Scimitar Sun

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Aye, and if they attack, he’ll probably blame you!”

  Edan blanched, staring at the two in shock. The seamage had angered the emperor of Tsing, they were sailing into a conflict between the merfolk and the emperor’s warships, and neither had even suggested changing course. He wondered if there was someplace they could put him ashore before they took the ship into battle.

  ≈

  *The seamage’s ship approaches, Eelback,* the scout reported, gills pumping hard from her recent exertion. *The sun has not risen yet, but the sky lightens. She will be here in less than one quarter of a tide.*

  *Good! Excellent!* Eelback turned to his school leaders and gave the gesture they had been waiting for. *Our time is now, school leaders! You know what you must do! Everyone in position! And remember, we must lure the larger ship into the shallows!*

  The six school leaders gestured agreement and flipped their tails in unison, speeding off to their groups. Eelback looked up at the copper-clad hull of the warship floating over their heads and signaled his group to move out of the line of fire. Kelpie swam right up to him, her fins splayed in challenge.

  *You do this to provoke the seamage,* she signed, her luminous eyes flashing in the predawn light.

  *I do this for the honor of the mer, Kelpie,* he signed, splaying his fins wide. *The Voice made the decision to attack the landwalkers. I merely choose the time, and that time is now! When the seamage arrives we will see which school she chooses.* She glared at him, but her fins smoothed.

  He turned away and watched the first group surround the ship — still beneath the sea’s surface but with harpoons at the ready, poised to strike — and his lips pulled back from his teeth in an eager grin. The school leader gave the signal, and the vanguard rose. Harpoons flew, trailing lines that snapped taut as they struck home.

  Several thrashing forms hit the surface around the ship, and the water darkened with crimson clouds.

  ≈

  “A fine morning, isn’t it Sergeant?” the young ensign said, rocking from toe to heel on the quarterdeck. His hands were knotted at his back, his eyes facing the glow of the rising sun.

  “If you say so, Mister Lafferty,” Torrance agreed. He rarely addressed an ensign as “sir” unless the captain was standing near. “A bit quiet fer me, though.”

  “Quiet?” Lafferty turned to look at him and smiled. “I like the quiet. It lets me think.”

  “Aye, and that’s why I don’t like it,” the sergeant said with a chuckle. “Too much thinkin’s bad for morale. All this diplomacy…”

  “Well, you can’t be hoping for action on a cruise like this, Sergeant Torrence.” The ensign smiled again. “Naught but half-naked savages and fish folk? Not much of a challenge for his majesty’s flagship!”

  “No challenge is just how I like my fights, Ensign Lafferty,” he admitted, staring into the young man’s eyes. “And from the native folk I met last time I was here, I’d think that’d be enough of a challenge for any man — ”

  “Deck Officer!” the lookout called, snapping their conversation like a twig. “Sail to the south!”

  “Where away, lookout!” the lad shouted, craning his neck to look up at the man.

  “There!” the lookout called, pointing. “Bearing one-six-oh! Just comin’ hull up! Looks like one o’ them schooners!”

  “Well, there’s your action, Sergeant!” The ensign raised his glass and looked to the south, unaware of the marine sergeant’s scowl. “Mister Jims, please wake the captain. Mister Mollins, have the first watch come up early. I think we ca — ”

  A splash and half a dozen cries warned Torrence even before Lafferty’s voice was cut off with a sickening crunch and a truncated cry of shock. He turned, his sword out in a flash, just as the line on the harpoon that had transfixed the young ensign’s torso went taut. Ensign Lafferty’s telescope clattered to the deck as he was snatched off his feet and dragged over the railing and underwater. A glance confirmed that a dozen others had also been taken, some killed outright like the ensign, some thrashing and fighting as webbed hands dragged them under.

  “Alarm!” Torrence bellowed, ducking behind the bulwarks as another flight of harpoons flew aboard. One missed him by a hand’s breadth. “General quarters! Sound alarm! All hands repel boarders!”

  Even as he shouted the commands, a webbed hand reached over the gunwale and a mer hauled itself up and over, almost right into the sergeant’s lap. He rolled away and jumped to his feet as a serrated dagger slashed through his jacket, clashing against his mail shirt. He struck back with his cutlass and opened a wide gash in the mer’s shoulder, but it flipped around and used its tail to knock his feet out from under him. Two more mer came over the rail before he could scrabble away, and a blade was in his leg and another in his hip before he could hack down the invaders. Blood, a good deal of it his own, ran through the scuppers and down the Fire Drake’s sides as Sergeant Torrence kicked the thrashing forms away from him. He struggled to stand, but three more merfolk were already coming over the side right before him.

  ≈

  “Fire Drake’s making signals, sir, but I can’t make them out.” The lieutenant on the Clairissa’s quarterdeck squinted into the light of early dawn and frowned, reaching for his glass.

  “Sail to the south!” the lookout cried from overhead. The lieutenant raised his glass for a closer look.

  “That’s probably what they’re signaling about, Lieutenant,” Captain Flauglin said, taking another sip from his cup and savoring the bitter jolt of the strong morning blackbrew.

  “Yes, sir, I…” The lieutenant’s voice trailed off as he lowered the glass then raised it again, his face draining of color. “No, sir! They’re being attacked, sir! The signal’s general quarters, but the flagman’s injured!”

  “Attacked? What in the name of…” The captain’s cup and saucer smashed to the deck forgotten. He reached for the lieutenant’s glass and brought the instrument up to his eye. In an instant he saw what was happening aboard the Fire Drake.

  “It’s the merfolk, sir! They’re attacking the Fire Drake!” called the junior officer.

  “I can see that, Lieutenant! Sound general quarters and bring her up into the wind. Signal to Lady Gwen. We’ll have to use the sweeps at this point of wind, but keep the jibs hauled close and set tris’ls.” Flauglin raised the glass once more and cursed under his breath, watching men being dragged over the side of the smaller ship. He waited until the lieutenant had relayed his orders, the trumpet ringing out the call to arms, then said, “Tell the marine commander to rig to repel borders, Lieutenant. Oh, and wake the commodore; he might want to see this for himself.”

  ≈

  “The Clairissa’s comin’ about, sir,” the lookout called, though from this distance Feldrin could see for himself that the huge warship was coming into the wind.

  The great square-rigged sails were being furled, and the jibs and trisails sheeted close to stop their fluttering. He raised his glass and saw the long sweeps being run out, a double row of them, more than thirty to a side. They dug into the water in perfect unison, driving the ship into the wind.

  “Well, they can’t be doing that for us,” he said, furrowing his brow and handing the glass to Cynthia. “They’re beatin’ inshore under jibs and sweeps.”

  “Sir!” the lookout called, his voice shrill. “The other warship’s tryin’ to make sail, but she’s in trouble! She’s under attack! It’s merfolk! They’re swarmin’ the decks!”

  “Oh, no…” Cynthia raised the glass to her eye and dropped it after only a glance. “Get me closer, Feldrin! Fast!”

  “Cyn, what are you — ” The look in her eye stopped him before he could finish the question.

  “I can stop this, but I’ve got to be closer!”

  “Shake all reefs and set the tops’l, Horace! Bring her between the two warships!”

  “Between ‘em?” the mate asked, relaying the orders before Feldrin could answer.

  “Ye
s! Right between ‘em!” he snapped. “And rig for action! I don’t expect to have to fight, but I don’t want to be caught with my trousers around my ankles!” Feldrin knew that he couldn’t stand in battle against a warship like the Clairissa, but he also knew that he could outsail any ship on the sea, especially the emperor’s lumbering flagship.

  “Aye, sir! Rig for action! Man all ballistae and get the canvas off that catapult! Sharp now!”

  The wind rose, and the schooner surged forward even before the sails were adjusted. Spray flew from her bow as it cleaved through the swells like a hot knife through butter. The leeward rail dipped so far down that water sprayed through the scuppers, and Edan yelped in surprise, grabbing for a handhold. In an instant they were careening through the water faster than any ship Feldrin had ever seen, and even without looking at Cynthia, he knew why. She was straining, urging the wind and water to push the ship hard. If he was a gambling man, Feldrin would have bet a hold full of Marathian silks that they were making twenty-five knots.

  “Should we be doing this, Captain?” Edan shouted over the howling wind, his eyes as wide as hen’s eggs. His firesprite flapped at the end of her chain like a burning topmast pennant.

  “I dunno, lad,” he said, lending a hand at the wheel and grinning despite himself. “But we’re makin’ good time!”

  ≈

  “Make sail!” Captain Altan bellowed as he blocked a mer trident with his sword, then cut down his attacker. “Cut the cables! We need to make for deep water!”

  “Rudder won’t answer!” the helmsman yelled, wiping blood from a head wound and fighting the wheel. “It’s jammed, sir, I can’t — ”

  A trident speared the helmsman in the lower back and his scream split the air. Altan lunged forward, burying his cutlass in the mer’s chest. Bright red blood poured out the gill slits, but it still grappled at him, drawing a long dagger from a shell-studded baldric. A marine corporal hacked the mer’s arm off before it could strike, then decapitated the creature with a lightning stroke, saving the captain’s life.

  “Go on, sir!” the corporal shouted, kicking the thrashing mer over the side and picking up its long dagger for his left hand. “I got yer back!”

  “Thank you, corporal!” Altan thrust his cutlass into the deck beside the wheel and bellowed orders. “Get some canvas on her, bo’sun! We’ve got to make some headway!” His orders were confirmed and topsails billowed free, heeling the ship. He fought the wheel to gain steerage, but as the helmsman had said, something was blocking it. The anchor hawsers had been cut: Fire Drake’s bow swung downwind, answering the pull of the sails, but still her rudder would not respond and she made no headway.

  “The bloody creatures have tied us to the bottom!” he cried, letting out a stream of curses that would have made his boatswain blush. A glance along the deck told him that his crew were holding their own, if only barely. Blood soaked the deck, and those who fought to keep mer from coming aboard were at risk from flying harpoons, tridents and lances. If they could not sail free, they were doomed.

  “Pile on the sails! We’ve got to break free!”

  Fire Drake’s great square mainsail billowed, followed by her foresail and spanker, and the ship strained forward. Something gave way with a screech and crack of fracturing timbers, and the wheel spun free in Altan’s hands…too free. Something was wrong.

  “The rudder’s broke loose!” someone shouted from the taffrail, gaping aft at the splintered planks floating in their wake.

  “But we’re free!” the captain countered, leaving the useless wheel and recovering his sword. “We’ll steer her with the yards! Downwind’s as good as any direction, just keep the gods-damned decks clear!”

  But as the Fire Drake began to make way, an impact shook the hull and she lurched on her beam, heeling over sharply. Shouts rang out around the deck and from below as water spilled into her open leeward ballistae ports.

  “What in the Nine Hells…” The captain fought his way forward, shouting orders to haul on the braces, to square her rig and center the effort, to try to point her bow downwind.

  “We’re hulled, sir!” a sailor shouted as he scrambled up a hatch, his clothes soaked through. “There’s a bloody great spike through the hull amidships! We’re harpooned like a bloody whale!”

  “Cut it free!” the captain raged. He jumped into an empty spot at the starboard rail to parry a stabbing trident and hack at the fish’s broad face. “We’ve got to get free.”

  “Can’t cut it, sir!” the sailor shouted back, grabbing a boat hook and stabbing it like a spear at another mer trying to come over the side. “The thing’s iron, damn near as thick as me leg! It’s jammed right up between two ribs!”

  “Then cut the damned ribs free and let her take on water, man! If we don’t break free, we’re dead!”

  “Aye, sir!” The sailor dropped the boat hook and charged below, bellowing for axes and saws while his captain stood on deck, fighting for his life.

  ≈

  “Fire Drake’s broaching, sir!” the lieutenant cried, lowering his glass; it was useless at this close range anyway. “Something’s holding her back! It’s like she’s anchored amidships under full sail!”

  “They’ve hooked a kedge into her somehow!” Flauglin said, nodding to the commodore as he finally came on deck, still buttoning his jacket and yawning. He handed his glass to his superior officer and said, “Fire Drake’s in trouble, sir. She’s repelling boarders and broaching under sail. The mer are swarming her.”

  “Bloody hells!” Twig said, raising the glass, then letting it fall. “How can we help her, Captain?”

  The captain stiffened as if he’d been run through. The commodore asking him for advice on how the fleet should engage the enemy was a serious breach in the chain of command. This did not bode well, and the other officers of the deck knew it, too. The first lieutenant took a step back and studiously looked forward as if examining the battle, but Flauglin did not have the luxury of feigning ignorance; this was his ship and his responsibility, and it was his neck in the noose if the commodore brought him up on charges of mutiny.

  “Is the commodore suggesting that I take the deck, sir?” he asked, carefully choosing his words.

  “The deck?” Twig asked, gaping at the captain. Realization struck like a slap in the face; in his sleep-addled state he had asked the captain’s advice in a matter of engagement. He’d all but handed over command of the emperor’s entire armada! But the captain was no fool; he’d given him an out, a way to salvage his command of the armada, if not the ship. By relinquishing the deck of the Clairissa, he could let Flauglin make command decisions with regard to the ship’s handling in combat, while Twig retained command of the entire squadron. A semantic difference, but one that might salvage both of their careers.

  “Yes, Captain. You have more experience with the mer than I. The deck of the Clairissa is yours for this engagement. I will command the armada by signal.”

  “Very good, sir!” Flauglin gauged the situation professionally for several breaths, and reached a decision. “Lieutenant, we will come alongside the Fire Drake. We will douse sail and stow port side sweeps on my signal. Rig grapples and prepare boarders. We’ll lash her alongside and then hoist all sail and carry her to sea.”

  “Aye, sir!” The lieutenant relayed the orders, selecting a third of the marines to board the Fire Drake and stationing the remainder to repel attackers on all decks. Topmen were kept aloft to make sail as quickly as possible once the Fire Drake was securely alongside.

  Twig, the captain noticed, was actually making good his claim to give orders to the other ships by signal. He’d commandeered a signalman and was having the lad flag Lady Gwen to cut her cable and make all sail.

  “Deck! That schooner’s on an intercept course, sir! She’s bearin’ down like a runaway coach!”

  “Schooner?” Flauglin had forgotten the other ship entirely. He turned and started to raise his glass, then stopped. The ship was closing fast, incredibly
fast, foam flying from her bow, sails drawing at a full heel. On the down-roll he could see the weaponry on her decks: ballistae fore and aft, and a catapult on her bow. “What the bloody hells…” Then he remembered who was aboard her, and his nerves went cold. “The seamage!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Flaxal’s Heir

  “Edan!” Cynthia shouted, clutching the rail with white knuckles. The warships were closing too quickly; Orin’s Pride would not get between them in time. “Edan, I need you to help me!”

  “Me?” His voice squeaked.

  “Yes, you! I’m doing all I can to get us where we need to be without breaking the ship apart.” That got everyone’s attention, including the captain’s. “I need you to slow that big ship, or she’ll run us down. Do you understand?”

  “Yes!” He paused. “How do I do that?”

  “The winds, Edan. Turn the winds against her forward sails. She’ll be forced to turn, and her sweeps will be useless.” She spared him an urgent glance. “Now, Edan!”

  “I’ll try!” He stared at the ship in concentration. Her forward sails flapped instantly, and he smiled. Then he frowned and squinted, and the winds turned in a whirling crescent, hitting her bow sails on the port beam and her aft trisails and spanker on the starboard. The great ship turned ponderously, slewing to port, her momentum heeling her over sharply.

  “Bloody fine!” the captain bellowed, clapping him on the shoulder and almost breaking his concentration. “Now we’ve got a gap to shoot for!”

  “Good!” Cynthia brought the schooner down just to leeward of the Fire Drake. The winds eased and the seas around her hull calmed, though she was still sailing along briskly. “Now, Feldrin, I’ll need you to keep her on station as much as you can. Just try not to let the Clairissa engage the mer. I’m going to be far too busy to help you. Mouse, you stay with Feldrin.”

  “But what are you gonna be — ” His eyes widened as she moved to the rail and the sprite darted from her shoulder to his. “Cynthia! No!”