The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(39)

The swivel gunners obeyed, the higher pitched bark of the small cannon ringing out as Mal and Ned clattered down the steps to the weather deck. The door to their own cabin lay in splinters, and a trail of destruction down the starboard side of the deck revealed the cannon-ball's flight. The remains of a man, cut almost in two, were bleeding copiously onto the deck.

"God rest your soul," Mal muttered, stepping over the corpse. "Here, Ned, help me with this one."

Another man was lying face down, groaning, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. He screamed when they hauled him upright, and Ned nearly dropped him.

"Steady," Mal told him. "No point in making it worse."

Ned said nothing, only took a firmer grip of the man's arm.

"Get him down to the bilges, out of the way," one of the survivors shouted at them.

"But–"

"Just do it!"

They lowered the man down the ladder to the gun deck. Any moment Mal expected another cannonball to rip through the hull and smash them all to pieces. They shuffled through the gloom, dodging the cannons that rumbled gently back and forth with the motion of the ship and the men scurrying around them with ramrods and match-cords.

The wounded sailor began to struggle as they half-carried, half-dragged him towards the ladder leading down into the belly of the ship.

"Not the bilges!" he moaned. "In God's name, don't leave me to die, not in there!"

Mal glanced at Ned, who shrugged, his expression bleak. He halted and leant close to the man's ear.

"Just as far as the main hold, eh? We can't leave you up here."

The sailor nodded, his face white with pain. Mal and Ned helped him down the ladder and made him as comfortable as they could on a pile of empty chunny sacks. The stink of the bilges was strong down here, but at least this level was dry.

The Falcon shuddered again as her own cannons fired, and dust rained down from the planks overhead. The three men waited, hardly daring to breathe, but there was no answering response from the corsair galley. Ned let out an audible sigh of relief.

"Come on, there's nothing more we can do here," Mal said, wiping the sweat and grime from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

He scrambled up the ladder and ran the length of the gun deck. At the foot of the next ladder he put out a hand to stop Ned.

"Hear that?"

Shouts and the clash of steel sounded from the deck above.

"Corsairs?" Ned asked. "They've boarded us already?"

Mal put a hand to his sword hilt – and halted with the blade half-drawn. Dammit, Raleigh was right. A ship was no place to be carrying a rapier. He slammed it back into the scabbard and drew his dagger instead. Ten inches of cold steel. It would do for now. He ran up the ladder two rungs at a time and leapt out onto the deck in a fighting stance. Immediately he found himself facing a heavily built Moor almost his own height. The corsair's falchion came round in a belly-slicing arc and Mal sprang back, tripped over Ned and sent him tumbling back down to the gun deck. The falchion smashed into the deck inches from Mal's head as he rolled aside and scrambled to his feet again. Mal switched the dagger to his left hand and drew his rapier. The corsair laughed at the sight of the slender blade.

In that brief distraction Mal lunged, simultaneously raising his dagger to deflect another blow from the falchion. The Moor stared down at the red stain blooming across his white tunic, then sagged to his knees as Mal withdrew the rapier blade and closed in to slash his throat open with a backhand sweep of the dagger.

Another corsair prepared to leap across the hatch towards Mal, but the end of Ned's cudgel slammed into his groin and he collapsed, moaning in agony. A moment later Ned popped his head up.

"Stay below!" Mal yelled, and stabbed the corsair through the heart before he could recover.

The enemy had not yet gained the upper hand, but far too many of the men lying helpless or dead were English. He roared and ran at the nearest corsair, a giant of a man made taller by an elaborate turban topped with red and black plumes. His falchion had a deep-toothed edge to its blade, designed to latch onto a ship's rail as well as cause unpleasant puncture wounds. They danced back and forth for long moments, Mal dodging the shining arc of his opponent's weapon rather than risking a parry, trying to coax the man to move in closer. There. He leapt into the opening, bringing his rapier round – and skidded in a pool of blood as the ship rolled.

The falchion whistled down and caught on the elaborate curves of the rapier's hilt. Mal swore and released his grip before the toothed blade could sever his fingers. The corsair shook the rapier aside with a grin and moved in for the kill, but before he could do so, his head exploded in a spray of blood and splinters of bone. Mal looked up to see one of the swivel gunners grinning at him from the poop deck.

"Christ's holy mother!" he yelled up at the man. "That could have been me!"

The sailor made an obscene gesture and set about reloading his gun. Mal got to his feet and retrieved his sword. The remaining corsairs were fleeing back to their ship, diving into the water to avoid being shot by the English sailors. With her sails still unfurled to catch the wind, the Falcon was being blown further away from the galley with every moment, unable to turn back and pursue the oared vessel. Mal watched in frustration as their enemy slipped beyond the reach of cannon fire, though in truth Raleigh had barely enough men left whole to crew his ship, still less take the corsairs on for a second bout.