Vaskir used his scabbard to deflect the first sword strike. It slid off the oiled wood with a hollow—thunk! The man attacking Vaskir stumbled forward, and Vaskir swung the scabbard around and hit him on the back of the head. He fell into the water.

‘One down,’ Vaskir thought grimly, ’19 to go.’ The next man up was skinny and had somewhere scrounged a nickel-plated rapier. Vaskir audibly clicked his tongue when the man grabbed the rapier in both hands, extended it as far as his arms would allow, and charged him. Vaskir reared back and mule kicked him in the stomach, leaning back just far enough to avoid being skewered. The man recoiled backwards, bringing up his breakfast as he slammed into the men behind him. Vaskir fell on his ass, his balance disturbed by the wobbling plank, and looked up to see the rapier falling towards him—the skinny jouster must have either flung it or had it knocked out of his grip by the blow. Vaskir’s eyes widened in horror as the blade rotated mid-air, the sharp bit aimed at his face

Were Vaskir a more confident man, more grounded in his technique and expertise, perhaps he would have just reached up and caught the rapier by its handle. Instead, he yipped in fear and rolled off the plank, dangling on the side. The rapier embedded itself between his two outstretched arms. The men on the plank had finished reeling and the large man behind the skinny one, tired of the skinny one’s failure, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him off of the edge.

’18,’ Vaskir thought. Unfortunately, with the skinny one no longer in the way, the large man had free reign to step up to where Vaskir was hanging, readying a blow. Vaskir lunged upwards and reached for the handle of the rapier. He ripped it out of the wood and swung a wide arc towards the large man’s thighs. The blow connected. Vaskir climbed back onto the plank as the large man fell to his knees, no longer able to support his weight. Vaskir looked up from the kneeling man, just in time to see that the remaining men on the plank had lost all patience for their comrades and were more than happy to trample over each other to get past Vaskir. Vaskir swore and tried to step back, desperate for some space to swing his rapier around to dissuade any advances. He felt something grip his ankles. The kneeling man, grinning up at him, had grabbed him in a final, desperate bid. As the man tried to yank his feet out from under him Vaskir had no choice but to slice down, severing the man’s wrists. Vaskir had no time to sympathise with the man’s pain as the other men on the plank charged forward. Vaskir shouted, marshalling his strength, and grabbed the kneeling man by his sides, lifting him. Vaskir charged forwards, using the large screaming man as both a shield and battering ram.

Vaskir’s ear was pressed up against the lifted man’s chest as he pushed forwards with his shoulder, trying to muster as much bodyweight as he could against the wall of pirate flesh before him. Vaskir could hear the man’s erratic heartbeat, thundering in his ear. As Vaskir made contact with the charging pirates a sword pierced through the lifted man’s chest, narrowly missing Vaskir’s right eye. As he pushed himself away from the now dangling corpse of his victim, he heard the large man’s heartbeat suddenly falter, then stop. It was one of the strangest, most intimate moments he had ever experienced, and even amid battle, he was forced to step back and momentarily process. The man who had pierced the heavy man’s chest extracted his blade and pushed him off the side.

’17,’ Vaskir thought numbly. The new assailant charged the still dazed Vaskir. Vaskir felt someone grab him from behind and pull him back. The force of the pull was so strong that Vaskir felt as if he had been yanked back by an angry god. Vaskir landed in a heap 2 meters away. He looked up in time to see Pravin put his whole body into a vicious swing. He had Ascended yesterday, and the terrible power of his newfound strength had quickly presented itself—Vaskir no longer allowed Pravin to hug him until he proved he could do so without rearranging his bone structure. But he was glad for the strength now.

Pravin’s greatsword hewn through the front 3 men. The rest stopped in their tracks, terrified of suffering the same fate.

‘Glad to see you made it up,’ Vaskir said. ‘Where the hell were you?’ Pravin turned around to speak to Vaskir, ignoring the men behind him.

‘Cradow needed a hand,’ he answered. Before he could explain further one of the pirates behind him took his chances and charged, screaming and whirling his weapon towards Pravin. Pravin was, of course, expecting something of the like and turned in a practised motion, slicing diagonally with the blade. The man fell into the ocean in two pieces.

‘Thirteen left by my count,’ Vaskir said. ‘Not counting the ones still on deck.’ Pravin nodded.

‘I’ll handle the rest here, go help Covens,’ Pravin said. Vaskir got to his feet and did a mental checklist of his well-being. He wasn’t as tired as he expected. That extra point in constitution was having a real effect. If 3 con delayed the exhaustion of battle and removed some of the aches and pains that Vaskir had grown used to, what would a 5 give? He looked back at Pravin—lucky bastard. He turned towards the deck of the ship, 5 or 6 different battles were happening at the same time. Vaskir quickly identified the ones where Roland’s crew was losing, and the quickest path to the upstairs stern. Vaskir unhooked his scabbard and clenched his fist. He frowned, looking down. The rapier was gone. It must have slipped from his grip after Pravin yanked him back. He grunted in displeasure then gritted his teeth—there was work to be done.

He charged the first group on his path to the stern. Two pirates were slowly cornering an old sailor. Both wielded shortswords. The old sailor had a spear and was jabbing at them errantly, like trying to keep two aggressive dogs at bay with only a long stick. One of the pirates quickly turned, alerted by Vaskir’s loud footsteps; his friend wasn’t so lucky. Vaskir’s scabbard slammed into the back of the pirate's neck. The blow caused his head to rock forwards, knocking him out. The other pirate sliced at Vaskir in an untrained arc. Vaskir felt himself relax at the sight of the strike and nimbly dodged to the right. The tip of Vaskir’s scabbard hit the pirate’s throat. He fell to his knees gasping. Vaskir delivered a kick that sent him to sleep.

‘Go help the others,’ Vaskir said, pointing to the other group that he identified needed help. The old man nodded and grunted his thanks. Vaskir crouched and took one of the shortswords from the pirates. A fine, proud weapon: the shortsword. A masterful tool in the hands of experienced soldiers and mercenaries alike; an okay tool in Vaskir’s hands. Vaskir sniffed in anger when he saw how rusted and uncatered for the blade was. He stood up, hoping that nobody thought this was his private weapon. As he made his way up the stairs to the stern of the ship he kind of hid the shortsword by pressing it up against his thigh. As he arrived at the top he suddenly felt stupid for being self-conscious on an active battlefield and held the weapon at-ready.

Six pirates had Covens and Cal cornered. She was slowly backing away, keeping Cal behind her as he cradled a shortspear, his hands trembling. Covens was hunkered behind a small square shield, her own shortsword resting easily atop it. The ground was already littered with the bodies of 7 pirates. Each one had an open throat and a surprised look on his face. As Vaskir silently began to walk up Cal noticed him and his eyes sparkled with hope.

‘Vaskir!’ he said, excited. The pirates turned around, spotting him. Covens whacked him upside the head. Three pirates broke off from the pack and slowly started surrounding Vaskir.

‘You can handle three, right?’ Covens called out. Vaskir grunted; he had faced worse odds.

The rightmost pirate, who was wielding some kind of scimitar, struck out first, followed quickly by the others. Unlike Covens, Vaskir did not have a shield to fall back on, nor did he like using one. Unfortunately for him, a shortsword was best used with a shield… now that he thought of it, most weapons were. Still, the fact remained that there was little use in two-handing a shortsword, which left Vaskir with one hand free and no practical use for it. So as he retreated from the pirates' attacks, he flipped them off, jeering. The pirates redoubled their assault, enraged by Vaskir’s smile and quick footwork.

Vaskir always thought that there were two battles happening simultaneously. The physical and the mental. Whilst it was not always pertinent to stray onto the mental battlefield with no plan, it could serve the crafty swordsman well if used correctly. Attacking the mind was just another weapon in the arsenal, a weapon that even the greatest warriors could fall prey to—see Bowood. So as Vaskir casually retreated, he flung insults.

‘Fuck your mothers,’ Vaskir said, using what he knew works. ‘I’ve seen Yillows with more technique than you. Your captain kept you three at the back of the ship, didn’t he? Right, best keep the freaks off to the back. Better not to upset the other pirates.’

‘Fuck. You!’ the left-most pirate shouted—Vaskir having seemingly touched a chord. The brazen smirk disappeared off Vaskir’s expression. The usual empty look returned, warning the charging pirate of the successful ploy. As he tried to stop his momentum it was already too late. The harsh stop only served to unbalance him further, allowing for Vaskir to deliver a cleaner death. The man’s chest wound killed him before he even hit the ground. He turned to the other two.

Vaskir had listened to the tales of other mercenaries, the fanciful stories of fighting off hoards of 10 men or more. They were all bullshit; he knew that now. It was hard enough to kill one man on equal ground, two was a death sentence. And yet, he was an Ascended now… and he had heard tales of Ascended killing hundreds, thousands. Confidence surged in Vaskir. He could kill two.

The right man swiped at him horizontally. Vaskir felt as if he had predicted the attack before the man had even thrown it; he parried it to the side.

The left man attacked: a vertical power strike. The fool. Vaskir unslung his already loose scabbard and jabbed it into the man’s stomach. He doubled over.

The right man jabbed at him; a quick poke meant to injure. It was the smartest attack anyone had used against him all day, and if Vaskir was wearing his armour he would have angled his body to try and deflect the blow off the leather. Instead, the blade sunk into his bicep. The man quickly retreated after striking the blow, grinning. His actions doomed his still reeling ally, who recovered from the stomach jab just in time to see he had been left alone. Vaskir killed him quickly.

Vaskir turned to the final man, who was still laughing and grinning.

‘You left your friend to die,’ Vaskir said. ‘Why?’ The pirate laughed, shaking his head.

‘No friend of mine, milksop. Now, come and die. I know how to beat you—easy,’ the pirate said. Vaskir flexed his arm. The bicep wound hurt like hell, but he wouldn’t die from it.

‘This won’t kill me. Besides,’ Vaskir said, ‘you’re already dead.’

‘What?’ the pirate said, frowning. Covens beheaded him in a gruesome strike. Vaskir backed away from all the blood and frowned at Covens’ unnecessarily brutal strike.

‘Four to two,’ she said. ‘You’re an Ascendant now, you need to start fighting like it.’ Vaskir turned to Cal, who was still staring at the final pirate’s stump. He crouched in front of the kid, blocking his line of sight to most of the bodies.

‘I killed someone,’ Cal said, and Vaskir noticed the blood on his spear for the first time.

‘Saved my life,’ Covens said, coming to stand beside Vaskir. Vaskir patted Cal’s shoulder.

‘That’s just how this world is, Cal. You need to kill to protect what you already have. And you’ll have to kill a lot more if you want to have more than what you were born with,’ Vaskir said.

‘Truer words,’ Covens muttered, nodding.

‘Hey guys!’ Cradow shouted, coming up the stairs. He was dragging something heavy by the sounds of it. ‘Look who I killed!’ He threw Snake boots corpse beside the steering wheel. ‘Some fucking madman threw his sword at this guy. Made the fight real easy.’ He waved Vaskir’s sword around like it was a toy. He paused, staring at the weapon. ‘Hey, you know. It kinda looks like your sword, Vask.’ Vaskir stomped over and snatched his baby from Cradows filthy, pugilist's hands.