Page 111 of Vengeance of the Pirate Queen

But I don’t want it to be my time.

Not when there’s still more that I can do. Not when I’m just beginning to realize that I might be worthy of having a life that is my own. Not that I’d ever abandon Alosa and her cause, but maybe there’s something I can do for myself. Maybe I can train more girls like I’m starting to do with Roslyn. Maybe I don’t have to hide. Maybe I can just be where I want, when I want.

And maybe I want a large brute by my side while I do it.

Terror lances through me in a way that makes me feel more alive than ever. For I do fear death, and I do have something to lose now.

This can’t be the end.

I hear a loud grinding sound bounce off the walls of the ship. The enemy freezes in place, even looks around, as though trying to determine the meaning of the sound.

“Is that—” one starts.

“The capstan!” another shouts.

Some of the men and women around me turn about, racing from the kitchen to stop the anchor from being raised, it sounds like.

No sooner have I started to hope, to think that I might survive this after all, when—

Those closest to me attack.

There are too many sharp blades. I cannot dodge them all.

I sidestep the one aimed for my heart, fend one off with my knife and rapier. But the third—

It slides into my stomach. The shock of pain has me just standing there, looking at the point of entry. A moment later, I hack into the one who delivered the blow. As he falls, he pulls his cutlass back out of me.

I scream.

Any Drifta remaining in the room leave to investigate what’s happening with the anchor.

Now that I’m hurt.

I stumble forward from the pain. My hand goes to my stomach, to keep in the blood.

I fall to my knees.

Stars, but it hurts. I have had many an injury over the years, but not like this. Never like this.

This one is serious.

I need a healer. Immediately.

There’s a shot from somewhere above, and the sounds of battle commence. I focus on my breathing, trying to find a way to do so without causing more pain, when a voice cuts across the fighting.

“Give them hell, lasses!”

Dimella.

They’re on board.

I look about me at the bodies and blood, looking for some answer to a question I haven’t fully formed. Some way to make sense of what I must do next.

There.

A skinny lad with his gun belt about his waist. He looks about my size.

I scoot along to him, get my fingers around that buckle, and loosen it. It slips free from his person, and I drag it over to me.

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