“Fuck!” Daimen turned back to the crew. Wulfden was sweating and his skin was slick. The bastard was fidgeting, but was far too scared to move with a blade so close to his throat.
Daimen grabbed hold of the admiral’s left arm and twisted it behind his back so that he hissed in pain. Confident that his prisoner had no chance of escape, Daimen raised his voice to a shout. “Pull in the sails and bring us to a stop. All weapons down. Any one of you fucks thinks to fight and I’ll bleed this bastard.”
A few of the sailors glanced at each other; the officers looked far from convinced. “If we surrender they’ll kill us.”
Daimen laughed. “Of course not. Tanner Black is many things, it’s true, but the man’s honourable as an ordained priest.” Daimen had to wonder if he’d ever told a bigger lie. “We surrender the ship and he’ll let ya all live. Better chance than trying to fight him. Not to mention having to explain to ya king why your admiral is missing his throat.”
“Do it!” Wulfden sputtered.
Daimen had to respect the crew for their loyalty. They quickly set about taking in the canvas and all weapons were dropped to the deck. A crew of pirates would have stormed Daimen whether he held their captain or not.
The Black Death sailed up beside them in quick order, and Daimen could see Tanner and his murderous crew waiting aboard. Grapples were quickly tossed over, and a moment later pirates swarmed onto the deck of the Man of War, Tanner first among them. They paused when they saw the sailors and soldiers of the Five Kingdoms huddled at the far end of the deck, unarmed and expecting quarter. Tanner stepped forward and eyed the cowering men, then swept his gaze up to where Daimen was standing, his sword still at the admiral’s neck.
“Uh…” Tanner started.
“We surrender,” Wulfden said as Daimen pressed the blade a little tighter.
“Wonderful,” said Tanner. “We don’t.”
“Prisoners, Tanner,” Daimen shouted.
“Ah, you know me, Poole – I don’t take any.”
There was some nervous shifting on the deck where the Five Kingdoms soldiers and sailors were cowering. They had only a few weapons close by, whereas Tanner’s crew were far forwards, weapons ready and menacing.
“You do now.”
“You don’t dictate terms to me, ya damned traitor. Especially not when I’ve taken your ship.”
“Ya only took the fucking ship because I made them surrender.”
“And we of the isles thank ya from the bottom of our hearts.” Tanner mounted the steps to the forecastle. “Still going to kill you all though.”
“Fuck me, Tanner. Would ya just take ya head out of ya arse for a drop and look at what I’m giving you? This fat bastard is Admiral Wulfden, commander of this here entire fleet. He’s the key to winning this war right now. He can give the signal to surrender. For all of them to surrender.”
“I would never…” Wulfden sputtered.
“No?” Tanner said. “I think you will.”
With a wave, Tanner summoned a couple of his crew forwards to take custody of the admiral. Tanner remained behind, his sword drawn and a dark look in his eyes as he stared at Daimen.
“Don’t see why we need you, mate,” he said with a grin.
Daimen threw Wulfden’s sabre to the deck. “I’m not the traitor, Tanner. I just did what I had to to survive. Fucking Morrass is the traitor.”
“What?”
“Bastard set this entire thing up. Organised it right from the burning of Black Sands. He’s the reason all this is happening. He sacrificed hundreds, thousands, just to sit his arse on a throne and have you lick his boots.”
“That so?” Tanner said, advancing on Daimen. “Tell me, Poole. Have ya got any proof?”
Chapter 69 - North Storm
The clash of steel on steel rang out loud as T’ruck landed a heavy blow on the gaunt soldier. Before the man could recover, T’ruck sent another overhead swipe crashing into the bastard’s sword. They weren’t even from the Five Kingdoms – these men were wearing the blue-black colours of Sarth – but T’ruck didn’t care. His blood was up and pumping rage-fuelled strength through his veins.
The man beside him, a charming veteran of the seas, went down with a sword in his gut, and T’ruck roared. He shoved his huge shield forwards, pushing the gaunt soldier backwards, and then swung at the soldier who had skewered the pirate. T’ruck couldn’t remember the pirate’s name, but it didn’t matter; the man was part of his crew, and T’ruck counted his crew as family.
A woman almost as tanned as T’ruck himself stepped forward over the groaning veteran as he died, and T’ruck treated her to a toothy grin before charging into the enemy lines.
A lucky strike opened a wound on T’ruck’s right leg, but it wasn’t serious enough to bring him down. He swung his sword first to his left, over the top of his shield, and then to his right, causing as much chaos as he could in the enemy lines while his own crew pushed forwards. Spinning around, T’ruck brought his sword upwards in a foolish slash that left him wide open. The blow caught a Sarth soldier in the face and snapped his head backwards. It was impossible to tell which killed the soldier – the gaping, bloody gash that had once been his face, or the broken neck. It didn’t really matter.
Parrying a spear thrust, T’ruck tripped over a body and stumbled. He caught himself on North Storm’s railing and realised for the first time just how close the two ships were. Loosely lashed together by some rope and grapples, the boats were only a man’s height from each other and North Storm was riding low in the water. More soldiers were waiting aboard the Man of War, and T’ruck had to admit that he was once again outnumbered.
His own crew were pushing hard against the Sarth soldiers now, trying to reclaim the deck of their ship, and T’ruck loosed a battle roar to inspire them.
A soldier crashed into T’ruck’s shield. The man was big and heavy and almost knocked him to the deck, but he steadied himself on one knee. His sword was gone, slipped from his grasp, so T’ruck reached forwards, grabbed hold of the soldier’s head, and slammed it against his shield. After three solid blows, the soldier was bloody and stunned. T’ruck pulled him around by his head and tossed the bastard overboard between the two ships. A hand locked onto T’ruck’s arm with an iron grip and tugged him half over the railing.
Dropping his shield and holding on to the railing, T’ruck struggled against the big soldier’s weight. The man’s face was bloody, and his snarling lips showed at least one broken tooth, but there was fear in his eyes.
The two ships were drifting closer, their hulls coming together. T’ruck tried to pull his arm back, but even his strength had limits.
“Let go!” he screamed at the soldier still gripping his arm.
T’ruck squeezed his eyes shut and pulled with every bit of strength he had as the two ships met. There was a brief scream and then he was free, stumbling backwards from the railing and colliding with someone, sending them both crashing to the deck.
When T’ruck opened his eyes he found himself lying atop a half-stunned soldier with a crooked nose and a dazed look in his eyes. T’ruck rolled off the man and back to his feet. He realised something was still attached to his wrist – an arm, severed at the shoulder, its fingers still locked in a death grip.
The soldier regained his knees and let out a shout as he thrust with his sword. T’ruck parried the blade with the severed arm then took the limb in both hands and swung hard. The bloody end crashed across the soldier’s face and sent him back to the deck, but T’ruck didn’t stop there. He swung again and again and again until the soldier stopped moving and the bloody limb lost its rictus grip on his wrist.