don’t believe it,” said Pawl. Mentrat snorted and turned away, walking slowly down the deck with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Mentrat? Where are you going?” He didn’t answer. Pawl and Cavada exchanged worried looks.
“Mentrat!”
The sailors threw Owein against the gunwale. As he stood up, the pistol was leveled at his heart.
“Owein Maeriod,” one of them said. “You are hereby sentenced to death by the Imperial Crown of Gresadia. May the gods have mercy upon your soul and shepherd you from the Mavracum Relené while you are doomed to hide in the shadows of night for the rest of eternity. All right, go ahead.”
Owein swallowed dryly and drew in a rickety, spasming breath while his executioner pulled back the hammer of the gun.
He shut his eyes.
In that second, all the noise and clatter on the deck was drowned out by an oppressive, pure silence. All Owein could hear was the emptiness inside his own mind. He opened his lips to exhale, and even that was soundless. Owein’s consciousness was bombarded with thoughts of death. What was it like? What does it feel like to die? Will it hurt?
Probably , he thought.
But maybe not.
Maybe it was peaceful. Maybe everything he’d heard about death was wrong. Maybe his soul wouldn’t be torn from his mortal body as he died, and maybe he wouldn’t be cast eternally into the silent exile of the damned, forced to flee from the horrors they talked about in the afterlife, and destined to one day be enslaved by them and forced into the service of their ghastly cause….
Maybe , he thought, it wouldn’t be that bad .
The reverie was shattered by an earsplitting bang!
Owein’s body fell into the gunwale and slid to the deck. He heard something collapse in front of him, and then the sound of cursing voices cut through the silence. Suddenly there was shouting all around.
Owein opened his eyes.
He saw bluejacks running frantically around the deck. At his feet was his executioner. But he was on his back, lying still. The two men who’d been holding him were gone.
Sitting up, Owein saw the body of the bluejack before him was lying in a pool of blood with a huge hole in his chest where his lung should’ve been. The pistol lay beside him, still cocked.
Unfired.
Owein scoured his body for a bullet hole but found nothing. He heard gunshots ringing from all around. Bluejacks scrambled to man the deckguns – officers barked orders. It looked as though they were under attack. Lifting himself up the gunwale, Owein saw what had saved his life.
It was a pirate ship – a small sloop – descending from a cloud formation with guns blazing. Five more sloops dropped down right behind it. They flew red flags depicting a black bird topped with a golden crown. The emblem was unmistakable. It was the mark of the most fearsome and ruthless pirate captain still living: the Raven Queen.
The sloops were much smaller vessels than either Gilderam or Silus . Each used a single balloon for lift and carried only ten to twenty guns. Their engines were tiny in comparison, but because they had less drag they could move faster than hunkering warships, and were far more maneuverable.
They came bearing down on an attack run, heading right over the Silus . Normally it would mean suicide to fly right over the artillery on a galleon’s weather deck, but the bluejacks were unprepared, and these pirates meant to take full advantage of their surprise.
Owein ducked beneath the gunwale as the sloops roared overhead, unloading shells into the deck and, once above it, dropping flaming bombs. The little burning crates were packed with explosives, usually gelatinous nexane or black powder, along with nails or scrap metal. They exploded upon impact and sent fire and shrapnel in every direction.
They targeted the exposed cannons and heavy ballistae, swamping the weapons in clouds of bright fire and black smoke. The men struggling to operate them were either blown apart, peppered with
“Mentrat? Where are you going?” He didn’t answer. Pawl and Cavada exchanged worried looks.
“Mentrat!”
The sailors threw Owein against the gunwale. As he stood up, the pistol was leveled at his heart.
“Owein Maeriod,” one of them said. “You are hereby sentenced to death by the Imperial Crown of Gresadia. May the gods have mercy upon your soul and shepherd you from the Mavracum Relené while you are doomed to hide in the shadows of night for the rest of eternity. All right, go ahead.”
Owein swallowed dryly and drew in a rickety, spasming breath while his executioner pulled back the hammer of the gun.
He shut his eyes.
In that second, all the noise and clatter on the deck was drowned out by an oppressive, pure silence. All Owein could hear was the emptiness inside his own mind. He opened his lips to exhale, and even that was soundless. Owein’s consciousness was bombarded with thoughts of death. What was it like? What does it feel like to die? Will it hurt?
Probably , he thought.
But maybe not.
Maybe it was peaceful. Maybe everything he’d heard about death was wrong. Maybe his soul wouldn’t be torn from his mortal body as he died, and maybe he wouldn’t be cast eternally into the silent exile of the damned, forced to flee from the horrors they talked about in the afterlife, and destined to one day be enslaved by them and forced into the service of their ghastly cause….
Maybe , he thought, it wouldn’t be that bad .
The reverie was shattered by an earsplitting bang!
Owein’s body fell into the gunwale and slid to the deck. He heard something collapse in front of him, and then the sound of cursing voices cut through the silence. Suddenly there was shouting all around.
Owein opened his eyes.
He saw bluejacks running frantically around the deck. At his feet was his executioner. But he was on his back, lying still. The two men who’d been holding him were gone.
Sitting up, Owein saw the body of the bluejack before him was lying in a pool of blood with a huge hole in his chest where his lung should’ve been. The pistol lay beside him, still cocked.
Unfired.
Owein scoured his body for a bullet hole but found nothing. He heard gunshots ringing from all around. Bluejacks scrambled to man the deckguns – officers barked orders. It looked as though they were under attack. Lifting himself up the gunwale, Owein saw what had saved his life.
It was a pirate ship – a small sloop – descending from a cloud formation with guns blazing. Five more sloops dropped down right behind it. They flew red flags depicting a black bird topped with a golden crown. The emblem was unmistakable. It was the mark of the most fearsome and ruthless pirate captain still living: the Raven Queen.
The sloops were much smaller vessels than either Gilderam or Silus . Each used a single balloon for lift and carried only ten to twenty guns. Their engines were tiny in comparison, but because they had less drag they could move faster than hunkering warships, and were far more maneuverable.
They came bearing down on an attack run, heading right over the Silus . Normally it would mean suicide to fly right over the artillery on a galleon’s weather deck, but the bluejacks were unprepared, and these pirates meant to take full advantage of their surprise.
Owein ducked beneath the gunwale as the sloops roared overhead, unloading shells into the deck and, once above it, dropping flaming bombs. The little burning crates were packed with explosives, usually gelatinous nexane or black powder, along with nails or scrap metal. They exploded upon impact and sent fire and shrapnel in every direction.
They targeted the exposed cannons and heavy ballistae, swamping the weapons in clouds of bright fire and black smoke. The men struggling to operate them were either blown apart, peppered with
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