There is nothing worse for a pirate than dying on dry land. Except, maybe, swinging two feet above it.
When their captain is imprisoned, facing the gallows, the men and women of the Lady Lesya's crew will try everything to break him out--even if it...
Shouts and orders rang out from the barracks. Between the stone pillars, the trio of pirates turned their heads at once toward the origin of the racket. Some fifteen men-at-arms were gathering outside the building, paying no attention to Dune, still waiting a few steps away. They tried to form ranks, but only managed to align in an ugly, disorganized parody of it. Excitation was palpable.
"I don't get the point of these ridiculous hats," said Tiago.
Indeed. In addition to shiny red and white uniforms, all the soldiers were wearing tall, furry black hats. Drops of sweat were already shining on their flushed faces.
"It's a British thing," answered O'Ma.
Stalker sniggered. "And ye're well placed to know that the British sense of fashion is one of the worst."
"I'm not British! I have nothing to do with these Protestant mother fuc-"
"Look! They're leaving!" interrupted Tiago.
Led by the young guard they had seen coming in a few minutes before, the whole squad marched away rapidly, boots slamming the cobblestones.
"Where is Flow, for Pete's sake?" grumbled O'Ma from somewhere inside his bushy beard
Stalker got to his feet to stand beside him. "I don't know where the kid is and I don't care. This is our chance! To hell with Alexandra. We must go in. Now!"
O'Ma looked up at the painted freak, towering a good foot above him. After a short while, he sighed. "It pains me to admit you might be right."
"Finally!" exulted Tiago.
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