Captain Hawkton pulled his dagger free from the Orc’s neck, stepping aside as the gurgling brute collapsed. Robyn reached up and touched his right cheek, wincing as he felt the long cut left by the tip of his enemy’s blade. His left sleeve hung in tattered shreds, blood from another cut oozing down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. He wiped his dagger off on his breeches leg before sheathing it, then kneeling down and picking up the dead Orc’s gnarled sword. It was heavier than the captain was accustomed to but it was certainly better than his now-broken cutlass. And he had no intention of leaping into the fray below armed with only a knife.
After giving the Orcish blade a few testing twirls in his right hand, Robyn looked around and surveyed the desperate situation. Most of his crew were dead, the roughly twenty men still standing were being “herded” into the center of the main deck as the pirates slowly encircled them. Among the lot Robyn spotted two of the passengers from Anvil: the flamboyant Redguard man and a figure clad in bizarre armor that he recognized as the wizened Dunmer. The damned Thalmor he had allowed aboard his ship was also topside, easy to spot in his black and gold robes. Robyn quickly reminded himself that under the circumstances at hand he should be grateful that an elite Justiciar was still standing to fight for his side. He imagined that some members of his crew and other passengers might be below deck. Those not already dead, obviously.
By now most of the exterior of the
Arslan’s Fortune was charred or burning. The fo'c'sle and bowsprit were engulfed in orange flame, as was the foremast. The small inferno where the starboard-side stairs had been was spreading across the aft deck. Arrows, crossbow bolts, and javelins lined the gunwales and taffrail, resembling pins in a spinster’s cushion. Round scorch marks from the initial attack dotted the hull and the once-pristine boards of the main deck.
If the
Arslan’s Fortune survived the night, plenty of repairs would need to be done on the galleon before it was seaworthy again.
Robyn took a deep breath and firmly grasped his new weapon. The young captain strode past the corpse of his first mate and started down the blackened portside stairs. As he descended toward the main deck he looked to the enemy sloop. Most of the pirates were aboard the merchant ship or dead, save for a few archers and spellcasters who were nestled in the rigging or taking cover on the enemy deck. A tall, dark figure - without a doubt the pirate captain - loomed near the mainmast, seemingly unbothered by the possibility of being struck by a stray arrow or fireball.
“Die!”
Robyn’s right boot had barely touched the main deck when he heard the savage shout. A wiry Redguard in tattered leather armor charged him, scimitar flashing. Robyn did not bother raising his sword to block but rather met the incoming attack head-on, his newly claimed orichalcum blade crashing into the steel with a force that nearly tore the weapon from the pirate’s hand. Robyn immediately pressed his advantage, driving the pirate back with three powerful, arcing strikes that chewed visible notches into the scimitar’s edge. The Redguard failed to recover in time to block the fourth blow. Robyn’s blade slashed across his chest, cutting clean through the brittle armor. The pirate cried out, his sword clattering to the deck as he clutched at his wound. With a hard thrust Robyn drove his blade through the man's throat, then wrenching it free just as quick. - The captain unfazed by the hot, crimson spray across his face as the dying brigand crumpled in his wake.
Robyn pushed forward across the main deck, his eyes locked on the surviving group hemmed in near the mainmast. The smell of smoke and blood was overwhelming. Robyn started to run only for a second pirate to step into his path. Another Orc, his sinewy, tattooed arms and steel breastplate streaked with blood and soot. The tusked fiend offered a snarling grin and leveled a green-tipped spear, attacking instantly. Robyn knocked the first thrust aside, the impact rattling up his arm. He ducked under a sweeping strike and answered with a slash that the Orc turned with the haft. The two traded blows in a tight, vicious rhythm, their boots skidding on blood-slicked boards with neither giving ground.
Rigging creaked overhead and a flicker of movement drew Robyn’s eyes upward after fending off a hard thrust. Enemy archers were scrambling along the lines of his ship, boots hooking knots as they strung their bows with practiced ease. Preparing to rain arrows down on the last line of defense of the
Arslan’s Fortune. For a breath the noise of the fight seemed to thin.
This is the end, isn’t it? The thought came flat and cold. Robyn pushed it aside just as quickly, shifting his grip and stepping inside the Orc’s guard. He drove forward with a flurry of close swipes of his blade. The Orc snarled and braced, spear haft spiraling about to block as the first bowstrings tightened above. Robyn raised his blade again and pressed in as the archers took aim.
Raad ducked behind a crate as a spray of white hissed over his head. Ice, thick with magic, burst against the far wall and spread outward in jagged spider-webs. Raad countered with fire, a red blaze roaring from his outstretched, calloused hands. His foe - a thin, scruffy man in a baggy shirt and breeches - ducked behind a support beam, flames ribboning around the seasoned wood. Acrid smoke drifted up against the low ceiling of the cargo hold. Feeling the familiar hollowing pull in his chest, Raad ceased his cast and drew a sharp breath. The moment the fire slackened the other man bolted from cover, running past a stack of crates stamped with distant ports and faded seals.
Raad gave chase, teeth bared, his heavy boots hammering against the floor. He rounded the crates and skidded to a stop shortly after. His foe stood cornered before a cargo cage, iron bars bolted into the hull that cradled six red barrels. Most likely some sort of exotic spices or the like, Raad thought on seeing them. The other man’s hands were raised, fingers splayed, but no spells were cast.
“Wait!” the man screamed, eyes wide and desperate.
Raad’s lip curled. Sailors, soldiers, merchant men - they all begged the same when facing the end. And Raad was always equal in his lack of mercy. A pirate never afforded much. Fire surged again, a fan of blazing death billowing from Raad’s hands straight at the horrified man. - And the barrels behind him.
The explosion tore through the Arslan’s Fortune with a deafening “boom”. Fire and pressure surged outward from the galleon’s heart, the whole ship heaving violently. Along the starboard side the hull was torn open, shards of metal and wood were cast into the sky and the sea. Captain Hawkton, his fellow defenders, and their assailants were flung from their feet. Dozens of bodies slammed down hard across the bloody topside amid scattered weapons and dismembered limbs. The archers that had taken to the rigging either fell into the sea or tumbled to their crushing demise to the decks below them.
The sloop had also felt the brunt of the explosion. The portside hull was cracked open, the seams fractured. The impact had snapped lines, loose rigging now whippping around like striking snakes as burning debris rained down in a hail of charred wood and iron fragments. As Robyn Hawkton and others that had been scattered across the deck sat upright, groaning and rubbing at their heads and bodies, everyone could hear the telltale rushing of water and the faint crackling of splintered wood.
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