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...
Don Juan was tied to the rail, a gun barrel resting on his temple, for everyone to see from the docks. Then, orders rang across the ship, echoing from stern to prow. Men ran to their posts, their calloused feet thundering in the hold. The gangway was hauled aboard and the anchor raised in a rattle as the untied moores splashed in the water or thumped on the deck. The sails were hauled down in a final blast of wood, cord and canvas.
Silence followed, deafening.
Men on board stood still as statues, waiting for instruction. Longshoremen and City Watch guards, lined up on the docks, were stunned, looking almost disappointed after such a smooth choreography. They had been robbed of the grand finale. Without the slightest breeze, the ship didn't moved an inch, becalmed.
Some mocking smiles appeared on the frowning faces of the men ashore. Somewhere on the Lady, someone coughed, embarrassed.
Leaning on the guardrail, Tiago couldn't hold it anymore and burst out in laughter. "Looks like we're extending our stay, companheiros." He pulled out his pistol to reload it.
Tapping his foot, he started to sing, chanting words in Portuguese on a rapid tempo. Soon, every man on deck, including Cap, joined him, butchering Tiago's beautiful language with enthusiasm. Next to him, Stalker was standing on the rail, a line in one hand, a nasty blade in the other. For once, his smile was genuine. The longshoremen now looked terrified.
Tiago wooted and fired in the air. The afterlife would never be this enthralling.
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