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Mickey Reichert: Flight of the Renshai

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Mickey Reichert Flight of the Renshai

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Trained in healing by his mother, Arturo tried to run to the fallen captain, but his path was blocked by the Renshai who forced him backward with the precision of herding dogs.

Arturo froze, staring at the captain's body, hanging utterly still across the railing except for the relentless patter of blood from his neck to the gunwale. One of the sailors picked up an object from the deck that resembled a slender arrow but glinted like silver in the sunlight and bore no fletching. The captain's blood smudged the sailor's hands.

"Let me help him." Arturo attempted to slip around the Renshai. "I know some healing." Though true, it seemed moot. He had no herbs, and every soldier knew enough to hold pressure on an open wound.Yet no one appeared to be doing so.

Trygg nimbly shifted to block Arturo again. "He's dead."

"Maybe not." Arturo lunged for a hole, even as Gunnhar closed it. "I have to try."

"He's dead," Gunnhar repeated. "Believe me, Sire, Renshai know dead."

A cry sounded from the other ship, a single indistinguishable word.

"Loose!" shouted Bearn's second-in-command.

A hail of unfletched metal shafts whined onto the Seven as the bowmen's strings twanged. Four Bearnian bowmen collapsed as the arrows left their strings. Trygg and Gunnhar jerked Arturo nearly off his feet, Gunnhar swearing vehemently.

At the mishandling, rage flashed through Arturo, but a glance at the smaller Renshai squelched it. Blood stained his tattered sleeve, and the fingers, still clutching his sword hilt, had turned ghostly white. Despite the wound, he had managed not to drop it. Without bothering to assess the damage, Gunnhar effortlessly shifted the hilt to his left hand. "Cowards!" he screamed. "Fight fair! Face-to-face! Sword-to-sword!"

Arturo grabbed for the Renshai's arm, intending to wrap the sleeve into a makeshift bandage. Gunnhar moved faster, charging toward the port rail, where the clang of metal striking metal filled the air. Once again, Arturo's fingers closed on empty air, and he jerked his attention to a line of grapples hooking Seven's rail. The remaining bowmen retreated, and the swordsmen rushed in to sever boarding lines. Heart hammering, fear balling in his throat, Arturo chased after the warriors, intending to assist.

More enemy missiles whined through the air, and the front line of Seven's warriors collapsed, tripping up some of those behind them. Both Renshai managed to keep their feet, flying over their own men to slash down boarding enemies with perfect sweeps of their swords. Arturo ducked in, treading more carefully, intending to unhinge grapples; but the Renshai wove a web of steel in front of him, blocking his advance even as they dispatched enemies.

Others did not prove as swift or lucky. As Bearnides fell, to the volley or tripped up by falling companions, the enemy swarmed over the side. Arturo managed a glimpse through the whirling blur of Renshai steel, his own sword incapable of penetrating the protective barrier. The few enemies he saw wore tight leather helms, clots of thickly curled reddish hair escaping in places. Between leather gloves and long cotton sleeves, Arturo caught glimpses of medium-toned flesh with a hint of olive. Their swords were short, curved and serrated, and they spoke in a language he did not recognize.

Battles broke out over every part of the ship, and the commanders' orders became lost beneath the strange war cries and shouts of the invaders, the clamor of steel, and the screams of the injured. Arturo tried to watch every direction simultaneously. He slashed at a pirate behind him, only to have a Renshai appear suddenly between them. Forced to pull his blow, he watched as Trygg effortlessly cut down the enemy, immediately moving on to the next.

Strangers and companions flopped to the deck, screaming in unmitigated agony or lying in an ominous silence. The deck became slick and crimson, every step a hazard. Arturo lunged for an enemy, only to find himself nearly skewering one of his escort. Again, he pulled the blow, this time howling in fury. "Let me fight, damn it!"

Men surged around him, locked in a combat he seemed incapable of joining.

The Renshai gave no reply, hard-pressed to their own defenses. Gunnhar's sleeve had turned completely scarlet, and gore filled his hair. Blood ran freely from his nose and right ear, and a limp marred his once graceful movements. Trygg had lost his shirt, and his pants hung in tatters. Bits of flesh and hair speckled every part of him, and crimson rivulets trickled down his back.

Twice more Arturo attempted to join the battle, and the Renshai beat him back, tending his defense with an obsession that made them careless of their own.

"Let me fight!" Arturo howled, cringing every time a Bearnide fell. "Let… me… fight!"

Heedless, the Renshai herded him toward the hatch as the battle surged around them.

"Get…" Trygg gasped out. "… below… decks… Sire."

It was no longer a matter of adolescent pride. Arturo knew he was going to die. They all were. Only a handful of Bearnian soldiers remained standing, fighting, and the pirates were cutting down the regular sailors with barely an effort. "No!" Arturo preferred to die hacked down by an unseen opponent in battle rather than cowering behind a barrel or a stack of unused lines.

Trygg shoved him.

"Stop it!"

The hatch creaked open, and Trygg pushed Arturo again.

Arturo staggered toward the opening. "No! I don't want to die a coward!" He spoke words he knew the Renshai could not ignore. No insult was more vicious to them, nothing more shameful than a coward's death.

"You're a prince. They'll take you alive-for ransom."

Though true in ordinary circumstances, it seemed unlikely here. These strangers came from no known country on the continent, spoke no recognized language. Barbarians, even pirates, would not understand royal protocols and conventions any more than they had parley or colors. Soon enough they would discover that a realm warship, unlike their previous targets, carried little worth stealing; and they would likely vent their frustration on any Bearnide who survived the battle. Such as a hidden prince. Death in battle seemed far preferable to the torture fueled by the pirates' frustration.

Without the time to explain the complexities of his thoughts, Arturo turned his stumble toward the open darkness into a deft leap over the hatch. An enemy sword slashed open his sleeve, drawing a stinging line of blood along his forearm. Arturo riposted, more from training than intent. His sword struck something hard with an impact that ached through his hands, followed by a grunt of agony. The blade stuck fast. A glint of light touched the corner of his vision, a raised, serrated blade plunging toward him. Ducking, Arturo ripped his blade free, splashing warm pinpoints of blood. An enemy collapsed in front of him, and he spun to avoid tripping over the body. Air whooshed by his cheek, as an enemy blade passed dangerously close.

Arturo waved his sword wildly in front of himself-protective chaos-while he tried to regain his bearings. Bodies littered the deck in grotesque positions, and he did not waste time with identification. Men surged around him, most red-haired invaders; and their strange blades capered through the sunlight. Several rushed to engage him at once.

A cry rose over the deck in a Renshai accent, "Modi!" It was a desperate call for the god of wrath, one Renshai usually reserved for a severe or mortal injury. "Modi!"

Arturo turned toward the sound, baring his throat to an enemy sword. Before he could think to dodge, someone flew through the clot of battle, slamming against Arturo with a force that sent him sprawling. Cold steel bit through the top of his shoulder instead of his neck, the searing pain all-encompassing. He screamed, losing track of direction, stumbling into a solid rail that drove the breath from his lungs in a sudden gasp. Beside him, Captain Jhirban's body dangled, a ragged hole through his neck, his face bloodless, his dark eyes wide open and empty.

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