Alaric stepped aside as one of the crew, with a bucket, carefully scattered a load of sand across the deck. He had been moving toward the bow of the ship, gazing out at the darkened, moonlit ocean. The ship itself was a hive of activity; the crew moved with a sense of urgency in preparation for battle.
The deck, now veiled in a thin, sandy film, served a dual purpose: Not only did it offer a primitive grip underfoot, countering the slick sheen of seawater that occasionally splashed aboard, but it was also designed to deal with the inevitable spillage of blood, where the wooden planks could quickly become as treacherous as ice.
Sitting on the deck and lining the railings, hundreds of buckets had been brought up from below. These were filled to the brim with seawater. Attached to each lay a neatly coiled length of rope.
“What’s the purpose of the rope?” Alaric inquired, his attention momentarily shifting to a crewman who strode past, his arms laden with a bundle of arrows.
The crewman paused in his tracks, confusion briefly clouding his features as he turned to face Alaric. “I beg your pardon, sar?”
Pointing toward the array of buckets that lined the ship’s railing, Alaric repeated his question. “The buckets, the ones filled with seawater—why are they attached to ropes?”
“Oh, that,” the crewman responded, a flicker of understanding crossing his weathered, grimy, and sun-tanned face. “The ropes are there so we can lower the buckets into the sea to quickly fill them. Then we can haul them up again, without much hassle. That speeds up fighting any fires the enemy try to set.” With this explanation, he offered a congenial nod, touched two fingers to his forehead, and continued on his way.
Alaric absorbed this information, gaze drifting back to the ocean as the ship crested a large swell, only to inevitably descend the opposite side, the bow landing in a muffled crash that sent spray into the air. Such movements, unnatural at first, had become familiar to Alaric, almost comforting in their regularity.
Beneath him, the rhythmic beating of the drum pulsed throughout the ship, a constant heartbeat that kept the rowers pulling in perfect harmony. This steady cadence, crafted by the drummer nestled within the galley’s depths, reverberated through the wooden deck, a vibration that Alaric could feel underfoot through his boots. It was a powerful reminder of the human effort which propelled them—slaves who, chained to their benches, tirelessly worked the massive oars. Each stroke dipped into the ocean’s embrace before emerging into the air, a cycle repeated endlessly as they drove the ship toward where the captain expected to find the enemy.
Alaric’s attention shifted back to the water-filled buckets. The threat of fire aboard a vessel surrounded by the very element that could quell it was an irony not lost on him. Yet he knew all too well the chaos an untamed fire could wreak in the wooden belly of a ship, how quickly a vessel such as this one could burn, for he had once seen it happen and almost died as a result.
Fire was every sailor’s greatest enemy. Even amidst an expanse of water, a blaze could spread with ferocious speed, consuming everything in its path. This knowledge etched a line of worry deep within him. The prospect of flames dancing across the deck was a haunting image he found he couldn’t shake off.
“Give me a battle ashore any day over this,” Alaric said to himself as his eyes wandered to the shore, barely discernible under the silvery glow of a near full moon. The dark outline of the land seemed both a tantalizing promise of safety and a long way away. Alaric was a good swimmer, but the thought of being forced to abandon ship due to a fire and cross that distance through the cold currents of the ocean, with the currents and waves, was a daunting prospect on even the best of days.
He caught sight of Grayson making his way toward him, his approach marked by a calm assurance and steady gait. Absent was the cumbersome armor. Instead, the captain of Alaric’s company wore a simple tunic and pants. His sword hung at his side, as did a dagger.
Alaric’s men were already on deck. They too had not donned armor. This decision, inspired by Bramwell’s pragmatic wisdom, reflected a sobering reality of naval combat. “Men wearing armor sink right to the bottom if they fall in,” the captain had plainly stated, his words carrying the weight of undeniable truth. “Wearing armor may save you from the enemy, perhaps, but you’re just begging for the sea to take you into her arms and keep you if you go overboard.”
Still, Alaric couldn’t shake off the discomfiting sensation of vulnerability that came with not wearing his armor, especially before a fight. He felt naked without it.
“The men are ready,” Grayson announced, cutting through Alaric’s ruminations as he came to a halt in front of him.
Alaric acknowledged Grayson’s statement with a nod. The deck was a flurry of activity as the crew worked to ready her for battle. Bramwell and his officers, who had formed a half-circle about their captain, stood together on the bridge. Bramwell was likely passing along his final instructions.
“Fighting on a ship is so different than on land,” Alaric said.
“Is it?” Grayson mused aloud, just as another crewmember hustled by, his arms laden with several leather-wrapped bundles of arrows. “Killing is killing, no matter where it is done.”
Alaric took a moment to absorb the simplicity of Grayson’s words. Just a few feet away, dozens of bows and crossbows had been arranged with meticulous care on the deck, accompanied by a steadily growing stack of arrows and the deadly bolts that could pierce armor and were the bane of infantry. Nearby, a collection of throwing spears lay next to one another, their pointed steel tips gleaming under the moonlight.
Every sailor aboard had taken up arms, carrying either a sword or an axe. A few had both. The air was charged with a near-physical tension, a blend of fear and determination that bound every soul on board into a shared brotherhood. No one ever liked putting their life at risk, but it was the business they were in.
Four large boarding planks had been brought up from below decks. These structures, now fitted into hinges on the bow—the very front of the ship—and held by cables, stood erect. Their ends pointed nearly straight up at the sky but leaned forward slightly, awaiting their moment of action. Each had large steel spikes at the end, for when the cables were cut. The planks would drop onto the enemy ship, the spikes crashing into and through the deck, locking both ships fast. Raised vertically, they served as a reminder of the bridge between life and death they would soon become.
“As we approach, while the ship increases speed for a ram attempt,” Grayson added, “I imagine the crew will rain missiles down upon the enemy’s deck—arrows, spears, bullets from slings. They have small catapults and ballistae, which they have not set up, but I understand those are for defensive purposes. They send flaming balls of pitch and burning material at enemy ships. Since they want to take this ship and plunder her, Caxatarus told me they won’t be using them.”
Alaric nodded, his mind painting a vivid picture of the coming clash: a rain of arrows and spears as the vessels drew perilously close. He could easily imagine, amidst the shadows, death and dismemberment would arrive, cloaked as nearly invisible projectiles that fell from the sky.
“The enemy will no doubt respond in kind,” Alaric mused aloud, the weight of the moment and the impending action pressing upon him.
“Indeed, which is why I’ve ensured our men are equipped with shields,” Grayson continued. “Once we ram the other ship, those boarding planks will be dropped, and the men will charge over. Then the work begins.”
“I expect this is going to be a hard and ugly fight, quite possibly the ugliest we’ve ever been in. Surrender will not be an option for the enemy—at least, they will not want to. I expect them to sell their lives dearly.”
Grayson acknowledged the grim truth of what lay before them. “Indeed, it will be. But remember, no battle is ever pretty,” the older man remarked, his gaze momentarily shifting toward the mast, where two archers began climbing with the agility of monkeys, bundles of arrows attached to their backs with ropes. “We will be outnumbered until one of the other ships joins in.”
“I know it.”
The captain, with Caxatarus by his side, navigated through the bustling deck with a sense of intent and urgency that moved the air like the sharp prow of their ship, passing them both by. Bramwell’s expression was one of grave seriousness. Alaric and Grayson, left in the wake of this focused procession, exchanged a brief glance before Alaric decided to follow.
As Alaric caught up, he found Bramwell had stopped at the railing, eyes locked on the horizon and path ahead. The moon cast a silvery sheen over the sea, transforming the waters into a magnificent display of light and shadow. It was a scene of haunting beauty.
Bramwell, aware of Alaric’s presence, glanced over, but did not turn to greet him. Instead, he pointed toward the darkened shoreline that lay ahead, where a prominent hill rose against the night sky. “Past that hill and around the bend in the coastline is the Well of Tears. That, with any luck, is where we will find our quarry.”
“And what if this ship is not there?” Grayson asked.
“Then”—Bramwell blew out a long breath—“we will anchor for the night. I would not feel comfortable pressing onward in our hunt, as the coastline ahead becomes quite rugged and rocky.”
Caxatarus suddenly stiffened.
“What is it?” Bramwell asked, glancing over.
“Look there.” The first officer pointed. “See it?”
Alaric’s eyes, guided by Caxatarus’s outstretched finger, caught sight of a small, flickering, orange light that crowned the hilltop. It pierced the darkness with its modest and low-hanging glow, a small spot of light in the sea of night, one that was nearly invisible.
“A fire,” Bramwell breathed. “A campfire. This stretch of coastline is not settled. That’s a watch post.”
“The fools,” Caxatarus said.
“They are blinded by their own firelight,” Bramwell said with sudden excitement. “They must think it too late for anyone to sail.”
“She’s going to be in the bay,” Caxatarus rasped, “right where you thought her to be.”
“And we’re going to give them one hell of an education.” Bramwell turned to his first officer. “Ready the men. I want our boys to go first. They’ve done this before and know what they are doing. Alaric’s soldiers can follow.”
“Yes, sir,” Caxatarus responded.
Bramwell turned to Alaric. “I mean no disparagement of your men. I know they are killers, but they’ve never fought at sea.”
“I understand,” Alaric said.
“Cax, you lead the boarding operation,” Bramwell added. “I will handle the ship, then join you once we ram her and are stuck fast, understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir. I do.”
Bramwell then regarded Alaric. In the darkness, the captain shot him a grin. “Mind the arrows and spears. I would hate to lose my drinking partner due to carelessness.”
Alaric gave a grunt in reply and Bramwell left, brushing past Alaric, his silhouette merging with those waiting on deck for the action to begin as he made his way toward the aft, where the bridge awaited his command.
“Lads,” Caxatarus called, moving to address the waiting sailors. The enemy watch post was over a half-mile away. There was no chance they could overhear him, what with the sound of the sea and wind. “Grab your shields and form up for boarding on me. Archers to your positions, ready yourselves for action.”
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The deck rapidly became a rush as the men moved to obey the first officer’s commands. Shields were swiftly grabbed, bows and crossbows taken up. The sound of metal and wood clattering against the deck punctuated the night air.
Alaric found himself glancing toward the distant glow of the campfire. The absence of any light source aboard their own ship to betray their position minimized the chances of detection from the shore. However, a mere shift in the enemy’s attention—moving away from the light of the fire to relieve oneself, along with a single glance toward the darkened sea—could reveal their presence and added a layer of tension to the atmosphere.
Caxatarus, who stepped away from Alaric, toward his men, held up his hands as the sailors pressed forward. “I want four lines for the boarding parties, one for each plank. The first man in line gets an extra cut of the spoils and two additional rations of grog from my personal store, and you know that’s the good stuff. Now, enough lollygagging. Let’s go. Get your asses moving.”
Alaric’s gaze followed the men as they swiftly fell into lines as directed. The moon, hanging in the sky above, cast a silver glow over everything that lent an ethereal quality to the activity unfolding on the deck. In the moonlight, the faces of the nearest men were illuminated just enough to reveal expressions of grim determination and fear.
“I will assemble our men and get them similarly organized,” Grayson said, to which Alaric gave a nod. The older man left.
Alaric took in his guardians, who blended seamlessly into the fabric of his life—his Shadow Guard, all standing close at hand and ready for trouble.
Ezran, with his black attire almost melding into the darkness, seemed less a man and more a wraith at the edge of visibility. His attention was directed forward, out to sea, clearly looking for the first glimpse of the enemy ship. A few feet from him, Jasper’s relaxed posture belied the alertness in his eyes. His bow, already strung, was casually hung over his right shoulder, while a bundle of arrows rested at his feet. Thorne and Kiera, each in their own way, completed the circle of vigilance around Alaric, their presence a constant reminder of the silent pact they shared with him.
These protectors, each distinct in their manner but united in their purpose, were more than mere bodyguards. They were the unseen shield against threats invisible and overt, a dedicated group whose very existence was intertwined with Alaric’s own fate. The fact he often forgot their presence spoke to their skill in blending into the background.
Yet their impact on his life had been immeasurable. On more than one occasion, they had been the difference between living and dying. In the dark alleys of political intrigue of the Cardinal’s court and on the battlefield, they were his unseen edge, thwarting attempts on his life with a blend of foresight, skill, and unwavering loyalty.
The muffled, rhythmic thrumming of the drum, a heartbeat beneath the deck, intensified, sending vibrations through the soles of Alaric’s boots and into the core of his being. It was as if the ship herself responded to the call of the drum, her pace quickening with each and every beat, an ancient creature stirred to life by the will of her captain. The rowers, unseen but deeply felt, matched the drum’s tempo with powerful strokes, their collective effort propelling the vessel with increasing velocity through the night-shrouded waters toward their destination, the Well of Tears, and the prey the captain hunted.
Alaric, standing near the prow, felt the surge of acceleration as the ship cut a swift path through the dark sea. The water, illuminated only by the faint touch of moonlight, flowed past in a shadowed blur, the ship navigating the swells with a determined grace. It was a moment of singular focus, the world reduced to the sound of the drum, the rush of the sea, and the steady forward motion of the ship.
As the coastline drew nearer, Alaric noticed the subtle shift in their course. They were angling closer to land, steering toward the end of the hill where the rugged coastline bent and promised to reveal the hidden anchorage.
With another increase in the drum’s tempo, the ship all but leapt forward, her speed escalating, as if eager to uncover what lay ahead. As they approached the hill, anticipation tightened in his chest. The cove, gradually coming into view, held the promise of discovery and, potentially, confrontation.
Yet as the ship drew nearer and the cove began to reveal itself, the expected silhouette of the enemy vessel at anchor did not materialize. The absence of any visible threat did not ease Alaric’s vigilance; rather, it heightened his awareness of the unseen dangers that might still lurk in the shadows or lie in wait beneath the surface of the seemingly tranquil bay, rocks that could rip open the hull.
The drumbeat increased yet again, and with it, the ship began to move even faster, picking up the pace rapidly. The dark water began to move by at a startling speed. Alaric found himself surprised at how fast the ship was traveling. They drew closer and closer to the hill, and more of the cove became visible. Alaric saw nothing ahead, no ship at anchor, just moonlit water and, beyond that, the shoreline.
He glanced around and saw the two other ships of Bramwell’s little fleet, almost in a line, following close behind. The sudden blare of a horn, distant yet unmistakable in its urgency, pierced the quietude of the night, drawing Alaric’s attention sharply toward the hill.
The call, muffled by the distance, yet clear in its intent, rang out a second time. With the hill now looming less than a quarter of a mile away, the significance of the signal was undeniable. The watch post had clearly spotted the flotilla.
Alaric felt a chill grip his heart as the reality of their situation settled in. The element of surprise, so crucial, had evaporated into the night air, swallowed by the foreboding sound of the horn. The enemy were now forewarned of their approach, likely mobilizing, even as the echo of the warning faded and another call from the horn rang out.
The course was set, the die cast. With their presence known, all that remained was to press forward, to meet whatever awaited them in the cove with the courage and cunning that had carried them this far. The alarm had been sounded, the challenge laid bare.
“There.” Caxatarus’s voice, a harsh hiss in the tension-filled air, drew Alaric’s gaze to the cove unfurling before them. His initial glance revealed nothing but the serene dance of moonlight on water, a peaceful scene at odds with the sense of urgency in the first officer’s tone. Yet as he focused, guided by Caxatarus’s outstretched finger, the shadowy outline of another vessel began to materialize from the darkness, anchored a mere mile away.
“There she is,” Caxatarus hissed in mounting excitement. “There she bloody is!”
The ship, a galley, presented broadside to them, her sails neatly furled, oars shipped, betraying no immediate sign of activity. Despite her size, smaller in comparison to Bramwell’s commanding vessel, there was an undeniable menace to her. Sleek lines and a low profile suggested speed and agility, characteristics of a ship built with a singular purpose in mind: war. In the dim light, she appeared not just as a ship, but as a predator at rest, her very form exuding a silent threat.
Alaric’s eyes remained fixed on the distant silhouette, assessing, calculating. The quiet before the storm was over. Now, the confrontation lay ahead.
“Ship spotted,” someone hollered back.
“There she is,” Caxatarus repeated with feverish excitement. “Mysteeri. By all that’s holy, we have her.” The first officer punched a fist lightly into his palm. “We have her, and this time, there will be no escape for Fina. We are going to kill that bastard dead.”
The repeated blare of the horn was now infused with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. As the rhythmic pounding of the drum accelerated, the ship responded with a nimble agility, veering onto a new course that aligned her bow and ram directly with the enemy vessel.
The passage of time seemed to slow, each moment stretched thin by anticipation, and the rapidly dwindling distance between their ship and the war galley. The sea itself appeared to part in acquiescence to their advance, the ship barreling at a speed that spoke of an eagerness to attack and get stuck in. The cadence of the drum, now echoing Alaric’s own heartbeat, served as a relentless motivator for the rowers, each stroke bringing them inexorably closer to their prey.
When the gap had narrowed to a half-mile, then a mere quarter-mile, the activity on the deck of the war galley became visible. Men moved with a frantic energy. The deployment of oars in a hurried attempt to gain maneuverability, coupled with the effort to raise the anchor, spoke volumes of their readiness—or lack thereof—for the engagement that loomed and was now upon them.
“They’re too late,” Caxatarus said fiercely, then raised his voice savagely. “Archers, ready yourselves for action. Loose as soon as we are in range.”
It was then that Alaric noticed the flicker of light that flared on the enemy’s deck—a glow that stood out against the backdrop of the night, unusual and out of place. The sight puzzled him, until the chilling realization hit: The enemy was preparing to launch fire arrows and possibly worse. Alaric’s gaze inadvertently drifted back to the buckets filled with water, a precaution that now seemed wise.
“My lord.” Ezran had found a shield and approached. The rest of his Shadow Guard held shields too and had closed upon him. “Perhaps it is time to move back to your men?”
“What?” Caxatarus asked, looking over at Ezran, then back at the enemy warship, which was less than three hundred yards distant now. They were closing frightfully fast. A bell could be heard ringing urgently from the other ship, as well as a beating drum calling the crew to quarters. Someone over there was shouting frantically. “Right, time to move you behind the men. It’s gonna get ugly at the bow.”
Caxatarus grabbed Alaric’s arm and started to guide him away. Alaric afforded himself one final, contemplative glance at their adversary before turning to navigate through the ranks of sailors. These men, poised for battle, awaited the ram and the expected command to board the hostile ship. Releasing his arm, Caxatarus matched his stride. As they moved beyond this sea of anxious anticipation, Alaric was greeted by the sight of Grayson and his men. They stood divided into four distinct lines. Each warrior was armed with a rounded shield, sword still sheathed. They looked grim, but they were ready for a fight. That much he knew. A fierce stab of pride ran through his heart, for they were his men and he their leader, their lord.
In the midst of the drum’s relentless and fast-paced rhythm—a heartbeat all its own—Alaric collected himself. It was time to address the concerns of his soul. With a depth of reverence and a fervor born of both hope and his faith, he lowered his head and offered up a prayer. The nearest men of his company, eyeing him and clearly understanding what was happening, dropped respectfully to a knee. Then the rest took a knee and bowed their heads. Even some of the sailors knelt.
“Lord above and beyond, on this day of battle, we seek your favor, your blessing,” Alaric said, raising his voice so all could hear. “Grant us the strength to vanquish the foes who stand before us, those who have rejected your faith and are infidels. Watch over our brave warriors and spare them from the clutches of death. May our victory be a testament to your glory. In your sacred name, we place our souls, trust, and our hopes.”
“Amen,” Grayson said.
“Amen to that,” Caxatarus echoed.
The men stood. Alaric looked over at the first officer, who was craning his neck to look toward the bow and the enemy ship. With the press of sailors before them, Alaric could not see much himself, other than the enemy ship’s masts, which appeared quite close, almost on top of them.
“It will not be long now,” Caxatarus said, looking back around. “Better brace yourself when the call comes.”
With that, the first officer left them, heading back to the bow and the way they had just come. Pushing through the nearest men, he disappeared into the press. Alaric spared a glance at Grayson, then turned to face his men.
“You saw what these bastards did to the Lady’s Grace,” Alaric called, raising his voice again. “Fight like demons.”
“What are you going to do?” Grayson roared to the men.
“Fight!” came the massed reply.
“What are you going to do?” Grayson roared again, even louder.
“Fight—fight—FIGHT.”
A sudden, jarring sound of impact echoed across the deck as the massed shout died down—a meaty thwack. A sharp cry of pain came from a sailor in the forefront, quickly followed by another, their voices laced with shock, fear, and agony.
“Shields!” The command from near the bow cut through the din, urgent and commanding. “Shields!”
Swiftly, Grayson grasped a nearby shield that had been lying upon the deck at their feet, extending it toward Alaric while taking another for himself. Without hesitation, Alaric took it and hoisted the shield protectively above his head, adopting a defensive crouch. All around, men were doing the same. The deck about them began to be pelted with a series of heavy thuds and cracks as enemy arrows rained in a deadly shower, burying themselves into the wooden planks.
A pained outcry pierced the air, signifying another casualty somewhere in the ranks of his company. Alaric caught sight of one of his soldiers falling, dropping his shield, and writhing in agony on the deck, an arrow embedded deeply in his side.
Above, amidst the entangled silhouettes of the masts, came the distinct twang of a bowstring being released, followed rapidly by more, as the men perched up there fired directly down upon the enemy’s deck. Bramwell’s archers, standing just behind the boarding party, unleashed their own volley. The sound of bowstrings twanging and crossbow mechanisms snapping rang out.
Another barrage of arrows sliced through the air, their presence announced by a sinister hiss as they descended with lethal intent. The deck bore the brunt of this assault, transforming it into a pincushion of arrow shafts as the missiles hammered home. Alaric felt a jolt against his shield—a direct hit.
Surprised, he saw the point of an arrowhead that had punched through the barrier of his shield, mere inches from his hand’s grip. The proximity of death, so tangible, immediate, random, and close, sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. Around him, the air was rent with the cries of the wounded and the dying, a grim chorus that underscored the brutal reality of their struggle, which had truly yet to begin.
“God, I’ve been hit.” A choked cry shattered the tense air behind Alaric as a man screamed. The voice, strangled by pain and shock, belonged to one of their own. “Sarge, I’ve been hit. Help me.”
The air was once again split by the sound of defiance—a series of sharp twangs as Bramwell’s archers retaliated, sending their own arrows soaring toward the enemy vessel. The swift exchange was punctuated by another scream, this one emanating from across the water, one that was alarmingly close.
“Brace! Brace yourselves, boys!”
This urgent call rolled forward from the bow, a dire warning that permeated the charged atmosphere. Alaric’s hands shot out, grasping for the nearest solid anchor—one of the ship’s masts, its sturdy form offering a semblance of stability. Grayson, mirroring Alaric’s actions, secured his own hold beside him.
Barely had they anchored themselves when a catastrophic cacophony erupted. The harrowing crashing sound of splintering and shattering wood filled the air as the very structure of the ship groaned around them. It was as if the sea itself rebelled, abruptly halting their forward momentum with shocking force, one that felt like the hand of some wrathful deity.
Alaric’s arms, clamped around the mast for dear life, were pried loose by the sheer ferocity of the collision. Propelled forward by the ship’s abrupt halt, he was flung onto the deck with a force that tried to knock the breath from his lungs. Around him, the scene descended into pandemonium. Men had been hurled from their positions, their feet; bodies had been thrown forward and down to the deck in a terrible tumble.
Then, there was a sudden moment of absolute quiet, for even the drum had ceased.
“Cut the cables! Drop the boarding planks,” Caxatarus’s voice, raspy and urgent, roared into the silence. “Kill them all!”