Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 417

Chapter 417: Sea Lions(5) Chapter 417: Sea Lions(5) Blake allowed his men a moment to revel in their victory, their laughter and jeers rising above the crackling flames.

The sight of the Imperials flailing in the fire, their discipline reduced to desperate screams, was a welcome one.

But he knew better than to let them linger in their triumph.

The second enemy vessel was closing in-fast.

The ship on the right, the one whose boarding attempt they had stalled, was now gaining ground.

The Imperials aboard it had adjusted their course, using the Roaring Axe’s distraction to creep into striking distance.

Their archers were already lining up along the rails, ready to unleash a deadly volley.

Blake’s grin vanished.

“Enough cheering!” he roared, his voice like a thunderclap over the deck.

“You want to live to gloat about this later?!

Then get your shields up and your blades ready!

We’ve got more company!” The laughter died instantly, replaced by the sound of boots scrambling across the deck.

Shields were raised, weapons drawn, and heads snapped toward the incoming ship.

Blake turned toward his archers, his voice sharp and commanding.

“Loose at will!

Don’t let them get comfortable!” Even as the first arrows flew, Blake knew the crew was in for another brutal fight.

The Imperials had learned from their comrades’ fiery fate.

They weren’t coming to be set ablaze-they were coming to kill.

The only silver lining in the chaos was that the third ship-the one that had been meant to join the assault-was now effectively out of the fight.

Had the left-side boarding vessel survived, it would have acted as a bridge, allowing the third ship to throw its soldiers across and overwhelm the Roaring Axe from both sides.

But now, with the wreckage engulfed in flames, that path was cut off.

Normally, the Imperials would have maneuvered around the burning hulk, circling to find another opening.

But maneuvering required space, and space was something they did not have.

The sea was too tightly packed with vessels, the battle raging in every direction, leaving no room for elegant repositioning.

And soon the straweberry on top of the cake arrived as before the third ship could attempt a desperate push, another Confederation vessel slammed into its side-one of Blake’s allies, standing firm beside him in the chaos of war.  The enemy ship rocked violently from the impact, throwing its crew off balance.

Blake allowed himself a sharp grin.

That was one less problem to worry about.

But there was no time to celebrate.

The ship on the right was nearly upon them, and this time there was nothing that could stop them from getting their long-awaited close quarter fight The Imperial ship finally closed in, its hull scraping against the Roaring Axe with a deep, grating groan.

Thick wooden planks with iron hooks were hurled across the gap, slamming onto the deck with heavy thuds.

The metal teeth bit deep into the wood, anchoring the vessels together as a bridge for the enemy to cross.

Arrows filled the air, a deadly storm loosed from both sides.

Some embedded themselves in the hulls, quivering like needles in flesh.

Others found their mark-men screamed as shafts punched through limbs, buried themselves in throats, or lodged into exposed flesh.

The smell of salt and blood thickened in the air.

Blake’s crew wasted no time.

They rushed to the planks, shields locked together, axes, maces, and shortswords gleaming in the dimming light.

They would not let the Imperials take a single step onto their ship without a fight.

The enemy gathered on the other side, their heavy shields forming a wooden wall, swords glinting as they prepared to charge.

The first wave of Imperial soldiers surged forward, boots pounding against the thick wooden planks as they run along the wooden bridge.

The makeshift bridge shuddered under their weight, but the iron hooks embedded deep into the deck held firm.

On either side of the planks, wooden rails stood tall, ensuring that no man would slip into the churning sea below, allowing the soldiers to run forward without fear of falling down .

The Imperials threw themselves onto the enemy deck, shields raised high like a moving wall.

The first rank crashed into the pirate defenders, their heavy shields smashing against the hastily formed line of cutthroats.

The impact sent men stumbling back, some barely keeping their footing as the Romelians took advantage of the gap to enter and swing their weapon to open up more space “Push!

Drive them back!” a centurion bellowed from the second rank, his voice cutting through the chaos .

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation.

Their training took over as they pressed forward, using the sheer weight of their armored bodies to force gaps into the defenders’ formation.

One man lunged with his shortsword, the short blade plunging into the throat of a pirate whose axe had been raised too high.

Another bashed his shield forward, sending his opponent reeling before a quick thrust ended his struggle.

For every Imperial that crossed, another was right behind, the boarding planks now a bridge of death between the two vessels.

The air was thick with the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded, and the furious roars of men locked in combat.

A pirate swung his blade-fast, reckless.

The Imperial soldier caught it on his shield, the impact jarring his arm.

He bashed forward, metal crunching against bone.

The pirate staggered, and an opening was created.

The soldier’s axe came down.

Skull split and blood sprayed.

The body crumpled to the wooden ground unmoving.

Another pirate lunged,mace flashing .

The soldier twisted, but the mace connected with his shoulders, breaking whatever bone was there.

Screams and then a kiss’steal, bringing silence to the man.

A burly pirate with a great axe roared as he charged, muscles flexing as he swung for the Imperial’s head.

The soldier ducked, barely dodging the deadly arc.

He stepped in, inside the pirate’s reach quickly followed by his short sword stabbing up-deep, under the ribs.

The pirate gasped.

The blade twisted, and the pirate with a gurgle, fell.

The planks ran slick with blood.

More Imperials poured in and the fighting shifted from the planks to inside the flagship as the worst phase of the fight for the attacking side was now over.

Blake watched the battle unfold, his sneer curling in anger.

His men were holding, but the Imperials were pushing hard.

Too hard.

He had seen enough to know where and when help was needed.

With a growl, he grabbed his shield and axe, stepping forward into the fray.

The soldiers around him saw him coming-saw the look in his eyes-and they cheered.

Their commander was here.

Now the real fight began.

Truth be told, Blake was just waiting for an opportunity to get some action; commanding his men was fun but there was something that it lacked: action.  After all, there was a certain and undeniable pleasure to be found in getting one’s hands dirty, especially when dealing with Romelians.

An Imperial soldier , who probably thought he was going to be a hero who killed the enemy commander, swung at him, a heavy mace arcing toward his ribs.

Blake barely acknowledged it, as one would with an ant .

His shield rose, catching the blow with ease.

It was like swatting away a feather.

Before the soldier could react, Blake’s axe lashed out-fast, brutal.

The blade crashed into the man’s side, biting deep into the chainmail but failing to break through.

It didn’t matter.

The force alone sent the Imperial staggering, all the air driven from his lungs in a choking gasp.

Blake didn’t wait.

He stepped in, his shield slamming into the soldier’s temple with a sickening crack.

The Imperial crumpled to his knees, dazed, barely aware of the boot that came down on his throat.

A sharp crunch.

The body twitched once, then lay still.

Blake barely spared him a glance.

He rolled his shoulders, spat and strode forward, stepping over the corpse without a second thought.

His soldiers roared in triumph, slamming weapons against shields, finally seeing the man that they had been following for two decades in action.  An Imperial soldier who learnt nothing from his predecessor, lunged at Blake, an iron axe gripped tight in his hands.

He swung hard, aiming for Blake’s neck-a killing blow.

Blake sidestepped, fast and precise.

The axe whistled past his shoulder, hitting nothing but air.

Before the Imperial could recover, Blake’s shield smashed forward, slamming into the man’s arm.

The axe flew from his grip, clattering onto the bloodied deck.

Wide-eyed, the Imperial stumbled back, reaching for the short sword at his hip.

Too slow.

Blake’s shield came up again, this time slamming into his throat.

A wet, strangled gurgle escaped the man’s lips as he collapsed to his knees, clutching his crushed windpipe.

His eyes bulged, terror flooding his features.

Blake ended it swiftly.

His axe rose, gleaming in the sunlight-then fell.

A single, clean stroke.

The head tumbled from the body, rolling across the deck before coming to a stop at the feet of the Imperial line.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, the Imperials took a step back.

Blake exhaled, shaking the blood from his blade.

He lifted his shield, raised his axe, and sneered.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted his axe hand and curled his fingers-beckoning for more .

“Next,”