“I’d never join Tanner Black’s side of anything,” Keelin growled.
“That ain’t an answer.”
Keelin glanced at Drake, and then back at the blood and bodies on the deck. There would be more battles just like this one before they were done, but for now it was the only way he could see to get his hands on Drake’s charts, and that was the only way he could see to get his revenge.
“Aye,” he said with a smile that was half grimace. “I’m in. So long as I don’t have to call you king.”
Part 2 – Wet Winds, Strong Seas
You need a seat of power said the Oracle
Sev’relain will do fine said Drake
Yes, I believe it will said the Oracle
Chapter 16 - Fortune
Drake sat staring out across the endless blue as the ship’s doctor poked and prodded at him. He grunted away the blinding pain and clenched his teeth to stop himself crying out loud as the doc tried to raise his arm. Last thing the crew needed was to see their captain turn into a babbling mess in place of the dashing hero they believed him to be.
All night and most of the morning they’d floated peacefully, too far out to anchor and too badly banged up to sail on until certain issues had been dealt with. Three ships lashed together might make for an odd sight if there were anyone around to see it, but the chances of anyone happening upon them were slim and then some. They’d need to set sail, and soon; the sea might be endlessly blue and calm, but the clouds were looking to take a darker turn, and Drake didn’t feel like being caught out in a storm in their current condition.
“It’s broke,” the doc said eventually.
“Didn’t I say the same thing to you just a few minutes ago?” Drake retorted in a tone that could curdle milk.
“Your expert opinion aside, thought I best look at it myself.” The doc had a note of challenge in his voice and twice as much in his eyes, so Drake decided to shut up and let the man get on with his job. “Ain’t too bad, but we’re gonna need to put it in a sling.”
“Do it.”
“It’s gonna hurt.”
“It already fucking hurts. Do it.”
Drake spent the next five minutes with teeth gritted against the pain, and silently cursing the name four different gods while the doc tried to remember how to tie a proper sling. It was, perhaps, a problem with hiring a drunkard as a ship’s doctor. Luckily for the crew of the Fortune, the man was a better doctor than he was a drunk. After he was done, Drake levered himself up from his seat at the forecastle and decided it was time to tour the ship.
“How many dead and injured, Doc?” Drake said, deciding it was always best to start with the worst news.
The doc shook his head as he packed up his tools. “Rin knows. Too many. Stopped counting. Reckon Princess got a number for you though. Bastard damn near lost an eye, and he was still going around checking on folk.”
Drake nodded and limped away from the doc. Sometime during the course of the battle, possibly when he’d delivered the showy kick to the hair-lipped soldier’s jaw, he’d picked up a sprained ankle. It was far from the worst of his current wounds, but it was getting on Drake’s very last nerve. He hated showing weakness, and with a pronounced limp and his arm in a sling, he was already showing more than too much.
The two pirate crews – those not dead or too injured to work – had been steadily clearing the bodies from the decks of the two ships. Well over a hundred corpses had already been tossed overboard to the sharks and other beasties below, and there were still more below decks. Many of the soldiers had surrendered once they realised the fight was lost, though some had continued to put up a fight. Some might say it was a testament to either their training or perhaps their belief in their god, but Drake saw it more as a testament to their stupidity. Not that it truly mattered; most of those who had surrendered would never make it back to Sarth. Drake would select a few to send back, and the rest would feed the denizens of the deep.
After a struggle down the ladder to the main deck – Drake didn’t feel much like taking the leap with a sprained ankle, and climbing with only one arm proved to be as difficult as it sounded – he found Princess talking to Stillwater. Twenty-one men were bound and on their knees, guarded by armed and pissed-off pirates.
“Cap’n,” Princess said with a grin as Drake limped near. The man’s right eye was swollen shut, and he had a bunch of stitches on the same side of his head. Despite the obvious injuries, Princess looked in good spirits, though Drake guessed that was as much to do with the good spirits that the doc gave to his patients as anything else. “Got a bit of an issue with the prisoners.”
“I don’t see it as an issue,” Stillwater said. It pleased Drake no end to know that, though his fellow captain was infamous for being the best swordsman in the isles, he’d still taken a wound in the battle. “These sons of arses slaughtered hundreds and tried to do the same to us. All of them should swim. Let Rin pick the survivors.”
Drake cleared his throat and pitched his voice so that the prisoners would hear him. “We all know, Stillwater, that if those men are thrown overboard, Rin won’t get a look in. Sharks have been lounging around for hours, feeding on the dead, and all it takes is a glance to see things worse than them have started to arrive. Ever seen a man’s skin digested from his bones while he’s still breathing?”
Stillwater pulled a disgusted look and shook his head.
“I have,” Drake continued. “And, judging by the beasties thrashing around down there, that’s what these poor boys will see up real close if we make them swim.” He lowered his voice and leaned in towards Stillwater. “Besides, Captain, satisfying your bloodlust comes second to what we may still gain from these men.”
“We have the admiral,” Stillwater protested, his face turning a darker shade of red. “Anything he knows is worth ten times what these men might.”
“Sometimes, Stillwater, it’s not about what they might know, and more about what they’re willing to tell others that they think they know.”
“What?”
Drake had already selected his target: a young soldier, short and gaunt, huddled with a few of his fellows on the deck nearby. The soldier was desperately attempting not to make eye contact with anyone, and especially not Drake. Little did the man know he was likely the only one who would actually survive this ordeal. The older soldier to his left certainly wouldn’t be so lucky.
“That one.” Drake pointed at the older soldier. “Overboard.”
As three of Drake’s crew moved to obey their captain’s order, the man, a handsome fellow with piercing blue eyes, started shaking his head and babbling for help. Rather than helping him, his fellow soldiers shuffled away from the doomed man as quickly as they could with bound hands and feet.
“Please don’t do this,” the man cried as the pirates hauled him to his feet and started dragging him to the railing. “I’m sorry. I was only doing my job. I have a family…”
“Stop!” Drake approached the soldier, who was now just a few feet from the railing. “You hear that, Stillwater? Man has a family. Wife and kids, I reckon.” He looked at the soldier, who nodded obligingly. “Son? Daughter?”
“Two daughters.”
“What are their names?”
“Mari, she’s five, and Londre is two. I love them and I just…”
Drake held up his hand to silence the man, wincing as his other arm gave a twinge of pain. “What do you say, Stillwater? You wanted these bastards dead. Still set on it now you know you’ll be orphaning poor Mari and Londre?”