Before Martin had recovered his hearing, he scrambled to his feet. Though disorientated, he stumbled his way to the brass bell at the main mast and grabbed for the rope, throwing it back and forward as hard as he could.

From within his own head, he could hear his own muffled voice.

'Cannon fire! We're under attack! All hands! We're under attack!'

The hatches burst open. The crew crawling from below broke out into cold sweats at the bell's toll; they knew that the sound heralded only misfortune or doom. Captain Percival barged down the door of the cabin and lunged up the gangway to the quarterdeck. The Helmsman, the Quartermaster and the Bosun all hobbled after him.

'The Hell's going on?' the Quartermaster whimpered. 'Who's firing?'

'Who do you think, you bloody fool?!' Black Hal grabbed the Quartermaster by the scruff of his collar and dragged him to the railing, pointing out the sloop approaching fast from the starboard quarter. 'There's only one other bleeding ship in sight!' He released his grip and barked at the men scurrying about on the deck like frightened rats.

'Battle stations!' the Captain roared. For a second, everyone froze. 'All hands! Prepare to engage!'

'Hal!' the Quartermaster shook the Captain's shoulder. 'Hal, we can't call battle stations. The ship's in no condition to fight. We don't know they intended to fire. I-it could have just been an accident. They're British; they wouldn't fire on one of their own.'

The sloop, now close enough to count every man at her stations, turned to starboard. The gunports snapped open and three bronze barrels emerged before each unleashed a billow of smoke and flames with a mighty crack. Three round shot hurtled towards the Scourge, one flying between the masts, another tearing through the stern and into the Captain's cabin, and the final one striking the starboard-side hull with a terrible crash, throwing the quarterdeck.

Martin tried to help Emily up, but was thrown off his feet, falling flat on top of her. Their faces were mere inches apart, her sweet breath caressing his cheek. He could feel the beat of her heart in his chest. Her eyes sparkled, even when terrified, and when she looked up into his, he could sense that she didn't just need help; she needed him. No matter how much he wanted to stay there forever, the splinters that buried themselves in his back were enough to spur him to action.

The Captain and the Quartermaster landed square on their rumps at the roots of the Helmsman, who nearly bent double as the pair careened into his knees.

'Does that satisfy you?' the Captain groaned as he pulled himself up. 'Accident my arse.'

'B-But wh-why?' the Quartermaster babbled, white with shock.

'Captain!' the Bosun had held his footing and dashed over to offer him a hand. 'It's the Welsh Dragon, sir!'

'Leddhart?' Black Hal asked in disbelief. His face was like a devil's as the Bosun helped him to his feet. The Quartermaster batted aside the Bosun's hand as he picked himself up. 'What in Hell's name is that drunk think he's doing firing on my ship?! Oh, I'll show him. We're not to take this lying down. I'll show him what it means to square off with Black Hal. Man your station, Ulrich. Give Tyrell the order to fire at will.'

'Aye, sir,' the Bosun nodded then, plodded down the, gangway, barking orders as he went.

'Hamish!' Martin's name rolled through him like cannon fire. 'Get Miss Morton below, now!'

'A-aye, Captain!' Martin yelled through the ringing in his head.

'Ratchett, stop snivelling and get to your post!'

Martin stumbled to his feet and reached out to take Emily's hand. She was still huddled on the ground, her hands over her ears. She took his wrist and he hauled her to her feet, then dragged her towards the main hatch.

Martin bent down to lift the latch leading below when another terrifying thunderclap rolled across the sky.

'Incoming!'

The cannonballs tore through the hull, sending shrapnel and splinters flying, Martin leapt to shield Emily.

She screamed and the hull moaned as shards of metal and wood clawed at their backs.

When the deadly hailstorm subsided, Emily gasped for air as Martin dove for the hatch. When the latch refused to budge, he pulled with everything he had until he thought the nails would tear from his fingers.

He turned to Emily. 'It's stuck!'

'Bilge crews to pumps!' he heard.

'Guns ready?' a bellow echoed from the hold, each cannon crew parroting back with an: "Aye, sir!".

'Ready to fire, sir!' the Gunner called up from the lower deck.

Black Hal nodded.

'Stigs! Hard to starboard! South east by east!'

The helmsman wrenched the wheel round as fast as his wiry arms could muster.

The Scourge moaned as she listed portside. Bilge water sloshed against the hull as the ship swung left.

Martin held tight to the latch with one hand, reaching for Emily's by wrist with the other. When he didn't find it, he turned in time to see her prising a grappling hook out of a pile of rope.

'Aim for the waterline! Open all gunports!' As the order echoed from the Gunner, the hatches burst open in unison. The sound of heavy-load wheels rolled across the ridges of the gun deck as cannon barrels bristled from the starboard side.

The sloop was beginning to turn, lurching over a rogue wave. She slapped the white tips with a heavy thud, then she was right in their sights.

'Fire!' Black Hal barked.

'Fire!' the Gunner echoed.

All at once, the fuses sparked. A hellish, throaty roar spat hot metal from all gunports.

Martin couldn't help but crane his neck to watch as the loosed shot, eight in total, soared through the air and struck the little sloop. Two sliced through their rigging, sending their foresail flapping untethered in the wind, three ploughed into their forecastle, one struck the bow under the waterline, and the last fell short.

The crew cheered as the Dragon's men wailed in terror. They pounded their fists against the sky and laughed, before the sloop turned again and unleashed another barrage of fire.

'Reload! Fire again!' the Gunner yapped, spittle flying from the corners of his cracked mouth, his eyes wide and shimmering in the dim light.

Martin looked to Emily huddled under the quarterdeck gangway. She emerged, cautiously taking her hands from her ears, and crouched low as she made her way back to the main hatch.

'Here!' she said, handing him the severed grappling hook. 'Jam that under the latch and pull it.'

Martin did as he was told, shoving the barbed prong between the planks and the metal latch. Carefully, he pulled the hook down like a lever. Feeling as though the hook would snap in his hand, Martin gave a final roar of effort and the latch sprang free. Martin tossed aside the grappling hook and lifed the hatch, then turned and reached for Emily's hand.

'Fire!' the Gunner called.

'Come on!' Martin cried over the crack of the cannons and the crash of iron on wood.

Emily nodded, reaching a hand from her ear to take his. He guided her down into the bowels of the Scourge.

Another barrage of cannon fire rolled across the waves and Martin stole a glance up at the crew on deck tightening sails, trying to catch the wind that had suddenly turned against them. The Helmsmen wrenched and threw the wheel aside at the Captain's command.

As the last barrage drew breath, the sound of a smaller, less punctuating crack hit Martin's ear. There was gurgling grunt and a mist of red, then the Helmsman who had reared his head for just a second fell back. He clutched at his neck, blood pouring from a small, dark hole punched through the flesh. Martin cautiously peeked out and saw smoke billowing from the barrel of the sniper in the sloop's crow's nest.

Without a master, the wheel began to spin, governed by the waves beating against the rudder.

'We're turning into her!' someone cried as the ship listed limp to starboard.

'Stigs! Hard to port!' the Captain bellowed.

'Stigs is hit!' a disembodied voice cried in horror. 'We're running wild!'

There was no time for anyone to reach the wheel.

'Dammit. Brace for impact!' the Captain stood firm.

The shadow of the sloop's sails blotted out the sun as they grew closer.

Emily's hand shot out and caught hold of Martin's shoulder, a desperate look in her eye as her body tensed.

An almighty crash was followed by a cacophony of screams as the two ships collided bow-to-bow. The hulls ground against each other with an unholy screech as they came broadside.

Emily let out a short scream as she staggered, her fingers digging into Martin's flesh. When he helped her right herself, he realised she was shaking. Her face was so pale that she was almost translucent.

Before any other order could be given, there was a great whooshing through the air, followed by the heads of a dozen grappling hooks humming onto the deck. They pulled tight and bit into the gunwales.

'They're trying to board us!' another voice, cracked with the fear of God in it. 'We're doomed! We're doomed!'

'Shut it!' the Captain grabbed the quivering deckhand by the collar, baring his teeth, his eyes aflame. 'You want to cower? Go hide in the lower deck. Maybe while you're down there, you can find yourself a pair of balls. As for the rest of you ladies, get ready to push those wretched urchins back into the briny deep where they belong!'

The crew cheered, maddened by bloodlust. The sounds of forty-five cutlasses singing from their belts answered the sound of the sloop's hundred.

Martin's heart dropped as he watched the crew overturn barrels and crates to build a barricade behind which they could entrench themselves. Guns bristled like porcupine spines ready to meet the invaders.

Martin swallowed sharply. Fear scratched his throat, but his sense of duty overwhelmed him.

'Martin?' Emily tugged at his arm, anchoring him back down to Earth. 'What are you-?'

'Here.' He held his pistol out to her by the barrel. 'Take this and go to Doctor Cotral's surgery. Bolt the door behind you.'

She wrapped her fingers around the handle, bouncing it to test its heft in her hand.

'But, where are you-?' she jumped as the hatch snapped shut, leaving her in the dark broken only by a few squares of light, and becoming increasingly alone as the gunning crews broke from their cannons to join the defence of the deck as Martin joined in behind the barricade, his sword drawn.

He kept low, ducking behind the line as the Captain barked his orders, the Bosun and the Gunner echoing them.

'Hold steady, boys!' the Gunner packed the powder down into his blunderbuss, shoulder pressed against the makeshift barricade. 'Let's give them a little taste of Hell, shall we?'

The crew cheered, a little less heartily than before, then the Captain hushed them with a finger to his lips.

The only sound to break the deafening silence was the wind that rustled the sails and fluttered the Union Jacks flying at the sterns.

The eerie silence grew threatening when a soft creak and scrape was heard. Axes and swords pawed at the hull of the ship. Their hands scratched at porthole gaps, leather skin rasping against loose rope, while damp boots squelched and squeaked.

The Scourge's crew didn't utter a whisper.

The first heads poked over the railing, pasted with terrible, malicious grins. Then, bodies followed. Their feet touched the weather deck.

The Captain raised his sword on high.

'Open fire!' he roared.

A volley of gunshots and smoke spat from the line of muskets and pistols. The sound was apocalyptic amplified by the hollow ship. The vanguard of men, first to meet the Scourge's crew, toppled like felled trees, great mists of bright blood coating the men behind them. They climbed up, stunned by the spray, but when they saw their comrades thrashing like beached fish, they rattled their swords and bellowed a vicious, enraged war-cry, charged, and began to climb the barricade.

'Push them back!' Black Hal drew a pistol from his bandolier and, with almost a sixth sense, shot a sailor in the head as he mounted the barricade. 'They will not take us!'

More of the sloop's crew leapt over the barricade, hollering like crows, swinging their cutlasses and brandishing their axes.

The Scourge's crew abandoned their firearms and switched instead to melee.

Any who had bayonets fixed onto their muskets met the approaching enemy with a swift jab, spearing their gullets.

Swords hissed out of belts to whistle and slash at arm, neck and chest. Axes buried to the handle in heads, severing limbs. Dismembered body parts splattering onto the blood-soaked boards.

Those of the crew who lost their weapons grabbed whatever was to hand, some throwing harpoons, imbedding the barbs of grappling hooks in skulls and even breaking bottles to slice open bellies with the jagged edges.

The most fierce and desperate rage-drunk men abandoned weapons all-together in favour of teeth and fists. They fought like wild animals, man hacking with jaw and claw, tearing men apart by the fistful and chewing out the raw flesh of their throats.

Martin stood quivering behind the line, his sword close to his chest, imaging what it would feel like to have that blade hacking through skin and bone, growing cold at the thought of what it would be like to have a pike or harpoon shoved through his stomach. A sharp pain in his belly made him want to be sick. He looked up, begging God not to let the front line fall back to him. But as more and more men fell, with the next line clambering over the dead to have their turn at hacking into the enemy, he knew that fighting like this held no chance of victory.

The longer they stayed locked in combat, with each man tearing the life out of the other, the greater the chance was that they would be overpowered.

'There're too many,' he muttered to himself.

'You never been outnumbered before, kid?' Hans Schleckt asked, Martin's remark whispered loud enough that he had heard, even over the din of battle.

Martin stole a glance at him. He was looking straight ahead at the dance of shadows slashing at each other and screaming before being swallowed whole. His fists were clenched, holding onto some invisible force for dear life, though what it was Martin couldn't tell.

'I have,' Martin said, involuntarily reaching a hand up to his scarred cheek. 'But... that didn't end well either.'

'Shut up,' Schleckt hissed under his breath. 'I'm already on edge enough as it is without you going and stating the bleeding obvious.'

'But there has to be a way,' Martin insisted. 'This can't-.'

'Well, if you're so clever,' Schleckt spat, sweat pouring down his ghoulish green cheeks. 'You come up with something.'

Martin shuddered, imagining what fate lay before him, which was when the gears of his brain began to crank. He turned with a furrowed brow to stare up at the quarterdeck, the helm swinging lonely in search of a master. He watched it, hypnotized and his mind began to wander. When he turned his head left, he peered over his brothers-in-arms towards the bowsprit, where the craggy cliffs of an island grew closer as the two ships ambled on side-by-side.

'That's it!'

'What is?' Schleckt barely had time to ask again before Martin had sheathed his sword and ducked across the weather deck with his head down, darting between the men lined up beside the barricade.

'Oi! Where are you going?! Coward! Get back here!' Schleckt whimpered as another volley of gunfire whipped the air into a frenzy.

Paying no heed, Martin scampered between the legs of his fellow crewmen until he burst out the back of the phalanx. The first step up to the quarterdeck took his shin out from underneath him and he toppled forwards onto the gangway. On hands and knees, he clawed his way up the steps until he reached the helm.

The boards were damp and slimey under his palms. He didn't find the familiar black ooze coating his hands, but bright red blood.

Helmsman Stigs lay less than a foot away from the wheel, the soulless, black pearls staring up at the sky with his mouth open and twisted, his hand clutched around his neck, the other rigid, reaching out for a bottle of rum rolling in circles around him.

In spite of everything, Martin reached over and slipped the wrinkled lids of his eyes shut, which made his death easier to stomach; for him, it was like the Helmsman was just asleep. He choked back tears, trying not to imagine himself among of the slumbering corpses in the heat of battle.

From behind him, there was a scrape and a thud. A pair of boots clopping onto the deck, followed by a coarse laugh.

'Well, well, well,' A chill ran down Martin's spine. He recognised the voice, and with it a black terror was cast over him. When he darted around, the hunched figure of a swollen-eared man lumbered forward. 'If it isn't the little brat.' He smiled a crooked smile as he drew his wide-bladed machete, the sun gleaming off the well-sharpened edge. 'I'd hoped that luck would allow us to meet again, but I never thought it'd be so soon. I think you've got a little something on your face.' Swollen-ear tapped his left cheek. His grin widened. 'Here, let me even it up for you.'

Martin shook himself free from his catatonia and reached for his sword. The swollen-eared man roared and lunged at him, machete raised. Martin had only just enough time to dodge before the blade whistled passed his ear, burying itself in the rotting balustrade behind him. Swollen-ear spun around and struck him blind across the eye with the back of his hand. Stunned, his head a maelstrom, he fell. As soon as he hit the deck, having learned from his mistakes, he rolled away before Swollen-ear had a chance to free his sword and strike.

His cheek still burning, Martin drew his sword and stood ready, his heart in his throat. Swollen-ear wrenched his blade free and slashed. As the point of the machete hissed towards him, Martin pushed his own blade out to meet it. The sing of steel on steel almost deafened him, but as he watched the fat blade bounce away, a pulse of elation beat in his veins.

Swollen-ear's arm tensed as he looped the blade around for an overhead strike. It took all of Martin's strength to steady his cutlass and lift it to catch the blow. The machete struck like a meteor. The impact almost snapped Martin's wrist, and he staggered backwards.

By then it was too late. The machete sailed to Martin's left as Swollen-ear turned his fist. The pommel struck Martin in the teeth. For a second, a flash lit up Martin's eye as a sharp pain pulsed through his jaw, blood leaking down his lip, his own tooth cutting into his flesh.

Martin staggered and put a hand out to catch himself, the weight of his cutlass rattling his arm as blood dripped across his knuckles. Swollen-ear, a wild glint in his eye, raised his machete and bellowed like a bull. Martin put out his cutlass to try and catch the blow, but it struck too hard and too fast.

Their blades clashed. Martin's wrist gave way, and he lost his grip. His sword fell and clattered across the deck, spinning and scratching loops in the wood.

He dropped to his back as Swollen-ear loomed over him, the machete raised over his head. His blood ran cold even as it dripped warm across his lip. A drop of sunlight glistened down the sharpened edge.

'I was just going to kill you, boy,' Swollen-ear hissed with glee, 'but now, I'm going to really enjoy it.' He coiled up, ready to strike. Martin put up his hands to ward off the blow, but before Swollen-ear could swing, there was a roar and a flash of white.

Swollen-ear screamed and clutched the stump of his elbow as his forearm arm thudded to the floor, machete still clenched in its hand.

Before he could finish his scream, Schleckt roared again. His short-handled axe whirled around his head. It struck such a devastating blow across Swollen-ear's chest that he was knocked off his feet and toppled overboard.

Martin climbed up and peered over the side. Swollen-ear re-emerged in an inky cloud of bubbling red, bobbing lifelessly on the surface.

'You... you alright, Hamish?' Sckleckt panted as he turned to follow the sound of footsteps.

Jennes and Jacobi dove up the gangway to the quarterdeck, stopping, aghast.

Martin's vision began to spin as the blood rushed away from his brain. He closed his eyes and rested his head, the soft wood like a feather mattress to his aching body itching with fear and exhilaration. Then, as his blood drained away from his ears and his hearing returned, the sound of the helm's sway reached him and his eyes burst open, his breath caught in his throat.

Martin leapt to his feet and pushed past Schleckt. He took the rolling wheel of the helm firmly between his hands, anchoring his legs, his knees bent, and mustered all the strength he could. As he drew breath, he twisted his whole body. He turned starboard-side until the wheel turned with him, first at an ambling pace, then rolling like a pebble down a hill.

The Scourge yawned as it cut through the water, then, there was an almighty crash. A spout of water burst like a geyser between the two ships as they collided. The rumbling patter of loose-gripped men scaling the hull followed as they lost their footing and flopped back onto the deck of the sloop below. A sickening crunch, like fishbones crushed between teeth, echoed in the air accompanied by the shrill screams before they were cut short, muffled by water and wood.

Martin held as firm as he could, pushing the handles until his whole body began to tremble and he felt the ship begin to give. The cliffs swung to port.

'Hamish!' Schleckt yelled in his ear. 'Hamish, you idiot! What the Hell are you doing?'

'The cliffs!' Martin groaned, trying not to release the tension he had built in his gut. It was like he was pushing the ships with his bare hands. 'The shallows by the cliffs! I'm going to beach them!'

'You're what?!' Jennes gasped, panic in his voice. 'You moron! You'll kill us-!'

'Wait,' Schleckt put a hand on Jennes' chest. 'Wait a minute! That... that could work.'

'It what?' Jacobi sniggered. 'Have you two been at the rum?'

'Yes, but listen to the kid,' Schleckt grabbed them both by the ear. 'I don't fancy our chances head-to-head with this lot, do you? He might have just given us our only chance out of this, so show a little respect.' He nodded at Martin, who was still wrenching hard at the wheel, the skin peeling from his palms. 'What do you need us to do?'

'Keep... her moving,' Martin gasped, his body twisted like one of Doctor Cotral's rung out cloths. 'The faster the better. Don't let... the hooks fall slack... until we're ready. When we get close, cut them loose.'

'Got it! We'll get the sails to the wind and make sure the others know when to cut the hooks.'

Martin nodded lightly, the veins in his neck snapping tight as the wheel began to swing starboard again. He scrunched up his face and roared as he pushed the handles, sweat pouring down his face.

The cliffs loomed overhead, the sails snapped taut and caught the frenzied wind. The din of battle raged on as the Scourge's crew held.

'Push them back, lads!' The Captain bellowed as he slit the throat of a sailor before grabbing up his pistol and shooting another in the chest. 'Push them back to their rotting pit of a ship!'

A shadow passed over his face and he wiped the blood from his eyes to looked over at the cliff cutting through the water towards them. His gaze flickered to the helm as he watched Martin wrestle with the wheel. Their eyes met for a moment.

Martin caught the hint of a smirk on the Captain's lips.

'Push now, lads! Push them back to the railing! Keep them off the deck at all costs!' He ordered as he tightened his grip on his sabre and thrust it forwards into the gut of a sailor brandishing a cudgel.

The shadow of the craggy cliff overhead grew sharper and darker. Martin could see the spiked tips of rocks hiding beneath the churning sea, and was just ready to peel the ship away and call out to Schleckt to cut the ropes when he felt something hard and smooth tighten around his throat. He gasped as the air was rung out of his lungs.

The thick coil of a leather belt dug into the skin of his neck, and as it latched onto his throat with the strength of a boa constrictor, he was hauled away from the helm and dropped to his knees on the deck.

'I never thought,' another hauntingly familiar voice cackled as the pressure in Martin's head began to swell, 'that I would enjoy killing anyone so much.' The Bald-headed sailor with the scar running across his skull tugged at the makeshift garrot, Martin's spine as fragile as a herring bone under its bind.

He gasped and tried to punch out behind him, but all his strength was sapped.

'Looks like I was wrong. I've never had more fun in my life.'

Even as the life was draining out of him, Martin watched in horror as the ship held its course, drifting closer towards the cliff.