Vengeance of the Pirate Queen

“Aye.”

There’s no more delaying what I have to do next. No matter how much I may want to stand right here and take the time to actually enjoy being around him. Now that I know I am allowed to. Because he doesn’t hate me for what I did.

“Watch for my signal,” I say.

“We will. Give ’em hell.”

“You can count on it.”

And without another word, I dive into the water.

It is so strange to feel the water but not the temperature. It is unnatural to breathe when I know I should not be able to. I feel a momentary panic at being underwater like this again. A feeling of being trapped and surrounded by the unknown.

There could still be dangers about, but it’s easier to fight when I know I’m not just doing it for me. I’ve got thirty-eight people on this island counting on me for their survival. It is a humbling feeling. It focuses me, keeps my eyes straight ahead, straining to make out anything dangerous in the water. I don’t stray too far from shore. Where the water is more shallow, fewer creatures can be hiding. And I can’t get turned about that way.

Light cuts through the surface of the water, but it doesn’t travel far. That’s why this plan will work. The enemy won’t see me through the water.

It takes me fifteen minutes to make the swim to the ship. When I catch the darkness of the hull underwater, I slow my approach, looking for the best place to breach the surface. The closer the better.

How does Alosa do this? I try to remind myself that she has perfect vision underwater, whereas I don’t. She’s half siren; I’m not. Still, I feel entirely out of my element below the water. But on land with a knife in my hand, I am the most dangerous of predators.

I pop my head above the surface just far enough to have my eyes out of the water. The side of the ship is massive. I don’t think I’ve ever been on so large a vessel. That bone-white wood has been patched over time and time again, and I wonder if this is the original ship that Threydan’s crew sailed over on, updated and rebuilt as time went on.

There’s no rope ladder extending down the side of the ship. Any handholds I might make use of are too spread apart for me to get all the way up the side. I swim for the fore of the ship. The bowsprit extends like a knifepoint some forty or fifty feet above the water. That’s not going to be helpful.

But the figurehead extends straight down into the water, and I’m able to get a handhold, then a foothold. Whatever the figure used to be, it has long faded with time. Not sure what the paint or wood once depicted. Something humanoid, I think.

Whatever it is, I thank the stars that it’s still intact enough for me to climb.

My muscles strain as I pull my legs out of the water. My wet clothes are unbelievably heavy and noisy, water dripping into the ocean as I climb. I move slowly, listening for any movement through the gunport above me. When I don’t hear so much as a rustle of clothing, I find another handhold and pull myself up another arm’s-length. Pause. Repeat.

When I’m just below the gunport, I carefully peer over the top of the opening. There’s very little light within the enemy’s ship, and the tunnel the ship is docked in certainly isn’t helping matters. I take that as a good sign, since I would hope that no one is bumbling around belowdecks without light to guide their way.

As I try to get a leg up, my foot slips, and I nearly plummet back into the ocean. I take a deep breath before trying again, finally pulling myself into the gunport and collapsing on the floor.

I do nothing but breathe for a full minute as I try to collect myself.

Then I stand.

I can still hear the water dripping from my clothes. That will never do. I can’t very well walk around the ship like this. I wring out my braids as best I can. Then I pull off my shirt and quietly squeeze all the water from it. My eyes dart around the dark area for any sign of movement, but there is none, so I continue with my pants and boots.

In that time, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can begin to make out shapes, like the barrel of gunpowder next to the cannons. I open it and help myself, putting dry grit into my pistol so it’ll actually be of some use should I need it. There’s even cloth for cleaning out the cannons. I use it to dry the soles of my boots as well as my weapons.

Then I start to explore.

The fore cannons are located in a small room of their own. I crack open the door at the end—soundlessly, thankfully—and peer through the other side. Water storage. And on the other side of that, the gun deck. Stars, but whoever built this vessel intended on it being put through a ton of sea battles. That’ll be fortunate for us once she’s in our possession.

When I have a choice to go above deck or below, I head down first. Above, I’ll lose my cover. I’ll be visible to all who pay attention. And anyone on the main deck is more likely to be alert.

No one expects an attack from within.

Besides, I need to make a scene, not get killed before I can sufficiently distract the crew.

I take the steps lightly. Only one manages to creak, but since ships creak and groan all on their own, either no one hears or no one makes anything of it.

When I reach the lower level, which houses the crew’s quarters, I find six individuals in the bunks. The majority are sleeping, likely before their shifts on watch tonight. But two converse quietly. I pick up only a couple of words. Something to do with fishing at high tide.

Six is more than enough to raise an alarm. I’ll thin their numbers a bit first, but I need to be quick.

The Drifta nearest me is fast asleep, and I creep through the shadows until I’m level with his hammock. My knife cuts across his throat silently, and his gasp is barely a breath of air, easily masked by the whispering at the end of the room.

The next sleeping body is on the top bunk: too high for me to reach without climbing up and waking him. So I swing myself onto the middle hammock, take aim, and thrust my knife point through where I judge his neck must be resting. Blood drips down my blade and onto my hands. The choking sound is less capable of being masked this time.

The whispering couple cut off and look toward my end of the ship. I stay where I am in the hammock, blood dripping on my clothing in a steady rhythm.

“Anderrin?” one of the two asks, standing from their bunk. She pads this way on sock-covered feet. I hold absolutely still, pretending to be another sleeping person.

The approaching woman pays me no mind as she strides right up to her crewman, climbs the ladder next to the bunk, and peers into his hammock. It begins to sway, so I assume she must be trying to rouse him.