8. The Lowest Rise #2
She sank back onto her crate with a groan.
Decks below, cannons began discharging so violently that the Fortuna Royale shivered with the force of it. The merchant shot back, but it was futile with only ten guns compared to Copson’s forty.
It didn’t take long to catch them. As the Fortuna Royale came alongside the merchant ship, pikes exploded from the pirate ship’s hull. Copson’s crew shoved gangplanks into place, rushing across and swinging in on ropes. Swords flashed, guns blazed, and cannons continued blasting.
A few of the few pirates who remained on Copson’s ship lingered on the deck to watch. One of them was missing an arm, another had an eye patch. Two were dreadfully old, and others were women who shuffled their feet and flinched every time a gun went off.
Beyond them, former prisoners clumsily waved their weapons, bolstered by freedom and eager to prove themselves worthy of it. Cecily’s lip curled as they cut a few men by sheer luck, but there was a sad lack of decorum. No skill. No style. Nothing remotely impressive.
Copson’s crew, however, fought like they were dancing.
Her attention drew to Jack, which ceased to surprise her by now.
The man was a beacon with his easy grace and commanding presence.
He prowled between sailors, daggers flashing from his hands to sink into necks, his sword swinging in graceful arcs.
It was so beautiful that she was almost tempted to set aside how much she disliked him and find contentment in analyzing the perfection of his movements.
But she wouldn’t risk the generosity. Even as busy as he was at the moment, he’d surely know she was watching and mock her for it later.
Meanwhile, his father cut a path to the merchant ship’s captain. When he reached the man, Copson disarmed him and gripped the front of his coat in one fist. She couldn’t hear what was said, but the other captain snarled a few words and shook his head.
In response, Copson ran him through with his cutlass.
She supposed the man had told the pirate that surrender was out of the question.
After everything aboard the Sparrow, Jack had said they would have recruited the guards if they hadn’t tried to fight. She assumed Copson had just offered the same, and now there was nothing to be done for the souls on that ship.
Cecily slid off the crate, counting the men dressed in armor. There were more than just the couple Jack had assumed would be there. For how well Copson’s original crew fought, their newest members were little more than a detriment, and the merchant guards seemed to realize this.
Her fingers twitched as more guards burst from a lower deck, weapons drawn.
And there, in the middle of the deck, Hester fought alone—directly in the guards’ path.
Ice spread through her veins as her friend grappled with a much taller man, exposed on every side.
Even from far away, she could see Hester’s confidence waning, her cleavers no match for a sword.
The butcher girl panted, searching for help, but Greyson was near the stern, burying an ax in a man’s back.
“Hester,” Cecily gasped as the guard stepped closer to Hester. He lifted his sword, and even if she could block in time, she’d crumple under his attack—
“HESTER!” Cecily sprinted for the gangplank and flew across it, dropping to the merchant’s deck within seconds. Tugging a sword free from a dead man’s hand, she slid in front of Hester and swept the blade through the guard’s neck.
His head toppled from his shoulders and thudded to the deck. The sound of it pulled a disgusted shiver from her spine.
Behind her, Hester stood in shock. Cecily only had time to glance over her to ensure she was alright before tugging her out of the way to gut another guard.
“Stay with me,” Cecily growled. Then she threw herself into the fight.
The movements came naturally, drawing on years of sparring under her father’s expert guidance. When she was a girl, it had all been for fun, and she’d become nearly an expert herself for the sheer joy of it.
But if her father could see her now and what she was doing with the talent he’d gifted her… She wouldn’t think about it.
Another man fell by her sword.
Honestly, how had no one told Hester to stay near the edges of the fight? Who let her wander into the middle of everything?
A man screamed as her sword grated through his ribcage. With a twist of her wrist, she dislodged the blade with a spray of blood.
She would have harsh words for Greyson. How dare he leave her so unprepared! How dare he let her only friend flirt so closely with death?
She lunged for another and dispatched him too, her anger and frustration throwing more power into her swing.
Her perfect, efficient, deadly swing.
Behind her annoyance at the many foolish mistakes others had made today, she hoped Morgyn saw, wherever she was. If she wasn’t dead. She hoped it was enough to make her afraid—
Arms wrapped around her middle. Cecily nearly thrust her sword through whoever held her, but it was only Hester, her cleavers discarded on the deck.
“Thank you,” Hester gasped.
The fight had stopped. Dead guards were scattered around her, and the few who were still alive were being offered a final chance to either join the crew or die.
Blood, bodies, and weapons littered the deck, but the pirates were mostly unscathed, picking through the mess and beginning to take what they could.
From the raised quarterdeck, Jack stared down at her, his lips pursed, eyes unreadable.
She had willfully defied his orders. In case he wondered why, she threw her arm around Hester and buried her face in her yellow hair.
Maybe Copson would punish her for this, or he’d be a man of reason and understand she’d done it to save Hester’s life.
Either way, she couldn’t bring herself to care what might happen.
Hester was alive, and nothing else mattered so much as that.
“Don’t die,” Cecily snapped. “You’re my only friend.”
“You need more friends,” Hester said, her voice thick with tears.
Greyson’s hulking figure crossed the deck toward them, slowing when he caught sight of Cecily’s glare. His chin dipped in preparation for the tongue-lashing he knew was coming.
“Don’t you ever leave her,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “She nearly died!”
Greyson had the good sense to look chastened.
“It’s okay,” Hester pleaded. “I’m fine.”
“It’s not okay! Hester may know how to use a meat cleaver, but it is nothing compared to being attacked from every side by multiple men, you idiot!”
Greyson’s eyes guttered at the insult. “I should’ve stayed with her,” he said. “I’m sorry, Hester.”
Cecily opened her mouth to say more, to continue scolding him, but stopped short at the sound of Morgyn’s voice.
“Playing with swords, Ces?” She was entirely untouched. It seemed she didn’t have the fortune to fall on her own sword, let alone someone else’s.
Cecily pulled away from Hester.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t kill yourself,” Morgyn crooned. “Unless that was your goal in breaking such stringent rules.” She glanced at the sword in Cecily’s hand. “Or did I hear wrong? The captain said no sharp things, didn’t he?”
Morgyn hadn’t seen anything Cecily had done just now. She’d been off somewhere else, playing at being a pirate, and missed the violence and bloodshed Cecily had hoped would be enough of a warning.
“If you like,” Morgyn said, sidling closer. “I can tell the captain you got swept up in the moment and meant no harm. I’m sure he’ll listen to someone who knows you so very well.” Then she settled her arm around Cecily’s waist, like they were sisters or friends.
Only the fiercest presence of mind kept that blade angled down as disgust ran like oil over her skin.
Morgyn had just made her an offer—risk the captain’s punishment, or accept Morgyn’s favor and influence, which would come at the price at bowing, at subjecting herself to the prison queen’s rare mercy and whatever came with it.
Cecily subjected herself to no one.
She was tired of being goaded. Tired of being scared and on edge, and if Morgyn hadn’t seen Cecily tear through these guards, then fine. She would just have to tell her.
Tossing her sword to her other hand, Cecily shoved Morgyn away, pulled back her fist, and slammed it into her face, exactly as she had the day they’d met.
By the time Morgyn hit the deck with a breathy grunt, Cecily had passed the sword back to her right hand and retreated a step. It was a broken article, but one she could afford. She would give Morgyn what she wanted, just not in the way she had hoped.
Outrage flared over Morgyn’s face before she remembered herself. Her vicious glare turned to watery-eyed shock as she lifted a shaking hand to touch the blood dribbling from her nose.
Around them, the women had gone quiet, though the men hardly realized anything had happened as they moved below deck, fetching crates and chests of gold.
“You’re insane,” Morgyn said, as aware of their surroundings and listening ears as Cecily was. “You’re really determined not to let anyone like you. No matter what we do, you’ll always be a vicious little terror.”
Several yards to her right, Copson paused, his face rigid. Many of the crew stopped too, glancing between Morgyn and the captain, waiting for him to scold or intervene, but he only folded his arms, his eyes hard with expectation.
Perhaps he, too, knew there was a power dynamic that needed to be worked out among his crew. And Cecily had to work quickly before she pissed him off for wasting time.
She flexed her fingers around the hilt of her sword hanging limp at her side, its weight a comfort in her hand as the crew looked on.
“I don’t care to be likable, Morgyn.” She flipped the sword over her hand, sank the tip into the deck, and dropped into a crouch.
Clutching the hilt like it was the only thing keeping her grounded, she bolstered every shred of confidence she had—false or otherwise—and said, “I stopped caring what anyone thought of me the night I slaughtered six men.”