The Mercenaries

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Seven wet and bitter figures loomed up over him as he crouched in the grass, but the little man kept as still as a stone. Before him lay the curve of the Great Sea, its waves lapping fiercely at the coast of the Utter East.

The night breeze still smelt of burning wood and men, but at least the screams had stopped. As oily smoke bid the last stars from view, the flames dancing amid the rocks below found the precious smoke powder deep in the hold of the Kissing Shark and flared up in fresh fury, spitting spars and embers high into the air.

The seven pirates who'd swum out of the wreck on Skelder's Rocks watched in grim silence as the night exploded. Trailing flames, fragments of the ship hurtled high into the air above the wave-scoured rocks- only to plunge, hissing, back into the sea again.

On the cliffs, the seven turned away. They'd seen their shipmates die; watching them roast was an additional thrill none of the pirates wanted to taste on this darkest of nights.

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