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It was a bright day in early summer, and Ye Ol’ Marigold cut the surf like a blade. They had edged a narrow band of ocean between Murderer’s row, where ships had to play hopsotch between a haphazard line of deadly islands where crews often lay wait in ambush, and Gutrench Trench, a yawning chasm in the middle of an ocean that sucked down ships to the grave. Valgur and his crew bore a course northwest for Last Stop, just south of Fine Island.
They were to lay siege to a growing outpost in current possession of Captain Torenisa, the Queen of Scars, and one of Valgur's bitter rivals. Torenisa was a dangerous woman. She was a keen shot and tactician, and a fierce leader. Her flagship, the Gauntlet, was manned entirely by a crew of free women, and had gained great fame among the Isles. She hired men, also, crude mercenaries where she saw fit to extend her reach and supplement her growing fleet. One particular group was stationed at Last Stop, an island often fought over by captains of the free men as it was used as a supply post for longer voyages west toward Loneport and the main continent of Karobos. At fifteen, it was to be Picaro’s first raid.
He stood with the crew all arrayed, many brandishing blades or firearms. Picaro glanced down the line. They were all there, Metron, the first gunner, and Grit, the chief mate. Mord and Scuttle, and other men of seaworthy renown, all no stranger to battle. Largest of all was Atrocius, the ship's chief brigadier, and the only man aboard Ye ‘Ol Marigold that Picaro was truly afraid of.
Atrocius was the ship’s general-brigadier. He was an enormous, barrel chested man with a clean-shaven face that reminded Picaro of a shark. His menacing, scarred chin jut out proudly from his face, and his mouth was often curled in a half-smile, glinting silver. True to his likeness, his chosen weapon was a manually operated gatling gun affixed to the jawbone of a huge ripshark, teeth and all. This he slung about his shoulder to support the weight of the gun. The teeth made it a vicious weapon in close quarter combat. Atrocius called it the crank, but many of the crew more aptly referred to it as Jaws. They called him Atrocius, the Jaws of Death.
Quickly, his fame grew, and Jaws became a feared weapon among the Myriad Isles. That day, Picaro first saw it wielded with devastating ferocity on the shores of Chill Lagoon. Atrocius stood upon the main deck of the Marigold as the ship swung in through a deeper channel along the reefed coast. Valgur cried the firing order from the upper deck, and Atrocius let fly a furious barrage that laid low the men along the beach, sinking their skippers and laming a small frigate. There were the sounds of harsh screams and the smell of gunpowder in the air. Picaro’s stomach lurched, and a cold sweat gripped him.
Then, Valgur made the call to progress on foot. Torenisa’s men tried desperately to regroup behind the wreckage, pulling what supplies and weapons they could from the belly of their sinking ship, digging in to await the second barrage. Atrocius let fly another volley, and then he, too, joined the fray. "We need this post," cried Valgur as he scaled the rail. "Give no quarter, take no prisoners. Tonight we stake our claim on the lagoon."
Picaro followed in cautiously behind Grit, watching many of the work unfold. "Stay low and keep close," said the chief mate, and together they chose their target. Torenisa’s men had setup a firing line on the outskirts of the skirmish a distance away so they could pick off Valgur's men as they advanced.
In a crouch, Picaro followed on Grit's tail as the two snaked their way wide of the line of fire and closed in on their adversaries. The closest man noticed them first, cried out to his companions, and attempted to turn and fire his long-barreled rifle. Grit shot the man square in the face, and rolled forward. Picaro, left behind, saw many muzzles trained on him.
He dove aside, his heart frantic. He could nearly feel the bullets whizz by him, burying themselves in the sand where he once stood. A cloud of sand poofed, providing just enough cover for him to follow in behind Grit as the chief mate broke their line, swinging sharply, cracking wood and bones under his brass knuckles before firing off another round into a man's belly at close range.
Picaro darted in, his dagger ready. One of the men tried to swing at him with the butt of his rifle. Picaro barely dodged the blow, but slipped. From one knee, Picaro put up his blade to parry, but was knocked off balance. Suddenly, a surge went through him and time seemed to slow. He could see the man before him, readying himself to bring his newly drawn shortsword high overhead and down for a definitive strike. Picaro saw his opening. He took his dagger in both hands and lunged forward off of one knee, burying the blade in the man's abdomen. The man gasped, his weapon fell from his hand, and he grasped at the wound.
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Horrified, Picaro pulled the blade out. Blood was upon it. He saw the man's desperate eyes search his own face, and he wondered what he was thinking in that moment. Picaro rose to his feet, standing over the man. But he did not strike. He simply stood there, staring at him.
Then Grit called him back. "Look alive or stay dead," he said. Picaro snapped to. There were two men still standing among the firing line, circling Grit. No more did they have the element of surprise. One of the men lunged to stab at Grit, but Picaro dove forward and slashed him in the arm. The man cried out and dropped his shortsword. Grit cracked him in the jaw and the man crumpled to the sand. The last adversary roared and charged, but Grit parried deftly and countered with a cut to throat. The man fell, and suddenly the only sounds around them were the groans of the man Picaro had stabbed, still lying helpless, clutching at his stomach.
"Not gonna finish the job?" Grit asked. Picaro looked at him pleadingly, and Grit narrowed his gaze. "Fine, I'll do it," he said, and was a man of his word.
Shakily, Picaro regained himself and stared out across the battlefield. Valgur's men were pressing the advantage and the group of defenders was dwindling. Atrocius stood above them all, raking men down with Jaws of death.
Yet there was another man on the other side of the fray Picaro recognized. It was Mord. In his frenzy, Mord had dashed headlong into a group of the enemy and was now surrounded by three men. Picaro saw a blade sink into Mord's leg, and a club cracked Mord in the back of the head. "Oi. They're gonna get him if we don't do something," Picaro found himself yelling.
Grit followed his gaze. Deftly, Grit picked up one of the enemy's rifles and checked the loading mechanism for any loose sand. The rifle stood clean. He put his eye to the sight, held his breath, and fired. The man that stood over Mord fell back in a bloody mess. "Enemies in the foreground. Foreground," Grit called above the melee, and soon many faces turned and men came to Mord's aid.
Mord was breathing shallow when they brought him back aboard on a stretcher to tend to him on the ship. Within a few hours, he was conscious. "Easy now. Y'suffered a head wound," said Tidewell, the ship’s doctor.
Mord looked around gingerly, his large head covered in bandages, another set wrapped around his thigh. Crewmen approached him, clapping their hands on his shoulder and laughing with relief in the face of the westering sun. Ye ‘Ol Marigold had lost two men that day, but Mord would not be the third. The crew was glad for it.
“We always had yer back,” said a man from behind a bottle. “All thanks to Grit.”
Grit shook his head. "Not me. Boy here saved your life," he said from behind a small cloud of smoke. "He has a keen eye." Grit nodded to Picaro, who stood aside sheepishly, still in some shock from having stabbed a man for the first time.
Mord didn’t even blink. Men either looked at Picaro once without acknowledging him, or seemed to look through him. A murmur ran across the main deck. “Grit’s a good shot,” said one. Many nodded in agreement and turned back to their mates. Quickly, the thrill of victory washed over them again.
“Pass me some mead,” said Mord as he attempted to rise.
“That isn’t wise. You shouldn’t drink with a head wound,” said the doctor.
“Belay that,” said Mord. “Tonight we own the lagoon. I’ll be a sod if I don’t fall into it piss drunk by the time the sun rises.” This was met with raucous laughter. Men all raised their glasses in toast. Together, they turned their backs on the boy.
Picaro glanced at Grit, who puffed on his pipe and turned away to his own matters without looking at him. Watching Mord recline with the men made Picaro feel like he had swallowed a stone. This time, he was surprised to feel that it was cold, not flaming with hot anger as he expected it to be.
Metron stood to the side, stoic as ever, and he looked past the boy as well. Picaro nodded lightly to himself, and retreated from the crew. Not just physically, but also decidedly in mind and spirit. Why didn’t I just let him die, the boy thought.
He climbed to the top of the crow’s nest to brood. Perhaps the sun would warm the ice that was now forming over his bruised and calloused heart. Up there, he watched the waves and the small dots move across the beach. Picaro knew the crew would never fully accept him, not even if he were a man, and died at their side. Any kindness he showed them was just wasted.
In this life, every man is for himself, he thought, whether he be free or no. Perhaps one day opportunity would knock. Until then, he would have to bide his time.