The iron boarding grapnels struck the starboard bulwark with a chorus of dull, vicious clangs. Four-pronged iron hooks bit into the charred oak rail, their hemp lanyards instantly singing taut as thirty naval marines vaulted onto the weather deck of the Sovereign’s Pride.
Dunley and Thorne pulled back to the base of the mainmast, their boots slipping on the salt-slick deck. Dunley had an iron-headed boarding axe raised in both fists. Thorne held his ash-wood belaying pin at hip level, his knuckles white against the grain.
“Back off, you navy dogs!” Dunley roared, his voice cracking with fury. “This vessel is floating on civilian ground! Salvage rights are posted under the Municipal Maritime Code!”
A line of six marines dropped to one knee along the gangway, leveling heavy steel crossbows. The steel bows were wound to full tension. Their square-headed iron bolts shone in the cold gray light, aimed directly at Dunley’s chest. Behind them stood twelve more men in blue wool coats and buff leather jerkins, their cutlasses drawn, iron sword sheaths clattering against the deck carlings.
“Lower the iron, Dunley,” Tomas said, his voice cutting through the wind like a flat stone across water.
Tomas stepped out of the aft companionway hatch onto the quarterdeck. His canvas coat was buttoned tight, his hands held open at his sides. Behind him, Nessa stood on the companionway threshold, her brass sound horn hanging against her coat, her face cold and impassive. In the shadowed gangway below, Olla had already slipped…
