Hoist The Colours High

[Captain Ciera Ancora]

?They?re still pourin? over the side, and we?re losin? numbers fast! What do we do, Cap?n??

Ciera blanched. The fire and the Waverunner invasion were each more than capable of striking a mortal blow to the undercrewed Silver Maiden. The combination of the two skewed the fight well beyond hopeless. There was really no decision to make ? in the middle of a free-fall, there?s nowhere to go but down. They couldn?t run. They couldn?t surrender. They could find a way to kill at least fourscore trained soldiers and a raging Badger Lord, or they could die. In short? they could die.

She hazarded a look upwards. The ship?s colors had been almost entirely consumed by the flames. But just there, on the edges, the last remnants of that proud standard glowed red hot against the blackened sky.

?Kill them all!? she whispered.

With one motion, Ciera shrugged off her longcoat and let it fall to the deck. Rule one in a skirmish was to go after the enemy captain, and any visible sign of authority was a death sentence - especially with Atlas Stormstripe in the mix. Without it, she was simply a greyish ferret, practically indistinguishable from the other corsairs. The only unusual aspect of Ciera's appearance was a curious lack of battle scars marking her hide. Most foes would assess that as a sign of weakness. After all, a beast with a hundred scars had been pierced by a hundred blades, and lived to tell the tale. Ciera, however, felt that such a beast should?ve learnt to change tactics about ninety-nine scars ago. Most foes didn?t realize that a lack of scars didn?t necessarily mean that a beast couldn?t fight; it could also very easily mean that the enemy rarely got a chance to draw their blade in the first place. Kicking the discarded coat aside, Ciera waded into the fray.

A Waverunner hare stiffened as Ciera?s cutlass sliced into the base of his skull. He hit the deck nose first and rolled onto his side, revealing a death mask of shock. The corsair he?d been about to cleave in two smiled gratefully, and melted back into the chaos.

Four score Waverunners, take away one, leaves seventy-nine. Give or take.

The Waverunners outnumbered the Maiden?s crew nearly two to one, and the raging fire tipped the odds even further; but if they had a weakness, it was the code of rank and regiment. Soldiers had it drilled into their heads that there were right and wrong ways to fight. They lived by rules, which meant they died by rulebreakers. Waverunners considered it dishonorable to backstab a foe who was otherwise engaged. Frequently, it was the last thing they ever considered. Codes of honor had little meaning to pirates in an honest-to-goodness battleground, and no meaning whatsoever to Ciera Ancora.

Ciera turned, ducked an errant pike thrust, and kicked out a booted footpaw. An otter charging an unwary searat hit the upthrust ankle and stumbled. The searat turned just time to block the otter?s off-kilter blow. The otter reeled back, caught himself, and went in for the kill ? only to stop short with a cutlass blade between his ribs.

Seventy-eight.

A crescent of blood lanced to the deck as Ciera withdrew the blade. The timbers trembled slightly. Ciera stopped, and hazarded a sniff. The rank smell of wood smoke set off alarm bells in her head. The Maiden was still in distress.

Blast it all to Hellgates! Where is that fool Tooley? Why hasn?t he put out the fire?

Her footpaws itched, possessed of their own accord to dash for the galley and solve the problem herself.

No! Focus!

She forced herself to wander deeper into the labyrinth of writhing bodies and scything blades, trying to block out the duelling voices in her head.

The Maiden is burning! It?ll be nothing but a charred hulk! You?ve got to fix this!

Her boot heel came up, and stamped savagely down upon a mouse?s errant tail?

You?ll lose your home! Your crew! Your possessions!

The mouse?s yowl of pain ended abruptly as a blade tore into his throat?

Seventy-seven?

She bodily shoved a hare, sending his thrust awry?

Forget the fire, if you leave the battle, the crew will die anyway! You have to be here to save them!  

She dodged a squirrel?s lance thrust, struck back with her cutlass?

Tooley couldn?t put out the fire! Chak couldn?t stop us from being boarded!

The squirrel was ready for her, and her slash went wide?

You?ve got to leave! You?re the only one who can stop the fire!

She corrected, but not quickly enough?

You?ve got to stay! You?re the only one who can stop the Waverunners!

The lance shaft cracked her solidly across the jaw?

If the Maiden burns, it?s all your fault!

She fell to the deck?

If the Waverunners slaughter the crew, it?s all your fault!

The squirrel loomed over her, a monstrous silhouette backlit by a curtain of flame and smoke. He drew back the lance for a final thrust, she feinted left, prepared to spring to the right?

It?s all your fault anyway.

She froze, paralyzed by the sudden influx of guilt. The lance speared the air where her head would have been an instant later.

You knew there was every possibility that this might be an ambush. And you sailed out here anyway.

She kicked upwards, aiming for a part of the squirrel?s anatomy that lay pirates referred to as ?the voonerables.? 

There was never any treasure. You led your crew straight into a trap.

The kick connected, so hard that the squirrel?s footpaws briefly left the ground. He landed, legs ramrod stiff, eyes wide.

Fire or badger, either way you?ve killed them all. You?ve failed.

She sprang upright, and launched herself at the squirrel, teeth bared.

No!

Cutlass met lance with a splintering crunch, and she drove her elbow hard into the squirrel?s stomach. He staggered back, winded. The cutlass came up and caught him across the throat.

Seventy-six.

She snarled, breathing heavily, the tip of her cutlass weaving scarlet trails in the air. She glanced this way and that, daring anybeast to come near. Through a gap in the press of bodies, she spotted a familiar figure huddled sobbing at the base of the mast. A figure who should?ve been attending to fire in the galley.

?Mister Bostay?? she rasped. The words came out low and weak, no doubt exhausted from having to struggle past the blockade of curses mounting in her throat.

The weasel looked up, then around at the carnage, then at the burning sails, then back at her. Evidently, he?d decided what he feared most.

??m sorry, Cap?n!?

?You?re sorry?? she snapped, gesturing to the fire-ravaged sails. ?You?re sorry??

?I tried, Cap?n, really I did!?

She drew back the cutlass. It dripped red in the firelight.

Don?t. Reason dropped like a stone slab across her mental pathways. It?s not his fault. There?s no sense in punishing him.

She hesitated, looking deep into Tooley?s eyes. They were wide with fear. Reflections of firelight danced in his pupils. No. There was no sense in punishing Tooley, in hurting him for a situation she herself had caused. No sense. No rationale. No purpose.

I don?t care.

The cutlass stiffened. It would?ve gone very badly for Tooley just then, if the firelight reflected in his eyes hadn?t suddenly turned blue.