Fon darted past the soldiers that came after her. They had no hope—she was too small and too agile. Each time they swiped at her, she floated backward just out of reach. The aziza darted swiftly down right between one of the soldier’s legs, using her dagger to cut through his ankle. With a cry, the man fell to his side.
Zala wasn’t doing nearly as well. With Fon preoccupied she had no way of knowing where the Vaaji were coming from through the fog. And when the first set of soldiers attacked, she had no time to loose any arrows, instead casting her short bow aside to draw her sword once more.
She tried her best at a flightless imitation of Fon’s style, but she was nowhere near athletic enough. Instead of clearing a path as she’d hoped, she took shallow cuts to her shoulders, knees, and back. The wounds were superficial, but they stung something fierce—and they slowed her down.
Fear flooded her body then. If she couldn’t keep her arms up in defense, if she couldn’t fight back...
Fon was trying to reach Zala to help, but she had her own problems, and the Vaaji soldiers worked well together. One facing Zala turned to Fon and kicked her square in the gut, his companion switching out with him and jumping forward at Zala. Fon flew back in the air several paces before slamming into the side of the deck with a resounding thud. Zala winced, feeling the impact her friend took deep in her own chest. Aziza weren’t built to take those kinds of hits. Hells, they weren’t built to take hits at all.
The soldier turned back to Zala, lifting his sword overhead. She brought her arms in front of her and stopped the man’s downward strike at his wrists, but the blade hovered inches from her face. Blood pounded in her ears as she fought to hold him back. The man pressed his full weight into her forearms, forcing her to fight for every breath. Another moment later, the sword pressed into her cheek, splitting skin.
Just as Zala felt the blood drip down the side of her cheek, a pair of black-furred hands wrapped around the soldier’s face. The Vaaji’s head jerked sideways, neck cracking, and his head fell face-first against Zala’s shoulder, revealing Shomari from behind. The other two soldiers lay dead on the deck with necks torn and backs shredded open.
“Took you long enough, dikala,” Zala spat through a strained voice.
“You didn’t tell me how big this ship was!” Shomari shot back. “I had to climb all the way up the mizzen just to get back down here to you. And what in Yem’s name do these Vaaji eat?” He grunted as he strained to roll the soldier’s weight off her.
Zala sucked in a deep breath, her lungs free to inhale once again. “Let’s go save them already, ya?”
Without another word, Shomari bounded off toward the soldiers surrounding Jelani. When he ran, he did it on all fours, “as all pakkami should,” he had once told her. He leapt atop one of the Vaaji’s shoulders and snapped his neck as easily as he had the previous. With effortless grace, he somersaulted off the falling corpse even as he withdrew his pointed sword from another’s chest, riding his momentum over the crowd in a blinding display Zala couldn’t begin to follow with her human eyes.
She shook the awe from her face. How does he do that? The cat was never short of surprises.
The grunts and clash of swordplay turned Zala’s attention back to the captain. Kobi was fighting with the last of his reserves, growing ever sluggish in his broad, sweeping strikes. Jelani defended more than attacked, and he was losing ground. Each time one of the Vaaji tried to cut or stab at the captain, Jelani had to step in front and deflect the strike away with his own sword.
The other soldiers took notice, turning to the preoccupied Jelani. Shomari spun between the few who took advantage of Jelani’s defensive openings. With pointed steel, he ran his blade through the soldiers’ guards, his tail maintaining his impossible acrobatics. And each time Jelani defended the captain, Kobi sprang out to cut through the soldiers one by one. Both men and pakka alike seemed to work in improvised concert.
Before Zala could properly find her feet again under her cuts and bruises, Kobi was already bellowing, “That’s it! Push these dikala back! They’re no match for us!”
The captain seemed to ride the high tide of a second wind, driving forward with his curved blade. Zala couldn’t deny his tenacity in battle. He was relentless and his resolve never faltered. Before long, only the soldier with the golden cap and green turban remained. And the crew backed him against the bloodied stern’s taffrail.
Without a second glance to the Vaaji captain, Zala ran to Jelani and leapt into a deep kiss, salt and sweat be damned. A warm heat rolled through her, melting away the cold of the moist morning air.
“Are you okay?” she asked as they finally broke away.
“Mi all rite, Zee.” He smirked, giving her a peck. She always preferred the way his Southern Isle Tongue, Pakwan, sounded as opposed to Sniffs’. Jelani’s was smooth and suave, not stuffy and clipped. Goosebumps crawled atop her skin as she pressed her mouth into his once more. She’d thought she’d never feel his full lips again.
“You’re not even bleeding.” Zala pulled at his hole-ridden shirt, checking for injuries. “After that soldier… I… I thought you would’ve—”
Jelani put a finger to her lips. “I’m okay, Zala. Mi deh yah. Mi deh yah.”
Zala took a moment to drown herself in his deep brown eyes. They were always so calm, so gentle. Jelani pressed his body into hers, his shirt damp with what, she didn’t care. When she opened her eyes again, she caught sight of a tiny figure fallen against the deck.
“Fon, are you okay?” Zala pulled away from Jelani and rushed down the deck to where Fon had collapsed. “Fon, can you hear me?”
The aziza didn’t move. Zala brushed stray hairs from her friend’s face, tucking them behind her pointed ear. Sometimes her friend’s child-like build made it hard for Zala to remember that Fon was technically the oldest person she had ever known. Even so, Fon didn’t deserve to die right now. Not yet.
“Come on. You’re not gonna let a little kick like that take you down, are you?” Zala traced her finger along Fon’s cheek. She sprang back when the cheek started to expand. Then, a great cough came spewing from the little aziza’s mouth.
“This.” Another cough. “Is why.” A third. “I’m the cook…” Fon finished through harsh, grating breaths.
Zala’s lips curled into a smirk, but her whisper was sharp. “Kobi is too much. He doesn’t need us all fighting like this. Each raid leaves half of the crew dead.” Zala pulled Fon up to her feet.
“Please! Please, don’t,” a Vaaji soldier cried from somewhere behind. “I yield!”
“You must have heard of me before, kijana,” Kobi said with a wide grin. “Captain Kobi! The Whitebeard! The Platinum Kubahari!” Zala rolled her eyes. “Am I to assume you are this ship’s captain?”
“I am… I am,” the Vaaji captain stammered. “I surrender my ship to you.”
“Thank you for the kind offer, but we would take it either way,” Kobi said with a laugh, turning to the crew that steadily gathered about them, many of them hiding loot behind their backs or in satchels bursting at the seams.
“I ask only that you spare my crew,” the Vaaji said, head held low.