Blood gathers in puddles on the floor, smears under my boots, flecks on my clothing and skin, runs down my sword, and coats my hands.
A man charges me, dodging under my rapier and sending the breath from my lungs as I fall. He might have made some progress if we’d landed on solid ground. Instead, a dead body takes the impact, and with the leverage, I’m able to roll the pirate off me. I drop the skillet and go for another dagger now that we’re in closer quarters, raking it across his neck before I stand. Blood flies into my face with the movement.
They’re getting smarter as they watch me kill. More men climb atop the island at once. I throw a knife. It has just enough space to make one arc before embedding into one man’s eye. Then I’m forced back against the washbasin as five cutlasses shove at me at once.
I turn in a half circle, my rapier touching blade after blade, but there are too many. I knew this was a possibility, of course. That this mission might be the equivalent of me sacrificing myself.
This is it, I think. The moment when I meet my end. It’s how I always wanted to go. Dying for the sake of someone else. Dying for Alosa’s crew. Risking my neck so they have a chance of making it home.
But, for the first time in as long as I can remember, something is different about this.
It takes me far too long to realize that I don’t want to die.
It’s terrifying as those words form in my head.
I’ve always been eager to reunite with my family. To do as much good as I could in the meantime and gladly go when it’s my time.
But I don’t want it to be my time.
Not when there’s still more that I can do. Not when I’m just beginning to realize that I might be worthy of having a life that is my own. Not that I’d ever abandon Alosa and her cause, but maybe there’s something I can do for myself. Maybe I can train more girls like I’m starting to do with Roslyn. Maybe I don’t have to hide. Maybe I can just be where I want, when I want.
And maybe I want a large brute by my side while I do it.
Terror lances through me in a way that makes me feel more alive than ever. For I do fear death, and I do have something to lose now.
This can’t be the end.
I hear a loud grinding sound bounce off the walls of the ship. The enemy freezes in place, even looks around, as though trying to determine the meaning of the sound.
“Is that—” one starts.
“The capstan!” another shouts.
Some of the men and women around me turn about, racing from the kitchen to stop the anchor from being raised, it sounds like.
No sooner have I started to hope, to think that I might survive this after all, when— Those closest to me attack.
There are too many sharp blades. I cannot dodge them all.
I sidestep the one aimed for my heart, fend one off with my knife and rapier. But the third— It slides into my stomach. The shock of pain has me just standing there, looking at the point of entry. A moment later, I hack into the one who delivered the blow. As he falls, he pulls his cutlass back out of me.
I scream.
Any Drifta remaining in the room leave to investigate what’s happening with the anchor.
Now that I’m hurt.
I stumble forward from the pain. My hand goes to my stomach, to keep in the blood.
I fall to my knees.
Stars, but it hurts. I have had many an injury over the years, but not like this. Never like this.
This one is serious.
I need a healer. Immediately.
There’s a shot from somewhere above, and the sounds of battle commence. I focus on my breathing, trying to find a way to do so without causing more pain, when a voice cuts across the fighting.
“Give them hell, lasses!”
Dimella.
They’re on board.
I look about me at the bodies and blood, looking for some answer to a question I haven’t fully formed. Some way to make sense of what I must do next.
There.
A skinny lad with his gun belt about his waist. He looks about my size.
I scoot along to him, get my fingers around that buckle, and loosen it. It slips free from his person, and I drag it over to me.
I grit my teeth. This is going to sting.
I place the belt over my injury, effectively covering the entrance and exit wounds, and cinch it tight.
A horrible sound escapes my lips, and I nearly black out as I fasten the buckle. I lie still on the floor, waiting for the pain to become bearable, but that doesn’t happen.
Nothing for it but to fight through it, then.
Getting to my feet takes an age, but once I do so, things get a bit easier. I’m not sure if I finally grow accustomed to the pain or if the belt is holding it in or something else altogether, but I’m able to gather my weapons, clean them off, and leave the room. Slowly.
What I find above deck is heartening.
My crew.
They fight off the measly remains of the Drifta aboard the vessel. It doesn’t take long at all, and it ends with the last two of the enemy surrendering. They drop their weapons and raise their hands into the air.
Kearan and Enwen dump them over the side of the ship.
They’ll probably make it, if they can get to a fire soon.
“Captain,” Dimella says by way of greeting when she sees me.
“Get us going,” I order.
“Aye-aye!” She barks out orders to the crew, and they get to it with an enthusiasm I’ve yet to see from the crew of the Wanderer, including Captain Warran, who takes it upon himself to go to the helm.
Kearan steps up to me, eyes me. The belt must be doing a good job, because he doesn’t find anything to point out. “How did it go?”
“Swimmingly.”
“You’re covered in blood.”
I worry he’s noticed the injury, until I realize of course I’m covered in blood. Drifta blood. “Makes me look more fierce.”
“It makes you look a great many things.”
His tone is flirty, and I can’t even fathom what I’m supposed to infer from his words. I say, “Get your arse to the helm. I don’t trust Warran with it.”
“Now you’re thinking about my arse?” he asks.
“I’m thinking about where I could stick my blades if you don’t get moving.”
He gives me my favorite grin, the one that says he knows he’s trouble, before heading up to the aftercastle. I would follow, but I don’t think I can manage more stairs right now. It’s taking everything I have just to act as though everything is fine.
As if I won’t die today.
Iskirra’s a fine healer, but I’m not so foolish as to think that blade didn’t hit something vital as it went clean through my stomach. I can spend the day having her fuss over me or I can captain this crew.
I choose the latter.
The lines keeping us close to shore are cut, the anchor is raised the rest of the way, and a steady breeze takes us away from land. Away from these cursed shores.
We haven’t gone far at all when a clamor steals our attention back on land.
Dozens of people race toward the boat. They clear the tree line, waving their arms in our direction. Screaming at the top of their lungs.
“Help!”
“Wait!”
“Please!”
These aren’t the undead. They’re the remaining Drifta.
There are children and livestock among them. Women and men of all ages.
“What are they saying?” Dimella asks.