“Not anymore,” the leader said, sneering. “Hold ’em!”
The others pinned the captive as the sailor at the fire withdrew a long iron pole with a glowing red tip. The prisoner fought wildly, kicking and wiggling, but to no avail. The glowing tip was pressed to his bare right shoulder, a wisp of smoke arose from the contact and he froze, every muscle taut, eyes bulging, teeth bared from the incredible pain.
The branding iron was removed, and seared into the dead-white skin was a red symbol, an outline of a bird with wings outstretched, silhouetted by a flaming sun.
“Now you’re a slave,” the leader snorted, hitching up his loose-fitting pants. “Free for the taking!”
The others released the branded slave, but the man stayed on his feet, panting for breath.
“Gods of the deep, I was a fool to ever trust you bastards,” the man wheezed, a rivet of drool flowing from his slack mouth. “We had a deal! You repair our ship, and we’d pay in blasters and powder. We had a deal!”
“And who’d believe a slave?” He laughed loudly. “Even the lord baron himself can’t keep track of every ship that gets storm damaged in the Thousand Islands!”
The words hit the companions hard, and they looked again at the scene before them. So the men wearing the good clothes weren’t pirates raiding a ville for slaves, but were the villagers, who had stolen the ship from the sailors.
“Would have thought it was the other way around,” Dean said quietly.
“Deal? Yeah, we had a deal. And now we don’t.”
The skinny man hawked and spit into the open mouth of the slave leader. The man gagged on the spittle, almost vomiting. Then he screamed in rage, and, drawing the flintlock from his belt, awkwardly pulled back the hammer and fired. Flame and smoke exploded from the wide maw of the handblaster, the strident blast blowing away half the prisoner’s head. Grayish-pink brains flowing from his smashed skull, red blood pumping from the severed neck, the lifeless body slumped to the ground.
“Any more?” the usurper roared, brandishing the empty weapon.
“Father!” a young man shouted, and charged from the bushes carrying a long pole with a free formed blade on the end.
The leader of the villagers turned at the cry and ducked behind another villager just in time to avoid being slashed across the throat, a spray of blood from his shield arching into the sky. A coldheart tried to use a flintlock, but it merely hissed in a misfire. Another threw a knife and it missed. The young man then threw his spear and it went completely through the coldheart at the fire, stabbing the man behind him with its unusual blade. Entrails slithering into view from between his fingers, the first man slumped over into the fire, dragging the second along with him.
Bare feet padding on the smooth sand, the young man grabbed a blaster from another coldheart when a thundering boom shook the beach, and the young man staggered backward, his right arm gone, only shattered bone and tendrils of flesh hanging from the hideous wound.
The coldhearts cheered, and yet the dying man walked onward, going straight for the nameless leader of the slavers, his whole body trembling from the incredible exertion of staying on his feet. Contemptuously the slaver pulled a pouch from his belt and began to reload the huge flintlock blaster, pouring in black powder, then ramming down a ball and wad of cloth to keep it there. The blood pumping in spurts from his wound, the young man reached the leader and raised the dagger high just as the man cocked back the hammer of the weapon and fired it point-blank. The muzzle flame engulfed the features of the captain’s son, and his head shattered into bloody pieces as the solid lead miniball plowed through flesh and bone in a grisly explosion.
The coldhearts cheered, and the captives bowed their heads in complete submission.
“Any more trouble, and you’ll get the same!” the leader shouted, waving his arms. “Now I want to learn how to work the great ship, and no more shit from any of you asshole sailor dungheads!”