One thing I missed even more than my town, my job or even Angelica; was Knives. No, I'm not some sort of cutthroat enthusiast, Knives is the name of my beloved DireHawk, the 'enforcer of the sky'.
Most of his kind can only be found deep in the swamps of Naveroth. But I assume he must have hailed from the darker part of a large Alvionian forest where they could be spotted on occasion. He must have had a good reason to leave though, as he was seen in my town almost daily. Now DireHawks are terrifyingly magnificent creatures. The have the most stunning coat of red and black feathers you'd ever see, their eyes ranged from pale yellow to bright gold, and their bone coloured beaks looked sharp enough to snap a man's hand right off his wrist. Knives stood as tall as a ten year old lad and his wingspan was wider than I was tall (and he is smaller than average for his species).
As you can probably guess, they don't eat the twigs that grow on berries. They mostly prey on falcons and any other bird slightly smaller than themselves. But if they are feeling lazy, they will happily tear up a fox or a small sheep for lunch. Knives was different though, he only ate rats. Not your average rats either, the massive fucking critters that get huge from eating magic waste in human cities (a very good reason to to burn your alchemby bowls instead of just throwing them in the gutter.)
When I first saw him dive bomb into a murky street to snatch up a leg-sized rat i was shit scared that it wouldn't be long before he came for my pigeons. But he never even flew near them, it was if he knew and appreciated they had a job to do.I quickly became a fan, and so did a lot of my neighbourhood.
He came into my care after a scummy gang of cut-purses started shooting at him for fun with their flintlock pistols. Their aim was shit, but Knives is a large target that flew low, and it was only a matter of time before one of those bastard pellets got him. I found him later than night on the way back from the Gilgamesh bleeding out on the cobblestone floor.I'm certain I wasn't the first to see him, but I was probably the only one who how to help.
In the month and a half it took Knives to make a full recovery he became my best friend. Despite his frightening appearance, he was the calmest and patient listener I'd ever met. Not only would he listen to drunkenly ramble about my latest stupid plan to get Angelica to run away with me, he would help me pickout the tastiest bird feed at the market and even wiithout his ability to fly he was still able to pluck out the odd rodent in my kitchen.
Once he got his wings back to full function, he was like a cannonball with feathers, the amazing feats of speed and agility is the stuff of legend on my block. Releasing my pigeons back into the wild was difficult, but I did not want to say goodbye to Knives. He might have kept me sane till the day I died on the this soaking tub. But I couldn't risk it, even having him fly near the boat was begging him to be shot down. DireHawks are rare game, and dead one could fetch a tidy sum for an ambitious sailor with decent aim.
I always prided myself on my raw honesty, but when I promised knives I would see him again before releasing him into the Thora Fields, I was aware that might very well be a lie.
"What do you mean 'rock formation'? There aren't supposed to be any obstacles on this course!"
"I'm telling you what's in front of us, maybe the mapmaker fucked up, but we've been sailing west and nothing but west!"
"Bullshit! West from the docks is clear water! I've ran this course on hundred times, Smith!
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"Then maybe you should navigate, Michaelson!"
I probably wasn't going to sleep anyway, but hearing First Mate Michaelson and Navigator Smith argue for the 5th time this week ensured that no one would sleep. They seemed to have an endless supply of energy to yell at each other, like some some sort symbiotic anger loop. It was funny the first time, now I'd happily listen to them shoot each other until they went silent.
"Fucking wanker!" Smith said, before I heard the thump of a tackle.
The scuffle was loud enough to get some of the crew to watch, apparently Michaelson was twice Smith's size, but half as scrappy, betting odds were dead even. My curiosity got the better of me and after squeezing my frozen wet socks, I attempted to peer out of the window again. Large shapes that could be easily called rocks were visible in the background, but I didn't see what the big deal was, couldn't they go round them?
After a minute or two of rolling around on the deck I heard the grunts and tears of them being seperated, once again shouting but now with angry rasps.
"It...Its....the fucking Bishop Isles!...Fuckin...Dick...."
I suddenly shot up out of my cot and pressed my face against the glass. I couldn't believe it, I refused to. The Bishop Isles were bloody infamous.
"What's going on here? Who said Bishop Isles?"
The questions were from the rough grumble of the arsehole captain, no doubt just as curious as I was.
"Fucking...Smith, he took us off course, look, we are in the center sea, we are heading straight through the rock formation of the Bishop Isles." Michaelson explained.
"Well then go around them!" The Captain shouted. This was the first time I heard panic in his voice.
"We are at a fork, captain, we can circle north or south." said Smith, finally catching his breath.
"Which is going to get us to the destination at the greatest speed with the least trouble?" Impatience hung heavy on the captain's tone.
I wasn't able to hear what was said next as the lookout blew the alarm horn loud enough to fill the entire ship. It was exactly what I thought before he even said it.
"PIRATES INCOMING, APPROACHING FROM THE NORTH!"
The amount of screaming, arguing and general panic made all words indecipherable to me, but I certainly got the jist of what was happening. I was going to die.
Pirates are some of the most violent criminals in the world, something about the lack of land makes, crooks and cutthroats into tyrants and psychopaths. Every tale I've heard about a pirate attack always ended in a slaughter, and not necessarily a quick one either. The Bishop Isles were the holy land of pirates. A small chain of Islands covered in near constant fog that housed port towns full of illegal business, ne-er do-wells, vices and all kinds of sin., This was of course funded by the goods they would raid from boats sailed by idiots, like the one I was one. I couldn't help but feel thankful, that my time on the sea was mercifully short, and would be ending in one of the most infamously spectacular ways imaginable.
But, on the Bronze Bastion, nothing ever comes easy, not even a much wanted death.
"Alright you seadogs, to arms! We must defend the ship!" Michaelson shouted from the stairs to the upper deck. His eyes were wide and full of terror, and the tight grip on his cutlass didn't stop his hand from shaking violently. The sailors on my deck, looked equal parts scared and confused, mostly due to most of them never having been in a sword fight before, certainly not against pirates. We wouldn't be defending anything, just offering ourselves to the meat grinder in the most socially acceptable way possible. I wish I could just sit in, for this one, but abstaining from duty is punishable by flogging, and I had no interest in learning what that felt like.
"Come on, Kingsley! Time for some action!"
My bunkmate, Jerry looked like an 11 year old on his birthday as cut a figure 8 in the air with his cutlass and tossed me a spare from the weapons rack. He barely had his uniform on before shaking others awake.
"I'll be right behind you, Jer," I lied. "Save some for me!"
Jerry's face lit up like fireworks and he raised his fist like a proud general.
"Haha yes! Jerry Doolan and Caspar Kingsley, bunkmates and battle brothers! To arms!!!"
It took every fibre of my being to not burst out laughing before good ol' Jerry rushed to the upper deck to his near certain death. I would've felt bad for him if he hadn't lead such a horribly boring life. Raised as an iron miner in the nation of Roh who transferred to this ship voluntarily in search of adventure. So I guess he finally found it.
I took my sweet time getting ready, pulling up my baggy sea trousers and lacing my boots slow enough to be the last sailor to leave for the deck. But I stayed in my undershirt, I refused to meet my end in that ridiculous, frilly bib that they called a sailor's top. Holding my cutlass I spun it in my hand before finally climbing the stairs to the upper deck, just in time to see the pirates board.