Pirate Chronicles
Chapter 3
Flight of Fancy
Around the grand hall, chaos lashed out like fireworks, popping, sizzling and scorching. Everyone screamed and cried out as waves of painted faces and powdered wigs pushed against the French doors that lead into the dining hall. Hysteria locked them inside. The massive weight against the closed doors barricaded them all as swiftly as if it was an armed militia.
Nicholas fumbled at his waist in anger, knowing perfectly well he had nothing to strike out with. It made him feel useless. Like a gallant idiot, he had left his sword in his chambers and pistols in a box on his writing desk.
Feeling the cool metal in his palm would have made him feel a lot better at that moment. Instead, he inched closer to the naval officers, waiting for them to take command. Perhaps he could run to his bedroom, or— Nicholas wasn’t able to finish the thought as Charles, the young man who had tenderly asked about his sister, ran to the side of the room and grabbed a chair. The others followed suite and began herding the pirates back towards the balcony doors. Desperate to join them, Nicholas turned to find a toothless, bearded man grinning at him.
“Where be ye goin, lad?” His breath almost made Nicholas gag.
As he peered into the face of the worthless pirate, Nicholas imagined his sister frightened on the balcony as the invaders climbed up the wall. In his mind, he saw the fear in her eyes, cheeks damp with tears, and imagined this man touching her in filthy triumph. Hatred surged through him. Nicholas wanted to rip the pirate’s head off with his bare hands and slice the skin off the carcass.
Sending his fist squarely into the man’s smiling mouth, Nicholas grunted as his knuckles connected with the jaw, feeling bone crack with the impact. The vile wretch staggered back, gnarled hands cradling a bleeding mouth. When their eyes met, he felt unadulterated disgust and it burned like a kitchen fire.
The pirate leapt forward, curved cutlass gleaming in hand and his mouth dangling open. Nicholas jumped back, gritting his teeth as the tip of the man’s sword sliced through his unbuttoned coat, shredding the cream silk shirt beneath. He staggered, placing his hand on the red stain spreading across his chest. A flesh wound, he told himself but he knew he would feel it later. With the ferocity of that attack, there was no doubt in his mind that the ruffians had come here to kill.
“Drive them together,” Thomas yelled. Grim determination replaced his flirting smile. Each officer dove, spun and ducked as they attempted to herd the pirates into a group.
“Hoist yer colors, ye maggots,” one of the pirates bellowed to his companions. Each retreated back to back, moving in a slow spinning motion.
Those who stayed to fight gathered around and cheered while others watched. Charles and Thomas charged with their chairs as Tavin danced back missing the slice of a boot knife.
“We’re out matched,” said Tavin in a husky voice. He cursed himself for drinking as much as he did, although fighting for one’s life had a sobering quality.
Charles rammed his chair roughly into the pirate’s stomach with a sickening thud. Once on the ground, he aimed for the man’s neck. The body went limp.
Nicholas made the mistake of watching. When he turned, a calloused fist slammed into his eye and his body twisted into a lump on the ground. Just before the downward slice that would end his life, he heard a high-pitched sound that blew the surroundings into complete silence.
* * * * *
Taking a metal thing from his coat pocket, one of the pirates put it to his lips and blew. It was a whistle. At the sound, each pirate stopped fighting, turned and ran back towards the balcony, leaving their fallen comrade behind. Tavin stomped after the men and Nicholas moved to follow but Thomas grabbed his coat.
