The destruction of the freebooters’ beloved icon enraged them even more. But they had no time to dwell on it; the boarders they’d neglected were swarming onto the ship.

The explosions could be heard from the main pirate vessel, though few paid attention. They were too concerned with mayhem. Groups were fighting each other all over the ship. Corpses and wounded men covered the deck.

No one had bettered the warrior in black. His ferocity and stamina were unabated. He’d battled to the nub of the pirate horde and reached their officer corps. This assembly was dandified in their dress, except for the face charms they wore. The glamoured masks were grotesque, fearsome, demonic, and constantly undulating, taking on ever more hideous aspects. They were meant to intimidate. The warrior wasn’t deterred, however, and made no exceptions. To him, flesh was flesh.

He gave no let in cracking skulls and hewing ribs. Where swords were raised against him, he answered with savagery. And even where they weren’t. None who stood in his path were spared, whether challenger or capitulator. He scythed through them like a frenzied spirit, mingling a kind of insanity with consummate swordplay.

Then there were no more blades to meet; no more dying screams or pleas for mercy. A true deathly quiet descended. The warrior gazed about him, wild-eyed and bereft, sweat sheening his brow despite the cold.

A tattered cheer went up. Their elite beaten, the remaining pirates were surrendering their weapons. The islanders set to corralling prisoners, and to tending the wounded. But for all that he’d tipped the battle in their favour, they avoided looking at the warrior, except for furtive glances.

He seemed lost, as though dazed at having his purpose taken away.

Of the two smaller raiding ships, one was in limping retreat. The other was on fire. Flames had taken hold of its sails, converting canvas to fluttering ash. Islanders were abandoning ship, shinning down ropes to their waiting boats. The surviving pirates were jumping overboard.