Quoted By:
You grit your teeth in frustration as your spearpoint flashes out to deliver the killing blow…but misses the gaunt face of the pirate you had been driving the pitiless bronze towards. Through pure bad luck, he managed to stumble to the side at the exact moment your spearhead would have pierced his brainpan – he has the gall to cackle at his good fortune, even as he is toppling to the uneven deck. His companion is hardly more gracious, offering you several uncouth taunts about your parentage, which he apparently believes to be partly oxen.
You prepare yourself for a second spearthrust, but wince in disgust as an arrow whistles over your shoulder, striking the haggard man directly in the face – the sound is unpleasant, like an overripe apple striking stone, and the man’s death throws are the jittering kind that sets your nerves on edge. His companion, a pale, filthy man of Perrhaebian descent, stares blankly at his fallen friend in confusion, motionless until Teukros delivers an arrow into his upper back, directly through the leather jerkin, and piercing his lung. Choking, he falls into unconsciousness and sinks to the pine below. Both men having perished, they cease to matter to you – you forget their faces without a second thought. Without turning, you raise your spear in salute of your archers. You hear the testy call of Castor over the slapping waves and crash of battle –
“Don’t make this a habit, Thessalian!”
Shaking your head, you move to join the Salaminian formation - they are prompt, organized and are already pushing against the enemy phalanx with aplomb. The pirates, better trained than their counterparts, fight tooth and nail against the onslaught, but simply can’t match the coordination, rhythm and pace set by Ajax’s best – the spearpoints are driven relentlessly at legs, ankles, shoulders and necks. The men of Salamis drive them like fly-bitten oxen back towards the bow, and never do the men needlessly attack the fullness of the enemy’s oxhide shields, always jabbing carefully - picking them apart. The raiders are slowing, through fatigue and blood loss – only a handful have been killed, but the wounds are piling up quickly. Put simply, your forces are winning, and your maneuver has been a success, although not a crushing triumph. Pollux, half-asleep in boredom once more, steps casually over rowing benches and around smears of blood, scanning for the weak links in the enemy shieldwall – until he pounces, a lion falling upon a heedless flock of sheep. In a show of trained spearmanship, he wedges his spear-tip into the top of a pirate’s foot, waits for him to pull his shield away from his neck, and then punctures him directly through the throat.
You’re pleased at the current state of affairs – the Salaminians practically unwounded, the enemy blooded and in poor positioning, and the archers with a clear line of sight against their prey.
Not every battle goes so smoothly.
>cont
