The Kiss of the Dead (Revised)

Chapter 5

News of the duel travelled fast across the ship. There were several disputes to be settled as there always were.The ship was running low on fresh water, so once we stopped to refill the tanks, it was time.

I hated every moment that passed. I didn't want to fight. Only one person would usually walk away from a duel - but I knew I wasn't quick enough to be that one. And for what? - A petty insult from a bitter sailor? It hardly seemed worth it. People didn't offer advice. Most just mocked me and laughed.

'You don't need to worry about not being welcome, soon,' some jibed.

'How could a whelp like you withstand a fit pirate?' others poked. In all honesty, I wondered the same...

We settled on a small, cool island, and the trees quivered in excitement, anticipating the blood to come. The acidity of the blood, the taste of it - they were ready. The sea rustled gently against the coast in a wave of applause; laughter, even. But which, and for whom? It might have been the wind, but the atmosphere seemed fitting.

I looked with tired eyes at the beach in front of me. If this was to be my grave, then so be it. But I would not give up willingly. I would not become food for the murderous, black vultures that flocked around the edges of the men. Watching. Waiting. Gorging themselves on the starter of scraps offered to them - fighting over them. I would not go willingly. The sea was a harsh place. But so was the land.

The day's entertainment began. Boxing and brawling aplenty. Too many arguments, too little time. The fights spilled over as men resolved their differences.

Two disagreed over the results of their drinking contest. Both claiming victory, unable to recall who collapsed first. A second contest followed, although it seemed to be nothing more than an excuse for the men to get drunk. As if they needed one.

Once the crew were well oiled and high in spirit, the bloodsport began. The dramatic moment that I had failed to prepare for. Waiting for Vane to choose his favourite; his champion; Rackham stood between the giant and I. Rackham's face was pained. A look that begged Vane for another way, but knew better than to try.

Vane walked to the older, more experienced giant. Of course he did. The giant was Vane's man. I was an outsider. I may have been promised equality, but it was still something I needed to earn.

The murderous look the man shot at me held me so completely that the announcement of the rules faded. The faint murmurs continued, but I heard none of it. I felt my sword as Rackham stripped it from my hip, and when a pistol was forced into my hand I jolted back to reality.

'You will each take five steps, then turn on my command. If neither shot hits, you will fight to first blood with earned blades. The matter will then be settled, the winner will leave with his pride.' It was Vane's job to state the paces. But he took a twisted pleasure in my grimace.

Flanked by Rackham, I waited until the crew shouted 'Begin.'

'First pace!' came Vane. I still didn't know how this had happened. I was about to kill or be killed for no reason, save the giant's hatred, and a little loose laughter on my part.

'Second pace!' Croaked Vane, his voice not needing to carry in the gripping silence. It was not right. Not fair. Rackham was beside me, and he was . . . Smiling?

As I took my third and fourth paces, he broke into a slight laugh.

'This is your trial by fire, Sepp. If you don't die, you will earn your place aboard.' He beamed, but his eyes screamed a regret that matched mine.

Taking my final pace, I heard the giant's shot before I had turned.

I span on my feet, my body facing the man while my eyes looked down, checking myself.

My chest heaved.

My body shook.

I was alive.

No matter how little I believed it, he had missed. I drew the badly-crafted pistol level, ready to shoot. As my finger slipped around the straight gripped flintlock, finding the ridged trigger, my hand snapped back on itself. Rackham punched the pistol from my grip, the shot firing out to sea. My eyes slowly met his. Bewildered, until I saw it, his smile told me what his words needn't have. And my eyes thanked him for it.

'You took too long. Swords it is. Let's hope someone will lend you theirs.'

I watched my opponent's mockery in showmanship. Bowing, he began to talk as if in a play.

'My good sirs, I apologise that my aim has not been true.' The giant's eyes lifted from the sand a moment, smiling at the bait-breathed men that gawped. 'The rum has relinquished me of a reliable shot.' His words drew a raging laughter from the crew, 'But fear not! - My friends. You all know this wiry chap cannot hope to match my strength. Has anyone a sabre they don't mind resharpening? Once I've wiped this boy's blood from it, of course...' His request met with more raised swords than I knew numbers to count.

Each waved frantically. My blood was clearly a great honour. The giant picked one of the many and turned back to me.

I must have been a picture, floundering. I knew none of the crew well enough to ask for their sword.

A man's sword was his lifeline. Who could trust me with theirs? The dirk in my boot comforted me a little, but I'd be killed if I drew it. I had to earn a blade before I could struggle to draw blood with it. A sign of trust; faith; brotherhood.

The silent moment of awkwardness refused to pass. And then, a tap on my shoulder. Rackham handed me his fine sabre.

'I want to see what he can do' he shrugged, refusing to give in to Vane's blatant disgust.

Wasting no time, the giant approached. His feet danced daintily, a fine feat for a man of such size. The dance of death was one I'd rarely seen before.

Merchants didn't learn the finer points of swordsmanship, and rarely did the navy teach their men either. Only officers and men of wealth fought with skill. The rest fought with the grace of a drunk, and died with the haste of a deprived stallion.

I drew Rackham's blade quickly, impressed by its lightness and balance. 'Now we have a show; gentlemen!' laughed the Quartermaster, to a round of cheers.

Gripping the scabbard in my left, it caught my enemy's blade well. It didn't buckle under the stress like one made by a lesser-craftsman. Another unnoticable notch, in in its largely scuffed body.

The strength of the giant broke my left arm's power. The scabbard fell back towards me as his blade, sliding down its length, made straight for my hand. Realising my error, I released my grip before my fingers lost me the fight.

The scabbard was carried by the force of the blow, striking me in the face - hard. There may not have been blood, but it became clear that the high blow had a lethal intent. I couldn't hope to match his strength. Instead, I rolled away.

All I had to rely on was speed. Although his balance was off, he still parried my wild swing with ease. Stepping back I went in for a lunge. The giant span, batting my blade aside and coming back for a decapitating blow. Ducking, there was an opening at his thigh. My sword sang the song of sliced flesh, drawing a long gash into the inside of his leg.

An angry yell escaped from the man as he took another swing at me. I froze in a victorious panic, rooted to the spot. His blade advanced on me so slowly. Time passed with a painful lack of urgency. And still I could not move.

Vane hooked his arm into the giant's and tripped him backwards before his killing-blow could end me. For all his villainy, Vane had honour at least.

'I said first blood, didn't I?'