Chapter Twenty-Eight Before #5
Next to her, Valerian’s stance broadened, his shoulders thrown wide, his hands clasped behind his back in cruel mimicry of a Meridian officer. Cat could not help but think of Lieutenant Fell below deck, his posture rigid as a walking stick.
“For Crown and Empire!” Valerian shouted across the steadily closing gap between ships.
Behind him, at the wheel, the helmsman angled, turning so the Covenant might move parallel to the other ship.
Sails reefed and oars clacked, running out alongside primed cannons to help maneuver.
All of it happened in terrible sync, the crew of the Covenant dangerously well-practiced in the art of plunder.
It was no longer difficult to imagine how Valerian had claimed the Covenant to begin with, wrestling a ship of the line from the fleet.
And he’s going to do it again, or die in the attempt.
Cat could barely watch, her teeth clenched tight, as the Covenant eased towards the Victorious, the ship’s name painted in gold along the intricate taffrail. But her mask held, even if her hands shook with terror.
Valerian’s hands were the opposite, steady as he turned, putting his back to the Victorious. With quick but methodical motions, he drew the murderous flintlock ever present on his hip.
Wide-eyed, Cat watched as he calmly loaded the gun—powder, wad, shot, ramrod, powder again.
Valerian did it all with the ease of a fish taking to water, as if it were second nature, pure instinct.
Then he returned the pistol to his hip, beneath his coat, and spun back to face the Victorious, just in time to come level with its captain.
Cat held her breath. There were scarcely five yards between the ships, both vessels riding the gentle swell of the sloshing waves. At such close range, she could see the Victorious was smaller—but barely. And her captain was old, gray-haired even without a wig, still blinking sleep from his eyes.
He stared across the distance, peering at Valerian with the squint of an aging sailor. A few officers clustered around him, equally confused and off guard.
“For Crown and Empire,” the captain of the Victorious shouted back, adjusting the fit of his hastily donned coat. It was thrown over his nightclothes. “My apologies, madam,” he added, eyeing Cat with a flush. It only deepened as he studied the Covenant and Valerian lording over it.
He doesn’t know the ship, but will not say so, Cat thought, reading the potent mix of pride and ignorance on his face. She curtsied, careful to keep her eyes down and her shaking hands hidden.
Valerian offered a tight smile, the pompous kind that was not a smile at all.
“It seems we are both off course, Captain,” he called, his rough voice smoothed into the clipped tones of a Meridian gentlemen. It did not suit him, just like the uniform.
“Indeed. These currents, this blasted sea,” the other man answered with a sharp look at his staff. “The charts will have to be updated when we reach Longdawn.”
Valerian only shrugged.
“If.”
Cat’s eyes fluttered shut, just for a second, and she imagined herself on dry land. Anywhere but a powder keg in the middle of the Lyrian Sea.
“I beg your pardon?” the Meridian captain said.
“If you reach Longdawn, sir,” Valerian answered.
On the Victorious, one of the officers reeled backwards, perceiving the danger. Another slipped down the ladder, his face going white.
Their captain did not notice, still squinting across the short distance. “What is your name, Captain?”
Valerian’s grin widened, the gold tooth winking, and Cat suddenly wished she had stayed in her cabin. Her knees bent, ready to run, even if there was nowhere to go.
“My name is of no consequence.”
The captain of the Victorious cursed, ugly realization sweeping across his face. “You’re pirate scum—”
He was silenced by the smooth draw of an already loaded pistol, leveled at his heart.
“This is not the only gun pointed and ready to fire, of that I can assure you,” Valerian said, the clipped accent falling away as he looked down the barrel.
Cat tried not to imagine how many cannons were loaded and aimed on the gun decks, ready to tear apart the Victorious at close range.
“Surrender, and your crew will be given quarter.”
“And give over my ship?” the opposing captain said, his wrinkled hands curled into fists. “I would rather die than put the Victorious in the hands of a pirate.”
“That can be arranged,” Valerian said, unperturbed. While the Victorious roused to their predicament, he drew back the hammer on the flintlock, the iron click like a thunderclap.
At the other rail, the Meridian captain flinched but did not run. Nor did his remaining officers. They curdled with disgust, seeing Valerian and his ship for what it was.
Cat watched it all, holding on to her expressionless mask as best she could.
It almost slipped when a figure moved on the opposite ship, a head appearing over the far rail, behind the captain and his officers.
Black-haired and black-eyed, the streaks of paint dripping down her face as the seawater rolled off her. It made for a ferocious sight.
Cat clenched her teeth to stop from calling out.
Ana.
The Seawolf was not the only one crawling up the hull of the Victorious, using the ropes and rigging like a ladder.
One, two—a dozen, all soaked and silent, marked and painted, like legendary creatures drawn up from the deep.
One slipped up behind the first officer who fled, holding a knife to his throat in clear warning.
Another was even faster, creeping up the gangplank to grab the helmsman without a sound.
Ana followed, a smile on her face, her teeth flashing in the fog.
Unbeknownst to the Victorious, Anamina Rualcon held the wheel.
“Surrender the ship, Captain,” Valerian said, sounding almost amused.
And Cat dared to hope. Over without a shot.
The Meridian captain gave an ugly snarl, lunging forwards with a hawkish cry.
“Victorious—to arms!”
Unbeknownst to the Meridian captain, knives opened two throats, the first of his men falling to the Covenant.
Valerian’s curse was low and guttural.
“Damn.”
His left arm was fast, thrown across Cat’s chest. His trigger finger was even faster, a cloud of smoke and a blazing flash erupting from the pistol.
The sound seemed to crack the world apart, followed by another staccato of gunfire, raining down from the rigging of the Covenant as Valerian’s snipers peppered the deck of the Victorious.
Cat could only fall, driven backwards by the force of Valerian’s arm as he shoved her behind his body, shielding her from any returning volley.
Even so, she saw the captain of the Victorious as he careened backwards, a red flower of blood blooming across his nightshirt.
His dying gasps were somehow louder than the guns.
But not louder than the stomp of booted feet as two dozen bluecoats charged up from below, flooding the deck of the Victorious, hastily loading their rifles or raising sabers to fight.
Cat followed the momentum of Valerian’s force, and she stumbled, tripping over herself to get away from the rail.
But Valerian held his ground, holstering his pistol to slip free his knives as the first Meridian bluecoat attempted to bridge the gap between ships.
He swung towards them on a rope, a battle cry on his lips.
It ended with a wet rattle as Valerian stabbed him through the heart, his body falling in a graceless arc.
Directly next to Cat.
He pawed at her weakly, already white with blood loss, more skull than face. She screamed, trying to shove away the dying man, the front of her coat slick and scarlet.
This is a nightmare, Cat told herself. I’m going to wake up.
But the smell of blood and gunpowder was too strong to deny, too real to be a dream.
This isn’t a nightmare. This is hell itself.
The pirates of the Covenant washed over the deck, armed with a stunning array of guns and blades.
Even little Ratter was among them, a bag of ammunition at his side as he worked to reload spent pistols and rifles.
The gunfire continued, the bluecoats on the Victorious finally getting off a round, even as Ana’s detachment fought through them, preventing the Meridians from getting into formation, their shots erratic.
Cat scrambled on hands and knees, keeping low to avoid the bullets screaming overhead. The timbers beneath her seemed to tremble and she braced for the Covenant guns to rip through the Victorious as Valerian threatened.
Do it, sink them. End this, she prayed, crawling past the mainmast towards the quarterdeck—and the captain’s cabin. End them before they end us.
But no broadside came, no shots fired from below.
And cold realization dawned.
Cat could just see the helm of the Victorious, with Ana still at the wheel. The paint across her face made the whites of her eyes blaze, brighter than the sun peeking through the fog and smoke. Captain Kane would never fire on his own crew, let alone his first mate.
“Get back to the Covenant,” Cat hissed through gritted teeth, finding some refuge behind the mast.
Ana spun the wheel of the Victorious hard to starboard, before tying it off with a length of rope.
The ship reacted in kind, slowly but steadily angling away from the Covenant, showing her stern.
Pointing her guns away, putting enough distance between the ships to stop more Meridians from crossing over.
And stranding those who had made it across.
But Ana was not finished. She tied off another length of rope from the deck, then wrapped it around her hands and leapt over the edge of the quarterdeck. She swung, hanging loose to scramble down the ship like a spider, graceful and deadly. And even Cat could see her aim.
The rudder.
Valerian held the Victorious by the throat, with the assembled cannons of the Covenant standing primed and ready to fire. But it was Ana who would land the killing blow, disabling the rudder, cutting the tendons out from under a deadly warrior.