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At sea, west of Tivor
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The seas were huge, steep, and cresting. Sailing south, the Far Shore took them off her stern quarter.
Clearing skies heralded the storm had moved on, leaving scudding clouds and a tortured ocean slowly healing. Marisa stood at the foremast, her customary place. The wind had whipped the hood of her sea cape back and buffeted her trademark bun mercilessly, but the bun was tightly bound and pinned by a stiletto. The deck rose and rose, and then their feet became light as the ship plowed the crest and descended into the trough. She looked over her shoulder at Ogden, who caught her studying him. He braced for the bottom, and their bodies tensed with new weight as the Far Shore heaved itself up, climbing yet another wave. “I never asked. Is this your first time at sea?” she called over the wind.
“Oi!” he nodded fervently, and she laughed, a light-hearted, joyful sound, considering the circumstances.
“Are you afraid?”
“Noi,” he said resolutely, “not with you, lady.”
She studied him, a deep caring in her eyes. “Are you feeling ill?”
“Uh, oi, I might be that, though I don’t really know. There’s a lot of ups and downs.”
She let go of the stay and moved to him, where he grasped a forestay with a grip forged from years wielding a hammer in the foundry. She hugged him. “Thank you for coming, Og.”
He braced for the both of them at another crest. “Oi. I’d be nowhere else, lady, even though the ocean is not my place.”
She let him go and resumed her place at the foremast. “Don’t worry, Og. This is my place. I like Wedgewood and Mount Mars, but that is your world, and this is mine. We’ll get them.”
Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t sick, even though he’d been warned by the stevedores when he loaded the ten-pounder on the ship that the seas would be rough. He could have delivered the cannon and returned to New Ungern as Marisa had assumed, but he refused. He came aboard because Marisa would need his help.
When he’d showed up on the pier with both cannons, she’d been surprised. He’d tried explaining the three-pounder to her, that it had been thoroughly tested and where it should be mounted on the foredeck.
However, she paid it no attention.
There on the pier sat the object of her imagination. She had climbed on the second wagon and put her hand on the gleaming brass barrel of the ten-pounder. “Have you fired it?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Bought you brought it anyway,” she breathed.
He remembered his emotions. He remembered Wedgewood. He could see the foundry, a wasteland of charred timbers, dead forges, and three lonely chimneys burnt and hollow. “Because I knew you would want it.”
That gleaming brass barrel now rode just aft of the foremast. At first, they had tried it in its proper place as what Achelous had called a bow-chaser, but the captain had complained that he could feel the ship was heavy at the bow. Then they had rolled it—no small thing in the mountainous waves—on its newly designed gun carriage - aft of the mast where the captain had beamed, “It rides well there!”
“The wind is settling,” Marisa called. “The seas will too. The sun will burn off the last of these squalls, and then we shall have them.”
“Sail ho!”
Marisa jerked around and scanned the maintop. The lookout was pointing to the southwest. She ran to the quarterdeck ladder and took it two steps at a time.
The captain was ready for her, holding out his glass.
She took the proffered monocular and scanned the sea. “Both,” she breathed. The ships matched the harbormaster’s description of the two Taldamiran ketches: stout, two-masted merchantmen.
“Sails ho!” came the second call.
Everyone on the quarterdeck turned to look in the new direction.
There, on the Far Shore’s port beam, was the top of another sail.
The Far Shore, south of Tivor, was driving on a southwesterly course where the coast jutted out to meet them. Around that point lay Vaal, the second largest city of the Warkenvaal. While Tivor was currently at peace with the Warkenvaal, the tiny coves and inlets north of Vaal were the dens of Vaal pirates with whom Marinda Merchants was at constant war and with whom the Paleowrights were known to conspire.
“Three, three ships,” said the first mate, Mr. Lewisto, pointing to two more top sails off their port beam.
Indeed, the lookout pumped his arm three times.
“Signal the Intrepid,” called the captain. “Likely, we have three pirates off the port side, on an intercept course.”
“Could be a convoy,” the mate offered.
“Aye, could be,” answered the captain, aiming his glass in that direction. “But I find it more than a coincidence that they should be heading out in apparent timing with those Taldamir merchant ketches. Since when do Vaal coasters convoy with Taldamirans?” The implication being Taldamiran trade vessels usually traveled well out of sight of land to avoid Vaal pirates, whereas these two ships were purposely moving closer to land, intersecting the three coasters.
Marisa stood beside her captain. Ogden, who had followed her onto the quarterdeck but not knowing what else to do, watched her for clues. Rayamars noticed the weaponsmith’s nervousness and gave him a calming expression. “I’ve been out here with her before,” he whispered in Ogden’s ear. “She’s a master.”
Ogden braced himself against the stern railing and nodded tentatively.
Marisa waited calmly. The wind continued to abate. The seas were calming. The sun was shining. It would be a beautiful day. A beautiful day for action. A beautiful day to rescue her love. Her crew was ready. The Marines were ready. The riflemen were ready. She waited for her captain to call it. The bronze cannon squatted on the deck of the Far Shore like so much gold metal, but she knew what it could do. She took a deep breath. If only Achelous were here with her. He would say something about fate, about the future, about defending Dianis against corsairs, but all she wanted was to win this day and win him back.
“Beat to Quarters, Mr. Lewisto,” the captain called it. “Signal the Intrepid that we are going into action.” The captain wanted to avoid the three ships he was certain were pirates and just pursue the Taldamirans, but the coaster ships had the lead on him and were angling for an intercept. “Inform the Intrepid it is our intent to smash our way through these pirates and engage the two Taldamiran ketches running south.”
The boatswain beat the brass deck gong, and the deep, hollow sound reverberated across the ship.
Marisa turned to Ogden. “That would be your signal. Ready the gun.”
Without saying a word, he made his way to the quarterdeck ladder and went down one step at a time.
The pirates, three sleek, low-decked sloops, lateen-rigged, kept coming. Shorter and lower in the water than the Far Shore, driven by a full set of canvas, were pounding in the heavy seas. Their goal was clear: to cross in front of the Far Shore in a nautical tactic termed crossing the T.
Any doubt as to the nature of the ships was dispelled when the pirate crews could be seen manning the rails holding swords, axes, shields, and grappling hooks.
“Your intentions, captain? I expect we are nearing the range of my new toy.”
He gave Marisa a surprised look. “From out here?”
She smiled. “I shouldn’t call it a toy.”
“Very well. Helm, thirty degrees to starboard. Lady, you may have your gun commence firing.”
Marisa took three steps to the ladder and slid down without touching a rung. She ran the length of the deck, weaving past winches, ballistae, and sailors as the deck rose and fell. “Ogden! Are you ready?”
“Oi,” he answered as she came to stand beside him. He had three of his foundry assistants with him. Rayamars stood off to the side with the Tivor Marine Adjutant Enderma.
“You seeing this, chief?” asked Mears, watching the video feed from a recon bot perched in the rigging of the Far Shore.
“I am,” answered Ivan, sitting in the Ready Reaction command room in Central Station. At that station’s peak staffing, the room would have had another seven agents at the various control stations. Today, he was the only one; the other hologrid displays were dark.
“What do you think are the odds that cannon will blow up?”
“Spirits, sergeant, I hope none. If that cannon kills Marisa...”
The gun crew winched the brass behemoth to the railing, and they immediately saw the problem. Ogden stared dumbfounded. The barrel was too low to shoot over the gunwale.
“Axes, quick. Clear this railing,” Marisa ordered. The second mate grabbed a boarding axe and began hacking at the railing.
Recovering, Ogden said, “Ula, lad. Move out of me way with the wee cleaver of yours. I have the right proper tool for that.” Reaching into the equipment chest, he pulled out his double-bladed battle-axe, removed the leather cover, and took aim at the railing.
The second mate saw the weaponsmith heave the blade high and scuttled out of the way. Four strokes on either side and a swift kick, and Ogden had cut a wide gap in the solid wood balustrade. The cannon was heaved into the opening with the block-and-tackle one on each side of the gun carriage. Mindful of Marisa hovering at his elbow, Ogden called, “Slow match!”
One of his gun crew handed him the long rod with the slow match attached to the end. He took a cursory look along the barrel. Sure enough, the captain, seeing the cannon was essentially a fixed mount, unlike the ballistae, had turned the ship to point the gun at the leading pirate.
“Oi! Everyone stand back!” Ogden aimed the slow match at the cannon’s touchhole, turned his head, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes.
Kaboom!
The explosion kicked the gun back on its wheeled carriage and bucked hard at the knot-stops of the block-and-tackle.
Waiting for the splash, Mears called out on the comm channel, “Long.”
Ivan breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nine hundred meters beyond the target,” acknowledged Jeremy.
“Where? Where did it go?” demanded Marisa.
“Long. Way, way long,” said the midships ballista captain running over. “You need to lower the barrel. That sloop is riding too low. We sit too high. You need to wait for the roll. I’d say wait for us to rise halfway up the next wave.”
“Reload, reload!” demanded Marisa.
“Oi!” The gun crew swabbed the barrel to douse any sparks and began ramming sacks of gunpowder down the muzzle. “
“Og,” she asked, “do we need all those sacks? If we went that far?”
“What’s this?” the ballista captain asked, pointing at a capstan-like wheel sitting under the back end of the barrel. It turned a heavy steel screw that was embedded in the carriage.
“That’s the elevation screw,” answered Ogden. “Atch thought it might come in handy.”
Ivan looked over at a second hologrid that showed the bridge of the Shields where Mears sat monitoring the action. They looked at each other, passing the unspoken message that such a suggestion by Achelous to Ogden was probably a ULUP violation. As if it mattered.
“Uh, Og,” Marisa said carefully, “Bekakic here is one of the best ballista captains in Merinda Merchants.”
Ogden looked up from supervising the priming of the touchhole. A crewman was rolling a ten-pound iron ball down the throat. The weaponsmith gave her a blank look.
She said delicately, “You’ve had the honor of firing this cannon for the first time and on my ship and against the pirates.”
Ogden’s face stayed blank, but the lead sloop was closing.
“Do you mind,” she hurried on, “if Bekakic set the elevation and called when to fire?”
“Oi!” Ogden said, relieved, and grabbed the slow match from the second mate and handed it to Bekakic. “Roll the gun forward!”
They heaved the gun into place, and Ogden made room for Bekakic. After giving the sailor instructions on how to fire and not get maimed when the gun recoiled, Ogden stepped back to Marisa. “Oi, I build them, you shoot them.” He grinned.
The distance to the lead pirate had closed by half. The wind had settled to a steady breeze; the seas were roiled, but their heights were down. Bekakic turned to get a view of the quarterdeck. He made a series of hand signals, and Mr. Lewisto relayed them to the captain. The ship altered course five degrees to starboard. Bekakic leaned low over the gun barrel, sighting on the sloop. He told a crewman to turn the adjusting screw. “Keep going. Turn it all the way down. I need the barrel level with the deck. Stop. That’s good.” Waiting, waiting, suddenly Bekakic stepped back from the gun, concentrated on the rise of the deck in relation to the far horizon. He lit the touchhole as the ship started to roll.
Kaboom! A black blur streaked outward and impacted the pirate.
“Wahooo!” Marisa jumped, jamming a fist in the air. Then she threw both arms around Ogden’s neck and kissed him on his helmet.
“Oh shit,” said Mears. A three-foot hole shown in the side of the lead sloop, two feet above the water line.
Ivan whispered, “Perfect shot.”
The captain of the Far Shore had hoped the pirates would turn and run when hit by the new weapon, but instead, they continued to plow on, oblivious to the danger. His true quarry was fleeing south, and he needed to turn hard to port, straight through the opposing sloops to keep up. “Signal the Intrepid. We are resuming original course.”
Jeremy calculated the optimum tactical plan for the Far Shore and alerted Ivan. “Chief, the Far Shore is changing heading. It is no longer attempting to engage the enemy at the best range for its cannon. It is unclear why they would do that.”
Ivan was uncertain as well. When the Shields had managed to drop the recon bots in the path of the Far Shore a little over twenty minutes ago, he’d half hoped Achelous to be aboard, perhaps wounded and hidden below decks. Unable to complete their search of the ship yet, it was clear that Marisa was still searching. His hope vanished. Is Atch held captive on one of those pirate sloops?
Marisa saw what the captain intended. She issued quick instructions to Bekakic who nodded. On the new course, he was able to angle the gun just far enough left in the makeshift gun port.
Kaboom!
A white smoke ring billowed away from the cannon, and a vapor trail streaked into the stern quarter of the middle sloop. Wood splinters exploded, and shards skewered the quarterdeck crew. Immediately—its helm turning freely—the sloop yawed hard to port.
“So much for those soft hulls,” Marisa remarked to the second mate. The shipwrights of the Warkenvaal had taken to building the topsides of their ships with a soft and spongy but resilient timber that captured impacting ballistae bolts that otherwise would puncture harder, denser timber. It appeared no construction material was immune to a ten-pound cannonball.
The lead pirate had cut hard to starboard and was now crossing the bow of the Far Shore. The ships were in range of their ballistae mounts, and the hard thumping of the massive bow-arms could be heard.
An incoming bolt whizzed through the rigging, and Ogden belatedly flinched. “Ula. Never had one of those shot at me.”
“There’ll be more,” said Bekakic, helping the gun crew hoist the gun back in place. “Stay low, below the gunwale.”
Ogden assumed the gunwale was the solid ship's rail he had made a mess of.
“We have six ballistae, and those pirate sloops have two each,” Bekakic said.
“Uh, that one has three,” Ogden said, counting the large, pivoting crossbow mounts on the pirate about to run down their starboard side.
“That’s new.”
Kaboom!
Bekakic was getting the feel of the new gun, as were the gun crew. Load, haul, stand clear, fire, swab, and load again. The six crewmen were getting in a rhythm when the aft mast of the middle sloop shuddered, a huge chunk of wood blasted from its stem. Slowly, at first, cable stays and lines started parting, and then the whole works, sails, and mast fell by the board, hanging over the side of the ship.
A cheer went up. Marisa was amazed. Never in all her days at sea had she seen a mast come down during a fight, except in a ramming.
“Riflemen! To the tops!”
Marisa whirled around. Rayamar’s riflemen were scrambling up the ratlines heading to the fighting tops. She ran to the starboard rail. “Damn!” she smacked the hard plank with her palm. The lead pirate, having crossed their bow, was closing fast on their starboard side though it was down at the bow, having taken on water from the first cannon shot. The Warkenvaal archers were lining the rail and readying an arrow barrage. She expected that once past the Far Shore’s midships, the Warkenvaal would loop around and grapple her by the stern. Then, attempt to board. Marisa had fought that tactic before.
She ran across to the port side, and sure enough, the captains of the three sloops were attempting to coordinate a combined boarding. Even though the middle sloop was wallowing, it wasn’t out of the fight, not if the other two sloops could slow the ‘Shore down. Something didn’t make sense. If the Far Shore had been by itself, Marisa could understand the motive for the three pirates to gang up on a rich merchantman, but the Intrepid, a Tivor-flagged warship, was only two miles astern. Why are they so bold? Each sloop had maybe seventy sailors. Between the Far Shore and the Intrepid, they had at least three hundred. In just raw numbers, it would be a tough brawl for the pirates, and as Achelous was quick to point out, the pirates rarely engaged in stiff fights. There was no margin in it. Any ship that could put up good resistance was avoided; there was easier prey elsewhere. The pirates, as he often said, were economists at heart. Economist, that was another term she’d learned from him. Oh, Atch, where are you?
“Trisha!” Marisa scanned the deck and then to the tops. She grabbed the second mate, “Find Trishna, the Silver Cup pathic, hurry!”
As she scrambled up the quarterdeck ladder, the deck tilted, and Marisa heard the lower course sails flutter and then snap tight: the captain had changed direction. Leaning on the aft-starboard rail, her eyes grew wide. “Sweet Mother— Rayamars! Rayamars!” she called to the fighting tops, “Shoot the torchmen! Don’t let them near those braziers.” It was a tall order, an impossible request, but something had to be done. She whirled, and the captain was standing right there. He saw the threat.
“If they can’t board us, they mean to burn us,” she said.
“Aye, and they don’t have enough men to board us. Not board and win,” he answered.
Trishna came unsteadily up the ladder. “Yes, lady?”
“Do pirates have pathics? The Paleowrights don’t do they?”
Trishna appeared confused. “Telepaths? I’ve never heard that they do.”
“Well, they’re acting like it,” said the captain. “I’ve been watching for their signal flags, and they’ve been few.”
The crack of the first rifle shot carried down to the deck. At first, the crew wondered at the new sound; they looked up. Rayamars finished reloading and raised his gun. The crack came again, and the sailors looked to where the muzzle pointed. A pirate archer dropped his bow, staggering backward, blood staining his dirty shirt. Gunfire erupted from the fighting tops as Rayamar’s riflemen went into action. Soon, the opposing archers would be close enough to shoot back.
A cheer came from the foredeck. Marisa couldn’t see what was happening, but something untimely had befallen the third sloop.
“Oh, I didn’t expect that.” The captain pointed to the lead sloop, starting its run down the starboard side.
Marisa took in a breath. Pirates, many more, were climbing up through the hatches. “Trap. It’s a trap.”
“Aye, looks like they planned for this. Like they knew we would be coming.”
The pirate crew on deck swelled to more than double as men came up from below. “How did they fit all those men onboard?” For the first time, Marisa was worried. If all the pirates had doubled up on their crews—Fear struck her, a deep, corrosive, gut-wrenching fear that turned her legs to lead and sapped her soul. They were doomed. The Far Shore, after all these years, would meet its end here today. She turned away so the captain would not see her face. She laid her hands on the aft rail, feeling the fear turn her bowels to water, the despair deep and quavering. Then she looked up and saw the majestic sails, the bow froth, and the men at the rail of the Intrepid. It was bearing down on the trailing pirate.
If they are willing to fight... If those men are willing to fight for my cause.... She waded through the fatigue, uncertainty, and despair. Who am I? Am I a woman? Or am I a mouse?
Unsteadily, Marisa turned around and found the entire quarterdeck crew watching her. Who am I? A woman? Or a mouse? She gathered her shredding resolve, summoned her legs to respond, and strode to the captain.
“Captain,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “The Far Shore is yours to fight. Command us and be not timid. Strike a bold stroke.” Feeling the stirrings of her confidence return, “I will be on the foredeck and will lead the crew there. Today is our day, Captain. It is time to make these foul cretins pay.”
A Warkenvaal arrow barrage arced across the churning sea. Marines, sailors, and riflemen took cover the best they could. Those in the fighting tops, the platforms near the tops of the three masts, were exposed to rain of death; the fighting tops were not Wedgewood treehouses. Sailors and Marines fell; A rifleman screamed, clutching an arrow to his chest as he dropped the great height and landed with a splash on the dark sea.
The blast of rifles was a new sound in the sea battle, but the Warkenvaal took the notion in stride and acted as if nothing was amiss. Rayamars braced against the mizzenmast, rammed the bullet down the barrel, seated it, and then pulled the rod. It be no good to drop the ramrod here, he reflected as his body went through the practiced motions. He brought the rifle up, primed the pan, dropped the powder horn uncapped on its lanyard and aimed. Another brigand was trying to retrieve the discarded torches. Having been to sea before as an archer, Rayamars waited for the deck to roll, and as it did, the muzzle rose.
Bang!
The brigand dropped flat on the deck, motionless.
The Warkenvaal lined up for another arrow barrage, this time closer. The riflemen reloaded and fired fiercely, but a trained archer could shoot three times faster than a muzzleloader. Rayamars ducked behind the mast as the volley thudded into the wood around him. He grimaced; Private Arot fell to the deck below.
Aware of the risk to his own ship, the captain of the Intrepid would not abandon his countrymen; the desperate plight of the Far Shore drove him to spin the wheel, and the brig turned hard to starboard, aiming its reinforced bows at the sloop’s waist.
Caught between the Tivorian warship and the merchantman, the trailing sloop belatedly broke off its boarding attempt, but too late, its sails were drafted by the lee of the massive merchant, and it could not gain headway. A huge crash sounded across the sea. The sloop was driven into the side of the Far Shore, and the merchantman shuddered with the grinding impact.
“Ula, lady, is it always like this?”
Marisa flinched when an arrow thwacked into the foremast. It quivered between her and Ogden. She felt alive, scared, and determined. “It can be worse,” she answered but wondered how and went to help a bow ballista reload; half of its crew were dead or wounded.
Pinioned between the bows of the Intrepid and the side of the Far Shore, the Warkenvaal’s crew scrambled, like hundreds of rats, off the doomed ship, half attacking the Intrepid and the other half seeking desperate refuge on the merchantman.
“Shield wall!” called Adjutant Enderma of the Tivor Marines. “Form up! Attack!” Forty Marines, two ranks deep, advanced on the pirates clambering over the rail. “Now! Push! Shove them back into the sea!”
A grappling hook snagged the belaying pin rack in front of Ogden. He didn’t need to ask as to what to do about it. Swinging his axe, he went about chopping every grappling line in reach.
“Og!” Marisa called, too late. An arrow hit the weaponsmith in the shoulder. He looked at the errant thing as if it were a flea. It had barely punctured his chainmail, hammered and welded by himself. The arrowhead snagged in the heavy leather jerkin beneath. He ripped it free and resumed his business.
For every line he cut, two more landed. One grappling hook, pulled by a mass of pirates, skittered across the deck and caught him by the foot. Swept off his feet, the hook dragged him to the gunwale. A sailor, sporting an arrow in his thigh, swung his cutlass and cleaved the line just as the grappling hook threatened to crush the mastersmith’s foot against the balustrade.
Having cleared its wrecked mast, the second sloop made to board the Far Shore at the port bow. The ballista there was out of action, its crew swept clear by an arrow barrage.
“Ogden!” Marisa yelled, “Help me with the cannon!” She and Bekakic, and the two remaining gun crew were attempting to load the weapon.
Seeing the ship’s plight, Ogden rummaged in the crates of powder bags and cannon balls. He came up with two lumpy burlap sacks. “Oi, we’ll try these.”
They rammed the sacks down the barrel after half the normal number of powder bags. “What are they?” Marisa huffed as they heaved the cannon to the port. Sweat streaked the soot on her face.
Ogden gave a mighty heave on the block and tackle, jacked the gun’s muzzle as low as it would point, and told Bekakic, “Fire it!” He pulled Marisa out of the way, and the gun captain lit the touchhole.
Kabooosh!
Death and mayhem spewed across the pirate ship. All the brigands on its foredeck were swept back and knocked down. Blood, red and smeary, splashed across the bulwarks.
“Mother’s breath,” Marisa gasped, “what was that?”
Bekakic didn’t care. “Reload! Get more of those!” Archery action from the pirate had ceased.
As the ships drifted closer, the groans of the wounded pirates from across the water could be heard. Slowly, more brigands recovered, and they began beating their shields and resuming their chant for the attack.
As Ogden jammed a sack into the gun’s throat and rammed it down, he said, “It was Achelous’ idea. I wondered if we would ever use them.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“He called it canister. It’s just a bag full of bullets, nails, whatever.”
Bekakic demanded, “Hurry, they are almost too close.”
They heaved the gun in place, and the five of them stood back. Arrows began to fly again. The Bekakic hesitated, gauging when more pirates were lined along the rail and yet not so close as the gun couldn’t depress. Kaboom!
Rayamars waited for the corsair to pick up the torch and run to the brazier. The sea had calmed so that the larger ‘Shore was steady, but the sloop still rocked. Reaching the brazier, the corsair lit the tar-soaked torch, Bang! When the smoke cleared from the shot, Rayamars saw the pirate lying flat on his back, a red smear on his side, and the torch lay burning in a careless pile of hemp line. He watched with satisfaction as the hemp began to smolder, and he resumed counterfire, sniping archers.
A guttural cry arose from the starboard side; Marisa ran to the railing and peered over. Corsairs from the lead sloop had managed to grapple with the side of her ship, heave in close, and were starting to climb the tall side. Then she saw him: the pirate captain. He was giving her the same monkey-faced smile he’d taunted her with when he tried to capture the Far Shore two months earlier. That was then she’d come to the rescue of the Far Shore on board its sister ship, the Wind March. In that battle, there had been only one pirate ship, not three, with treble crews. She ran forward to see the aft of the sloop. There on the transom was the name Uktik Baktar.
The pirate captain was making a hand gesture at her. One hand made a circle, and the other hand a prong that went in and out of the circle. He pointed first to him and then to her, all with his monkey-face smile.
She started running to midships, but already the first corsair was over the railing. Two more followed. “Enderma!” she called and drew her cutlass. “Enderma!” She took a slice at the first corsair, and like all pirates and most Tivorian sailors, he was not wearing chainmail and came without a shield. Marisa’s cutlass drew a deep cut from shoulder to ribs, and the pirate’s intimidating war yell turned to a screech of horror. Before she could twist her blade for a back cut at the next pirate charging her, the brigand spasmed backward. Another rifle shot sounded from above, and a third corsair fell at her feet.
Adjutant Enderma, having successfully held the port quarter against the crew of the rammed and now sinking sloop, was forced to retreat from the rail and draw his Marine contingent across the waist of the ship, protecting the quarterdeck.
Amidst the screams, curses, and clangor of battle, Marisa was aware of sailors lining up on her right and left, helping to defend the forecastle. Ogden grabbed his axe and made to attack, but Bekakic caught him by the arm. “Ere! Help me with this.”
Cut, parry, thrust, Marisa wanted to move to where her shield hung on a belaying pin, but the corsairs were relentless. She saw the captain of the Uktik Baktar at the back of the crowd, urging his crew on.
Her parry missed a blade, and the pirate cut a grim line across her thigh, exposing the barely healed Troglodyte wound. Gasping at the flaming heat, she dropped her guard, and the corsair bull-rushed her, knocking her flat, sending her cutlass skittering across the deck.
Straddling her, the corsair made to bash her face with the hilt of his sword. She jerked her head left, and the brass guard thudded into the deck. Yanking the stiletto from her bun, she jammed it into his thigh. The brigand’s eyes grew wide, and he roared with indignation. Raising his arm for another blow, Marisa pulled the stiletto free and jabbed it into his throat as he lunged down. The man gurgled, choking; his fist and sword hung bare inches from her face.
“Ula! We’re out of canister,” Ogden growled. “Anything, anything,” he called to the gun crew, “nails, splinters, and—” he saw a length of chain.
Grabbing his axe, Ogden aimed at the bulkhead mount and counted on the chain to be soft steel forged to resist rusting. Sure enough, his battle blade cleaved it cleanly. He started hacking the links to pieces, one, two, and then stopped. An even better idea came to him. Hoisting the length of chain, he ran to the muzzle of the cannon.
Rayamars brought the rifle up, rotated his aim across the deck, and an arrow hit the stock of his rifle, gouging a splinter that stuck in his cheek.
Bang! His target fell at Marisa’s feet. He edged back around the mast for its scant protection and began reloading; the pain in his hip from an arrow was a dull throb held at bay by adrenalin. Fortunately, the arrow’s force had been stunted by his thick uniform coat, and it struck his hipbone. It did not reach his guts. Feeling in his bullet pouch, he had four bullets left.
Marisa scrambled on the deck for her sword. In the press of feet and bodies, she came up with it, her hair a wild tangle of black that covered her face. She whipped it clear just in time to see a Warkenvaal come at her with an up-raised cutlass. His was the heavy, brutish weapon preferred by boarders who bludgeoned and hacked rather than stabbed and parried. She hobbled on her wounded leg and raised her own cutlass: the lighter, faster Marine officer’s weapon. Arm speed won over brawn. His blow, with the quillion, landed on her left shoulder, driving her down, but not before her stroke cracked his skull.
Staggering up, weaving left and right, her left shoulder numb, she made towards the melee when familiar voices, seemingly from afar, yelled, and she was shoved aside as the bronze barrel of her ten-pound monster was rolled across the deck.
Kaboom!
Being even with the muzzle, she saw the huge yellow jet flare out; the cannon’s report, upfront and not from behind, was massive, the concussion a physical wall that buffeted her whole body. Out of the barrel whipped a black snake the likes she had never seen. A swath of pirates ten feet wide and more deep was scythed like so much rotten sawgrass. Those facing the thunderous explosion succumbed to shock.
“Charge!” Ogden led the remaining members of the gun and ballistae crews into the fight. The corsairs broke.
The captain of the Uktik Baktar, seeing his ship aflame at a brazier, hesitated. He wanted to rally his men; they still had the numbers, but that treacherous bronze beast with its black maw stared at him. His monkey-face smile gone, he heaved a spear at Marisa, who glared at him through a mass of sweat-soaked hair. Vaulting the railing, the captain swung on a grappling line and made to save his ship.
