Chapter Thirty-One

The sounds of battle raged overhead, with cannons and rifles shaking the hammock that held a once dying man. Shouts met his ears, followed by screams and more explosions. The creaking beams of the hull threatened to flood the compartment without notice, but none of that woke Krist Thorinson. His body lay deep in slumber, swinging like a babe in a rocker. His mind journeyed elsewhere.

What began as a nightmare, cruel in the way it forced him to relive the dunking, dragged him through the sea and finally under. The ropes binding both his wrists and soul snapped, sending him sinking deeper into the abyss. He neither floated nor sank for a time, wondering why he had not drowned. He was part of the ocean, at one with its bounty, and the desire to fill his empty stomach proved ravenous.

A shark, long and grey, blinked its eyes and flexed a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. It seemed to resent his intrusion into the watery depths. Its home. Its hunting grounds. Biting and thrashing, the beast swam quickly away for space. The predator circled, no longer king of its domain. Krist, now desperate to fill his belly, gave a kick with all eight of his legs. His longest appendage reached out, ready to snag the beast and hold it tightly. He glided through the water, now frothy and bubbling with pursuit, and gave one more thrust forward.

The shark writhed within his grasp, snapping and biting, but Krist wound his arms tighter and drew it closer to his mouth. Large and sharp, his beak snapped and tore into flesh, spinning and creating a vortex of tiny bubbles and bodily fluids. There was so much blood, the taste of it fueled him to bite faster, devouring his prey and spreading the blurry substance now spinning like a painted cyclone in the water. Despite the danger he posed, others would come, and these he’d devour as well.

Franque sat atop the deck of She Wolf, fully spent and trembling from the violence he wrought upon the immigrant ship. He had sought out this spot to be alone, to escape the blood. But it was everywhere, staining his clothing, his hands, his arms, and even his face by the coppery taste of his sweat. The color of it made him sick, yearning to leap over the side and bathe until it was gone. But the sharks had arrived early during battle, smelling the blood of the first injured and unable to resist an easy meal.

“Francis!” Boats called from the forecastle.

Franque refused to look up.

“Francis! I know you hear me!”

Franque responded with a single raised finger. The man deserved nothing more from him.

Boats just laughed at the slight, strolling over and squatting down beside him. “First kill, eh? I know that’s a toughie and have been there me self, but don’t fret long over it. You moved on from that one real quick and racked up several more shortly after! I swear! I named you and your brother wrong! You should’ve been bleeder by the way you swung that axe!” He reached out to take it.

“No.” Franque gripped it tighter, unwilling to let go.

“It belongs in the armory, mate. I’m gathering them all. Trust me, it’ll be there again when you need it. After what you did here today, ain’t nobody gonna keep this weapon from you!”

Franque’s hand let go even if his mind did not. Boats was right. He bled so many people, innocents as well as those defending, and it would serve him best to let go of the instrument. It had played him, more than he it, during the concert of death.

“Franque,” a voice called softly.

Leave me be, he thought.

“Franque!” the voice called again. “Brother!”

Brother? He looked up, confused to find Krist standing beside him. “You should be in bed,” he told him. “How are you able to walk?”

“I don’t know. I woke up only a bit ago, weak but feeling stronger. My head doesn’t hurt as bad as it did.” He touched the site of his wound, pressing it gingerly. “It doesn’t feel soft, either, and my vision isn’t doubled.”

Franque froze, remembering the warnings by the girl Gretchen. She called it a curse, descending from either of the Braston brothers. Captain Jacque had even asked, Has anything odd ever happened when either of you are around water? Franque remembered the stories, of how their father and his crazed brother terrorized Andalon wielding the power of the sea. How odd did the captain mean? Krist should have died. Could the water have saved him?

“I killed,” Franque finally admitted. “Man, woman, it didn’t matter. I lost myself during the raid.”

“Were any of them trying to kill you back?” Krist asked gently.

“Some. Not all.” The image of a cowering old man came to mind, he lamented that one the most. “They were immigrants, headed to Andalon to start a new life, and we murdered them.”

“Not all,” Krist disagreed, “look.”

Ben Thompson addressed a small group of men being led to She Wolf. “After we’ve taken anything of value, we’ll scuttle your ship. If any of you wish to be spared a few hours treading water with sharks, we’ll be happy to sign you aboard. We had a few job openings today, and this chance won’t come around again.”

Not surprising, they all stepped forward, six in all, to join the crew. Most appeared able bodied, suited for life at sea, but one in particular seemed runtish—an oddity from Fjorik.

“What’s your name?” the quartermaster demanded.

“Sven Nielson,” the man sputtered with a shaky voice. He was afraid, but smart enough to choose life.

“Occupation?”

“Carpenter. But I could work as a cooper, if needed. I’m not picky, sir!”

“Carpenter job is filled, so is cooper. You’ll work under the boatswain until we have need for you elsewhere.” Thompson looked around. “Where’s Boats?”

No one seemed to know.

“Boats?”

“He’s in the armory, Mr. Thompson,” Franque replied.

“Nielson, go with Franque Thorinson. He’ll find you a bunk. If you need clothing and tools you can purchase them from me on credit, and we’ll deduct it from your first pay. Next!”

The little man walked up to Franque, eyeing the blood on his face and body. Terror filled this carpenter from the north, the kind of horror one would expect when first laying eyes on a demon.

“He’ll sell you clothing and tools,” Krist told the newcomer. “But it’s not new, comes overpriced, and it’ll cost you more than your first wages. Franque here and I can lend you tools as you need them to help save you money.” He put out his hand. “I’m Krist.”

“Sven.” The little man eyed Franque once more.

“Like he said, I’m Franque. I’d shake your hand but,” he absently tried to wipe the blood on his pants, “I’m covered in your kinfolk.” Not wanting anymore conversation, he left his brother alone to settle in the newcomer.

He walked toward a rain barrel and plunged his entire head inside, scrubbing as much as he could to remove his sins. He yearned to hold it there and drown them all, along with himself, forever. It turned out he was better at killing others than himself and raised his head up again to breathe.

“Good job today,” a voice said from behind.

Franque turned and found the captain standing beside the first mate and watching him wash away the blood. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’d salute, but my hands are a bit occupied. Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

Devil Jacque smiled broadly. “No, Thorinson, I think you did enough for one day. You handled yourself like a true pirate and fought with valor!”

“Valor, sir? Killing innocents was valorous?”

Devil Jacque’s smile disappeared abruptly. “I don’t like your tone, seaman!”

“No, sir, I don’t suppose you do. But I know you appreciated my actions today, so let’s agree now isn’t the time for us to chat.”

“You’re exactly like your father, Thorinson, or should I say Braston?”

“Call me what you will, Captain, but just don’t do it when your enemy’s blood is still in my mouth.” With that, Franque dunked his head once more, holding it under as long as he could. When he again surfaced, he found himself alone. With no one watching, the son of Braen Braston wept.

Krist liked Sven. He was a young man, the sort who easily make friends. He reminded him a lot of their brother Robert. He found him smart, one of those types who could work his way out of any problem with ease. That was good. He would pick up the job easily and not upset Boats too much.

“I’ve just reported to duty, myself,” Krist told him. “I got my head bashed a couple of weeks ago, and it’s only just healed.” He pointed at the wound. It had fully closed and already showed a pink scar. “You’ll work with me and Franque, and we all report to Boats. That’s short for boatswain mate. You’ll do well to keep on his good side, ‘cause he’s got a temper. Don’t ever strike an officer, say ‘yes, sir—no, sir,’ and work as hard as you can all the time. Got all that?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Got any questions?” Krist asked.

“Just one,” Sven said. “You’re name, is that from Fjorik?”

“It sure is. I’m named for my grandfather, Krist Braston. There’s an empty hammock with me and Franque, so you’re welcome to bunk with us.”

Sven Neilson said nothing, only nodded and stared back at the grandson of his beloved former king.