Legacy's Edge

Her timbers groaning, the ship gave a violent shudder. Alaric rolled from his side, where he had landed, onto his stomach. A series of heavy crashes came in rapid succession, one after another, four in total. Feeling more than a little shaken up, he dragged himself onto his hands and knees. All around him, men were doing the same.

Caxatarus’s voice rang out, urgent and commanding. “Go, go, go! Kill them all! Kill them all!”

Understanding the attack had begun, Alaric pulled himself to his feet, though the ship beneath him was far from finished protesting. Groaning some more, she gave an ominous lurch, as if the very ocean sought to claim her and she was resisting, actively fighting against the pull of the depths. By God, he hoped she wasn’t sinking. He looked up. Ahead, the sailors—swords and axes at the ready and back in their lines—advanced steadily in the direction of the boarding planks.

“Look out!” Ezran shouted, shoving him roughly and unexpectedly aside. Stumbling, Alaric almost fell again but managed to keep his feet. Out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of something massive descending from the sky, falling fast. It landed with a powerful crash, merely two feet away, shaking the deck violently. Turning, he blinked, eyes widening in disbelief. It took a fleeting heartbeat for the realization to dawn upon him—he was looking at a mast, a colossal timber torn from the heart of the enemy’s ship.

The air was thick with the men’s voices. They were screaming—some in terror, some in pain, and others in absolute agony. Bewildered and still slightly disoriented, gathering his senses amidst the chaos and confusion around him, he took a couple heartbeats to assess his surroundings.

The boarding planks were now forcefully laid down and locked in place, bridging the gap between the two ships. Caxatarus’s assault party had already begun surging forward, their boots thudding against the wood as they worked their way across the planks and over to the enemy ship. Several dozen had made it, dropping onto the enemy’s deck. The sound of metal clashing against metal was strong on the air.

Alaric’s gaze swept over his men. He could read the fear, uncertainty, and confusion as they picked themselves up from the deck. This was not the type of fight they were used to. Realizing the critical moment had arrived, he had to take command, to get his people organized for when they must charge over the planks and board the enemy vessel.

“On your feet!” Alaric roared, turning to his men. “Back in your lines. I said, get back into your lines!”

Grayson was suddenly standing beside him, a cut bleeding freely on his chin. “Hurry up, boys. Reform! Reform into lines. There are enemy over there that need killing and those swabbies will need our help doing it. Reform.”

Battle was on the air, the sound of it intensifying with every passing moment. From the other ship, voices rose in a tumult of screams, shouts, and curses as men battled one another.

“Come on, boys,” Grayson encouraged. “Hurry up. Miks, move your ass or you will be on latrine duty until we get to Dekar. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sergeants began to work, shouting and shoving those who did not move fast enough into position. Alaric found himself well-pleased. Order was beginning to be restored.

Nearby, a couple of warriors lay silent and motionless, arrows lodged within their chests. Not counting those who had been crushed by the falling mast, mostly Bramwell’s sailors, there were a few who were down and wounded, the work of the enemy’s missile fire.

A thunk drew his attention as an arrow hammered into the deck five feet away, the shaft quivering with unspent energy.

“Get your shields up, boys! The fire coming down is hot.” Grayson’s command thundered across the deck and through the noise of clashing metal and screaming just yards away. He hoisted his shield over his head, a bastion against the incoming onslaught of arrows, which was still raining down as invisible death.

Alaric realized with a jolt of worry that his shield lay abandoned a short distance away. He had dropped it when the ship rammed the enemy vessel. His heart raced as he darted toward it, seizing the shield just as a streak of orange light hissed by perilously close, its brilliance flaring in the night like a shooting star before finding its mark in the ship’s deck. Another fire arrow shot by, leaving a streak of light in his night vision as it landed somewhere behind his company.

Alaric raised his own shield over his head for protection and surveyed the scene. His gaze fell upon the ship’s railing where, in the aftermath of the violent collision, the buckets had been upended, the water spilled uselessly over the side or across the sand-covered deck. He locked eyes with the nearest soldier.

“You!” Alaric barked. He pointed first to the man, then to the overturned buckets, and finally to the burning arrow, its pitch coating flickering with malevolent intent. The fire had yet to spread. “Grab a bucket. Use the rope to lower it into the sea. Fetch water and douse that flame before it claims us all. Quickly now!”

“Yes, my lord.” The soldier nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes as he rushed to execute the order.

“Forward.” Grayson’s voice cut through the tumult, cracking like a whip. “Press forward, my brave lads! We’re moving up behind the sailors. Soon it will be our turn to go over to the enemy. Forward now.”

Alaric wheeled around. His men had finally reformed into neat lines. With shields raised overhead for protection, they moved as one, inching toward the treacherous boarding planks, which Bramwell’s men were struggling over.

Above them and flanking both sides of their vessel, sailors, armed with bows and crossbows, unleashed a continual barrage of death. Arrows and bolts sliced through the air, a deadly rain aimed at the enemy around the planks. They were also providing cover for those in the process of crossing the makeshift bridges and those seeking to broaden their foothold on the enemy warship. Amidst this storm of missiles, others had taken up spears, hurling them at the enemy.

“Draw swords!” Grayson’s command boomed once more. “Draw swords!”

Nearly in unison, the company’s blades were yanked out. Just ahead, the last of the sailors were in the process of climbing with determined haste up and onto the boarding planks. Using their shields for cover, they moved across the narrow span between ships, each step a gamble against fate.

“What are we going to do?” Grayson roared to the men.

“FIGHT!” came the massed response, a powerful shout that for a moment drowned out the sound of fighting on the other ship.

“I want to hear it again!” Alaric shouted. “What are you going to do?”

“FIGHT!”

Alaric’s gaze went to the planks as he advanced, coming closer and closer to his turn, when he would move across and into the fight. Arrows, loosed from the enemy, found their marks with deadly precision. Men, struck by the forceful impact, were plucked from the planks as they attempted to cross and cast into the sea’s cold waters.

Then, Alaric stood at the brink of the crossing, waiting for the last two men to go. He reached for his sword, his hand wrapping around the cord grip. In that moment, for a fleeting heartbeat as he gripped his sword, the world seemed to pause, suspended in time.

Alaric’s senses heightened. Every detail around him became more real, more vivid—the metallic tang of blood on the salt air, the anxious breaths of the nearest men, the screams and cries of the wounded, the clash of swords. As the magic from the sword flowed into him, the moment was almost surreal, otherworldly.

Blood me, Oathbreaker’s voice spoke in his mind, a seductive female whisper. Slay the enemy in Eldanar’s name. Send their souls onto your god to prove you are worthy of HIS faith and love. In return, you shall be rewarded.

The blade, dormant in its demands upon him for months, now surged with a dark hunger, which Alaric felt compelled to feed. Then, reality, which had seemed to hold its breath, catapulted forward. The world around him snapped back into motion.

Alaric found himself before the plank. It was now his turn. Thorne had gone before him and was already moving across in a crouch, shield up and held ready. Jasper, bow in hand, stood off to the side. He loosed an arrow toward the enemy, then drew another and, in a smooth motion, nocked it, took aim, then released again. Alaric did not look to see where it had gone. He glanced back as he climbed up and onto the plank. Kiera and Ezran were right behind him.

With Oathbreaker’s thirst for blood echoing in his mind and drawing him forward, he took his first step. The wood underfoot shifted as Alaric advanced. It trembled uncomfortably with each step. The divide between the ships, a mere stretch in the physical realm, was a chasm that meant the difference between life and death.

With the absence of railings, the plank’s width seemed to diminish with each step. He glanced down and wished he hadn’t. Below was the visible portion of the bronze ram, now buried deep within the hull of the enemy warship. The breach it created was a gaping maw, around which the sea frothed and churned angrily.

A man screamed as an arrow took him. He fell into the gap between the two ships, where the water frothed and boiled violently. He disappeared and did not come back up.

As Alaric advanced, a chilling realization washed over him: He was willingly going onto a vessel that seemed fated for the ocean’s depths, one that was likely in the process of actively sinking. What he was attempting seemed far from sane.

Lifting his gaze, the deck of the enemy ship came into view, a mere ten feet away, yet seemingly a world apart. The deck was a maelstrom of violence. Hundreds of combatants were locked in a chaotic and swirling battle, one without any organization, mostly clustered around where the boarding planks had come down.

The enemy, in a desperate bid to repel the invaders, pressed forward with relentless ferocity, fighting like madmen, seeking to stem the tide of attackers and push them back. Alaric realized this was a critical moment. If the assault failed, they would lose.

Thorne had already reached the other side. Sword in hand, he jumped down onto the enemy vessel. Alaric steeled his resolve and continued forward, the plank beneath him swaying ominously with the ocean’s swells.

Something sliced through the air, hissing by like an angry bee. An arrow had narrowly missed. Instinctively, Alaric raised his shield in the direction he thought it might have come from. A heartbeat later, a hard thunk against the shield announced the strike of an arrow.

Then, he was over to the other ship. He jumped down, boots landing in a slick of blood that nearly betrayed his footing. The deck, tilted at a slight angle, was a scene of carnage, littered with bodies and the press of the enemy against the friendly forces attempting to take their ship. The noise of the fight was incredible, nearly overwhelming in its intensity. The sound of it clawed painfully at the ears.

No sooner had Alaric steadied himself on the blood-slick deck than he was thrust into close quarters combat. An enemy attacked him, a behemoth of a man, muscles bulging, screaming a battle cry, axe raised and in the process of slicing down.

Alaric’s instincts took over. With a sidestep, he evaded the axe’s arc. In the same fluid motion, he brought Oathbreaker to bear, driving the blade deep into the assailant’s abdomen. He could feel the blade’s insatiable hunger as a guttural groan escaped the man’s lips, his eyes widening in shock and pain as his gut was violently punctured. The grip on the axe loosened, then it was dropped, where it went clattering to the deck.

Alaric gave the sword a cruel twist, then with a forceful shove, threw his enemy back and away. The man collapsed in a heap before Alaric. The grim reality of their situation left no room for mercy, not when it was close quarters fighting. A wounded enemy was a threat that could not be ignored, a lesson long since etched into Alaric’s very being. Without a moment’s hesitation, he delivered a final, decisive thrust. Oathbreaker found its mark in the man’s neck, opening it to the bone and finishing him.

Alaric was jostled a step as another man crashed into him. An arrow had punched clean through the man’s chest, the point emerging from his back, along with a piece of curved rib bone that gleamed under the moonlight. He collapsed over the man Alaric had just finished. In the darkness, Alaric could not tell whether the man was friend or foe.

Scarcely a moment passed before another assailant challenged him, wielding a longsword. The clash was immediate and brutal; Alaric’s shield met the incoming strike, absorbing the force of it. The blow was powerful, and a jolt of pain coursed through Alaric’s hand and arm. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he used the shield to deflect the attack, forcing the sword aside and creating an opening. His counter was swift, Oathbreaker finding its mark in the attacker’s hip, sending the man staggering away. He was immediately swallowed up in the press.

There was no respite, no break. The fight was relentless, brutal, unforgiving, each enemy falling before his sword, only to be replaced by another, a never-ending tide of resistance and rage. Alaric met them all, his sword an extension of his will. He jabbed, slashed, and thrust, blocked attacks—every action driven by the primal need to survive and protect. His shield was not just a defense, but a weapon in its own right—bashing and creating openings for Oathbreaker to deliver the weapon’s judgment, one more soul collected for his god.

Lost in the tempest of violence, Alaric’s senses narrowed to the clash of steel, the opponent before him. Yet even as he became an avatar of death and holy justice, part of him remained dimly aware of his comrades-in-arms fighting around him. They were shadows at the edge of his vision, a presence felt rather than seen, each one locked in their own struggle for survival.

This was the essence of battle—a maelstrom of chaos and violence where only skill, will, personal strength, and a measure of fortune separated the living from the dead and dying. Amidst the fray, a nagging awareness crept into his mind, a suspicion that they were heavily outnumbered, a realization that hung on the periphery of his consciousness. The possibility of losing the fight was a very real one, and Alaric could feel himself beginning to tire.

Suddenly, the very world seemed to jump beneath him. The deck lurched violently, catapulting Alaric toward the ship’s railing. He collided with the unforgiving wood, his shoulder absorbing the brunt of the impact painfully. The air was pierced by the sounds of men being hurled into the sea, their splashes and screams a grim punctuation to the chaos.

Then, a few feet away, a deep cracking sound filled the air as the ship’s last standing mast succumbed and, like a felled tree, came crashing down upon the deck, crushing all in its path, then snapping like a twig, the excess falling into the sea with a splash.

What had just happened?

Having been thrown into the railing, Alaric managed to remain upright. Thankfully, Oathbreaker was still in his hand. His shoulder ached. Still, that was a concern for later. He had to focus on survival, killing the enemy before they killed him.

Instinctively, he stabbed out, dispatching an enemy who had fallen at his feet, the sword’s point finding a deadly purchase in the nape of the man’s neck. Through the grip, he felt his sword blade grate against the spine. Just feet away, another was attempting to rise and stand. Alaric kicked him in the face, his boot connecting powerfully with the jawline. There was a crunch of bone as the jaw snapped and teeth flew across the deck, along with a spray of blood.

An unexpected blow then struck him from the side; a shield, wielded with intent, sent him reeling. Stumbling over a fallen body, Alaric managed to keep his feet, just barely, as he turned to face his next foe. He went to raise his shield, only to realize with a jolt it was gone. He’d dropped it.

As this new opponent advanced, shield raised and sword ready to strike, Alaric braced for the coming exchange, settling into a combat stance while sizing his opponent up. In that fleeting moment, Ezran, a mere ghost, materialized from amidst the chaos, his dark clothing making him nearly invisible in the night. With his scimitar, steel catching the scant light with a dull flash, he delivered a ruthless strike to the attacker’s back, sending the man crashing to the deck.

The battle’s tempo changed abruptly with a series of resounding crashes that tore through the chaos. Alaric glimpsed planks falling from the other side of the ship. A fresh wave of combatants stormed forth, screaming, yelling, and jumping down onto the deck. In a moment of clarity, Alaric pieced together what had happened. One of the other vessels had maneuvered around and rammed the enemy warship, finally joining the fight and bringing badly needed reinforcement.

This unexpected maneuver shifted the tide before him. The enemy’s ranks, previously a suffocating press, now frayed at the edges as many turned and scrambled to meet this new assault. The density of foes around Alaric lightened, then fully abated, granting him a precious reprieve. Gasping for air, his lungs burning with the exertion of sustained combat, he found himself in a fleeting bubble of respite amidst the storm of steel and bloodshed as his men fought almost shoulder to shoulder before him.

Even as his chest heaved with rapid breaths, Alaric’s instincts compelled him to assess his surroundings. He was near the bridge of the ship. There were several men fighting there. Alaric recognized Bramwell, sword in hand, amongst those attempting to take the bridge from determined defenders.

But why? Having been rammed and stuck fast, this warship was going nowhere.

Alaric’s gaze swept the chaotic fighting still raging around him. With the press having eased, Alaric’s and Bramwell’s men were beginning to push the enemy back, one painful and difficult step at a time. Grayson, Ezran, and Kiera were nowhere to be seen. Only Thorne remained within arm’s reach, flanked by a handful of his soldiers, their expressions set in grim determination. All were breathing heavily from the fight and taking advantage of the moment to catch their breath. Was the enemy captain on the bridge? Was that why Bramwell was there? Alaric glanced once more in that direction and made a snap decision.

“This way,” he commanded Thorne and the others, pointing his sword toward the bridge.

A knot of enemy stood between him and Bramwell’s contingent. They were actively fighting with several of Alaric’s soldiers and trying to reach the bridge themselves.

“Make for the bridge!” he bellowed over the din. He plunged once more into the fray, leading his small band forward. Alaric picked out an opponent who was partially turned away and engaged. Catching the man unawares, Alaric brought his sword down in a powerful arc. The blade bit into his shoulder, going right to the bone. He went down, hard.

Alaric stepped over the man he’d just dropped and jabbed his sword into the side of another whose back was to him. The sailor the man had been fighting seized the moment and thrust his own blade into the man’s chest, allowing Alaric to press onward without pause.

He engaged the next enemy combatant, who spotted him. Alaric deftly exchanged a series of rapid strikes and counterstrikes, the metallic song of their swords clashing loudly on the air. With a keen eye, he spotted an opening, driving his sword into the man’s thigh. The force of the strike sent his opponent tumbling backward onto the deck, writhing in agony.

Without missing a beat, Alaric advanced, pinning the downed man’s sword arm beneath his boot and delivering a thrust to the stomach with his sword. In that moment, a blade emerged, its sharp point slicing through the air to open the man’s neck in a lethal blow. It was Thorne, fighting alongside him. Together, they moved past the fallen, the path to the bridge now clear before them.

Navigating around a lifeless defender sprawled on the staircase, Alaric ascended, taking the steps two at a time. He found an enemy waiting at the top of the stairs. An arrow hissed out of nowhere and embedded itself into the man’s chest. With a look of surprise, he took several steps back before falling to the deck, where he thrashed and convulsed violently.

Alaric had a glimpse of Jasper on Bramwell’s ship, another arrow nocked. He released and another enemy on the bridge was hit, the arrow driving deeply into his side, just above the hip. Eyes wide, this man staggered backward to the aft railing, where he fell and pitched over the side. The sound of a splash followed.

Alaric turned and was greeted by the sight of the last stand on the bridge crumbling. Two men fell in rapid succession, then a third, Bramwell delivering a killing blow. Only one man remained. Bramwell and his contingent of six sailors moved and stood in a tense semicircle, their focus converging on a solitary figure who confronted them with sword in hand.

Despite the odds, the man’s posture radiated defiance and a calm determination that belied his precarious situation. Blood seeped through the fabric of his trousers, staining it dark around a visible wound in his thigh, an ugly gash several inches long. Yet, even injured, he retreated only a single step, his gaze unflinching as he assessed his enemies.

The man’s appearance was striking. He was tall and built with the unmistakable strength of a seasoned fighter, his muscles taut beneath his well-tailored attire. His clothing, though marred by the fray, hinted at a status beyond that of an ordinary sailor, suggesting a man of significant standing and means, perhaps even nobility or scholarly distinction. There was an educated air about him, an aura of intellect and poise that contrasted sharply with the raw brutality of their surroundings, the ugliness of the fight. At the same time, there was also a hardness to him that reminded Alaric of Bramwell. In a way, the two men were eerily similar.

“It’s over, Fina,” Bramwell said, shaking his bloodied sword at the other man. “Your days raiding this coastline are finished, done.”

The enemy captain spoke common with a thick accent, his voice laced with a profound and unmistakable bitterness, “All those years ago, I should have killed you when I had the chance. But, alas, an educated man is worth more than a dead one, and I was paid well.”

Eyes narrowing, Bramwell tilted his head slightly to the side. “You should never have sold me into slavery. That was your first and, in a way, ultimate mistake.”

Alaric glanced sharply at Bramwell. He had not known that his friend had ever been a captive of this man, let alone a slave of the enemy. That, he decided, explained a lot, especially Bramwell’s hatred for the other side.

Fina’s gaze was locked onto Bramwell with a mixture of regret and resolve. The battle continued unabated behind them. The clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the roar of determined fighters created a backdrop of chaos against where this personal confrontation unfolded. The enemy captain’s gaze, sharp and calculating, darted across the expanse of the bridge, assessing each of his adversaries as he edged backward a step toward the protective railing. Beyond that, there was nowhere else to go, save the sea.

The severity of his injury was unmistakable. The wound in his thigh bled profusely, a dark, steady stream that was rapidly painting his leg crimson and pooling on the wooden deck beneath him. The grim realization that an artery had been compromised was evident in the volume lost, a predicament that left him pallid and strained.

Despite the acute physical pain that surely racked his body, Fina’s grimace bore the mark of a deeper, more intangible agony. “Like my ship, I am already done. My time upon this world is at an end, just as one day yours will be.”

“For me, that day is not today, nor anytime soon either.”

“I suppose not,” Fina said with a heavy breath that was almost a pant. He grimaced in sudden pain.

“I will celebrate your death tonight—with a drink.”

“Will you make it quick, old friend?”

“Old friend?” Bramwell’s features contorted into a visage of distaste, as if he’d bitten into a fruit long since spoiled. The words that escaped him came with a venom that curdled the very air between them, his tone laden with the weight of wounds clearly unhealed by time. “I should make you suffer to the very last for all you’ve done to me, torture you as you have done to so many others.”

“You should thank me,” Fina said, waving a dismissive hand at Bramwell, “old friend.”

“Old friend? Thank you?” Bramwell was incredulous. “You want me to thank you?”

“I made you into what you are today. You cannot deny that. I would be disappointed if you tried.”

Bramwell froze, his gaze locked onto the other captain. After a moment, he gave a slow nod. “No, you are correct. I cannot deny it. Hatred tends to motivate one.”

“Well, then, one captain to another—we’ve hunted each other for years, played a game of cat and mouse. You and I were the top predators in these waters. You know me as well as I you, and you’ve finally won the game,” Fina said heavily, his words becoming hoarse. “Make my death a quick one—for the debt you owe me. I do not wish to bleed out, like a prize bull sacrificed to my gods.”

Bramwell’s features, initially etched with the bitterness of past grievances, softened as he absorbed the gravity of Fina’s request. With a slow nod that carried the weight of finality, he conceded. “All right. I will make your end a quick one. I suppose you’ve earned that much.”

Fina released a long breath that was filled with resignation and relinquished his grip on his sword, tossing it forward, where it clattered against the deck. Slowly, as if with great weariness and exhaustion, he collapsed to his knees, his body heavy with the toll of his wound.

Under the soft luminescence of the moonlight, his complexion had taken on a ghostly pallor, signaling the proximity of death’s embrace. The proud sailor and captain of his own ship, once formidable in strength and spirit, now appeared diminished, his vitality ebbing away before the eyes of his enemies as the lifeblood fled his body.

With his sword poised, Bramwell closed the distance between himself and Fina. As he stood before the kneeling figure, blocking the moonlight, his shadow loomed over the defeated man. Looking down upon Fina, his enemy, a complex tapestry of emotions played across his features—what appeared to be regret, sorrow, and an unspoken acknowledgment of the inevitable conclusion to their shared saga.

“You should know, I have prisoners below decks,” Fina said, his voice growing weak, almost a whisper. He cleared his throat with some effort, the sound gurgling. “Amongst them—is a lumina.”

“A lumina?” Alaric found himself surprised. He took a step forward. “You have a lumina? Surely you cannot be serious.”

Bramwell glanced back at him and appeared just as shocked, for he blinked several times.

Fina shifted his pained gaze to Alaric before returning to Bramwell. “I took her a few weeks back from a transport. She was the only person of value aboard. Though my crew wanted otherwise, she has been cared for and not harmed. I give you my word on that. I know such a person, though cursed amongst my own, is valuable to your people.”

“You were going to take her back to your dark priests?” Bramwell said. It was more a statement than a question.

“I would have been rewarded for such a catch, taking one of the last of her kind.” Fina’s eyes closed as he swayed upon his knees. He was losing his strength. He opened them, blinking rapidly, his breaths starting to become quick and shallow.

“I imagine so,” Bramwell said.

“It was not meant to be.” Fina’s tone hardened as he gazed up at Bramwell. “Now, finish it. Send me on to my gods where I can rest for eternity in the knowledge that I lived a good life and served well.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” Bramwell said with a shake of his head as he stood solemnly over Fina, his sword poised to strike.

“What?” Fina asked. “What… do… you mean?”

“I am claiming your soul for my god. There will be no rest for you.” Bramwell raised his sword. “Eldanar, accept this humble sacrifice, one I make in your name. Take this infidel’s soul as your own and purify it with holy fire.”

Fina, caught in the grip of his inevitable fate, reacted with a flash of shock mixed with surprise and disbelief. The look turned to one of heat and anger. He opened his mouth to speak. Fina’s attempt to voice a final plea or protest was cut short, as Bramwell, with a swift and unerring slash, delivered the finishing strike. His blade moved with lethal precision, slicing through the air to sever the tenuous thread of Fina’s life with a swift, clean cut to the neck.

As the neck opened, a shock of dark, viscous blood spilled forth, pouring down and staining Fina’s chest and the deck with its macabre hue. For a moment, the ship captain’s mouth worked as if he were trying to speak. He began to choke upon his own blood. It was a feeble sound. As the light faded from his eyes, they rolled back into his head. A moment later, Fina collapsed onto his side. The twitching of his limbs marked the last, desperate signs of life’s departure.

A surreal calm enveloped the bridge, creating a stillness that was very different from the ongoing tumult of battle mere yards away. Then Bramwell raised his sword and, with a powerful grunt and effort, chopped down onto the side of Fina’s neck, almost completely severing it. He chopped down a second time and the neck came free from the body. Then Bramwell stooped and picked the head up by the hair. He went to the railing by the stairs and held up the head for all to see.

“Fina is dead! Your captain is dead!” Bramwell shouted in common at the top of his lungs. Then he switched to the Caston tongue and repeated it, shouting even louder as he gave the head a violent shake. For a moment, the fighting across the deck of the warship slackened as multiple heads turned his way. An audible groan went through the enemy, even as their own men gave up a mighty cheer.

Bramwell shook the head once more, then lowered it and turned away. He glanced down at the prize in his hands. Fina’s eyes were open and staring sightlessly outward. Alaric was surprised to see tears in Bramwell’s.

“Fina is dead,” Bramwell whispered, more to himself than anyone else. He dropped the head, where it thunked hollowly onto the deck and rolled a few feet from him. “At long last, my oath of vengeance is fulfilled, my honor redeemed.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “It is over.”

Though the fighting continued throughout the ship, upon the bridge there was a hush, thick with finality and the weight of what had transpired. It was abruptly pierced by the sound of several nearby splashes. Alaric turned his attention toward the source of the disturbance and moved to the railing, looking over the side. A number of men had jumped overboard. His eyes widened as he observed more of the enemy, in a state of clear desperation, casting themselves into the sea’s embrace.

The sight of these men fleeing into the watery depths, in a bid for survival by swimming to shore, was an indicator of the shifting tide of the fight. Though the air was still filled with the clamor of combat, the frenetic energy of the battle taking place a short distance away seemed to diminish a tad. With their captain’s death, the enemy were visibly fracturing, their collective resolve crumbling under the weight of impending defeat, which was becoming clearer by the moment.

Then what Fina had told them registered with Alaric. He turned to Bramwell. “The lumina, we must find her.”

“We cannot allow her to perish on this ship if it goes down prematurely,” Thorne said with fervor. “She must be saved.”

With tears still in his eyes, unabashed by them, Bramwell gave a nod. “As a high-value prisoner, she’s likely being kept near the captain’s cabin and close at hand.” Bramwell gestured toward a set of stairs with his sword, leading downward into the innards of the ship. “You go for her. I will bring order to this struggle and end the fighting on deck.”

“Got it,” Alaric said and looked at those of his men who had followed him to the bridge. There were only four of them now. “Thorne and I will go for the lumina. You men, go with Captain Bramwell and do what you can to help.”

“Yes, my lord,” one of the men, a corporal, said.

Bramwell caught Alaric’s arm as he started to turn away. Alaric looked back at his friend in question. “Watch yourself down there. A few always choose to hide rather than fight with the rest. They are the most dangerous, for they are desperate beyond measure. I have lost more than a few good men to such cowardly bastards.”

As Bramwell released his arm. Alaric shared a look with Thorne, then moved for the stairs. It was time to find the lumina.