Claws of the Raven

Clang!

The telltale sounds of swords crossed in mortal combat echoed across the deck. Lunge.

Parry.

Thrust.

Clang!

The two rapiers rasped, as fine steel blades met, causing sparks.

The combatants withdrew to new positions. Boots were planted with confident stomps, toes and heels at angles learned by hard experience, or taught in fine Italian fencing schools. One hand was held high in flashy display, while the other was more concerned with balance. The duel progressed.

Clang!

Long shafts of sharp-honed metal met again.

Twisting circles to avoid yet another determined thrust.

Blades were quickly withdrawn to regain a favorable position.

Counter thrust.

Clang!

Beads of sweat dribbled down one forehead, the other was completely dry.

Was this nothing more than a futile challenge between amateur and master?

Musket fire and cutlass drawn, the smoke and fog of battle slowly dissipated. Another boarding party away!

The two ships were joined by grappling hooks, too close now for cannons.

With blinding speed, the quicker, more practiced hand delivered a wicked display of combinations and slashing cuts. A short gurgling cry and yet another foe was dispatched, sprawling to the deck with lung punctured beyond repair.

“Well fought, Cap’n,” came a hearty call of support. “We may yet clear this brigand’s deck.”

“Aye, Mr. Mipps,” replied Preston Hawk, captain of the Raven, a two-masted brigantine, square-rigged on the foremast, having a fore-and-aft mainsail with square maintopsails.

“We must take control of their quarterdeck, or they might still prevail.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” the first mate hollered back. “You keep these scurvy dogs busy, whilst I take the lads forward.”