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Yo ho ho...; New one - no idea where it's going!
Topic Started: July 5, 2007, 9:08 am (6,138 Views)
Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
[ * ]
Miana: Hope you're unglued from the screen now ;) Seriously, thank you!

Rae: Heh... keep on guessin'... we'll see what happens :) I'm glad you want to keep reading and find out!


Hammett awoke before Trujillo and stayed for a while watching him before reluctantly getting out of bed and dressing. As he did he noticed his lover’s sleepy dark eyes on him and laughed. “Today the pursuit begins in earnest.” He stated. Robert yawned and scrubbed one hand across his eyes, pushing away the last veils of sleep that clung to him.

“Aye? An’ why would ye be doin’ that? We still be outnumbered.” He noted with another wised yawn. Hammett shrugged and stretched, looking out of the window at the glorious afternoon outside.

“The way I see it,” he observed, “we do not have much choice in the matter. If we head for port, Mustaine and Hetfield will be able to catch us at the entrance. We’ll have no escape as the harbour will hem us in on both sides and we will not have enough time to try and turn and get through them before they manage to destroy us. Our only other option would be to head right out to sea and pray to the fates that we can outrun them. Then we will still be at risk from the Ymir as we were before. No, I think the only way that we can go forward is to catch them close enough to attack and hopefully see them at the bottom before we end there ourselves.” He finished l ooking directly at Robert who nodded.

“Ye have the right of it.” He said slowly. “Do we wait fer cover o’ darkness though? At least we may ‘ave some element o’ surprise, the moon’ll be wanin’ but we’ll ‘ave enough light ter see fer boardin’.”

“True enough.” Replied Hammett thoughtfully. “I’d rather attack during the later stages of the night, knowing that dawn is not too far away.”

“Aye, I don’t have objections ter boardin’ wi’ the element o’ surprise, but I like ter be able ter see plain those I be fightin’.” Said Robert with a slight grin.

“As do I. Thankfully we’ll all be at the same disadvantage.”

“An’ the Wrath?” Asked Trujillo. “If she be catchin’ us while we be fightin’ Hetfield, we be done fer. We don’t ‘ave the manpower ter deal wi’ both.”

“I’ve thought about that. It’s a risk I believe we shall have to take. We need to gain enough time on Hetfield that we may attack during the night, and leave Mustaine far enough behind that he needs must catch us during the battle. My instincts tell me that once we have engaged Hetfield in battle he will brook no interference.” He broke off, a smile curling his lips at the thought.

“An’ that be when ‘e sends the Ymir ter deal wi’ Mustaine for ‘im. ‘E wants ter kill yer ‘imself.” Finished Robert as he got out of bed and began quickly dressing.

“Precisely. This is of course conjecture, but knowing Hetfield as I do, I believe it to be the course that he will follow.” Said Hammett, a certain look of satisfaction gracing his expression. Robert nodded, belting his trousers and tying back his long hair. Hammett walked the few steps across the little room to him, kissing his surprisingly tenderly, pausing for a few moments, stood there with Robert’s hands lightly on his hips before smiling a sphinx like smile, unfathomable, before walking soundlessly from the room. Robert shook his head with a low laugh and finished dressing before following him out onto the deck.

On deck half of the crew were hard at work, getting back into their regular routine while the other half slept. They would rotate that way until they were out of danger meaning at all times there were enough men to man any part of the ship. Hammett was once again in his familiar position at the helm, while those able bodied crew members were engaged swabbing the decks and trimming the sails as ordered. Those wounded in the battle that had been treated by the ship’s surgeon were either down below deck, or were convalescing in the sun at the prow of the ship. Everything was moving smoothly, although there was the general feeling of tension that had held sway over the ship for some time that still permeated everything, and everyone. It was almost like walking on the edge of a knife, the air as tight as stretched canvas in a gale.

He felt the absence of Rawlett, knowing that now he would be the one explaining to the men what it was that Hammett was intending to do. It was often thus. Hammett left the explanation of his orders up to Rawlett often enough, knowing that the older man had a good connection with the crew. If there was to be any outcry however, it was Hammett who would subdue it and bend the men to his will. Now, it was up to Trujillo to take that role. As Trujillo had mentally predicted, none of the men were particularly happy about the idea of taking on Hetfield that night. All were still weary from the previous battle and none particularly enamoured of the idea of facing Hetfield’s men that night. Trujillo watched them carefully for any signs of trouble, but beyond a few mutters of dissatisfaction they were accepting of the idea.

Trujillo went below decks to the guns with a small team of men to ensure that they were all cleaned, primed and ready for action. He would stay above deck, but would appoint one of the crew members experienced with the guns to oversee the men who would be firing the great cannons. Once he was satisfied that they were being prepared to standards high enough to satisfy Hammett he once again went up into the sun. It was the worst part that they were dealing with, waiting, waiting for something to happen. The Revenge was never out of sight, and all the men knew that they would be able to catch her swiftly, and would do so when evening drew on. The fact that she was there ahead of them looming ominously even in the bright sunlight cast a pall over the mood and the men were by turns subdued and frustrated during the remainder of the afternoon.

Hammett himself was as always outwardly impassive. He stood at the helm as though he had not a care in the world. He had sent for his blade to be honed, but that was the only concession he made to the fact that they would be facing down Hetfield that night. He remained in place, occasionally using his telescope to watch either the Revenge ahead of them or the Wrath behind them, noting that they were by small increments drawing away from the Wrath and gaining on the Revenge. Small enough he knew that neither of the other Captains would notice, it was not something that they would be looking for.

While outwardly calm and cold, inwardly he could feel the tension, screaming from inside him. It was not so much fear. His own death he could face. The only thing that he felt apprehension about was the prospect of losing to Hetfield, losing his ship. He knew that his plan was nothing more than a gamble where he knew that the odds were in his favour. But such gambles could fail and that was something that he did not particularly wish to think about. The idea of losing his ship, his crew, that tormented him as it had when it had happened to him all those years previously, when he had sworn never to let it happen again. Now it was something that he would have to face the possibility of once more. He fought the inclination to look to where he knew Trujillo to be. Mayhaps there would be time to spend alone with him before the battle, maybe not. He didn’t know and did not want to consider the possibility of losing him either. His ship, he could recapture, his crew he could replace. The man who formed the other half of himself was something that once lost he could never get back and that was the one thought that truly instilled something closely akin to fear within him.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought from his mind, pushing it away. He would not think of it, could not think about it for fear of driving himself quietly mad. Hammett took a quick swig of his rum, resisting the urge to drink until his worries disappeared. Such measures never truly answered, and he would need a clear head for the night that they were to face. Hetfield was not a man to be taken lightly. Especially when he would have the use of the Ymir and there was Mustaine to consider in the equation as well. Hammett knew in his heart that the night ahead would be an ending one way or another, there would be no second chances. There would be only one victor in the dawn.
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
[ * ]
Aboard the Revenge Hetfield was walking down the deck, wheel lashed to keep them on course. The deck of the ship was a scene of busy industry. So much to the good. He could hear a few snatches of gossip about what had been seen and done on the beach the previous night. Already tall tales were being spun and he could tell that it would one day be turned into legend, the yarns bandied about over drinks so much that no man would ever know whether the tales truly had a basis in truth. That knowledge made him smile. A man might live forever through his deeds. There was no truer immortality. He strode down the deck, his eyes flicking between the men. Yes, they had regained their routine and in that he was satisfied.

Ulrich was at the prow of the ship, staring out to sea. Hetfield went and stood beside him in silence, waiting for a few minutes before he spoke. “The men be settled once again.”

“Aye.” Replied Ulrich, not bothering to look up. “I’ve spoken ter Newsted. ‘E will definitely fight for ye.” He stated, finally looking up at Hetfield who simply nodded. Unsure whether to be encouraged or otherwise by Hetfield’s lack of verbosity he decided to continue. “Hammett still be a distance away. Do ye think ‘e may wait until nightfall?”

Hetfield shook his head, stroking his fingers thoughtfully through his beard. “No, ‘tis too big of a risk. ‘E don’t ‘ave the crew ter expend on a chance. ‘E’ll wait until dawn.” He said with a confidence that he did not quite feel. Ulrich picked up on the changed note in Hetfield’s voice. Long knowledge of the man made it easy for him to notice such things.

“So I’ll be postin’ a light guard tonight?” He asked, a mocking but friendly tone in his voice. Hetfield nodded his agreement.

“When Hammett attacks, I want ye ter call out the Ymir.” He said suddenly, harshly.

Ulrich gave him a curious look but vouchsafed no reply and so Hetfield continued. “Ye will tell ‘er to hold back, keep ‘er distance. Hammett will be mine. Havin’ the Ymir there’ll knock the morale o’ his men. An’ there’s Mustaine ter consider as ye know. I will be ‘avin’ no mistakes.” He finished on a low snarl, blue eyes like chips of ice as they bored into Ulrich, seemingly seeing through him.

“I’ll make sure o’ that.” Noted Ulrich quietly, looking back out at the horizon once again. Hetfield walked away, heading back to the wheel once more. Ulrich turned to watch him go for a few seconds before drawing his knife, testing the edge against his thumb. Without hesitation he walked away, going below deck to find the whetstone to hone his blade. That was something that he would not wait to do, he wanted to know that his blade would slice through flesh and muscle down to the bone with ease. Some men would let their blades go for more than one battle without being sharpened but there was no way that he would let himself do that, he wanted to be assured that when he wished to kill a man, it would be quick and efficient. Not a long drawn out hacking that others would make do with.

As he sat down there, methodically honing the blade he could feel the familiar beginnings of thrumming anticipation within him. Dawn may be many hours away, but he could already feel the adrenalin slowly beginning to flow through him, the need to kill, to fight, to see an end to the long feud once and for all. Now that he and Hammett had a strange form of peace he was satisfied to meet his end should it come. He had no further real regrets that he needed to address should the end arrive.

Above deck Hetfield smiled to himself, letting the afternoon pass him by. He ate at the wheel, refusing to leave his post. Although he would never admit it to even himself he knew somewhere that it could be the last afternoon that he spent at the helm and wanted to savour every moment with his beloved ship. He knew that Hammett would attack the next day, he could feel it in his bones and had no reason to doubt himself. He watched as the evening slowly drew on, watching as the sun grew red, expanded as though it would try to swallow the earth before sinking below the edge of the horizon, leaving the edge of the world bathed in fire while the rest of the sky arched above in indigo and velvet grey. The breeze drove away the humidity of the day, heralding a cool evening. Hetfield smiled to himself. Whatever would come that night, by morning he was determined to have Hammett once again tied to the mast, this time being slowly gutted with his own sword. He was ready.

It was one of those evenings where hours and minutes seemed fluid. For a while they seemed to stretch into eternity beneath the stars that slowly came out. The night was calm and peaceful, at variance with the events of the previous nights, and the ones that were to come. It was almost as though they were briefly in another world where such things could not quite touch them. The air was clean, smelling faintly of salt and wood, and still carrying the faint scent of the sun of the earlier day. Even as the hours of the evening stretched seemingly into infinity, so did the hours leading into the depth of night begin to speed past, seeming like minutes. There was no more activity, most men were quietly awaiting the dawn, ready for the attack to come then. It was just the sense of anticipation in the cool of the night air that sent goose bumps across men’s’ flesh, something that in the light of day they would never admit to.

And as the night drew on, so they waited, mainly in silence, lanterns throwing light across the decks, a warm beacon in the night. There was no point in Hetfield’s view in ordering all the lanterns to be extinguished. Hammett knew that they were there, and he would attack them in his own time, whether or not they were carrying lights. The fact that Hammett had obviously had all the lanterns extinguished aboard the Lady meant that it would be even more impossible to see them coming through the deep darkness that can only be found miles from land. Hetfield and Ulrich were both stood on the bridge, surveying those on the deck, keeping a weather eye out for any sign of Hammett approaching. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing that they needed to say. Everything that could be, had been said between them at one time or another. It was simply time to wait, and then fight as they never had before. Both hoped that it would be a swift battle, with the numbers in their favour swinging the balance. However, as with everything else in life, in battle, nothing was ever certain. Never more so than at sea.

Aboard the Death’s Lady Hammett looked up at the sky with a smile. They were drawing inexorably into the small hours of the night and their meeting with Hetfield was coming swiftly upon them. With their superior speed they were gaining on the Revenge quickly and all the men were armed and ready for battle. Below decks the guns were primed, ports opened ready to fire as soon as the word was given. Nobody spoke on deck; all were waiting with grim determination for what was to come. Each man knew that facing Hetfield was something that would come to them eventually. It would either be at Hetfield or Hammett’s instigation and for their own sakes they preferred that it was Hammett who attacked, giving them the edge of surprise, a slight advantage that they could use. Everyone knew their place, knew the ritual of going to battle, knew what they did. Some sat honing their blades to wicked sharpness, calming the nerves they would never admit that they felt. Others touched amulets and charms for luck in the coming fight. All however were entirely focused on what was to come.

Hammett looked across the bridge to where Trujillo was stood, leaning against the rail, staring out at the Revenge ahead of them, a blaze of light in the darkness. His body language was relaxed, the only thing speaking of what was to come being the crossed swords on his back. “Hetfield knows that we’ll be coming you know.” Remarked Hammett softly.

“Aye. ‘E does. An’ that we’ll come no matter what. That be why there be lights. Do ye really want ter talk o’ this now?” Asked Trujillo, deep voice level and uncritical as he glanced over his shoulder at the Captain.

“Not particularly.” Responded Hammett with a soft laugh. “I shall leave it at the observation that we are catching her swiftly and have done. And now?”

“An’ now ye can tell me o’ yer plans fer when we ha’ disposed o’ Hetfield.” Retorted Trujillo with a swift grin that did not entirely mask the concern in his eyes, the sure knowledge of what was to come in the later hours of the night as they stretched into the soft light of the morning.
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Raedoll
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Poor Twisted Me
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Oh dear this is exciting. Hetfield is faintly wrong about the attack, it's not dawn yet and Hammett's already preparing for Battle. Hetfield's men have a light guard but those men can easily be extinguished along with the lanterns. I'm so excited to see what the captains will do next, it's terribly fascinating, all of it. I love your descriptions and how Trujillo picks up on his responsibilities a bit before or right as they're being delegated. Hetfield may be making an unwise move by telling the Ymir to stand down...sometimes to get what is wanted you have to swallow your pride. Mmmh. The detail is excellent and I love the double-post you pulled but hate it at the same time. There wasn't a response between the two :( I partially blame myself. BUT I'm caught up now, and better late than Never. If this story were hardbound I'd buy a first edition.
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
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Arr - thankee me hearty! I be most obliged to ye! An' I'm glad ter know that ye'd buy it :) Aye an' Hetfield an' 'is pride are not easily separated! here be the next edition....


There seemed to be no point in dwelling on what was so shortly to happen. Hammett smiled, a melancholy expression that was swiftly banished. “When we’re rid of Hetfield? We’ll be heading for the nearest port to let the men vent their ah… frustrations and to enlist some more crew members. From there? Back out to sea. The merchants have been free all too long from my touch and it will be good to remind them of who is a true master in these waters.” A wicked smile touched his lips at the thought, dark eyes burning with memories of previous raids.

“I’ll be lookin’ forward ter that. I’ve ‘ad about enough o’ supernatural bein’s an’ ‘avin’ ter fight ‘em.” Said Trujillo with a low laugh. “It’ll be good fer us ter get plunder an’ all. The men always find that plunder picks ‘em up after all that they’ve faught.” He observed. He had never experienced Hammett destroying a merchant ship entirely, but had heard the stories and knew of the success that Hammett enjoyed as Captain of the ship. It was no boast for Hammett to call himself a master in the waters, his reputation spoke for itself.

“True enough, true enough.” Said Hammett with a smile, lightly fingering the hilt of his sword. He shook his head and chuckled. “There’s no point in continuing in this vein is there? Dwelling on the future when truly all that is in our minds is the fight that is to come. You know my wishes should I die, and I will not mention them again. Tonight, you will fight alongside me, that is my wish. The men know their job and they will not need guidance. They will need to see a united front. I assume you have somebody in charge of the guns below deck?”

“Aye, primed an’ ready.” Replied Trujillo with a look of grim satisfaction. Hammett nodded, leaning against the rail beside Trujillo, leaving the wheel for a few seconds as he looked out at the Revenge. “Not long.” Observed Trujillo with a sidelong glance at the Captain who nodded, feeling the first trickle of anticipation run down him.

“Take the wheel.” Said Hammett quietly before turning without another word and walking away down onto the deck. Trujillo took the wheel without another word, watching as Hammett all but disappeared into the gloom. He could make out the Captain’s voice however, giving orders for the sails to be taken in as they drew up alongside the Revenge to match her speed and not begin to pass her when they would try to board the ship. It seemed strange not to hear the usual hauling songs as the men went about their business, but it was a night not to attract any attention to themselves if they could help it.

Trujillo took a deep breath, eyes closed, soaking in the night around him. All too soon it would be dawn and he wondered whether he would still be alive to see it. The air was cool and clean as it filtered down into his lungs, fresh and tasting slightly of the salt that hung in the air. All the familiar sound surrounded him and he let them wash over him, savouring each one. It was rare that he was in such a mood before any attack. On other ships when he had been attacking other vessels, there had always been simply the feeling of anticipation and a rise of adrenalin that he had welcomed. Attacking the Revenge was a different matter, knowing that they had a ghost ship under their command, and knowing by reputation and from Hammett the savagery of Captain Hetfield. It would be a night when they would either survive or be broken entirely.

He watched as the Revenge drew within range, and heard Hammett give the command to fire. For a few seconds there was silence and he could picture the men below decks hearing the order, letting it ripple across them, lighting the fuses, the brief delay as it burned down to the gunpowder before the deafening thunder of the cannons split the quiet night. Gouts of smoke showed white grey in the lanternlight of the Revenge as the first round of fire shattered through the wood of her side, rending planks apart, splintering them, sending deadly shards in through the gundeck of the ship. The scent of smoke and gunpowder was strong in the air as the deck of the Revenge exploded into action, men standing, firing muskets into the darkness, silhouettes against the light from their own ship. Even as the Lady’s cannons were reloaded, the Revenge fired upon them, sending destruction through the lower decks.

Hammett walked up onto the bridge once more and took the wheel once again, drawing the Lady closer to the Revenge. He smiled, cruelty and savage joy the only emotions readable in his eyes, while his face was once again nothing more than a mask, obsidian eyes glittering as he beheld the object of his hatred and enmity alongside them. They could hear the shouts aboard the Revenge as orders were bellowed. The Lady by comparison was quiet, the men already in their positions, having been ready to attack at any given word. It would not be too long before they would be able to throw across the grappling hooks, feel them grip the rails of the Revenge, tying the ships together, allowing the men to board and bring death upon Hetfield’s crew.

Trujillo descended to the deck, ready with the rest of the men for when they would board. He found another man who would take the helm while Hammett was aboard the Revenge with them and sent him up to the Captain to await further orders. Far from being reluctant to fight Hetfield once more, the men were on edge, willing the time to pass swifter so that they could get aboard the Revenge and start the fight in earnest. It would mean an end one way or another to the long running feud and that was something that they were anxious to see. Again the thunder of the guns sounded as more cannonballs thudded home, wreaking destruction wherever they touched. This they knew would be the end of one of the ships, if both did not end at the bottom of the ocean.
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Verity
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The Story Girl
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I have to be quick, I don't have much internet time because I'm traveling and our schedule this week has been insane, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm still with you on this, and I try and read as much in as I can.
The story is so rich with detail and professionally written, that it's not a fic that I can read at a glance. Good things always take lots of time, but I wanted to let you know that I'm still with you, and think it's totally bad-ass. :dance
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
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Ashley - thank you so much! I know how busy you are and that you're travelling round, so you may have a small idea how good it makes me feel to know you're still reading this'n! So yes, thank you, very, very much :)

This update is another somewhat short one - due simply to time constraint! Busy busy busy me :)


Hetfield swore in frustration as cannonballs ripped into the guts of his ship. He stared out past the lanterns at the silhouette of the Lady, descended upon him and his crew like a herald of death. He swore again, drawing his sword, ready for when they would board his ship. They should not have attacked, he had been so certain that Hammett would wait until dawn, wait until he had the light and his men had had the time to rest. But no, he had attacked in the depths of the night, the cold hours before dawn’s light broke the horizon into shades of grey. His men had fallen swiftly into their habitual ways of fighting and they had not lost too much time doing so, however, the fact that they had been effectively ambushed angered him and unsettled the crew.

In a cabin, Ulrich had locked himself in and was swiftly summoning the Ymir into being. She would not be called into the battle yet, but he and Hetfield both knew that Mustaine was not far behind, and that upon hearing cannon fire would no doubt be coming to join the battle. He shuddered as he felt the pull of the Ymir upon him as he drew her out of the world that she had for so long resided in. He could feel it as though it were a weight hanging from him, but one that he knew he could bear. Before he drew them out of the mists he charged Newsted not to attack until Hetfield gave the word. At his command and his command only would the Ymir act. Until that time, the Ymir would remain on the ocean as a threat, an observer. In Hetfield’s mind Ulrich knew that it was a weapon, both when it was brought into action, and simply when it was there as a warning. Once he knew the Ymir was again in the mortal realm he thrust the amulet back under the front of his shirt and left the cabin, going back out on deck.

The sky was dark, smoke drifting up towards it. Already the cacophony of battle filled the air, the heady mix that drove men on to madness. There were the familiar scents in the air and he could feel the reverberations of cannonfire through the planks of wood at his feet. He pulled on his boots that were stood just inside the doorway to the cabin, knowing that if Hammett chose to use deck spikes they would be scant protection but deciding that there were better than his bare feet nevertheless. He jogged down the length of the ship until he reached where Hetfield stood at the wheel, staring out at the Lady, bellowing orders every now and again, punctuating the whole by cursing and swearing. “Cap’n, the Ymir be with us again.” He stated, watching as the first of the grappling hooks began to swing across, biting into the rail of the ship.

“Good.” Said Hetfield shortly, watching as more ropes began to snake across as the Lady drew alongside them. He was torn, one part of him desperate for the battle, the other part of him wanting it to have been on his terms and his terms alone. “We’ll be ready fer Mustaine when ‘e comes. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ Hammett this night.”

“Aye Cap’n. We will.” Replied Ulrich with more careless confidence than he felt. He was fairly certain that Newsted would remain on their side, but a tiny part of his mind felt doubt about it. He knew how much Newsted hated life aboard the Ymir, craved to be set free once again, and now it appeared that at least one member of the Viking crew was upon his side. Lars shook his head, pushing the thought away. There was nothing that he could do about it now, there was no turning back from the course they were on. It was time to fight on and let fate take its twists and turns. Without another word, Ulrich walked away, moving down the ship to where the men were at the rails, slicing through ropes, keeping up pistol and musket fire, trying to prevent Hammett’s men from boarding, or at least delaying them for a short while, trying to pick them off, lessen the numbers who would come across.

Behind the two ships joined in battle, Mustaine heard the first cannon fire split the peaceful night. He swore volubly, slamming his fist against the wheel in anger. Battle had already been joined. He had not caught the Lady and would now struggle to do so. He snarled and shouted for the men to pile on full sail, driving them swifter to the two ships locked in combat. There was no way that he was going to miss his chance for glory by not catching up with the battle ahead of him. He gripped the wheel tightly, blue eyes blazing as he stared into the night, gaze fixed on the lights of the Revenge up ahead as he drew ever closer.

On the deck Ellefson heard the cannons of the Lady as she fired upon the Revenge with a smile of satisfaction. Mustaine would not be able to resist joining that fight, it would take a better man than he to wait and see who the victor was, attacking them when they were weary and thus ridding himself of both Hammett and Hetfield. No, Mustaine would act first and think later when it came to those men. Either way was fine with him. In the confusion and the darkness was when he would find his opportunity to strike against Mustaine. He knew that he had the men behind him to do it, and shrewdly guessed that the men who were undecided would go against Mustaine when he led them into a battle between two of the most feared pirates in the waters. They would not agree with that course. On the whole the crew preferred easy battles with rich pickings, whether they had dead men to back them up or no. Certainly it would be a night that nobody would forget, and that would likely pass slowly but surely into legend.
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
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Simply because it is so ridiculously damned busy - I now present the worlds shortest update!


Even as the Wrath drew closer to the two ships in combat, the Ymir appeared from the mists and into the mortal realm once more Newsted grinned broadly, taking a deep breath of the cool, dry night air, so different from the dank fog that constantly surrounded them between the worlds as they had been. Rather than the rank, cold scent of the place between worlds there was the stench of gunpowder, salt, wood and canvas drifting on the light breeze. He felt an urgent thrumming through his veins, as though he had been brought to life once again. He could feel Ragnar’s solid presence beside him and glanced up at him, seeing the grim determination on Ragnar’s face. No, he had no intention of allowing them to remain aboard the Ymir. Somewhere along the way, Newsted’s life, his defiance had broken him free of the almost zombie-like obedience of those who had been trapped originally aboard the ship. That was a fact that Newsted had every intention of using to his fullest advantage.

Ragnar drew his sword, testing the edge against his thumb. Still razor sharp. He could feel an unholy mixture of savagery and excitement flooding through him, bringing life and a new urgency to his movements. It had been too long since they had been needed, too long without feeling his blade taking another man’s life. Yes, this was something that he was looking forward to. They could see through the gloom and smoke Hammett and his men doing their best to board the Revenge and he and Newsted itched to join them, to be part of the action, away from the Ymir. And yet still they were under Hetfield’s commands and must wait on his word. If not, Ulrich would once more send them back to that place between the worlds. The rest of the Viking crew were ranging themselves on deck, looking out across the waters, weapons drawn. There was an energy coming from them that hadn’t been present before, something that was almost tangible and crackled across their skin making them feel alive once again. All of the men had their weapons drawn and slowly began banging the hilts of their swords against their shields in a loud challenge that rang out across the sea.
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*MiAnA*
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Blackened
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Well, I'm sorry I haven't been able to comment, but I haven't got the time. Just to let you know, i'm still reading ;)
The story is very well writen, and it keeps getting better. I'm loving the parts with Ulrich and Hetfield, and I'm waiting to see more of Mustaine :)
I wish I could say more but i don't have a lot of time, so, I just want to let tell you: you're a great writer, and I know everybody agrees.
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
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Thanks Miana :) I'm glad you're still carrying on with this one!! Don't worry - althougn there is no Mustaine in this part, believe me, he's going to be in the one after :) I still can't help lovin' the evil, drunken bastard!



The steady, thumping rhythm penetrated the conscious of those men already fighting and some looked over to see the legendary Viking ship, not living, not dead that sailed under the command of Captain Hetfield. A few felt a frisson of fear run through them at the sight but fought on the harder, determined after the previous night of fighting the living dead not to be bowed by any man. Hammett himself did not spare them a glance, but a great roar went up from Hetfield’s men, seeing their allies ready to fight once more. They alone knew the savagery of the Viking crew, no other survivors were ever left as had always been Hetfield’s way.

Hetfield smiled broadly as he looked at the Ymir. Yes, he had something over Hammett. He would not use the Ymir against him however, unless forced, but it was an added confidence for he and the crew to know that the Ymir was waiting in the background. Hetfield stood aloof, still at the wheel. There was no need for him to join the fight. He would not play a part until the first of Hammett’s men set food aboard his ship. Instead he drew out his telescope and peered out into the darkness, seeking out the Wrath, seeing how close she was running , seeing whether the tiome was right to send the Ymir out to meet her. It was not a card that he wished to play too early, sending the Ymir out too far to see after Mustaine would mean that he ran the risk of the Ymir being too far away to be of any assistance against Hammett, should he need it. No, the Ymir could wait for a little longer, then he would send her out to wreak havoc upon the Wrath while he took Hammett for himself.

Ulrich looked across from where he stood at the prow of the ship, eyes drawn inexorably to the sight of the Ymir with her men stood proudly on deck, issuing their challenge. For a few seconds all other sounds around him faded and he could not take his mind from those men aboard the ship. Those men who had fought and drunk alongside his forebear. Something deep within him stirred and he felt an overwhelming compulsion to join them, to be once again what his ancestors had been. Slowly the Vikings began chanting, a low song full of foreboding in their own ancient tongue, the meaning lost in the mists of time to all but themselves. No other living man spoke that long-forgotten language. As the chanting began, Ulrich could feel a rising savage joy and elation pulse through him and he screamed out his own challenge in the native tongue of his fathers, thumping the hilt of his sword down up on the rail, matching the rhythm set by those aboard the Ymir beat for beat. It was a good day for dying.

The first of Hammett’s men boarded the Revenge, coming across in an unrelenting wave, covered by musket fire from their own ship. The mighty guns had stopped as the men poured up from below to join the battles on deck. As Hammett’s boots touched the wooden boards of the Revenge he smiled. The expression on his face was nothing short of that of a devil, coming to take souls down with him to hell. Inside however he felt a grim determination and a burning need for revenge that flared so strongly within him it felt as though it would consume him. The familiar weight of his sword in his hand was enough to let him know that many men would die that day and, if eventually he was to be among them, at least he would die with that sword in his hand.

Even as the thoughts came to his mind the first of Hetfield’s men had pressed upon him and their blades rang together with a harsh clash of metal that made the blood sing in his veins. This was where his instincts rose to the fore, driving him onwards, thrusting, parrying, constantly in a state of motion. To stand was to die and that was something that he did not intend to do. Faces leered closer, pressing in until he could smell their foetid sweat and see the gleaming whites of their eyes reflecting the lantern light and he laughed, knowing that the man before him believed that he was pressing him hard. Hammett dropped abruptly to the deck, twisting away from the blade that threatened to come down on him while driving his own up through the man’s stomach and into his rib cage, hearing the startled cry broken off, revelling in the sucking, gurgling sound that spelled out the man’s death as he ripped his blade free.

Further along the deck Trujillo was beset by others of Hetfield’s crew, fighting furiously, never asking nor giving wquarter. It was not a night for mercy. It was a night of slaughter that would lead inexorably on into a bloodstained dawn. Long inured to the death and horror of battle he freed his mind from everything save the next man before him, the next to embrace death by coming within reach of his blades. Everything was changed by the swaying lantern light and the smoke that still hung heavy on the air. Shadows played across men and ship, warping and twisting shapes into a gross parody of their true form, while the flames played across steel like molten fire.

Hetfield came and joined the battle, having waited until the boarding of his vessel began. He had grinned maniacally ignoring muscles that still ached from the previous night, cuts stinging from sweat forgotten in the unholy ecstasy of killing. He felt once again as though nothing could touch him. At the back of his mind he knew that every man could die, and that every man would, but it was not his night to depart the world. He could see Ulrich out of the corner of his eye and glanced across to the Ymir once again. Mentally he calculated how close Mustaine must have come from when he last had a chance to look through his telescope, and how swiftly the Ymir would be able to reach him. He hesitated for an instant before signalling to Ulrich. He watched briefly as Ulrich dropped back from the battle, getting out of the way while he contacted Newsted through the link that tied him to the Ymir. Hetfield could see Hammett fighting, not close enough to get too him, there were too many men that stood between them, but it was enough for the time being to know that he was there, aboard the ship and that eventually he would be able to kill him.

There was a brief lull in the battle as many of the men paused for an instant as the Ymir began to glide slowly past the Revenge and the Lady. The great dragon prowed longboat was a fearsome sight, more because it was so alien to the men than due to its’ size. They stared, briefly distracted by her as she passed almost silently, any noise from the ship herself being drowned by the shouts and cries from the men aboard. As it passed, Newsted stared upwards, briefly catching Hetfield’s eye in a challenging stare that made him feel a moment of doubt over the loyalty of the Ymir. True enough, should she defect then all Ulrich must do is send her back between the worlds. But that, that would leave him open to attack by Mustaine as well as Hammett, something that could not be allowed to happen.

As the battle raged on board the Revenge, the Ymir stole swiftly towards the Wrath, now out of the way of the Revenge the Viking men able to use the oars as they powered forward against the wind. Even with the sail furled the ship was a sight to strike fear into the hearts of men. The lanterns that the men aboard had lit let light play across the proud dragons head of the prow of the ship, making it appear almost to be alive as it loomed out of the darkness. Newsted smiled to himself, drawing his sword and testing the edge of the blade briefly. It would be good to finally get some action once again, for too long they had waited between the worlds with nothing to take away the dull monotony of their days. Death was something that these men craved. It was what they had been born to bring. Aboard the Ymir there was a heavy atmosphere of anticipation. The sound of Ragnar’s voice rhythmically calling the strokes of the oars was as the tolling of a death knell as they came upon the Wrath. The effect would be much the same as it had been on any other ship that they had sailed on. Fear and panic. There was something ominous about the hulking men who looked as though they were part of another world, as indeed they were. They were part of an age by far more savage and barbaric.
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Verity
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Damn. Every single update is a gem in this fic. It really should be given an award. I feel bad because I don't get the time to read it. It's not a fic I can skim over or read at 3 AM before dumping into bed. It's beautiful, and I feel that every word is so very carefully selected, so just in that, it takes more time to read, but that is certainly a good thing! :)


He had grinned maniacally ignoring muscles that still ached from the previous night, cuts stinging from sweat forgotten in the unholy ecstasy of killing.

That line totally rocked my ass. It's like a scene from Braveheart or something and the description is so good.

The battles our exciting but you still do bring out the nasty part, the grusome and morbid parts about battles and death. It makes this story come totally to life.
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Shayi
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Ashley- what can I say but thank you so so much. I'm glad that you're still reading it, especially knowing how damn busy you are! This part is so hard to write - I'm happy that it's working :)


The lookout aboard the Wrath noticed the flickering light coming towards them, the dragon’s head prow looming out of the gloom. He stared for a few seconds in something approaching disbelief before shouting down the news which rippled through the assembled men like a shockwave until it reached the ears of Mustaine. He shook his head, fingers gripping the wheel like a vice as he heard before a stream of curses escaped his lips. “Let our dead brethren form the line around the outside o’ the ship.” He ground out through gritted teeth, “an’ ready the guns.”

“But Cap’n, she be a lower target than any other ship as we come across. We’ll ‘ave ter be re-settin’ the guns an’…”

“If I were requirin’ yer opinion Murphy, I’d be askin’ yer fer it.” Replied Mustaine with a snarl, flinging his semi-full bottle of rum at the unfortunate who had spoken. It shattered on the deck and there was instant silence amongst the rest of the men. Mustaine glared round at them all, gaze searching and suspicious. Fools in his opinion, every last one of them. At least however he should have no cause for regret over any of them who died, as die they surely would. “As I ordered ye, dead ter stand at the rails. Ready the guns, we’ll be the ones ter rid the world o’ the Ymir.” He grated out, looking round at the men, almost daring any to contradict him. At that moment, none did.

There was a brief pause before the men ran to do his bidding, scattering the length of the ship, going to their various allotted tasks, readying themselves. Once again that night it felt as though time was standing still as the Ymir drew ever closer, the promise of battle looming over them all. As the Ymir drew closer the Wrath’s guns went off, sending heavy lumps of metal thundering towards the longboat. Most splashed harmlessly down into the water beyond her, the settings not stretching low enough to allow the guns of the Wrath to hit the Ymir. Seeing that Mustaine cursed again and lashed the wheel, leaving it set as it was before stalking down onto the deck, sword drawn, waiting for the men of the Ymir to begin boarding his ship. In absolute silence his dead men waited, stood in simple lines, weapons at the ready as the first of the grappling hooks were thrown up from the Ymir and the first of the Viking men began the laborious climb up, hauling themselves hand over hand, axes slung over their shoulders.

Mustaine had a confident smile playing about his lips. His men outnumbered the Viking crew of the Ymir and he had no doubts that they would be able to subdue the men coming to attack them before moving on to take the Revenge and the Lady. Although the corpse army did their utmost to keep the Vikings away, still they pressed forwards, swarming over the rail, screaming out their battlecries into the still-dark sky. They fell upon the dead and the crew with unabated savagery. They knew full well from having observed the happenings of the previous night that the dead could be vanquished by the loss of their head and wasted no time in doing so. Mustaine watched in horror as his fiendish horde were cut down by the men from another time. Even as he watched his blade was claimed by another of them, driving down onto him with ringing force. The shock of the blow jarred his entire body as he parried the wicked axe that threatened to crush him. He stared up into pale blue eyes, much like his own, meeting the challenge with a laugh. No, he would not lose to this man, to someone who by rights should have been dead.

The man pressed upon him, and Mustaine could feel his breath coming in shorter gasps, sweat pouring down his face. His attacker was smiling at him, disconcerting, eerie and speaking softly in a strange tongue that he could not decipher. For the first time he felt a sliver of doubt slice into him, and he wondered for an instant whether the big man would die. He had no time to look about him, to see how the rest of the crew was faring, he was being driven back. Further back. He could hear cries and screams of the dead and dying, hear as bodies hit the deck and he knew without looking that they were his men, his dead army that were once and for all being slaughtered. He felt hardness behind him and knew instinctively that he had been pushed back against the mast by someone whose strength was so much greater than his own. A feeling of desperation overtook him and he pushed back with all of his strength, feeling some sense of relief when his assailant moved back a pace.

Ellefson and Kit were watching from where they had managed to conceal themselves, out of the way of the battle, able to easily see Mustaine being hard-pressed by a man who was obviously gaining the upper hand. He smirked, drawing his sword slowly from its sheath while Kit waited, watching with an appreciative smile on his lips. They could feel the tension in the air around, soaking up the atmosphere of the battle. There was a look of grim determination on Mustaine’s face, just visible by the swaying lanterns that Ellefson had never seen before. The expression made him feel a certain amount of satisfaction, and although he could see that Mustaine was tiring, the other man was too.

Mustaine pressed harder, putting every ounce of his strength into this one battle against a man who was threatening to overwhelm him. It was not often a fight lasted so long for him, or an adversary was so closely matched in skill, and one who towered over him so easily. He snarled, a red mist descending over his vision as fury got the better of him and he started to fight wildly, too angry to consider his movements, fighting as a cornered animal would who knew that the only other way out was death. He cursed softly as he looked into the grinning face of the man that he fought. Damned if he would go down that way, losing a battle aboard his own ship to a barbarian. The sweat stung as it ran down into his eyes, and he swiped one forearm across his face, clearing his vision. Even as he fought he could feel his arms turning to lead and a sick feeling in his stomach, the nausea of doubt and the sudden thought that perhaps he would not get out of it alive, that perhaps it was to be his last encounter. The sense of foreboding crashed down on him like a wave, threatening to drown him. If he died at that moment it would have all been in vain. The chasing for mile across the ocean, risking the displeasure of his crew, the selling of a portion of his soul for an army who would not save him. None of it would matter. Mustaine let out a loud scream of rage and defiance, his anger lending to his strength.

Then almost when it seemed that he would get the better of his adversary the man slipped backwards with a strangled cry, twisting as he fell. Half lunging at him Mustaine stumbled and went to one knee, recovering quickly, scrambling to his feet again, sword drawn. His adversary did not rise and Mustaine looked up with surprise to see Ellefson stood behind him, bloodied blade in hand, a smile of unholy amusement on his lips. For the first time Mustaine felt something akin to fear when he looked at him, and mentally berated himself for ever feeling such a thing about his incompetent, bumbling idiot of a first mate. But was he one? Mustaine shook his head. No, none of the epithets that he had flung at Ellefson had been correct. The man most certainly wasn’t an idiot, he was just quiet, accepting his lot, playing his cards close to his chest. That had been one person that he had most definitely misjudged.

The disquieting smile still played about Ellefson’s lips as he regarded Mustaine. The Captain gave a curt nod in acknowledgement of service done and Ellefson shrugged, slowly turning away. Mustaine dropped his blade, taking in a few deep breaths, recovering himself after the fight and the disquieting realizations that he had come to as a result of it. He stood for a few seconds staring out into the night at the rest of the battle, watching Ellefson who was stood still before him. The man’s very stillness seemed strange but he shrugged it away, looking at the rest of the men on deck, gauging which way the fight was going and how best he should move next. Suddenly Ellefson spun round, only a pace from Mustaine and lunged forwards, catching the Captain off guard. His blade entered Mustaine’s body and he thrust it forward to the hilt, a raw scream of rage and frustration escaping him as he pushed it as deep as he could, until he was face to face with Mustaine, staring deep into the shocked blue eyes that had haunted him for so long.
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Shayi
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Mustaine collapsed forward, forcing the hilt of Ellefson’s sword against the wound that pierced him through. He choked, a horrible sound as he gasped out a breath, blood bubbling at his lips. His expression of surprise had changed to one of pain and fury as he stared at his first mate, the man who had betrayed him so completely, the man whom he had meant to watch so closely and yet somehow never had. And yet it was that man who had managed to finally get the better of him. Ellefson regarded him, head slightly on one side, still with the same smile on his lips as he looked at his former Captain.

He watched with a growing feeling of exultation as Mustaine struggled to speak, blood running past his lips, showing black in the darkness. Ellefson felt a laugh rising within him as Mustaine fell to his knees, half dragging the blade out of himself, ripping it through flesh and muscle, wrenching a moan from him, hoarse, a sound that was more animal than human. Ellefson pulled his blade completely free, seeing the dark blood shining slickly along its length. He watched as Mustaine fell face-first at his feet, the last breaths leaving him as sickening gasps. As the life slowly drained out of the Captain Ellefson grinned again, spitting on the corpse that lay at his feet while Mustaine’s soul rose screaming for the part of itself that was lost.

Ellefson raised his sword, shouting that the Captain was dead, his signal to the men that the mutiny was underway. True enough, all listened and those closest to him followed Kit’s lead in ranging themselves at his back, a white scrap of cloth to call a truce held aloft. Even as Mustaine had died the corpses had halted, ceased to fight and had walked away, sliding over the side of the ship like a great wave before walking with slow measured steps across the ocean floor towards the island and their one true master, Pierre. The Viking crew at Newsted’s signal had ceased to do battle with the remaining members of Mustaine’s crew.

Newsted had swiftly picked up on what was happening and decided to wait and let it play to a close. He and the crew of the Ymir had no fight with anyone bar Hetfield and Ulrich. It was by far more in their interests to stay whole and await their chance to bring down Hetfield. And so they halted, holding their weapons, watching and waiting.

Mustaine’s crew stood divided, as had been predicted. After the things that they had been put through on the preceding days the vast majority had chosen to back Ellefson in his move against the tyrannical Captain under who’s command they had sailed for so long. Kit looked at Ellefson with a grim smile of satisfaction. “An’ so ye be Cap’n.” He murmured.

“Aye, fer a time.” Responded Ellefson, sotto voce before addressing the rest of the crew, voice raised to carry across the deck to each and every man. “Yer Cap’n be dead. Ye can either join me or ye can be killed by the rest o’ the crew. We ‘ave no fight wi’ these men, nor wi’ Hetfield or Hammett. As yer temporary Cap’n I say we leave ‘em ter their own battles, an’ go find ourselves a port, a tavern an’ some wenches.” There was a roar of approval of his words, and he smirked in triumph, bending and pulling the hat from Mustaine’s head, placing it on his own. “Any one ‘ave any objections ter this?” There was something new in his voice, an authority that hadn’t been there before when he had constantly played second fiddle to Mustaine. It was that which made the men suddenly begin to truly listen to him. There were no objections. The men who had been in two minds about it saw the wisdom in what Ellefson said and compared it to what Mustaine had done, his actions over the last few weeks and saw it in an unfavourable light. Ellefson was the man that they would follow until a new Captain was decided by a vote. Ellefson himself had said that he was to be a temporary Captain and with that they would be satisfied.

Newsted watched the proceedings with interest before making an ironic bow to Ellefson. “Good luck to ye. My men an’ I will leave now an’ return ter the Revenge. We ‘ave unfinished business o’ our own.” He stated, glancing back at the rest of his crew who had come to stand behind he and Ragnar. Ellefson nodded, holding out his hand which Newsted shook before looking back to the rest of the Vikings. “Back ter the Revenge.” He said quietly, gesturing for them to move towards the longboat. Almost as one they turned and walked towards the edge of the ship, quietly and efficiently boarding their own ship. Newsted was the last to leave the Wrath and looked across at Ellefson with a quick nod of understanding and thanks before leaving the ship entirely and boarding the Ymir once more, setting them on a heading back to the Revenge. Ellefson smiled and took his place at the wheel with Kit as his new First Mate stood at his side. He couldn’t suppress a triumphant laugh as he ordered Mustaine’s body be thrown over the side as he swung the wheel, turning them away from the horrors that they had experienced, ready to guide them back to land and freedom as he had promised.

As the Ymir began moving back towards the Revenge, Ragnar smiled to himself. Yes, he could see that Newsted thought as he did. This new happening would suit them very well. Once they made it back to the Revenge, they would need to exercise caution. Ulrich would have to be removed, or at least separated from the amulet that he wore to prevent him from sending them back into the place between worlds, somewhere that none of them had any desire to ever go again. When there was no chance of him being able to banish them again, then they would be safe to move against Hetfield. He felt no particular apprehension that they would have any trouble from Hammett. No, he and Hetfield had been sworn enemies for far too long so there was no chance of them having to deal with Hammett and Hetfield simultaneously. There had never been any form of bad blood between Newsted and Hammett, nor himself or any of the crew with the strange Captain of the Lady. Ragnar was satisfied as he stood in the Ymir, bloodied axe hung at the belt on his waist, breathing in deeply the night air, watching as the grey fingers of dawn began slowly touching the horizon.

Aboard the Revenge the fight still raged on. The scene more resembled something from a nightmare than anything any living man should have to endure. The horror of the situation was something that almost numbed the men who fought, knowing only that if they did not carry on, they would not survive until the next day. The deck itself ran slick with blood, dangerous for those fighting as one slip could end with them impaled upon another man’s blade, or bludgeoned to death by whatever weapon he had in his hand. Grimly they fought, all the bravado that had been with them in the depths of the night leaving them only their determination which kept them going, kept them doggedly battling onwards, refusing to give way to weariness. Hammett’s men could see their Captain fighting alongside them, seemingly tiredness, outwardly giving no sign that he was wearying which gave them hope and a desire to emulate his actions. None of them saw the Ymir slowly sailing towards them, swift as an arrow in the half-light that pervaded the scene, gliding towards them like a herald of death on silent wings.

Hetfield could feel a growing sense of victory slowly beginning to gather force. By sheer weight of numbers his crew were beginning to get the better of Hammett’s. It was a slow process but little by little it was happening. He cared not if he had to let every man jack of his crew go to their deaths if it meant that he would ultimately beat Hammett, annihilating him and his crew. He himself was feeling the exhaustion setting in but knew that the adrenalin that flowed through his veins, the joy of battle would keep him on his feet and fighting far beyond that which would have normally spelt the end. With Mustaine out of the way, it was beginning to seem as though there was no question as to whether or not he would be the victor in their encounter. It was something that was now merely down to it being a matter of time. Looking across the deck he could see Ulrich fighting like a fury, not caring for any around him, determined to live where others died. He could make out Hammett beyond that and ached to get within a swords length of him, but knew also that that would come with time. None of his crew would take from him the privilege of killing Hammett. Hammett’s first mate he could see also, another one to watch out for. Yes, he was in control and was satisfied with the direction that the battle was taking.
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Verity
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Wow. Shit. I'm speechless. I was shocked and still am shocked about Ellefson. Not only does he finish off his first man, but he took his hat too!

I hate to see the end of Capt Mustaine, and see that he was betrayed by his first mate. However, you wrote the death scene beautifully. I know it's not meant to be beautiful, a violent death, being stabbed on a ship at sea, while others are dying around you, but you still with the style of writing make it flow beautifully.

I am very concerned that Hammett or even Hetfield will be the next to follow Mustaine. :(

I love all the drama and action. This is very much heating up between everyone. It reads very much like a fine action/adventure novel.

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*MiAnA*
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You killed him :(
But the death scene was, like Verity said, beautifully written, it almost made me cry (and believe it or not that is a great achievement). That's when i know I like an author, when the story is so addicting and well written I actually feel sad when evil characters die :)
And BAD Ellefson! I don't like him anymore. I was really upset when he stole Mustaine's hat.
I'm going to miss Dave. But now i'm worried about the other guys. I hope they don't die as well, or else I'd be depressed for life.

Can't wait for whatever comes next :P
You should publish this, I'd buy it.
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Shayi
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Ashley: Terrible, isn't it, taking another man's hat! But I'm glad that you liked that death scene, I didn't really enjoy killing the chap but, well, every dog has it's day, and that was Ellefsons!

Miana: Thank you :) *G* Thank you. And thank you again. I'm so stoked you guys are still reading this one... because it's heading swiftly to its conclusion!


Hammett could feel the tide of battle slowly turning against them. The amount that Hetfield’s men outnumbered them by was proving too much and he just refrained from swearing aloud. He was determined not to give in at any point. It would wholly be a fight to the death. The conflict between them had raged for too long, for far too long for therer to be any mercy. He could see Hetfield and knew that he would be coming for him. That was fine. The final test had been far too many years coming.

He saw Trujillo nearby, fighting furiously against a member of Hetfield’s crew and out of the corner of his eye made out the distinctive shape of the Ymir drawing closer. A soft curse finally escaped him at that. With the crew of the Ymir on their side, Hetfield’s crew would be able to pick them off at their leisure. He shifted his position until he was close enough to Trujillo to speak. “Eyes to port. The Ymir is coming.” He stated, jerking a shoulder in the direction of the Viking longboat.

Robert smiled grimly. “I see ‘er.” He replied, watching with satisfaction as his adversary fell, throat slit to die on the deck. “An’ we’ll give ‘em sommat to remember.” He stated with quiet conviction. Hammett gave no answer to this bar a swift smile, turning instead to the business of killing, something that every man aboard the ship was proficient at.

Even as the battle went on the men of the Ymir were quietly and efficiently pulling their vessel up beside the Revenge, throwing their ropes up once more, boarding the vessel. That was something they had never before done, setting foot on the Revenge herself and they did so with the utmost confidence, as though they knew their place to be there. Upon seeing that the battle was to be joined by the Vikings, many of Hammett’s men shuddered, knowing themselves to be vastly outnumbered with no way out. Still, it was better to go down fighting than as lambs to the slaughter so they continued their onslaught unabated.

Ragnar glanced across at Newsted who nodded. As Newsted approached Hetfield, Ragnar moved away, joining battle on the side of Hetfield, keeping up the pretence of being on his side for the time. It did not matter to them if they killed Hammett’s men for a short while, just long enough for them to remove the consideration of Ulrich from matters. Once he was dispensed with and the amulet destroyed, they would be able to turn upon Hetfield himself for all that had been done to them. Newsted threw Hetfield a swift almost mocking salute and joined battle alongside him while Ragnar slowly moved down the ship to where he had seen Ulrich fighting. No man purposely went to engage the big Viking in a fight, they would wait for him to come to them. There seemed to be little sense in tempting fate in that way. And so Ragnar continued, unimpeded the length of the ship, eyes firmly fixed on Ulrich who he could see fighting up ahead. He smiled to himself, hefting his axe, feeling the firm wood of the handle beneath his fingers, worn smooth by so many long years.

As Ulrich fought he saw Ragnar coming towards him and paled slightly beneath his tan. He had no time to fumble for the amulet at his neck to try and send them back, but could see the murderous intent in the eyes of the man coming towards him. As he watched Ragnar, his careful guard slipped for an instant and his adversary pressed through. He had no time to defend against the stunning blow that crashed down, turning his world to darkness. Ragnar watched with a grim smile of satisfaction as Ulrich collapsed to the deck in a heap, blood streaming from his head. The big Viking turned on the man who had so summarily dispatched Ulrich and raised his axe, bringing it crashing down upon him, killing him instantly, even as he turned to face him. Ragnar watched impassively as the man died twitching on the deck of the ship and bent over Ulrich, pulling the amulet out from his shirt before looping it over his own head, letting it fall to rest over his shirt. Well for Hetfield to see that he no longer had any power over the men of the Ymir.

That thought made him laugh, something he hadn’t had reason to do in far too long and he strode through men, shoving them aside as he made his way towards the main part of his crew. At first he had been tempted to destroy it, but something stopped him dead, something vaguely prying at the back of his memory halted him and he shook it off. That could be dealt with. For now, he was content to destroy Hetfield’s crew. He would leave Hetfield for Hammett to deal with. He knew from speech with Newsted of the bad blood that lay between the two, and had decided that he would leave Hetfield to Hammett. There were some things that a man should never do in punishment to another, and Hetfield had crossed those boundaries without a thought. Ragnar looked forward to watching as Hammett made him pay for what he had done.

At the sight of Ragnar striding over, with the amulet strung about his neck Hetfield paused with a quickly indrawn breath of shock and dismay. The fact that Ulrich must be dead flew through his mind only to be swiftly thrust to one side. There was nothing that he could do about that. The fact that he had an entire crew of Viking men who were just waiting to tear him and his crew limb from limb for being the last ones to keep them trapped aboard their own ship was something that to his mind was more important. He would be able to mourn later, if he himself lived. He finally felt true doubt and fear, coupled with a knowledge that prickled at the edge of his conscious that he would not be getting out alive from what was about to happen. He could feel his death upon him.

Newsted smiled as he looked across at Ragnar and raised his sword aloft, rallying the rest of the Viking men towards him. The men as one left Hammett’s who fell back in surprise at the turn of events grateful for the respite as Ragnar, Newsted and the rest of the Viking crew began to turn upon Hetfield’s men, unleashing their fury and frustration upon them. Hammett and Trujillo fell back for a few seconds, doing as so many of their men were and taking a breather, trying to get some air, trying to shake the numb feeling from their fingers where their blades had been struck so hard so many times. “And so they begin to get their revenge.” Murmured Hammett with a slight smile. Trujillo nodded, a smile playing about his lips as he looked at them.

“Aye, true enough. ‘Tis an unwarranted rest fer us.” He replied, keeping a weather eye on the tide of battle, ensuring that their men were not overly pressed now that Newsted’s crew had become involved. At last it seemed as though there was to be some kind of hope for them, something that had been missing for overly long. Watching the ebb and flow of the men Trujillo shrewdly guessed that they would be able to overcome Hetfield’s crew. He had watched as Ulrich went down and knew that watching one of their leaders fall would serve only to demoralize the remaining men. Something that was only to their advantage. He could see Hammett’s eyes following Hetfield as that man fought and Trujillo could tell that the main thought in his mind was that he wanted to kill him. Silently Robert swore to himself that when Hammett went for the other Captain he would be there at his side, fending off those who would attempt to protect Hetfield. It was the least that he could do, as Hammett would want to finish Hetfield on his own terms, without assistance from any man. “May luck go with ye.” He said softly.

“And with you.” Replied Hammett, clasping Trujillo’s shoulder briefly before starting forwards towards Hetfield. As he moved forwards through the wounded, the fighting and the dying men in the light of the bloody dawn, everything faded in his perception. The sounds of battle previously deafening changed almost to nothing as he focused solely on the man ahead of him. He could sense Trujillo to one side of him and knew that somebody had his back while he finally got to meet his sworn enemy in a final, decisive combat. One of them would most certainly be lying down and dying, both could not walk away from the encounter. He knew that Hetfield could see him coming and was going to be ready for him, he had met those blue eyes across the crowded deck and knew that Hetfield was waiting for him.

Hetfield watched Hammett moving swiftly towards him, a burning rage spreading through him. He had every reason to slaughter Hammett. There had been the initial betrayal, once dealt with, but then Hammett had survived and been a thorn in his side by simply still existing. Now he had attacked his ship and was laying waste to his crew. He could quite happily lay Ulrich’s demise at Hammett’s door but did not want to dwell on that thought. Thinking once more about Ulrich, never hearing his sharp voice, seeing his quick movements, watching as he thought through a problem in his swift and logical brain, no. He could not do that, to do so would be to muddy his thoughts and bring on the grief that he felt and he had to meet Hammett with a clear head, focused only upon one thing. He found that as Hammett drew nearer that was not a particularly difficult thing to ask of himself. As Hammett came towards him all thoughts of anything else left his mind. His body was buzzing and on edge, the rushing feeling as though he had been drinking flaying him top to bottom.

Time was fluid, for a while is seemed as though Hammett would never reach him, then in an instant the other man was there, almost breaking through his guard, a silent dark eyed fury who would not allow for any errors. Hetfield recovered himself swiftly, narrowing his eyes, concentration wholly on the moments ahead. And so they broke into the familiar patterns that they both knew so well as they fought back and forth. As the rest of the crews noticed that the Captains were in battle they slowly lowered their weapons, forming a thick circle around the two men. There was no point in fighting among themselves, this was a matter to be settled by the Captain who won the fight. To continue fighting between themselves would simply mean more death, and none of them felt any desire to move on to the afterlife that day.

As the circle formed around them Trujillo kept his guard up. He would not put it past any member of Hetfield’s crew to try and dive in, get a hit in on Hammett to slow him down, weaken him and improve Hetfield’s chances of victory. This was something that should only be between Hammett and Hetfield. The two men who were fighting were so different to watch. Hetfield was like a caged animal, barely contained ferocity and power in his every movement, tightly leashed but just waiting to come to the fore. Hammett was oddly graceful, movements fluid, a deadly dance to him that would finally play out to an end. Trujillo shook his head, dark eyes narrowed as he watched them. The pair were evenly matched enough that he did not want to call the ending. He could feel his heart rising into his throat and quelled the feeling, pushing it away until his habitual calm was as close to restored as it could be under the circumstances.

As Hammett fought he felt any slight tremors of doubt leave him. He felt nothing but a cold burning flame of desire within him. Desire for revenge. Desire for Hetfield to die at his feet like the waste that he was. There was nothing more. He could not focus on anything bar the man before him. Vaguely he was aware of the circle of men around them, but cared not. His world had changed, shrunk down into a maelstrom of metal against metal. He could hear both his and Hetfield’s breath coming hard and fast, see the sweat beading on Hetfield’s face, the scent of death in the air, rising above the stench of battle. He chuckled softly to himself. He was going to enjoy this. The sound of Hetfield’s blade ringing against his provided an almost soothing rhythm that he fell into easily. He could feel himself gaining the upper hand. He knew that even as he did, Hetfield would be worried, more easily driven to make mistakes. A cruel smile crossed Hammett’s lips as the thought crossed his mind and he pressed Hetfield harder, correctly reading the other man’s grim, scowling expression for what it was. Something to hide the fear that he felt.

Trujillo watching from the side could see that Hetfield was being overborne by the smaller but swifter man. He smiled to himself as he watched the balance of the battle switch between the two men, unsurprised that Hammett, smaller, faster and with the everlasting desire for revenge burning within him was gaining the upper hand. He watched with satisfaction as Hetfield fell back a pace, hard pressed. Hammett would not let up for an instant, breaking through his guard, almost catching him a few times until Hetfield twisted his blade away at the last second. Trujillo caught sight of sudden movement at the edge of the circle of men who were silently watching, willing the battle one way or another. He moved sideways, parrying a thrust meant for Hammett’s back, shoving away the man who had tried to interfere, killing him with his other blade even as he defended. In so doing there was no time for him to avoid the sword thrown from the edge of the ring. He looked up in shock and surprise as he fell to his knees, the blade still protruding from his body to see who it was who had thrown it, his eyes meeting a set of bright green ones.
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