With the recoil of his second pistol shot still shivering in his hand, Thomas spun the weapons in his hand to brandish the brass-capped butts like clubs. Without a word he plunged into the crowd of corsairs who were still cringing from the shot. The impromptu bludgeons swung with deadly effect; smashing jaws, cracking noses, and crushing throats. Screams and cries of pain filled the Black Boar, and through his drunkenness Thomas felt a surge of pleasant adrenaline. 

Thomas method of combat was a fluid dance of chaos, perfected and taught by none other than hard experience and the occasional word of wisdom from a fellow brigand. Fighting was something that had been a part of his life since Lightfoot had saved Thomas as a boy, and the first hard lesson the legendary pirate had taught him was that the man that fights without limits, fights upon the side of victory. In Thomas’ estimation, a gentleman who saves his virtue in combat will just as soon lose his life. 

Thomas spat into the eyes of a burly pirate raising a hatchet above his head. Blinded, the pirate wavered in his motion, and Thomas struck him hard across the temple with the butt of a pistol. Instantly the man crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and Thomas spun to engage the next of the corsairs. 

In this briefest of lulls, Thomas called back to Jax, who was in the process of plowing through a group of seaman with a chair. “I’ll save the balls…” Thomas ducked beneath a wild haymaker from his left, “…you save the rum!” The now off-balance corsair that had thrown the punch received a cruel stomp to the back of his knee, then a second to kick to the head as he fell. The man lay unconscious or dead, Thomas could not tell, and truly he did not care a whit for the man’s disposition.

A pistol report from off to his right drew Thomas’ attention, and he spun just in time to see his First Mate deftly toss the assailant onto the floor, knocking him out cold. Somewhere in the back of his drunken mind he made a mental note of the woman’s composure and skill. He would recall it later, and dwell upon its deadly efficacy. In the middle of the bedlam, even though it had taken only mere seconds to observe, Thomas had let his attention become singularly focused upon the sight of Nicolette dispatching the corsair. He failed to perceive the second pistol, this one held by the [i]Feather’s[/i] own First Mate, being trained upon him.

Thomas felt himself being grabbed, and before he could even consider a response he was being flung backwards. He heard yet another blast of powder, accompanied by the hiss-snap of a lead ball as it flew past his head. Then, like a spring being released, he was standing again. Still wholly disoriented, Thomas was met with a caramel face with delicate features and grey eyes filled with a demonic fury. His mind had only time to complete one thought before the man who had saved his life spoke. [i]Those eyes…[/i]

Then the man spoke, saying words of admonishment for drinking [i]piss water[/i], and then beckoning death’s embrace. Even in the midst of the still roiling fight, Thomas could not but stand stunned as he viewed the slim, cat-like man in the dandified clothing stalk away from him. The man spat something about retrieving his knife, and Thomas tracked the man’s gaze back to the dying corsair with the hilt of a stiletto blade protruding from his throat. 

Still in a thin trance of bewilderment, Thomas looked back. His blank expression at last brightened as realization struck him. [i]Antonia!?[/i]

The next thing to strike him was a fist, and it caught him high upon his left cheek. Thomas lurched to his right, stumbled, and fell atop the body of the hemorrhaging First Mate. Stars burst before his vision, and only his innate skill allowed him to roll to safety as a boot-heel landed where his neck had just been. The roll had taken him over the top of the now dead First Mate, and as he completed the roll, his right hand clutched around the bloody hilt of the knife. 

Using his remaining momentum, Thomas came up on one knee facing the man that had struck him. In a flash the small knife came up, burying itself into the soft flesh near the man’s groin. With a resounding scream from the stabbed corsair, Thomas removed the blade. A river of blood from the wound followed with it. As the man began to collapse into his own pool of blood, Thomas stood. 

Disoriented from the blow though he was, Thomas pulled the dagger from the strap at his back, and wielded in a reverse grip in his right hand. The smaller stiletto he had acquired was held in his left. With a ferocity that belied his injury and sobriety, Thomas moved to kill yet another pirate of the [i]Crimson Feather[/i]. 

A gunshot, insanely loud in the confines of the Boar, halted him in his tracks. It was not the sound of a pistol shot, no, it had the unmistakable roar of a long-musket. With the noise ringing in his ears, Thomas heard the hoarse cry of “Avast! Avast, damn you, in the name of His Excellency, the Governor!” 

Through the cloud of smoke, Thomas made out Commander Robert Murray, the officer of the garrison at Fort Charles. Beside him stood a dozen men, armed with muskets trained indiscriminately into the crowd of pirates. The fighting in the Black Boar ceased instantly, and all eyes affixed upon the red-coated soldiers lining the walls of the tavern. 

The handsome and ridgid commander looked about the crowd, his expression sour and disapproving. “You will all disperse at once, or be locked in Fort Charles on pain of penalty!”

In the lull, Thomas could see that the crew of the [i]Skate[/i] had laid waste to those of the [i]Feather[/i]. Many of the corsairs lay dead, dying, or severely wounded about the tavern. Those that remained saw the reality of their situation, and they were quick to take the commander up on his offer of a safe escape. Slowly, the tavern began to empty, the watchful eyes of the garrison soldiers never leaving the crowd. 

With his chest still heaving from exertion, Thomas sheathed his dagger. There was nothing for it now. The governor was careful to provide a safe harbor for the pirates in Port Royal, for indeed it was the pirates that kept the Spanish at bay, and in turn kept gold flowing into the coffers of both the governor and the king himself. Still, the pirates of the Caribbean would be foolish to cast away the hospitality and legitimacy—paper thin though it was—afforded by the Crown.

The buzz of adrenaline began to fade as Thomas retrieved his pistols from the floor, and jammed them into their leather holsters. Pain throbbed with staccato heat upon his cheek, and even now he could feel the flesh swelling around his eye. He began to step towards the door, rubbing gingerly at his cheek when he came to the corpse of the corsair that had first held the knife to his back. Thomas stopped, staring down at the faceless bloody pulp of the head. 

He fished into his pocket and removed a silver reale. Kneeling, he placed it almost reverently upon the man’s still chest. “For the boatman,” he said quietly.