His blood was boiling, and his cock was as hard as the Roaring Axe's great mast. The drums were pounding their cry against the porcelain-clear sky and the shimmering glass of the water.
Da-DAM. Da-DAM. Da-DAM.
They were singing the heartbeat of the slaughter, it pumped liquid courage through the veins of the Free Men of the Isles. Not that the iron-gutted bastards of Elio needed it, but the drums kept the rowers' rhythm true as the ship's prow sliced through the crystalline blue of the Azanian Sea like a razor through silk.
They were sharks. These waters were their hunting grounds, and right ahead, the tuna was served, belly up and inviting the first bite.
The smaller Azanian vessel had attempted a desperate turn, but the panic in their stroke had made a botch of it. By the time Blake had caught the scent of their fear, the Roaring Axe had already found the wood it was meant to chop and took an hefty bite. This ship was his resurrection.
