The two men jostled against each other, their swords moving so quickly that sparks shot out from between the contact every few thrusts. Sweat ran down their faces, their feet slipping in the sand as they attacked again and again, death written over both of their features. Slashing upward, Tristan succeeded in cutting across the captain’s jaw. The blood dripped down onto the sand, running down his neck and soaking into his shirt.
Terror gripped me as I watched, held tightly in the arms of John Butler. He seemed to be of the opinion that I would fling myself into the circle if I was let go, but I didn’t even know if I could stand, let alone join the fight.
The two men parted for a moment, breathing heavily, circling around each other, before the captain dashed forward and sliced Tristan across the shoulder. He cried out in pain, jerking away, the red liquid welling up and rolling down him, joining the captain’s in the sand.
“Come on, boy,” the captain taunted. “Ye can do better than this, surely?”
Tristan, not fazed by the jab, simply smiled, rotating his shoulder and returning to a battle stance, his eyes glued on his opponent.
They ran at each other again, blades sliding against themselves, each man pushing with all his strength to topple the other. They had grabbed one another’s wrists with their free hand, shoving and attempting to twist the joint to their advantage. When neither gave, they broke apart, moving in the circle.
Kicking sand into Tristan’s face, Captain Rodrigues charged, raising his weapon high and slamming it downward. Tristan got his blade up just in time, stopping what surely would have cut him near in half. He was at an odd angle now, struggling as Rodrigues pressed his weight into it. The two blades continued to sink further, hovering above the intersection of Tristan’s neck and shoulder. Roaring in frustration, half blind, he jerked his leg out, missing his target. The edges fell into him, digging into his skin. Victorious, the captain drew his cutlass back, slicing clear down Tristan’s chest and bringing him to his knees. His voice sounded strangled as he cried out in pain, shock clouding his features.
It didn’t occur to me that I was screaming and crying until I felt the sand under my knees, James Abby and John Butler both holding me forcefully as I struggled against them. All I could see was the red rolling down Tristan, gathering in the sand beneath him.
Captain Rodrigues laughed as he booted Tristan over, pointing at the spray of blood that was expelled from the wound. I couldn’t tell if an artery had been cut or not, there was so much fluid oozing out.
“Have ye had enough yet, lad?” The captain growled, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, an itchiness to his movements, like he couldn’t wait to feel death at the end of his blade again.
Tristan slowly stumbled to his feet, trying to brush the sand out of his eyes and gather himself again. His shoulder was obviously hurting him, arm twitching as he tried to grip the sword better. His breathing was labored, but his eyes refocused on the target, never once looking away to anyone else. When Rodrigues charged this time, Tristan was ready, knocking the blade away, slicing him clean across the chest, and punching him in the face, his own wound in no way effecting his fighting.
Captain Rodrigues stumbled, falling backward into the sand, scurrying away.
“Come on, Captain, ye can do better than that,” Tristan rasped, sharing a smile that looked more like the baring of his teeth.
Startled by the attack, Rodrigues roared in frustration, not bothering to pick up his sword as he got back on his feet, charging like a bull. Catching Tristan in the stomach, they tumbled to the earth, rolling around, yelling and struggling, more evenly matched than I’d ever thought possible. Blood smeared across the ground as they moved, leaving no sign as to who was more gravely injured.
Pinning the captain, Tristan wailed away at his face, punching and punching, blood splattering out of Rodrigues’s nose, his lip splitting viciously open. In the blink of an eye, Tristan was on the bottom, screaming as Rodrigues dug his fingers into the cut on his shoulder, using the wound to his advantage. All I could hear were the sounds of his anguish and my sobbing, the crew quietly watching on.
Struggling against the weight on top of him, Tristan finally managed to get a strike in to the captain’s kidney area, successfully getting him to roll away. Rodrigues yelped in pain, lurching onto his side, stunned. But Tristan wasn’t finished.
Rocking to his feet, he kicked the captain in the chest, splitting open the cut he’d placed there. Rodrigues cried out, his eyes bulging. The sound was one of anger and hatred, blood dripping from him like a faucet.
Tristan was struggling, trying to remain upright as gore leaked from him, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. Wiping the dirt from his face, Tristan moved to pick up his sword.
Seeing an opening, Rodrigues stumbled to his feet, pulling a dagger out of his boot as he charged again. Tristan turned just in time, catching the handle of the blade before it stabbed him in the throat.
A force of wills ensued, both trying to gain the upper hand. Tristan kicked the feet out from under the captain, landing on top of him, the blade now inches from the captain’s neck.
Placing all his weight behind it, Tristan twisted the dagger, trying to press it down further. As he moved, he blocked my view of what was happening and I struggled against my captors once more in an attempt to see better. But they wouldn’t release me, and I was forced to watch the struggle without knowing who the blade was facing.
Tristan’s back was shaking with effort, shining with blood and sweat. The captain’s feet were kicking underneath him, a sign of the struggle he was facing. Finally, I heard the sound of the knife slicing into one of them and both bodies fell still on the ground.
My sobs were great gasping sounds by now, my throat bleeding from the force of the howls. No one in the circle moved, everyone staring at the two men. The hot air blew through the group softly, the only thing that seemed to be living among us.
Finally, there was movement. The captain’s hand slowly slid to the ground and I screamed, thinking Tristan dead. The fingers were unmoving, though, limp in the sand, never to be filled with life again.
Tristan lifted his head, his eyes glassy, and said hoarsely, “I nominate myself as captain.”
My breath caught in my chest. He had won! But I knew if he didn’t get help soon, he would bleed to death before anyone could say anything about it.
“I second,” John Butler said from beside me.
“You don’t want a murderer as a captain,” Thomas Randall called, emerging from the ranks. “A man who killed our captain over a woman.” He pointed at me, sneering, then turned his gaze on the crew. “You want a man who will champion for you in battle. A man who will make you rich beyond all belief!” He held his arms out at this, turning in a full circle, taking his time as he gazed at each of them. “Elect me. Chose me, and I will make you the envy of the seven seas.”
“I second,” a man said, his arms folded, a calculating look in his eyes.
“Thomas Randall engineered this fight into being,” Tristan argued, attempting to stand. “He’s been baiting ye against the captain and myself for weeks now, whispering among ye that ye are better than following one man’s command. He’s promised ye free reign under his leadership, but that would give him no authority at all. He’s put innocent lives in danger, today and in the past. He doesn’t want to lead ye—he wants to massacre ye and take everything for himself!”
“Careful now,” Thomas answered smoothly. “You don’t want to be getting yourself into any more sword battles at the moment, I would think.” He laughed, pantomiming a fight for the entertainment of the crowd.
Struggling to his feet, his wounded shoulder almost giving out as he pushed himself up, Tristan chuckled, clearing his throat, his breath coming in small gasps. “I will fight a murdering, thieving, lying coward like ye any day, Randall. And if this crew votes ye in as captain, I’ll do it right now and make ye confess what a bil
ge-sucking scallywag, low life, cock ye are!”
The men hesitated, looking between the two of them, and I felt as if I’d swallowed a stone, a heavy, sinking feeling settling into my stomach. Thomas’s hand was twitching at his side, next to the hilt of his sword, his jaw working furiously.
“Vote!” he yelled, turning his back on Tristan and glaring at the crew. “Who do you want as your captain? A man who would kill another over a whore, or a man you know will lead you well?”
Everyone remained silent, still as gravestones, and then began to move, separating into groups behind each of them. When all was said and done, all except five of the men had chosen Tristan.
Eyes bulging, Thomas looked at those who hadn’t chosen him, hatred emanating from his being. After a moment, he drew his sword, pointing it at Tristan. “Fight me then,” he growled. “And we’ll see who is better.”
“No!” I whimpered, still held in place by Abby and Butler.
Tristan simply held his hand out to silence me, his knees shaking some as he bent and picked up his sword. Behind him, the men began pulling theirs as well, ready to back their new captain to the death.
“What are you doing?” Thomas screamed. His own men appeared uneasy, one even stepping back as he examined the small army in front of them. “Stay where you are,” Thomas growled, not even glancing back. He seemed to be thinking it over, counting the men he was up against. Finally, he sheathed his sword, his own chest heaving with angry breath. He had been beaten, and their law said there was nothing he could do about it. Turning on his heel, he left the group, the men who’d chosen to follow him doing so, and they disappeared into the woods.
“John Butler as quartermaster,” Tristan croaked out. His request was followed by a chorus of approval as he crumpled to the ground.
At long last, I was released, the two men joining the ranks of the crew circling around to help him. Trembling, I stumbled across the sand, falling down by Tristan and examining his shoulder.
“I need some water,” I said hoarsely. “Now!”
“Listen to her,” Tristan mumbled. “She can be trusted. The lot of ye, get back to work.”
“Aye, Captain O’Rourke!” The men scattered, Father Alfonso stating he would bring water and bandages. I didn’t care about any of them, though, all of my thoughts concentrated on the man in front of me.
“You could have died,” I said quietly, fresh tears running down my face.
“Hush now, lass,” he answered, smiling weakly. “I’d do it all over again without another thought.”
“I wouldn’t let you,” I replied fiercely, gently prodding around his cut. “You’re lucky you haven’t bled to death by now.”
“Excuse me, miss,” one of the crewmembers—the doctor—said, interrupting me. “Can I help, ye? I do see things like this quite often.”
Father Torres was running back toward us, a bucket in one hand and a wad of cloth in the other. I scooted out of the way as I watched him, feeling the numb aftershock of it all settling in.
“I’ll be needin’ some string and a needle. Alcohol as well,” the doctor told Alfonso as he arrived, taking the supplies from him with haste.
“I will find them,” Alfonso confirmed, turning and hurrying away once more.
Tristan hissed as the hot water poured over him, the doctor adjusting his position so he could clean the cut. “Did he hurt ye, Samantha?” There was fear in his voice and I instantly turned back to him, seeing it in his eyes.
“No. You got there in time.”
He sighed then, looking as if a great deal of weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Good,” he muttered, his eyes fluttering as he promptly lost consciousness.
Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One) Page 39