Shrill watched the great war ships as they bobbed towards land for a while, and then stepped down from the wall.

“There must be something we can do!”

His commanding officer, a man with more scars than years, laid a heavily gloved hand on his shoulder.

“Calm yourself, lad. You’ll not stop the armada alone. Stop pacing, lest you disturb Crease’s concentration.”

Crease, the oldest among them, was sat on a small mat ten feet away, eyes closed.

“What is he doing?”

“Just watch, lad. Stand on the wall and watch.”

Shrill lifted himself up again, and looked out to the bay.

The ships were drawing nearer, and as the closest one entered the bay, it seemed to roll slightly.

Shrill heard a distant cry from the crow’s nest of the ship just as a great tentacle burst from the water. It wrapped around the hull with a sickening crack and dragged it under the waves.

Shrill watched Crease rise from his mat, and shuffle away along the wall, paying no attention to the chaos in the bay.