Legacy's Edge

The early evening air, cool and laced with the essence of the sea, caressed the cheeks of the crew and Alaric’s men as the sun dropped behind the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fiery orange and deep purple. The oars, which had rhythmically cut through the water throughout the day, lay silent and secured. The anchor had also found its rest in the sandy seafloor.

Alaric stood at the prow. Leaning heavily on the rail, his keen eyes traced the outlines of a tragedy nestled among the cruel embrace of jagged rocks that guarded the cove like ancient sentinels. There, embraced by the relentless grip of the sea, was the partially submerged wreck of another galley, a ghostly silhouette against the backdrop of the day’s rapidly dying light.

The hull of the forsaken vessel told a tale of violence. She had been brutally breached and battered by forces both seen and unseen, her side gashed open at the waterline amidships, exposing the heart of the ship to the cold embrace of the sea.

The remnants of her sails, now no more than tattered shreds, hung mournfully from what remained of a splintered mast, fluttering feebly in the gentle breeze. Seabirds perched solemnly on the fractured remnants, their mournful calls weaving a haunting melody that filled the air, a somber reminder of the unforgiving nature of both the sea and man.

As Alaric’s gaze lingered on the remains of the wreck, his thoughts ventured into the realm of those who once called the doomed vessel their own. The shadow of the ship whispered questions that stirred the depths of his imagination. Could she have been a merchant galley, he pondered, her hull once filled with the bounty of distant lands, treasures untold, and exotic wares destined for markets far beyond the horizon? Or perhaps she had been a vessel of war, a pirate receiving her comeuppance?

The very sight of the wreck, her eerie silhouette etched against the fading light, sent an involuntary shiver cascading down his spine. As Alaric’s gaze shifted from the melancholic scene of the wreck to the beach, he noted the evidence of the ocean’s ruthless handiwork scattered along the shore. There were crates, large and small, that might have once held trade goods and supplies, along with fragments of the ship’s once proud form—planks, lines, torn sails, and other debris. Among the wreckage were bodies of the crew, a sight that spoke of lives abruptly ended. The birds had already arrived and were picking and worrying at the flesh of the dead.

Amidst this picture of destruction, two survivors had stood out against the desolation, waving for their attention. A longboat had been dispatched with haste toward the shore, taking to the waves with determined strokes. Alaric watched as the longboat now made its return journey, the survivors safely aboard.

The land behind the beach, with its backdrop of undulating, sandy dunes, stretched away into the distance, untouched by the hand of civilization. All day, while they had sailed, this desolate stretch of coast revealed no sign of settlement.

Grayson, standing at Alaric’s side, shared in the solemn reflection of the moment. His eyes, too, were locked on the returning longboat, observing the rhythmic dip of oars as the crew pulled, driving the longboat rapidly back to their ship. Among the oarsmen, Caxatarus stood prominent at the aft of the vessel, his presence commanding as he steered them home with a steady hand on the tiller.

The other two ships of Bramwell’s fleet lay at anchor a few hundred yards from their own vessel. These behemoths of wood and sail were bathed in the fading light of the day. Nearby, the captain stood alongside one of his officers. Their attention was unyieldingly focused on the longboat making its way back to them.

“What are you thinking?” Alaric’s voice broke the silence, his question to Grayson hanging in the air.

“That this is a bad business, and we are still far from home.”

“Bramwell seems to think this is a friendly ship,” Alaric mused.

“I imagine she is or was,” Grayson said, referring to the ship and gesturing at the beach, “especially after how Caxatarus handled the survivors ashore.”

“They were treated like long-lost crewmates,” Alaric breathed.

As the anticipation of the crew mounted, Alaric’s gaze swept over the deck of the ship, where it seemed every soul aboard, that could, had congregated to witness the unfolding drama. The air was thick with tension and curiosity, their collective breath held in suspense as the longboat made its steady return approach.

“I will feel better when my boots are firmly on friendly soil,” Grayson added.

Alaric gave a nod. They had been at sea for more than two long weeks, days filled with monotony and the occasional passing of a friendly ship. He was already eager for the voyage to end. The days had passed by slowly with no excitement—that was, until now. Instead of replying, he turned back to the longboat and, like most everyone else, watched.

The moment the longboat came within arm’s reach, a line was expertly cast, arcing through the air with precision, slapping down upon those within, before being securely caught and taken up. At Caxatarus’s command, the oarsmen, with a synchronicity that spoke of their practice, skill, and discipline, lifted their oars out of the water before securing them.

Using the rope, the longboat was drawn closer by two of its crew, until the little craft nestled and bumped against the ship’s hull with a heavy thud. A rope ladder, the bridge between the two crafts, was lowered, dangling like the strands of fate.

Alaric leaned slightly over the side of the ship to observe. Against the ship, the longboat bobbed on the water, which was so clear, he could see straight to the sandy bottom. Caxatarus was first off. He grabbed the swaying and swinging ladder and began climbing. His ascent up the rope ladder was swift and sure, demonstrating an easy grace, each movement reflecting a life lived at sea.

As Caxatarus neared the top, the deck above buzzed with subdued anticipation and much whispering, with everyone’s attention riveted. Bramwell, standing at the forefront, stepped closer to the ship’s edge in readiness. The captain extended his hand toward his first officer. With a firm grip, he pulled Caxatarus up and over the railing, assisting him in the last stage of his journey from the precarious embrace of the rope ladder to the solid, welcoming deck of the ship.

“She was the Lady’s Grace,” the first officer announced curtly, his tone carrying the weight of unsaid words.

Bramwell’s response was almost visceral, his face contorting into a grimace. “Hanson’s vessel? Truly?”

“Aye,” Caxatarus affirmed with a nod, his voice a deep rasp that sounded very much like rocks grating against one another. “The attack happened last evening. He was a good man, a proper sailor.”

Bramwell scowled. “He was a proper bastard, and we will toast him later.”

“As I said, a proper sailor,” Caxatarus said. “And I will be honored to drink to his memory.”

“Last evening, you say?” Bramwell echoed, eyes roaming once more over the scene of destruction. The scattered debris along the beach and torn sails painted a bleak picture, one that spoke of chaos, death, and loss.

“Yes, sir,” Caxatarus said. “They’d sought refuge in the cove, anchoring for the night. The enemy struck shortly thereafter, taking them by surprise and under the cover of darkness.”

“That’s a bold move, especially considering the dangers of this anchorage.” Bramwell scanned the coastline. “They must have had lookouts ashore, watching.”

“It is what we would have done,” Caxatarus said. “And they might still have them in place.”

Bramwell gave a grunt.

Another figure made his way onto the deck, clambering from the ladder to the railing and then over, dropping heavily onto the deck, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. His bare feet trod on the wooden planks. The sun had left its merciless mark upon his skin, painting him with deep, painful reds and browns. His state of undress and evident sunburn spoke of his ordeal.

He was one of the survivors, that much was clear. Looking back at his former ship, his eyes dull from fatigue and suffering, he took in the remnants of what had once been his sanctuary, his home. Exhaustion clung heavily upon him, each step an effort as he moved with the lethargy of one who had stared into the abyss and found it staring back.

His arrival silenced the group, a living reminder of the tragedy that had befallen the Lady’s Grace. Here was a man who faced the fury of the sea and the cruelty of their enemies yet had lived to tell the tale.

“What is your name?” Bramwell demanded.

“First Mate Keeler, sar,” the man replied, his voice hoarse and raspy, as if each word scraped against his dry throat.

“And the ship that attacked Lady’s Grace? What kind was it?” Bramwell probed further.

“A hundred-oar war galley, sar,” Keeler managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper now.

That caused a reaction from those gathered. There was much whispering and more than a few gasps. Scowling, Bramwell held up a hand for quiet. He waited a moment. “Continue.”

“They came upon us shortly after we dropped anchor. It was one of Caston’s galleys. At least that was the standard they was flying.”

Bramwell’s brow furrowed at the mention of Caston, a name synonymous with formidable naval prowess, one of Sunara’s many allies to the far south. “A warship? Are you certain?”

“Yes, sar,” Keeler affirmed, the weight of his survival seeming to bear down on him with his every word. “I am sure as the sun shines and sharks gotta eat. I saw her with me own eyes.”

“What happened to your captain?” Bramwell asked, his voice growing softer.

“He died fighting, sar, run through the middle by the bloody bastards. I seen it happen. He died with a sword in his hand.”

“And why didn’t you die as well?” Bramwell’s gaze was fixed on Keeler, searching not for judgment, but understanding.

“The ship was lost. I dove over the side and swam for shore. I did not want to end up a slave or lose me life for a lost cause.”

Alaric, who had been observing the exchange, found himself nodding in agreement.

Another man, haggard and worn, stripped to the waist and barefoot, managed to haul himself onto the deck, adding his voice to the chorus of survival. “From shore, we watched while they looted the ship, sir. They didn’t even bother none coming for us,” he recounted, his voice a mixture of relief and bitterness.

Bramwell, clearly deep in thought, stroked his jaw as he gazed up the coast. “When did this Caston galley set sail? How long ago did she weigh anchor?”

“Late afternoon, sar, maybe no sooner than two hours ago. We hid from ’em and watched them bastards. They didn’t even come ashore.”

Bramwell’s eyes moved to Caxatarus. Their eyes locked. “They can’t be too far off, maybe five or six leagues at most.”

Caxatarus cast a glance toward the heavens. The sky was clear of any cloud cover. “The moon is gonna be good, sir, potentially a fine night for navigating. We may be able to catch her, if she puts into a cove up along the coast.”

“Why didn’t the enemy spend the night here?” Alaric, puzzled, voiced the question.

Bramwell turned his attention to Alaric, expression reflecting a mix of contemplation and the burden of command. “This cove is on the smaller side and can accommodate only one ship, and a smaller one at that. It’s high tide, and you can’t see them, but there are plenty of hidden rocks. It was likely why Hanson thought he was safe.” The captain’s gaze briefly swept over the constrained waters that cradled their temporary haven. “That makes it risky for larger ships like this one to spend the night here, especially if a storm comes up and the anchor drags. We might easily find ourselves run aground with the hull ripped open and stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

“The enemy got what he wanted and left for a better anchorage.” Caxatarus’s statement was simple, yet laden with the harsh reality of their situation, a grim acknowledgment of the ruthlessness that governed the actions of those who cruised these waters in search of prey.

“He did,” Bramwell affirmed, a trace of bitterness in his tone as he looked back at his first officer.

“I wonder if it’s Fina’s boat that did this,” Caxatarus mused, his statement turning heads. “He hunts in these waters.”

“If it is him, I would love to take him down.” Bramwell looked over his crew clustered nearby, along with Alaric’s soldiers, their attention fixed on him. He fell silent for a long moment, then with a decisive nod, as if solidifying his intent, Bramwell glanced once more at the wreck. “First officer?”

“Sir,” responded Caxatarus, his posture straightening in readiness.

“Haul the longboat out of the water and secure her posthaste. Signal the other ships to prepare to weigh anchor and continue up the coast a few leagues in search of the enemy. We will take the lead.”

“Aye, sir,” Caxatarus replied, acknowledging the command.

“We’re going on the hunt, boys,” Bramwell announced, raising his voice so all could hear while turning to address them at large. His proclamation was met with a robust cheer. The air was charged with a newfound energy, a blend of anticipation and solidarity. “We’re going to find the enemy and pay them back in kind for the Lady’s Grace.”

That elicited another cheer. Alaric noted his own men were cheering enthusiastically alongside the captain’s.

Bramwell turned his attention to the survivors, those who had borne the brunt of the calamity firsthand. “Get these men some water and food. See that they rest and enter them into the books. They now have a home with us.”

“Thank you, sar.” Keeler touched two fingers to his sunburned brow in salute.

“Aye, sir,” Caxatarus’s voice, rough as gravel, affirmed the command before he called out with authority, “To your stations.”

His directive sent a ripple through the gathered crew, prompting them to scatter, each man moving with a sense of purpose and urgency toward their designated roles, leaving Alaric’s soldiers behind. The deck buzzed with the activity of preparation, the air filled with the sound of footsteps and the clunks of gear being readied for the pursuit ahead.

Bramwell, however, appeared detached from the flurry of activity. He took a few steps away, focus fixated on the coastline that stretched ahead, almost as if he could see beyond its immediate beauty to the potential dangers and rewards that lay hidden in its embrace. His was a look of calculated hunger, a reflection of his thoughts on the opportunities that the night’s endeavor might unveil.

Alaric, noticing Bramwell’s contemplative stance, approached him, stepping close. “I thought you didn’t like traveling at night.”

“I don’t, not one bit,” Bramwell admitted, his voice carrying a hint of reluctance tempered by conviction. “But I know these waters well. There is some risk, but it is not overly great, especially on how clear a night it will be. More importantly, we have an opportunity here. If she is a Caston warship and the one I am thinking of, Mysteeri—a true raider—one that’s plagued these waters for years…” He trailed off, leaving the implication of his words hanging between them, a tantalizing prospect of what they might achieve.

“Quite the prize?” Alaric ventured, words laced with both curiosity and the thrill of the hunt.

“Yes, a prize worth bragging on,” Bramwell affirmed with a certainty that underscored the gravity of their potential undertaking. His eyes shimmered with the reflection of the fading light on the water. “If it is her, she should be full of treasure she’s taken. Fina is a good captain, one of the best the enemy has…”

“I see,” Alaric said, his intrigue and concern clear as he processed the magnitude of what they were contemplating. Bramwell wasn’t intent upon attacking a simple transport or merchant.

“If she is a true warship,” Bramwell elaborated, his tone growing more serious, “the Castons don’t use slaves to man their oars.” This detail wasn’t just a footnote; it spoke about the kind of resistance they could expect. Standing just to the side of Alaric, Grayson stiffened.

“They are all warriors, then?” Alaric sought clarification, the implications of Bramwell’s statement dawning plainly upon him.

“Correct.”

“How many?”

Bramwell momentarily glanced to the survivors, now being cared for by his crew, before returning to Alaric. “If she is a hundred-oar galley, as Keeler said, maybe four hundred to five hundred swords.”

“A significant challenge, then,” Alaric remarked with a mix of awe and apprehension at the daunting odds they faced.

“In normal times, yes, they would outnumber us fighter for fighter,” Bramwell admitted. “I’d likely avoid a boarding action and just focus on sinking her and sending her crew to the depths of the ocean, for we would likely not have the sword power, let alone strength to fully overcome her.”

“Now you are thinking of taking her,” Alaric said, piecing together Bramwell’s thinking, “and looting her?”

“I have your trained soldiers aboard, veterans all,” Bramwell pointed out, exuding a confidence that seemed to fill the space between them. “And three ships. A predator like Mysteeri won’t expect an attack, especially if we move quickly.”

“And if they have lookouts?” Alaric asked.

“Then, as I said, speed is of the essence.”

“And what about the women and children on the other two ships?”

“If we are to catch the enemy, there is no time to put them off and ashore,” Bramwell said with a pained expression. “This ship doesn’t have any of the families aboard. We will be the first one to attack, to get stuck in. The others will join as soon as the fight has begun, but we will face the brunt of it. That is the best I can do. We have a real opportunity here, and I don’t aim to miss it.”

Alaric’s eyes briefly met those of Grayson, who maintained a discreet distance yet remained observant throughout their discussion. The older man gave a nod of agreement to the plan. Ezran was standing a few steps off. So too were Thorne and Jasper. Kiera was nowhere to be seen. She had been spending her nights with the captain. They had long since made up, which had been a relief to both Alaric and Bramwell.

“How many men do we have aboard?” Alaric asked Grayson.

“One hundred on this ship alone,” came Grayson’s prompt response.

“Break out the weapons and begin getting the men ready,” Alaric commanded. “It will likely be some hours yet, but let’s start preparing anyway.”

“It will be hours,” Bramwell confirmed, his gaze momentarily drifting to the wreckage of the Lady’s Grace. His eyes narrowed as he studied her in the dying light. “I’ve always wanted to take on a real warship, and now I have my chance. I just hope she puts in for the night where I think she will.”

“And where is that?” Alaric queried, seeking insight into Bramwell’s chosen battleground.

“An anchorage five leagues distant, called the Well of Tears,” Bramwell disclosed, a scheming smile touching his lips. “I’ve used it myself. There is fresh water to be had there, but no settlements. The anchorage is also large enough for maneuvering where I can bring more than one ship to bear upon the enemy.”

“I see,” Alaric said. He was feeling some unease with the prospect of this action but had already committed himself and his men to it, giving Bramwell his word.

Bramwell clapped Alaric on the shoulder. “Tonight, with some good fortune, we will turn the tables on our enemy.” The resolve in his voice was infectious. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a ship to prepare for battle.”