historical fiction

The first face appeared in a dream. It was the normal sort of dream for him these days, on a ship, bigger, of course, than any he’d actually crewed. Captain gave the orders and the cannons sounded. Quieter, of course, than cannon fire actually was. There was the same lull between the orders, the same rush of blood in the veins and every hair in his body standing on end as the planks slapped into place for the crossing. The mass of limbs and wrath descended on the smaller vessel. One of the crew let out a battle cry next to him, as thirsty for blood as for the bounty hidden in the ship’s hold. But the sounds of clashing cutlasses dulled as the boy ran towards him. Fifteen, probably, maybe younger even. Tall, limbs akimbo, like he’d never rushed a man before. Was the work of a second to put the blade in his chest, watch his bright eyes

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