OUT NOW on AMAZON BOOKS - "Storm" - Book 10 in the Epic Fantasy Series - "Realms of Kyre"
- Trevor Watts
- 2 days ago
- 2 min read
Easing the Wave Ayaan alongside the two pirate ships… His first harpoon into the hull, a smouldering paste bag slung over it, barely above the waterline.
Further… Another false cannon barrel. Right – flagon and fire-pouch in there.
Another pouch into a vent hatch, falling somewhere inside.
The same further along as the Wave Ayaan bounced and jostled its scrambling way the length of the great ship’s hull. More and more alarm as the briganders were realising; the few of them who were actually in any position to see anything.
Bellowing their rage and orders – but still only from half a dozen or so people. Hardly anyone trying to stop me; the few with any awareness are desperate about putting out the fire points along the hulls of both ships.
Yes, most of the port is too busy in the bars – the Glorious Fireship’s doing well. Two of the false cannon hatches were doing particularly well – the crew couldn’t get at them. The stern flames had licked up the standing rigging, and a lower spar was ablaze – the deck oil and hull tar doing their other good job.
The Black Spirit next...
About to toss another satchel, the Wave Ayaan crunched into something unexpected— Frugg!
What the cat didn’t know, however, was that Kyre had seen the torn-away stump of the leg – it was recent – a couple of days, maybe, leaving a wide-open raw gash where the left back leg had been. It looked frugging agonising – at least the tail remnant was partly healed over – a thumb-long stump. The leg-stump, Kyre knew, was going to have to be fixed, sooner, not later. In fact, as soon as Saltire was out of sight, or he’d be overboard and heading back. It was the hardest thing that either of them had ever done. The Five Realms’ most awkward, vicious, sharp-clawed, determined creature fighting the Five Realms’ second-most…
Eventually, they settled for Kyre winning, in a way, with a sail rag wrapped round the cat and pinned down under his forearm. Joey was supremely determined, forcing his paws clear, and sinking them into Kyre’s upper arm muscle. It hung on silently, digging deep, teeth gradually chewing and forcing through the skin. Scrubbing, picking, cutting, pulling, dosing and stitching for a half-hour, Kyre was sure that he’d suffered his share, too. Pressing and pulling the fur together to complete the stitches, Kyre felt the little creature suddenly relax, the teeth and claws still sunk in, but not working actively any longer.
A careful release and parting, with Kyre convinced it was a ruse on the cat’s part to catch him off-guard. The claws retracting; a slowly subsiding hate-filled hiss from a flat-bellied crouch, and Joey the Fixed-up stayed pressed against the side-benching as though taking a breather before rejoining the battle.
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