Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The night was cloaked in pitch-black darkness, a veil so thick it felt as though the world itself had been swallowed by the void. Blake stood on the deck of the Roaring Axe, his hands resting on the cold railing as he stared out into the abyss.

He had always despised the dark; the inability to see what lay ahead filled him was nerve-wrecking.

Yet, tonight, that very darkness was an ally, as after all being unable to see ahead worked on both sides.

The Roaring Axe was the lead ship, cutting through the blackened waves like a predator stalking its prey. Behind it, ten other vessels sailed in tight formation, their sails catching the faint breeze. Blake’s gaze shifted to the merchant vessels among them—awkward, slow-moving hulks of wood and cargo. They were a far cry from the sleek warships he was accustomed to commanding, but they had their purpose. Their size and weight, combined with the element of surprise and the wind in their favour, would allow them enough speed to breach the enemy ships

For an entire week, Blake and his crew had waited, testing the wind, scanning the skies, and measuring the currents.

Without the wind blowing in their favor, the ships wouldn’t achieve the speed needed to execute the plan. Ramming an enemy vessel required momentum—a crushing force that merchant ships simply couldn’t muster under their own sluggish power.

Each of Blake’s ships had been meticulously prepared for this mission, their decks loaded with flammable materials. Bundles of dried wood and bales of hay were packed tightly against the rails, while barrels brimming with fish oil were secured in the holds.

The fishing fleets had scoured the seas tirelessly for the latter , their hauls processed and rendered until they had enough of the viscous, flammable liquid to coat the decks and ensure that the ships took up flame as soon as even a spark got close

Now, after weeks of painstaking preparation, the time had come.

The ships sailed ahead.

Their course was set for the unsuspecting enemy fleet, which lay anchored off Harmway, oblivious to the threat creeping toward them under the shroud of night.

The journey, however, was far from direct. The waters surrounding Harmway were heavily patrolled by enemy ships. These vigilant sentinels scoured the seas for any sign of approaching vessels, though they were mostly lax.

They were looking for an enemy fleet, that could be easily seen from the light of the torches from the distance.

In the pitch-black darkness of this moonless night, it was unthinkable that a fleet would risk moving. The dangers were too great: ships might drift apart from their formation, their captains unable to navigate without sight, or worse, they could collide in the choppy waters. The sea was far from calm, its restless waves a challenge even for seasoned sailors.

Of course such a problem would have happened in this case too, still Blake had taken precautions against it.

He had ordered the ships in his fleet to be tethered together by long, sturdy ropes—each thirty meters in length. This ensured that no vessel would drift too far from the main group, maintaining cohesion even in the black void of the night sea. Such a strategy, however, was only feasible with a small detachment of ships. With a full fleet of seventy or eighty vessels, the risk of collisions and entanglements in the chaos of darkness would have been far too great.

Meanwhile as the ships sailed the seas, down onto the cabin the old hag was doing whatever she was, eitheri praying or sacrificing animals, Blake did not know nor care as long as it worked.

She had insisted on performing her rituals under the open sky, claiming that it would be a disrespect not to be in the open when asking Their god’s a favor.

She had promised him that the ships would catch a flame ”hotter than the sun itself.” Of course Blake, ever pragmatic, had ordered her confined to the cabin. The crew needed their wits about them, and the last thing he needed was for their morale to worsen under the sight of dark magic on display.

The crew knew, of course, who traveled among them. Whispers of the witch had circulated since her first boarding, but so long as her rituals remained hidden from sight, the men were content to turn a blind eye. Superstition ran deep among sailors, and Blake had no intention of allowing it to fester.

He also had a more practical deterrent: discipline, enforced with ruthless efficiency, he was lax at times but he certainly had his ways for those that went against him .

The crew understood the consequences of disobedience aboard the Roaring Axe. Among the punishments available to Blake, none was more feared than keelhauling. The mere mention of it silenced dissent. The grisly method—dragging a man beneath the ship’s keel, his body torn apart by barnacles and jagged wood, over and over again until death came from either shock or drowning—was enough to make even the boldest sailor think twice about mutiny, even in the face of certain death caused by obeying them .

As Blake stood on the deck, the faint sounds of the hag’s words filtered up through the planks beneath his feet.

”Better her down there than scaring the men up here,” Blake muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the horizon. He trusted in discipline and fear to keep order aboard his ship, but even the most hardened sailors had their limits.

The old bitch can have her flames.

He just hoped they’d burn the enemy and not his own fleet.

As the night stretched on, faint glimmers began to dot the horizon, growing brighter with each passing moment. The lights of the city came into view—pinpricks of firelight from torches and lanterns that lined the streets and walls, their warm glow stark against the pitch-black sea. Blake leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the distant specks.

”That’s it,” Blake muttered under his breath, gripping the edge of the rail. ”We’re close.”

He had no time to dwell on distractions. His eyes remained fixed ahead, scanning for any sign of enemy ships or patrols.

Under his command, the fleet adjusted course, angling northward. They moved carefully, hugging the coastline where shadows from the cliffs and dense vegetation offered a degree of concealment. The plan demanded stealth, and every man aboard knew the importance of silence. Torches had been extinguished long before, leaving only the faint glow of starlight to guide their way.

He knew that the enemy’s camp and anchoring ground lay further north, on a stretch of coast with a natural harbor—a suitable location for a fleet of their size to gather and prepare. It wasn’t hard to imagine their ships resting there, lined up like sitting ducks.

----------------

Darron stood on the deck of his ship, his hands gripping the worn wood of the rail as he stared into the darkness ahead. The faint glow of the enemy camp had just begun to creep into view on the horizon. He could feel the tension in the air, a heavy weight that seemed to press down on every man aboard. Though he wore the insignia of a captain, his heart wasn’t in this mission.

He hadn’t wanted to be here. The plan felt reckless, even suicidal. But refusing the opportunity to command one of the ships would have been disastrous for his reputation. He’d been raised to captain just months ago, a coveted position that others had spent years, even decades, striving to attain. To turn down such an assignment would have marked him as a coward and undone everything he’d worked for.

So here he was, standing on the deck of a ship destined for destruction, pretending to exude a confidence he did not ahve as his crew moved with their usual efficency around him.

”Keep the course steady,” he called out, his voice steady despite the unease roiling inside him.

”Aye, captain,” one of the men replied, adjusting the sails to catch the faint breeze that pushed them forward.

The crew worked in near silence, each man aware of the stakes.Some adjusted the ropes tethering their ship to the others, ensuring the formation held. Others kept watch, their eyes scanning the coastline for any sign of trouble.

Darron’s gaze turned to the horizon once more, where the lights of the enemy camp grew brighter. The campfires dotted the shoreline like scattered stars, flickering against the backdrop of darkness. Their prize was there, just a few hundred meters off the coast—enemy ships floating lazily on the water, their silhouettes illuminated by the distant glow.

It was almost surreal, the sight of those ships so close and yet so far. They were the culmination of weeks of preparation, of long nights and risky maneuvers.

Darron’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. The glow of the enemy camp was brighter now, the flickering lights reflecting faintly on the water. He steeled himself, then dropped his hand decisively.

We are close...

”Cut the ropes,” he ordered, his voice with a raspy tone that surprised even him, carrying however just enough weight to command immediate action.

A crewman near the bow moved swiftly, unsheathing a dagger. With a single, clean slash, the tether that bound their ship to the others was severed. The ship was on its own now, gliding forward in silence toward its final destination. The sound of the rope snapping was like a signal in the still night, and the other ships in their small fleet began to follow suit, one by one.

”Spill the oil,” Darron barked as the crew sprang into action.

Men carried barrels of fish oil from the hold, the containers sloshing with their volatile contents. Others heaved bundles of hay onto the deck, stacking them in mounds already slick with oil. The acrid smell of it filled the air, mixing with the salty tang of the sea. Darron watched as they worked with grim determination, their movements efficient but tense.

”Get the smaller vessels ready,I don’t want to be here when it chatches fire” he called, turning to another group of sailors.

The order was met with immediate compliance. Wooden skiffs, tied to the sides of the ship, were lowered into the water with quiet precision. The small boats rocked gently as they touched the surface, waiting for the crew to pile in once the ship’s fiery fate was sealed.

Darron stepped toward the edge of the deck, gripping the rail tightly as he looked out over the dark waters. The enemy ships were clearer now, their silhouettes looming larger against the faint glow of the camp.

They were tantalizingly close, but the moment wasn’t right yet. Timing was everything if they were to suceed.