True Power

by Gary Meehan

  He tried to get up. A dozen new torments assaulted him. He fell back, coughing. There was blood mixed with the sputum. Not a good sign. Holding one arm across his broken rib, he managed to pull himself along the deck. A few men watched him, their eyes devoid of emotion. He bumped into a pair of stout legs. Damon stared up into the glowering face of the ship’s captain: a short, stocky man chosen for command for his lack of height as much as anything else. Damon managed a strangulated “hello.” The captain ignored him and looked to his crew.

  “What happened here?”

  “He talked, sir.”

  The captain looked down on Damon in every sense of the term. “The general was very clear. You are not to talk unless ordered to.”

  “I’m True,” protested Damon. “Do I not—?”

  A kick to his supporting arm sent him back to the deck. He lay there, the smell of blood and tarred timbers filling his nostrils, waiting for the follow-up blow. It didn’t come.

  “Because you are True, we will not kill you unless you force us to. But remember, you are here to do the work of God and the Saviors. Nothing more, nothing less. You do what you’re told and nothing that you aren’t. Fail, and you will be punished. Succeed, and you might not be punished.”

  Ah, the old stick-and-stick routine. “I understand, sir.”

  Another kick. This one forced tears from Damon’s eyes. “I didn’t ask if you understood. I will never ask if you understand. If you don’t understand, you will fail. And if you fail . . .”

  Damon crawled back to his cabin and lay on his bed, hugging himself, trying to squeeze away the pain. He didn’t know how long he stayed there before hunger and other biological imperatives drove him out—days, probably. When he did surface, no one paid him any heed. He tried to catch the eye of one or two fellows, but they either stomped past or clenched a fist; even the cook snarled at him and his wasn’t the complexion that could afford to turn away a friend. The captain was serious, it would seem.

  He bound his ribs up as best he could—no one volunteered to help him—and settled in to a life of isolated monotony. The fleet plowed on across the Great Inland Sea and through the Bardanian Straits that separated Percadia from the Niko peninsula, and then on to Eastport, now under Sandstrider control, where they stopped for supplies. Damon stared out at the city—he wasn’t allowed ashore—thinking about all that had happened there, trying to work out what, if anything, he could have done differently.

  The fleet hugged the coastline of Ainsworth as it journeyed south down the Harris Sea. More memories flooded back, far more painful than the physical assault he had endured. He wasn’t the only one with bad memories of this part of the world. As soon as the first peaks of the Endalayan Mountains were sighted the fleet swung out into the open sea, out of sight of land. The True were avoiding Trafford’s Haven, where so many of their forebears had met their end.

  It got warmer as they tracked around the Andaluvian peninsula. Damon’s bruises faded, his rib started to knit together. At the Andaluvian capital, Kil M’sta, they rendezvoused with the vessels the Sandstriders had promised: less like warships, more like troop barges. The True plan was clear. Their guns would provide cover while the Sandstriders landed and took Hil. Took Cate.

  They plodded up Werlavia’s east coast. It started getting colder again. The weather got worse and worse, until one night a storm hit them. Damon clung to his bed as the ship lurched up and down while thunder and lightning shook the boiling seas, wondering if God’s wrath was finally upon them. The calm the next morning revealed they had lost a couple of Sandstrider ships and a handful of men dragged overboard. Merely a divine tantrum, it would seem.

  The fleet passed the line of the Kartiks and left the waters of the Realm for the Sarason Sea. The water was continually agitated now. Despite the cold, Damon spent the days above decks, scanning the horizon and the passing coast for threats, although he couldn’t comprehend what threat there could be. Even if the Hilites knew they were coming, and sent the combined naval forces of the Snow Cities against them, what could they do against the witches’ guns? More ships just increased the chances of the witches hitting something.

  They entered a channel between the northern coastline of Werlavia and a rocky island whose name Damon had forgotten. The Trávians had indicated this was the safest route through to Hil; swing north around the island and you’d run into rocks lurking beneath the surface, waiting to shred your hull to splinters. Cliffs loomed a few hundred yards either side of them. The fleet formed into a column: True warships to the front and rear; Sandstrider troop carriers protected in the middle. Damon huddled into the hodgepodge of fur, leather and fabric he’d been able to scavenge, swaying with the deck as it rocked from side to side. Rigging creaked. The occasional gull squawked a lament. The wind dropped, as if the weather was holding its breath.

  “I don’t like this,” said the captain, half to himself.

  “There is a distinct lack of bunting,” said Damon. The captain was too distracted to enforce his no-speaking rule.

  Was that movement among the rocks? Damon wasn’t the only one who noticed it. The hands muttered among themselves. The channel narrowed. Despite the expanse of water, claustrophobia squeezed Damon. He recalled the fire arrows the Faith had used when the True had first tried to take New Statham. Were they coming in range? The True had taken steps to lessen their vulnerability—made sure all gunpowder was safely stashed below decks, stationed barrels of sand and water so fires could be tackled before they spread—but if fire rained from the sky, who knew if they could prevent panic. Plus Damon would prefer not to get skewered by flaming metal.

  Shouts floated across the waters. Damon’s head snapped around as he tried to identify the source. It sounded like it was coming not just from the coast, but everywhere on the coast. The words were indecipherable, but their intention wasn’t. They were orders.

  A series of sparks raced along the cliffs. Damon whirled about. Twin lines of fire that hemmed in the fleet on both sides. His stomach twisted. Was that what he thought it was? Please God, no.

  Events tumbled on top of each other. Flashes, screeches, explosions. Men running around in fear and confusion. Something smacked into the water, sending spray sky high. It rained back down on Damon, soaking him. He looked for somewhere to run to, found none, tripped over his feet, slipped on the saturated deck.

  Whistling overhead. The end of a yard arm snapped clear of the rest of the mast. It spiraled to the ground. Damon buried his head in his arms as the structure thudded on the deck beside him, the impact making his whole body shudder.

  Flares of light illuminated the smoke-wreathed cliff-tops. A pounding filled the air like the hammer of a pagan god. Damon scrabbled to the stern. The fleet that lay in their wake was being pulverized. Projectiles smacked into ships, sending wood flying like injured flesh. Some listed, taking in water; others were already going under. Fire raged on one of the witches’ vessels. Despite their precautions, its powder store had been hit. Damon cringed as an explosion took its bow clean off.

  The captain yelled an order. The ship rocked as a sequence of booms ripped through it, throwing Damon across the deck. They were firing back. No good. Their shots dropped short of the coastline both sides of the channel, sending up a huge wall of water but nothing more damaging. They were too low, too far way.

  He staggered over to the captain, struggling to keep upright. “You can’t fight!” he shouted over the din. “Run!”

  The captain stared back, his eyes wild, uncomprehending. You never expected them to fight back, did you? Not like this. You thought guns were a sign of God’s favor, and now she has them. Damon shook him. “Get us out of here!”

  The captain came back to his senses. He hurled Damon out of the way. “Full speed ahead!” he yelled. “Signal the fleet!”

  Men scrambled to obey, hoisting flags and crawling over rigging. The ship deployed its full complement of sails—those that remained, anyway. They lurched forward, like a runner gett
ing a second wind. The thunder of guns dropped off. The smoke cleared. Open water to starboard. They had cleared the channel, escaped the death trap.

  Escaped one death trap. Damon went cold as he saw what was in front of them. A wall of Hilite ships sitting low in the water, their broadsides presented to them. Tiny figures rushed about their decks, tending to the monsters they had brought into creation. Damon shouted a warning, but it was too late. The monsters spat out their rancor.

  A projectile hit them amidships, punching a hole in the deck and sending men flying. The captain lunged at Damon.

  “You did this!”

  “Me? What? No!”

  The captain grabbed Damon’s throat with both hands and squeezed hard. The world went gray, amorphous. Damon tried to pry the captain’s hands away. Conscious thought failed him. He was acting on instinct, kicking and slapping against leather and armor. Ineffectual, pointless. Only seconds left. Only seconds left on this world. Only seconds before he had to face Eleanor.

  The ship was hit again, flinging Damon and the captain to the deck. Damon scrambled clear of his would-be murderer, spluttering, trying to focus. The world lurched as he slipped in a puddle—blood as well as water. He pushed himself up, looked for a way out. There was only one.

  He stumbled over to a bulwark, the sound of guns and the captain’s yells ringing in his ears. Damon hardly heard them now. In the chaos he had found serenity, understanding. He had chosen wrong and now he had to face his punishment, throw himself on the mercy of God and the Saviors.

  Damon took one final step and dropped off the ship.

  nineteen

  They tried to cremate the bodies of the witches and the Sandstriders that washed up, but they were too sodden to burn so they buried them in great pits dotted along the shoreline, occasionally hollering as one of the corpses started to writhe and cough up seawater. Megan joined in with the digging and the lugging even though Willas kept telling her she didn’t have to. She’d been responsible for the massacre; it was only right she helped clean up the aftermath.

  The witches had lost half their fleet, and of the ships limping home at least one-third were damaged. The Snow Cities had lost a couple of ships that had drifted within range of the witches’ guns, and a couple more to the volatility of their own weaponry; their own guns had also accounted for a handful of men up on the cliff-top batteries. They had won what in strategic terms was a great victory, but Megan couldn’t see it that way. It was too easy to picture the faces of those she had lost in those they covered with sand, to construct narratives of the dead men’s lives. As cold winds and the spade handle turned her hands raw she tried to harden her heart, remember what these men had come for, but it was impossible to hate or fear the pale, bloated faces that stared at her, gazes forever fixed in terror.

  A covered carriage rattled up to her, its wheels drawing elegant curves in the sand. Fordel opened the door and beckoned. Megan hesitated before hauling herself inside, grateful to escape the cold and the death.

  Rekka was there, swathed in furs, her injured leg propped up on the seat opposite. Megan almost got back out again, but Fordel was already draping a blanket around her. He encased her hands in his. She wanted to pull away, but they were warm and comforting, like a father’s.

  There was a jerk as they set off. “You’re missing the party,” said Fordel.

  “Not really in the mood.”

  “Never mind,” said Rekka. “It’ll still be going on when we get back. We’re going to have to invent a collective noun for hangovers.”

  Megan ignored her. “Any news on the witches?” she asked Fordel.

  “They made Trávi, last thing I heard.”

  “Any . . . repercussions?”

  “They seem intent on getting away as fast as possible,” said Fordel. “The ones camped at the Arrowstorm Pass are also retreating.”

  “Where to?”

  “All the way to New Statham, it would seem.” He wiped condensation from the window and looked out at the gray sea. “We have to discuss what happens now.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “Cate’s betrothal, for one,” said Rekka. “We need to seal the alliance between Hil and the Realm. Tighten the familial bonds. It’s not as if you’re going to have more children.”

  “Betrothal?”

  “It’s never too early.”

  “Too early?” said Megan. “The highlights of her day are sleeping, sucking on breasts and peeing in her pants.”

  “Those are Vegar’s highlights too,” Rekka said brightly. She leaned forward and rubbed her knee. “I was thinking of Tóki. I know he’s got some disgusting habits, but he’ll grow out of those. Unless he takes after his father, but what are the odds on that?”

  “Evens.”

  “Thank you, Fordel. Where would we be without your literalism?”

  The sly looks on the faces of Rekka and Fordel tightened Megan’s skin. They were trying to take Cate from her, with smiles and promises of friendship to be sure, but their aim was the same as the witches’. Cate was nothing more than a vessel to receive their overweening ambition. And what was worse, Megan had let them do it, had to let them keep on doing it, because without them the Realm was lost. It didn’t stop her wishing she’d gone off with Afreyda, fled to the Diannon Empire, when they’d had the chance.

  “Can we discuss this later?” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Of course,” said Fordel. “You need to rest. Just the treaty to discuss before we can let you recuperate.”

  Megan had learned the more casual Fordel sounded, the more serious he was. “What treaty?”

  “Just a bit of administrative tidying up.”

  “What treaty?” repeated Megan, her voice hardening.

  “The treaty that will bring Andaluvia and the Snow Cities back into the Realm,” said Fordel. “Congratulations, Your Majesty. You’ll be the first monarch in three hundred years to rule over a unified kingdom.”

  The coach hit an outcropping, jolting Megan out of the stupor Fordel’s words had induced. Andaluvia and the Snow Cities back in the Realm? The dream of every monarch and Supreme Priest since Aldwyn the First, and Fordel was treating it like paperwork?

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We have to present a unified front if we’re going to defeat the witches,” said Fordel. “We’ll have to lay siege to New Statham, and that isn’t going to be pleasant. The witches will fight to the last man. We don’t want anyone getting squeamish. We need a single leader to rally behind.” He flashed a vulpine grin at Megan that made her shudder.

  Oh, she thought, they’ll have a single leader all right, only it’s not really going to be me, is it? “The other Snow Cities will never agree to this,” she said.

  “You’ll be surprised what monetary motivation can accomplish.”

  “You’re going to bribe them?”

  “No,” said Fordel. “You are. The Realm’s far richer than Hil, and the witches can’t have plundered all its treasures.”

  “What about the Sandstriders? There’s no way—”

  “Their ambassador seems quite compliant.”

  “What ambassador?” said Megan, feeling like a gambler whose elevens kept getting beaten by her opponent’s perfect twelves.

  “It was a kind of ad-hoc appointment,” said Fordel. “Prince Y’donno, one of the Andaluvians we picked up after the fleet went . . . He’s Prince Y’benne’s son. Well, one of them anyway. I understand the randy old bastard does like to procreate.” Rekka blushed and looked away. “He seems to think his father will cease hostilities and accept your suzerainty in exchange for . . .”

  “. . . A fleet not being sent down to flatten Andaluvia?”

  Fordel really was a clever bastard. He’d bought the other Snow Cities off with other people’s money; the Sandstriders were in no position to refuse him, with most of their men washing up on the shores of the Sarason Sea or defending Gwyneth in New Statham; the Realm could present reunificati
on as a victory for the Faith; and Megan needed him to defeat the witches and ensure Cate’s safety. And all he wanted in return was a new dynasty, one that would control all of Werlavia, one he and Rekka would control. Megan and Cate would be nothing more than figureheads, and how long before Rekka’s son or grandson replaced them on the throne?

  It seemed the only thing worse than losing a war was winning one.

  Night was well into maturity by the time they reached Hil, but that hadn’t stopped the revelers. After checking on Cate, Megan went in search of Afreyda. She needed someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone to make her forget, for a few hours at least.

  She found her in a tavern colonized by soldiers of the Faith, drinking at a bottle-strewn table with her sergeants. Megan squeezed through the crowd, paused briefly to kick the legs out from under a man who made a drunken pass at her and squeezed in between the commanders of her forces.

  “It’s the queen!” cried one of the sergeants. “Everyone stand!”

  “Please,” said Megan. “There’s no need.” Someone tried anyway. He toppled backward. A cheer went up. It was that time of evening when any action was cause for celebration.

  “You’re a great queen,” continued the sergeant, swaying in his seat as if to an imaginary band, albeit one that lacked any sense of rhythm. “In fact . . . in fact . . . I’d say you were the best queen . . . ever. Better than that last one. What was her name?”

  Megan turned to Afreyda, who stared back through bloodshot eyes, a happy grin on her face. “Good night?”

  “We were playing this great game with Father Galan,” said Afreyda. She hiccupped. “You have to have lots of beer and”—hiccup—“not fall down.”

  “You were playing drinking games with a priest?” said Megan. She looked around. “Where is he anyway?”

  Afreyda pointed downward, a maneuver that took all her concentration. Megan leaned back and peered under the table. Father Galan was asleep on the floor, his jowls wobbling in time to his snoring.