Miya Black, Pirate Princess I: Adventure Dawns

by Ben White

  "What do you mean, free? Clover Island IS free, it's—"

  "No! Never free! Nothing is 'free', Princess, except ... AH, you DON'T understand. You are like your father, so much the paragon, the ideals, the right, the wrong, do this, don't do that, the good way, the bad way. You are right, you DO NOT understand. But Badger Pete does. He understands very well."

  "Something's happened to you," said Miya. "You've ... you've been hit on the head or eaten a root you shouldn't have. You're Uncle Lars! You're not a traitor! You're ... you're funny and kind and generous, you're part of my family!"

  "No," said Lars, eyes narrowing. "I was never that. Only in words. Your little trio is too tight for anyone outside to penetrate. Perhaps even for you, perhaps between your parents you felt you could not be part—"

  "What are you saying? We're FAMILY! We never treated you as anything BUT family! You ungrateful BASTARD!"

  "Ungrateful? No. I was not. I paid my price. And if it were not for that girl's demands, I would not be here, I would perhaps be gone without such a farewell. We would all have been spared a little pain. But—"

  " 'That girl'? Are you talking about GRACE? Did—"

  "It doesn't matter," said Lars. "You are very like your father, you know. You have your little rules and your little idea of honour. But you know, rules can be changed? And honour can be different than your idea. Why don't you join me?"

  "Join Badger Pete, you mean," said Miya. "And I wouldn't join him OR you for ANY price."

  Lars sighed. "Then I suppose I must become serious. Goodbye, Princess. I will certainly miss you."

  In an instant he was upon her, his sword clashing against hers as she brought it up to defend, Miya crying out at the sheer force of the blow. Suddenly there was a pain in her hand, and then her arm, she brought her sword up to block the next blow but then there was pain again, again in her arm, and then her sword was being wrenched away, Lars attempting to disarm her but she held tight, her grip strong, some measure of pride giving her the strength to push him away, keep hold of her sword.

  "So you have been squeezing rocks," said Lars. Miya stood, rain pelting down on her, panting, bleeding from the fresh cuts Lars had given her, sword in her hand and anger in her eyes.

  "Every damn day," she growled.

  "But I have had more days than you. Yield. Please, yield."

  Miya glared at Lars.

  "Never."

  "This is not a game, Princess—"

  "AND I'M NOT PLAYING!"

  Miya lunged forward, slashing at Lars's face, missing as he ducked back but she transferred the momentum of the failed attack into a spin, her sword whipping around to strike at his arm—his sword was there to force hers away but she spun once more, feinted towards his chest then planted her left foot firmly as she brought the other around to kick at Lars's knee, sending him stumbling for a moment, just a moment, but that was all the opening she needed to bring her sword around and slash, not a strong slash, she couldn't put anything like her full weight behind it, but she knew that it would open his throat if it landed.

  Miya cried out as Lars kicked her in the stomach then in the chest, sending her sprawling to the deck, hitting her head against the hard wood and sliding a distance along the wet surface, dazed.

  "You ARE playing, Princess," said Lars. He walked over to her as she struggled to stand, as she tried to find strength in arms that were suddenly weak and useless. "You had a killing chance then, but you did not take it."

  "I'll ... never ... kill ..." Miya managed to say, with the little breath she had. Lars put his boot on her shoulder, pushed her against the deck. He shook his head.

  "No. No, and perhaps that is best," said Lars. He pushed the tip of his sword against Miya's breast. "Unfortunately, I will."

  The blade sank deep into flesh, and a cry of sudden, anguished pain sounded out over the noise of the rain.

  Miya released the hilt of her knife, left it sticking from Lars's calf as she took hold of his boot and pushed with everything she had, sent him staggering back, howling in pain.

  "YOU DIRTY DAMNED STINKING PUNY LITTLE HELLRAT!" he yelled, as Miya shakily got to her feet.

  "Language," she said, her voice hoarse.

  Lars glared at her, anger and pain clear on his face, then he was coming at her again, grunting painfully as he lunged and slashed, his footwork slower but his sword arm just as quick. Miya couldn't bring her blade up in time to fully block the first blow and it sliced open her shoulder, making her cry out in pain as she countered, nicking Lars's thumb as he dodged back. He growled, then lunged forward, Miya gasping as he attacked with a series of violent, terrifyingly swift slashes—it was all she could do to fend them off, the strength he put into each strike coming near to disarming her with every parry she made.

  "Never," he growled as he pushed Miya back, "never will you be a true fighter. It's the edge you lack. The will to go beyond winning. When you were younger I thought that I saw it in you. Now I know I was wrong."

  Miya didn't respond, in truth couldn't, all her focus was on blocking each strike that came at her.

  "Lose," Lars snarled at her, as she blocked yet another attack. "Lose!"

  Miya grunted as she deflected a blow aimed at her legs, then took a chance and tried a counter, spinning to slash at an opening on Lars's left—or what she had thought was an opening. She realised her mistake as he grinned and drove his elbow against the side of her head, and Miya gasped as she lost her footing, slipped on the wet surface of the deck and crashed down. She rolled instantly but Lars was too quick, had his arm against her throat, pinning her down. She struggled against him as he choked her but he was too much bigger, too much stronger.

  "Now again," he said, his voice low and hard, "this time without any little surprise gifts. I didn't—"

  Suddenly, the pressure on Miya's throat was gone—Lars was gone. She looked around, eyes wide, to see her father standing beside her, lowering his foot from kicking Lars off her. For a moment his expression was one Miya had never seen him wear before; pure, undisguised loathing. Then he looked down at her and this expression was replaced by one she was very familiar with; fatherly concern.

  "You okay, Coconut?"

  Miya was coughing and gulping in air, but she managed to force out a few hoarse words:

  "Get him, Dad."

  Tomas drew his sword and moved in front of Miya. Lars was kneeling, had the knife sticking from his calf in his grasp. With a grunt he tugged it free, blood pouring from the wound as he stood.

  "Give it up, Lars," said Tomas, his voice hard. "That's a nasty wound. You'll lose too much blood if you don't see to it."

  "I'll triumph over you so quickly it'll make no difference," growled Lars. He threw the knife aside. "You know you never could beat me."

  "No," said Tomas. "I never could."

  Lars brought his blade up in a hard block as Tomas attacked, their swords clashing violently. Before Lars could act further, Tomas's foot lashed out, catching him in the thigh and sending him staggering back. Lars growled deep in his throat as he lunged forward, ignoring his wounded leg, striking at Tomas with a snake-quick slash that Miya felt sure would find its mark. It didn't. Tomas had moved, slid to the side to be exactly where Lars's sword wasn't. With a strong flick of his wrist, Tomas caught Lars's blade and pushed it down. Before Lars could act, Tomas slammed his boot down on his own sword, pushing both blades hard against the deck, keeping Lars held in place for as long as he refused to release his grip on the hilt. Lars struggled, but Tomas held the swords firmly in place, would not give an inch.

  "How many times did we fight alongside one another, Lars?" Tomas asked, his voice flat. Lars scowled in response, yanked ineffectively at his sword. "How many times over do I owe my life to you? How many times over do you owe yours to me?"

  "Release!" Lars growled. "Let us fight squarely! Or are you scared to face my blade?"

  "You were my friend," Tomas said. "You were my brother."

  He leant forward, the fac
es of the two old friends mere inches apart.

  "You're the man who just tried to kill my little girl."

  Tomas released Lars from the lock. The traitor's sword flashed, there was a clatter of metal-on-metal, and then Miya gasped as she watched her father push his blade through Lars's chest, watched Lars stagger and fall to his knees, then collapse to the deck.

  For a moment the only sound was that of the rain falling on the deck. Then Lars coughed, groaned in pain as Tomas pushed him over with his boot. He knelt to pull his sword free of Lars's chest, turning to look at Miya.

  "He'll live," said Tomas, his voice weary. "I pierced his lung, not his heart. He'll have trouble—UGH!"

  "DAD!"

  "You forget my name, Boots!"

  Miya struggled to get to her feet, trying to force her legs to work properly as she watched Lars pull the knife from her father's side to ready it for another stab, cried out in frustration as her hands and feet slipped against the deck, could only watch as Lars drove the knife forward again, this time towards Tomas's chest.

  "No."

  It was Sola who spoke, Sola who held Lars's wrist firm and strong, Sola who kept the sharp blade from driving into his father's heart. He looked down at Lars and sighed, then twisted the traitor's wrist, hard. Miya winced involuntarily as she heard the wet crack of a broken bone, Lars screaming in pain as the knife fell to the deck. Sola released Lars's wrist, knelt to pick up the knife, then calmly brought it down hilt-first against the side of Lars's neck, rendering him unconscious.

  Sola remained still a moment, then he stood and offered his hand to Tomas, helping him up.

  "Sola ..." Miya said, making it onto her feet, fighting back the urge to vomit as her vision blurred and her head spun. "Dad ..."

  Tomas grunted, holding a hand over the wound in his side, white shirt already stained red with blood. He looked down at Lars and for a moment seemed about to attack him once more, to drive his boot into the man's head, or side, or raise his sword to deliver a final blow, but then he shook his head and turned away. Lars lay still, blood seeping from his chest and leg, his hand twisted unnaturally.

  "Dad, that wound ..." Miya made it to her father's side, looked up at him, worried, then turned and ran for Grace's cabin, fatigue and pain and nausea all forgotten at the sight of her father's pale, white face. She burst out a few seconds later, medicine chest in her hands, then she and Sola helped Tomas sit, his back against the mast, and Miya began cutting away his shirt around the wounded area.

  "Sorry ... Coconut," he said, breathless with pain and fatigue and blood loss. "I should have ... guessed ... or known ... seen something ... some sign ... he was ... a damn traitor ..."

  "It's okay, it's okay," said Miya, fighting back tears as she examined the wound, saw how deep it went, how much blood her father had already lost. "No one knew, I didn't know, even when he ... when he said, I didn't want to ..."

  Miya fell silent, hardened her resolve, focused on the task at hand. She cleaned the wound quickly, then pushed a handful of gauze against it. Tomas hissed at the sudden pain, then nodded at his daughter to keep going, and she quickly wrapped a bandage tight around his midsection, stopping the flow of blood.

  "Okay," she said. "I think it's ... I think you'll be okay, Dad."

  "I will be," he said, although the whiteness of his face scared Miya beyond anything she'd known before. "Don't worry ... I've had ... worse. Take care ... of yourself."

  Miya followed her father's gaze, saw her left hand was bleeding from a cut—her right arm, also, had been cut in two places, and her shoulder, and her side—she didn't even remember receiving that one. She laughed a little, choking on it as tears found their release, and she sniffed and cried and cursed her own weakness as she bound her hand.

  "Miya."

  "What?" Miya's voice was tired, tearful. She sniffed and looked up at Sola.

  "I'll bandage your arm. It would be difficult for you to do so."

  Miya sniffed again, then nodded, wiped her eyes with her free hand as Sola gently took her arm and began wrapping bandages around it.

  "We should have done this inside," he said. "Wet bandages are not such a good idea."

  "We can change them later," said Miya. She watched him treat her wound for a moment, then glanced up at his face. "Thank you for getting Dad. That's what you did, right?"

  Sola nodded. "I have never swum so fast or so hard. I had barely the breath to call to him."

  "Ka-ka," Miya murmured, grimacing as she felt tears coming to her eyes once again.

  "How is your mouth?" Sola asked.

  "It's fine unless I talk or breathe or someone mentions it."

  "Ah." He hesitated a moment, then smiled. "It looks awful."

  Miya smiled back. "I'll live," she said, then winced. She looked at her father, who had closed his eyes. She pushed at his shoulder.

  "Hey. Don't sleep."

  "It's okay," he said, opening his eyes again. His voice was a little stronger than before. "I've been ... near death before. This isn't ... what it looks like. Sola ... thank you, I'm sorry—"

  "Later," said Sola. He finished tying the last bandage around Miya's arm, then smiled at his father. "There will be a later."

  Tomas smiled weakly back, then nodded.

  "Yes," he said, as Miya took his hand in her own, sitting beside him. "There will be a later."

  *

  The rain lightened as the sun began to rise, visibility better than it had been, but still nowhere near good enough for ship-to-ship combat. Sola had tied Lars securely and treated his wounds, then put him in the brig with the other prisoners, under the careful watch of the northern islanders below.

  "I'm embarrassed to say," Tomas said, as he walked slowly and painfully along the deck, "that I'm in no condition to fight."

  "No one's asking you to fight," said Miya. "In fact, less than one minute ago I'm pretty sure I told you not to even move."

  "I've just going over here," said Tomas, letting out a pained grunt as he sat on the stairs leading up to the stern deck. "I think you did these bandages up too tight."

  "If they weren't as tight as they are, you'd have spilt half of what little blood you have left just moving from the mast to those stairs," said Miya. "So don't complain."

  "Perhaps so," said Tomas. He smiled. "And with a little luck there will be no need for more fighting. We've captured every one of Pete's frigates. We hold a position of power now. In any case, only a great fool would attempt to engage in ship-to-ship combat with this visibility, you'd be as likely to hit your own side as your enemy. Now we can try to—"

  "What are ye lot doin', sitting around like useless great lumps o' Highland Pudding when there's fightin' to be done?"

  Miya looked up at Heartless Jon. He was standing up on the stern deck, beside the wheel, hands on his hips as he glared down at them.

  "How did you get on board without any of us hearing you?" she demanded.

  "Legendary pirate, remember? Got a wee bit o' bad news. Yer town there's been captured."

  "What?" Miya stood, shocked.

  "Gets worse, sorry to say." Heartless Jon sat heavily beside his son, put a hand on his shoulder. "Yer wife's been taken."

  Tomas looked sharply at his father. "No," he said, flatly.

  "Ye can sit there denying things till the ocean dries up and the sky turns green, won't change the fact o' the matter. Pete's taken her, son. Left a message. She's safe enough now, but he wants another parley—aboard his ship this time, just the Black family and ALL the Black family, afore the sun sets. As for yer 'subjects' or whatever ye call 'em, he's got a bunch tied up in yer town square o'er yonder. Sola lad, bad news for ye too. Ain't no sign of a single Tonfa-Tonfa'an on any of the frigs we captured. Reckon Pete's got 'em on that ugly great white whale of a ship out there."

  Sola nodded.

  "I had expected this," he said. "Thank you for telling me."

  "Ah, listen to the boy, show yer rage, lad! When I were your age I was raging agains
t any little damn thing, I just told ye Pete's got yer entire village tied up at that ship, and ye THANK me?"

  Sola looked down at the deck, then up at his grandfather.

  "When I stand before Badger Pete, then perhaps I will show my rage," he said, his voice calm.

  Heartless Jon looked at his grandson for a moment.

  "Aye," he said. "Aye, maybe so. Now what's yer problem, son?"

  Tomas had closed his eyes and laid his head back against the steps. He shook his head, and Heartless Jon cuffed him on the back of it.

  "Come on, look lively! Ye've a wife to rescue! If I had to count the times yer mother got herself in trouble and needed me to get her out of it ..." Heartless Jon squinted for a moment. "Well, it were mostly her rescuing me, now that I recalls, but I'm sure there were a time or two where she needed me help like yer wife does yours now. And you, granddaughter! Yer ma's in trouble, what are ye gonna do about it?"

  "Fight!" said Miya, drawing her sword.

  "Damn straight!" said Heartless Jon, drawing his own.

  "No," said Tomas. His daughter and his father looked at him. "We can't fight."

  "Well, ye may not be able to, what happened to ye?" Jon asked, casting a beady eye over the bandages wrapped around Tomas's midsection. "Ah, ye didn't go and let yerself get cut now, did ye?"

  "Had a little bit of trouble," said Tomas. "I'll live."

  "Of course ye will, wee nick like that, surprised ye bothered wrapping it," said Heartless Jon, although he knelt and inspected the bandaging. "Been done up good and proper, though, won't be seeing yer insides slopping out over the deck any time soon, will we?"

  "Father is right," said Sola, looking up from where he'd been staring at the deck. "We cannot do anything that might put our families and people in danger."