We’re going to have company!

No sooner had those words left Caleb’s lips than he heard what he’d been dreading all evening: the sound of an alarm bell.

A raucous clang-clang-clang came from somewhere aboard the Stone Angel. Next he heard shouts and calls from the men aboard, followed by the faint tromp-tromp of boots on wooden planking. Men clad in black or dark blue appeared on deck just as the two sailors Caleb had let go ran up to where the frigate had been docked. They pointed back frantically in his direction.

Caleb blew out a breath and unsheathed his cutlass. The nervous sweat that had beaded upon his brow earlier had vanished. The hiding, the cat-and-mouse games of getting people to the ship, all that was over.

What came next would be a matter settled with pistol and cutlass.

A soft whump came from aboard the Spitfire as the sloop’s mainsail was unfurled. At least, one side was. The rectangular expanse of sail rolled down smoothly on one side, while the other remained crimped up in a remaining coil of line.

While a group of the recently-freed villagers worked to wrestle the sail free, Caleb heard yet further commotion from dockside. Donal’s group had already undone one of the dock lines, but were struggling with a second one. Donal himself ran up the sloop’s gangway, shouting as he did so.

“A hatchet!” he cried. “We need a hatchet down here!”

Someone on board handed him one just as he reached the top. He grabbed it, pivoted on his heel, and dashed back down. He paused at the bottom just long enough to call over to Caleb.

“By Lir’s beard, we’ll be free in just a couple minutes, Captain!”

Before Caleb could reply, he heard voices from up above, on the Spitfire’s afterdeck. Sienna and three more villagers appeared at the carved wooden taffrail that curved around the stern of the ship. They held the remaining flintlock pistols they’d taken off the guards.

“Sienna,” Caleb shouted, “go help your people get the sails unfurled!”

She shook her head. “There’s so many people working on that right now, more will just get in the way. From up here, we can cover the space between you and that frigate.”

“I can handle this! Forget about me, go take out the headsail or something else!”

“Na’ae, Captain,” she said, and a note of finality crept into the young woman’s voice. “Either we escape, one and all, or none of us do.”

“Dammit–” he began, before the renewed tromp-tromp of boots on wood echoed across the water.

He heard a flurry of shouted commands. A four-man squad of Guardsmen led by a Komtur charged down the pier towards Caleb. With a raucous cry, they drew both swords and pistols.

With a series of sharp bangs!, the Myrkur’s charge faltered and died in a volley of pistol fire. Clouds of smoke from burning black powder rose from Sienna and her companions as they unloaded their single-shot weapons.

One of the Guardsmen took a ball to the shoulder, which knocked him flat on his back. A second shot buried itself in the Komtur’s leg. The man screamed and dropped his sword before falling to one knee.

The remaining men fired back blindly into the night as they grabbed their wounded companions. Two dragged the fallen Guardsman by the legs towards safety. Another helped the Komtur limp along as fast as he dared back to the frigate.

“Well done!” Caleb called.

“Maybe so,” Sienna called back, “but that was all we had left! The armory’s locked up tight. So is the powder magazine.”

“The magazine won’t have pistol ammunition anyway. Look, this is a wooden ship. Can you just chop your way through the door to the armory?”

“Possibly, but we can’t find the ship’s hatchet!”

Caleb cursed under his breath. “Donal’s using it to cut us free from the dock!”

She did a double-take at the news. “He’s using it to what? Never mind, I’ll get it!”

Sienna had taken three steps at most when the crack! crack! of rifle fire tore through the air just above her head. Instantly, she and her companions threw themselves down to avoid the fire. Caleb looked towards the Stone Angel. A trio of riflemen had stationed themselves on the fighting top, a platform halfway up the vessel’s mainmast.

In an instant, Caleb saw the problem. At this range and with little to shoot by but moonlight, flintlock fire wasn’t going to be incredibly accurate. But with their high vantage point, the riflemen in the platform could still hit anyone exposed on board the sloop.

He had to draw the fire away from Sienna and the others pinned down on the afterdeck.

“Hey!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Caleb ran forward into plain view. “Over here!

Instantly, the men manning the flintlock rifles spotted him. Two were still reloading. The remaining one opened fire.

A thwock! rang in his ears. Ghost-like, a puff of smoke erupted from the boards by Caleb’s feet. The round lead ball buried itself in the wood only a couple inches from the tips of his boots.

That’s a lot closer than I thought they could get! I just made a big mistake.

The two remaining Myrkur finished loading their rifles. They’d just brought them to their shoulders when another eagle’s shriek cut the air. Shaw buzzed the lofty platform, smacking one of the rifle team in the face with the outstretched tip of his wing.

The impact knocked the man from his perch. Screaming, he fell from the platform and landed far below with a bone-splitting crunch. His two companions shot wildly into the night, then shimmied down the lines to the deck as quickly as they could.

Caleb looked over to the Spitfire. Donal’s team had chopped through two of the remaining three dock lines. The mainsail finally came free, ruffling out as the sheet’s fabric caught the breeze. The sloop’s bow shifted against its final line, then made a groan as it rubbed up against the side of the dock.

A new noise caught his attention. He turned back towards Deephold Port, where someone had finally roused themselves out of a drunken stupor and heard the frigate’s alarm bell. A deep bong! bong! bong! resonated from one of the shore-side towers.

That’s kicked over the hornet’s nest, Caleb thought despairingly. At least this can’t get any worse–

Then he heard a familiar, angry-sounding voice.

“Little worm!” bellowed Lord High Captain Delacroix. “You have broken out of your cage, but this is where your flight ends!”

The man stepped down off the frigate’s gangway and headed towards him in long, unhurried strides. He adjusted his broad-brimmed hat, smoothed out his copper-colored beard, and then drew his sword from an ornately jeweled scabbard.

The Quest Screen winked on in the corner of Caleb’s vision.

New Veteran Adventurer’s-Level Quest: Attempt to survive a one-on-one duel against Lord High Captain Delacroix. Bonus of 50% if you manage to avoid losing one or more limbs.

Lir and Danu’s Helpful Hints:

Engaging in Veteran Adventurer’s-Level Quests are not recommended until at minimum a dual character class is attained, with both classes at a moderately high level. We recommend trying not to die while you’re attempting this level of quest. Confrontation and violence usually result in things we recommend you avoid. However, we don’t think you paid attention to this advice, so you’re really in for it now.

Well, that’s encouraging, Caleb thought sourly. Maybe someday my patron Gods will actually offer me some advice that’s actually useful.

He saw at a glance that Delacroix’s sword was thinner than his cutlass, and half again as long. But he’d be damned if he backed down now. The innocents on board the sloop had nowhere else to go but back into the dungeon and then to their deaths.

The same rage he’d felt towards Malum Kane dripped back into his veins.

“You’re nothing but a vampire, a sucker of other people’s souls!” Caleb shot back. “It’s about time someone started fighting back against your evil death cult!”

“Good, good!” Delacroix chuckled, as he made his way down the dock. “First to stand means that you’re the first to fall. Lady Ravencrow will be cross with me, but your fate shall be sealed by my–”

The man’s voice died in his throat as he stared over Caleb’s shoulder.

A series of percussive fwoooshes ruffled his hair, throbbed in his ears.

Puzzled, Caleb risked a glance back.

One after another, pillars of flame rose from each of the pinnaces docked at the base of the pier. Fire licked across decks, along rope lines, and spilled across the pier’s main walkway itself. The night turned red as it filled with the scents of charring wood, crisping paint, and burning tar.

Caleb restrained himself from pumping a fist in triumph.

Yes! Score one – a big one – for Tavia Morningstar!

The triumphant feeling dampened as he turned back towards Delacroix. The hot red of the night redoubled in the Lord High Captain’s face as he watched the squadron of his fastest vessels go up in acrid-smelling smoke.

A strange light kindled in his eyes, and his voice came out in a gritty whisper.

“It took months to get those little ships seaworthy, devil-worm. No, the Seeress won’t be able to soul-drain you. Because when I’m done, there won’t be enough left to fill a hand sack!”

“Come on, then,” Caleb replied, just as quietly. “Because you’re starting to bore me.”

The Lord High Captain lumbered his way towards him, sword held high.

With contemptuous ease, Caleb pulled one of the two remaining pistols from his belt. He sighted on the man’s broad chest and squeezed the trigger. A bang! and the ball erupted from the barrel.

Delacroix’s sword flared an unholy eldritch green. He swung it across his body as if flicking something away. The pistol’s lead projectile made a spaaang! as it ricocheted off the blade, then a hiss as it landed in the water.

Stunned, Caleb dropped the spent pistol. His hand reflexively dove for the remaining one at his belt. The Lord High Captain covered the last few yards between them, closing in and raising his sword as Caleb brought the pistol out.

Delacroix brought his sword down in a vicious slash. The edge of the blade bit into and chopped halfway through the pistol’s wood and metal barrel. The firearm flew apart.

Caleb danced back a step as pain shot through his hand. He desperately brought up his cutlass. He barely managed to parry the incoming blow, then the next, and the next. The clang of steel against steel echoed off the harbor walls.

Step-by-step, blow by blow, Delacroix beat him back, beat him down. Finally, one of Caleb’s parries came a second too late. He felt his opponent’s blade bite into his upper arm. It left a trail of searing pain, made him stagger back in agony. Sneering, Delacroix bore in to deliver the final blow.