[content warning for violence typical of a raid on a port town, all that fun jazz.]
You could always tell when they were about to make landfall. There was an energy to it, the same kind of crackling ozone you could taste on the air before the inevitable flash of lightning and clap of thunder. The Silverbloods were frothing, their limbs painted with sweat as they artfully pulled their oars, speeding the narrow-bottomed boat on and yet, through some subtle witchcraft all their own, never once splashing. As was their right, making their trade by the sea as they did, sharing in the same kind of salty wildness as their Bismuthblooded brethren. There, but for an accident of the light, themselves reflected in the spirits of the ocean they bartered with every day of their lives.
The rest of the crew were less overworked. This was the calm before the storm; it was forbidden even to take part in any last-minute what-if farewells. Wedded soldiers kept chaste, as they all must, before the fight. Wasting their energy on late night endeavors, even the short, fleeting and utterly silent sorts that needed happen when you were on a ship with twenty-plus other men, was foolish. The kind of thing only done by the youngest and greenest amongst them. The kind of thing that you learned very quickly was a bad idea, either because you walked back to shore more sore than you wanted to be, or you never walked back at all.
Theirs was the art of conservation. Of biding their time and waiting for the optimal moment to strike. Theirs was a will of Iron, their blood singing the hue and strength of it as they waited for the signal.
Evaristo had been here many times before. When he was very young, on his first raid with his father, the excitement had left him shaking. His fingers had gone so cold, he had barely been able to keep a grip on his sword. He'd even dropped it a couple of times, the loud tanging THUD on the wooden planks deafening in the haunting quiet of their wait. No one had looked in his direction. Several of the older soldiers had tensed beneath their helmets, their jaws set diamond-hard in disdain for the nerves of a boy. But Evaristo knew better than to apologize: he had tightened his grip, and resumed his wait.
It had taken years for the shakes to ebb away, worn down like a boulder against the tide. The corpse of his own fears eroded to the sands of time and experience until all that was left was the polished pebble on the deck. Still. Quiet. Unmoved by the clinging chill of early morning tidal mists. Unbothered by the thickness of the wisps, obscuring everything beyond himself and his closest neighbors. Surrounded by such stillness, Evaristo could hear everything.
He heard the creak of weathered rope overhead. He heard the shift of breath as the Silverbloods rowed them onwards, one side taking a deep intake that preceded the shift starboard as they turned. It was no wonder, all those years ago, that the older men had been aggravated by his noise. In these quiet moments, the drop of a sword against the ship deck was louder than thunder. It wouldn't give them away, not at this distance just yet, but it broke focus.
This was their art. Bismuth had their deep magics, Silver had their sea, Copper had their kingly fires, but Iron... only Iron knew the deep meditation before a war. The way your heart beat felt against your bones before they shattered. The way your breath felt before it stilled forever. The quiet of the grave before it was a grave, and the quiet of a victory before it was a victory. Here, they were all dead men. Here, they were all glorious. Here, the riches of the world were theirs and theirs alone, kings beyond kings, only waiting for the exact moment they would be able to reach out and take it.
Only Iron knew patience. Was honed for it. Considered and carefully built for it, like the inspection of a sword before it's put to the test.
The Silverbloods breathed again, and Evaristo shifted his weight, leaning to the right as the ship banked sharply left. There was a soft rustle ahead as helms were donned, the faintest whisper of metal touching metal that slid back like silk over sand as each row followed suit. The call of a bird sounded from somewhere off the bow— a bird that had no place this close to the savage mainlands, a bird that only meant anything to the men still hidden in the mists.
L'usignuolo. Love and death. Glory and the end.
Evaristo raised his shield, steadied himself as the ship shuddered ashore, and rushed forward as a drop in a tidal wave of forged steel. The mist did nothing against the sudden rush of sound, though it did obscure them just long enough to make it to the port town's gates without more than the sluggish confusion of the guards atop the wall in response. By the time the barbarians even knew what was happening, it was too late, and even the panicked yells of alarm did very little except to give the beasts time to light their lanterns— light that would only serve as a beacon for the storm of Iron at their doors, signaling just where it was most profitable to strike.
Still, the element of surprise was always fleeting, and soon what forces the town had were mustered. This was where death met glory at its closest, like two dancers forbidden to touch but made to hold the same candle. They moved together, step for step, cutting wide arcs across the ballroom, each step precise, practiced, forceful. Meaningless babble shouted in terror and fury was the orchestra, with the lilting birdsong overhead as always.
L'usignuolo.
"Evaristo, Claudio! Dai, il dovere di contrassegnare il bestiame!"
Evaristo spun on a pin's head, ducking low and bringing his sword with him as his abrupt change in direction dragged the edge across a thinly protected belly. He didn't pause to see if the damage had been done; he could hear it in the cascade of wet thuds that followed, and knew it had. Somewhere, someone's lantern had fallen over, or more likely, had been thrown against the dry thatch that made up much of the seaside rooftops. Crude, and effective against wet weather, but terribly weak to the ravages of fire. Smoke billowed with the ocean breeze to fuel it, coating everything in a burnt haze as the scent clung to everything it touched.
It only made Evaristo think of home, a comfort in these foreign lands as gangly, ungainly creatures taller than he but fresh faced as babes rushed past, dodging like terrified beasts when they realized he was not one of their own. He didn't bother pursuing straight away— cattle duty required him to be picky, and he already had such a hard time telling these mainlanders apart without the cover of smoke and blood to disguise them further. More to the point was that their ship could only hold a certain number, and if the raid was to be successful, he needed to find ones worthy of the long trip home.
The last thing he needed was his pick of tribute to end up at the bottom of the ocean on a second glance. Claudio was already kicking in doors to a chorus of shrieks, all of them too high pitched. Too young, or worse, the mainlander's forges. It was always a bit of an exercise in finesse to disarm a cornered mother without doing her any lasting harm, especially when it sounded like she was the only one between Claudio and several very small children.
He had his work cut out for him, then. Which left the burden of a proper search to Evaristo. The bulk of the fighting was a ways away, where the mainlanders had hoped to fortify and were swiftly overrun. Which was just as well: soldiers didn't make for very good slaves. They had too much fire in their blood, and tended to be bolstered by the wholesale destruction of their homes. Too far away, there was a risk of running into families, as Claudio had, and while those tended to be on the more demure end of the spectrum, there was simply no market for human babies.
No. If he kept just close and just far away enough, he would find the vein he needed; cowards hoping to hide out the worst of the fighting, tradesmen who'd never held a sword, soft-handed officials or, hope beyond hopes, a young poet or two. Well worth a share of the spoils when it came to dividing loot. Through the smoke, Evaristo caught sight of a swinging sign, though the words scrawled over it may as well have not been there at all. Still, the only places that ever labeled themselves were businesses, and businesses had businessmen, meek little merchants or skittish apprentices who, facing the end of a sword, would be very keen to do exactly as they were told.
And so, Evaristo raised one steel-armored boot, and kicked in the door with a resounding crash.
