“Okay,” she said indifferently. “Everyone’s been taking turns keeping me warm. I’ll—” she started, then stifled a yawn. “I’m getting by.”
“It won’t be much longer,” he promised. “Another day, two tops.”
“We shall be ready,” Poe promised as he emerged from the shadows. “These fools have no idea what’s been lurking beneath them.”
“Who the fuck’s lurking?” Jean asked. “I don’t lurk.”
Poe shook his head. “I meant it figuratively. ‘Lying in wait,’ if you prefer.”
“We’ll be ready,” Chari assured Flynn. He nodded, but couldn’t respond; the guard was returning from his cigarette break, and if he picked up even a whiff of their conversation, the ruse would be shot. Chari picked up his cue, and began cursing like a spoiled brat once more.
* * *
For the first time since leaving Selif, Shea found she missed the 13th Division, and wondered how her old comrades were. Serving with the crew of the Callah was lonely; no one knew her or spoke to her except to give orders. Even Captain Longhart had not bothered with her after the first day. Shea was not eager to return to war, but the question—This a second chance?—still held her thoughts.
“Had a look in the hold? Few of the prisoners have Hucklemeyer’s Disease.”
“The fuck is Huckmeer’s Disease?”
Two soldiers were walking the corridors as Shea cleaned one of the cannons brought over from the Callah. They didn’t even notice her.
“Hucklemeyer’s,” the first corrected. “Swear I saw one, stark blue.”
“Blue?” the other asked incredulously.
“Far along, that one,” he said piteously. “Other in earlier stage, cracks in ’er skin. Hurt just to look at.”
“Hold on, where’d you get this?”
“Weeks back, ’fore we crossed those Cavo ships!” the first replied. “Mate of mine from the 13th, on the Desanter. Mentioned it while passing supplies our way.”
As their discussion continued beyond earshot, Shea found she missed such banter, and wondered if she could find the same with Flynn’s company, or if their origins were too diverse to ever truly become familiar with one another. Could she stay with Longhart’s crew and return to the front? Would she be accepted if she did, her trespasses forgiven?
Flynn was approaching, and her heart raced at the very thought of gunfire raining down once more. It hadn’t been hell all the time, but any good memories drowned beneath the bad. She leaned on the cannon, hand to her chest, and tried to calm down as he drew near.
“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.
“Kill for a smoke. Ran out days ago.”
“How do you manage a habit like that in a war zone?” Flynn asked.
“Nicked one from a mate,” she replied. “Helped the nerves. Hard to come by on the front, learned to make my own after some … failures.” Shea fell quiet, but Flynn gave her a half-smile, prompting her to finish. “Bloody hell,” she groaned. “Skip ahead. Red and yellow herb, thought it safe to smoke. Learned after, locals called it ‘Devil’s Surprise.’ Follow?”
Flynn cracked a smile. “I think. Is this one of those stories that ends with you naked, tied to a post, and ranting about the value of turnips in politics? Believe it or not, I’ve heard one like it.”
Shea tightly clutched her polishing rag, twisting it while uttering her stiff reply. “Like to think mine’s better.”
Flynn peered out the porthole. “Have you been watching the skies?”
“Looks like rain,” she said.
“Winds have been picking up. Enough of the crew think a heavy storm is coming our way, which means they’ll need every free hand they’ve got to keep the ship from getting torn apart.”
“Then we strike,” Shea realized. There was no triumph in this conclusion, no joy in the revealed opportunity. Every free hand included her own, which meant this betrayal would come when they were counting on her the most. As if Flynn could read her mind, he leaned in and made eye contact.
“The others, in the hold, they’re counting on you. If we don’t pull this off, they’re all dead.” Shea nodded apprehensively. Nothing of the plan Flynn proceeded to outline made her feel better about it, and she listened distantly, reminding herself all the while that she had already deserted.
No one will take me back, even if I find the 13th again.
“I’m depending on you,” he assured her. “For this to work, I can’t help you. We live or die by you, Shea.”
“Feel better with you there,” she admitted.
He nodded in understanding, and turned away. “I’ve seen Private Rhenret smoking above deck. He’ll pass a few smokes your way.”
The promise came as cold comfort, but she didn’t have the will to reject it. Knowing what she had to do, and with at least a day’s wait before it was time to take action, Shea knew the only thing that might see her through was a couple of cigarettes. Selfishly, she hoped that if Rhenret didn’t survive, he’d have the rest in his coat.
* * *
Flynn timed the moment expertly. The wind had started picking up and the waves had gotten rockier. The black clouds were so thick it may as well have been night. It had only begun to rain; the worst was yet to come. Captain Longhart and two crewmen with whom she’d been speaking emerged from her cabin, as Lieutenant Cloven at the helm struggled to keep the ship steady. Before the Captain could climb the stairs to replace him, Flynn caught her by the arm.
“Edia—I need a moment of your time.” Her disdain was crystal clear, but as she began to twist away, Flynn’s next words snared her by the ear. “I’m ready to confess.” She faltered, torn between duty and desire; Longhart had seen through Flynn in a way few ever did, and he was about to prove her suspicions true. She looked from her helmsman to her struggling crew, then at last back at Flynn.
“In my cabin. Now.”
Flynn entered first, followed by Longhart, who locked the door behind them.
Though she’d claimed the ship, she had only brought the bare minimum of accoutrements from her own: a Trynan flag hung proudly on the wall, accompanied by a pair of cutlasses to one side, while a map illustrating the known conflicts hung on the other. The room was otherwise vacant and dim, but for a lantern dangling from the rafters, its flickering light swaying back and forth. The soft glow was enough for both of them, their slitten eyes piercing one another in the shadows.
“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 gre
w 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 tigh
tly 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.”
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways Page 24
