A lucky strike.

Wood groaned against wood. Grappling hooks flew across the gap, catching in the Fancy's railings and rigging. Men hauled on the ropes, dragging the two vessels together. A musket fired. The shot struck a sailor near the foremast, dropping him where he stood. Then the enemy came over the rail.

The deck descended into chaos.

William met the first boarder with a cutlass stroke that drove him backwards. A second man lunged with a boarding axe, and William turned the blow aside before slashing across the man's chest. Bright red blood stained the man’s front. Another came at him with a short sword. William caught the attack on his blade, shoved the man off balance and drove his cutlass into him. The man collapsed against the rail, blood gushing from his mouth. William pulled his weapon free and turned towards the next attacker. There was no room for hesitation. No time to consider the men before him as anything other than threats to his ship and crew. He fought with the grim efficiency of a man who had survived too many battles to be impressed by blood.

Across the deck, Jack Stirling led a knot of sailors against the boarders coming over the stern. Timothy Rourke fought with a boarding axe, his short, powerful frame making him difficult to dislodge. Kenneth, moving quickly despite his wooden peg, used a pistol to stop one attacker before drawing his blade.

And then Thorvenhold joined the fight. The resurrected navigator had acquired an axe from somewhere below decks. He stood near the port rail, his mismatched eyes fixed upon the men coming towards him. One of the boarders hesitated. It was a mistake. Thorvenhold stepped forward and brought the axe down with brutal force. The man fell, nearly cloven in two, blood exploding onto the deck. Thorvenhold turned, caught another attack on the haft and struck his opponent hard enough to send him stumbling backwards into the crush.

He fought like a man who had been denied twenty years of life and had no intention of wasting another moment. A third attacker tried to circle behind him. Thorvenhold seemed to sense him. He spun, caught the man's arm and drove him into the rail before striking him down with the axe. The man’s eyes never faced the same direction again.

The remaining boarders began to falter. They had expected a merchant vessel with a handful of armed men. Instead, they had found a crew that fought in formation, supported one another and refused to give ground.

William saw an opening. “Push them back!” he roared. “Get them off our deck!”

The Fancy's crew surged forward.

Oliver was caught in the middle of it. He had found himself beside a group of sailors near the mainmast, where one of the boarders had broken through. The man was young, perhaps no older than Oliver himself, and his face was twisted with fear and fury. Oliver had a pistol in his hand. He had never fired one at another man. The boarder raised his sword. Oliver froze. For one terrible moment, he could do nothing but stare at the blade. Then he remembered William's words. Stay alive. Oliver raised the pistol and fired.

The report deafened him. The boarder staggered backwards, his sword falling from his hand. He looked down at himself in confusion before collapsing onto the deck. Oliver stared at him. He could not seem to draw a proper breath. The pistol slipped in his sweaty hand.

A sailor beside him seized his shoulder. “Move, lad! There's more of them!”

Oliver turned just in time to see another man rushing towards him. He stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over a coil of rope. The boarder swung his blade, and Oliver raised his pistol instinctively to block it. Steel struck wood and metal with a sharp crack. Oliver shouted and shoved the man away. The boarder came at him again. This time Oliver did not freeze. He ducked beneath the swing, stumbled to one side and struck the man in the face with the butt of his pistol breaking his nose. The blow was clumsy, but it was enough. The man reeled. A sailor came in from Oliver's right and drove him to the deck with a trio of sword strikes.

Oliver backed away, shaking so badly he could barely hold his weapon. He had done it. He had fought back. And he wanted desperately to be sick again.

“Master Kelham!”

He turned.

William was a few yards away, his cutlass bloodied, his face streaked with sweat and smoke. Blood stained his tunic up to his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

Oliver shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Then find a place behind the line and stay there!”

Oliver almost protested. Then another cannonball struck the sea nearby, showering the deck with spray. He decided that William's advice was sound. He retreated towards the mainmast, keeping his pistol raised as he watched the fight continue.

The boarders were losing. Several had already fallen. Others were retreating towards their own ship, while the Fancy's crew pressed forward with renewed confidence. Thorvenhold was still fighting near the rail. His axe rose and fell, and no man who approached him seemed eager to remain there for long.

William fought his way towards the remaining enemy captain, who was attempting to rally his men near the bow.

The captain saw him coming and raised his sword. “You'll pay for this!” he shouted.

William parried the first blow, stepped inside the second and struck the man hard across the face with the hilt of his cutlass. The captain fell against the deck. William kicked the sword away. As a younger man William or ‘Bloody Bill’ as he was known then would have taken his head from his shoulder.

“Not today.” William spat.

A final group of boarders threw down their weapons. “Enough!” one shouted. “We yield!”

William raised his cutlass. “Stand down!”

The fighting stopped in fragments. Men lowered their weapons, breathing hard. The deck was strewn with splintered wood, discarded blades and bodies. Blood ran between the planks, mingling with seawater and the black residue of gunpowder. For a few moments, the only sounds were the groans of the wounded and the creak of the ships alongside one another.

William looked around. “Rourke! Secure the prisoners. Jack, get those grappling hooks cut loose and see to our wounded. Kenneth, I want a count of the dead and injured.”

“Aye, Captain.”

William turned towards Oliver. The young man stood near the mainmast, his face pale and his hands trembling around the pistol.

William walked over to him. “You're still standing.”

Oliver looked at the bodies scattered across the deck. “I'm not sure how.”

“You did what you had to do.”

Oliver swallowed. “I shot a man.”

“Aye, and you could have shot another if you’d reloaded.” William said taking the useless flintlock from the young man’s hand.

“He might have had a family.”

William said nothing for a moment. “So might the men lying over there,” he replied quietly. “And so might the sailors he would have killed if he'd reached them. War rarely offers us the luxury of knowing everything about the people trying to kill us.”

Oliver looked down at the pistol the Captain had taken from him. “I was terrified.”

“I know.”

“I nearly ran.”

“But you didn't.”

William rested a hand on his shoulder. “That's courage, Oliver. Not the absence of fear. The decision to act despite it.”

Oliver nodded, although he did not appear particularly reassured. William squeezed his shoulder once before moving away. There was still work to be done.

The crippled second ship was now a distant shape against the horizon. Her broken mast dragged in the water, and her damaged sails flapped uselessly in the wind. She was making a slow attempt to escape, drifting away from the battle.

Jack joined William at the rail.

“We can catch her if we give chase, Captain. She's barely moving.”

William studied the vessel through his spyglass. “No.”

Jack frowned. “No?”

“Look beyond her.”

William passed him the glass.

Jack raised it to his eye, then let out a low whistle.

Longships. Several of them were rowing out from the Ragnar coast, their oars flashing as they drove through the water. More were following behind, and even at this distance William could see the dark figures standing along their decks. The cannon fire had carried across the sea. The smoke rising from the damaged ships must have been visible from the coast. Løvenskiold had noticed the disturbance.

“And they're heading straight for her,” Jack observed.

“Aye.”

“So the Ragnars will take care of the second ship.”

William nodded. “Or what's left of it.”

Oliver had approached in time to hear the exchange. “What will happen to the men aboard her?”

William looked at him. “Some will be killed for daring to bring armed ships this close to Ragnar territory. Others may be taken as slaves.”

Oliver stared at the distant longships. “But they might surrender.”

“They might.”

“Then surely…”

“Oliver.” William's voice was not unkind, but it was firm. “We are not their captors. We have our own wounded, our own dead and a ship to repair. What happens to those men now is between them and the Ragnars.”

Oliver looked back towards the fleeing vessel. He wanted to argue, but he knew William was right about one thing, there was little they could do from here.

He lowered his gaze. “I understand.”

William did not think he entirely did. But that was something the sea would teach him in time.

The Fancy's crew moved quickly to secure their prize. The surviving boarders were disarmed and bound. Their captain, bruised and bleeding from the face, was dragged towards the mainmast and placed under guard. Timothy Rourke supervised the transfer of wounded men while Jack inspected the captured ship's rigging. The vessel was small, but her hull appeared sound enough, and her surviving crew could be compelled to help repair the damage.

William stood at the rail, watching the crew work. They had won. One enemy ship had sunk, another was crippled and fleeing, and the third now belonged to them. But the cost was plain enough. Several of his men were dead or wounded. The deck would need cleaning, the damaged rail repaired, and the guns inspected before they could safely continue their voyage. And somewhere ahead lay Tabakkust, Johannes Chatham's journals and the secrets of the Logos.

William rubbed at his injured side, feeling the ache beneath his coat. “Captain?”

He turned.

Oliver stood nearby, looking somewhat steadier now, though his face remained pale.

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask about the prisoners.”

William glanced towards the bound men. “We'll question their captain when we've secured both ships.”

“And if he tells us who sent them?”

William's expression hardened. “Then we'll know how far Ravenhill's reach extends.”

Oliver hesitated. “Do you think these men knew what they were fighting for?”

“Some will have known. Some will simply have been paid. Others may have been promised a share of whatever they took from us.”

“And if Ravenhill sent them?”

“Then he knows we're alive, and he knows we're moving.”

William looked out towards the horizon. “That means we can no longer assume the sea ahead is safe.”

Oliver followed his gaze. For the first time since leaving Still Water, he understood that their journey was not simply a voyage to find an old man's journals. They were being hunted. And whoever was hunting them was willing to spill blood to stop them.

The crew began to separate as the immediate work of securing the captured ship took over. Jack went to organise a boarding party, Kenneth returned to the gun deck, and Timothy called for more hands to help with the wounded.

William was about to follow when he noticed Thorvenhold approaching from the opposite side of the deck. The resurrected navigator walked with his usual steady stride, his axe hanging loosely in one hand. At first, William thought little of it. Then he saw the sword. It protruded from Thorvenhold's chest, the blade passing straight through his torso from behind. Blood darkened the front of his robes and ran down towards his waist.

Thorvenhold stopped in front of them.

Oliver stared. For a moment, he could not even speak.

William's hand went to his cutlass. “Thorvenhold?”

The navigator looked down at the weapon sticking out of him, as though he had only just noticed it. “Ah.” He reached back, felt along the hilt protruding between his shoulder blades and grimaced. “That explains the discomfort.”

Oliver made a strangled noise. “There's a sword through your chest!”

“Aye,” Thorvenhold replied.

He looked at William. “Do you suppose someone might remove it?”

William stared at his old friend, momentarily lost for words. Around them, the sounds of the captured ship and the wounded crew seemed to fade into the background. Thorvenhold was still standing. Still speaking. Still very much alive. Despite the sword driven clean through his chest.

William drew a slow breath. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Thorvenhold considered this. Then he shrugged. “Fair enough.”

He lowered himself onto a nearby coil of rope, the sword still protruding from his body.

Oliver took an involuntary step backwards.

William crouched in front of his resurrected friend and studied the wound. “Can you feel it?”

“Of course I can feel it. It is a sword.”

“Does it hurt?”

Thorvenhold paused. “A little.”

William looked up at him. “A little?”

“William, I have spent twenty years dead. I am still getting accustomed to the fact that my feet touch the ground again. Forgive me if I have not yet developed a comprehensive understanding of my new condition.”

Despite himself, William laughed. Then his expression grew serious. “Who did this?”

Thorvenhold looked towards the captured ship. “I was fighting three men near the rail. One came at me from the front, another tried to take my legs, and the third…” He glanced down at the sword. “…was apparently more successful than the others.”

Oliver stared at him. “And you didn't notice?”

“I noticed something. I assumed it was a particularly enthusiastic attempt at stabbing me.”

William shook his head in disbelief. “Can you stand?”

Thorvenhold rose to his feet without difficulty. The sword remained where it was.

He looked between the two men. “I believe so.”

Oliver looked ready to be sick again.

William stood and turned towards the nearest group of sailors. “Someone fetch the surgeon's kit. And find me a pair of pliers, a strong pair of hands and a great deal of patience.”

Thorvenhold lifted a finger. “And perhaps another drink.”

William gave him a withering look. “You've been alive for less than a day.”

“And I have already been stabbed. I feel I've earned it.”

For the first time since the battle began, Oliver laughed. It was a thin, nervous sound, but it was a laugh all the same.

Then Thorvenhold turned his head towards the horizon, his mismatched eyes narrowing. “William?”

“What is it?”

The navigator's expression had changed. His green eye glowed pearlescent. “I don't think that sword was meant to kill me.”

William followed his gaze towards the captured ship. “What makes you say that?”

Thorvenhold looked down at the blade passing through his chest. “Because whoever put it there knew precisely where to strike.” He paused. “And I think they wanted to see what would happen.”