And it was definitely cultists they were fighting.
Emily saw the black silk scarves she’d grown to fear wound about far too many heads. Arnia and Dorcas saw backs to attack and moved away. Stepping fully onto the deck, Emily ducked and bent to retrieve her weapon of choice.
She’d grasped the smooth wooden pole, and was dragging it to her when some instinct made her glance around.
A cultist had spotted her. Grinning widely, he came strutting forward, bloody sword in one hand, the other reaching for her.
He wasn’t smiling an instant later when the end of her pole rammed into his groin.
She leapt up as he fell to his knees, kicked his sword out of his hand, then lifted her pole high and brought it crashing down over his head.
He slumped-unconscious, not dead.
She could manage unconscious without a qualm.
Two more cultists went down under her swinging pole, but she had to wait for her moment and get enough space to wield it…and, good God, there were dozens of them. The melee of bodies literally clogged the deck.
Then she saw why. Another ship much like their xebec had drawn close-close enough to send more cultists scrambling over the side onto their deck whenever the gray waves pushed the ships close.
One glance along the deck told the story. Their band, aided by the captain and his crew, were fighting valiantly, and to that point had held their own. But there was no chance they could hold out forever, not against the tide of cultists waiting to jump across and join the fray.
Fear gripped her. Eyes wide, she scanned the deck. Through the faint veil of morning sea mist, she located all of their party, all still on their feet, still doggedly fighting, but two sailors were already down. As she watched, another fell.
Casualties. And there were going to be a lot more. Unless…
A sudden upheaval of the bodies to her left had her hefting her staff and swinging that way.
But it was Gareth who erupted out of the pack. He’d been fighting a little way along the deck.
His eyes met hers. There was cold fury in his, but before he reached her a cultist pressed in. With a snarl, Gareth swung to deal with the attacker, sword swinging fluidly, effortlessly.
She edged back to give him room, her mind darting, racing, thinking.
Cultist dispatched, Gareth turned to her and roared, “For the love of God, what the devil are you doing here? Get below!”
Below…eyes flying wide, she seized his lapel and hauled him close-close enough that he could hear her above the godawful din. “The oil!” She met his eyes. “I saw in the galley-the cook has just decanted an amphora into lots of little bottles. He uses lots of rags. Put the rags in the bottles, light them, and…” She looked up at the sails of their ship, taut in the breeze-the fair wind was still blowing-then looked at the other ship. The cultists’ ship. It, too, was under sail. “If their sails burn-”
She didn’t need to finish. Gareth grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stern ladder. “Come on!”
He had to help her slide between desperately fighting men. Suddenly, he reached over and past a set of shoulders, tagging someone in a scrum beyond.
An instant later, Bister popped through. “What?”
“Come with us.” Gareth pushed past Emily to clear the area around the stern hatch. As soon as she could, Emily darted behind him and went down. At a nod from him, Bister ducked down behind her.
Gareth dallied to deal with the two cultists who had seen them go below. A slash on his upper arm and two scrapes later, he whirled and went down the ladder.
He found Emily and Bister working frantically, readying their little incendiaries. Emily had found a basket. She thrust the last of the pottery bottles wicked with rags into it, looked at him. “Tinder?”
He reached into his pocket and drew out his tinderbox.
Bister did the same. “But…” His young batman eyed the bottles.” We’ll need to be on deck before we light them.”
“Indeed.” Gareth reached for the basket-a sudden ruckus in the corridor had him seizing his sword instead and swinging to face the door.
But it was Watson who appeared. He was bleeding from a gash on his face. “What’s to do?”
Gareth lowered his sword, lifted the basket. “How’s your aim?”
He explained as, with Bister in the lead, they hurried back to the stern ladder. Setting the basket at the ladder’s foot, Gareth handed two bottles to Watson, another two to Bister, then took two himself, tucking them into his breeches’ pockets. “I’ll go up first and clear an area-you follow, get those lit, and aim for their sails. Mooktu and Mullins are up there somewhere. We’ll give you cover and I’ll get my two away when I can. But we’ll almost certainly need more than those”-he nodded at the bottles they held-“to get their sails fully alight. So once you throw the first two, come and get more.”
He turned to Emily. “You stay here, down here, and hand up the rest of the bottles as we come for them.” He reinforced the order with a commanding stare-it had always worked on soldiers.
It suddenly struck him that he wanted to kiss her-desperately wanted to taste her lips for just a fleeting instant. He knew how badly the odds above were stacked against them.
Gripping his sword, he turned, and pushed past Bister. “Come on!” Without a backward glance, he led the way up and out.
Back into the cacophony of a battle that was definitely not going their way. This attack was infinitely better planned than any of the previous incidents; whoever had organized this knew his business.
His reemergence in the restricted space around the stern hatch temporarily swung the odds in that corner their way.
He found Mooktu, and with a word and a glance had him shoulder to shoulder, then Mullins saw, and although not knowing why, came to join them in clearing the area around the hatch and holding all comers back.
Gareth noticed Arnia at Mooktu’s elbow, and Dorcas behind Mullins. Both women looked dishelved, but neither had wounds, and both had knives. He knew Arnia could use hers, and Dorcas’s was bloodied.
Then another wave of cultists charged their little wall, and he had other things to think about.
The first incendiary lobbed out from behind him. Bister’s direction was good, but his range less so. The burning bottle smashed on the other ship’s deck. Surprised crew quickly stamped out the ensuing fire.
But the next bottle struck the lower part of the middle lanteen sail.
The oil soaked in, then flared, and the sail caught.
As he’d expected, the sailors rushed to douse the flames, but Watson lobbed his bottles in quick succession, and fires bloomed on the rear lanteen.
With shouts and curses, the sailors on the other ship rushed to fill buckets. But before the flames were fully doused, Bister hit the middle sail again, and the very top of the rear lanteen.
The other ship started to lose speed and fall back-bringing their front lanteen into Bister’s firing range. Watson concentrated on keeping the fires going on the middle and rear sails.
One of the advantages that until then the cultists had had was that they could remain intent and focused, uncaring of what else was happening on the xebec. But with their own ship in difficulties, that changed. Distracted, they glanced across the waves, only to see their ship drifting further back and away.
The tide of the battle, until then with the cultists, swung the other way. Dacosta and his crew sensed it. They were quick to capitalize, pushing hard to lower the number of cultists they had on board.
Some cultists decided the waves were safer.
And then, quite abruptly, the fighting on the xebec’s deck reached the mopping-up stage. Bister popped up at Gareth’s elbow as he stepped back from the waning fray.