Gareth shot the gun men.
BANG!
The bullet flew from his pistol spinning through the air, screaming toward its target. But the gun men were fast. Trained. They had spent years learning the rhythm of battle, the language of bullets, the dance of death.
Each of them responded with a shot of their own.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Their bullets met Gareth's in mid-air sparks flying, lead splattering, force canceling force. The attacks countered each other perfectly, neutralizing the threat, proving that Gareth was not the only one who understood the art of the gun.
Gareth's eyes narrowed.
He threw away one of the guns.
The pistol clattered across the deck spinning, sliding, lost but his hands were not empty. He had taken the bullets that were in the gun. He held them in his palm small, gleaming, deadly.
He spun them.
So fast that they looked almost like a blur. His fingers danced, his wrist flicked, his arm wound back. The bullets whistled through the air not aimed at the gun men, not aimed at anyone but thrown with full speed toward one of them.
He shouted.
"Watch your balance!"
The gun man dodged twisting his body, leaning away from the spinning bullets, moving exactly where Gareth wanted him to move.
"And your environment!"
The attack he had made with the gun was simply a distraction.
He had pushed the gun man in just the right direction. Herded him. Corralled him. Prepared him.
He shouted out.
"SWALLOW HIM, BOY!"
The monster that Gareth had controlled earlier the beast with the head of a crocodile, the body of a lion, the fins of a fish rose from beneath the ship.
CRAAAAAAAAASH!
Its massive body exploded through the deck splintering wood, scattering debris, shattering everything in its path. The ship snapped into two, the halves tilting, sinking, dying.
The monster's jaws closed around the gun man.
CRUNCH.
Blood sprayed. Bones cracked. The man disappeared swallowed whole, consumed, ended.
The other gun men stumbled their balance broken, their formation shattered, their certainty gone.
Gareth smiled.
It was not a kind smile. Not a warm smile. Not a smile that promised mercy or forgiveness.
"What did you think?" His voice was calm, almost conversational. "That I would fight you on your grounds? Because your weapon is superior to mine?"
He shook his head.
"No." His voice hardened. "Why the hell would I do that?"
He stepped forward over the broken wood, over the spilled blood, over the bodies of the fallen.
"You're pirates." He looked at the remaining gun men at their fear, at their desperation, at the certainty of death that was beginning to dawn in their eyes. "You should expect and know that I would not do that."
He raised his hand.
"I'm not a man of equality." His voice was quiet, but it carried. "Or a man who believes that all should be fair."
He paused.
"I believe in inequality."
He looked at the monster at the beast that had obeyed his command, that had crushed his enemy, that had proved the superiority of his advantage.
"The fact that everyone has an advantage against another person..." He touched his chest. "And the fact that they can use this advantage to its best."
He smiled.
"My advantage..." His eyes gleamed. "I will use it to its best."
He looked at the pirate crew at the men who served the Iron Lantern, at the sailors who had thought themselves safe on their ship, at the enemies who were about to die.
"Today..." His voice dropped. "This pirate crew led by the Iron Lantern will fall."
He paused.
"And in his name..." His voice rose. "The sun of Camelot."
He spoke the name with a reverence that was almost religious.
"In Arthur's name."
The way he called Arthur's name was exactly the same way a servant would worship a god. With all honesty in his heart. With all loyalty in his soul. With everything he had.
He smiled.
The entire ship with the gun men still on it was eaten.
The monster's jaws closed around the vessel crushing it, consuming it, destroying it. Wood splintered. Metal bent. Men screamed.
The gun men disappeared.
Gareth had defeated his enemies.
He retreated to the top of the sea monster.
His body moved slowly, painfully, wearily as he climbed onto the beast's back. His breathing was heavy. His chest heaved. His lungs burned. His wounds old and new ached with every movement.
He was filled with pain.
But he was alive.
He sat on the monster's back, Lancelot still strapped to his own, and looked out at the Infinite Sea.
The waves crashed. The storm raged. The monsters fought.
And Gareth the devil, the strategist, the survivor rested.
.
He sat.
He breathed.
He survived.
And the sea churned