enemy possessed in speed and stealth, his pirates made up for in brute strength and the refusal to feel any pain- either that, or the inability to do so due to the numbing effects of alcohol. On the journey Simon the Holy had been distributing bottles of rum to everyone and they had been drinking it gladly as fuel for the fight ahead of them.
His six followers were fighting valiantly. Ethelred, despite his age, was holding off two ninjas with his pistol: he was backed against a tree shooting at anything that moved within range, missing mostly but successfully keeping them back and sometimes even clipping them on their ears or elbows. When he did so the ninjas made a strange, hissing noise instead of the normal cries and shrieks that accompany pain: it was more like air being let out of a tyre than a human being in pain.
Jake the Peg had spent many years with only one leg and was quite adept and balancing without the second. Given this special ability, he was doing battle with one ninja with sword in one hand and peg leg in the other. The ninja was fighting back with a small, star-shaped blade, yet he was fighting well: while neither could get a lethal blow onto the other, both were scoring hits on their enemy’s body and causing cuts and bleeding all other the place. Jake the Peg’s arm was coated in crimson liquid, while a deep gash was visible in the ninja’s side, staining his dark robes a deep purple colour.
Timmy the Brick was being as clumsy as ever. Never the most adept at fighting, he was simply holding a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other while he span and flailed about like a mentally impaired chimpanzee, shooting with one hand and slashing with the other. It was a blessing that he did not hit anyone, for his attacks were aimed at no-one in particular and had an equal chance of hitting pirate or ninja alike.
A few yards from his was Gunner Zach, cool as ever in his black leather jacket. So called because of his immense skill with any kind of projectile weapon, he was standing in the open with a relaxed attitude smoking a cigar and holding two ornate pistols. He seemed unperturbed by the whole battle; in fact, despite being surrounded by at least six ninjas circling him menacingly, he was treating it more like an arcade shooting game than a serious fight which could take his life. His attitude was well placed, though, for he was a good shot. He had the ninjas worried by his near-perfect accuracy and had killed at least three of the robed rogues so far.
Simon the Holy had a far different fighting style. Plump from all the rum he brewed and drank, his beer belly negated any claim that he could be fit or agile so his contributions to the fight were simply in the style of a bar-room brawl. He had pulled his sleeves back and was engaging in a drunken boxing match with any ninjas who dared take him on. His knuckles were bloodied and bruised by the star-shaped blades most of the foe were carrying, but he was un stoppable and had knocked out at least one ninja, whose body was lying crumpled next to him.
Not all was success, though. As Bluebeard scanned the scene for the sixth man who had come with him, he found him, crumpled against a tree with lifeless eyes and a bloodied face. Jawface Jones was quite possibly dead. His fatal weakness had been the very jaw which had given him his name. It looked as if it had been dislocated; by whom and how was unclear, for whichever ninja had done it was by now long gone, back to camp or else engaged in another fight.
Bluebeard unleashed a guttural roar of rage and unleashed himself into the battle. His surveying had taken but a second, and now he was on the case of the ninja who had so rudely leapt onto his back and dragged him away from the treacherous Boy. He leapt at him with sword drawn and pushed his foe backwards, ever backwards, as the tiny starlet of the ninja enemy struggled to match the ferocious force of the Captain’s full-size stolen scimitar. He could only see the ninja’s eyes; the rest was hidden by the body-length black suit all ninjas wore, which made it impossible for them to be identified. Yet the eyes were enough: the dilated pupils spelled fear and the wrinkled bags told Bluebeard that the ninja was old, past his prime and easy to beat. His foe looked around helplessly for back-up but none was coming; he looked around helplessly for a shadow to hide in, but it was no use. To turn his back for a second would be to welcome death at the hands of an angry pirate’s sword.
Yet not to turn his back meant that he could not see where he was going. And so it was that, at 8:34 a.m. on that cool, brisk morning, Sorai the ninja died at the hands of Captain Bluebeard of the Merry Martin when he foolishly backed into a tree and could back away no more.
Now it was the ninja leader’s turn to scream in agony. No leader likes to see one of their own being killed; it was just this rage which had brought Bluebeard into the battle, and it was just this rage which brought Hirosaki, the ninja leader, into a fight with Bluebeard.
He could only see the eyes, but once more it was enough for Bluebeard and he could tell that this one was a contender. The eyes before him now were green and piercing, ensconced on a young face which seemed to be in its prime. Now it was the pirate’s turn to back away as the ninja leader pushed onward, one hand behind his back while the other inexplicably did battle against Bluebeard’s sword with just a blade the size of a pizza knife. The ferocity with which the ninja fought was inspiring, if a little terrifying too for the one who was forced to face it.
“I am Hirosaki,” the ninja introduced himself. “And today I shall be your angel of death!”
Bluebeard tried to compose himself into an impressive introductory address. “I am Captain Bluebeard,” he began, “And today I shall be… erm… killing you.”
He grinned sheepishly at his lack of command over his words, but other things were on his mind. He had earned the temporary distraction of his battle rival by his ineloquent choice of words and managed to graze the ninja’s left arm with his blade. There came that hiss once more, as if he had punctured a balloon and these ninjas were not really human at all, and his foe took on a new lease of life. Bluebeard would not be pushed backwards anymore, however, and simply withdrew his pistol and shot it at the agile Hirosaki to end it quickly.
His plan did not work, though. As soon as the smoke from the gunpowder had cleared, his rival could no longer be seen anywhere in front of him but had simply disappeared from sight altogether. Bluebeard cursed his stupidity. The smoke from the gunpowder had given his foe the opportunity to disappear for a moment and go God-knows-where.
He looked around, wary of any movement. By now the battle had spread out so that he was left alone in this particular part of the woods with only dead ninjas and the corpse of his crewmate for company, while all around the noises of battle could be heard coming from other unseen parts of the woodland. In the distance he thought he could make out the sound of Gunner Zach’s relentless pistol fire as he brought down wave upon wave of ninjas, and on his other side he thought he heard the sound of one of his men screaming in pain- though he could not tell which one.
His heart went out to them. A pirate is not supposed to be emotional, but when it comes to the fate of one’s crew it is hard not to be. Yet now his main concern was to find his would-be assassin, the leader of the ninjas, and kill him first.
Too late. For as he heard the soft sound of feet upon leaves behind him and turned round to see from whence it came, he saw the gloved hand of the young Hirosaki coming down upon his neck and was knocked out cold.