Blake stood atop the deck of the Roaring Axe, his boots planted firmly against the blood-slicked wood as he watched the three enemy ships draw ever closer. The salty wind lashed against his face, carrying with it the scent of the sea, sweat, and death.
Under normal circumstances, he would have already barked the order to turn the prow and ram them—cleaving through those sluggish rchant hulls like a hot knife through butter. A single well-placed strike would tear their wooden bellies apart, sending them and their crew to the depths before they even had the chance to board. But these weren't normal circumstances.
They had no ti.
The Roaring Axe had just finished ramming an enemy galley, its hull still scraping against the wreckage of its latest victim. The impact had drained their montum, leaving them sluggish in the water. The oarsn below deck were struggling to reset their rhythm, their exhausted strokes unable to push the massive ship into another charge so soon. Every second they remained in this vulnerable state gave the enemy an opportunity to close the distance.
Blake clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the poml of his axe
No leverage. No ti.
That left only one option.
He turned to his n, his voice a roar that cut through the chaos. "Brace for boarding! Shields up! Axes ready! Let them co!"
The warriors of the Confederation responded instantly. Shields locked together, forming a wall of iron and wood across the deck. Axes and swords glead under the sunlight, ready to carve into the flesh of any Imperial who dared set foot on their ship. The archers positioned themselves along the upper decks, nocking arrows, waiting for the perfect mont to loose death upon the enemy.
Blake exhaled slowly, watching the three ships press forward, their crews scrambling to prepare grappling hooks and boarding planks.
His eyes narrowed, watching the disciplined formations of Imperial footn standing at the ready on the decks. These were not undisciplined sailors as normally the Free n were —these were heavy infantry, n trained for brutal lee combat, the kind that turned ships into slaughterhouses.
Blake's arm shot up, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Archers! Loose!"
The air erupted with the sharp twang of bowstrings, a symphony of death as a hail of arrows streaked across the sky. They flew like a storm of vengeance, their iron tips glinting in the sunlight before plunging toward the enemy ships.
But the Imperials didn't flinch.
With a thunderous crash, their shields snapped together, forming a wall of steel and wood so tight it seed unbreakable. The arrows slamd into the barrier, their shafts quivering from the impact. Most buried themselves uselessly into the thick planks, while the few that slipped through the cracks t the cold resistance of chainmail, their lethal force dulled to re scratches.
Blake's jaw tightened
The distance between the ships was closing fast.He could see the glint of grappling hooks in the hands of the Imperial crew, the thick ropes coiled like serpents ready to strike. They were preparing to bind the ships together, to turn this battle into a bloody brawl on the decks,where they were sure they would have the better in an engagent.
"Brace yourselves!" Blake roared, his voice carrying over the din of the waves and the creak of timber. "They're coming for blood!Sate their thirst with their own!"
The crew of the Roaring Axe scrambled into position, their weapons drawn and their faces set with grim determination. The air was thick with the sll of salt and sweat, the tension so palpable it felt like the sea itself was holding its breath.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his axe as he watched the enemy ships draw closer. The Imperials were relentless, their discipline a weapon as deadly as any blade. But Blake had faced worse odds before, and he wasn't about to let them take his ship without a fight.
The first grappling hooks ca from the left, their iron claws glinting as they arced through the air. They landed with a deafening clang, biting into the wooden rails of the ship. The ropes snapped taut as the Imperial sailors heaved with all their strength, their muscles straining against the weight of the sea and the resistance of Blake's ship. The distance between the vessels began to shrink, inch by inch.
Before Blake could react, another volley of hooks flew in from the right, their ropes hissing through the air like serpents. They, too, found their mark, embedding deep into the deck and rails. The Imperials on both sides pulled in unison, their synchronized effort turning the Roaring Axe into the at of a ship-sized sandwich.
Blake's mind raced. If they allowed both sides to close in, they'd be trapped—caught between two walls of Imperial steel. His crew was tough, but they were outnumbered and out-equipped. The Imperials had discipline, armor, and training. All Blake had was grit, ingenuity, and a few tricks up his sleeve.
"Concentrate on the right!" Blake barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Cut those ropes! Leave the left to do their job for now!"
The crew moved quickly, their axes and daggers flashing as they hacked at the ropes on the right. The thick fibers resisted at first, but the blades bit deep, fraying the strands one by one. The Imperials on the right shouted in frustration as their progress stalled, the ropes snapping and whipping back toward their ship.
"Prepare the urns!" he shouted, his voice rising above the din. "And keep those blades ready! We're not done yet!"
The crew grinned, their faces lighting up with dark anticipation. They knew what was coming.
"Slls like roasted at for dinner, lads!" one sailor called out, earning a chorus of rough laughter.
Blake didn't join in the humor. His eyes were fixed on the left side, where the Imperials were still pulling, their ship inching closer with every heave. He could see their faces now—cold, determined, and utterly focused. They were coming, and they weren't stopping.
"Hold the line!" Blake roared, his voice a rallying cry. "Cut those ropes, and be ready with the oil! Let's give them a warm welco!"
The crew obeyed, their axes and daggers working furiously to sever the remaining ropes on the right.
The Imperial ship on the left lood ever closer, its prow cutting through the waves . The gleaming armor of the soldiers aboard reflected the sunlight, as they got ready and prepared to storm the ship and drown its crew in sheer numbers. They had nearly closed the gap. Just a few more monts, and they would be upon them.
Then the urns flew.
Sailors on the Roaring Axe hurled the clay vessels with practiced aim, their hardened hands ensuring they t their marks. So shattered against the ship's deck, spilling their slick, pungent contents across the wooden planks. Others struck the Imperial soldiers directly, the force of impact breaking the urns upon their bodies, drenching them in the thick, reeking oil. A mont of confusion followed—the Imperials hesitated, glancing at one another, at the strange wetness now covering their armor, their hands.
Then ca the fire.
The archers of the atop Blake's ship , stationed just behind the main deck, wasted no ti. With smooth, fluid movents, they dipped their arrows into waiting oil-drenched cloth, ignited them in small braziers, and let loose.
The first arrow struck the deck, and instantly, flas burst forth as if the ship itself had co alive in fury. The second and third embedded themselves into the oiled bodies of unfortunate soldiers.
Screams erupted.
Fire clung to armor, to flesh, to the deck below. The flas spread hungrily, licking up the oiled planks, devouring the ship's surface with terrifying speed. So of the Imperials panicked, trying to shake off the fire as it seared through their clothes and burned through leather straps, charring the skin beneath. Others ran for the lower decks, desperately scooping up barrels of drinking water to douse the flas. They splashed it across the burning wood, over their comrades—but it was too late.
More urns ca, smashing down like a rain of doom, spilling fresh oil into the growing inferno. The fire leapt, spreading to those who had just monts ago been trying to smother it.
The ship was becoming an infernal trap. Smoke coiled into the sky, black and thick, choking those who inhaled it. So Imperials, their armor cooking them alive, made the only choice left—they leapt into the sea, preferring the rciless depths over the agony of fire.
The crew erupted into laughter and jeers as they watched the Imperial soldiers scramble in panic, their once-disciplined ranks descending into chaos. Flas danced across the enemy deck, smoke rising into the sky like a funeral pyre.
"How does it feel to roast in your tin shells?!" one bellowed, slamming his axe against his shield. "You ca for a fight, and now you're the feast!"
"Jump! Jump! Maybe the fish will take pity on you!" another taunted, pointing at the desperate Imperials leaping overboard.
"Go on, drink your water! Pray it drowns the flas before it drowns you!" a sailor sneered, laughing as Imperials tossed water on the fire, only for more burning oil to spread across their decks.
"Tell those in hells we sent you! And let them know more are coming soon!" a veteran roared, his sword raised high.
The taunts mixed with the screams of the dying, the crackling of flas, and the snapping of burning wood. But the battle was far from over—as the other ships were coming, and their urns were almost finished.
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