He was still wet, for despite the bit of air rushing past him as the ship slowly moved across the water, it splashed high enough to soak him again before he dried. He was freezing, every muscle in his body tensed to avoid falling, his right arm and shoulder numb from the rope cutting off his circulation.
For the first thirty minutes he clung to the rope, his ears strained to hear a gunshot, a splash, something indicating he’d doomed his friends to the depths in his haste to escape the ship. He hoped their feigned hatred of him gave them some protection, yet he ruminated on their possible deaths anyway, anxious and filled with preemptive rage.
By the time he decided to move, he wasn’t sure if his ears had simply grown accustomed to the noise, or if it really was getting quieter above deck. Deciding he couldn’t hold on any longer without overfatiguing his muscles, he began to climb.
He went slowly, testing each rope he clung to, his ears straining to hear any noise, his muscles protesting against his own weight. When he reached the top of the stern and peered through the gaps in the railing, he saw a single pirate standing lazily at the helm, their arm draped over it and their chin resting atop their forearm. There was a large hole in the ground near his feet where Zander’s grenade had landed, the char marks around it wet with seawater to prevent a fire from spreading. Zander held his breath as he pulled himself up and over the railing, wincing at every sound he made, until his feet landed on solid wood.
He didn’t allow his tensed muscles to relax, didn’t give himself time to take a breath. He pulled the dagger from his boot, took three great strides toward the pirate, and reached his arm around to cover his mouth as he slit his throat. He then lowered the man’s body gently to the ground.
He was marginally aware of his body starting to shake. A mix of rage and adrenaline rushed through him, screaming for him to move, to run, to kill the rest of them before he collapsed of exhaustion. He forced himself to move slowly instead, crouching behind the helm and looking down at the main deck.
It was strangely quiet for the hour, the sounds of celebration from earlier now absent. About a dozen men lay sleeping on the main deck, a normal occurrence given the number of pirates on board and the modest size of their sleeping quarters. A few were still awake at the forecastle, playing a game involving dice. Zander could tell from their slurred speech they were all quite drunk.
He pulled off his wet, sloshing boots, then his socks. He took the sailmaker’s hook from its canvas wrap and held it firmly in his left hand, the dagger still clutched in his right. He crept quietly down the stairs from the upper deck. He scanned the bodies of the sleeping pirates, then continued, crouching low as he approached the forecastle.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he took a deep breath and then sprinted up, taking the five men playing dice by surprise.
The first man had his back to him. Zander buried his dagger in his side as he jabbed the sailmaker’s needle into the neck of the man on his left, then pulled it swiftly free. A man to his right stood and reached for his weapon, but Zander pulled his dagger free and swung, the blade slicing across the man’s throat before he threw it straight ahead, burying it in the eye of a fourth man.
One pirate remained, a small fellow Zander had once overheard bragging about abducting a girl from her home and forcing her onto the ship. He blinked up at Zander, confusion, fear, and strong drink clouding his eyes.
Zander reached down and wrapped his hand around the man’s neck, lifting him with strength he didn’t know he had, and hurled him roughly over the edge of the ship.
He stood there for a moment, panting, his left fist coated in blood where he’d torn the sailmaker’s needle through the second man’s throat. He pulled his dagger free from the eye of the fourth man and turned around just as the red-headed sailor reached the stairs, having woken from his slumber on deck.
Zander was renewed by rage at the sight of Ace’s blade in the man’s hand, and he bent over, propelling himself into his adversary’s legs. The pirate fell forward onto his stomach, Ace’s blade slipping from his grasp. He reached for it, but Zander turned and thrust his dagger into the center of his hand, pinning it to the deck. He screamed. Zander picked up the cutlass and silenced him with a hard knock to the back of the head.
That was much louder than I planned, Zander thought, bracing himself to turn around and see the rest of the pirates waking. He was surprised to see all except one of them still asleep. The large pirate with the snake tattoo on one arm was awake, and he was charging at him, a terrifying grimace on his face.
Zander readied himself, but the man stopped suddenly, his eyes wide. He plummeted forward like a felled tree, revealing Yarrow, their hand still in position from throwing the knife now jutting from the back of his head.
Something between a laugh and a sob escaped Zander at the sight of Yarrow. He looked again at the rest of the pirates on deck, who slept on, no sign they’d heard the commotion aside from a few men sleepily rolling over or mumbling to themselves.
“What in the world’s gotten into these ones?” Zander asked.
Yarrow smiled. “Rum punch,” they said, pulling a couple of small, brown bottles Zander recognized as laudanum from their pocket.
The relief that rushed through Zander’s body brought him to his knees, and he gave himself fully over to hysterics, his body shaking with maniacal laughter. When he looked up, Yarrow stood above him, a concerned look on their face. Zander sighed, wiping stray tears from his face, and took their hand when they offered it, standing.
“You think the three of us can turn this ship around?” he asked.
Yarrow scanned the deck. “We’ll have to dispatch this lot,” they said. “I’m quite sure the men downstairs will sleep soundly through the night—I tucked them in myself.” Yarrow winked. “But we can’t sail and keep our eyes on them at the same time.”
Zander nodded once, then turned to retrieve his dagger from where it remained stuck in the Irishman’s hand. He realized he still had the sailmaker’s needle clutched tightly in his left fist. He dropped it and pulled the blade free with a sickening crunch, then slit the pirate’s throat before he could wake from the pain. Then he and Yarrow walked carefully amidst the rows of sleeping men on deck, killing them one by one, a horrifying deed that Zander registered with vague, numb awareness.
They then headed to the brig. Yarrow informed Zander the man guarding Theo was likely the only one on board who didn’t partake in the rum punch, opting to drink from his own flask instead. They crept carefully toward the entrance to the gunner deck, where they could hear Theo talking loudly in his telltale storytelling voice.
The guard was visible from beyond the doorway, leaning forward on his haunches, enraptured with whatever Theo was saying. Zander recognized the man’s white-blonde hair and broad shoulders, but he hadn’t interacted with him. As Zander and Yarrow crept closer, a noise came from below deck that sounded like voices. Zander looked at Yarrow, who pointed to indicate they would take care of the men downstairs while Zander dispatched the pirate guarding Theo.
Zander rushed onto the gunner deck, making a beeline for the guard.
“Mate!” Theo exclaimed, and the excitement in his voice made Zander pause for a moment to smile at him. The guard stood, and Zander raised his sword arm, but Theo cried out again.
“Wait!” he said, standing. He swung open the unlocked door to his cell and strode out, his hands held up in a conciliatory gesture.
The guard looked in confusion from Theo to the brig, dumbfounded.
“Don’t kill this one, mate,” Theo said. “Me and Andrew are friends.”
Andrew continued to stare, his mouth hanging open, clearly wondering how long the cell door had been unlocked.
“No hard feelings, mate,” Theo said to Andrew. “We’re going to leave. I’m going to have to tie you up, though. You know, appearances and all.” He waved his hands in the air, shrugging apologetically.
Andrew looked from Theo to Zander and his shoulders dropped, his decision made.
“Naw,” he said, and charged at Zander, his hand moving to draw his sword.
One moment he was charging, and the next he was on the ground. Theo stood above him, Zander’s second dagger gripped in his first, the handle of which he’d used to hit him on the back of the head. Theo looked down at Andrew’s unconscious body with a look of profound disappointment.
“I thought we were friends,” he said.
Yarrow, who’d appeared in the doorway sometime during the exchange, clucked their tongue and gave Theo a sympathetic look. “We can still tie him up, dear. No need to kill him.”
Theo turned fully toward Zander and scanned him from head to toe. His shoulders dropped in relief, and he walked forward, his arms out for a hug.
“You’re not dead,” he said, his arms wrapping tightly around Zander’s shoulders. Zander hugged him back, grateful they were all alive.
“I told you he was alive,” Yarrow said.
