The Mosque Hill Fortune (The Sons of Masguard, Book One)

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

No sooner had the words been spoken than a splash marked McKinley’s escape into the water. Several arrows followed him through the surf, skidding past his face and cloak before he heard Captain Marshall calling for a halt from above. The firing ceased immediately.

McKinley dove beneath the keel of the Albatross, taking refuge in the shadow of its underbelly. He resisted the urge to scream, to pound his fist into the coppered bottom of the boat in frustration.

It could not end like this.

Not here. Not now.

To the east and west, he could see inclines in the seabed where the ocean met the curve of the shore. He was a strong swimmer. Maybe he could make it without being detected. Maybe he could wait in the rocks for an opportune moment, or a smaller ship, something easier to target. Maybe he could find them again through the fog and still reach Mosque Hill before the third full moon. Maybe his crew would forgive him for leaving them behind.

Maybe.

If only they knew.

If only…

Suddenly, McKinley felt a jolt of physical desperation in his chest. He’d stayed submerged in indecision too long. His lungs were screaming for air.

Stay or flee.

Hold the course or save his skin.

It was now or never.

≈

“Hold your fire!” Marshall ordered with a steady hand. “He can’t go far, and I doubt he’ll abandon his crew. Bring them aboard.” As able soldiers organized themselves to carry out his command, he turned to Ryder. “Secure them below decks. As few to a cell as possible. No reason to make their inevitable escape attempts any easier than they need to… Lieutenant?” Marshall waited patiently for his words to register, noting that, for the first time in Ryder’s tenure of service, he did not have her full attention. He followed her gaze to one of the rafts below, searching for the source of her distraction, but saw only a fox in cleric garb. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

With difficulty, she pulled her eyes back to his. “Um… no, sir.” She recovered. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Are you certain?”

She stood to attention, reassuring firmly, “Aye, sir.”

He nodded once and she returned to the job of intimidating her subordinates.

But Marshall was too troubled by her actions to smile at the way they jumped to do her bidding. He glanced over his shoulder to the fox with the humble posture and found him staring back, as though searching for someone along the rails.

A certain collie, perhaps?

Priorities, Marshall reminded himself.

Pivoting in his smooth military step, the captain started for his cabin, ordering, “Post guards along the rails and send word to the topmen. I want everyone keeping a weathered eye on the water in case the Maraud—…”

Marshall’s foot, like his words, froze in mid-stride. Inches beneath his heel was the sopping-wet toe of someone else’s boot. He lifted his gaze to find himself nose to nose with McKinley, darkly clothed and soaked. Where anyone else might have looked bedraggled, the Marauder managed to look sinister and imposing, a harsh figure unperturbed by the elements.