Blackstorm

[Nightcall]

Hi there, I am currently working on a story about a corsair character. The first tale is an origins tale, if you will. With the intention being that it will then branch out into a series of tales based on his adventures and crew. My aim is that I will have a novel complete in time for the next Black Library submissions.

It's fairly long already so I will post what I have so far in two posts. I am after proof reading, in particular, comments regarding the following are much appreciated:

- Lore errors
- Accuracy (i.e I have researched nautical terms and maritime battle tactics. Just want to check it makes sense)
- Ease of reading. Does it flow well? Can you picture the events and characters?
- Pace. Is it too fast/slow? Is there too little/too much descriptive detail?

Any other suggestions and criticism would be gratefully received. After all, I want to produce something that is good enough to submit. Thanks.

[Nightcall]

‘Get down!’ cried a shrill voice, barely audible over the sounds of cannon fire bursting from an Imperial galleon flanking the druchii vessel. Plumes of smoke erupted from the guns below the deck of the much larger ship, flashes of powder strobing as the human crew fought angrily against the corsair fleet that had struck towns and villages along the shores of Nordland six times in as many days.

Lord Borkor watched the fight progress from the upper deck of the corsair ship, Hope’s Ruin. His black eyes scanned the scene playing out before him. Wearing a heavy suit of armour and gripping a pair of hooked swords, he eagerly awaited the opportunity to board the enemy warship. This being his hakseer cruise, the lordling had overall command of the vessel which had been sailing as part of a larger fleet. Sent and funded by his father, Borkor was determined to return to Clar Karond in time for Hanil Khar with a well filled hold enabling him to present a hefty bounty to the Drachau and gain favour. Hungry for renown and glory, he had discarded the captain’s advice and urged they stand and fight the enemy rather than take advantage of the druchii ship’s superior speed and evade direct combat. Victory here would provide more livestock for the slave markets as well as any other goods aboard the galleon that might be plundered.

In light of this resistance, the other three corsair vessels had made to change their courses back out to deeper water. Making use of a crisp breeze their sails carried them swiftly in a north westerly direction, where they would regroup and launch a counter attack once the enemy had spent their fire. The manoeuvre had not gone to plan. One of the druchii ships had been damaged beyond repair, another was sinking fast close by.

A nearby bolt thrower launched a long steel shaft into the blue painted side of the Empire galleon near the waterline. It was immediately targeted by the canon battery of the warship, a cannonball splitting the blackened wood of the deck with a crash before being carried into the druchii weapon and tearing it and two of its crew apart. Borkor cursed at the loss of the weapon and called an order for those manning the remaining five bolt throwers to double their efforts as he stepped down onto the lower deck to join the captain who was maintaining calm amongst the slaves chained to the oars with sharp cracks of his barbed whip.

‘Hold steady, you worthless scum!’ the captain shouted, his whip splitting the skin across the back of a human who screamed in agony at the blow. He wore his dark hair in a topknot, the sides and back of his skull were shaven, with swirling tattoos decorating his scalp. His teeth were stained by courva use, and his scarred face and forearms leant him a savage demeanour.

Noting Borkor’s approach, he growled to the lordling ‘This is folly, my lord. We cannot stand against such a ship.’

‘Do you question my decision?’ Borkor replied angrily whilst the ship juddered as a cannonball hit the port side. ‘You know what happens to mutineers, don’t you?’

‘No my lord, I mean yes.’ The captain replied, his grimy brow glistening with sweat. ‘The rest of the fleet has moved on. We are alone and outgunned.’

‘The others are cowards. Their reputations shall be forever scarred by their actions. For us shall come victory and a great prize once we take command of that warship.’ Borkor mused in reply, hungry for battle.

‘If you say so.’ The captain responded understanding the lordling’s reasoning. Pickings had been poor so far but he believed this had made Borkor reckless and impatient. And now the lordling’s decision had placed Hope’s Ruin and all aboard her in a most unfavourable position. He bitterly thought of ways of being rid of the noble, before wondering if they would survive their sea battle at all as a cannonball brought down the aft sail. The mast split before crashing down at the rear of the oar deck, crushing many of the slaves to death. Cheers were carried across from the human vessel and were met with roars and curses as a volley of bolts answered in return from the corsair ship.

‘Keep the ship steady and we’ll...’ Borkor was interrupted mid sentence as he was grabbed and thrown to the deck, a cannon roaring by and reaping carnage out of a row of the slave oarsmen, chained to their benches and unable to evade the shot.

The lordling grabbed hold of the one responsible for knocking him down, rolling him on to his back and raising a sword, the spiked pommel ready to be brought down to deliver a death blow against a temple.

‘Captain, have this clumsy bastard nailed to the mast!’

The druchii beneath Borkor hissed a laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

The corsair shrugged an arm to his right and Borkor turned to see the captain, or what was left of him less than a foot away. He had taken the full impact of the cannonball, his head and the top of his torso torn away from his body and reduced to a bloody smear across the deck.

Borkor let go of his sword and grabbed the corsair that had thrown him down by his arms and slammed him hard against the deck, reeling from how close he had just come to being killed. Had this miserable druchii not intervened he would have shared the captain’s fate.

‘How dare you touch a highborn!’ He roared, punching the corsair in the face twice. ‘Where is the second in command?’

‘Dead, m’lord.’ Replied the elf.

‘Then get up and take over.’ ordered the lordling as he rose to his feet. ‘What is your name, dog?’

‘Casaythe, m’lord.’ came the reply as the white haired corsair picked himself up, nursing a bloody nose.

‘It’s captain Casaythe now. Get us out of this mess.’ snarled Borkor as he took account of the damage to the ship, noting the mainsail was now ablaze.

‘Aye. All we need now is a sea dragon and a flock of harpies.’ replied Casaythe. Borkor glared at the druchii, not sure whether he was ridiculing him or was just immensely dim.

‘I don’t care how you do it, just get on with it.’ the lordling snapped back, before turning and heading back to the upper deck.

Casaythe grinned, hardly believing his luck. He prized the captain’s whip from his still twitching hand and snapped it above his head to get the crew’s attention over the din of screams, cannon fire, and bolt shots. ‘You heard him ya dogs, now get to it!’

[Nightcall]

‘Turn hard to port!’ Casaythe shouted, thinking to lessen the target area of their vessel. By wheeling around, only the stern would be vulnerable and whilst they made a sweep away from the larger galleon, opportunity would be granted to shoot several volleys of bolts at the enemy.

He was enjoying the feeling of new found power until, ‘We can’t Cas... Captain. Rudder’s come loose.’

Casaythe hurried to the stern, past a frenzied mob of corsairs tearing down the burning mainsail with hooked poles and casting the flaming cloth overboard, and scrambled up the steps to the ship’s wheel. Lord Borkor threw him a questioning gaze, Casaythe responding with a reassuring nod and smile, before clenching his teeth and grabbing the druchii on the wheel by his matted topknot. The druchii looked to the captain with alarm, his adam’s apple bobbing as he felt the tip of a knife below his ear.

‘What do ya mean “Rudder’s come loose”?’ snarled Casaythe, just low enough to be out of earshot of the lordling.

‘Loose captain... or rather, gone.’

Casaythe released the corsair and stomped to the back rail. Leaning over the edge, he could see the damage. The rudder hung from its chain in smashed fragments, useless and ruined. He sighed to himself and returned to the wheel.

‘When did this happen?’

‘A fair while ago...’

‘You mean to tell me you just stood there pretending to steer the ship?’

‘That’s the measure of it, captain. He’d have thrown me over the side.’ The corsair replied, gesturing to Borkor who was beginning to look interested in the scene at the wheel.

‘What’s to say I won’t chuck to the sea dragons, idiot?’ Casaythe questioned, grabbing the corsair’s topknot again.

‘Release me and I’ll save you the bother.’ The druchii replied thinking it better to leap overboard and escape a slow and painful death.

Casaythe let go of the topknot, thinking the situation through. ‘You’re Jerek’s son, aren’t you?’

‘Aye Casaythe, second eldest, Ranal.’

‘Well Ranal, if we’re going to get out of this alive, you just keep doing what you’re doing.’

The corsair nodded his understanding, turning the wheel anticlockwise.

‘Is anything amiss?’ queried Borkor, stepping confidently towards them.

‘Don’t bother yourself m’lord, this oaf forgot his port from his starboard.’ Casaythe replied, smacking the back of Ranal’s head, causing the elf to yelp. The lordling raised a brow, thinking them both incompetent, and to their relief returned to watching the battle.

It was then that one of the corsairs on the deck noticed something and shouted a warning cry whilst pointing at the enemy vessel. Casaythe followed his gaze and paled at the sight before him. The druchii had been barraged by a single deck’s worth of canon fire, but now hatches were opening on what must be the deck above. Loaded canons were wheeled forwards as the druchii shot reaver bolters and crossbows at the enemy ship. One by one, twelve canons shot a barrage of munitions at the smaller druchii vessel, the noise of the guns blasting only seconds before their vessel shuddered with the impacts. The screams of the wounded were joined by the sound of the ship creaking.

‘Breach in the hold!’ Yelled a voice from the slave deck.

Casaythe ran down from the upper deck to look at the damage, thinking this promotion wasn’t going so well. ‘How bad is it?’

A one-eyed corsair, his face scarred by a hefty diagonal wound, gestured behind him, where three cannons had punched through the side. The slaves began to panic as water seeped in, the vessel already starting to lean.

Lord Borkor had come down to see for himself, his face a mask of anger and dismay. His hakseer cruise had taken a definite turn for the worse. Casaythe took a swig from his wine flask.

‘She won’t stay afloat for long.’

Lord Borkor floundered for words. No amount of threatening or violence would prevent the ship from sinking. ‘So do you have any ideas?’

Casaythe stroked his chin, his icy eyes narrowing in thought, before a desperate smile spread across his face. ‘There’s only one thing for it now. We board the bastards!’


The gangmaster whipped the surviving slaves on the starboard side into a frenzy, the oar strokes pushing the druchii vessel ever closer to the Marienburg warship as salt water filled the hull. The crew made ready for battle, strapping on plate and taking up arms as they drew closer to the leviathan of a ship, the azure blue side contrasting sharply against the splintered and burning corsair. The remaining masts scraped against the side of the enemy warship as their listing vessel began to lower further into the sea.

‘I do hope you know what you’re doing.’ Borkor hissed, before putting on his helm. It covered his head entirely, save the eye slits through which he scowled at the white haired druchii.

‘We’re left with little choice, m’lord.’ Replied Casaythe as he tied his hair back and fastened a chest plate on over his grimy tunic. He gestured to the lower deck where the rising water was already beginning to submerge the chained oarsmen. ‘We’re going to die anyway, might as well take a few heads with us.’

Borkor stood quietly for a moment, as Casaythe was handed his glaive by a stocky, grey haired druchii with teeth filed into sharp points. Along the deck, corsairs covered the approach with volleys of crossbow shots which were answered in return by handguns from the human vessel which towered above them. ‘Very well. I shall have a glorious end and be welcomed into Khaine’s realm, rather than die like a coward.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ replied Casaythe with a grin, slapping Borkor’s back heartily, much to the lordling’s annoyance. He lifted his flask, taking a long draft of the heady liquid within before offering it to the highborn. ‘Have a drop of this.’

‘What is it?’ enquired Borkor.

‘They call it “brandy”.’

As Borkor reached out his hand, taking the container, a bullet punched a hole through the flask before striking a member of crew behind between the eyes. He groaned softly then toppled backwards lifelessly. Nobody seemed to care. The lordling calmly passed the ruined flask back to Casaythe, the liquid spilling out onto the deck and added sardonically, ‘I don’t think I’ll bother. Prepare to board.’

Orders were given and druchii corsairs equipped themselves with pikes and grappling hooks before making their way to the port side. Others scrambled up the mast poles which by now were nearly touching the warship’s brightly painted deck rails. At this close range the cannons reaped a terrible harvest of slave and druchii flesh. The longer they tallied, the higher the death toll would be.

Crossbow bolts picked off gunners, making the humans warier of their foes as the corsairs got into position. ‘Well are ya waiting to drown?’ Casaythe called out, answered by hisses of laughter or insulted snarls. Clearly, his reputation as a fierce captain was yet to be earned.

‘Best say something heroic.’ He added in a hushed voice to Borkor.

The highborn nodded and stepped mid deck, apparently undaunted by the bullets and cannon fire bombarding his vessel. ‘Hear me, sea wolves! We fear not death, they do! If we die it will be with a smile on our lips, born from the knowledge that the human scum died in agony by our hands. The challenge is great, the prize is greater. Now go forth and show them why it is that the druchii are most feared in all the lands!’

As one, a raucous cheer resounded from the crew. Hooks arced through the air and druchii swung the gap between the two ships before hauling themselves up the sides of the galleon. The attack had begun.

[Senluthan]

Well you have a good idea with a story! I really like it and think it could be awesome. I don't know if it is that english ain't my first language, but is seems a bit messy, and very fast. I think the story would gain from having a lot slower pace.

[Sleekdd]

Well, that was a pretty good read.
You paid attention to paragraphs and the writing is easy to go through. You also manage to invoke the scene and chaos vividly without getting bogged down in masses of text.

To me, the pacing was fine, but then again, my own attempts at juggling words together into a coherent piece of text are not likely to end in success. I feel it is a matter of personal taste, as are many things in the written arts.

I have just two points of critique to make:

‘Well are ya waiting to drown?’ Casaythe called out, answered my hisses of laughter or insulted snarls. Clearly, his reputation as a fierce captain was yet to be earned.

I believe it has to be: ... answered by ...

Borkor let go of his sword and grabbed the corsair that had thrown him down by his arms and slammed him hard against the deck, reeling from how close he had just come to being killed. Had this miserable druchii not intervened he would have shared the captain’s fate.

‘How dare you touch a highborn!’ He roared, punching the corsair in the face twice. ‘Where is the second in command?’

This is probably a matter of personal taste, again, but I'd be a little more grateful for not being smeared all over the ship.
Still, some (read: a lot of) people see the Druchii as evil, cruel and psychotic and it is perfectly all right and fitting if you want to portray them as such.
We all see our favorite race through a different lens.

Keep up the good work - if I may be so bold to say so, and keep on posting.

[Saintofm]

Borkor let go of his sword and grabbed the corsair that had thrown him down by his arms and slammed him hard against the deck, reeling from how close he had just come to being killed. Had this miserable druchii not intervened he would have shared the captain’s fate.

‘How dare you touch a highborn!’ He roared, punching the corsair in the face twice. ‘Where is the second in command?’

This is probably a matter of personal taste, again, but I'd be a little more grateful for not being smeared all over the ship.

Keep up the good work - if I may be so bold to say so, and keep on posting.

I don't know, this seems to fit with his personalety. He's arrogant to the extreme and ignorant of how far his abilities are when it comes to judging danger.

[Nightcall]

Thanks for the feedback so far.

Senluthan, I wanted to start this story by throwing the reader straight into the action of a sea battle, so tried to make the pace quicker during this "action scene" than what will be seen in the rest of the story. I was concerned however, that I had made it a little too rushed; it's difficult to get the balance right. I'm sure I can rework it a little to flesh it out a bit, whilst maintaining the pace.

SleekDD, thank you!! The first one slipped through spellcheck. The highborn is indeed an arrogant, violent fellow, and thinks of his corsairs as scum. He is panicking a bit as his plan isn't going so well, hence taking his frustration out on the corsair. I am also trying to throw a little humour into the characters by their reactions to things. Don't worry, it won't all be tearing about all over the place. I think with the early parts of a story, one is trying to affirm to the reader the personalities of the main characters.

saintofm, thanks, this is what I was trying to achieve. I don't want the reader to come across something that would be out of character for one of my characters, unless there was a good reason for it. So if you do see them sliding into odd behaviour, please let me know!

[Nightcall]

'They're trying to board us, admiral.', the boatswain reported, with a bow. The red haired Marienberger fiddled with his moustache anxiously, his cheeks flushed from running all the way to the main cabin. There, the admiral sat confidently, sipping Tilean port from a fine crystal glass. On the mahogany desk in front of him were a number of sea charts, a half eaten platter of quail pie, and a letter from his beloved. Oil lamps were screwed to the dark wooden panels, washing the cabin with a warm glow.

The admiral looked up slowly, his blue eyes calm but stern. Observing the boatswain, it was clear the man was under a great deal of stress. His once white shirt was grimy and sweat stained, as was the red neckerchief he wore around his throat. Soot smears dirtied his navy blue breeches, and the man still held his handgun in his right hand, clutching it as if to ward off the evil that was coming for them.

Standing straight, the admiral folded up the letter, and with a whimsical smile tucked it into an inner pocket of his well tailored jacket. He picked up his black three cornered hat, given to him by the harbour master in thanks for destroying a small fleet of Norse raiders, and placed it on his head. Smart and professional, he was a man of duty and honour, and was determined to see justice done for the suffering caused by these foreign invaders.

'Then, Van Hoef, I believe we had best give them a hearty Marienberg welcome!'

'Aye, admiral.' the boatswain replied, watching as his superior fastened a black leather belt around his waist, which held two finely crafted handguns and a scabbard in which was sheathed an ornate sabre. The admiral slowly fastened the brass buttons on his red jacket, and groomed his neatly trimmed blond beard as he considered his plan of action.

'Order the gunners to the upper deck, and have the powder room locked. We don't want these barbarians getting their hands on our guns.'

The boatswain bowed and hurriedly left the cabin to relay the orders. The admiral quickly gulped down the last of the port from his glass, the canons booming below, causing the tableware to rattle. Placing down the glass, he sighed, steeling himself for battle. And then he stepped out into hell.

[Sleekdd]

Although the part is quite a bit shorter, the pace feels slower, as if the admiral likes to do things without being rushed.

I'd say just one thing: continue the story.

[Nightcall]

Thanks SleekDD. I am trying to alter the pace to give weight to the moods of particular scenes. I hope it isn't throwing people too much.


The first wave of druchii to attempt to board had been gunned down as they eagerly swung across from Hope's Ruin. Corpses of corsairs floated in the water between the two ships, their heavier armed comrades being sent quickly into Manann's realm by their human foes. Whilst the galleon crew took aim with their guns at the crew of the druchii ship, crossbows were primed and released, sending a volley of bolts thudding home with deadly accuracy. Naval crew screamed and keeled over the edge of their ship's railings, plunging into the icy water as the druchii reloaded and shot their crossbows again.

The second wave of boarders made ready whilst havoc was on their side. Grappling hooks were swung, some fixing on the bright yellow railings atop the deck of the galleon, whilst others caught on the canon hatches. Over half of the dark elves to swing across the gap this time were successful in gaining a foothold on the human vessel, and had begun their clamber up to the deck.

The highborn, Borkor, stood aboard the druchii vessel, his retainers summoned and ready to fight by his side. Wearing their collars of service around their necks, both wore medium armour of chainmail and plated vambraces, over thick dwarf hide vests, their long black hair tied back with cords. Tall and well built, they were dressed and armed in identical fashion. Both held a glaive, and each carried a short sword on their hip. Their dark eyes stared impassively at the galleon, whilst awaiting instruction from their master.

A third wave of corsairs swung the gap as their predecessors hauled themselves over the galleon's railings or in through gun hatches, their war cries audible over the cracks of gun fire as the humans pulled back to the upper deck. A few more cannons boomed, powder smoke billowing up in plumes from the galleon's side, as their heavy loads crashed into the side of Hope's Ruin. The vessel shuddered and moaned before listing heavily. Casaythe grinned as he saw wounded and slain humans thrown out of the canon hatches. Clearly there was a good fight to be had below deck.

Casaythe noticed there was something missing, then realised it was the noise of panicked shouts as the last of the slave oarsmen sank beneath the rising water of the sinking ship. As he coiled the whip up around his belt, he addressed the noble.

'M'lord, don't you think it might be an idea to join the fight?'

'Not yet.' replied the lordling, not even gracing the newly promoted captain with eye contact. He was more interested in the sight of a red headed human hanging from the railings by his fingertips, trying to evade a corsair armed with a spear leaning out of a cannon hatch above, toying with the human with stabbing blows.

'Yes, but if we don't hurry up we'll...'

There was an enormous creak as the mainmast finally came down, the weight enough to unbalance the heavily damaged vessel. The mast crashed against galleon's blue side as Hope's Ruin was pulled over at a ridiculous angle. All on deck slid down across, the wet deck offering no grip whatsoever. Many had the foresight to reach for the side rails and had managed to prevent themselves from falling overboard. Others were not so fortunate. Following the line of the mast, Casaythe noticed the end of it met with the rails of the upper deck of the galleon. As corsairs screamed bloody oaths and battled the crew with hateful vigour, he saw that already half a dozen human gunners were leaning over the side where the charred mainmast had smashed through the rails, and were taking aim or loading their weapons.

Borkor regarded the fallen mast, noting that it had made a perfect gangway between the two ships. 'Now we board. You go first.'

Casaythe gritted his teeth angrily and drew his short sword, remarking to no-one in particular, 'You've got to die some day...'

[Sleekdd]

Well, I'm rooting for Casaythe.

As for changes in the pacing: they are needed simply because you're describing different kinds of scenes. And when done well, they reinforce each other thanks to the contrast they offer.

One point of interest is the apparent relationship that's starting to build between Casaythe and Borkor. The former seems to have a decent set of skills and a level head, although he's not a full-fledged veteran - or maybe downright too young - when it involves leadership skills.
And Borkor is the one having the money and influence but is troubled by greed and/or arrogance.

[Nightcall]

Thanks again for taking the time to read and comment, SleekDD. There will be a lot more interplay, and it's really reassuring that you are picking up on the relationship between the two main characters! Must be doing something right, haha! I've had a hectic couple of days so haven't been able to get as much done as I would have liked to... but oh well. Here is the next part.



The corsair captain could feel his heart pounding as he gingerly stepped onto the broken mast. A bullet whistled past his ear, closely followed by a second one. Behind Casaythe came the two retainers, Borkor safely taking the rear. The realisation dawned upon him that Borkor wanted him to draw the enemy fire whilst he and his retainers crossed the gap, and he didn't like that one bit. "If I ever get out of this alive, that whoreson will pay for this." he thought to himself as he took another slow step forwards, his left hand held out for balance. Each time he hear the crack of gunshot, he flinched, and could just picture the amused grin on the lordling's face.

'Get a move on!' Borkor shouted.

'I hardly want to stand still, do I?' Casaythe spat back sarcastically.

'What?'

Another bullet whizzed by, and looking ahead, he could see that eight gunners were now standing on the galleon's top deck guarding the rail at the end of the fallen mast. Their rifles and handguns all seemed to be aimed at him. He glanced down, seeing shredded sail and rope ladder hanging loosely from the mast pole, charred, but maybe strong enough to bear his weight.

'What are you waiting for?' the lordling demanded.

'Bugger this... follow me, m'lord!'

As the crack of gunfire resounded, he took a gamble. Leaping from the mast pole, he fell a few feet before landing on the ruined human hide sail. Sliding down, he dug his sword into the material to slow his descent before the angry sea claimed him. The purple material tore, but eventually halted Casaythe's slide. He looked up to see the retainers looking about themselves and Borkor's helmed visage staring down at him, shouting all manner of curses at the corsair. As the humans fired another round at the three druchii, Borkor relented and leapt off the mast pole, followed less than a second later by his retainers. Casaythe hoped they drowned. The Dark Mother was sparing them for greater things, as all three managed to slow their slide enough to stop before they reached the sea water. Still, they were a few feet lower than the more lightly armoured corsair.

Casaythe looked up and saw some of the gunners leaning over the rails, taking aim. Others had trained their weapons upon fresh targets still aboard Hope's Ruin, an exchange of bullets and crossbow bolts taking place overhead. From this angle, the galleon looked enormous. Yet it was nothing in comparison to a black ark, a floating fortress of Naggaroth.

'This way.' he called, grabbing hold of a length of druchii rope. A grappling hook at the other end had fixed on one of the lower gun hatches. As long as fortune stayed with them and they weren't shot, it would still be possible for them to board the human ship. He began hauling himself up, not caring whether the highborn and his retainers were behind him. It was becoming clear to Casaythe that the Borkor considered him disposable. "And that," he smirked as he mulled the thought over, "was a mistake".



Admiral Kleet had emerged from his cabin just in time to see the boatswain fall over the side rail. A handful of gunners tipped their hats as they rushed past the admiral and made their way to the top deck. At least the order had been relayed. He would send the boatswain's widow a message once they returned to port, commending the man's bravery and sense of duty. But first things first, there were foreign pirates to be rid of.

Following the running gunners with his eyes, he saw them take position above, leaning on the wooden rails. The enemy ship was sinking, and its broken mainmast was resting on the side of the good ship Julianne. The admiral thought to call the order to blast it out of the way with cannon shot, but paused thoughtfully as he observed that it had become a gangway from the enemy vessel to theirs. As the gunners loaded and shot their rifles, he watched as four of their savage foes attempted to cross the gap. His riflemen's guns cracked again and the enemies fell from the walkway. Little did he know the action was deliberate.

On the tarred and polished deck before him, sailors armed with curved sabres, pistols, or hooks, met the invaders in combat. To the admiral's eyes they looked like the hated dark elves, their ship certainly was of their design. Never fond of the fey folk, he often inwardly questioned the wisdom of the Count allowing elven traders in Marienberg.

The enemies were dressed in a mixture of light mail, leather armour, plate, and simple tunics. They fought with hook, crossbow, spear, sword, and what looked like halberds. What they lacked in organisation, they made up for in speed and savagery, and attacked his crew with frenzied cries in their own caustic language. This corsair rabble was as ragged and tattered as their boarding plan. A jumbled line of the pirates charged towards his end of the deck and were effectively gunned down.

His own crew calmly formed defensive lines, a second unit of riflemen close by. Using a well rehearsed drill, the front row of gunners knelt down to take their shots, the row behind standing. As one row fired, the other loaded. Their casualties were light so far, a few men falling to black bolts from crossbow shots, or mortal wounds in melee. The chirurgeon would be busy later, of that there was no doubt.

Kleet's blue eyes twinkled with mirth as he loaded and cocked his pistols, taking aim confidently. Yes, not long now and it would all be over.