Then I run.
I bolt through the doors at the far end of the room and slam them closed. I slide one of my longer daggers through the handles of both doors to buy me some time.
Shots fire through the door, and I have to leap aside to avoid wayward bullets. I’m in the galley, and I land between two benches bolted to the floor. As I rise and race the length of the room, I hear bodies being thrown against the door.
They’re trying to break in.
I reach the kitchens, which is the last room on this level of the ship. There’s a cooking stove at the far end, washing basins surrounding it. Between it and me, there’s a kitchen island, a chopping center for the cooks to use. I manage to launch myself to the other side of it as the galley doors finally snap under the barrage of Drifta breaking through.
The island is what saves me. It forces them to come at me two at a time, one on each side of the island with me in the middle. I’ve got my rapier in one hand and a knife in the other, as I prepare to fight them two at a time.
The first man who runs at me on the left skewers himself on my knife. The man behind him practically shoved him onto the sword in his haste to reach the fighting. I let go of the knife and drop down to grab his cutlass instead so I can have a longer reach with my left hand.
I angle myself back a foot to keep everyone within my sights. I dodge and thrust simultaneously, stabbing one man through the gut while fending off the other’s blow. Flicking my wrist, I send the enemy’s cutlass flying across the island and slice the empty-handed pirate to ribbons.
The men waiting their turns push harder and harder, desperate to join the fight. One leaps atop the island, thinking to overpower me from above. I dodge a strike from the right, and that pirate’s sword goes charging between the legs of the man on the island, who then stumbles and land flat on his back. I stab at the first man’s now-exposed back.
They keep coming, each man thinking he’ll be the one to finally beat me. It’s truly astonishing the number of fights I’ve won because of male arrogance.
After another thrust into meaty flesh, I’ve no time to withdraw the sword before veering to the side to avoid an ax swinging downward. Above my head, pots and pans hang down from the ceiling. I grab a large cast-iron skillet, yank it off the hook, and swing. It clonks the ax wielder in the head, sending him sprawling atop the pile of bodies.
And then I hear a sound.
The clicking of a pistol.
The man atop the island regains his feet. I reach up for his shirt and pull him downward. He screams when the iron ball makes contact with his back instead of me, and I drop him with the rest of the corpses growing around me.
Blood gathers in puddles on the floor, smears under my boots, flecks on my clothing and skin, runs down my sword, and coats my hands.
A man charges me, dodging under my rapier and sending the breath from my lungs as I fall. He might have made some progress if we’d landed on solid ground. Instead, a dead body takes the impact, and with the leverage, I’m able to roll the pirate off me. I drop the skillet and go for another dagger now that we’re in closer quarters, raking it across his neck before I stand. Blood flies into my face with the movement.
They’re getting smarter as they watch me kill. More men climb atop the island at once. I throw a knife. It has just enough space to make one arc before embedding into one man’s eye. Then I’m forced back against the washbasin as five cutlasses shove at me at once.
I turn in a half circle, my rapier touching blade after blade, but there are too many. I knew this was a possibility, of course. That this mission might be the equivalent of me sacrificing myself.
This is it, I think. The moment when I meet my end. It’s how I always wanted to go. Dying for the sake of someone else. Dying for Alosa’s crew. Risking my neck so they have a chance of making it home.
But, for the first time in as long as I can remember, something is different about this.
It takes me far too long to realize that I don’t want to die.
It’s terrifying as those words form in my head.
I’ve always been eager to reunite with my family. To do as much good as I could in the meantime and gladly go when it’s my time.
But I don’t want it to be my time.
Not when there’s still more that I can do. Not when I’m just beginning to realize that I might be worthy of having a life that is my own. Not that I’d ever abandon Alosa and her cause, but maybe there’s something I can do for myself. Maybe I can train more girls like I’m starting to do with Roslyn. Maybe I don’t have to hide. Maybe I can just be where I want, when I want.
And maybe I want a large brute by my side while I do it.
Terror lances through me in a way that makes me feel more alive than ever. For I do fear death, and I do have something to lose now.
This can’t be the end.
I hear a loud grinding sound bounce off the walls of the ship. The enemy freezes in place, even looks around, as though trying to determine the meaning of the sound.
“Is that—” one starts.
“The capstan!” another shouts.
Some of the men and women around me turn about, racing from the kitchen to stop the anchor from being raised, it sounds like.
No sooner have I started to hope, to think that I might survive this after all, when— Those closest to me attack.
There are too many sharp blades. I cannot dodge them all.
I sidestep the one aimed for my heart, fend one off with my knife and rapier. But the third— It slides into my stomach. The shock of pain has me just standing there, looking at the point of entry. A moment later, I hack into the one who delivered the blow. As he falls, he pulls his cutlass back out of me.
I scream.
Any Drifta remaining in the room leave to investigate what’s happening with the anchor.
Now that I’m hurt.
I stumble forward from the pain. My hand goes to my stomach, to keep in the blood.
I fall to my knees.
Stars, but it hurts. I have had many an injury over the years, but not like this. Never like this.
This one is serious.
I need a healer. Immediately.
There’s a shot from somewhere above, and the sounds of battle commence. I focus on my breathing, trying to find a way to do so without causing more pain, when a voice cuts across the fighting.
“Give them hell, lasses!”
Dimella.
They’re on board.
I look about me at the bodies and blood, looking for some answer to a question I haven’t fully formed. Some way to make sense of what I must do next.
There.
A skinny lad with his gun belt about his waist. He looks about my size.
I scoot along to him, get my fingers around that buckle, and loosen it. It slips free from his person, and I drag it over to me.
I grit my teeth. This is going to sting.
I place the belt over my injury, effectively covering the entrance and exit wounds, and cinch it tight.
A horrible sound escapes my lips, and I nearly black out as I fasten the buckle. I lie still on the floor, waiting for the pain to become bearable, but that doesn’t happen.
Nothing for it but to fight through it, then.
Getting to my feet takes an age, but once I do so, things get a bit easier. I’m not sure if I finally grow accustomed to the pain or if the belt is holding it in or something else altogether, but I’m able to gather my weapons, clean them off, and leave the room. Slowly.