CHAPTER 43
Captain Cannek Reed
The dead were unstoppable—reaching through shuttered gun ports, bursting through hulls, emerging from belowdecks to grasp Alliance soldiers by the ankles and siphon the life out of them.
Still, the Alliance kept fighting. Shot after shot, their cannonballs whistled through the phantoms’ spectral forms only to batter into the scattered Resistance ships. Through it all, the Current of Faith sailed in and out of the broken enemy line, letting off one devastating broadside after another.
Across the water, the Crux let off a round of fire that shook the very timbers of the Current. Flames bloomed on one of the Alliance vessels, climbing the masts and devouring the sails, which fell in smoking tatters to the tarred decks.
As the shadowy figures spread north, killing any enemies that stood in their path, the flaming Alliance ship drifted behind the Current, where it crashed into another enemy vessel, setting its rigging on fire. The two burning ships came to a stop, dead in the water, while their soldiers dove over the rails to escape the blaze.
On the quarterdeck of the Current, Captain Reed could feel the heat on his back as he watched the phantoms through the smoke.
The dead were turning the tide of the battle.
He pressed a palm to his stinging chest. Sefia may have taken his tattoos, but in doing so, she’d saved them all.
If he ever got the chance, he’d tell her he was sorry. For being so selfish.
When it had come down to it, she’d been better than him.
As the burning wrecks crackled behind him, he opened his mouth to order Jaunty to take them north, into the remnants of the battle.
But before he could speak, the Amalthea appeared out of the smoke before him like a blue dragon, spewing flame.
“Take cover!” Captain Reed roared as the cycling guns began spitting bullets. Diving forward, he yanked Meeks down beside him as they covered their heads.
Cannon fire rocked them, taking bites of the rails and chunks of the hull.
Over the din, the chief mate was cursing. Reed glanced around, searching for escape.
But the Current was pinned between the blazing wrecks and Serakeen’s flagship. She may have been the quickest ship in the west, but she had nowhere to run, and with the phantoms amassing on the enemies to the north, she had no one to rescue her.
Mind racing, Reed peered over the bulkhead. His ship and his crew would be blown to bits if he didn’t do something.
Between the iron teeth of Serakeen’s artillery, he spied a stack of powder kegs and shot boxes, overflowing with cartridges for the cycling guns, poised at the edge of the Amalthea’s main hatchway, waiting to be distributed to the gunners.
And he knew.
All along the rails, he counted powder cases—explosive traps ready to be sprung upon unwary boarders. If he could split them open, then . . . He thought of Lac’s retelling of the death of the Fire-Eater: an explosion so bright it was like the ocean itself was aflame.
He knew how it would happen.
A black gun. A white dandelion.
He could save the Current.
Amid the gunfire, Reed clasped Meeks’s hand. “The ship is yours,” he said. “If I make it, get the Current as far away as you can.”
The second mate—no, the new captain—blinked at him. “Cap, what—”
All of a sudden, Reed wished he had more time. There were so many things he wanted to say about the legacy of the Current, about goodness and freedom and curiosity and wonder and loyalty to your crew. But he said the only words he could find: “Look to the horizon. That’s where the adventures are.”
Leaving Meeks by the bulkhead, Reed dashed toward the main deck, narrowly avoiding chain shot as it whirred past his head, and grabbed a boarding ax from a weapons chest. Ducking, he slid a handful of bullets into his pocket.
“Cap?” Jaunty’s rough voice reached him from the helm.
Reed stuffed the ax into his belt. “Can you get me onto the Amalthea without gettin’ the Current gutted?”
The helmsman narrowed his eyes, the hesitation plain on his stubbled, weatherworn face. Could he see Reed’s plan in his eyes the same way he could read the weather and the water?
As was his way, Jaunty didn’t question or protest or even say good-bye. He just nodded, once, and hauled on the wheel.
As the Current turned, Reed climbed into the rigging, up above the Amalthea’s relentless gunfire.
Grabbing one of the running lines, he paused on the yardarm.
One.
Below, Meeks and the chief mate were ordering the gun crews into position while the riflemen began popping up from their positions to take aim at Serakeen’s soldiers.
Two.
Doc was racing among the injured, her black bag in hand, her clothes stained with blood.
Three.
Horse must have been belowdecks, plugging holes. Reed wished he could’ve seen the big carpenter’s smile one last time. It would’ve given him courage, now, when he needed it most.
Four.
The water thrashed below him. Closer and closer, it carried him toward the Amalthea.
Five.
Theo’s strong baritone reached him, calling, “Fire!” The Current’s cannons spewed thunder.
Six.
The waves plunged the Current down into the troughs and back up again.
Seven.
Serakeen’s flagship loomed huge and menacing before him—a monster of war.
Eight.
Reed leapt from the yard, swinging toward the deck of the Current and arcing out—breathless—over the water, over the cycling guns, until he was above the bow of the Amalthea.
But as he was about to drop, there was a shot. Fire tore through his side as his grip on the rope loosened. His quick eyes found the enemy, there, by the prow’s chase guns.
He fell, hitting the deck of the Amalthea, where he rolled once and came up shooting. The blue-uniformed soldier collapsed with a bullet between the eyes.
Pulling the boarding ax, Reed ran toward the other end of the ship, ducking, swerving, each of his shots finding its target, his ax carving open any enemy who got too close.
He had to be fast, before Serakeen figured out what was happening and came to stop him.
Reaching a couple powder kegs, Reed kicked them onto their sides and sent them rattling down the deck, where they burst open, spilling powder.
Good.
He tried skidding after them, but a volley of gunfire made him jump back. A bullet cut him across the cheek.
One of the gun crews was firing on him, pinning him behind a chase gun.
Beyond them lay the powder kegs, unattended by the main hatch as the rest of the gunners launched volley after volley of fire and iron at the Current of Faith.
Dumping the empty casings, Reed reloaded the Singer. The graze on his cheek bled down his chin, but the wound in his side was making it hard to breathe. It must have struck something important.
Flicking the cylinder of his revolver closed, he leapt to his feet, ready to charge across the ship, when there was the report of a rifle.
One of the Alliance soldiers dropped. And another.
The others scrambled for cover.
Reed spared one glance at the Current. Aly was at the rail, rifle to her shoulder, braids undone. Then a flash of copper hair as Marmalade sprang up beside her, taking out another pirate and pausing briefly to wave at Reed.
“Go get ’em, Cap!”
He grinned.
Then he sprinted across the deck, making for the powder cases at the rails. Reaching the first, he pried it open with his ax, pausing only to fire the Singer in the face of an Alliance soldier, and tipped the powder toward the main hatchway.
Someone cut him in the calf.
They paid with their life.
But his leg wasn’t working quite right anymore. He had to half-hop, half-drag himself to the next powder traps, forcing them open, hiding behind cannons as the enemy tried to stop him.
Again and again, his bullets struck home.
Ten, nine, eight left . . .
It was getting harder to breathe. He ducked as covering fire from the Current flew over his head. He was bleeding in more places than he could count now.
But he was almost there.
Reed holstered the Singer as her chambers emptied. Flipping the ax into his other hand, he drew the Executioner.
He’d almost reached the stack of kegs and shot cases when a blow caught him in the side of the head.
Pain exploded in his skull. His vision spun. He reeled, lashing out with his ax as he fell.
Someone tsked. On his hands and knees, Reed caught sight of an aubergine coat and a gleaming metal hand.
Serakeen.
Reed shot.
He missed.
Five bullets left.
Serakeen kicked him in the stomach, sending him rolling into the stash of powder and ammunition.
Blood ran into Reed’s eyes as he staggered up.
“Captain Reed,” Serakeen said. His eyes were blue, like Reed’s, but pale as ice. “What are you doing here? Did you think you could kill me all by yourself?”
Reed swayed. He’d lost so much blood. “I’m Cannek Reed.” He shrugged. “I’ve done dumber things than this.”
“Not after today,” Serakeen replied. He flung out his hand— a wave of magic hit Reed in the chest, sending him crashing into the powder kegs.
The barrels toppled, cracking open. Black dust went trickling over him, down the hatchway in a glittering ribbon.
Reed smiled as he pushed himself to his knees. The Executioner spat fire.
Serakeen dodged, but the shot still struck him in the ribs.
Four bullets left.
Reed danced away, toward the last powder case on the rail.
Three. Two. He took out a couple Alliance soldiers by the bulkhead and began hacking at the wooden box with his boarding ax, splitting it open.
He felt slow. Clumsy. His injuries were catching up to him.
The powder spilled across the deck as Serakeen straightened, holding his wounded side, and flung his magic at Reed like a hammer.
Reed sidestepped. Barely.
Whirling, he leveled the Executioner at the pile of broken kegs by the main hatch.
His stomach sank.
Most of the gunpowder and ammunition hadn’t made it down the hatchway. It lay in a mound on the deck, among the splintered boards and iron hoops.
He had to get back there. He had to dump it belowdecks to the magazine.
But Serakeen stood between him and the hatch. He flung the boarding ax. He fired his revolver.
The pirate easily swept both aside.
One bullet left.
Reed’s mind whirled. Maybe enough powder had trickled into the hatchway. Maybe the plan would still work.
Maybe it wouldn’t. And if it didn’t, the Current and all his crew were as good as dead.
He’d have to dive past Serakeen and shove the powder down there himself. All it’d take was one good leap.
But he was injured.
And Serakeen had magic.
Reed readied himself for the lunge.
But before he could move, he heard the water calling: Wait . . . wait . . .
He paused.
Now.
A wave struck them. The Amalthea heaved. Loose shot clattered toward the stern as the deck tilted, and the pile of ammunition and gunpowder slid into the hatchway, leaving only broken bits of wood and iron behind.
The corner of Reed’s mouth twitched. He inhaled deeply, taking one last breath of salty wet air.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
With a final glance at the Current of Faith, her green hull, her tree-like figurehead, her curves and cannons and battered bulwarks, he raised the black gun.
Serakeen closed his fist. Reed felt the magic tightening around him like a net.
But he was the quickest draw in the Central Sea.
He pulled the trigger before the magic paralyzed him.
The bullet sped across the ship, past Serakeen, past the gun crews and their cannons, straight into one of the powder kegs’ broken iron hoops.
There was a spark, flashing like a white dandelion above the deck.
The gunpowder caught fire.
And the timbers of the Amalthea burst apart in a flash of heat and light that consumed Serakeen’s aubergine coat, his outstretched hand, the cannons, all the cycling guns, the soldiers, and flung Reed from the deck.
Shrapnel pierced him through the chest, through the only tattoo he had left.
The Current was saved. His crew would live. Reed smiled.
And as he hit the water, the Executioner flew from his fingers. It sank into the depths, never to curse another soul again. The sea reached up around Reed’s bleeding body, cradling him in its cold arms as he closed his eyes . . . and let the water take him.
Long after the battle, as the dead washed up on the black Rokuine shores, the surviving outlaws searched for him. They combed the breakers and the beaches, wanting to give him a proper burning, wanting to send him off with the singing and storytelling befitting a legend.
But they didn’t find him.
Some said he’d been washed out to sea by the tide, with the rest of the bodies still unaccounted for.
But some, like Meeks, who saw Reed go into the waves, said he’d been claimed by the ocean, that the waters he’d so loved had given him the one thing he desired most.
He’d become one with the sea, and the sea had no ending and no beginning. The sea had always been and always would be.
And now, so would Captain Cannek Reed.
Decades—centuries—after, they continued to tell stories of a man with eyes as blue as the water on a clear day. They told of his bravery, his dedication to his crew, his adventures chasing the wind.
Some sailors claimed he rescued them from hurricanes and washed them up on sandy shores.
Some said he drowned those who were unworthy of the outlaw name.
Others said he sent their ships toward floating islands and magical sea creatures rising from the deep, bringing currents to carry them to miraculous undiscovered places and adventures beyond their wildest dreams.
“It was Captain Reed,” said the survivors, said the treasure hunters and the thrill seekers as they huddled around tavern tables, whispering in hushed reverent tones. “The legends are true.”
Captain Reed lives.