her gun covers, exposing a row of black-muzzled iron cannon. Tyche rushed head-on toward the Princesa. There was no way for Tyche to fire her own ordnance against the galleon while the Princesa could bring her entire port compliment of cannon to bear on Tyche.
It was a dangerous maneuver, but Captain Ambergris was known for her willingness to risk her ship and her life for the grand prizes of the ocean trade. To date she had won at every throw of the dice.
Nor was Amber's courage mere foolhardiness. Tyche was fitted with a bowsprit in the form of her namesake, the dispenser of riches and poverty, pleasures and misfortunes, blessings and pain. Painted in bright colors, Tyche's own Tyche was fitted with hands as sharp as razors and as strong as rails.
Princesa's cannons boomed and hot flaming balls flew across the narrowing distance between the ships. Most fell short and dropped hissing and steaming into the sea. Some flew overhead, sparking and sizzling as they passed Tyche. Several slapped against Tyche's canvas, ripping holes as they flew onward. Small fires broke out in several places and well-trained girls scurried up the lines, furling flaming canvas and hurling it overboard into the sea.
With a crash and a crunch Tyche made contact with Princesa, her bowsprit plowing into the galleon's hull and lodging deep in her side. Ambergris's well-trained pirates hurled grapnels across Princesa's railing and with the precision of a London timepiece boarders swarmed onto the deck of the galleon.
Ambergris knew Doña Cortez. Their paths had crossed before. Once, long ago, Amber had been María Elizabeta's prisoner, and she had learned that Doña Cortez had a fondness for the barbed whip and the white-hot prod. Amber bore souvenirs of that encounter, scars that crisscrossed her back and memories of indignities less visible but far more painful.
Amber had survived that encounter, escaped from a dungeon in the dead of night, leaving the corpses of a dozen warders and pike-bearers in her wake, vowing to wreak revenge on her tormentor.
The time for that revenge had arrived.
Amber bared her teeth in a fierce vulpine grin.
Princesa Alejandra's crew put up a better fight than Amber had expected, but Tyche's crew were freebooters to the heart while Alejandra Olga's company were mere merchant sailors, some of them volunteers looking for a way to support themselves and their families in Iberia, others the scum of the docks and grog-houses of Santiago de Compostela and La Coruña, Cartagena and Alicante.
Some battled with belaying pins, others with curved swords or needle-pointed dirks. The fabled steel of Toledo lived up to its reputation, but a weapon is no better than the woman wielding it, as Amber well knew.
Blood ran across Princesa Alejandra's decks and into her scuppers. Cries of pain and the moans of departing souls filled the air. Princesa Alejandra's officers were armed with flintlock pistols. The sound of their discharges and the stink of their powder smote Ambergris's senses.
The battle seemed all but over when a second wave of defenders rushed from below deck, Princesa Alejandra's cannoneers scrambling up ladders to come to the aid of their comrades. These were tougher characters than the ordinary seawomen Tyche's boarding party had faced until now. The battle raged back and forth across Princesa Alejandra's decks, decks now slippery with the spilled guts and splashing gore of boarders and defenders alike.
But the final outcome was foreordained.
Within the hour Captain Ambergris has put a prize crew aboard Princesa Alejandra. The bodies of the dead and the seriously wounded were flung overboard. Hungry sharks caught the scent of blood, circled and feasted on fresh meat. Most of Princesa Alejandra's sailors were happy to sail on under command of prize officers from Tyche. Those few who refused to cooperate were given a boat, a supply of hardtack and a cask of water and set adrift.
Only Doña María Elizabeta Francesca
It was a dangerous maneuver, but Captain Ambergris was known for her willingness to risk her ship and her life for the grand prizes of the ocean trade. To date she had won at every throw of the dice.
Nor was Amber's courage mere foolhardiness. Tyche was fitted with a bowsprit in the form of her namesake, the dispenser of riches and poverty, pleasures and misfortunes, blessings and pain. Painted in bright colors, Tyche's own Tyche was fitted with hands as sharp as razors and as strong as rails.
Princesa's cannons boomed and hot flaming balls flew across the narrowing distance between the ships. Most fell short and dropped hissing and steaming into the sea. Some flew overhead, sparking and sizzling as they passed Tyche. Several slapped against Tyche's canvas, ripping holes as they flew onward. Small fires broke out in several places and well-trained girls scurried up the lines, furling flaming canvas and hurling it overboard into the sea.
With a crash and a crunch Tyche made contact with Princesa, her bowsprit plowing into the galleon's hull and lodging deep in her side. Ambergris's well-trained pirates hurled grapnels across Princesa's railing and with the precision of a London timepiece boarders swarmed onto the deck of the galleon.
Ambergris knew Doña Cortez. Their paths had crossed before. Once, long ago, Amber had been María Elizabeta's prisoner, and she had learned that Doña Cortez had a fondness for the barbed whip and the white-hot prod. Amber bore souvenirs of that encounter, scars that crisscrossed her back and memories of indignities less visible but far more painful.
Amber had survived that encounter, escaped from a dungeon in the dead of night, leaving the corpses of a dozen warders and pike-bearers in her wake, vowing to wreak revenge on her tormentor.
The time for that revenge had arrived.
Amber bared her teeth in a fierce vulpine grin.
Princesa Alejandra's crew put up a better fight than Amber had expected, but Tyche's crew were freebooters to the heart while Alejandra Olga's company were mere merchant sailors, some of them volunteers looking for a way to support themselves and their families in Iberia, others the scum of the docks and grog-houses of Santiago de Compostela and La Coruña, Cartagena and Alicante.
Some battled with belaying pins, others with curved swords or needle-pointed dirks. The fabled steel of Toledo lived up to its reputation, but a weapon is no better than the woman wielding it, as Amber well knew.
Blood ran across Princesa Alejandra's decks and into her scuppers. Cries of pain and the moans of departing souls filled the air. Princesa Alejandra's officers were armed with flintlock pistols. The sound of their discharges and the stink of their powder smote Ambergris's senses.
The battle seemed all but over when a second wave of defenders rushed from below deck, Princesa Alejandra's cannoneers scrambling up ladders to come to the aid of their comrades. These were tougher characters than the ordinary seawomen Tyche's boarding party had faced until now. The battle raged back and forth across Princesa Alejandra's decks, decks now slippery with the spilled guts and splashing gore of boarders and defenders alike.
But the final outcome was foreordained.
Within the hour Captain Ambergris has put a prize crew aboard Princesa Alejandra. The bodies of the dead and the seriously wounded were flung overboard. Hungry sharks caught the scent of blood, circled and feasted on fresh meat. Most of Princesa Alejandra's sailors were happy to sail on under command of prize officers from Tyche. Those few who refused to cooperate were given a boat, a supply of hardtack and a cask of water and set adrift.
Only Doña María Elizabeta Francesca
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