Corsair

Mitch

"Mitch!" called Miguel, my twin brother.

"Yeah?" I called back.

"Get your butt outside! Dad's making us practice our shooting!"

My eyes widened and I immediately rushed outside. Our family owns a decent-sized lot: a bungalow with an open yard right beside it. Our house was made of cement, with a straw roof, situated near the end of our village. The instant I was outside, the smell of sea breeze filled my nostrils. A wonderful scent, one that I get to experience everyday. This was life at Kush, a small island on the Bering Sea. An island that had lush batches of trees and great beaches, just a little bit off the coast of the Vepo Empire: simple, but worth living.

Our village was situated around a small hill, and our home was towards its bottom. We've carved streets of stone and opened up stores, built boats, welcomed merchants and traders and called this little island home.

Miguel was already waiting outside, along with my father. He was a tough, middle aged sailor that wore a white polo topped with a thick overcoat. A pair of binoculars hung at his neck. He claims to be a retired pirate, but Miguel and I had our doubts. My brother had his hands on a Flintlock with a golden barrel, the common weapon of pirates. Father handed me a silver one.

"That's modified to fit a magazine of up to five bullets," he said, then pointed to a row of five pots at the end of the yard. "Now shoot."

I took the gun, took the safety off, cocked it, and aimed at the pot at the center. Energy and excitement tickled my nerves. It wasn't everyday that Dad let us practice shooting. He'd tell us that the neighbors would complain about the noise, or that we'd be wasting his bullets, or some other reason we're forced to believe. But not this time. This time, for whatever reason that we'd be forced to believe, Father's letting us shoot, and darn was I happy. I pulled thr trigger. A loud bang filled the air, and the pot shattered instantly. Smoke hung from the edge of my pistol, and my father looked at me proudly. It was just one of the few times I've ever gotten to shoot a gun; I mostly focused on learning fencing with a cutlass, and a gun wasn't exactly something I'm good at.

"Beginner's luck!" cried Miguel jokingly.

"Finish everything," said my father.

I took aim once more, and aimed for the pot to the left of what I had just broken. I steadied my grip and shot a bullet. Another burst of noise was released, but this time the bullet didn't hit the pot in the center. In fact, it missed, just hitting the edge of the pot, sending small bits of pottery flying. I told you I wasn't good with guns.

"Come on, you gotta do better."

"Told ya it was luck!"

I steeled myself this time, and made sure that everything would hit. And it did. Three bullets to take out three pots. Miguel let out a small smile. But one pot still remained. The one I had missed earlier.

"Here." Dad handed be a single bullet.

I took the magazine out and filled the bullet in, then cocked the gun. My palms were starting to sweat, affecting my grip. I quickly wiped them on my pants before aiming. The pot was perfectly aligned with the sight on my gun: all I had to do now was pull the trigger. I did. The gun snapped back from the recoil, and the pot flew into the air in the form of bits and pieces of shattered clay. I exhaled. That felt good. I handed the gun back to my father, but he shook his head.

"Keep it," he said. "Might be useful in the near future."

"Near?" I asked.

"Last night," Dad began, "a couple of sailors came home from a long day's work. They spread word that they spotted a fleet of ships heading this way, but they weren't merchant ships, no."

I stared at my father intently.

"They said," he continued, "that the ships bore sails of red with silver crescents."

I knew exactly what those sails meant. "Captain Ventrez," I muttered.

Father nodded grimly.

Captain Ventrez, the most powerful pirate on the Mediterranean. He commands a fleet so large it was essentially an army. He was feared by the people around the world. He was rumored to have conquered much of the West. He was said to be a ruthless conqueror, one whose ultimate goal was to topple the great kingdoms of the world and establish his own. The harbinger of the apocalypse, some would say.

Countless of rumors has been said about the man, from crushing empires with his horde of pirates to castles and killing kings all by himself. Some were outlandish, but it still struck fear in our hearts, and one rumor in particular did that very well: Captain Ventrez has targeted the Vepo Empire. Once that man has something in his sights, he isn't stopping till its white flag is up in the air or its villages are nothing but ashes.

"Captain V," Miguel muttered. "think we stand a chance?"

"No way," I replied, "this island is toast." That was true. Kush is a small island. What does it have a against an army led by a madman?

"I'm not saying he's coming over here to pillage us. You know he operates differently," Dad interrupted. "But it's best to be prepared."

He was right. Captain Ventrez didn't just go to islands to steal and burn things to the ground: he came there with objectives. Smart, calculated plans. The only villages he was burning down were the ones affiliated with his enemies, in this case the Vepo Empire and our island wasn't one of them. Captain V enjoyed killing, but he didn't kill for fun. He would only target his opponents, and I had a stinking feeling in my gut that even though we weren't on his bad side, things still bound to get dirty.

"Miguel!" said Father, "you're up!"

My brother took aim at another set of pots, then started shooting. I could hear the pots shattering with every shot he took. A born marksman.

Father was right. Although those pirates probably don't mean to harm us, it can't hurt to practice putting a bullet in a man's chest, right?