The crews traded shouts across the narrowing water, and a hook flew, caught, and bit into wood. Logan met the first boarder at the rail. The man’s eyes were wide and eager, his blade raised too high.
Logan drew his dagger and stepped inside the swing. Before the man could angle himself, Logan struck. His blade slid along bone, then out. The man gasped once and fell into the water.
The second was better. He got a cut in along Logan’s side that tugged at old scar tissue. It was not deep, but the pain sharpened his focus more than it slowed him.
Logan knocked the man’s wrist hard, knife flying away, then buried his own blade beneath the man’s ribs.
As the noise continued to grow around him, so did the clash of steel against steel. He pressed forward into the mess, keeping his weight balanced, eyes always looking for the next hand on his rail. The men behind him followed without question.They always had.
“Port side, watch yer flank,” he called. “Daenae let them split ye.”
“Aye!” someone shouted back.
He caught a glimpse of one of his men dragging a wounded pirate to the edge and tipping him cleanly into the sea. Another used the butt of his weapon to crack a skull rather than cut a throat.
Subtle pride settled in his gut. It was good to know that the lessons he had taught these men about being practical had managed to stay with them.
The fight ended faster than it had begun, and the rest of the hostile crew broke. Those who could still run tried to scramble back over their own rail.
Logan let a few go. He had learned early on that out at sea, fear carried better stories than corpses. The rest thrashed in the water or floated facedown, claimed by the grey.
“Good,” he said. “Ye can pull the hooks now, so we steer in the other direction.”
They freed the ships from each other and watched as the enemy vessel drifted, wounded, already falling behind. A gust of wind took the smell of blood and spread it thin.
Logan looked around the deck and stared at the red stain on the planks. It was dark, slick, and smelled coppery.
A man came up from below like some creature the sea had spat back, a clean blade in hand, breathing hard, grin already in place.
“Ye are late to the party, Pete,” Logan drawled.
“I had to make sure the ale didnae spill,” Pete answered. He clapped a hand on Logan’s shoulder, hard enough to sting.“It is nice to have ye back.”
Logan rolled his shoulder once. “For what? Bleeding on the boards?”
“For a while there, I thought ye had really abandoned us,” Pete said. His grin softened into something rougher. “Married to a castle and all.”
Logan surprised himself by smiling. It came short and real. “Never.”
Pete snorted. “Liar. But the sea missed ye anyway. The lads, too. They fight cleaner when they ken the devil is at the front.”
“Then thedevilsays we need to clean this mess,” Logan said.
“Aye, Captain.” Pete’s teeth flashed once more, then he turned and began barking his own orders, as sure of his place as Logan was of his.
When Logan was still on the ship as a captain, Pete Barlow had been his second in command. However, since Logan left, he had assumed the lead. He was a great fighter, but he tended to drink himself almost to death some nights.
Logan had tried to ease his hand off the ale, but Pete would not budge. It bothered Logan, but not enough to call for concern. Drunk or sober, Pete could hold his own against any man.
At the end of the day, in this walk of life, that was all that mattered.
Logan stood by the rail and watched until the chaos settled into rhythm again. He leaned forward, hands on the rail, and looked down at the water. Out here, he usually felt a kind of peace he did not find anywhere else. The horizon put everything in order, and all the problems in the world shrank to wind, current, hunger, and steel.
He waited for that calm to take him.
Instead, his mind drifted.
He saw Emma’s face the night she had followed him into the trees. The set of her jaw when she said she would not be left again. The way her voice had caught and then steadied as she spoke about him being present for her.
