Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Chapter 165: My Love's Revenge Is Cruel (Part Two)

Wallace's Warehouse
Great Inagua

First comes the sickening click of each firing pin, the loosened locks of the breech. Hands, calloused or gloved, slide against barrels, The mouths open to roar at each other, to a battle where both would hit—and hit surely—to death or severed limbs, they don't know yet. But one man loathes the foolhardiness and courage of these children; his own and another man's. Brought here by their longstanding hatred, inherited from the kingdoms they came from, from the sea they wanted to claim.

For the fate of a woman they had both held dear.

My love. Anton grips his rifle, watching his stalwart but still terrified men. This is his battle. And no battle like this, so wretched and borne of Fate and Love, should have so many of his own charges spill their own blood.

The British Captain, no doubt from his bearing and different regalia, begins to raise a finger. A duel, one which Thibaud more than honors by following Gunther's echoes of the countdown. Anton looks at the rifle he aims in his hands. Flashes of fire come back, biting and cruel. These mortals. They do not know how useless it all is.

He throws the rifle to Gunther's unsuspecting arms...

SWISH!

And swings his saber high.

"CAPTAIN!" Thibaud screams, and it throws off the commander's count. The growls of thundering guns from behind rattle them even more that when the fires rain over Inagua's mountain, and the ground shakes underneath their boots, the stalwart Captain Joseph Maynard of the doesn't have the time to breathe out the final number three when a the silver glint of a saber slices sight, and the devilish fire of raining cannonballs glint bright orange and red against the sharp face, the abysmal eyes of El Diablo Del Mar.

With his strength of twenty men in one corrupted being, the monster tears into the formation, sparing no soldier—man or boy. His own men left stunned, they could not move until Thibaud got hold of his senses to save the pillage from the cannonfire. Gunther swallows to wet his parched, tight throat, shivering in place as he tries to aim and help their Captain for naught: the falling rocks had dispersed the enemies and the remaining ones had fallen by his saber, grasping on the ground for their throats, their bellies, their arms. Gunther silences. Not once. On the crow's nest or even on deck, had he seen a captain like this.

A hand grasps the meek-mannered pirate's arm. Thibaud directs him to lead the men down Packard's awaiting ship. To this, Gunther nods, but as the salvo from the allies stop and the smoke clears, they turn and find the solitary dark shadow in the middle, heaving deeply, his sword arm trembling and streaked with black.  At the end, in his grasp, is the fine saber—its handle gold and engraved, its steel gleaming, where at its edge drip thick, scarlet drops onto the dirtied white stocking of a gasping soldier.

It is Thibaud who takes a breath and tries to call—

"Salen..."

Gunther swallows audibly. Thibaud bars him protectively, himself understanding only a little Spanish, he tries to take a step.

"SALEN!"

The Captain roars that even the smoke clears at his rage. Gunther runs and nearly takes Thibaud with him, but the French pirate stands his ground and directs the men to hurry up and leave. With a deep breath, he turns around.

Only to meet those infamous eyes.

Thibaud nods. "Captain," he calls, a touch afraid, but also grateful, even in its own twisted way. This man had just saved them from sure injury or death, whatever he was. The captain staggers toward his pirate. His empty eyes stare at the mauled rugged hill, the burning trees, but he never glances at the blood underneath his boots or the twitching and pleading enemies by his legs. No. He keeps his gaze before him, breathing hard. Throat tight, Thibaud runs up but stops at a raised hand for him. "Captain, how can I help—"