Chapter 107 Salt, Blood, and Honor

  They called it the salt of Avalon before the sun had set on the governor’s house.

  By morning, it had become the sole topic of discussion.

  By evening, a weapon.

  The city, with all its cunning, had made a spectacle of the delivery. Ser Dathren and his men had carried the sealed sacks up the marble steps of the governor’s courtyard beneath banners and fanfare, guards standing proud in their polished mail. The people envisioned the gleaming white grains. And the people whispered. They always did.

  The governor’s ministers played their part well. They moved quickly, publicly, conspicuously—calling for scribes, stamping seals, and dispatching orders that “the goods must be secured and accounted for by sunset.” Before long, the word had spread through the streets and taverns: the salt was being taken to one of the governor’s ships.

  The city’s navy itself was tasked with guarding it.

  The cargo was bound for safety beyond the harbor walls.

  That was the story they wanted told.

  By late afternoon, the chosen ship stood moored at the governor’s quay—a tall, broad-decked vessel bearing the city’s crest on her sail. Dockhands labored noisily as barrels and crates were rolled up the gangplank. Soldiers—too many soldiers for a merchant run—lined the railings in a display meant to be seen from every corner of the waterfront. Even the harbormaster was there, issuing commands in a voice that carried clear across the wharf. “No departures until dusk,” he declared. “The harbor is sealed by order of the council!”

  And so it was. For four hours, no other ship moved.

  The city’s waterfront grew tense and crowded. Sailors cursed, merchants muttered, and the crowd swelled to watch as the governor’s ship—laden with mystery and soldiers—finally loosed its moorings and drifted from the dock, its sails catching the fading light.

  The crowd gasped and pointed.

  Men swore it rode heavy with treasure.

  Children shouted that it gleamed white even as the twilight fell.

  By the time the ship passed the harbor mouth, every tavern from the quayside to the governor’s square knew the tale: the salt was leaving the city.

  The harbor’s lockdown lifted an hour later, but by then the rumor had already run from sea to every village or farm within 10 miles.

  Behind the bright deception, the real work began.

  As the city gates were closing for the night, a quieter procession stirred in the lower quarter. A small company of light wagons—six in all—rolled from a hidden side street, their wheels wrapped in cloth to muffle the sound. In anyone was watching, each wagon bore a single barrel beneath a tarp, and beside them walked men who did not wear city livery. No one spoke. They passed the sleeping sentries with the ease of men expected to be there, and once beyond the wall, they turned east toward the beaches. Thus, a company of men left the city unnoticed.

  The true salt—the sacks of Avalonian white—was gone from the city long before the taverns had emptied of talk.

  Long before dawn, it would reach a lonely stretch of coast where an unmarked cove waited beneath the shadow of Sea Island. There, a smaller, faster ship rode at anchor—no crests, no banners, only a weathered hull and a crew who knew how to keep their tongues. It would wait, hidden by mist and tide, until word reached the governor’s men that the trap was sprung.

  Meanwhile, the whispers multiplied.

  The harbormaster’s cousin swore he had seen the governor’s ship sail north, bound for the kingdom port.

  A dockhand claimed the soldiers were only a distraction, that the salt was already on a merchant galley bound for rich southern islands.

  A fisherman—half drunk—said he had glimpsed a second ship sailing at midnight, smaller and lower in the water, slipping east beyond the watchtowers.

  And somewhere in the backroom of a tavern, men with scarred faces and rough hands argued over the truth.

  “Sea Island,” one said. “That’s where the city hides things.”

  “Or down the coast,” said another. “They’ll slip it out past the reefs.”

  “Then we find the island first.”

  They leaned closer, voices low, breath sour with wine and greed.

  None of them noticed the watchful eyes at the next table, nor the coin quietly passed to a man who left without finishing his drink.

  Captain Darius’ plan was unfolding exactly as he intended.

  The rumor of the governor’s ship—its pageantry, its guarded departure, the locked harbor—was the lure. The salt itself, hidden beyond the walls and moved under the night, was the bait. And the hunters he sought would soon take it.

  Garran the Redhand—so-called for the furious mop of hair that framed his face like a comet’s tail—lived on such scraps of knowledge. He had more than his share of informants; he also had the appetite of a hound for what might make his men rich.

  It took a single, drunken tongue to steal what the governor’s men believed was secret. In the tavern where light and debauchery were swallowed together, a man who called himself a deckhand bragged too freely about having watched the Salt never leave the governor's house, but it was placed on a to be carried to some ship on the coast. The price of his boast was two flagons and the promise of a cut; the reward of his boast to Redhand was a map and a knife at night.

  By dusk, Redhand pulled together the biggest crew he could manage. No warships this time—he barely had any in the area, and dragging a whole fleet behind him just to swipe some cargo felt ridiculous. Stealth always worked better for him anyway. So he went with six longboats, filled them with oarsmen who could navigate those moonlit channels and sandbars blindfolded, and picked three captains he actually trusted—tough guys, brutally honest, the kind that made everyone around them uneasy. He brought along his cutthroats, too. The quiet type, faces rough as rope, but they could row all night without a word. The plan was dead simple: slip in after midnight, when the barges would be beached, snatch the salt, and vanish before the city even knew what happened. He wanted to be long gone before the harbor bells started up.

  Redhand’s scouts missed the one thing that really mattered—the detail a decent informant sometimes skips, whether by accident or on purpose. The ship everyone watched, the one anchored under a shroud of secrecy, was just bait. The real stash? They’d already smuggled it inland onto smaller, forgettable boats, turning the island’s sheltered side into a trap, all set and waiting.The city’s hand was laid like a palm over a gong: make a bright clank, and let the sound draw the hounds. Let those hounds come bearing teeth.

  Redhand didn’t see a trap. To him, it just looked like a chance. He flashed that wild grin—the same one he wore in a fight—and signaled his men to grab the oars. They pulled their long-boats together, forming a line. Overhead, the moon hid behind streaks of cloud, spilling only a thin, sharp light. The sea around Sea Island barely moved, silent and heavy, except for the soft dip of oars and now and then the splash of a fish. They slipped close, not in the harbor’s bright glare but under the island's shadow, and Redhand’s captains whispered their orders: encircle the island; wait for the signal; strike fast and take the prize.

  On the island’s lee side, the air carried that sharp mix of gulls and seaweed. The reeds bunched up in the darkness, like they felt what was coming too. Hidden in those reeds, the city’s men crouched low, quiet as a second tide. They had ropes looped, bows drawn, breath hanging in the air like a thick fog. Under the surface, the spikes waited—silent, mean things—no one would spot them until a boat smashed right into them, wood cracking hard against iron. Skiffs sat ready to cut off anyone trying to slip away. The buoys bobbed, almost like they were making a promise. Everything came down to timing, and one thin secret: a pirate was supposed to show up right where the city could pounce.

  Redhand’s boats crept up the last stretch—maybe a hundred paces left—hardly making a sound. The men hunched low, every muscle tight, their oars just skimming the water. The island’s shape started to show, dark and heavy, blotting out the night. The captains’ faces were rubbed with charcoal. Garran ran a hand over his beard, then grinned, as he’d just remembered a joke. He’d been thinking about that loudmouth pirate, the coin he’d promised, how easy it should be. He hadn’t thought about the city waiting to close its fist.

  When they hit the lee, a sail flashed—just a hint, waxed and catching the faintest light. It was the kind of thing that made a man sure his prize was close. The longboats lifted on small swells. The oars dipped in, came up shining white.

  He set his course under a sky of broken stars, his oarsmen pulling silently through the dark. Behind him, the wake spread white across the black water, and ahead, the faint outline of Sea Island rose from the mist like a waiting ghost.

  The trap was set.

  The salt would soon shine again—either in the moonlight of victory or in the blood of those who came to take it.

  …

  The attack came thick and wet, the air tasting of salt and iron.

  Two longboats nosed toward the island first, silent but for the dip of oars. Two more slid along the flank of the moored ship, their hulls brushing the waves like beasts stalking prey. On the shore, the sea grass hissed with the wind, masking the scrape of wood on sand as the first men leaped to land.

  From the ships, they could see lamplight flickering on the deck—sailors and soldiers moving about in calm routine—the proud creak of the capstan turning carried across the water. The anchor was being weighed. The ship was preparing to sail.

  Captain Garran roared out, his voice carrying over the water.

  “Now, lads—close in! Grapple her! I’ll not lose this prize to tide or coward!”

  The order spread through the night. Oars bit deep. The longboats surged forward. In the mad dash, the other boats failed to notice that the first to land on the island burst its hull on iron spikes.

  On the main deck of the ship, Ser Dathren heard the first cry and the splash of oars cutting faster through the dark. Then came the sudden thud of iron against wood—the dull hook of grapples catching the railing—and the hollow clatter of boots striking the hull.

  “Positions!” Dathren barked, voice sharp as the edge of his sword. His gambeson was slick with sea mist, his hair plastered to his brow, but his eyes were clear and steady. His men and the city guards snapped to readiness along the rail.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The first pirate vaulted over the stern, shouting. He met a sword to the chest and fell back into the sea. But more followed—five, ten, fifteen, their boots pounding on wet planks, torches flaring in some fists. The air filled with the sound of iron striking iron, of men grunting and shouting, of the desperate scrape of blades deflected and driven home.

  The clash became chaos.

  Wood splintered.

  Blood hissed when it spilled on the cold boards.

  One of the city sailors swung a belaying pin into a man’s jaw with a crack that sounded like a plank breaking. Another fell backward over a coil of rope, screaming as he went down, a dagger lodged beneath his ribs.

  Dathren’s sword found a throat, then a shoulder. He pivoted, parried, and cut again. The deck was a whirl of motion—the stamp of boots, the clamor of curses, the wet slap of bodies hitting the planks.

  The defenders held the stern, but the pirates came again, climbing from the waist of the ship where two more longboats disgorged their crews. The fighting split in half—men pressed shoulder to shoulder, shouting orders no one could hear.

  “Hold your line!” Dathren called.

  His voice barely carried over the din, but his men understood.

  Tight formation. Shield to shoulder. Strike, then step back.

  They fought as drilled men fight—disciplined and grim.

  The pirates fought like beasts—wild, furious, and unthinking.

  Even so, Dathren knew they could not hold forever.

  Then came the crash at the bow—the sound of timber splintering as another longboat rammed into the hull and threw grapples up from the front. The cry went up: “They’re over the prow!”

  Dathren turned in time to see them climbing—men in soaked leather, faces smeared with pitch, teeth bared in the lantern light. And at their head, a man both larger and louder than the rest: a mane of flame-red hair, beard matted, axe in hand, eyes wild with the joy of slaughter.

  Captain Garran.

  Dathren’s gut turned cold.

  He had heard the stories of the man’s strength, the way his axe could split helm and skull with one stroke.

  He gave orders quickly. “Five to hold the line—no retreat! The rest, with me!”

  They moved, pushing through the melee, cutting down those in their path. A sailor went down beside him, a blade buried in his side; another dragged the fallen man back even as Dathren drove his sword through an attacker’s belly. He could feel the deck vibrating underfoot—men running, boots pounding, the weight of battle pressing close.

  At the bow, the air reeked of sweat and brine and blood. Redhand’s laughter rolled over the noise like thunder.

  “Ah! A knight of Avalon! Do you bleed red like normal men?” he shouted, lifting his axe as if in greeting. “Didn’t expect to find you guarding my prize, boy!”

  Dathren’s grip tightened. “Nor I to find you stealing from a city that tolerated your kind too long.”

  Redhand grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Then let’s see whose arm is stronger tonight!”

  He swung first. The axe came down like the fall of a gate, splitting the rail beside Dathren. Sparks flew where it struck iron bands. Dathren stepped in, the movement instinctive, his sword driving for the man’s ribs—but Redhand twisted, catching the blow on his haft, the sound a sharp clang! that echoed in Dathren’s arm.

  All around, the battle raged on. Steel clashed, wounded men cried out, and officers shouted themselves hoarse, desperate to pull their soldiers back from the edge—but most of them were already lost to the blood and chaos. The deck ran slick with blood. Lanterns swung from their hooks, flinging wild shadows that darted through the mess like they had minds of their own. Dathren pushed ahead, his blade flashing through the gloom.

  Redhand countered, laughing through his teeth, strength and fury in every stroke.

  Behind them, one of the pirates stumbled onto a hidden spike the defenders had driven into the deck as a trap, and his scream rose above the din—high and short.

  Then, far across the black water, a trumpet sounded once, low and flat—the signal.

  The city’s hidden skiffs were moving.

  The trap was closing.

  But on the deck, amid blood and fire and salt, the knight of Avalon and the pirate captain had no thought for strategy, only survival—and the brief, brutal truth of combat.

  And when their blades met again, the night itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Dathren’s arm burned from the strain, his left shoulder throbbing where the weight of the pirate’s blows had driven him nearly to his knees.

  The deck beneath his boots was slick with ropes, bodies, and blood; his sword hand was raw from the hilt’s bite. He drew in a sharp breath, forcing the tremor from his arm, and muttered between clenched teeth,

  “Damn this narrow deck... too tight for a proper swing!”

  But then he looked up—saw how the pirate’s wide, savage strikes smashed into the masts and rails, the axe chewing through air and wood alike—and a grim smile flickered across his face.

  Too tight for him, too.

  Captain Garran came at him again, roaring like a storm. His double-headed axe cleaved downward, sparks spitting as it struck the iron guard of Dathren’s sword. The impact shuddered through his bones. He twisted away, ducked low, and let the man’s own momentum pull him off balance, slashing for the ribs—only to meet the haft, solid as iron, again.

  Garran’s laughter was harsh and mad.

  “Come on, knight! Stand still and bleed like a man!”

  Dathren didn’t answer. He moved—small, precise, controlled—letting the rage burn itself out in the monster before him. Every swing Garran made was wild and punishing; every time he missed, the weight of his axe dragged him another step toward exhaustion. Yet the man’s strength was frightening. He fought like a creature that had never known restraint, his muscles coiled with brute power that defied reason.

  Twice, Dathren angled his defense so the pirate’s wild arcs cut through his own men.

  Twice, Garran roared in rage as his blade split flesh that was not his enemy’s.

  The third time, the pirate spat,

  “You cowardly bastard! You dance and flinch like a dockside girl!”

  Still, Dathren said nothing. He let his silence sting sharper than any retort, his cold focus cutting through Garran’s fury. He stepped back, parried another overhand blow, and the deck shuddered under the weight of it. Splinters burst up from the planks.

  …

  From Garran’s eyes, the world had narrowed to one man.

  That knight—pale-faced, blood at his lip, refusing to die—filled his entire sight.

  Every breath Garran took was a curse. Every heartbeat, a drum pounding his anger louder.

  His axe felt heavy now, slick in his hands. The knight wouldn’t stop moving—dodging, deflecting, baiting. He’d forced Garran into killing two of his own crew, and the sight of their sprawled bodies made his rage burn hotter.

  “I will kill you slow!” he spat, swinging again.

  The knight slipped aside, leaving only shadow.

  “You hear me, silver dog? I’ll break your spine and gut the—”

  He didn’t finish. He couldn’t. The man was gone—no, not gone, but circling, moving like smoke through the chaos. The pirates were losing their footing, their cries rising higher now with the clash of new blades. Somewhere beyond the ship’s rails, faint and distant, he thought he heard oars in the dark, men shouting—a trumpet call, low and hollow, that seemed to come from the sea itself.

  But he didn’t understand what it meant.

  He didn’t see the skiffs that had closed in, the city guard cutting through his longboats, or the archers climbing the island ridge.

  He saw only the knight.

  His eyes were wide, wild, and bloodshot. He lifted his axe in both hands, ready to end it.

  …

  Around them, the battle slowed.

  Men—pirates, soldiers, sailors alike—began to draw back, giving space to the two who fought at the heart of it. The lanterns swung in the rigging, throwing long shadows that swayed with the rhythm of their blades.

  On one side, Dathren: steady, disciplined, precise. His breathing controlled, his footing deliberate.

  On the other, Garran: massive, red-bearded, eyes aflame, the embodiment of chaos.

  Steel met steel in a thunder of sparks.

  Dathren’s arm trembled now. His strength was waning, but his focus sharpened.

  He studied the man’s every motion—the shift of his stance, the twist of his wrist before each blow.

  There. There, between breath and fury, was rhythm.

  And rhythm could be broken.

  He waited.

  Then the opening came.

  Garran’s eyes darted toward one of Dathren’s men—young, frightened, pressed against the rail.

  The pirate raised his axe, bellowing, and swung with all his might.

  Dathren saw it—the overreach, the raw intent to kill not him, but one of his own—and something inside him snapped.

  He remembered the oath he’d sworn:

  To shield those who cannot shield themselves.

  To guard Avalon and her sons.

  To be the sword that strikes, and the shield that stands unbroken.

  A name rose in his chest, unspoken yet thunderous. Caelen.

  The name burned like fire in his blood.

  His fatigue vanished. His limbs felt light and strong again, his purpose as clear as the dawn. He moved before thought—no hesitation, no measure—just will.

  To the men watching, it seemed impossible. One heartbeat, he was at the three steps away, sword low, blood on his arm; the next, he was there—between Garran and the doomed man, his left arm raised.

  The pirate’s axe came down with the force to break a horse’s spine, and …It stopped.

  It was stopped!

  Dathren’s left arm caught its shaft mid-swing, his muscles locked like forged iron.

  The deck groaned beneath them with the strain.

  For the first time that night, Garran’s eyes widened—not in rage, but disbelief.

  Then fear.

  The knight’s voice was quiet, calm, almost pitying.

  “Strength is not honor!”

  He drove his sword forward in a single, perfect motion—no flourish, no hesitation—just purpose.

  The blade pierced through leather, flesh, bone, and heart.

  Garran staggered back, breath catching, his axe slipping from his hands. The sound it made as it struck the deck was dull and final. He looked down at the wound, at the steel buried in his chest, and then up at the knight who had given it. His mouth moved, but no words came. Only a shuddering exhale.

  Then he fell.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  The only sound was the whisper of the waves and the faint clatter of the fallen axe rolling to rest.

  Then, as if the world exhaled, the onlookers—pirates, sailors, guards—broke into noise. Some shouted in disbelief, others in triumph. A few of Garran’s men dropped their weapons where they stood, hands raised, faces pale.

  Dathren stood over the fallen man, sword slick with blood, the lantern light catching on his blade. His chest heaved once, twice, and then he straightened. The weariness rushed back into him like a tide returning to shore.

  He looked to his men. “For Avalon,” he said quietly.

  And beneath the night sky, the battle for Sea Island was over.

  The trap had closed.