Dimly, she was aware of other figures clambering aboard, presumably raft survivors, joining the attack while enemy reinforcements also hurried aft. There were sharp cracks as firearms went off. Feet scuffed all around her as grunting combat swayed back and forth. Looking up, Maia saw two women attack Brod while another swung a huge knife at Naroin, armed only with her bow and no arrows. The scene stunned Maia, its ferocity going far beyond the fights in Long Valley, or even the Manitou. She had never seen faces so filled with hatred and rage. During those earlier episodes, there had at least been a background of rules. Death had been a possible, but unsought, side effect. Here, it was the central goal. Matters had come down to abominations — blades and arrows, guns and fighting men.
Maia's hand fell on a piece of debris from the explosion, a split tackle block. Without contemplating what she was doing, she lifted it in both hands and swiftly brought it around with all her might, smashing one of Brod's opponents in the back of the knee. The woman screeched, dropping a crimson knife that Maia prayed was innocent of boy's blood. Without pause, she struck the other knee. The reaver collapsed, howling and writhing.
Maia was about to repeat the trick with Brod's other foe, when that enemy simply vanished! Nor was Brod himself in view anymore. In an instant, the fight must have carried him off to starboard.
Maia turned. Naroin was backed against the rail, using her bow as a makeshift staff, flailing against two reavers. The first kept the policewoman occupied with a flashing, darting knife-sword, while the second struggled with a bolt-action rifle, slapping at the mechanism, trying to clear a jammed cartridge. Before Maia could react, the reluctant bolt came free. An expended shell popped out and the reaver quickly slipped a new bullet inside. Slamming the bolt home again, she lifted her weapon …
With a scream, Maia leaped. The riflewoman had but a moment to see her coming. Eyes widening, the reaver swung the slender barrel around.
Another explosive concussion rocked by Maia's right ear as she tackled the pirate, carrying them both into the rail. The lightly framed wood splintered, giving way and spilling them overboard.
But I only just got here, Maia complained — and the ocean slapped her, swallowed her whole, squeezed her lungs and clung to her arms as she clawed through syrupy darkness, like coal.
Lamatia and Long Valley hated me, the damn ocean hates me. Maybe the world's trying to tell me something.
Maia surfaced at last with an explosive, ragged gasp, thrashing through a kick turn while peering through a salty blur in hopes of finding her foe before she was found. But no one else emerged from the sea. Perhaps the raider so loathed losing her precious weapon, she had accompanied the rifle to the bottom. Despite everything she'd been through, it was the first time Maia had ever knowingly killed anybody, and the thought was troubling.
Worry about that later. Got to get back and help now.
Maia sought and found the reaver ship, awash in smoke and debris. Fighting a strong undertow, exhausted and unable to hear much more than an awful roar, she struck out for the damaged ketch. At least her thoughts were starting to clear. Alas, that only let her realize how many places hurt.
She swam hard.
Hurry! It may already be too late!
By the time she managed to climb back aboard; however, the fight was already over.
There were strands of cable everywhere. The tangled mass, remnants of the broken winch mechanism, had been the centerpiece of their intended trap. A net wide enough to snare a large, fast-moving boat, even using an inaccurate, makeshift catapult. It had been Brod's suggestion that the booby-trapped gearbox might also make a good weapon. Naroin had said not to count on it, but in the end, that had provided the crucial bit of luck.
Well, we were due a little, Maia thought. Despite all the damage wrought by blast, collision, and battle, the ketch showed no sign of taking water. Just as fortunately, the fickle currents now swept it away from the rocky cliffs.
Still, the rigging was a mess. The masthead and fore-stay were gone, as well as the portside spreader. It would take hours just to clear away most of the wreckage, let alone patch together enough sail to get under way. Heaven help them if another reaver ship came along during that time.
Barring that unpleasant eventuality, a head start and favorable winds were what the surviving castaways most wanted now. Even the wounded seemed braced by the thought of imminent escape westward, and a chance to avenge the dead.
