Steel (18 page)

Apart from the constant background noises of waves and wind always present on a ship at sea, they only heard the beat of boot steps on the deck as Cooper and Blane moved back and forth, their gasps for breath and huffs of effort. The sounds of fighting had faded, and even the fog of gunpowder had blown away. Everyone else just watched.

There came a hiccup in the rhythm of swords crossing and bodies moving. The fighters closed for what seemed just a moment, their blades caught against each other as the two crashed together in a failed attack. With a cry of rage Blane disentangled himself with a slash of his blade. Cooper shouted back, right in his face, and her own weapon turned.

Jill thought it was done, that it was all over for him. But it was Captain Cooper who fell away, a slash of red marring her side.

Shouts of anger cried out from the side of the ship. The
Diana
’s crew, reacting. Some of them ran forward to reach their captain—Henry, Abe, Tennant. The members of Blane’s crew remaining on deck surged, growling, weapons out, ready to do battle.

Jill ran forward, screaming her own cry of battle. She swept Blane’s rapier around her, defending a space.

“Get back!” she shouted, putting herself between Blane’s men and Captain Cooper. “Get away, all of you!”

Jill spared a glance back, dreading what she would see. But Cooper was alive. A grimace creased her face, and she snarled at her crewmen. “I’m fine, it’s only a cut, let go of me!” But her voice was strained, and she was hugging her arms around her middle, holding in a flow of blood.

“Henry! Get that surgeon up here! Go now!” Abe shouted. Henry jumped back to the
Diana
and ran belowdecks.

Abe and Tennant finished dragging Cooper out of the way, toward the side and back toward the
Diana
. Matthews guarded their escape with a pair of pistols. Jill kept herself in front of Blane.

Edmund Blane was using a handkerchief to wipe blood off his sword. He stepped slowly around her; she moved to keep him in view. Holding her sword at him, she stared at him down its length. The tip of the sword shook because her arm was trembling.

“How do you like it? It’s got a good weight to it, doesn’t it?” he said casually, unconcerned. “Now that you’ve got it in one piece, do you know what to do with it?”

She remained silent, repeating old fencing lessons in her mind. Point your toe, keep your knees bent, keep the blade on line, never attack on a bent arm. Advance, retreat, lunge, recover. She liked to think she knew what to do with a rapier.

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” Blane said, stuffing the bloodied handkerchief up one sleeve. He kept his rapier out and ready. “Give me my sword, and the
Diana
and all her crew can go free. You can tend to Marjory—it isn’t a deep wound, I’ll wager. If you can stop the bleeding, she should live. You can all live—if you give me my sword.” He spoke this loud enough to carry to the crew of the
Diana
who were watching.

Jill didn’t know what to do. Her first impulse, her first instinct, was to toss the sword at his feet and run back to her friends. This shocked her. That shouldn’t have been what she wanted to do at all. After everything she’d done to get it, after all the worry she’d spent over it, she’d get rid of it so easily, without a fight? She’d give up her way home without a fight? And she realized if she had to choose between going home and the lives of her friends, she couldn’t. If she could save them, she had to.

She looked over her shoulder. Cooper was propped against the side. Abe was with her, and Emory had arrived. The surgeon was packing a bandage into the wound at her side. Henry and Tennant stood guard, even though Tennant only had a dagger with him. They were all watching her.

Marjory Cooper shook her head.
No, don’t do it.
And Henry shook his head. Abe smiled. She knew they were right because Blane would never keep his word. They would all back her up, whatever happened.

Jill looked at Edmund Blane and shook her head.

His lip curled in a sneer. Then he struck.

It was a textbook feint—straight arm, forward thrust. He expected to catch her off guard, expected her to parry wide, flailing, leaving her defenseless while he disengaged to another line of attack and skewered her. Her fencer’s brain mapped it out a quarter of a second before it happened because she’d seen it before, she’d practiced against a move like that a million times. And lately, she’d been practicing with pirates. When he attacked, she didn’t have to stand there waiting for him.

She sidestepped out of his way and beat his blade off line, giving him nothing to counterattack against and no opening. But he was fast and smart and recovered quickly, attacking again.

She let her fears go, her anxieties fade, bringing all her attention to the flashing steel before her. Her body knew what to do, and the rapier fit neatly in her hand, comfortable and deadly. The world focused in on his blade and her own, and how the two interacted. He didn’t let her rest; every moment was taken up with attack and counterattack, parries and ripostes, trying to hit while avoiding getting hit herself. Sweat gathered in her hair and trickled down her back, under her shirt. An annoyance she could do nothing about, it made her aware of her whole body and how close the edged steel was coming to it.

He flicked his weapon at her, she parried—and was striking at an opening before her higher brain even knew it was there. A length of forearm behind his glove. She thrust at it, heard ripping as the point caught the shirt, felt resistance of flesh. He shouted, and she scurried back as his sword swung toward her again.

Blood stained the sleeve of his right arm. Not a lot. But enough to show the man was mortal.

And she remained standing, sword in her hand, watching him. So it would take more than a little blood for the power of the sword to send her home. They’d have to finish this, and she frowned, daunted.

His fury was controlled as he came at her again, his attacks even more powerful, so that each parry she made rattled her arm. Her muscles were turning to rubber. If he was at all tired after fighting Cooper, he hid it well.

On the other hand, Jill wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. In competition, a tournament might last all day, but a single bout might last only a few minutes. Even with dozens of bouts in a day, she’d have lots of rests in between. She was missing the rests, now. She only wanted a chance to catch her breath. But she had to keep going. If she slowed, Blane would see it and cut her down.

Her heart was beating in her throat, her temples were pounding. If she could only cut him again, and then a dozen more times—

With a renewed bout of strength, he pressed, and she retreated, hoping for a spare breath and a chance to recover. She felt the cut on her left arm without seeing exactly how he had made it—he growled, frowning, which made her think that he’d missed and meant to hit something more vital. The stinging wound seemed distant.

Instead of pulling back a moment and reassessing—as she had done after she struck him—he drove even harder. She couldn’t even counter now, only move her sword in a constant parry and hope her defensive wall was enough to keep him out. She jumped sideways, hoping to duck out from under his onslaught, but he stayed right with her.

All she needed was an opening, a moment when he let his guard down, a chance for her to strike. But then, that was all he needed, too.

She gathered another burst of strength, hoping to make one last attack, a last concerted exchange that would give her the opening she needed and finish this. She beat his blade, attacked. He made a hurried retreat, and she thought,
This is it
.

Then Blane fell.

His feet slipped out from under him and he toppled like a cartoon character.
But I didn’t do anything
, came Jill’s first thought.

Then she saw the hook and rope tangled around his legs. And Henry crouched nearby, holding the other end of the line.

Jill marched forward and lay the point of her rapier on Blane’s neck, like it was the most natural, normal thing to do.

The captain of the
Heart’s Revenge
had been struggling to sit up, but confronted by Jill’s steel he simply lay there, breathing hard, sweating, craning his head up to try to see her without impaling himself. His expression was an ugly sneer. Jill didn’t dare look away from him.

“Finish him off!” Henry called.

She knew what he meant—a slice across his throat, a stab through his neck and spinal cord. An ugly, messy death. He’d twitch on her sword like a bug on a pin. It’d be easy to do, with him lying there. The sword itself seemed to yearn toward him, eager to slice into him. She felt the power of it in her fingers, wrist, and arm. And if she was right, this would send her home—feed the sword Blane’s life in exchange for the child’s life he’d taken with it. It ought to be easy, with so much at stake.

And she realized she couldn’t. Not even to send herself home.

“You cheated,” Jill said to Henry.

“Course I did, you weren’t going to beat him,” he said.

Henry didn’t know that. Anything could have happened. That last attack might have worked. But part of her was just as glad not to have to find out. Blane was beaten, and it didn’t matter who gave the final blow.

“I’m not going to kill dead a man who’s flat on his back,” Jill said. “That’s the kind of thing
he
would do.”

“A woman of honor,” Blane said with contempt. “Nice.”

Yes
, she thought.
I am.

“Drop your sword,” she said, flicking the point against his skin. It scraped but didn’t cut. But just a little more pressure…

Blane let go of his weapon. Jill kicked it away, and it rattled across the wooden deck.

Her arm became very tired, then. The sword she held no longer called out for blood, no longer surged with power. It was just a weight of steel. Well-made, beautiful steel. But nothing more.

Mostly, then, it was done. With their captain defeated, Blane’s men turned docile. They sat by the gunwales and didn’t make trouble. They’d been loyal to Blane’s power, which was gone now. The crew of the
Diana
had defeated the boarding party. The cannons were silent.

Captain Cooper got to her feet, aided by Abe and the doctor. But she walked over to Jill under her own power, limping, hand pressed to her side over the bandage wrapped around her middle.

“Come to gloat then, Marjory?” Blane said, hateful as ever.

“Henry,” she said softly. “Tie the bastard up. Good and tight.”

Henry did, tying Blane’s hands and feet with yards of rope, tying another loop around the pirate’s neck so if he tried to move too much he’d strangle himself.

Finally, Jill could lower the rapier. It was just a sword now. It had defeated its master, tasted Blane’s blood. Any mysticism she’d felt from it, any power it had given her, seemed to have dissipated. She felt weak, like she wanted to melt. Her muscles were loose, exhausted.

Captain Cooper stood beside her, in front of Blane, now trussed and lying by the forecastle of the ship.

“Are you all right, Tadpole?” she said.

“Aren’t I a frog yet?”

Cooper chuckled and squeezed Jill’s shoulder. Jill sighed. “I couldn’t kill him. Was that wrong?”

“No. It’s never wrong, that’s what the preachers say. But I think it means you don’t really belong out here.”

That was what Jill had known all along.

“On the other hand, a quick death’s too good for him, isn’t it? I’d like to see him hang in a gibbet,” she said. Jill just stared.

“Ahoy! Ship ahoy!” The call came from the
Diana
. No lookout had been posted during the battle, but one of the sailors leaned over the prow of the smaller ship and shouted. Everyone looked.

Beyond the spit of shore that marked the end of the island, an incongruous shape emerged, a bright glint against the water. Jill squinted, trying to bring the spot into focus, wishing for the captain’s spyglass. Then the spot moved, gliding upon the water, coming into full view. Another ship, three-masted, under full sail, moving fast. A spot of color flashed amidst the sails—the red and white of the British navy.

“It’s the bloody navy, just what we need right now,” Cooper muttered. She marched to Emory and grabbed his collar, curling it in her fist—then wincing and pressing a hand to her bandaged side. But her voice was no less fierce. “One of your friends, then?”

Emory glanced out at the navy ship, circling the area like a predator.

“She’s the HMS
Ivy
. I believe she’s been tracking you since Jamaica.”

“With your help?”

Emory wouldn’t look at her. “I imagine they were waiting for the battle to end.”

“So they could sail in pretty as birds to clean up the scraps? I ought to hang you from the bowsprit and ram you through their hull!”

“Captain,” Emory said. “Let me signal them. I’m sure we can work out a deal. The reward for Blane is considerable—”

“I don’t trust you. You’re just trying to find a way off this boat and sell us all out besides.”

“I can’t deny it.”

Cooper snarled at him.

“Captain!” Abe called. “Speaking of gibbets, maybe we should let the English sharks have him?”

Emory brightened for the first time since Jill had seen him. He made a quick nod. “That sounds very agreeable. I can raise flags to signal the
Ivy
and have them come alongside—”

The captain shook her head. “We’re not talking about you, we’re talking about Blane.”

“Captain, please, I won’t say a word against you—”

“No.” Cooper turned to her quartermaster. “Abe. How’d you like your own ship?”

Abe glanced over the deck of the
Heart’s Revenge
, her masts and sails the worse for wear after the battle but still whole, still seaworthy. If possible, his grin grew wider. “I think that would be a very fine thing. But I think she’ll need a new name.”