of the bearward’s cap, the linen screen was whisked away, and the crowd roared as the five dogs gave full vent to their excitement. One particular dog, with livid scars along his flanks, I had seen in victorious battle before. This was the one creature who quietly lowered his body to the earthen floor, wasting little breath on making noise.

  The chief bearward held up his hand, poised to signal the release of the fighters. An assistant hurried across the pit, and kicked away a walnut that had rolled from the cheapest seats. Yet another bearward smoothed out the dirt and sawdust, wet from a dogfight that had entertained the crowd before our arrival. The crowd was already hoarse with shouting, but at this delay the outcry was beyond belief, roars and laughter, curses, drunk and sober men alike crying, “Get on with it!”

  Still the bearwards delayed, outfitted in one blue stocking and one red like many minstrels and dancers. Perhaps they relished their momentary power over man and beast, and one of them took pains to produce a rake and smooth out some nearly imaginary rough spot in the pit.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and added my voice to the deafening clamor.

  The chief bearward’s hand swept down in a courtly bow.

  In an instant the pack was loose.

  Chapter 2

  Blood flew.

  William cupped his hand over his eyes, as so often before, and beseeched me, “Thomas, tell me when the bear stands alone.”

  I myself preferred to play at bowls, and had won a wager on a bright day or two, when some gamesman had not watered the grass so heavily an honest young man could not pitch a ball true. Bear brawls favored the dogs, which, though small in stature, attacked in gangs. Once attached by their teeth a pack of dogs could bleed a bear, if it took an hour. But it was no sure outcome, either way, and many a day at the Bear Garden concluded with a cart of dead dogs creaking down to the river bank.

  Scar-flank, the most seasoned dog, attacked quietly, straight for the bear’s hind legs. He locked his jaws deep in the fur, and worried and worked, fighting deep and deeper into the sinews and vessels of the bear’s limb. Blood started, the scarred dog’s muzzle going dark, his forepaws sodden, an increasing flow of scarlet.

  The great bear roared and showed his teeth. Four dogs had him by the haunch and forelimbs, a dog to each extremity, each with an iron fang-hold, hanging on. A fifth fighter, a young, yellow bounder, took the bear’s roars as a challenge, and seized the bear’s snout with his teeth. The bruin lunged one way and another, shaking his huge head sideways, and up and down, but the dog sank his fangs deeper into the bear’s upper snout while his legs flailed round and about like boneless rags.

  The great carnivore charged ahead, and at once reached the extremity of the hemp cord. The shock was so sever
e the rope stump, an ancient piling sunk into the earth, shivered as though it would pull right out of its place. Dust rose. The bear rolled suddenly, and in his tumble, trapped two dogs under his bulk. The two dogs screamed, unable to climb to their feet, and as the bear rose to his haunches he seized a white-and-yellow dog in an encircling embrace.

  This hug was so fierce, and so long in duration, that the dog’s eyes rolled and his tongue hung from the side of his mouth. With a snap, the pit-dog’s backbone broke. His hind legs dangled and the crowd let out a shout as the mortally injured fighter was flung away.

  Surely, I thought, we are in luck after all.

  The congregated vagrants, merchants, and gentlemen all clamored and exchanged late wagers. It was here, among the gentlemen’s stalls, that trugs—wandering prostitutes—often found clients. Here was where whore-masters set the price and gave directions to the pick-hatch—the house of venery and sin—down one alley or another beyond the theaters. But no one had eyes now for anything but the torn ground of the bear pit.

  I suspected it was a sin to seek Christ Jesus’ help in winning a wager.

  But even so, I prayed.

  The growling of the dogs had ceased, four torn bodies in the pit. It was difficult to credit that moments before these animals had been fighters.

  And yet, stubbornly, locked onto the bear’s hind leg, Scar-flank was still very much alive, dragging along behind as the bear struggled to turn around. When no other dog remained alive, the scarred brawler stayed right there, jaws locked around the limb.

  “Tell me, William,” said my master, shielding his eyes with his hand. “What news?” No dog at all made a sound now, and even the crowd was more quiet. The heavy, phlegmy cough of the bear was loud.

  The bruin was in mortal trouble, his blood saturating the pit. But how could I put this cruel tidings into words?

  “You have eyes in your head, Thomas Spyre,” my master insisted. “How goes the battle?”

  Scar-flank clung hard.

  Chapter 3