Page 12 of The Sea Witch
“We’ll go straight in.” Oliver spoke over his shoulder without breaking stride. “Any attack will be met head-on, with the full confidence and conviction of the British navy.”
“And here’s my contribution,” Warne added, his hands forming patterns in the air. As he did, fiery energy collected around his fingers. He tapped each of the marine’s cutlasses and the bayonets of their muskets. Power seeped from his fingers into the steel, making the metal glow.
Grinning, one of the marines swiped his blade through a thick wooden column. The wood split apart as if it was only a twig. The roof it supported slanted and, groaning, collapsed. A man in a stained waistcoat yelled in indignation, but no one paid attention.
When Warne reached for Ben’s cutlass, Ben pulled back.
“I’ll do this on my own,” Ben answered.
The mage shrugged. “Matters little to me what you do, Priestley.”
Ben said nothing as he kept pace with the landing party, striding over the uneven and rutted dirt road leading to the center of town. His gaze was never still, moving from building to building, alley to alley. Faces appeared and retreated into the shadows cast by oily torchlight. The smell of unwashed human bodies, rum, and roasting meat clung to the lanes that wove through the settlement.
Even at this late hour of the night, a thick and heavy heat lay upon the streets. Perspiration made Ben’s shirt cling tohis back. A shame that officers couldn’t wear the lightweight loose shirts and billowing pants favored by sailors and citizens, but appearances had to be kept up, and so he was dressed in a full-skirted dark blue coat over a long gray waistcoat, his gray breeches tucked into tall leather boots. At the least he was properly armed.
“Ahead.” Ben pointed toward the two-story building on a corner. As they neared, many raucous voices tumbled out. The tavern was full to bursting with buccaneers.
Ben’s skin went hot and tight.
Oliver and the marines pushed forward, striding quickly toward the tavern. Ben hurried to come abreast of the lieutenant.
“I strongly suggest we go in through the side,” Ben said to Oliver’s stern profile. “Otherwise, they’ll flee ahead of our entry.”
“A sleeping incantation could subdue some of their numbers before we even set foot inside,” Warne offered.
“Silence, both of you,” Oliver snapped. “We attack through the front—now!”
The lieutenant charged through the tavern’s open doorway. Marines surged in behind him. Ben stood in the street, then took a breath.
He stepped into the tavern. At the same time, someone inside cried out, “Weigh anchor! ’Tis the navy!”
A cascade of pirates tried to push through the front door. Ben shouldered into them. Unlike the orderly appearance of the navy, the pirates were a collection of men both garish and ragged. Some wore coats with embroidered cuffs and gaudy buttons, with gold glinting from their ears and gemstones on their fingers. Others were grimy and unkempt, threadbare clothing stained, and their hair caked with God knew what. Yet from the ostentatious to the shabby, they all had the same greed and viciousness in their gazes. None of them valued human life over treasure and plunder.
Chaos was everywhere as the armed marines clashed with the buccaneers. The marines’ magic-charged cutlasses slashed through tables and bucklers as though the heavy wood and metal shields were made of paper.
Ben struggled to grab a blond pirate by the sleeve.
“Where is Jacob Van Der Meer?” he bellowed at the struggling man. “Louis Dupont? Diego Sanchez?”
“Piss off, navy man.” The pirate shoved at Ben. Buffeted by a human tide of fleeing buccaneers, Ben staggered. His grip slipped and the pirate disappeared into the throng.
A jet of fire shot toward Ben, flung by a pirate mage. Ben ducked. Heat from the spell sizzled along his back.
Hell. He’d never had magic used against him.
Ben straightened and elbowed the mage in the face. The magic user fell to the ground, and fleeing pirates stepped on and over his prone body.
Jostling against the escaping buccaneers, he fought to grab another pirate, a man with half a nose. There was too much pandemonium, and he couldn’t get a decent grip before the ruffian was borne away on a human tide.
Ben’s chance to capture and interrogate the pirates was slipping through his fingers. The rough plaster walls of the building shook, and any second the melee would bring the roof down on everyone’s heads.
A blast of hot, crackling magic detonated behind him, throwing him onto a quaking staircase that led to a second floor.
He leapt to his feet, struggling for balance as the stairs shuddered beneath him. The lower half of the staircase crumbled. There was no choice but to go up.
A glimpse of someone with long red hair caught Ben’s attention. A barmaid, no doubt, caught up in the turmoil, trapped at the top of the stairway and in need of aid.
Ben took the remaining stairs two at a time, until he reached the landing.
