In the gloom of the hold, Judith heard the explosion as a muted roar, a vengeful whisper, accompanied by the high squeals of hogs burning to death. She closed off the part of herself that would remember that horrific sound when she was trying to sleep, and focused on holding still as Felix checked her head injury.
"It's a shallow wound," he concluded, "probably a concussion, but nothing worse." Felix had wound a tight bandage around his own injury, but it was clear from his slouched posture and the tremble in his leg that he was more than grazed. Luckily, it was the only damage he had taken.
Nick, on the other hand, looked like he had been dragged through a thornbush, and broken glass shortly after. At least two sabrestrokes had cut him deeply on the arm and chest, and on his right the blood from his musket wound had begun to pool in his sleeve. He was lucky none of the blows had struck arteries or organs.
"Alright," Judith said, "we've put a stop to their advance, and some spectacle it was. Now we need to push them and retake the initiative; that means securing the main deck. Once we've regrouped, we hit them with a volley of musket fire to thin their remaining ranks, and we finish them off in the melee. Nick, how many of our number were remaining when last you saw?"
"At least 30, including that lumbering juggernaut you call a Master Gunner. He's worth two dozen able paws in a fight, at least."
"We might just have square odds, then," Judith murmured. "Felix? Nick? I fear I must command that we take to the front again. Are you able?"
"As long as I have blood and breath left," said Felix.
"I won't have either, soon," Nick groused, but he raised his sword all the same.
Judith felt her chest heave with pride. These two mammals –- this panther, who had sworn his life to her service; this fox, whom everyone thought fit only to dangle at the end of a rope –- would shed their last ounce of blood for her. They would go to their graves on her word, because honour demanded such a sacrifice. They were heroes who would surely go unsung.
She dared not say a word. They were mere emotions, liabilities. Her men deserved a commander cut from sterner stone. She simply nodded, and the three of them clambered up the waiting ladder to the deck above.
The stink woke Bronhelm. The cloying reek of dead things, burned things.
He'd only be unconscious for a second, but he felt like he'd been out for hours. He went to stand, and realised something heavy had trapped his legs. Looking down, he saw a blackened body lying across his lower half, shivering with post-mortem twitches. He kicked it off with a grunt, and got unsteadily to his feet.
All around him the twisted and ash-black forms of his former command lay about; some were still, some were desperately clawing at themselves, as if trying to shake free of their own burned skin. Bronhelm simply stared, eyes unblinking. What the devil had just happened?
Above him, the mushrooming cloud of smoke continued to swell, fed by the crackling flames that were now spreading to the deck. He glanced down, and realised that the explosion had blackened the front of his uniform. The fabric sagged where three of his buttons had gone missing. He reached up to his crown and took down his plumed helm. It was a truly ornate treasure, wrought in fine bronze and plated with gold, festooned with a leaping boar who trailed a dyed green mane. He had commissioned it from Porcinia's finest armourer upon his admittance to the Fellowhip of High Captains, a great honour. Now, it has a black tinge to it, one of the ornamental emeralds marking the boar's eyes had been blown free, and the plumage was reduced by the flames to short bristles.
He growled, which grew to an incensed shriek as he tossed the ruined helm aside. Shortly his sword came to hand, and he waved it like a slaver's lash as he howled at his remaining soldiers.
"On your feet, you wastes of leather! You sacks of reeking offal! Get your swords! Get your pistols! I want every last unclean Zoohavenite whore gutted and flayed before the day is out! Except Hopps - you're not to touch a hair on her scrawny head, do you hear me? Shackle her and bring her to me! She will suffer for this; her fate will become the new measure of cruelty! Well, prepare yourselves, you pathetic litter runts!"
Before the force of his blustering, the hogs that could stand rose on shaking legs. Almost none were untouched by the blast; everywhere there was charred fabric, or flesh scoured and wrinkled by the heat. But Bronhelm's displeasure was not something to risk, especially while his anger burned full and hot. Without comment, the survivors drew their swords, reloaded their pistols, and headed towards the bow of the ship, Bronhelm's insulting commands following them every step.
The hatch swung open, and Judith clambered out into the afternoon sun. Felix followed her shortly, struggling to pull his wounded leg over the rim. Then, with a lop-sided frown, he reached back down and plucked out the wounded fox, hauling him up by the scruff of his neck.
"Much obliged, friend," Nick snarked. Felix didn't have the energy to threaten him with physical harm.
The last few hogs daring to present arms were being chased at swordpoint to the aft of the ship, and those that had surrendered had their arms and legs bound behind their backs with rope, hessian gags jammed in their quivering snouts. Judith's reappearance, along with the apparent victory in this sortie, caused a stir amongst the remaining Zoohavenite sailors.
"Captain! Captain, that firestorm! Was that your doing?" one wide-eyed sailor hooted.
"Captain, let us take the fire to them! Let us take the ship back!"
"Three cheers for Captain Hopps!"
MacHorn pushed to the front of the jostling bodies, his weapon hugged against his chest. He looked like a marble bust that had been taken to by an enraged sculptor; groves and gouges covered his body, and his tunic had been shredded by Porcine sword and shot. One near miss has taken most of his ear, leaving a sad curl of bloody skin. He bowed slightly, and mumbled in a deep voice, "Captain, I can still fight."
Judith looked around at her, stirred by their fervour. They were drunk on the promise of victory, and she would gladly overfill their cups.
"Sons of Zoohaven! You have put a deep scratch on Porcine pride today, have no doubt. But we are not here to injure their pride; we are here to slit their wretched throats, and bury their remains so deep that even the Grim Lemur won't find them!"
A triumphant cry went up, and she continued, "All who are able, take up your loaded muskets! We make way to the main deck, and when the enemy present themselves, the first line will fire, and then crouch down so the second line can strike! Then we rush them with bayonets before they can even count their losses!"
A search for discarded muskets and spare shot went up. Even with his ruined arm, Nick had somehow managed to reload both his pistols.
"I can't promise any prize marksmanship from my left hand," joked.
"You don't need to win any prizes," Judith assured him, loading pellet shot into her own pistols. "Just don't hit the wrong side."
With their weapons loaded, the Zoohavenite corps formed up, largest mammals at the back to better the aim of their volley. With one final hurrah, the beleaguered Blue Jackets rushed off the forecastle and headed amidships, ready for the final engagement.
As they came onto the main deck, Judith caught a glimpse of the damage Nick's handiwork had done. The churning black cloud had grown to several times the size of the ship entire, and was constantly fed as the flames continued to devour whatever they could seize that would burn. She could see the collapsed roof of the storage hold, could see where the fire was spreading to the poop deck, no doubt gutting the captain's gallery as it went. Momentarily her breath caught in her throat; she had no desire to see the Implacable reduced to burned timbers. Nursing it back to it's former glory from this state would be some task.
They were passing the main mast when the first few hogs, standing at the stairs connecting the main and gun decks, pointed them out with a cry. One discharged a pistol, although the shot sunk into the deck without effect.
"All muskets! Prepare your volley line!" Judith commanded, and the smaller mammals stepped forward, weapons levelled at the enemy. A second pistol shot ricocheted somewhat closer; still the line held its nerve. The larger mammals came up behind them, muskets stowed. The enemy who exposed themselves to fire their weapons saw the shot line and began diving away, eyes wide with fright.
"Fire!" Judith shouted, and the muskets reports filled the deck with smoke and noise. She had to admit to being impressed; bloodied, exhausted and facing a final charge, her soldiers shot true, and several pigs collapsed with pained shrieks.
The forward line then dropped to their knees, and the rear aimed and unleashed a biting second salvo. A few more enemies fell.
"Bayonets charge!" Judith cried, and the line rushed forward, screaming, bloodhungry, blades raised and thrust forward like spears, like the charge of an ancient army from a time of leather and mail, of heroes and great deeds. Behind them all able mammals had their swords drawn, adding to the din with their own howls.
In the advance, Judith spied her dropped rapier and snatched it up. One sniper appeared at the parapets, musket aimed into the advance. Judith levelled and fired her pistol, peppering the hog across the neck and throat with pellet shot.
As the charge met the stairs to the gun deck, a volley of pistol fire came in response, and finally struck and felled one of their number. Axes came bearing down as well, but they were turned aside by the thrust of bayonet points. Felix, at the forefront of the charge, threw himself into a mighty dash, running his bayonet through one sailor and lifting him shrieking into the air, like a flag being run up a pole. Then he was tossed aside and Felix drew his sword, taking it to the next hog and raising sparks as their steel bit at each other.
Nick was not far behind. One perilous thrust came rushing at his throat and he turned it aside, snarling. He parried a second, a third, and caught the fourth when he put his blade's tip through the enemy's curved hilt. A sharp twist, and the sword, along with two of the pig's fingers, went sailing away. He was easily slain after that.
A shadowy blur at the corner of his eye led Nick to drop to the floor, and a two-handed blade hacked into the timber of the mast. He took his stance across from this new opponent, a bulky porker dressed in a deep green doublet adorned with gold thread, and he grinned as the officer unstuck his blade.
"That's a tremendously long sword you have their, leather-sack!" he called, and the officer fixed him with a baleful glare. "Now show me you don't know how to use it!"
"You fleabait!" the pig swore, and came at him with a terrible double-handed swing, which Nick dodged. The officer recovered quickly, however, and chased him with a sideways swipe which Nick managed to block. The hog was faster than appearances allowed, Nick thought, and he cursed inwardly as he realised exactly how exhausted he was. He blocked the next swipe, and the third, each sending jolts through his body, before the fourth one knocked him off centre. The advantage his, the officer stepped forward to deal the fatal blow, snorting murderously.
His laughter became a shriek of pain, however, as Nick swiftly drew one pistol and fired it into the pig's foot, blowing an angry red crater right through his boot. Nick danced in towards his howling opponent, ready to put him down. He did not expect the pig's elbow to come rushing towards him, thought, and his world exploded into painful light as it connected with his jaw. When his vision cleared, his opponent had both their swords in his hands, and began to advance with lethal intent.
"Duck, fox!" came a command from behind. Nick flopped to the deck, and Felix dived over the top of him, slamming into their foe with a cannonball's velocity, sending them both tumbling across the deck for some distance until they finally slid apart. Felix was the only one to stir afterwards; his enemy's throat had been cut to trenches by his claws.
"Now that was some tackle!" Nick laughed, rushing towards him. "I haven't a clue why you even bother to carry a sword…" He stopped when he saw that Felix had been run through with Nick's own blade. Off to the side, thankfully; through flesh and muscle only, but a foul wound all the same.
"Take your damned sword back," Felix growled. "It's making it hard to breathe..."
Nick took the handle and pulled the sword free, drawing a vicious snarl of pain from the injured panther. Then he offered him his paw, which Felix took without comment.
"Are you fit to stand?" Nick asked, drawing Felix onto his feet.
"Well isn't this treasurable," came a voice from behind, dripping with scorn.
The duo turned, finding themselves face to face with an apparition from the depths of the underworld. Blackened with soot, spattered with blood, Bronhelm's eyes burned with an otherworldly fury, like some fairybook demon with no capacity for feeling beyond blind anger.
His sword was in his left arm, and tucked under his right was his loaded blunderbuss, finger at the trigger. Nick's eyes were locked on it. He thought about the fastest pistol draw he had ever managed. He thought about his damaged right arm, caked with drying blood. Bronhelm spat.
"A fox and a panther, hey? Brothers in arms. The world will be a cleaner place without you," he snarled, and turned the blunderbuss towards them.
Nick twisted as he drew, willing his injured fingers to respond. His pistol fired, and the ball dug a trench in Bronhelm's upper arm, causing him to grunt in pain and fire early. Most of the scattergun discharged into the floor, raising a cloud of shredded wood. Nick felt a stinging heat in his leg where a few pellets punched through his breeches.
Bronhelm's anger had reached a fevered pitch, his face bent out of shape, a parody of the emotion. He released a demented cry as he tossed the blunderbuss aside and drew his own pistol.
Nick wouldn't have thought Felix capable of movement still, stained as he was with his own blood from waist to boot, but the panther launched towards the boar and grappled with him, one claw going for his shoulder, the other for the pistol. Equals in strength, Felix managed to force the barrel skyward, and Bronhelm's shot discharged harmlessly into the air.
Felix was unable, however, to avoid the captain's blade, which he pressed against Felix's chest and sliced with snarling brutality. Felix sloughed away, roaring and clutching at the injury he'd been dealt.
Nick swiftly stepped between the panther and the pig, but as Bronhelm drew himself up to his full imposing height, and Nick noticed how heavy his cutlass felt in his left hand, his determination began to wither. Fear settled in his gut, cold as polar ice.
The first swipe came rushing at his head, narrowly missing as Nick ducked under it. The second shaved the fur off his right cheek. Nick tried to pull back, to create some distance, but he was slow on his bleeding leg, and he was forced to catch the third strike with his blade.
He could feel Bronhelm's brute strength surging around him like a tidal wave, and in desperation he willed his right hand to draw a thin dagger hanging from his belt, plunging it towards Bronhelm's arm. He caught Nick's wrist with his other hand, and gave it a titanic squeeze. Nick's eyes bulged at the intensity of the pain; it was like being trapped under a dropped anvil. The pain was short-lived, however, as Bronhelm dealt him a kick to the stomach, nearly sending him into a somersault with its force. Nick banged into the barrel of a deck cannon with a metallic clonk, rolling over it and landing in a heap on the other side.
Now Bronhelm's face was lit with manic relish, and he stormed forward like a hunter, like a predator from the days of old, a thirst for the kill laid bare in his eye's gleam and his ragged breathing. Felix held his sword out, but could not hide the tremble that ran from his arm to the blade. He was still clutching his chest. Nick tried to raise off the deck, but found his leg strangely numb. Neither of them were fit to carry on. They were defeated.
Until Judith stepped forward.
"Bronhelm! Your fate is here! Come and meet it with some semblance of honour!" she called, flashing her sabre. Its blade ran with fresh Porcine blood; her sleeve was red nearly to the shoulder.
Bronhelm spun, and his battlemad grin only widened.
"You're not fit to call my name, Rabbit!" he sneered. "Nor to stand there and pretend to be anyone's equal! I'll split you down the middle, and toss one half to each of your lieutenants here, and they can sob over your remains until I end their misery! Well, come to it, then!"
While Bronhelm blustered, Judith drew her spent pistol and held it like a club. She would need to land a precise blow to bring this lumbering foe to his knees; he was more than twice her size, and strong enough to flatten her without any great difficulty. Only her speed would keep her safe. She began to circle him, trying to goad him into the first strike with her imperious stare and bared teeth.
Bronhelm did so, and tried to dash her against the deck with a powerful overhead swing. But Judith was already at a sprint, rushing to his left, and before he could recover his blade she dashed at him, slipping between his legs and landing two swipes on the inside of his thighs. Bronhelm turned with a sideways left cut, which Judith bounded over, laying a third stinging slash across his forearm. She took her distance from the swine, surveying her handiwork. But Bronhelm seemed hardly concerned about the damage he had taken; he simply turned his blade in his hand and faced her fully again.
"You're very fast, Hopps," he growled. "Remarkably so. How long can you keep up that speed? How many thrusts and strikes can you slip past by the skin of your teeth?" Sword raised, he rushed towards her again.
Judith stepped around his swipe and jumped forward, angling another blow at his right arm. If she could deprive him of his dominant–
She didn't see his head move until too late, until it came crashing into her with a solid thwack, knocking her into the deck with a bullet's speed. Judith gasped, the air driven out of her, but managed to roll aside as Bronhelm's blade plunged into the timber. She scampered afoot and dived at him again, blade flashing. But in the cramped confines of Bronhelm's posture, she could only land a forward thrust, putting her blade in his stomach all the way to the hilt.
She realised, with a twinge of panic, that her rapier was trapped, and she released her grip on the sword and rushed away as Bronhelm grabbed for her with his spare hand. She came to a halt a few yards distant, her nose twitching, milling through her options. Without a decent weapon, Bronhelm was a good as victorious. He took her sword and, with a rumble of discomfort, yanked it free of his gut and tossed it behind him. Blood began to flow into his breeches, tracing a crimson river from his waistband to his boot. He barely noticed.
"Again, Rabbit!" he cursed, and menaced her with the tip of his blade. Judith still had Felix's dagger, and she drew it from her belt alongside the butt cap of her pistol - not a threatening armoury at all. Her chances were becoming thinner by the moment.
Bronhelm tottered forward, slower than before, but fast enough to pose a danger. Judith met him at a jog, and parried his blow with her pistol, turning it over her head and sinking it into the deck. She gave silent thanks to the sturdiness of her trigger guard; it was all that spared her fingers from being shorn off her hand. Now she stepped forward again, and plunged the dagger into Bronhelm's leg with all the force she could muster. Bronhelm growled, and dealt Judith a punishing kick in response. She was lifted into the air bodily, and slapped against the main mast with a bone-shaking thump. She couldn't suppress an agonised shriek; the blow had lit a white-hot fire in her chest, the agony of a cracked rib. She imagined there were splinters of broken glass in her chest.
Bronhelm towered over her, victorious and mocking. "Well fought, Captain," he chuckled, leaning against his blade. "Well fought, for a gutterbreed. And what a shame my ugliest scars will have been dealt by my least worthy opponent…"
Judith struggled to stand, but was shackled by the pain in her breast. So, she would die slouched in a pile, without ceremony, with scant honour.
She sighed in defeat - and then a stir of movement caught her eye in the distance, and she hardly dared to dream. Maybe, just maybe, if she kept him talking…
"It doesn't matter if you kill me," Judith wheezed, propping herself up on one elbow. "Your crew is all but erased. You are beaten bloody. And the captain they send after me will be fresh and at the helm of a grander ship. Whoever it is will chase you down and finish the job. Zoohaven will triumph. You've won nothing."
Bronhelm leered at her, on the verge of laughter. "What is this? Why are you speaking to me as if you matter?" He drew himself up, staring down with mad amusement. "This isn't a noble death, Hopps. This was not a battle between equals. You're a sad puppet, dancing for sad court of puppeteers, and if history deigns to remember you at all, it will be for your compounding failures in the service of a cause that was rotted through from the beginning."
Now he leered closer, close enough that his hot breath washed over Judith, and she pulled back in disgust. "There's a reason your kind doesn't matter. There's a reason why your kin burry themselves in the dirt and never toil above their humble station. Shall I tell you? It's because you're weak, Rabbit. Weaker than the rest of your fellow sickly Zoohavenite pests, even. We will take the scourge of flame and cannon to your blasted cesspit of a city, and–"
Judith hadn't the faintest idea how Nick had found the strength to drag himself between the ships, but he had managed somehow; had hauled himself on his elbows, hauled himself over the abandoned gangways, and spun one of the Tribunal's unfired cannonades about, pointing it directly at the Implacable's deck.
"Carrots! Make yourself small!"
Judith put her face to the floor, plugging her ears with her thumbs. Bronhelm looked up, and saw the bloodied fox standing at the cannon, match in hand; saw the grapple loaded in its bore pointed straight at him.
There were no final words; all Bronhelm managed was a chocked wheeze of disbelief, before Nick put the flame to the touch-hole, and the cannon exploded. The spearpoint cut through the air, hit Bronhelm directly in the chest, and punched him through the gunwale and into the water below. His sword clattered onto the deck - that and an ugly red smear the only evidence now that he'd ever stood there at all.
Despite the fire in her lungs, Judith managed to get to her feet. She looked across to Nick, who had draped himself across the cannon's barrel for support. She wanted to call out to him, but just breathing deeply sent waves of hot pain roiling inside her. Instead, she smiled at him, as broadly as she could, waving weakly in thanks. She smiled, and he smiled back.
From this point on the Tribunal's deck, Nick could see the remaining Porcine sailors throwing their weapons down and their hands up in surrender. The fire at the stern of the Implacable seemed to have burned itself out. Judith had not been rent asunder. This was, he decided, what victory looked like.
And knowing that they had been victorious, and that there was no more blood to be spilled, Nick slid off the cannon and to the ground, propped up against a surprising comfortable crate. He smiled, and his body became still.
