The Kingdom / Chapter 01.04 - "Two Ships"
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
The crew of the HMS Stronghold spent the most of two fortnights tracking down The Azure Jackal, visiting sundry ports where it was known to weigh anchor, interrogating dockworkers, barkeeps, and strumpets alike, piecing together clues. Twenty one days, and now it was in sight, one of the fastest ships on the Atlantic, speeding across open water as it frantically attempted to escape its pursuers. Scoundrels, every one of them, the men who worked under the blue dog and crossed swords were of the worst sort, criminals who took to the sea to avoid the penalties of their misdeeds.
Pirates. And the commodore would be the one to capture them, to bring them to justice. It was the duty with which she had tasked herself: Put an end to the reign of the self-styled Lord of the Eighth Sea and see him punished for his crimes. This one goal drove her for nearly a decade, from the time when she first set foot upon a navy vessel. She would be the one to board The Azure Jackal, to retrieve from these buccaneers what did not belong to time. She would be the one to put its captain in shackles and throw him into the brig. She would be the one to set the pirate ship aflame, leaving it to burn until it was no more.
A month ago, the opportunity to fulfill that destiny was handed to her when Admiral Franklin Buchanan promoted her to Commodore, placing three ships under her command and giving her two simple instructions: Patrol the coast and work for the good of the King. And what could be more to the good King's benefit than the defeat and subsequent capture of one of the most wanted men on the Atlantic seaboard?
She stood, one foot on the railing at the prow of the ship, watching as they drew ever closer. The Azure Jackal was fast, there was no doubt of that, but the HMS Stronghold was lighter, thinner, quicker, and more agile. It would be mere minutes before they were upon their prey, and only minutes after they would pull along side and board. She had no doubt there would be a fight, but her men were stout and ready, practiced with their rifles and their blades, each one a testament to the American Royal Navy's loyalty to the throne. This would be her grand victory.
“Commodore Lightfoot, your orders?”
The commodore turned, an eyebrow shooting up as she came face to face with the ship's Commander. “Prepare to furl the sails, Walsh,” she replied, her voice firm. “Prime the canons and make ready the boarding planks. We've got them now, and they have little chance of escape.”
The man turned, stomping back down the forecastle onto the main deck, calling out orders. “You heard her you scalawags! Powder monkeys, ready the canons! Ensigns, prepare the hooks an' planks! Riggers, be ready to pull sail! Our time is now!”
Suddenly, a cry she did not expect rang out, and then another, and a third. “We's bein' boarded!” “Enemy on ship!” “What the bloody hell?!” And finally a cry she could not ignore; a scream of anguish that ended with a punctuated gurgle. Commodore Lightfoot's hand flew to the sword at her hip as she raced toward the main deck to see what the shouting was about. There, bearing down on the crew of the Stronghold with heavy, bladed rifles, stood three tall, lank invaders clad in glossy armor, one splashed in the blood of a fallen ensign. She narrowed her eyes as her own weapon snicked from its sheath. Rikti. She faced the Rikti. She had never seen one – the Great Invasion had been before her time – but there was no person anywhere on the globe who could not have identified them, such were the tales of their brutality.
She flew from the forecastle stairs into the fray, her sword weaving past the defenses of the first, the creature who stood over the body of her young charge. Slipping between the plates of its armor, the steel struck a mortal blow, and the Rikti stalwart crumpled before her. Looking up, she watched in horror as the two remaining invaders dispatched those who dared attack them, using their unwieldy weapons with astonishing agility. She launched herself at one, spinning in midair as her sword whirled. She landed, crouched down on one knee, both arms outstretched behind her, and for a moment it seemed as though she had not hit her mark at all. But when the gangly alien tried to step forward, it stumbled, losing its balance just long enough for its head to topple from its shoulders.
In that brief moment, when there stood a glimmer of hope, a peel of thunder echoed, a sound so full of dread it seemed as though the very air about them was rent, and a dozen sickly green shafts of light shot downward from the thick cover of clouds. Spiraling gateways into some unknown world opened where they struck, and dozens more of the Rikti conscripts filed through, their armor clacking as they poured onto the decks of the Stronghold.
That moment, that glimmer of hope, was shattered, and the commodore closed her eyes for just a moment, preparing herself to fall in combat. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, an old katana gifted to her by a Japanese ambassador, and she took a deep breath. This would be the end, she assured herself, but the end would not be one she accepted easily. Eyes flicking open, she spun as she entered the brawl, her men having already taken up arms against their unwanted guests. She wheeled about, her blade meeting armor and flesh, biting, cutting, soaked in the verdant blood of her enemies. To her right, Commander Walsh succumb to a slug from a Rikti rifle, and she felt a twinge of pain at the loss, but still she fought. As each sailor fell, so did another alien; but her crew was outnumbered, with more of the Rikti appearing by the moment.
“Come alongside her, chaps!” barked a cheerful voice. “Seems The Azure Jackal is about more than booty, beauty, and rum today!”
There was a loud THUMP! and the HMS Stronghold shuddered, followed by the sound of wood clapping against wood. The commodore looked over her shoulder long enough to catch the most improbable view: the crew of The Azure Jackal boarding her ship, each with sword or rifle or pistol in hand, engaging the Rikti on the deck of the Stronghold. Encouraged by the unexpected reinforcements, the commodore leaped back into the fight with renewed vigor, her sword flashing in quick thrusts and arcs. Side by side, the naval seamen fought with the pirates against the onslaught of Rikti forces on the blood-slicked deck. More than once, she found herself back to back with a man who only an hour before she would have considered an enemy, the captain of the pirate ship.
“Is it too late to request parlay?” he asked through a grin. Long, curved swords, one in each hand, danced about him swiftly – a parry, a block, a strike! – even guarding her flank when she seemed about to be overwhelmed.
“I suppose, sir, we will have to discuss that later,” she said, unsure of how to take his lighthearted manner.
Still, the Rikti came, more portals opening to release the alien creatures onto the deck, faster than before, threatening to overrun them. “Fall back!” came the cry. “Fall back to The Azure Jackal!”
There was no question about invitation, no concern over who belonged on the Jackal and who did not. As the commodore caught the pirate captain's eyes, she knew it was a matter of human decency. Man against invader. Human against Rikti. The crew of the navy vessel would be more than welcome – and more than safe – aboard the scoundrel ship. She gave him a quick nod, and barked out a command of her own. “To the Jackal, men! The Stronghold is lost!”
Slowly they made their way toward the ship's starboard side, steel ringing against steel as they retreated. One by one, pirates and sailors clamored across to the other ship, but the pirate captain and Commodore Lightfoot found no such escape. Forced onto the stern deck, they beat back their attackers, but could make no ground against the invading foe. The commodore's sword whirled wildly, cutting through one enemy after another, but where one dropped, another took its place.
Suddenly she was yanked off her feet.
“I really don't mean to be so forward,” the captain said with a smirk. His free arm swung out, releasing one of his swords, which spun in a flat plane until with a THWAP! it embedded itself in the mizzenmast. A rope twanged and the captain's arm tightened around her as they were jerked from the rear deck of the Stronghold, a whirling yardmast trailing them behind like a horizontal trebuchet. With a whoop of excitement, the pirate released the rope, and they were in free fall, thrown across the gap between ships, only to be caught in the mainsail. A quick thrust with his remaining sword allowed them to descend to the deck gracefully, and as they landed, he dropped Commodore Lightfoot to her feet.
“Hoist the foresail!” he called. “Rally, men! We must make good our escape!”
They watched from a distance as the HMS Stronghold burned, deep sadness in the eyes of the navy men and an odd degree of respect from the pirate crew. The commodore remained the longest, keeping vigil over the flaming wreckage until it disappeared on the eastern horizon, and even then staring out from the aft railing of the ship, watching the wisps of smoke as they rose in the distance. Silently she stood, until the captain placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“About that parlay,” he said.
“I am aboard your ship, sir. I am effectively your prisoner,” she replied, her voice a little more than a hoarse whisper.
“I don't think this is time for us to turn on each other, Commodore Lightfoot.” He spoke with an unforeseen degree of determination. As the last trail of smoke vanished from view, she turned around to regard him. Tall and broad shouldered, he held himself with a certainty and nobility utterly out of place aboard a pirate ship.
“No,” she sighed. “I suppose not.”
“Then perhaps it's time I introduce myself.” He leaned forward into a sweeping bow. “I am Drake Von Zarp, and you are aboard the love of my life, The Azure Jackal.”
She stared at him incredulously. “Von Zarp?”
He gave her a playful wink. “It's Polish.”
