The mist had yet to clear completely.
Dozens of fast pirate ships pitched in the gray-white swells, like a heap of rotten timber smashed apart by the waves.
Then, suddenly, some invisible string pulled taut.
Bows swung around, and sail ropes creaked under the strain.
It looked less like a fleet changing formation than a school of sharks suddenly turning toward the scent of blood.
Without a moment's hesitation, they locked onto the formation cutting through the waves ahead.
The scene on the sea was bizarre.
On one side was gray steel, with black smoke streaming from funnels in straight lines across the sky.
Red Tide's vanguard ships sliced through the sea at a constant speed, like a row of precisely calibrated scalpels.
On the other was rotting wood, with tattered canvas hanging from crooked masts and decks packed with figures like ants swarming from a disturbed nest.
There were no shouts over the sea, only a wet, clotted sound churning through the mist.
It was the "gurgling" squeezed from thousands of throats, broken and intermittent, like drowning men blowing bubbles underwater.
Several dark green figures stood high on the aft deck of every ship.
Those Fishmen were larger than the ordinary thralls, their dark scales gleaming like grease.
They neither touched the rigging nor tended the cannons. They simply stood there like shepherds.
The still-pulsing lump of flesh in their hands was squeezed out of shape, and each squeeze sent another high-frequency tremor through the air.
Those were orders that bored straight into the brain.
The Fishmen's bulging eyes were fixed on the distant steel warships.
In their clouded eyes, those smoking iron ships were not war machines, but perfect breeding grounds, offerings to the deep sea.
Smash them open! Lay the eggs inside!
Meanwhile, in the holds, the