“Good,” she hissed. She caught a glimpse of Jessep giving her an odd look, but paid no attention. She was engrossed with gauging the battle raging on the ship alongside.
By now, the Confederate marines had cleared the entire center of the enemy vessel and were beginning the butcher work. All of them had finished boarding. Half of the hundred was driving toward the stern, the other half toward the bow. Shields still locked—but now the assegais were flashing. And, like the legs, went back and forth like machines. Pistons, for all intents and purposes—except these pistons ended in two-foot blades sharpened to an edge which didn’t quite match a razor’s. Not quite.
“This is finished, First Spear. Isn’t it?”
“Aye, ma’am. All but the killing.”
She shook her head. “No reason to risk any more losses.” Losses had been few enough, in truth. Here as always, Confederate training and discipline counted. But Helga could see at least five soldiers of the hundred out of action. Three of them were only wounded—and not too badly at that, she thought. They were already attending to their own wounds.
The other two . . . One of them was dead, no question about it. A skillfully wielded blade—or just a lucky one—must have come over the edge of his shield and caught his throat. Blood was still gushing out of the wound, enough to make his survival a moot point.
She wasn’t sure about the other. He was lying sprawled across one of the benches, his helmet knocked askew. Might be dead, or just unconscious.
But there was no need, any longer, to risk more casualties. She might well need her hundred again, in the weeks and months to come—and there’d be no way to replace lost men down in the southern continent. At least, she’d never heard of Southrons being recruited directly into a regular Vanbert unit. Many of the barbarians served in the Confederate army, of course, but to the best of her knowledge always as members of auxiliary units.
“Call it off, First Spear,” she commanded. “There’s no need to lose any more of our people.”
Jessep was shouting the order before she even finished. Looking at him, Helga realized he was relieved to hear her order. He’d obviously been expecting her to insist on full revenge.
Her jaws were tight. I’ll get my revenge, never fear. I just don’t need the hundred for it.
The instrument of her revenge was trotting toward her even now. Trae, his mouth split in a wide smile, about to utter some words of glee and self-praise.
He never got them out. “I’m not finished with you,” hissed Helga. She pointed a stiff finger at the pirate ship. “Destroy that thing for me, brother.”
He came to an abrupt stop a few feet away and turned his head. “What for?” he demanded. Then, seeing the Confederate soldiers begin an orderly withdrawal: “And why’d you wait so long to call them back? Another five minutes and they’d have lost—”
He broke off, seeing the expression on Helga’s face. “Oh,” he mumbled. “That.”
He took a deep breath. “Sorry, sister. Because you never act like . . . what I mean is . . .” Another deep breath. “Never mind.”
He gave the pirate ship a quick study. “Don’t want to chance a grenade,” he muttered, “and they’re too hard to replace. Simple satchel charge should do the trick—and I’ve got something special I’d like to try anyway.”
As always, a technical project got Trae completely engrossed. Within fifteen seconds, he was back among his gunnery crew, shouting his usual mix of profanity and orders.
It was all very quick. By the time the last Confederate marines trotted back across the ramps, carrying their dead and helping their wounded, Trae had his “special” ready. It looked like one of the other satchel charges Helga had seen, except for three flasks strapped to the side.
Very quick, though not rushed. Thicelt even had his sailors take the time to pry loose the ends of the ramps and hoist them back into position, rather than simply jettisoning them by detaching the hinges. Then with a push of several oars, opened a space of about ten feet between the two ships.