The shadow of war drew closer by the hour, but shipwright Kendel brought Logar bad news: the black tar they had refined from Blackgold Island could be ignited, yet the results fell far short of what Logar had hoped.
Logar went to the workshop himself, took a scrap of cloth soaked in the purified tar, and set it alight.
A weak blue flame flickered across the fabric, burned only a thin layer, then sputtered out. The air filled with a sharp, acrid stench. In the end only a sticky black-brown residue remained, impossible to wipe off his fingers.
Logar frowned. All that work for something this weak?
He understood why. Even after rough filtering, the tar still carried invisible grit and sand. Without intense heat to help it burn, it simply wasn't effective.
"Can we mix the refined tar with sulfur, pine resin, and other flammables, then seal it in cloth bundles?" Logar asked, willing to compromise.
Kendel thought for a moment and nodded. "That can work. But we'll burn through a lot of sulfur, resin, and cloth. And we don't have much tar left — maybe enough for three or four ships at most."
"Plenty," Logar said, eyes lighting up. "We don't need to fill entire hulls. Spread it across a few ships. It will be very useful soon."
Kendel looked relieved that his hard work hadn't been wasted and hurried off to carry out the order.
Logar turned his gaze toward Bloodstone and Grey Gallows. For days now both islands had been sending scout ships to circle the waters. The storm was about to break.
He pinched a lock of silver hair at his temple and tested the wind blowing across his face, then shook his head. "Wind's still wrong… I hope we have enough time."
...
Deep inside Bloodstone's sheltered harbor, more than twenty warships lay in perfect formation. Bronze rams glinted coldly at their prows. Decks bristled with armored soldiers. The air was so heavy it was hard to breathe.
Salt wind whipped through the bay. The Triarchy's joined banners snapped and cracked from every mast.
Sharako Lohar stood fully armed on the deck of his flagship Bloodfang, staring toward the harbor mouth with his second, Chaman, waiting for an important arrival.
Soon four sleek Dornish warships flying the red sun banner appeared. Their decks were packed with soldiers in yellow tunics.
As the lead ship tied up, a richly armored Dornish commander stepped down the gangplank — bronze plates over earth-yellow leather, every inch the noble warrior.
"Hahaha! Ser Maron Gargalen, welcome to the hunt!" Sharako strode forward, reaching to clap the man on the shoulder.
Ser Maron sidestepped the overly familiar gesture with smooth grace.
Golden-haired and blue-eyed, with a thick golden beard, he cradled his helm under one arm. The helmet was engraved with his house sigil — a red cockatrice clutching a black serpent on a gold field.
His voice was cool and flat. "Admiral Sharako, you honor me."
This second son of House Gargalen came from Dorne's Salt Shore. His family's history stretched back to the days when the Yronwoods still ruled Dorne. Though not the heir, his martial reputation had spread across the Narrow Sea.
Sharako's grin widened when he saw the quality of Dornish leadership. "I didn't expect Dorne to send a knight of your caliber. With you here, victory is certain!"
"I have only one condition for this alliance," Maron said, hand tightening on the hilt of his fine sword. His voice dropped to a low, icy growl. "The pirate scum called the Throat-Cutter must die by my own hand."
Sharako blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. "Done! You can have the bastard's head as a trophy!"
Neither man wasted more words. They had been wary neighbors on these islands for years — always watching each other, yet forced to stand together against a stronger foe.
With the Velaryons reinforcing the Stepstones, they shared one clear goal: rip out the thorn called Blackgold Island.
"Set sail!" Sharako climbed back aboard Bloodfang. Behind him twenty-plus warships and more than a thousand Triarchy soldiers stood ready. Adding Ser Maron's Dornish squadron, the combined fleet numbered over thirty ships and nearly two thousand fighting men.
Taking one lonely island would be child's play.
The massive allied fleet swept out of the deepwater harbor, sails blotting out half the sky, heading straight for Blackgold Island.
...
The moment the allied fleet left the harbor, Logar received the urgent report from his scout ships.
He climbed the watchtower outside the camp with Femon and Kendel and stared into the distance.
A dark wall of ships covered the horizon — red sun banners of Dorne mingling with the Triarchy's joined flags. Their sails seemed to swallow the sea.
"Seven hells… the Dornish and Triarchy really did join forces!" Femon's face went white, voice shaking.
These battle-hardened pirates had never faced an enemy this large.
"Send a fast boat to warn the Velaryon fleet in the area!" Logar ordered, face calm. His fingers tapped the wooden rail of the tower. "Even if we can't count on their help, they need to know what's coming."
He turned to Kendel. "Are the fire ships ready?"
Kendel nodded quickly. "All prepared! The refined tar is mixed with sulfur and pine resin, sealed in clay jars, wrapped in sailcloth, and loaded aboard the ships. They're hidden in the secret cove on the island's west side — the enemy will never spot them!"
"Good." Logar nodded, then raised his voice so the whole camp could hear. "Everyone fall back to the fortifications! Abandon any thought of a sea battle. We fight from the ditches, towers, and palisades!"
The enemy had brought elite troops and superior numbers. Meeting them at sea would be suicide.
The costly defenses they had built over the past days were now their only hope. How long they could hold was anyone's guess.
At Logar's command the entire base sprang to life. Every ship in the main harbor had already been moved to the hidden western cove. The camp's heavy wooden gates slammed shut and the great bars dropped into place.
Pirates formed tight ranks behind the gates, shields locked into an iron wall. Archers crouched along the towers, arrows nocked, eyes fixed on the shoreline.
Every man held his breath, waiting for the storm to break.
Sharako Lohar's flagship drew close to Blackgold Island. When he saw the harbor completely empty — not a single ship in sight — and the defenders huddled inside their camp, he slapped the rail and roared with laughter.
"Those idiot pirates hid their ships somewhere! Without ships they can't run. They're trapped like rats in a barrel — dead men walking!"
Beside him, Ser Maron Gargalen did not share the mirth.
He narrowed his eyes, studying the island's new defenses: deep ditches, tall watchtowers, reinforced palisades, and the faint outline of arrow loops.
His brows drew tighter and tighter.
"These pirates aren't fools," he said quietly. "They never planned to fight us at sea. They mean to bleed us from behind those walls."