“I don’t know. I think we’re under attack.” Please, no. If the captain ordered an attack, he’d have given a warning. This? Someone coming afterthem.Though Petran wasn’t allowed on raids, all hands hit the deck when under attack.
Arkenn struggled out of the bunk.
“No!” Petran pushed Arkenn back down with a firm hand to the chest. “Stay here. This is the safest place for you. I must go on deck.” Even though Petran couldn’t see well in the dark, he focused on where he thought Arkenn’s eyes might be. “I’ll be back. All will be well. You’ll see.” Fumbling under the bed produced the sword and pistol kept there for emergencies. Petran strapped his father’s cast-off sword belt securely around his middle.
“But…?”
“But nothing. Stay here.” About to head out the door, Petran spun, planting a kiss on what might have been Arkenn’s forehead. “If anyone tries to break down the door, crawl under the bunk. There’s a door in the back, my own hidey-hole. Get in there. Stay put. Don’t come out until I get you, or the battle ends.”
Another flash from outside illuminated the cabin for one brief moment. The fear on Arkenn’s face ripped at Petran’s heart.
He rushed from the small cabin, barely pausing long enough to secure the door, and climbed the ladder topside.
Boom!
He grabbed the gunwale to keep from pitching over the ship’s side. In the brief flash from the cannon, he spied a hulking shape closing in. A sail with triple stars, for the Father, the Lady, and the law.
Oh, Father, preserve them.
A ship so much larger than theSeabird. Likely bounty hunters with one hundred or more troops ready to hack the crew to bits. They’d save only enough pirates to present a spectacle in port to keep the citizens entertained while sending a message to other pirates.
TheSeabirdhadn’t been boarded—yet. Their one chance was to run. No ship carrying so much mass could beat theSeabirdfor speed.
Without being told, Petran took his place. As one of the least of the crew, he acted as a runner, collecting premeasured bags of gunpowder from the ship’s hold and racing to his assigned cannon.
The pirates practiced for such an event, moving in an intricate dance. A burly man, beard shot through with silver, accepted a bag of powder and a wad of cloth from Petran, shoving both into the cannon with a rammer. Another crewmate added the cannonball while yet another poked a slender rod through the touch hole, opening the powder bag, all under the watchful eye of the master gunner.
They positioned the cannon, strapping down the ropes, then touched off the powder. Petran cringed at the report. The cannon shot backward, testing its restraints.
A pirate swabbed out the cannon before they started the process again. Pack, load, position, fire, swab. Pack, load, position, fire, swab.
The blasts from other cannons—theSeabird’s and the approaching vessel’s—lit up the night sky. The acrid scent of gunpowder and smoke stung Petran’s nose.
Again and again, the pirates working with Petran filled the cannon. Again and again, they fired, their cannon’s blast echoed by five other cannons, firing in quick succession.
Petran’s muscles ached. Screams of dying men rent his ears. A pirate fell, open eyes staring at nothing. Blood trickled from her mouth, soaked her shirt. The stench of burned flesh and blood added to the gunpowder and smoke.
Petran fought to keep his dinner down. Da was right—Petran wasn’t meant to be a pirate.
“Take her sword!” Rymon shouted from a few feet away. “Take her sword! It’s better than yours!”
A hard swallow didn’t clear the bile from Petran’s throat. Robbing the dead. But the quartermaster spoke true. The dead pirate didn’t need a fine blade.
The living did.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, unwrapping the dead woman’s fingers from the sword’s hilt and replacing her blade with his. A pirate should go to their grave with sword in hand.
The captain shouted orders through the din. The report of cannon and gun grew deafening. Still, the hunters’ ship came ever closer. Too close. Enemy sailors crowded the other ship’s deck, ready to board theSeabird.
While most had learned to swing a sword from a young age, a fast-dwindling pirate crew would be no match for highly skilled bounty hunters.
Then what would happen to Petran? His da?
Arkenn.
The ship shuddered. Petran grabbed the gunwale, barely keeping his feet. Rymon staggered past, sword in hand. “Look alive, there, lad,” she shouted, sweeping an assessing gaze over the deck, where the dead and dying lay.
Too many. Way too many.
