be simultaneously boarded by Rashodd’s boys and . . .’ his face screwed up as he searched for the words, ‘some manner of fish-men.’
‘They look more like frogs from up here, Captain,’ Sebast offered.
‘That had occurred to me,’ Lenk replied, stroking his hairless chin and hoping that was as effective as caressing a beard. ‘And rest assured, I’ll get right on it . . . after you pay.’
Shock, anger and incredulity gave way to a moment of sheer, unexpected consternation on the captain’s face.
‘Pay?’
‘Blasphemers live by coin.’
‘Are you actually trying to extort me while our lives hang in the balance?’
‘I can’t think of a better time for extortion, can you?’
It was a purely bitter demand, Lenk knew, as much motivated by pettiness as pragmatism. Still, he couldn’t deny that it was purely satisfying to watch the captain reach into his pocket and produce a well-worn pouch, hurling it at Lenk as though it was a weapon.
‘Of all the vile creatures you consort with, Mister Lenk,’ he forced through his teeth, ‘you are by far the most disgusting. ’
Lenk weighed the pouch in his hand, hearing the jingle of coins within. Nodding, he tucked it into his own belt.
‘That’s why I’m the leader.’
In a perfect world, Lenk would have faced well-trained ranks of soldier-sailors armed with steel and discipline scrawled on their faces as he arrived on the main deck. In a less-than-perfect but still optimistic scenario, he would have found shaken but stalwart men, armed with whatever they had to hand.
Perfection and optimism, however, were two words he had no use for.
He shoved his way through herds of visibly panicked sailors, shrieking and screaming as they tripped over bodies and fought over the swords their foes had left behind. He didn’t spare a glance for them as he heard the senior members of the crew barking orders, trying to salvage a defence from the mob.
Let them deal with their squealing, milksopping idiots, he advised himself, you’ve got your own psychotic, cowardly idiots to deal with.
The sight of said idiots, for whom hope of perfection or optimism had long ago died a slow and miserable death, was modestly heartening. After all, he reasoned, if they hadn’t already looted the bodies and fled he could likely hope for them to put up a fight long enough to abandon him in the middle of it.
Gariath stood at the centre of the deck, Dreadaeleon little more than a dwarf beside his towering form. Kataria and Denaos were at arms, arrow drawn and dagger at the ready. Quillian stood distanced from them, a crossbow strapped on her back to complement her sword; why she lingered, Lenk could only guess. Perhaps she wished to be present to deliver a smug lecture as they lay dying shortly before being impaled herself.
If Khetashe loved him, he thought, he’d be dead first.
‘Where’s Asper?’ he asked, noting the absence of the priestess.
‘Tending to the wounded below before tending to the soon-to-be dead above,’ Denaos replied. ‘As well as saying whatever prayers she says before engaging in acts of futility.’
‘You’re not showing her the proper respect,’ Dreadaeleon snapped, lifting his chin.
‘Warriors get respect. Humans get their faces caved in,’ Gariath rumbled as he turned a black scowl upon the rogue. ‘You will get a pair of soiled pants the moment someone turns their back so you can run.’
‘If you happen to turn your back on me, monster,’ Denaos forced through clenched teeth as he flipped his dagger about in his hand, ‘it won’t be running I do.’
‘So rarely,’ Lenk interjected with as much ire as he could force into his voice, ‘do I find an opportunity where I’m actually pleased you people are around. Would you mind terribly waiting until this uncomfortable feeling has passed to kill each other?’ He pointed over the railing to the fast-approaching black ship. ‘In a few breaths, we’ll be swarming with pirates and Gods know what else is swimming up to the ship. If you’ve any intention of surviving long enough to maim each other, you’ll listen to me.’
Indignant scowls, resentful stares and frustrated glowers met him. Not quite the attention he was hoping to command, but good enough.
‘They’ll be upon us shortly,’ he continued, ‘they outnumber us, outarm us—’
‘“Outarm” isn’t a word,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted.
‘Shut up,’ Lenk spat before proceeding, ‘and are likely slightly irate at our having killed some of them. It’s not an impossible fight, but we’ll have to bleed them, make them pay for every step.’
At the angry call of a gull