Blake stood atop the deck of the Roaring Axe, his boots planted firmly against the blood-slicked wood as he watched the three enemy ships draw ever closer. The salty wind lashed against his face, carrying with it the scent of the sea, sweat, and death.
Under normal circumstances, he would have already barked the order to turn the prow and ram them—cleaving through those sluggish merchant hulls like a hot knife through butter. A single well-placed strike would tear their wooden bellies apart, sending them and their crew to the depths before they even had the chance to board. But these weren't normal circumstances.
They had no time.