Pain seared Anne's right leg, and a force pushed her to the side and away from Christina. Anne fell to the ground and lashed out towards her lower leg. Tala, at the moment Anne had let her guard down, had bitten down on her calf and shin. She'd ripped through her clothes, through the muscle on her calf, and to the bone on her shin. Anne punched the wolf, shouting commands and expletives at the beast in French. Tala snarled, tugging at Anne's leg and refusing to let go as it ripped her leg to shreds.
The pain overtook Anne's mind, just as the bell had when she had been right underneath it. She screamed in vain, punching and punching Tala to no avail. She needed Tala off her, or she would die, she knew it. Anne reached into her belt, pulled out her knife, and slammed the blade into Tala's skull down to the hilt, killing the wolf instantly.
Anne ripped the beast's jaws off her leg, another roaring pain surging up her right leg, through her pelvis, and up her spine. She reared back, all thoughts lost in that storm of pain.
She pulled herself back from the pieces the pain had broken her into and mustered her will. Her whole body shook with the effort to bring herself to her feet, and she nearly collapsed as soon as she stood.
Christina was looking at her and Tala's lifeless body. She was still in a daze, her mind still trapped. Some part of her seemed to know what was happening, even in that dream-like state, and tears were streaking her face as she gazed at Tala and Anne.
Anne, her right leg useless, limped her way to Christina. She leaned on the younger woman for support, then clapped right in front of her eyes.
The spell released, and Christina took a sharp breath as though waking from a nightmare. "Wha… what happe…" She looked around at the scene of the battle, over to Tala's dead body, and then burst into fresh tears. She covered her mouth and pulled back from Anne, but Anne needed to hold onto the young woman for support.
"Christina, listen to me," Anne said weakly, trying to keep a hold of her consciousness.
Christina's eyes were moving quickly over everything, shock taking over her senses. She was breathing too rapidly and becoming hysterical. She looked down and saw Anne's injury and began to cry harder. "Your leg, oh Anne!"
"Christina, Christina!" Anne called. "Look at me." She grabbed the woman's face and gently took her attention back. Christina's eyes still didn't focus on Anne. "Look into my eyes," she said. The words triggered something in Christina, and Anne finally had her attention. "This wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong."
The young girl was a mess. She wept, with no way to stop the tears. Anne pulled her tight and held her as she cried. The battle raged on around them as Christina's tears and Anne's blood fell to the ground.
…
Cannons, muskets, swords, smoke, shouting, sweat, pain, blood. William's mind filtered through all the noise to focus on only the most essential things needed in the time of battle. He had been trained to do so, and he was adept at it.
He had not been trained to fight an enemy incapable of feeling pain. He had not been trained to fight his comrades. He had not been trained to hold back in battle.
And he had not been trained to suppress his emotions. That came from years of practice. And in that, he was struggling.
Anne had ordered him to act, and he acted. They were winning the battle, but only by the thinnest of margins. Their only saving grace was their surgeon's technique. On all other fronts—the number of men, morale, and even training, save for a few exceptions—they were on the losing side.
The cannons and muskets kept their enemies at bay while they fixed more members of their crew who had fallen under the devil's spell, and with each person who was saved, it added to their numbers.
"Draw swords!" Some heard his command and drew their swords and cutlasses with him. "Charge!" William led the men into the fray just before the enemy would be too close.
William had been called The Arching Light, a name given to him by others in the royal guard for his speed and the way light shone off his blade with his perfect form. Here on the battlefield, as a pirate, he knew his sword did not shine, and he was no source of light. Outside of training, in a real battle, his sword turned red.
William needed to end this quickly and ensure Anne's safety. He slashed, stabbed, kicked, punched, and elbowed one man after the other. His dance of death was muted. There was no beauty in it, only the purest form of battle. Parry, thrust, parry, sidestep, thrust. There was no chaos, no wasted movement, and no thought. Memory carried his blade and his body as one to where it needed to be, memory from his unknowing mind built over years of experience and training.
When it was over, he had killed eight, sending their souls to whatever afterlife their actions warranted.
William assessed the situation, taking stock of their numbers. The enemy had sent a similar number to what they had the other day, but with Anne's quick reaction, they had managed to fend them off. There were still some left, but the crew could handle the rest.
William turned his attention back to Anne and Christina, and as he approached, he saw the two in an embrace. Relief washed over him, but he didn't slow his pace.
Though they had lost many men so far and had many more injured, the other crewmates were turning those put into a trance back to normal. Soon, the battle would be over.
As he drew near he noticed Tala, dead and off to the side of the two women. Her muzzle was bloodied, a sure sign she
