Evenings on the rural pastures of Tolan were cold at this time of year—despite the fact that it was probably the kingdom with the warmest and most pleasant climate. And besides being cold, they were rainy, and Niall, Niiro, and Iris felt that cold biting into their skin.
They were riding in a cargo wagon; with every turn of the wooden wheels it creaked, dragging itself through mud and splattering it behind them. They sat among bales of hay, wrapped in their cloaks, while a light drizzle fell and a cold wind blew. They were drenched and exhausted. They sat hunched over, and Iris kept nodding off, jerking herself awake every few moments, trying not to fall asleep completely.
Two black steeds pulled the wagon. They were old horses now, fit only for hauling goods or wanderers. Had they served some lord ten or more years ago, they would likely have died a heroic death in a charge on some forgotten field. Then people would've said they were loyal to their master to the end, following him into death—while now they lived waiting for the next crack of the whip swung by their owner.
Dying on a battlefield meant an honorable death… as if, Captain Gunne thought as he stared at the hooves of the aging horses trudging through the soaked earth, which was slowly turning into mud.
"If it keeps up like this, we'll have to stop at the nearest tavern!" the coachman shouted, his face hidden beneath a black hood. The only visible thing was the long reed-like plant he was chewing. He sat hunched as well—an older man who relied on his horses to do the heavy work. Perhaps he too once imagined a knightly and honorable death, as if all knightly deaths were honorable; a death worthy of ballads and tales. But his time had passed, and he had condemned these two bay horses to the same fate. People tend to feel better when they aren't the only ones who betrayed themselves, even if they have to compare themselves to horses.
"These days we just travel from tavern to tavern," Niiro muttered, leaning back on a soaked bale behind him. "I'm sick of the smell of beer and smoked sausage, and the stench of pipe smoke still clings to my cloak." He grimaced, sniffing his now rain-soaked garment that smelled of dampness and smoke. Iris was too tired to give any snarky comment.
"Don't worry. We're close to our next destination," Captain Gunne replied, looking around. The muddy road was leading them toward Relalon, a large trade city in northern Tolan.
"When we're done in Relalon, we move into Luganor," Niall explained as the wheels groaned. The metal holding them together had clearly rusted after many rainy seasons.
"Captain Junije is helping that southern lord deal with mountain bandits, right?"
"That's right," Niall confirmed. "Once we finish our work in Tolan, he'll be done in Luganor, and then we'll regroup. We haven't had a proper meeting in a long time. But enough about that." He shifted his weight, trying to sit more comfortably—after riding in wooden wagons, anyone's backside could suffer.
"What extra information did you gather about those pirates?" Niiro returned his tired gaze to the captain.
"It's not just their captain who's strong," Niiro began grimly. "As if it weren't enough that he's said to be a former officer of Tolan's royal navy with the rank of admiral. From several stories and sources, I gathered that his subordinates are also extremely capable. His vice-captain is a strange beast too—supposedly left the royal navy with him, and he held the rank of vice admiral."
"Whoa, whoa," Captain Gunne cut him off. "Isn't that a bit much? With commanders like those two, they could take on nearly any crew."
"You're right, captain," Niiro agreed. "But for now they don't have the ships needed to challenge a stronger navy, which is why they've been able to fend off isolated attacks." As he explained, the rain slowly eased, and the wind picked up. The coachman lit two lanterns hanging from rods at the front of the wagon, illuminating the path.
The clouds began to scatter and drift westward, and the moon slowly emerged.
"In any case," the young captain continued wearily, "even aside from those two, the crew is terrifying. Even the most experienced royal and imperial crews haven't survived encounters with them."
Silence settled for a moment. Niiro wrapped himself tighter in his cloak and closed his eyes.
"I definitely wouldn't want to be in the shoes of anyone they set their sights on."
Niall pulled his cloak tighter as well to shield himself from the wind.
"Neither would I," he thought.
"If Kjaran hadn't pulled me…" Hugo thought to himself, pain twisting his face as he fell sideways. His arm—long gone—was dragged into the depths by the miniature spear that had ripped it off, leaving a trail of blood across the deck.
The ship rocked, and the two men fell onto the slippery planks. The impact was dull and wet; the soaked wood pressed cold against their bodies. They recovered quickly. Hugo clutched at his shoulder—at what remained of it—and with fierce concentration gathered natural energy, sending it into the blood vessels of the stump, contracting and sealing them, stopping the bleeding.
He had served in wars as one of the lead medics, and that earned him the rank of captain. Kjaran watched his friend, aware of his abilities—but also of the dangers.
"If this technique isn't done perfectly, all the vessels can collapse at once, leaving a man dead on the spot."
Hugo knew that—but he didn't hesitate.
It all happened in a second, right before another spear struck the ship's hull, shaking it again. The spear pierced through the side, half of it sticking out, the other half jutting into the lower deck where the others were.
"Fuck," Elstan said as they all jolted upright. Rain continued to pour, drenching the already soaked and slippery deck. A sailor rang the alarm bell, signaling the only possible thing.
"Battle stations!" Hugo roared. The now one-armed captain moved across the deck giving orders. "Everyone to your posts!" he shouted, Kjaran right behind him.
Miniature spears kept flying—one, then a pause, then another. There was no time to rest. Two sailed over them, one embedded itself in the deck, and another tore through a sail, leaving a gaping hole in the fabric.
"Do you see that bright point in the distance?" he yelled, pointing toward a small lantern approaching slowly, growing larger. "Focus all fire on that! If I don't see bolts flying and levers working, you'll be the next ones flying, you bastards!" He regained his manic energy as he climbed up to the stern. He shoved aside his helmsman and grabbed the wheel himself, turning it sharply to the right. The entire weight of the ship shifted, tossing the crew around with it. Elstan, Desimir, and Gerde slammed against the wall as they ran up the stairs, and Nuro and Brann flew across the deck, grabbing onto the mast. The sailors were used to their captain's wild maneuvers, so nothing he did surprised them.
Hugo burst into laughter.
"We're going for a duel! The gods of the sea are with us today!"
His crew roared in reply, their voices drowned under thunder.
The others rushed onto the deck, looking for answers. All they found were torn sails, splintered planks, and spears buried into the wood.
The wind dragged them one way, the waves another, and Hugo a third.
But somehow he managed to angle the ship directly toward the enemy.
"What is going on?" Desimir thought as spears kept flying. Suddenly one sailor manning a bolt launcher was impaled and hurled across the deck, stopped only by the wooden wall. Blood poured from his mouth, and even more from his open abdomen. Rain washed the blood away quickly, and the waves carried it off. The waves had grown so large they now crashed onto the deck itself. Chaos reigned.
Elstan reached Kjaran and Hugo while the others assisted the crew—reloading large bolt launchers, tightening ropes and riggings. Suddenly one of the ropes holding the mast snapped under the force of the wind—after being grazed by a spear. The massive wooden mast began to lean, but Desimir caught the rope. Using natural energy, he tried to hold on to the slippery wood, but he struggled. He grabbed the beam the rope had been tied to, the planks cracking beneath him, his muscles shook.
"A little help!" he yelled, but no one heard him over the storm, waves, and shouting. "My tendons and ligaments are going to snap at this rate!" He cycled energy through his legs and arms, resting them alternately, but every time he loosened the rope even a little, the mast tilted more. His fingers began slipping — one by one. Rain washed away his sweat, wind chilled him. "It's gonna fucking fall!" he yelled again, and this time the sound pierced the storm. Osgar rushed to him, followed by Nuro. The three of them pulled the rope together and tied it down.
Desimir collapsed to his knees, panting, and Osgar clapped him on the back.
"No time to rest. We'll be crossing blades soon," Nuro shouted, his wet brown hair now nearly black, plastered to his face, hiding the sharp, focused glare he cast toward the enemy.
"Captain! Captain!" a man in a soaked black, filthy coat shouted. His worn boots thudded across the dark deck. "We're about to collide with them!"
His captain simply smiled. His black cloak whipped in the wind and his black beard dripped with rain. He stood at the helm, steering the ship. Suddenly he took off his soaked hat and tossed it aside.
"Damn it, that was my favorite hat," he thought.
He drew his sword, its blade reflecting his green-gray eyes. A scar ran across his crooked nose, and the upper part of his sword hand bore a tattoo of a compass—with a scar like a needle pointing south. Around forty pirates stood on the deck. He descended the steps, leaving the wheel to another crewman.
Most of his crew were filthy, wearing torn brown or black coats, worn boots looted from their victims, and shirts and trousers dulled far from their original colors. A few wore leather tunics or half-rotted chainmail. But some were better equipped—intact coats, sturdy leather armor, unbroken mail shirts. These were his closest officers. His vice admiral still wore his old Tolan colors, though without the crest; his once bright green cloak was now a faded dark emerald, but his chainmail remained whole, and his tunic reinforced with fresh leather. His light-blue hair was slicked to his back in a long braid.
"Tell me—who is our equal?" the captain shouted.
"No one!" the crew roared.
A spear whizzed across the air, impaling one pirate and sending him to the silver beyond.
Silence fell for a heartbeat. Rain hammered the deck.
"Fucking no one!" he repeated, and the crew roared again.
"Everyone to your positions! Prepare the hooks and ropes! Get ready to board!" he commanded.
The crew scattered to obey. The vice admiral nodded and went to prepare. His face was almost youthful—no more than thirty-five—but harsh and weathered, carved by many blows.
The other captains and sub-captains also departed—except one woman in her early thirties. She stood before him, her torn brown cloak whipping in the wind, worn chainmail covering her chest. She was short and slender. He approached—he was nearly a full head taller. His pale eyes locked onto hers, while strands of her light-brown hair hid her emerald irises.
"When this is over, I'll fuck you like never before," he told her, gently caressing her neck and brushing her hair from her eyes.
"When this is over, we may not even be here," she replied, kissed him deeply, and walked away.
His face held a grin, and his sword gleamed—ready for blood. Thunder roared, lightning flashed, the storm worsened, and fog rose. Now both sides could see each other. But only one side was horrified by what approached them.
"Is this really?" Desimir thought. "A pirate ship?" Terror seized his face. He wasn't alone—everyone froze as the stranger approached: a massive ship, its deck a meter higher than theirs and at least five meters longer. Its width they couldn't even judge from that angle. Huge bolt launchers—five on one side, meaning five on the other, plus two at the bow and stern—six more than they had. Black planks swallowed all light, and its two great black sails bore no insignia—only dark cloth promising doom.
"Hugo…" Kjaran whispered, looking at his friend, whose face dripped with both sweat and rain. The pirates stared down at them, and their captain stood at the center, sword in hand, smiling at Captain Brin.
Kjaran drew his sword, unleashing a surge of natural energy. The release shook both ships and jolted the Luganor crew awake.
"Brace for impact!" he commanded, sharp and commander-like.
Hooks sliced through the air, latching onto the rails, and heavy planks slammed onto their deck. Pirates surged forward, hurling spears and drawing swords and axes from their belts. The thuds of their heavy leather boots on the soaked wood were deep and booming.
"The gods are with us!" Nuro roared, regaining his fire. "Send these bastards to the depths!"
He drew his sword with his left hand, and the sailors roared back, raising shields and blades.
Desimir, Osgar, and Nuro held one flank.
Elstan, Hugo, and Kjaran guarded the stern.
Gerde, King Jin, Ratko, and the knights of Ganalor held the bow.
Brann, Art, Ervin, and Ujiyoshi defended the opposite side.
Desimir's hand trembled as he drew his new sword—unstained, untouched, soon to taste the scent and warmth of blood for the very first time. Ujiyoshi had already unsheathed his katana, just as Ervin had readied his own blade. Osgar and Nuro lowered themselves into spear stance, and Ratko's bow was fully drawn, the arrow honed to pierce.
Desimir's breath slowly steadied. For a moment, everything around him fell silent. It was as if he stood on the open sea beneath a blazing sun. No wind, no waves, no shouts—only the soft lapping of water and the distant cries of seagulls.
Then the illusion shattered. Steel clashed against steel, or steel cracked against wood, before sinking into flesh. Arrows hissed through the air. Ratko had already taken down two men, punching through their windpipes; the tips, soaked in blood, pierced clean out the other side.
The Luganor sailors were outnumbered, but better trained, and they carried shields—round, wooden, made from strong oak with a metal boss in the center. They deflected blades and axes before cutting their enemies down in turn.
Desimir had already found his first opponent. The man was taller but stout, noseless, and when he swung his axe, Desimir stepped left to avoid it, spun swiftly, and severed the man's right arm—the one holding the weapon. The limb hit the deck with a heavy thud. He hadn't even had time to scream before the young fighter's sword buried itself deep in his skull.
The deck was slick with blood and rain, slippery underfoot, though the waves washed it away almost as fast as it poured out. Bodies, too, lasted only moments before the rocking ship tossed them aside.
Something caught Kjaran's attention.
"Their captain still hasn't come down from the ship," he thought as he spotted the man standing at the edge, observing him.
"I suppose he's waiting for me." The conclusion came quickly.
"Elstan!" Kjaran shouted while splitting open another pirate's skull. When he turned, Elstan was locked in combat with the pirates' vice admiral. Their swords cracked louder than the rain and the waves, echoing through the storm. In one moment, Elstan knocked the vice admiral back and glanced toward Kjaran.
Kjaran gestured toward the enemy ship. Elstan straightened up, shook the water off, and understood.
"Leave this ship to me!" roared the captain of the Second Division,smile on his face.
Kjaran turned to Hugo and spoke quickly:
"I'm going across. If I kill their captain, the victory is ours."
"Alright," Hugo replied, heading toward the deck, but Kjaran stopped him.
"I want you on that bolt launcher. Aim for their masts. Elstan will protect you."
Hugo stared at him, puzzled.
"This ship needs to fall," Kjaran said, unusually serious. "Tonight."
Hugo just nodded and ran toward the bolt launcher on the stern. The moment he grabbed the mechanism, he tried to turn it toward the enemy ship—but the rain-soaked gears moved stiffly, and Hugo had only one arm.
"For fuck's sake…" he cursed, hitting the machine, forcing it to grind and shift. The ship rocked violently, making balance all but impossible.
"Move, damn you…" he growled, pushing with all the strength he had.
It didn't take Kjaran long to leap across to the pirate vessel. He cut down at least three enemies on the way. When he finally reached the deck, only the captain remained.
Kjaran approached slowly, cautiously, each step charged with natural energy. The planks creaked beneath him. His opponent watched him with wariness, almost arrogance. He was a bit taller—definitely slower, Kjaran noted.
"Captain of the First Royal Division of Luganor, Kjaran Brin," the black-bearded man called out. Kjaran halted; his blade hummed with compressed natural energy. The pirate captain's weapon vibrated the same—steel alive with force.
"Who are you?" Kjaran asked. He liked to know the names of his opponents. He liked to know whose shadow he would take.
"I am Captain Waeskian Elamenor. Once admiral of the Royal Navy of Tolan—now captain of this pirate crew."
He began circling Kjaran with slow, deliberate steps. Kjaran mirrored him, circling the other way.
"Why would the admiral of the strongest royal navy in the world fall into pirate waters?" Kjaran asked, twirling his sword in his right hand, adjusting his grip against the heavy rain. His black hair hung in his eyes, but didn't block his view of the man's dark beard.
"There is a mistake in your sentence," the pirate replied. "Tolan's Royal Navy was the strongest while I served as admiral. I wouldn't say so anymore."
He checked his blade, switching the sabre from hand to hand, playing with the balance.
"That's not an answer to my question," Kjaran said, stopping directly across from him. The pirate stopped as well.
"Don't worry, Captain Brin. After this"—his voice deepened—"we'll have more than enough time to talk."