Page 24

HENRIK

Einar strode alongside Henrik as they wound through the Quarters. Weight floated off Henrik’s chest as they left the seaspray, and their conversation, far behind. He had time to think about what to say to Britt.

The decision had been made, but how would it lay out?

Einar spoke in a musing way, as if he didn’t plan to overhaul the entire thread and structure of Stenberg society, when he asked, “Where are you headed?”

To Captain Oliver, he almost said, but did it matter now?

Not at all.

“I . . . don’t know,” he admitted.

“Agnes wanted me to meet her at the market. Come with me and we’ll figure out a plan to get you a ship.”

Henrik sent him a sidelong glance. “No assignment following the heels of your last?”

“There is one.”

“Are these Captain Oliver given assignments?”

Einar’s lips twitched with hints of a smile, and they left the final answer at that. “Agnes really likes Britt, by the way,” he added after a general pause.

“Yeah?”

“A lot.”

“Agnes is nice.”

Einar hooted, then gave a sly grin. “Not always.”

Unable to help it, Henrik laughed.

They strolled through the subdued streets, absorbed in separate thoughts. The tang of the morning built with warming sunshine, heating the cobblestones and thickening the air from the stormy aftermath. Unbearable humidity would soon descend.

A commotion near the Archives drew Henrik’s attention. He lifted his head to find a swelling crowd congregated around the whipping block. Einar rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

“Stupid cleansing. Can you?—”

Einar broke off.

His words shuttered.

Henrik stopped, clued in by Einar’s tightening body language. He spun to follow Einar’s gaze. A familiar head of sandy blonde hair topped the whipping block. The bullwhip slammed with a distant thud, jerking the lean body tied by the wrists to the top.

Was that . . .

No.

“Shite,” Einar hissed.

Blood roared through Henrik’s ears, racing through his veins. He didn’t realize he’d taken off until Einar joined at this side, arms pumping. They skidded over the slick cobblestones, leaping barrels, sprinting toward the whipping post side by side. They approached the packed crowd.

“Move!” Einar bellowed.

Henrik bent his head, angled his shoulder down, and rammed his body into the teeming mass. He blew past onlookers, shoving them aside, spraying them left and right. Screams of protests cut short. He heard nothing.

Nothing but another crack .

Henrik spilled out of the gathered crowd and locked in on final confirmation.

Britt.

Her broken, bruised, and ripped skin didn’t hide her limp profile. The gentle curve of her shoulders, lashed to a mangled, gory mess. A team of sailors appeared behind the whipping block as he shoved into the circle. They shouted at him to go away. He couldn’t hear anything but his own panting. The whip handler, thongs ready behind him, let another strike fly. Britt’s body spasmed, her head lolled.

Henrik’s weight shifted, leaning on calm calculation. Instinct graced the moment, taking over. He slipped into soldat.

Into flow.

Into exactly what he knew best.

Henrik threw himself into the path of the whip, interrupting it mid-lash. His weight landed on the whip handler, sending them both to cobblestones. Henrik rolled off his back, bounced to his feet. He grasped the handler’s wrist, wrung it. A crack of bone and an ear splitting scream resulted.

Einar appeared at Henrik’s side. He flung the whip to the side, away from an approaching sailor. Harald emerged from the crowd, grasped it, flicked his wrist into motion. The whip stopped an attacking sailor around the ankle. With a jerk and a scream, the sailor toppled.

Einar vanished behind Henrik. Harald advanced out of the crowd.

Henrik charged for Britt.

Two of His Glory’s soldat’s appeared on either side of Britt. Henrik threw himself into the space between them, slamming into one from the side. They toppled together as three more sailors swelled out of the fleeing crowd.

Timmer, appearing at the front of the crowd, laughed maniacally as he flung a fist into the eye of His Glory’s closest soldat. Brass knuckles gleamed from his hand.

Blood sprayed.

The waiting crowd dispersed in a storm of panic. Einar shouted commands. More sailors rushed forward, then scuttled away as Einar emerged. Henrik plowed into the second advancing soldat, who tripped over his feet, fell back, slammed his head to the ground. He slackened, eyes closed.

The edge of red disappeared as Henrik hustled to Britt’s side. Blood coated her underdress and pants. Blood saturated her dress, discarded off to the side. He crouched at her side with a purl of deepest fear.

“Britt?” he whispered.

He touched her cheek.

She moaned, a shuddering, weepy thing. Sensing eyes on his back, Henrik glanced over his shoulder. Captain Oliver leaned his palms against the windowsill of the second floor in the Archives, staring out. A promise of vengeance filled his eyes.

Henrik pointed at him. “You and me!” he shouted. “This has just begun.”

Captain Oliver scowled.

Henrik returned to Britt.