“It’s just the two of us now,” she said softly. “State your confession. I shall honor my original promise. But do not waste my time beyond that—my crew needs their captain.”
Flynn hesitated, playing as though reluctant. Longhart wished him to hurry, but his intention was just the opposite: he was here to stall, drag out her time. Things had to get much worse outside, and the only thing he couldn’t count on was the weather; everything else was planned. At last, he found the nerve to speak.
“To start, the girl in the hold … the ‘brat’ as you’ve been calling her, is the daughter of a Cavonish citizen. That much is true. Her heritage, her role in the invasion on Tryna, have all been overstated. Her father is in fact a merchant of middling repute, her mother a Trynan citizen whom he impregnated while visiting back when the two nations were still allies. She had come visiting family in Crevinton when the Cavos turned against us. Among her companions…”
And the story went on. Flynn took care to pepper enough of his original account in with the new, changing the tale such that nothing would be quickly or easily explained. The other prisoners in the hold were still dangerous enough that they needed to be handled with care. There was no contact coming to meet them at the Red Coast, but the promise of a hefty payday once the girl was escorted back to her family. Whether or not the stoic Longhart believed the story, Flynn didn’t care. He only focused on keeping his footing as the boat rocked harder, raising his voice as the rain grew louder, and making sure Longhart was rapt with attention, distracted from her crew.
*
Their nameless ship was tossed violently on the waves, and for Shea, the truest struggle was not holding on for dear life as the sopping ropes burned the skin of her hands, but remembering the real reason she was here, and not losing focus to the storm. Every call to action, every crash of thunder and flash of lightning, every fixture that strained under pressure was a distraction. He’s in with her, she reminded herself. No time to waste.
The crew was still waiting for Longhart to make a call, and Flynn’s act of sabotage left them indecisive and struggling with the sails as the weather grew steadily worse. Take too long, and she might come out, or Lieutenant Cloven might command in her stead. It was time to act.
“Oi, Private! Grab this line, and—”
Shea ignored her shipmate and hurried down the mast, nearly slipping on one of the rungs before catching herself with her claws. The man above was shouting something; whether it was desperate or furious, she couldn’t care. Shea not so much ran as stumbled below deck, where at least there were walls to guide her along. The crewmen below were too busy securing the cannons to notice her. The ship steadied as she neared the hold, where two guards remained posted at the hatch holding the supposed spies, lest the dangerous individuals escape during the crisis.
Her trembling hand drew a flintlock pistol. There was no time to aim, but her shot would have been true—had the boat not violently jerked just then, crashing everyone against the wall. The noise alerted them to her treachery, and the shot was buried halfway through the hull. She was scrambling to draw her second pistol as one of the guards prepared to retaliate.
This time, the blast punched through her target’s stomach, and he fell to his knees. The other guard attempted to return fire, but Shea toppled over as the ship lurched, then drew her cutlass as she rose back up. The duel that followed was graceless, as both combatants were fighting the rolling ocean more than one another. And then Shea made a desperate thrust, one that would have missed had the heaving ship not thrown her opponent on her blade.
As he slid down, Shea braced against the wall to keep steady. Her knees shook—she had seen Trynan soldiers bleed and die, but never like this. Not like the man convulsing below her, clutching his insides in stunned disbelief at this betrayal. Her freedom had come at a terrible price.
After tossing aside the bar that locked the grate over the hold, Shea gathered her dropped pistols and prepared to reload them before the ship lurched again. She decided that this environment was not the best for pouring gunpowder and packing lead shot.
“About damn time! How we doin’ this?”
Jean was the first to emerge, and Shea kept a brave face, even as she felt like her insides were tearing apart. “Leave any securing the ship—likely important work. Make yourselves known.” Poe was climbing out next and she glanced askew at him to add, “Don’t kill the helmsman. Not ‘less you fancy the wheel.”
“Alright,” Jean cackled, before dashing around a corner. “HEY! FUCK-HEAD!”
Shea swallowed painfully from the sounds that followed, and didn’t spare Poe a glance as he took off in the opposite direction. Her facade was cracking as Chari emerged, rifle in hand, and looked her in the eyes.
“We are really to do this?” she asked. “Our foes are wholly unprepared to defend themselves. We were their captives, but are we attackers or defenders? As the dangers we face worsen, I fear no longer knowing the difference.”
“Called to war,” Shea deferred weakly. “Never quite knew, myself.”
Shea regretted not having some greater wisdom to offer, to better console Chari as she advanced with uncertainty. Following in her wake was Zaja, whom Shea caught on the shoulder. She was the youngest of them, and Shea felt the urge to spare her all this. “Cold out there. Windy,” she cautioned. “Sure you fancy going?”
“I have to.” Zaja shrugged off Shea’s hand with determination. “I’m here to fight the good fight, even with a few bad ones along the way.”
As Zaja ran off, Shea wanted to crumble. She’d have settled for a smoke, but had gone through those she’d taken from Private Rhenret. She prepared to follow, but remembered there was still one unaccounted for. As she stepped down into the dank hold, a flash of lightning lit up the room, but Shea could have found Zella even in the dark.
“Coming?”
“Not my battle,” Zella replied coldly. “I’ll wait until it’s over. I wish you good luck in your murders.”
Shea flushed at the comment. She prickled at being judged by someone cowering in a hole, with no idea what nerve it took to do the things she’d done.
“Just gonna sit there?” Shea demanded. “Keep your hands clean while we bloody ours for you? Stay—and they win? Tossed overboard ’fore we see the shore, Red Coast be damned.”
Zella seemed prepared to object, but had no argument that would hold under the circumstances. Even when faced with the possibility of death, she refused to rise and take a stand. It infuriated Shea, who realized now that for all her cowardice, she’d at least fought to stay alive. It angered her, to think she might die now for someone who couldn’t even do that.
“Bloody useless,” she growled, and stormed off without another word. Her Trynan shipmates were sprawled through the corridors, brutalized and likely dead. Their blood fouled the pooling rainwater, while the winds screamed from the fury of the storm. As she emerged into the needling rain, one of Longhart’s soldiers ran by, and Shea stabbed her in the back.
*
While his comrades scattered for strategic positions, Poe took to the center of the deck to draw his enemies out. The rain pelted Poe and bounced off his paired swords as he began to kill with brutal methodology: a diagonal strike through a soldier to his left, his right arm raising instinctively to catch the blade striking at his right. Pivot, thrust, his attacker dead upon the Searing Truth. In a smooth stroke, the Dark Sword slid free and impaled another who thought she’d catch Poe unawares, allowing him precious seconds to pull his left-hand blade free and hatchet the soldier through the collarbone.
In the thrall of this bloody dance, all thought of Poe’s ambitions fled; godhood and redemption were like faded dreams, forgotten in the hedonistic thrill of old habits. The dead and dying littered the deck until there was scarcely room to step, and within minutes he found he’d already run out of prey.
“Come now!” he challenged. “Are there no others who are so bold?”
A foe presented herself to
Poe, charging him from behind and catching him in the back. He lost his hold on the Searing Truth and it bounced on the deck before sticking in a body. Poe’s assailant screamed a battle cry as she fought to keep her hold on him, and as the ship shifted, they slammed against the rail. Poe twisted free, raising his sword with intent to slice her head clean off.
She saw through him, stepped back, and drew her pistol. She was too close to miss, and Poe’s back was to the rail, the Dark Sword in the air when she fired.
A searing pain ran through Poe’s right hand. Nothing was bloody or broken, but his weapon had been forcefully ripped away. The pellet that struck Poe’s blade had ripped it from his hand, but the pain and his opponent alike vanished from memory as Poe saw the Dark Sword strike the water in an uneventful splash and sink quietly into the murky ocean.
A sense of agonized longing tore in his heart, and so Poe planted a boot on the rail and dove in with neither thought nor plan. He pierced the water quickly, only remembering at the last moment to take a breath. He could barely swim, having seldom had opportunity or reason even before inheriting his father’s duties. All he could do was struggle down, barely able to see, lured by a feeling that grew stronger as the world above grew dark.
Poe reached out desperately, needing to find his favored weapon before it sank beyond reach. When at last he found the Dark Sword, he hugged it tightly against his torso, clinging as desperately as he had when he was a child. As his senses came back to him, he knew how pathetic it was, and faint memories of a childhood ballad surfaced in his mind.
T’was not the boy held the sword
but the sword that held him
He tried to breathe. The descent felt like it had taken hours and he gasped to let out old air and bring in new. He choked on the salt water, felt his lungs flood, felt his torso crush under the pressure. Bubbles of air escaped back to the surface and he was desperate to follow them. Even if he had the strength to swim back up, he didn’t know how. Any attempt to paddle was thwarted by the sword he clutched dearly. He would die with it. He would die without it.
Poe had done something terrible in claiming the Dark Sword, and many more terrible things had followed. Whatever hold the malicious blade had on him, it was only meant to be kept near, not required to be used. To draw it, to kill with it—these things had always been an expression of his own free will. As shadow enveloped Poe’s vision, he saw a child’s face, skin as a pale as his, hair as black as the night. He was drowning; he couldn’t even say her name.
Everything was turning black.
*
The ship rocked so violently that Flynn’s story lost its hold on Longhart. She had become suddenly aware of just how much time had passed, and how bad the weather had become. Urgently, she rounded her desk with a simple command: “Out of my way.”
Flynn barred her passage.
“This is how it is, then?” she asked. “My crew needs me. Hold fast, and the offer I’ve made will be void.”
“You’re just trying to protect your people,” Flynn sympathized. “I’m protecting mine.”
Captain Longhart stepped back, drawing her cutlass in the confines of the quarters. Flynn extended his claws in retaliation, already calculating his strike; Longhart had him bested in range, and he would need to find a way to slip under her guard. He had studied her movements, and believed himself faster than her; it was time to put theory to test.
“You’re so desperate that you would use such vile tactics?” she asked in disbelief. In a surprising act, Longhart tossed him her cutlass, which skittered across the floor to his feet. She turned her back to him and pulled free one of the blades displayed on the wall. They faced each other once more, her cutlass resting in Flynn’s hands, his claws withdrawn. “We shall fight and die as civilized people; not beasts.”
With that, Longhart took a decisive stance, and allowed Flynn time to do the same. It was with uncertainty that he followed her lead, for he had never truly fought with a sword and had little grasp of the technique. Her first strike would have killed him, had he not been allowed the time to know her and understand how she moved. Her every thrust was barely parried, each strike poorly deflected.
“You could have attacked before I was ready, taken to your crew,” Flynn said between breaths. “Why didn’t you?”
“I am a Trynan officer. I shall not sully my reputation with unsportsmanlike conduct,” she replied, her voice as calm as her breathing. “To add: this will not be a lengthy duel.”
The ship shifted, and though both combatants were left unsteady, it was Longhart who recovered first, more used to combat at sea. Even so, she did not strike when his back was turned, intent on allowing him an honorable death. Part of him scorned himself for allowing the fight to run this long, for not burying his claws in her back after she tossed him her sword. It was a tactic he would have employed without hesitation once, local taboos be damned.
Flynn was tiring out. Every effort to defend did nothing but keep him alive, every attack exposed him to her in return. She’d slashed his leg, stabbed his arm, and grazed his cheek—and had barely broken a sweat while doing so.
“Have you any kin I should report your death to, Master Carolina?” she asked. Already, she was so confident. Once she won, she would return to the fields of war where her death or survival could be determined as easily by a stray shot. If Flynn died, the mission would suffer a deep setback at best, with worlds at stake.
“Nearly everyone … I’ve ever cared for … is right here, on this boat,” he heaved. Flynn lunged at Longhart, trying to drive the blade through her, his left hand on the flat edge to put the pressure on her. A simple adjustment in her stance was all she needed to fend him off, and already she was beginning to force him back.
It was then he spied the opening.
Flynn’s left hand dropped free and Longhart’s parry found new strength. He knew the moment he stumbled back, the riposte to follow would kill him. He had used up her mercy.
Longhart did not expect him to plunge the claws of his free hand into her gut. He stumbled back, but caught her insides and held his balance. As Flynn found his footing, his sword smoothly guided Longhart’s away. Her blade arm fell slack, drained of strength. Her insides were being shredded, and only the shock kept her from crying out, even as her eyes welled with tears.
She drifted to her knees and Flynn’s hand slipped out of her, soaking red. Her lips barely parted, and her voice cracked as she spoke.
“How could you?”
The ship rocked from the storm, Longhart shifting like a limp doll.
“I am sorry,” he admitted. She gave no response, and he knew she was dead. Flynn wiped his hand sloppily on her coat before hoisting her body over his shoulders. There was still work to be done.
*
Zella remained huddled in her dank cell. “It will be over soon,” she reminded herself again. Her sole comfort was that the fighting above barely registered; the crashing waves on the hull of the ship drowned the commotion, and only the crack of intermittent thunder broke through. The gunfire, by comparison, was faint, save for the occasional shot that became lodged in the deck above her.
She meant to stay below, wait it out. But Zella was curious. Would ruthlessness or camaraderie win the day? The seawater that cascaded into her cell beckoned her out, and Zella kept a hand to the wall for balance as the ship tossed and turned. Emerging outside was like witnessing the last gasps of a mad world.
“Yo, Zell!” Jean was on the far side of the ship, gesturing her to come over. She’d shed her jacket and was tying a rope around her waist.
As Zella walked, every step careful for all the scattered bodies, she saw Chari engaged in a firefight with a lone soldier in the mast, prolonged by the winds. The sails were half furled and riddled with holes. Zaja was at the bow, locked in a stalemate with a soldier who wouldn’t venture near the lashing of her whip.
“Tie this to somethin’ for me, thanks.” Jean shoved something into Zella’s hands, then promp
tly turned and dove into the rolling seas. Zella, in a haze from so much sensory input, realized only faintly that she’d been handed a coil of rapidly unspooling rope, and bound it to the nearby mast.
Shea was fighting two soldiers on the stair to the helm, when one stepped into her blade to save his comrade’s life. The soldier didn’t waste the moment and tried to catch Shea before she could recover, while several others hurried to ambush her.
That was when Flynn emerged, Captain Longhart draped over his shoulders. He said nothing and looked at no one, but simply hobbled to the rail to dump her body. As he staggered against the rail and turned to face them, those of the Callah’s crew who remained lost any will to fight. Shea climbed to take the wheel, but Lieutenant Cloven was stubborn and would not surrender it, even though he seemed unwilling to actually fight her for it.
Shea lifted a pistol that had skidded on the deck and pointed it at Cloven, who still stood his ground. She averted her gaze, closed her eyes, and shot him, point blank. The wheel spun quickly before she caught it, wrenching it back upright.
Zella walked past the remaining soldiers, a half-dozen by her count, over to Flynn. He was bleeding profusely in several places.
“You’ve come out at last.” He sounded woozy.
“This was meant for me, wasn’t it?” she demanded. “Some grand plan to show naïve Zella how bad things can get?”
“This wasn’t about you.” He shook his head. “This was about surviving. If we can’t even take steps such as these, do you think we’ll really have a chance against your father?”
“‘Steps such as these,’ as you put it, are what he seeks to end! You are clever and devious like no man I’ve ever known, Flynn. Yet this was the best outcome you could produce?”
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II Page 24