The pirates were screaming even more loudly, now that this second blow had struck them. They'd been expecting to face nothing more than the usual crew of a demibireme. Sailors, basically, who doubled as fighters only on rare occasion. Coming on top of the surprise volleys of gunfire, the shock of seeing regular Confederate marines storming across boarding ramps- and where the hell had those come from? — had unnerved them completely.
The pirates facing the marines directly weren't even fighting, except here and there. Most of them were simply trying to scramble away.
But there was no room to scramble. Two hundred men packed aboard such a galley had left little room to begin with, even before the Confederate assault cleared the space in the middle.
'They're starting to go over the side,' said Jessep. Sure enough, Helga could see at least a dozen pirates spilling into the water. A few of them from jumping, most of them simply from being knocked overboard by the sudden crush.
'Pity the poor bastards,' he added. Softly, if not gently.
Helga was about to snarl something to the effect that she wanted all the pirates dead. The coast wasn't that far away, after all, and at least some of them would be good swimmers. But then, seeing the first fins cutting through the water not more than fifty yards away, the words died in her throat.
'These are shark waters, aren't they?' she asked.
Jessep grunted. 'Famous for it.' He studied the shoreline for a moment; then: 'I'd say it's a good two miles. Maybe closer to three. Not too many men can swim that distance to begin with. Here…' He shook his head. 'Not a chance.'
Helga decided he was right. As they neared, she recognized the shape and markings of the fins. These were what sailors called 'redsharks.' Not from their own coloring, which was basically a dull gray except for the white tips of the dorsal fins, but from their handiwork. Redsharks were almost as large as the much rarer 'great blues,' and their gaping jaws were fringed with grappling tentacles lined on the interior with nasty little barbs.
They weren't even the same species-not even close-as most of the seabeasts which went by the generic name of 'sharks.' Men had been known to survive attacks by other types of sharks, even great blues. Most sharks were actually a little finicky in their tastes. They usually bit humans by mistake, thinking they were their normal prey. One bite was enough to find the taste of humans sour, and the shark went on its way.
Of course, often enough that one bite was fatal, especially with great blues. Still, many men had lived to tell the tale afterward of a great blue attack; even if, as a rule, they told the tale with a wooden leg propped up on a seaside tavern stool. But Helga had never heard of anyone surviving a redshark which sunk its teeth and tentacles into them. Redsharks were about as indiscriminate in their taste as hogs in a trough, and they weighed on average half a ton. Once a human got into their grasp, that… was it.
'Good,' she hissed. She caught a glimpse of Jessep giving her an odd look, but paid no attention. She was engrossed with gauging the battle raging on the ship alongside.
By now, the Confederate marines had cleared the entire center of the enemy vessel and were beginning the butcher work. All of them had finished boarding. Half of the hundred was driving toward the stern, the other half toward the bow. Shields still locked-but now the assegais were flashing. And, like the legs, went back and forth like machines. Pistons, for all intents and purposes-except these pistons ended in two-foot blades sharpened to an edge which didn't quite match a razor's. Not quite.
'This is finished, First Spear. Isn't it?'
'Aye, ma'am. All but the killing.'
She shook her head. 'No reason to risk any more losses.' Losses had been few enough, in truth. Here as always, Confederate training and discipline counted. But Helga could see at least five soldiers of the hundred out of action. Three of them were only wounded-and not too badly at that, she thought. They were already attending to their own wounds.
The other two… One of them was dead, no question about it. A skillfully wielded blade-or just a lucky one- must have come over the edge of his shield and caught his throat. Blood was still gushing out of the wound, enough to make his survival a moot point.
She wasn't sure about the other. He was lying sprawled across one of the benches, his helmet knocked askew. Might be dead, or just unconscious.
But there was no need, any longer, to risk more casualties. She might well need her hundred again, in the weeks and months to come-and there'd be no way to replace lost men down in the southern continent. At least, she'd never heard of Southrons being recruited directly into a regular Vanbert unit. Many of the barbarians served in the Confederate army, of course, but to the best of her knowledge always as members of auxiliary units.
'Call it off, First Spear,' she commanded. 'There's no need to lose any more of our people.'
Jessep was shouting the order before she even finished. Looking at him, Helga realized he was relieved to hear her order. He'd obviously been expecting her to insist on full revenge.
Her jaws were tight. I'll get my revenge, never fear. I just don't need the hundred for it.
The instrument of her revenge was trotting toward her even now. Trae, his mouth split in a wide smile, about to utter some words of glee and self-praise.
He never got them out. 'I'm not finished with you,' hissed Helga. She pointed a stiff finger at the pirate ship. 'Destroy that thing for me, brother.'
He came to an abrupt stop a few feet away and turned his head. 'What for?' he demanded. Then, seeing the Confederate soldiers begin an orderly withdrawal: 'And why'd you wait so long to call them back? Another five minutes and they'd have lost-'
He broke off, seeing the expression on Helga's face. 'Oh,' he mumbled. 'That.'
He took a deep breath. 'Sorry, sister. Because you never act like… what I mean is…' Another deep breath. 'Never mind.'
He gave the pirate ship a quick study. 'Don't want to chance a grenade,' he muttered, 'and they're too hard to replace. Simple satchel charge should do the trick-and I've got something special I'd like to try anyway.'
As always, a technical project got Trae completely engrossed. Within fifteen seconds, he was back among his gunnery crew, shouting his usual mix of profanity and orders.
It was all very quick. By the time the last Confederate marines trotted back across the ramps, carrying their dead and helping their wounded, Trae had his 'special' ready. It looked like one of the other satchel charges Helga had seen, except for three flasks strapped to the side.
Very quick, though not rushed. Thicelt even had his sailors take the time to pry loose the ends of the ramps and hoist them back into position, rather than simply jettisoning them by detaching the hinges. Then with a push of several oars, opened a space of about ten feet between the two ships.
Two of Trae's men were standing on one of the still-fixed portions of the upper deck by now, holding the 'special satchel' between them. At Trae's shout, a third man lit the fuse and the two tossed the thing onto the center of the pirate galley's deck. That area was cleared, except for corpses. The pirates still alive-a good half of the crew, Helga estimated-were cowering at the bow and stern. Even after the marines retreated, they hadn't been in the least inclined to 'pursue.'
'Get us away from here, Sharlz!' bellowed Trae. 'That's a short fuse!'
The command was pointless, really. Thicelt already had the ship under way, the hortator pounding his mallets. Their progress was slow, at first, with only the lower bank of oars working. But by the time the satchel charge blew, less than a minute after it was tossed, Helga's ship was fifty yards away and retreating rapidly. Some corner of her brain was impressed by the speed with which Thicelt had gotten the upper bank back into action.
But only a corner of her brain, and a small corner at that. Most of her mind was being washed over by a wave of sheer hatred, intermingled with horrible flashes of memories she had long suppressed. One male body after another-just pieces of bodies, really; a bare chest, a leg, a scrawny belly wet with her violation, another gap- toothed grin-slamming onto her, one after the other. She never knew how many; didn't want to know. It had lasted for three days.
At first, she was disappointed by the burst of the satchel charge. She'd been expecting to see the pirate ship simply disintegrate. Break in half, at least. But then, not more than a second later, seeing the bloom of fire wash across the ship, she understood what Trae had meant by a 'special.' He must have designed this satchel charge especially for use against an enemy ship.
Trae confirmed her thought immediately. 'Beautiful, isn't it? There wasn't actually much powder in the thing. Just enough to set off the naphtha-some other stuff too-I had in those flasks. She'll burn down to the waterline, you
