by Gene Stiles
“Aye, Captain. At once,” the helmsmen stuttered, now truly afraid for his safety as he relayed the orders.
Though the ships remained on high alert and battle-ready, no attack came that night, the next day nor the next. The adrenaline-fueled tension wore on the crew as the long hours and sleepless nights fatigued their minds and bodies. Every night, the lights flickered and went out for increasingly longer moments, heightening the stress of everyone aboard. With the exception of a few fried circuit boards, the cause of the outages was never found. That alone, drove Navarian half mad with frustration.
The tiny drones that slipped through the night and worked their way belowdecks to set off the carefully planned chaos disintegrated when they exploded, leaving no trace of their existence behind them.
“I did not fail to notice that our backup fails to appear when the lights go out,” Captain Navarian grumbled as he finished his dinner in his quarters. He used a piece of hard-crusted bread to soak up the rich and savory gravy covering his boiled potatoes, but he barely noticed the taste, eating out of necessity, not enjoyment. “As you said, we may be expendable.”
“On the other hand, if I was their commander, I would not respond either,” the First Mate said coldly. Like the rest of the crew, she had not slept since the first outage. Despite the crispness of her uniform and her erect posture, Ravenaria looked worn and haggard. Her light brown eyes were constantly glancing out the stern windows, searching the darkening seas for the slightest sign of an unknown assailant.
“These attacks – and they are attacks – are not truly harming us nor slowing us down,” she continued as she nibbled absently at her bowl of venison stew. “They are just a nuisance. It could be they are purposely designed to draw out any reinforcements we might have and give away their positions.”
“Well, whether attack or system failure,” Captain Navarian replied tiredly, “we are only two days out from Afrikanikis. I will feel much better when I have the land at my back.”
After their brief supper, the Captain and First Mate surveyed the ship to check on the readiness of the crew. Navarian was proud that most were alert though weary. Only a handful were reprimanded. The gunners on his starboard side were sitting on the floor, gathered around a spread of cards. They jumped to their feet when the officers approached, scattering their bets across the deck. While the Captain ripped them over, Ravenaria confiscated their cards and winnings, her frozen eyes telling them there would be hell to pay later on. Three of the crew found sleeping at their posts were roughly hauled to the brig and locked in chains. Word of the inspection spread quickly and the exhausted crew rubbed their eyes, dusted off their uniforms and stiffened their spines.
Navarian and Ravenaria were checking the armory amidships on deck two when the lights went out again. True night had fallen as they toured the ship and not even a pale moonbeam slipped through the open gun ports. Cursing vehemently, the Captain flicked on his lightcaster, now a fixture on the belts of every crewman. He was rushing for the main deck stairs when the first barrage hit the Forrestal near the forecastle deck.
The impact knocked Navarian off his feet, sending him tumbling down the stairs. He hit the oaken planks hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs and slamming his head on the deck. Stunned, it took him a moment to shake the fog from his brain and regain his feet. He grabbed the stair rails and hauled himself upward, ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes.
Thunder and light met the Captain on the main deck. The foremast was cracked and burning, the flaming sails falling on screaming men and women. The port gunners fired indiscriminately into the night toward the muzzle flashes seen in the dark. The Aam strapped in their battle harnesses along the bulwarks held back, waiting until a target appeared close enough to be hit by their pulse rifles. Fire crews rushed forward, using water hoses to extinguish the blaze on the prow before it spread to the rest of the ship.
Navarian reached the bridge just as a plasma cannon struck the stern on the starboard side. It hit the hull just above the water line and cut the rudder from the ship. With no control, the vessel was now captive to the swells of the sea. In two strikes, the Forrestal was rendered near useless.
Poseidon stood on the bridge of the Sea Dragon II, his new blade ship, shouting orders into the coms. The narrow, sharp-prowed vessel raced through the cloudy night, it's ebony hull and sails nearly invisible beneath the starless sky. The other thirteen ships in his armada split with practiced precision, flanking the small Atlantean convoy and firing at their bows and sterns as they flew by. The intent was not to sink, but to cripple the enemy ships. Poseidon hated killing unnecessarily but understood no battle would leave all alive.
Thanks to the captured Atlantean weapons, he now had projectile cannons that could pierce the hulls of even the shielded warships Cronus had at his command. The two escorts in this convoy were not of the sail-less type so Poseidon knew his energy weapons could be used. That would make boarding them much easier.
But this fight would not go as Poseidon hoped.
Prepared for such tactics, the two freighters dropped hidden gun ports. Cannons erupted in a withering blaze of awesome firepower. The pointed tips of explosive shells ripped into the hulls of Olympian ships, strafing them in flame and fire. Three of Poseidon’s ships split in half, gurgling as the sea surged through their broken timbers. Two others lit up like candles as red-yellow blazes peppered their decks and gaping holes tore their hulls.
Only the speed of the blade ships and the experience of their captains saved the rest of the fleet from imminent destruction. Whipping their vessels away, the Olympian ships tore into the night, their narrow profiles giving their opponents impossible targets in the blackness of the rolling ocean.
“Creator’s Mother!” Poseidon cursed as the Sea Dragon tore through the darkness. Damage reports poured through the coms. He had managed to escape unscathed, but he had lost nearly half his fleet and two other ships were severely damaged, but seaworthy. Barely taking a breath, Poseidon shouted into the ship-to-ship coms, “Launch the drones! Hard about! Rail guns only!”
Cheers broke out on the Atlantean cargo ships as their assailants fled into the night. They fired another volley into the darkness, hoping to strike the unseen enemy as they fled. The two troop carriers peeled away heading for the burning ships. The one hundred and fifty Aam filling each of their decks readied themselves to swarm aboard the damaged vessels before they could escape. The Lord Father had given specific orders. Capture a few, kill the rest.
The EM drones found their marks, exploding in shimmering, blue-white radiance amidships of the Atlantean ships. The magnetic pulse fried the electronics of scanners, lights and energy weapons, but could not affect the projectile cannons except to lock their turrets.
The jubilation of the destroyer cargo ships fell as swiftly as the blackness below their decks. Oil lamps hanging from the rafters were quickly lit as the battle-hardened soldiers reloaded the cannons and stared out into the churning seas, awaiting the next wave. It seemed their supposedly cowardly prey had not simply turned to run.
Poseidon had no intention of running, especially with men in the water and ships ablaze. Yelling out, “Hard to starboard!” he swung the Sea Dragon in a wide arc that would bring him nose-to-nose with the first enemy vessel. “Bow guns at the ready!”
Two rail guns loaded with fifty-pound iron balls flipped out from the hull halfway down the pointed prow. The huge springs coiled inside vibrated with tension, snarling at the triggers that held them back. Poseidon waited until the shadow of the approaching ship loomed in the darkness, close enough to see the swaying lantern hanging from its bowsprit. The drop of an ocean swell aligned his guns just below the main deck of the craft.
“Fire!” he shouted. “Fire!” Poseidon felt the snap of the springs in the soles of his booted feet and bellowed, “Hard to port! Starboard guns, fire!”
Unlike the Atlantean cannons, the Nephilim-powered rail guns gave off no muzzle flash to mark their passing
. The heavy, deadly spheres smashed into the timbers of the rapidly approaching vessel and ripped through the gunner’s deck. Several of the cannons were knocked off their mounts, the sparks of Poseidon’s iron shots against the metal weapons igniting barrels of powder. Screaming men danced like flaming puppets, setting off even more horrific devastation.
The masthead of the Sea Dragon almost collided with the wildly turning destroyer. Their hulls brushed with a crack of timber as they both swung away from the impact. The maneuver was incredibly dangerous and Poseidon knew there would be a high price to pay. His starboard rail guns were almost muzzle-to-muzzle with the Atlantean cannons when he fired. The thirty-pound rounds tore halfway through the ship before stopping, taking twisted metal and bloody body parts with them.
Erupting munitions exploded from the gun ports, several rounds tearing into the Sea Dragon as she swept past. One of the rail guns disintegrated in a deadly hail of splintered steel, sending razor-edged shards through flesh and bone as if they were made of sailcloth. Another projectile blasted a path through the ship from starboard to port before exploding in the pitch blackness of the uncaring sea beyond. Wails of torturous agony spread as quickly as the thick pools of crimson that stained the now-slick, wooden deck.
Poseidon swung in his battle harness, planting his mast-thick legs before grabbing the wheel to aid the struggling helmsman. Together, they turned their narrow stern to the sinking ship behind them lest they get off another volley before the sea took them. The Sea Dragon canted heavily to port and responded sluggishly to the spin of the wheel as they pointed their prow toward the troop transport rushing at a burning Olympian vessel. The black, canvas sails cracked in the shifting winds before billowing out as the scrambling crew manned the riggings. As much as he hated it, Poseidon could not give thought to the men below or the damage to his beloved ship. They were far from finished.
Captain Thalassa fired into the stern of the trailing warship as the Night Dragon arced behind it. Her port rail guns devastated the enemy craft before they could even saw the ebony ship swooping around from behind it. The Captain braced her long, leather-clad legs against the sway of the waves, her crystal-blue eyes flaming as brightly as her sister ship half a mile away. Her long, honey-blond braid whipped across her broad back, the tip stinging as it struck her slender waist. With her wide hands locked on the spokes of the ship’s wheel, she ignored the minor irritation, swinging the Night Dragon in a wide curve away from the battle.
Though she knew the danger, Thalassa allowed herself to pass within range of the second destroyer cargo vessel, her port side exposed for long moments. As it fired, she spun the wheel hard, hoping the winds were strong enough to turn her narrow stern toward the oncoming shells. Most missed their mark, but one stuck the mizzen mast, shattering it halfway down and dropping a tangle of rope and heavy sails down upon the scrambling crew.
Before the destroyer could reload, the Red Dragon that had trailed in the wake of Captain Thalassa opened fire as it passed the cargo ship. Her ten rail guns ripped through the Atlantean craft setting off a fiery conflagration that shattered the ship in an angry ball of yellow and red fury that lit the ocean for more than a mile.
Now terrified, the troop ship captains abandoned their quarry, hoping to run from the screaming apparitions bearing down upon them. Had it not been for the shards of burning planks and ruptured hulls of Olympian ships and the shrieks of bloody bodies in the shark-infested waters, Poseidon would have let them go. However, his captains demanded vengeance and his dead cried out for justice. Grimly, he gave no commands for mercy. The remnants of Poseidon’s fleet sent their horrified souls to the Creator to let Him deem their fates in the afterlife. When they were finished with their gory task, only one Atlantean ship remained afloat.
Captain Navarian stood on the bridge of the Forrestal awaiting a grisly demise. His ship floundered rudderless in the ugly, rolling sea, her bow shattered and still smoking thought the fires had been put out. His crew abandoned their posts and now stood at the bulwarks, their faces marred by deep lines of fury and fear. Like him, they just stared at the flames consuming what was left of their mighty convoy and the blanket of steaming debris that spread over the choppy waters. Though their weapons still functioned, there was no way to aim them as the warship listed and swirled with every rise of wave and shift of current. Even if they could fire, the fight was drained from their souls along with the color from their skins.
“They did not come,” Ravenaria grumbled bleakly at his side, her hands clutching the edge of the countertop where the monitors sat dark and useless. The luster was gone from her ebony hair along with the band that had kept it from her lightning-filled cinnamon eyes. Now it swirled in limp disarray around her soot-covered face as a gust of salty wind blew through the open doorways and shattered windows. “They left us to die.”
A bloody sun rose angrily on the eastern horizon as if the eye of the Creator glared furiously at the sickening scene. Captain Navarian said nothing, still looking through his farseers at the ships of Aegir as their longboats fought to pluck the living from the aftermath of the battle.
Screams and wails drifted over the brown-red stains pockmarking the ocean like vile pustules. Misty sailors stood on the boats, firing at any huge, grey fin that encroached on their rescue attempts. Many times, the high-pitched shrieks were cut short before they arrived as the water around them frothed in a maddened frenzy. Navarian did not have to see the somber tears and bleak faces of those men to know what they were feeling. The Captain had been there a few times himself. He did not fail to notice that the crews of his own ships were left for last.
When at last the enemy vessels approached the flanks of the Forrestal, Captain Navarian and his crew made no attempt to defend themselves. They stepped back from the bulwark rails as grappling hooks were flung over to pull the vessels together. A few even stepped up to secure the lines and toss straw-filled bags over the side to buffer the hulls as they met. Most huddled between the masts and dropped to their knees, praying their compliance would earn them some semblance of mercy from their captors. At least the aimless canting and shifting of the Forrestal stopped as the other ships held her firm.
Wide planks were laid between the vessels and heavily armed sailors swarmed aboard the Atlantean ship, surrounding the despondent, defeated crew. The blue-leather clad Aam made no move to slaughter them, much to the relief of the glum, despondent men and women. Captain Navarian and his First Mate came down from the bridge and stood rigidly next to the stairs of the forecastle deck, four of the invading warriors taking up positions on either side of them. Silently, they waited.
A monster of a man crossed the portside planks and surveyed the bowed heads of his sullen prisoners. The few that dared look up felt their stomachs curl and acidic bile fill their throats. The gargantuan stood nearly eleven foot tall and rippled with muscle. His huge, copper-skinned arms were bare from shoulder to fingertip except for black-trimmed bands the encircled his bulging biceps and covered his forearms from his thick wrists to halfway to his elbows. The dark crimson vest he wore was molded to his wide, barely-sloped shoulders and gigantic chest, the leather laces stretched open and untied. Black leather breeches displayed every sinew and tendon of his slightly spread legs and tucked into midnight, knee-high boots. His fisted paws were planted on the strap of gold-buckled, black leather encircling his nearly non-existent waist. The holster of a sidearm was hooked on this right hip. On the left hung a tooled, red-leather scabbard strapped to his thigh, the ornate silver hilt of a five-foot sword glinting in the rising sunlight.
It was his face that stunned the cowering crew and sent a ripple of mumbles and mews through their fearful, muddled masses. His mammoth head was covered with an elegantly sculpted helmet in the shape of a short-muzzled, magnificent dragon covered in blue-trimmed, black and gold scales. A wavy, fire-red beard fell beneath the open maw lined with vicious, sharp-tipped fangs and down over the rise of his carved pectorals. Small wings fanned out on e
ither side of the mask, sweeping backward as if bent by the wind. The awesome creature stared at his captives with sparkling jade eyes that made them all quiver and lower their heads in abject terror. He said nothing as he strode past their ranks which, for many, was worse than if he had vilely cursed them.
Navarian kept his body stiff as the behemoth approached, locking knees that wanted nothing more than to buckle and drop him on the sea-slick deck. His rugged jaw was clenched so tightly that muscles spasmed where it met his blockish head. The Captain’s sunken, near-black eyes blazed with red flashes of rage, not at this monstrosity, but for the reinforcements that never came. Navarian was by no means short, but he still had to look up to meet those burning emerald eyes.
“You are the Commander of the fleet?” the creature asked, the deep, baritone voice rumbling within that massive chest.
“Yes,” Navarian replied, doing his best to keep the tremors from his words. “I am Captain Navarian of Atlantis traveling on the direct orders of the Lord Father. Who do you think you are to defy his will?” he added defiantly.
“I am Aegir,” the man said tersely. “Lord of the Seas. You carried troops and weapons of war to the shores of Afrikanikis. I will not allow that.”
“So you are a minion of Nil,” Navarian said using his hatred of the captains who left him alone with this beast to fuel his bravery.
“No,” the giant replied harshly. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword and, for a moment, Navarian regretted the briskness of his words. “I am a friend to Ra, yes, and to all those who wish to live in peace anywhere and of any race. But I am much, much more.”
His next words were carefully calculated and icy. “I am Aegir,” he said, his hands rising to lift the helmet from his head. “But I am also Neptune, Captain of the Sea Dragon.”
