Chapter 23. Snippet. The Guild of Salt.
The ship Avocet, North Sea
“Heave to, there! Heave to and be quick.”
“Who demands so?”
“They expect us to stop and let them have their way?” whispered Ralph after listening to the exchange between Aldous and the other shipmaster. “Are they mad?”
“They don’t want a fight,” replied Esmé. She and the rest of the passengers had joined Ralph and Harold in the bow; Aldous insisted the deck be left to the sailors and their work. “No pirate wants a fight. What’s the point of stealing silver if you’re too dead to spend it? Terror’s the only blade they swing. Bullyboys, the lot.”
“With respect my lady, there's no blade shortage over yonder,” said Harold. The enemy stood only fifty yards off, close enough to show their teeth. Clamped in angry fists, cruel-looking axes and clubs pumped the air, flails spun overhead; spear shafts drummed against the mast and sides of the ship.
Ralph glanced at his companions. Harold’s lips silently mouthed prayers. His round face was pale and blotchy. Esmé’s face showed no expression at all. Her clear blue eyes didn’t blink in their dark recesses. Muriel on the other hand wore a scowl capable of making the hardest pirate blanch. Her cheeks flushed with outrage, giving her scar an angry, livid look. Ralph’s eyes fell on Esmé again, only to find her looking back at him. Ralph looked away. How did he look to others? Could they see the panic slowly gnawing on the inside of his heart, trying to release itself, like a snake eating its way out of its egg?
Ralph busied himself, distracted himself with mundane tasks: he drew his knife and checked the sharp on the blade. He tried to lose himself in the tiny scratches along its side, the quality of the honing, the keenness of the point. Jamming it back into its sheath, he examined each arrow in the quiver laying before him, drawing a couple to ensure they could be quickly had. Then he turned to his bow, plucking the string and running a finger across the flight of the nocked arrow. Having worked through his distractions, Ralph felt his stomach sour. Whatever comes, just don’t shit yourself, Ralph Gael.
Harold’s hand squeezed his shoulder. It was ice-cold. “You’ll tell my father I made an account of myself?”
Ralph pulled out his badge, studied it then kissed it. “After today, Harold, you can add Pirate's Bane to your song. They’re not having us.”
“Heave to and we’ll respect the modesty of any ladies aboard. I swear to God.”
"You're a thief and a bandit of the sea. God's not underwriting your oath. Begone! I'm capable of defending me and mine."
“Brave words for a fat little boat like yours.”
“True words. Come aboard and see.”
Jeers rose from the pirate. A horn blared, hard and metallic. Two men jumped into the rigging and grabbed their groins, wrenching them up and down, thrusting their hips in Esmé and Muriel’s direction. Scanning along the other ship, Ralph came face to face with one of the enemy. The pirate’s bulging eyes bore into Ralph’s. His arms stretched overhead, pumping a huge Dane axe. Spittle dripped from the knife hilt clenched in his jaws as he screeched through his teeth. He was bald and bearded and barrel-chested.
But the pirate’s eyes transformed. No longer wild with menace, they popped wide with fear. He spit out the knife, dropped the axe and stumbled backwards, toppling to the deck just as Ralph's arrow passed where his head had been. Ralph loosed another, this time he adjusted for the wind, and the missile landed somewhere in the waist of the overcrowded enemy ship. A scream pierced the air.
As if a spell lifted, Avocet leapt to life. Ralph’s arrow had shattered the icy dread hanging in the air. The shriek of pain testified that the enemy — though fearsome — could be hurt.
“Let them feel our sting!” screamed John, but Harold and Esmé had already joined the fight; their bowstrings twanging again and again; their throats roared like trumpets, pronouncing their anger, their strength and their will to resist.
Pick your teeth with this!
Die now and save the swim home!
Stick this in your pants!
John let loose with the crossbow, passing it to his man Alfred who reloaded it with shaking hands. So nervous was Alfred that Muriel snatched it from him and finished charging it. Soon John — sword-swinging overhead, yelling encouragement — left Muriel to the weapon.
Here’s a little prick for you! She screamed, squeezing the trigger-lever.
Grave with righteousness, Father inspired his flock. “From his fellow man, I will require a reckoning for the life of a man. Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed!”
“Down! Down! Down!” yelled Ralph. A volley of arrows took flight from the enemy ship. Dozens slammed into Avocet's side, sounding like a gang of carpenters all hammering on the hull. Hunched with his back to the windward rail, Ralph flinched as another volley skimmed over the rail, inches from his head. A shock to his neck, and Ralph flung around onto his stomach like a startled cat. Two arrows jutted through the rail’s pine strake. He slapped his hand to the back of his neck and felt the blood flowing.