Tigerheart by Peter David Page B

previously been confined to books or motion pictures: an actual, genuine pirate ship, sails fluttering in the breeze, smoke rising from the recently discharged large guns pointing over the side.
    Fiddle’s bell-like language chimed in his ear, and even though she sounded as musical as always, he could discern the shock in her voice. “It’s The Boy at the guns,” she breathed. “He’s firing at the Gwenny. I—I thought he…”
    “You thought he what?”
    “I thought,” said Fiddle, “that he…some part of me thought he wanted me gone because he desired only the Gwenny. But if he wants her dead as well…”
    Paul thought she actually sounded quite cheerful at the prospect, but he chose not to comment upon it since he considered it rude. Far more rude, though, was the prospect of the heroic Boy aiming and firing upon a helpless raft filled with youngsters not all that different in age from Paul himself.
    He had been daunted at the prospect of taking arms against The Boy, but Paul was—above all—a young English gentleman. The lad who was daunted by the undertaking presented to him immediately gave way to the bristling, offended sensibilities of a young Englishman witnessing a lopsided battle.
    “Right!” Paul said, and angled downward like a missile.
    No one had taken notice of him, for they were all focused upon The Boy’s target and even more particularly on his apparent inability to hit it. One of the pirates was shouting at him in bewilderment, “Captain, they’re right there! How can you continue to miss them?”
    “If I sink them with the first shot, the game is over!” The Boy said, sounding defensive. More than that: There was a strain in his voice, as if he were being subjected to some great inner struggle. “Who is captain here, anyway?”
    An elderly lady stepped forward and, snatching the match from The Boy’s hand, lit the fuse. “You are so right, my dear one. And because you’re the captain, you shouldn’t be bothering yourself with this!” She cranked the gun, angling it, as the fuse burned down. “I’ll attend to it.”
    The fuse was nearly to the powder, and the children on the raft were madly paddling, trying to get out of range, knowing they would fail. At that moment, before disaster could befall, Paul dropped from on high, feetfirst, driving them into the muzzle. The cannon angled sharply downward and discharged a heartbeat later. The cannonball blasted into the water not five feet from the raft, and the resulting gout of water came close to swamping the small craft. It did not quite succeed, and the passengers coughed and sputtered but managed to hold on.
    “Who are you!?” said the old lady.
    “Who cares?” said The Boy before Paul could answer, and shoved down as hard as he could on the rear of the cannon. The abrupt movement catapulted Paul high through the air. He soared with the weightless grace of one upon whom gravity had only limited sway, and that agility was not lost upon The Boy even as Paul landed in the rigging above. “You’ve been taught to fly!” The Boy said, pointing in an accusatory fashion. “Who taught you thus?”
    Unsure whether he should reveal Fiddle’s presence to her would-be murderer, Paul said, “You did!”
    “I did not!” Then The Boy paused, for he was well aware that his memory was not always the most reliable. “Did I?”
    “Did you?” said one of the pirates.
    The Boy shrugged. “I might have done. If I did, what of it?” He studied Paul with a cocked eyebrow. “He seems familiar, now that it’s mentioned.”
    “You spoke to me through a mirror,” Paul reminded him from above. “You told me to catch you if I could.”
    “Then do so!” The Boy said defiantly. He thrust out a hand and shouted, “Sword!” Seconds later, a pirate cutlass had been thrust into his left hand. With his right hand, he yanked out his own sword and, quick as the wind, hurtled heavenward toward Paul. He tossed the cutlass with an easy motion