SAILING FOR THREE II ONE

Bellhound took a sip--then another--of the ship’s last wine. Unbeknownst to its master, he had hid the loot away beneath his cot’s pillow in a cabin the captain came by with too high a frequency. So while Fugger whined, his first mate drank. The reward felt well deserved being assigned such a suicidal directive. While he disagreed entirely with the premise of the mission, Bellhound did understand his leader: as things stood, a knight gilded in gold sought to have their heads brought before the king. Given the way this world had turned, becoming anticitizens in the only land left left a hand loose and unable to hold its liquor. Bellhound pressed against his brow, grit his teeth and gnawed absentmindedly. Some time passed before he knelt and re-equipped himself with the drink. More red flowed well. He shook somewhat.

Fugger, meanwhile, braced himself. His pistol loaded, saber sheathed, he came out into the complete darkness above his ship. Having snuffed their fires near completely, he and his navigator sailed shrouded in night towards a familiar sight lit only by the blinding blasting out from another afar--a behemoth of an opponent--and its own in defense. Bellhound’s voice hit Fugger in the blackness, his first mate’s complaints continuing seemingly from where he’d left him last.

“How’d you know it wasn’t her?”

“Your belts reverb’rate, cap’n.” Bellhound tossed his bottle into the black sea.

“What was that?” asked his captain.

“Last liquor.”

Fugger’s fingers twitched. His knuckles whitened though neither would know. Bellhound needed see little to know how agitated his captain grew in the coming and going of alcohol absent hours, Fugger’s near endless supply whittled to trash in the waters devoid of message nor miniature. But he miraculously restrained himself and allowed silent pacing to overtake him one groan in the wood at a time.

Nearer and nearer the two ventured in the dark, their course awkward and dangerous. Cannonballs launched through the air as their destination returned another series of fire, an admirable effort landing to their desire, a massive explosion spilling out across the offending vessel. Its once towering silhouette left less to his imagination as Fugger gazed upon the failed belligerents suffering a reversal of fortune. He could somewhat make out frantic figures dancing across the deck attempting to douse the rapid flames. Unseen hands below continued their work unabated or unaware, volleys of iron sent blasting across black. Herein lied the danger, a massive splash near Fugger’s own ship rocketing fear up his spine. The original plan called for simply waiting out the encounter and picking off the thought-to-be losers. Now it became ensuring, the fight tipped in the scales of the navy and her might. Another of their royal munitions came crashing against the sides of the enemy vessel. It stooped.

Leaving the navigator by the time he’d--to his best estimate--aligned themselves with the knights, Fugger took to the ship’s cannons, readying their deployment as he directed Bellhound teach. The words his first mate said days ago came to him unexpectedly:

“Didn’t feel like killing.”

He hadn’t killed yet, either, had he? Not directly, not in this world--certainly without intent. Captain Blackgill still lived, did he not? Yet Corton suffered, his corpse soon to join many more with the lighting of arms. He couldn’t be sure why this bothered him. In another life, his own hands had performed illegally, and those very same ones now held a ramrod ramming powder down a hole. Wasn’t it all the same? So why shake? But he shook. His target continued hosing their opponent with unyielding metal, landing zones reflecting littler in subsequent flashes. They still desperately resumed their campaign, but the ship’s blasting holes all nearly swam.

The wads went next, then the balls. Fugger dashed back up to deck, his boots squeaking throughout the journey, and he acquired his sole crew mate for the task of guiding the cannons. Bellhound rolled his charts out and the two adjusted with great effort. He gave his captain a nod and fled the area. Fugger lit the lines. Sizzling blew through the ship. Blasts rang out bang by bang, his vessel violently letting loose payloads one after another, holes tearing through the knights’ craft, their mast sent blazing, their frame fast lowering. From behind it suddenly suffered another penetration, iron ripping straight through the knights and into the dark after.

Fugger bolted from the blasting room to find Bellhound overwhelmed by a gape in the wood, water and oceanic contents alike rushing throughout. He leapt to action and rescued his first mate from the flooding, just as quickly then abandoning the navigator in a rush to the main deck where Fugger, hesitation disregarded, dove into the abyss. Some distance away, a second source splashed.