by E. C. Jarvis
“And they’re gone, too?”
“No. They’re dead.”
“Fuck. Wha-who’s flying the ship?”
Grubbs shrugged and Brennan shoved him into the wall as he pushed past, hurrying down the corridor. More men followed without needing command.
“Lock that fucking door. I don’t want those bastards going anywhere,” Brennan called back, and as the last man exited the room he slammed the door shut and locked it. Grubbs was ordered to watch the door, leaving the corridor empty save for Holt and Grubbs.
Holt watched Grubbs for a while, his hand twitching beside one of his throwing knives. It would have been an easy shot, perhaps too easy, but some part of his subconscious warned against killing him. If Holt successfully rescued both Cid and Larissa, the three of them were not enough to fly a ship this size all the way to their destination and land safely. Even if they were all in peak physical condition, they would need help. Perhaps this man could be persuaded.
Grubbs resumed the exploration of his earhole with a finger and slumped against the wall. Holt smirked as the man unwittingly turned his back to him. When Grubbs pulled his finger out and looked down to inspect whatever he’d found, a blade slipped silently along his throat. Holt pushed his chest against Grubbs’ shoulders. The man instantly trembled as the blade dug into flesh, drawing a thin trail of blood.
“Shhh,” Holt hissed in Grubbs’ ear. “Who is still inside the room?”
“The, uh, girl and the engineer man, and the tall matey.”
“The tall matey?” Holt stepped backwards along the hall, forcing Grubbs to back-step with him.
“Hans, he’s called. Works for that Doctor. He’s a damn big bugger, though. You probably wouldn’t be able to get your knife around his throat as easy as you have with mine. Take it easy, yeah, mate?”
“When I’m done, you’ll have a choice. Work with us, or die.”
Holt turned the far corner and ducked into an empty room, releasing Grubbs from the knife, spinning him in one motion; his fist met the man’s jaw. Grubbs collapsed in an unconscious heap, and Holt headed back to the locked room.
He bent down on one knee and pulled a set of lock picks from a back pocket, making swift work of the padlock. He pressed his ear to the door; inside, quiet male voices exchanged muffled words. The voices did at least give away the speakers positions and Holt tried to rebuild the brief glimpse of the room in his mind. A pile of upturned boxes bundled along one wall, presumably displaced by the earlier impact; Larissa, hung up in the middle like a piece of meat at a slaughterhouse.
He blinked away the narrative and pictured the two men on either side of her. The voice on the right sounded closer to the ground. Sitting? Kneeling? The other rested at normal height. He trusted his instinct and took a step back, lightly gripping a throwing knife in each hand and relaxing his stance. He lunged for the door, barging through with his left shoulder and instantly spinning to release the blade in his right hand. It flew through the air, turning end over end and finding its target, though not in the throat as Holt had hoped. The man was far taller than he’d anticipated. Instead, the blade sunk into the tall man’s chest, failing to penetrate deeply as it hit breastbone.
Hans stumbled backwards and grunted. Holt released the second blade with his left hand, though his aim was not as true from that side and he’d already lost the element of surprise. Hans turned, lifting his arm, and the blade sank into his bicep instead of hitting his face.
Holt charged forward, pulling another knife free as he reached the taller man. Hans was already prepared. The giant allowed Holt another strike, turning his torso as the knife swung across, slicing him instead of penetrating. The knife clattered to the ground and Hans took full advantage, swinging his fist straight into Holt’s cheek. Holt’s face rippled with the sheer force and he flew backwards into the wall.
Holt sunk to his knees, making himself a small target as Hans brought an onslaught of punches and kicks. Holt was surprised when the beating ended abruptly. He chanced a glance up and watched the heavy man lurching over, his face contorted with agony. He emitted a high-pitched, quiet sort of squeal. Holt stood up and spotted the cause.
Cid bent over behind Hans, his hand gripping the blade that Holt had dropped earlier; the sharp end of the blade had been fully inserted into Hans’ groin. Cid pulled the blade out in one swift movement and Hans toppled over, clutching himself and squealing. Holt bent over and pulled his knives out of Hans’ chest and arm. Then he stalked around the room and swung a blade across the rope that bound Larissa to the hook in the ceiling. Her body collapsed and he caught hold of her, scooping her into his arms and striding towards the doorway.
“Lock the door behind us,” Holt half-whispered to Cid over his shoulder as he carried Larissa back to the room where he’d left Grubbs.
Holt carefully laid Larissa’s limp body on the floor and she curled up, shying away from him. A barrage of thoughts flashed through his mind, but they would all have to wait. He still had work to do. He removed his coat and placed it over her. Cid entered the room and sunk down to his knees beside Larissa.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Cid whispered, pointing at Grubbs.
“A recruit. We need workers. If he stirs, hit him. Keep him out cold until I return. I will bring others.”
“Wait, what are you going to do? There’s too many to tackle by yourself.”
“Are you volunteering?”
Cid frowned. Holt waited. Eventually, Cid shook his head and turned his attention to Larissa. Holt gave her one last glance and was perplexed to find her looking up at him with bright blue-grey eyes. After what she’d just been subjected to, he had not expected her to look so clearheaded and alert.
“I will return,” Holt stated, answering an unspoken question, and he headed through the door.
Back in the corridor two men marched towards him, weapons at the ready. One carried a pistol and the other wielded a short sword. They paused to check the lock on the door.
“Where’s Grubbs gone?”
“Probably dead, fucking dumbass idiot.”
Holt flattened himself to the wall around the corner, a knife at the ready in each hand and one gripped between his teeth. As the footsteps came close he stepped out, flinging the first knife at the man with the pistol; it struck him directly in the neck. The second man shouted an expletive and lunged forward.
Holt blocked the sword with his second blade, though the sword bit into the skin on the back of his hand, cutting deep into flesh. Blood spilled from the wound, but Holt did not stop as his opponent tried to swing a punch with his free hand. In one swift twist, Holt turned and buried the knife between the man’s ribs. The man let out a yell of pain. Holt silenced him, taking the last knife out from his mouth and shoving it into the soft flesh beneath his opponent's chin.
After letting him fall, Holt retrieved his knives from the men as they breathed their last, cleaning the blades on their clothing. He collected the pistol and the short sword as well. He ripped a chunk of material free from one man’s shirt and bandaged the wound on his hand as he headed back to the stairwell, determined to finish the task.
Three men were visible on deck—Brennan at the wheel and two others flanking either side of him, alert and clearly on watch for trouble. They had armed themselves with rifles. Holt climbed the last few steps and appeared on deck, no longer attempting to hide himself.
“There he is,” a man shouted, aiming his weapon at Holt. Brennan’s grip on the wheel tightened.
“You have two choices,” Holt spoke clearly and loudly to ensure the other men, who had emerged from their stations, could hear.
“You can try to kill me, and wind up dead, or you can stay alive and remain on board as crew.”
“Well, there’s seven of us, you fucker, and one of you. Your odds don’t look too good to me.”
“There were two ships and twenty of you to begin with and only one of me. My odds have been improving markedly for a few hours, though my patie
nce is running out.”
“Finish him off,” Brennan barked.
Immediately, the two men beside the wheel fired their rifles and the air filled with the smell of gunpowder. The shots missed their target, as Holt had rolled backwards down the stairwell. As he reached the bottom step he righted himself on one knee and fired his pistol at the first person who appeared. The body bucked and tumbled down, stopping just beside him. Two more appeared and fired weapons. Holt had already ducked around the corner, and once their shots were spent he popped back out and released two knives. Another pair of bodies tumbled down the stairs.
“Take the wheel,” Holt heard Brennan barking at another, and Holt stepped backwards along the corridor, waiting for Brennan to show up.
“You gonna fight me like a man, you bastard?” Brennan called as he reached the bottom.
“As you wish, Captain.” Holt straightened his back and readied the short sword. Brennan turned the corner with his own sword drawn, his teeth bared and face red with anger. Brennan leapt forward and Holt parried, the clang of metal echoing along the corridor as their swords clashed. Again and again Brennan attacked, his pace relentless and his skill much more advanced than Holt had originally anticipated.
They bucked and jabbed at one another, thrusting and blocking, swords splintering wooden panels as they wildly caught along the walls. The sweat poured down Holt’s face and the injuries he’d sustained previously shouted out in protest. He took another step backwards and stumbled, twisting to the side; Brennan took advantage and threw a punch that caught Holt in the ear.
The pain shot through his head and his legs gave way, bringing him down. As Brennan swung down toward him, smiling into the final blow, Holt accepted the grim reality of his failure.
Brennan’s blade came down and bounced against the wooden board beside Holt’s head. The movement above ceased and Holt looked up just as Brennan toppled over backwards, the handle of a knife protruding from his eye socket. Holt craned his neck behind to see Larissa, standing at the other end of the corridor. His black coat hung loosely from her shoulders and her arm lowered down to her side. He stared at her in silence for longer than was necessary.
Her face was blank as she glanced down at him.
“I relaxed my elbow,” she said.
“I can tell. Though I’m grateful your target was not moving.”
Holt rolled over and stood up, bending down to retrieve the blade from Brennan’s face only to find it so tightly wedged it would not budge. Cid emerged from the room to stand beside Larissa, closely followed by a confused-looking Grubbs.
“Are they all dead?” Larissa asked.
“There are two more on deck. They will be the weakest and they may be persuaded to remain working on board for us in exchange for their lives.”
“Good. I will talk with them.” Larissa strode forward, her naked legs and bare feet stepping over Brennan’s body. After a pause Holt joined, walking at her side, and the others followed closely behind.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Holt asked, failing to hide the incredulity in his voice. She was proving far more capable than he’d credited.
“Quite sure, Holt. Thank you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Larissa stood at the pirate ship bow, staring across the mountain range. Between two large peaks on the horizon the sun was setting in a glowing orb and the sky sang with a deep orange shine, fading to pinks and purples. Small dots of starlight pricked through the farthest reaches of the blackening space above. A thin wisp of freezing air bit at her cheeks and disturbed her curls.
A heavy, waxed coat covered her body from shoulders to feet; the garment had been purloined from a dead pirate by Cid. Behind her the men worked. Three new, rather reluctant recruits including Grubbs were busy with their assigned tasks of maintaining the furnace and removing the dead bodies. Cid manned the wheel, and Larissa had no idea where Holt had disappeared to.
As she watched the sun’s edge dip behind the mountain ahead she sighed. The pain of her injuries had reduced to a dull ache, scabs had already formed over open wounds and the bruises seemed to be fading quicker than usual. Her mind felt numb; the stress and shock of the last few hours had become too much and some part of her conscious brain was acutely aware that other parts of her mind had shut down.
She thought of the men that Holt had killed, the ship wood turned red with spilled blood, the sound of gunshots and swords clashing and splitting flesh ringing in her ears. Before, she would have been disgusted and shocked—perhaps she would have vomited at even the thought of it. Now, there was nothing, no pity, no sadness, no sense of satisfaction that they’d gotten what they rightly deserved. No feeling at all.
She wondered if something inside had broken forever, if some part of herself had snapped—irreplaceable, irreparable. She played the moments in the room below over and over, the men attacking one after the other, the shouts and calls from their comrades, the sense of fear and desperation that smothered her.
Like a thick blanket wrapped too tightly, it stifled her. She recalled how quickly she’d wished for death and wondered now if death might have been the preferable option. What was the point in continuing on after such chaos and such a loss of identity? How could she possibly hope to save the Professor if she had failed so miserably to save herself?
“Training,” Holt’s voice interrupted her vein of despairing thoughts.
“What?” she replied, not turning to look at him. He appeared at her shoulder and matched her gaze toward the horizon.
“You said I was an emotionless automaton and I told you all it takes is training. I believe you’ve had your first lesson.” He lightly gripped her hand and placed the lock-box into it.
“Why did you take it?”
“They would have found it and known it was something of value. I didn’t want to give them another reason to hurt you.”
She blinked at the box, processing his words, and then placed it into a coat pocket.
“Well, you can keep your lessons. I’ve learned quite enough.”
“No,” he said.
“No?”
“There are more lessons to come.”
“For you, perhaps. I will get off at Meridina and go...”
“Go? Go where? You’re giving up?”
“I can’t do this. I’m a sales clerk. Nothing more than a silly little girl with stupid, naïve dreams.”
“You are much more than that.”
Larissa turned to face him and found his gaze fixed firmly, awkwardly, dead ahead. “Because I killed a man?”
“Two men, I believe the count is, although I distinctly recall telling you not to kill anyone. Had I known the first thing you would do would be to stick a knife into their Captain, I might have amended my plan.”
“Your plan? I thought you’d abandoned us. Why didn’t you just tell me what you were going to do?”
“You had to believe that I’d abandoned you. Otherwise you may have acted as though you expected to be rescued and they would have paid more attention to me.”
“Well, why didn’t you just abandon us? Why bother to come back at all?”
Holt fell silent, though his face was tense and the tendons on his neck jutted out as he chewed on his teeth.
“Holt, I asked you a question.”
“You may not like the answer.”
“You’re concerned you’ll hurt my feelings? Just answer the question.”
“I was not equipped for the journey across the mountains during winter.”
“I see. Why did you think I wouldn’t like that answer? Did you think I expected you to tell me you wanted to be the hero, save the damsel in distress so we could fly off into the sunset together and live happily ever after?”
“That’s exactly what I thought you wanted to hear.”
Larissa puffed a laugh through her nostrils, though it was more a reflex than an actual feeling of amusement. Hours ago he would have been right, she would have imagined that was his reason. S
he would have entertained fleeting romantic intentions and been disappointed to discover that was not the case. Now his actions and his reasoning for them simply made sense.
“A stupid, naïve girl, just as I said. Two seconds ago you said I was much more than that.”
“You are becoming much more.” Now he turned to face her. “The pain will fade. The memories will stay and you will find a peace within them. The scars will recede and you’ll be no more aware of them than you are of your skin. And before we reach our destination, you will have thought of a plan for how to save your Professor.”
“See, I knew you could do it.”
“Do what?”
“Have a conversation.” Her face refused to break into a smile as she spoke.
“Hmm. Don’t get used to it.”
“Holt?”
“Hmm?”
“I do need to know one more thing.”
“And what is that?”
“Uh, excuse me, Miss—umm, Captain ‘Rissa.” Grubbs scuttled along the deck and stood below Holt and Larissa, wringing his hands together and looking down at his feet.
“It’s the big fella, the Doctor’s man. He’s still alive and we was wondering what we should do with him?”
“He’s alive? Where is he?”
“Still in the storage room. We went in there and found him. He’s bled quite a bit, though not dead. When we saw he was alive we shut him back in and came up here to see if you wanted us to finish him off like?”
“Thank you, Grubbs. He may actually be of some use,” Larissa said.
“Right you are, Cap’n.” Grubbs and the other man who’d been following him headed back below deck.
“Did he just call me Captain?” Larissa asked, turning to Holt, and for the first time she saw his lips had curved into a genuine smile. He passed a glance at her as she frowned up at him, and they set off together towards the stairway.
The door to the storage room was still locked. Grubbs and his mate leaned against the wall opposite, staring at the door as though they expected it to grow legs and walk off.
