Valor and Violence

“Lord Cael, chief among gods, hear the plea of this faithful servant,” Calris Telruson intoned, hands clasped before his face. He opened one eye and cautiously surveyed the empty ocean surrounding him.

Nothing.

“Lord Telrus, Earth Father, hear the cry of the earthborn bearing your name,” he tried again, eyes screwed shut against the sun’s glare. “Gods on high, please, I implore you. Spare me from this misery!”

Still nothing as far as the eye could see.

“Gods be damned then!” he shouted to the wind, raging that his prayers requesting a pirate ship or sea monster or something continued to go unanswered.

The gods never come through when you really need them.

Calris harrumphed and leant against the rim of the crow’s nest basket, resting his chin in his hands as he stared over the waves. The sea was completely empty except for the merchant vessel they were escorting, a small trader called The Jolly Rambler. Usually, a soft target like that would be irresistible for pirates and raiders, but the Calandorian Royal Navy vessel, The Crimson Tide, had evidently scared off any prospective looters.

He supposed it wouldn’t be worth the trouble for a pirate anyway, as best he could figure the ship had only taken a lone crate aboard back in Marduk. The thing could have been full to the brim with gold and precious jewels, and it still wouldn’t be worth tangling with a ship this formidable. That fact didn’t lessen his disappointment, though.

Lookout wouldn’t have been so bad if he had his best friend with him for company, but Ban’s punishment for the brawl was peeling potatoes in the galley, as far from the crow’s nest as one could get. And so here Calris was, at the crack of dawn, fighting off sleep and bored shitless.

Thinking back to the fight that landed him on piquet, Calris idly inspected the scabbed over cuts on the back of his knuckles. They were nearly healed already, the inner part of the scab a dark red, almost black, while the outer edges had turned white as they separated from the new skin underneath. The scab extended over not only the first two knuckles, where a punch should connect, but the third and fourth as well. It was luck that Gaelon’s nose had shattered and not his hand.

Still, all’s well that ends well.

Gaelon had paid for being such a dick. That was all that mattered. Feeling a bit better at the memory, Calris straightened up, scratched his arse, and did a slow turn, taking in the empty horizon around him. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, the old scar over his left resisting the motion, but stiffened when he noticed something in the distance. Something that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

It was too far away to make out much detail, but the uniformity of the shape meant it sure wasn’t natural. He looked towards the deck, searching for the watchkeeper on duty, and spotted Sergeant Olic, his squad leader, standing at the helm and puffing away on his first cigarette of the day. The sergeant was already glaring in the mystery object’s direction as though sensing it, his perpetual scowl deeper than usual.

“Sarge!” Calris shouted over the wind. “Unidentified object, suspect a vessel, southeast, five miles!”

“Aye marine! Keep an eye on it!” Olic replied, grabbing a passing sailor by the scruff of the neck. “Go wake the captain. And raise the bells!”

The sailor yelped and scurried off, the warning peals ringing over the waves shortly thereafter, followed in turn by the shouts of marines and sailors preparing for battle.

Calris swung his gaze from the flurry of activity below and refocussed on the horizon. Narrowing his eyes against the morning glare, he watched as the shape grew larger and split into three. By time he made out the stark triangular outline of the black sails, he already knew what he was looking at.

Guess someone was listening to my prayers after all.

Grinning, he leant over the edge of the basket and shouted a warning to the crew below.

“Three Emrinthian raiders bearing down! Southeast, one and a half miles!”

The announcement renewed the frenetic activity amongst the crew; the sails were furled, and the oars deployed, the oiled sinew ropes for the ballistae were unwrapped and spanned while marines streamed up from below deck dressed for battle. Calris hoisted himself over the lip of the crow’s nest as a cabin boy came to relieve him.

“Have fun watching the battle lad, but keep your head down, alright?”

“Aye, boss!” the young boy chirped, a broad smile on his grimy face and sling clutched tight in his hand as Calris climbed past him.

“Happy hunting!” he said, nodding to the sling. The boy gave the leather strap a few practice swings.

“I reckon I’ll get more hits in than you today.”

“Well, keep count. If you beat me, I’ll give you my rum ration for the day,” he said with a wink.

“Aye!”

Calris tousled the boy’s hair, then started down the mast. His descent was swift, the muscle memory from many long nights on watch allowing him to climb by feel instead of sight, and in moments his boots hit the deck by the porthole. Calris’ grin broadened as he turned to find a familiar face staring back at him from the top of the ladder.

The face was typical of northern Calandorians; wide, flat, and with hard angles to the jawline that made it look almost square. Some, Calris included, would probably call the face ugly, but Ban Ironkin was never starved for company when they made port. Calris stood aside as his friend hauled his considerable bulk up with neither difficulty nor a modicum of grace. It was surprising to see him on deck and geared for battle so soon, but here he was, his distinctive battle axes strapped across his back.

“That was awfully quick, Ban. How d’you get from the kitchen to the bunks so fast?”

“Well, peeling spuds is hard work, Cal. Especially given how much the pigs on this tub put away. So, me and the galley maid thought we’d take a quick break.”

“Gods Ban, you’re unbelievable. The galley is where they prep our food, you animal! And that doesn’t explain how you got here so fast.”

“… We may have taken the break in our quarters.”

That motherfucker…

“You didn’t…” Calris said, his face going slack.

“I did. You might want to avoid the ablutions bench until I’ve given it a clean-hey!” Ban jumped back as Calris lunged for him.

“God’s you’re shit!” Calris growled while trying, and failing, not to laugh.

“You’re just jealous because I have more luck with the women,” Ban replied. ‘But your day will come soon, my son, don’t worry,’ he said, giving Calris a condescending pat on the shoulder as he barged past.

“You’re such a wanker,” Calris replied, swinging himself down onto the ladder. “It never ceases to amaze me, though. You must hide the most amazing personality somewhere ‘cause I’ve seen donkeys with prettier mugs than yours.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen some pretty fine donkeys in my time.”

“Fuck me mate, we haven’t been at sea for that long,” Calris said, shaking his head. “By the way, you heard what’s coming?”

“Na, just the alarm. What have we got?”

“Three Emrinthian raiders, about a mile away.”

Ban’s eyebrows rose in tandem with his grin.

“Well shit, and here I thought this trip was going to be boring!”

“You’ll be fine mate, I’ll keep you safe, if only to throttle you myself when it’s done!”

Ban chuckled and nudged Calris down the ladder with his boot.

“Big words from a little guy. Better hurry up or I’ll have dealt with all the raiders before you’re done.”

“And would that be so bad?”

“It would. You’d have nothing to boast about when we reach Salazaar! What, with all its exotic serving maids and fine donkeys!”

Ban jogged to where the rest of their squad, the Sixth, manned the deck guard, chuckling at his wit the whole way.

“Bloody unbelievable,” Calris muttered, though he couldn’t help but smile as he climbed to the bottom of the ladder and made his way to his quarters, passing a blushing, half-naked galley maid on the way.

He threw his armour on over the clothes he was already wearing. It was light compared to that worn by most soldiers, made from rigid leather with thick steel ‘spines’ running lengthwise along the forearm guards and greaves, and small studs covering the jerkin. Anything heavier inhibited free movement on the rocking ships, and would lead to a nasty death by drowning if the marine went overboard. The only solid piece of metal worn was the skullcap and cheek guards to protect the head and face.

All in all, the outfit looked ugly as a Skjar Ice Pig, but there weren’t any prizes for fashion in battle.

Except amongst the Aderathians. The way their officers pranced about with their plumes, maybe they did, in fact, have prizes for that sort of thing?

Calris shrugged his shoulders at the thought, gathered up his sword and javelins, and climbed back above deck to join his squad. Sergeant Olic spared him a brief glance as he arrived, before turning back to the raider ships.

“Took your time, Corporal.”

“I’m here for the important bit, aren’t I?”

“There’s more to battle than fighting, boy,” Olic replied around his cigarette. The pungent smoke filled the air, refusing to dissipate in the chilly morning air.

“You’ve lost me there, Sarge,” Calris replied, coughing and swatting at the haze with his hand.

The sergeant shook his head and growled. “By the grace of the gods, you’ll understand one day. I just wish I didn’t have to be the instrument of their will.”

Calris shrugged, after quickly checking he was still out of the sergeant’s line of sight, of course, and turned his attention to the approaching ships. They were only a few hundred yards away now, close enough that he could make out the individual raiders in their distinctive gear.

Emrinthian raiders were as different from Calandorian marines as dogs and cats. Whereas the Calandorian equipment was rugged, simple and ugly, much like many of the marines themselves, the Emrinthian raiders looked almost regal in their armour.

They wore a scale hauberk of shining bronze that afforded superior protection from arrows and sword strokes while still being lightweight. Under this was a loose fitting, brilliant white tunic and trousers with sandals on their feet. Their conical helmets were made of the same bronze as their hauberks and provided solid protection from overhead blows, but offered no protection to their faces, which Calris had always thought was a pretty severe oversight. Each raider also carried a tulwar for slashing at close range, and a short, but powerful, recurve bow.

Their ships continued the trend of light, nimble and pretty. Whereas the Calandorian warships were solid, cumbersome, and damn near impossible to sink, the Emrinthian raiding ships were sleek and fast. The favoured tactic of the raiders was to run rings around their prey, peppering them with arrows before boarding and overwhelming the decimated crews.

But a Calandorian warship was no merchant vessel. Heavy ballistae wrecked any vessel they struck, and tall deck guards provided cover from the raider’s arrows. It was unusual for raiders to try their luck like this, even with a three to one advantage, but Calris wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As the raiders closed on The Tide, oars rising and falling to a steady rhythm, Calris heard Captain Erwell order the ballista crews to fire. Standard doctrine was to focus fire on a single ship at a time to ensure even if one or two bolts missed, the others would still hit the target and achieve something. As it turned out, the ballistae crews were having a good day, and all five bolts from the broadside found their mark.

The missiles ploughed clean through the thin decking, gutting the lightly built vessel, with at least one of them tearing a jagged hole in the ship’s flank that extended below the waterline. More dramatic than the bolts’ impact on the ship, however, was their impact on the crew.

The powerful missiles tore men asunder, while others were crushed under the mast as a lucky shot split it at the base. More than a few were knocked clean out of the vessel and into the turbulent waves, their armour dragging them under.

The marines around Calris cheered as the stricken vessel listed to the side and crashed into a flanking ship, snapping oars and splintering hulls before disappearing below the waves. Emrinthians were famous for their discipline, however, and the two remaining ships stayed the course, the undamaged vessel rapidly outpacing its partner. Calris laughed as it drew near and the raiders formed up on the deck, unslinging bows and preparing grappling hooks.

“The fools are still going to board us!” Calris shouted as he clapped Ban on the back, then winced as Olic told him to shut up. “Sorry, Sarge.”

“You know, Cal,” Ban said, checking his axes one last time, “sometimes your enthusiasm scares the shit out of me.”

“You should try being more positive. If you love what you do, you never have to work a day in your life, right?”

“Yeah? Well, maybe love it from behind the deck guard,” he replied, dragging Calris behind cover as black fletched arrows thudded into the decking around them.

Calris counted down the volleys in his head; he knew from previous battles that the Emrinthians would loose four volleys to keep the ballistae from firing, saving their fifth arrow for point blank once they had set the grappling hooks and boards. It was a reasonably effective tactic, one that had worked well for the raiders in the past, but that was about to change.

Once the fourth volley struck, Calris rose from behind the barricade, javelin in hand. The Emrinthians were close now, close enough to identify the bright red tassels on their commander’s helmets. One of them barked orders to his squad, back turned to Calris.

He thinks he’s at a safe distance.

Calris smiled and brought back his arm, the tip of the javelin quivering ever so slightly in the corner of his eye.

He is so wrong.

The officer never saw his death coming.

Raiders pulled back in alarm as the javelin punched clean through their commander’s hauberk, pulling him forward off his feet and pinning him to the deck. The officer pawed weakly at the shaft as he slid down it. He was dead before his body hit the floor.

None of the others had expected a javelin this far from the Calandorian ship, and panic was clear on their faces as they raced about the deck. The remaining commanders shouted and jostled their men to restore order, but by the time they reformed ranks and nocked arrows, a second javelin found its mark, quickly followed by a third, and then many more as the ship came within range of the other marines.

Crimson spattered the deck, heavy shafts of wood and steel wreaking havoc on light Emrinthian scale. To their credit, the raiders kept coming; the throwers hurling their hooks to latch The Tide and draw them alongside for boarding. One such hook planted onto the railing directly in front of Calris and Ban, the rope groaning as the throwers took up the tension.

Olic boomed beside him. “Right Mongrels, here we go! Let them aboard a few paces so we can surround them but keep the spacing tight. Don’t want to give them any gaps. It’s time to earn your pay, boys and girls!”

Calris gave Ban a final nod of encouragement as they prepared to face the enemy. While most of the other marines had launched both their javelins already, Calris still had his second in hand, anticipation and nervous energy flooding his body.

Olic had told him to let them aboard, but he didn’t say right away.

The first raider charged across, a heroic war cry tearing clear of his throat. Said war cry was cut short as Calris lunged, letting the javelin slide through his grip and into the man’s throat. Regaining his hold, Calris ripped it free and spun, delivering a heavy blow to the side of another’s head that sent him off the plank, before hurling it through the hauberk of a third. Calris drew his sword and roared a challenge at the remaining raiders as all three bodies hit the water in quick succession.

Olic’s giant hand latched onto his shoulder. He had just enough time to snicker in the faces of the charging raiders before the sergeant hauled him back from the plank and into line. Sarge would take that out of his hide later, but it was worth it. He had a target painted on his forehead now.

The first raider to leap off the plank charged straight for Calris, leading with an impressive flurry of blows that ended when Calris caught the tulwar with his cross guard and drove a knee into the man’s gut. As the raider folded from the force of the blow, Calris removed the man’s head from his shoulders with a savage slash and shot a glance at Ban, hoping his friend had seen his prowess.

Ban was oblivious, though, absorbed in his own battle and sporting a wide grin of his own as he sank his axe into his opponent’s gut, grasped him by the throat and hurled him over the railing. Laughing, Calris threw himself back into the fray as the twin scents of blood and sweat rose around them. It was intoxicating.

The raiders had gained some ground in their initial charge, but the Sixth were the finest fighters in the company and quickly pushed the raiders back to the boarding plank, cutting them down in droves as they did so.

Calris was at the forefront of the charge, little more than a blur in the hapless raiders’ vision as he cut them down, piercing hearts with a thrust of his blade, or cleaving them open with mighty blows. As the final raider breathed his last, lifeblood pouring onto the Tide’s deck, Calris kicked the boarding plank into the ocean. Breathing hard, adrenaline burning through his veins like fire, he turned, seeking his next fight.

The Emrinthians were in trouble. Despite some initial success making headway onto the Tide, they had already been pushed back to a smattering of footholds while small holdout groups struggled to survive scattered about the deck. As he watched, the Third squad swarmed one of these groups, the veteran marines working in pairs and taking the raiders apart in seconds. Despite scenes like this being repeated all over the ship, however, the raiders kept battling.

Calris frowned, sensing something amiss. He spun, searching the waves for the third vessel. Sure enough, he spotted it limping towards The Jolly Rambler. The merchant vessel had spotted the threat and was desperately turning, trying to flee, but the bloody thing was even slower than a warship.

“Sarge! The bastards are making for the Rambler!”

Olic had already taken off and pitched into another battle, but he turned to look over his shoulder as he drew his blade across a raider’s throat, dropping the gurgling mess to the deck.

“Aye, I see it. Go find the captain and let him know. With me, Mongrels! Clear a path to the ballista!”

The Sixth took off with a shout, ploughing through a group of raiders between them and the nearest ballista as Calris waded into the press of bodies looking for the captain.

He found him in the thick of the battle to retake the largest foothold. While the surrounding warriors struggled and swore, the captain looked calm, almost bored, as he duelled an Emrinthian officer. As Calris watched, he parried a heavy blow, driving the tulwar to the deck and pulling his opponent off balance. As the raider fell, the captain reversed his stroke up and through the raider’s neck, neatly separating his head from his body. It looked effortless.

Damn, that sword must be sharp.

Erwell wiped his blade clean on the body before looking about the battle, finding Calris waving frantically at him. He followed Calris’ gesture and saw the raider ship. Scowling, he turned on his heel and marched to the nearest hold opening, shouted something into the hatch, then strode to the helmsman as the ship lurched, picking up pace. Calris turned back to the raider ship as the Tide tore free of the boarding vessel, the ballistae crews giving it a parting gift and sending it to the deep.

The remaining ship’s mast was down, likely thanks to the Sixth, and with half of its oars broken and splintered, it was helpless to flee. With a tremendous crack and the sound of splintering timber, the lightly built raiding vessel was rent in two by the Calandorian warship, sinking beneath the waves as a roar went up from the victorious marines. Realising the battle was lost, the surviving raiders threw down their arms and surrendered, sorrow and resignation etched on their faces.

Calris savoured the moment; heartbeat pounding in his ears, chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths, as he stood among the bodies of his enemies. Gods, he felt alive.

I love being a marine.