For too long, they had been stifled by the mundanity of ruling, petty raids on sun-bleached villages or dreary missions of subjugation where small towns preferred to pay their tithes in gold rather than in blood and meat. It was profitable, yes, but it was tedious.

Gold was good, but blood was better.

Blake believed there was no better way to consolidate a lasting peace than to occasionally drench the ground in fresh war. It kept the men’s blood from thinning and ensured the enemy stayed on their toes, forever looking at the horizon for the Red Angel’s wings.

He slammed his axe into the rib-cage of a panicked soldier,christening him for the mortality he was.

The steel screamed as it bit through the links of the man’s mail, fondling the meat beneath with a lover’s kiss of steel. When Blake wrenched the blade free, the man didn’t drop immediately; instead, he spun and swayed across the deck like a common drunk, leaving a dark, steaming trail on the floorboards before finally collapsing into the deepening red pool.

In a rare pocket of quiet amidst the storm, Blake stole a moment to look around. He was pleased to see that the banquet in the Azanian lands hadn’t turned his wolves into lapdogs.

Over by the mainmast, his second-in-command, Tonitz, was a blur of efficiency, cutting down one man and then another with the bored precision of a butcher. He glimpsed Big-Mouth Luke letting out a howl, his face painted red as he tore through the Azanian line.

Further down the gunwale, Rok the Monk lived up to his reputation; when a spear pierced his forearm, he didn’t let out a sing sound nor whimper and instead let his axe speak.

Eating first at the shaft and then at the arms.

When Blake had seen enough of his men’s handiwork, he turned back to his own. He caught the rhythm of the red dance once more, parrying two blades in quick succession with a ringing clang-clang before delivering a twin-strike that left two more bodies twitching in his wake.

He had his sights set on a third, someone of importance by the look of his silk sash, but Tonitz beat him to the prize, his blade finding the man’s throat first. The two pirates shared a brief, mad laugh amidst the carnage before spinning back into the fray.

The Free-Men were making easy work of it.

The Azanians were skilled enough at crafting beautiful ships, but they hadn’t the faintest idea how to use them, he thought as his axe bit deep into the neck of a man trying to scramble up the rigging.

They built palaces of wood and sail only to turn them into floating coffins the moment a real predator stepped aboard.

"Is that some lord?" Tonitz asked, stepping over the twitching wreckage of humanity Blake had left in his wake. He propped a boot on the corpse with the silk sash, which gave one final, wet shudder before going still.

Blake gave the body a long, unimpressed look. He’d never met the Lord of Damas, but he knew the breed. "Unlikely. These desert peacocks like to plaster their banners everywhere the light touches. They need to scream who they are without saying a word, why else be a lord if not to let the world know you’re better than the dirt beneath them?"

He paused, glancing at the churning blue water beyond the gunwale. "Though maybe they’re humbler on a boat. They all look like they’re waiting for the sea to swallow them."

"Mh... kind of like that one?" Tonitz pointed his blood-streaked sword further down the line.

Blake followed the trajectory.

"Probably."

He elt a flicker of annoyance at himself. How had he missed that one? The man was a walking beacon of arrogance.

He was the only soul on deck wearing proper war-iron. It was a suit of fine lamellar armor, hundreds of small, overlapping steel plates laced together with silk cords that shimmered like beetle scales.

It was a queer choice to a man from the Isles; plate was sturdier and easier to make though even lamellar armor had its benefit. It was light, breathable, and, most importantly,didn’t turn into an anchor the moment you hit the surf.

Man of the Isle had no need of such a thing.To sleep in the embrace of the Sea-God was an honor not a punishment.

His helmet was a polished silver bulb topped with a spike, draped in a veil of fine mail that covered his neck. Even through the gore splashing his white surcoat, the heraldry was unmistakable: a coiled black snake striking across a field of emerald green.

The snake-man was no Free-Man, but he moved with a fluid, predatory grace on the swaying deck. He parried Rok the Monk with a clashing swing and followed through with a back-swing that caught One-Ear Talberd across the face. Talberd spun, his remaining ear suddenly joined by a ruined eye-socket.

Now he’d be known as No-Eye Talberd.

The pirate whimpered, losing his footing and his steel in a single, clumsy sprawl. He was no man of the sea, Blake realised in passing when he felt the men whimper and moan.

True sons of the foam didn’t fear the drop; they knew they were just waves returning to the God of the Sea. Talberd, however, clawed at the air like a cat in a bathtub until an Azanian spear skewered him through the spine.

Blake’s focus shifted from the dying pirate to the man holding the sword. As if smelling the murder radiating off the Admiral, the Lord of Damas turned. His shoulders jerked, the instinctive reflex of a man who realized he was no longer the top predator on the deck.

"You!" Blake barked, wrenching his axe from the ribcage of a nearby corpse. He pointed the dripping blade directly at the snake-lord’s throat. "Be you the Lord of Damas?"

The man reached up and flicked his visor open. Beneath the steel appeared a face that looked more like the pampered bed-slaves his brother Cain kept than a hardened salt-dog. He was clean-shaven, his skin the color of pale honey, with eyes that held far too much fire for someone who looked like he spent his days being fanned with palm fronds.

He was also rather young. Had he perhaps already killed the late lord of Damas?He recalled seeing the banner once more...perhaps it was out of Khairo?Whatever, he was a mistake he meant to rectify.

Luckily, he spoke the tongue of the East with a haughty, sharp precision. "I am he. I am Xerxe, son of Uthai, Lord of Damas, Servant of the Sultan, and soon-to-be cleanser of sea-rats!"

Blake let out a dry, hacking chuckle. "Which Sultan? I’ve killed three this month. They’re growing out of the sand like mushrooms on grass."

"The true one!" Xerxe hissed.

That did not help. ’’I am-’’

"I know who you are!" Xerxe shifted his weight, his curved blade singing as it cut the air. "There is not a soul in these lands who knows not of your infamy, you mangy dog. I have many titles, but by day’s end, I shall add ’Feller of Angels’ to the list. ’’

He charged and Blake welcomed the attempt.

He grinned, the blood on his teeth catching the sun. He liked the boy’s courage well enough. It was a shame he had so much of it, and so very little reason.

His sword was well-made , just like his armor, and he was skilled enough to make the steel sing with his own.

He played with his feet, dodging with the ease of a dance one of his swing, and answering by cutting down.

Most men looked at Blake’s barrel-chested frame and assumed he was a lumbering ox. It was a mistake that usually ended with them being shortened by a head.

Blake parried the first strike the ring of steel on steel vibrating through his marrow. He missed the second parry, however, and felt the boy’s blade skip off the side of his helm with a jarring crack. The vibration made his teeth ache, but Blake only grinned.

Now that was a challenge worthy of him.

The boy lunged again, the curved scimitar aiming for the gap in Blake’s gorget. He caught the edge on the beard of his axe, the two metals screeching as they kissed in a shower of sparks. The Azanian tried to dance back to reset his distance, but Blake was done playing the spectator. He roared and charged.

The dance turned frantic. Blake’s axes became a whirlwind of salt-crusted iron, while the Lord of Damas showed he had eyes not just in his head, but in the soles of his boots. The boy skipped over severed limbs and slipped past dying men as if the deck were a ballroom floor. Blake, having none of that feline balance, stumbled over the cooling carcass of an Azanian sailor, his heavy boots squelching in the red soup of the deck.

Frustrated by the man’s squishiness, he unleashed a flurry of blows that mostly harvested the air. In the midst of the storm, the snake-lord found a gap, his blade snaking down to bite at Blake’s thigh, and biting damn deep at that.

’’YOU BASTARD!’’

Clang. Clang. Clang. Three times Blake’s steel met the curved sword, but on the fourth, he swung wide.

The lord capitalized on it, slapping the flat of his blade against Blake’s helmet with a humiliating thwack that rang like a bell.

It stung, but it didn’t break his stride. Blake decided to show the pampered lord how an Isleman used his head. He lunged forward, slamming his forehead, encased in the heavy iron of the Sultan’s own Royal Guard, directly into Xerxe’s lordly visor.

Steel crunched against steel. The armor held, but the meat beneath it failed; he staggered back probably seeing stars on the back of his lid, his boots skidding until he hit the gunwale with a heavy thud.

"My turn!" Blake growled as he intended to open the boy from groin to chin.

But he missed the lord entirely, the steel biting three inches deep into the solid oak of the ship’s rail as the man jumped away.

The wood clamped down on it like a virgin grip. Blake tugged once, and realised at once he’d wedged it true. He didn’t waste another heartbeat. He let go of the handle, abandoning the stuck weapon to keep the pressure on with his remaining axe.

Then, the Sea-God decided to play his hand.

A massive swell slammed into the hull, tilting the ship at a sickening angle. Blake, caught mid-stride and off-balance, felt his feet go out from under him. He hit the deck hard, his pride burning hotter than the bruise on his hip.

All fault of that damn thigh.

He looked up, his face flushing with shame, just in time to see the Lord of Damas, who had somehow kept his footing like a mountain goat of Elio, leaping through the air, his blade raised for the kill.

"Die, sea-rat!" Xerxe screamed.

But Blake did not .He rolled.

The scimitar bit into the wood where his head had been a second before. He tried to scramble up, but the boy was relentless. Blow after blow rained down on him, steel whistling past his ears, glancing off his spaulders, taking piece of steel form his helmet, keeping him pinned in a desperate, undignified crawl.

Blake couldn’t find his center to mount a response.

Parry, parry, miss. Parry, parry, hit.

The ship groaned and heeled sharply the other way.Bringing the red angel to his knees once more, his hands slapping into the gore of the deck as he fought to rise.

Xerxe, who had overextended in his bloodlust, swayed as the deck shifted. At long last , he lost his balance at the worst possible moment, tumbling forward and crashing directly atop Blake.

They became a tangle of limbs and armor and in the struggle,the Azanian was the only one with hand on a weapon.

He didn’t have room for a swing, so he drove the weighted steel down like a hammer, smashing it into the side of Blake’s head once, twice, making the world turn a hazy, shimmering red.

But that was all right. They were now close, and the man had no way to run.

He hammered the pommel in his face a third time and then Blake answered back. Only once.

But it was more than enough to knock the boy cold. He gave him two more for a good measure and regarded with great pleasure that he indeed stopped moving.