A Prospect of War (An Age of Discord Novel Book 1)

by Ian Sales

“What else did she tell you?”

  “Not much else. My father—” He grimaced as he used the term; it was inaccurate but he would not admit to Finesz that he was no more than a clone— “my father—she called him the Serpent—is trying to take the Imperial Throne—” He broke off.

  As he had spoken, it struck him how ludicrous the idea was. The direct descendants of empire-builder Edkar I, the Shutan dynasty, had ruled for over 1,200 years. They had survived their share of civil wars and attempted usurpations. But those were historical events, or so far removed from Ormuz that they could not affect him. Now they did. Twice, attempts had been made on his life. Ormuz was a serious threat to his mysterious father’s plot but he did not know why.

  Finesz barked a disbelieving laugh. “The Throne?” she asked. “The Imperial Throne? Your father is after the Imperial Throne?” She gave another laugh, a flat crack of mirthlessness. “It would be unbelievable if it weren’t for—” Her expression abruptly hardened. “It was your father’s men who stormed Divine Providence the night before last.”

  Although it was not a question, Ormuz nodded.

  “He’s a determined man.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know who he is.”

  “He is a very determined man,” Finesz insisted. “He’s very careful to leave no traces.” She gestured with one hand. It was a brusque jerky wave of the hand. “Perhaps you haven’t heard about our own raid by your father’s men.”

  Ormuz had not.

  “Yesterday,” Finesz continued, her voice harsh with suppressed anger, “the three bodies left by your mysterious rescuer two nights ago were stolen from the Obduktor’s Office. In the process, the thieves murdered thirteen people. Including the Obduktor himself.” She sat back and glared at Ormuz.

  “I can’t help you,” he said.

  “You said you would find out who Riz Gotovach was,” she countered. “So find out who your father is.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Tell me your source. My need is greater than yours. Your father—” She leant forward, her features hard— “is mine, young man.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t? We have ways of—” She broke off and barked a harsh laugh. “No, clichés won’t help.”

  “I can tell you my… source,” Ormuz said. “But you can’t use it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly what it is, I don’t know why I can use it.”

  She gestured imperiously. “I’ll be the judge of that. Where were you going to look for Riz Gotovach’s real name? She’s not in the Navy Lists. I’ve checked.”

  Ormuz blinked in surprise. “You know she’s Navy?”

  Finesz nodded.

  “She told us she used to be a petty officer aboard a destroyer, called… Galaba. But now she works in security for the Katut Line.”

  “Ah. When you met her a couple of days ago.”

  Ormuz nodded.

  “I can tell you now that’s not true,” Finesz said. “Gotovach is—was—no petty officer. She’s an officer. A lieutenant, at least. Her… companion goes by the name of Garfi Niwashi. He’s your mysterious swordsman of two nights ago. Not that we’ve found a Niwashi in the Regimental Rolls.” She frowned and looked past Ormuz. “Assaun—”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Which Imperial regiments train their recruits in swordsmanship?”

  “None. Ma’am. Against the law: blades over eight inches.”

  “But, by all accounts, this Niwashi is a master.”

  “Must be an officer, then.”

  “That’s the conclusion I’d reached.”

  Ormuz listened to this exchange with mounting puzzlement. The swordsman who had defended Divine Providence from its attackers was an associate of Riz Gotovach? That at least confirmed Ormuz’s feeling that Gotovach was no agent of the Serpent.

  Finesz drummed her fingers thoughtfully on Opisina’s desk-top. “Assaun,” she said again. “A regimental officer and a Navy officer? Not likely, is it?”

  “No, ma’am,” acknowledged the troop-sergeant.

  “And there were marines aboard the jolly boat that picked them up on Darrus…” She smiled coldly. “But an Imperial Marine officer and a Navy officer is much more likely.”

  Ormuz rose to his feet. “I have to go.” He no longer felt this interview was wise. If Gotovach was on “his” side, then involving the Office of the Procurator Imperial was a mistake. “We launch in a few hours and there’s things I have to do.”

  “Your next stop is Kapuluan?” Finesz remained seated and regarded Ormuz with a smug, self-satisfied expression.

  He nodded.

  “Then I will no doubt see you there. This is far from over, young Casimir. Far from over.” She waggled a finger at him. “I’ll let you go. For now. But think on this ‘source’ of yours. When we meet again on Kapuluan, I fully expect you to tell me all about it.”

  “It won’t help you.”

  “I told you—” Her voice harshened— “that I will be the judge of that.” She gestured imperiously at the troop-sergeant. “Show him out, Assaun.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dismayed at having failed the Admiral, unsure of what her future held, Rinharte stepped down from the cutter’s hatch onto Harab’s boat-deck to the sound of whooping klaxons. A chamber 80 yards wide and 110 yards deep, ribbed with great girders, crowded with scurrying rateds, the boat-deck was a good deal smaller than Vengeful’s. Forward, two berths—one empty—held the frigate’s cutters. Before these, an officer shepherded crew into a defensive line. Harab was not large enough a warship to carry a detachment of Imperial Marines, nor even warrant ship’s corporals or a provost-aboard. Rateds, hastily press-ganged as ship’s defence and armed with billy-clubs, were all she had.

  Behind Rinharte, the armoured door to the frigate’s boat-deck slowly closed. The force-curtain would be disengaged once it was shut and sealed. Kordelasz stepped down beside her. The serjeants waited behind. There was no need to physically restrain Rinharte and Kordelasz: they could not escape.

  “They’re under attack,” Rinharte said.

  “Vengeful,” replied Kordelasz, nodding.

  Miekka pushed roughly past Rinharte. He gestured peremptorily at his eight serjeants. “Four of you, join those men over there,” he barked. “Obey Lieutenant-Commander Obrona in all matters regarding defence of the ship.”

  The boat officer appeared in the cutter’s hatch and the knight-captain turned to him. “You’ve spoken to the bridge, Mate Farjan?” he asked.

  “We’re being approached by a battlecruiser.” The boat officer glanced across at Rinharte and Kordelasz, and in his face she read fear and… admiration? “They’ve requested we heave-to and prepare to be boarded,” he added.

  “We must make a run for it,” Miekka ordered.

  “We can’t, sir.” The mate shook his head sadly. “The battlecruiser has the advantage in velocity over us. We could never accelerate beyond range in time.”

  “And when they’ve drawn alongside?”

  “From a dead stop? Yes, we can out-accelerate a Renown class. But we’ll still be within range of her main gun for many minutes. And at such close quarters, she won’t miss.”

  “You might as well surrender, Sir Ingev,” Rinharte said. She tried hard not to sound smug. She gestured at the rateds and serjeants guarding the cutter’s berths and the exit from the boat-bay beyond them. “They’ll never stop Vengeful’s marines.”

  The knight-captain growled. “How did they get so damn close?” he demanded, ignoring Rinharte. “Why didn’t Harab cast off as soon as she detected the other vessel?”

  There was no love lost between the Imperial Navy and the Martial Orders. The mate demonstrated as much when he replied, “On your instructions, Sir Ingev. You had to be aboard. We can’t winch the cutter aboard while we’re under way.”

  Miekka clenched a fist angrily. “So you just let Vengeful approach?”

&
nbsp; “Captain Ruban felt he had no choice.” A pause. “Sir.”

  The knight stalwart whirled about to his remaining serjeants. “Take these two,” he grated. “Secure them. We will make Vengeful pay dearly for their rescue.”

  A hand gripped Rinharte’s upper-arm. She was led away. Another serjeant pulled Kordelasz along after her. Halfway between the cutter and Lieutenant-Commander Obrona’s defensive line, she heard Miekka tell Farjan, “Open the boat-bay door. We’ll use cannons to repel the boarders.”

  “Sir! It’s too dangerous to use cannons aboard!” protested Farjan. “And if we open the door, the boarders will have easy access.”

  “Precisely my point, Mate Farjan. My serjeants can fire with impunity at targets against the force-curtain. There’ll be no damage to your precious frigate.”

  Rinharte glanced back over her shoulder and saw Miekka and Mate Farjan arguing. Fire directed-energy weapons in an enclosed environment? Aboard a starship? It was a tactic borne of desperation. Or foolishness. A single hit from a field-piece could hole the hull. Harab could still make way with a damaged boat-deck, but what of the various systems buried in the bulkheads? The damage could prove catastrophic.

  “He’s definitely serious,” remarked Kordelasz in amusement as they were marched along a narrow gangway.

  “Or a fool,” snapped Rinharte, angry at his lightheartedness.

  “A knight-captain? No fool could ever rise so high in the Order.”

  “What do knights stalwart know of ship-to-ship combat, Garrin?” Rinharte asked bitterly. “They’re ground troops. Like the knights militant.”

  “Special forces, ma’am. They’ll have trained to fight in all possible arenas of combat. Including aboard a starship.”

  “But… cannons?”

  Kordelasz barked a laugh… and was abruptly jerked forward by his captor as the marine-lieutenant had slackened his pace. “I admire the knight-captain for even thinking of it. He needs all the advantages he can find, and he’s come up with a big one.”

  “And Vengeful’s marines will suffer the consequences of his unorthodox thinking,” Rinharte countered.

  The marine-lieutenant grinned at her. “Not at all. Major Skaria knows what he’s doing. And his adjutant, Marine-Captain Najib, is a superb tactician. ‘Unorthodox’, too.”

  Rinharte glanced at Kordelasz sharply, although she was hampered by the serjeant holding her. “Najib? You mean the Viscount Magnoon? He’s a buffoon, Garrin. A chinless wonder who was bought his commission to get him out from under his father’s feet.”

  “True. The man has all the social graces of a drunken clown, but he has a real genius for the unexpected when planning assaults. The major knows exactly how to manage him.”

  Kordelasz and Rinharte were led down a series of narrow ramps to the keel deck—the lowest in the ship, a suitable location for the ship’s brig. All ships of the Imperial Navy had a brig, even the smallest sloop. There was always a use for them.

  A chief petty officer, his sleeve bearing both the crossed keys of the Ship’s Corporal Corps and the pen-and-scroll of the Divisions branch—he filled the roles of ship’s paymaster and ship’s gaoler—awaited them before the hatch to the brig. The hatch ground aside, revealing a chamber with unadorned bulkheads containing only a head and a narrow shelf some six feet long.

  “Not the most salubrious quarters we’ve had,” Kordelasz said as he was rudely pushed inside.

  The ship’s gaoler apologised. “Orders, sir.”

  Rinharte shrugged off her captor’s grip and stepped through the hatch with as much dignity as she could muster. Once inside the entrance, she turned and regarded the four serjeants and CPO standing in the gangway. She watched the hatch slide shut. Locking bolts ratcheted into place with an ominous “snick”. She turned from hatch. Kordelasz was sitting on the shelf—the brig’s excuse for a bunk. He swung his legs up and stretched out, his hands clasped beneath his head.

  “Amwadina was better than this,” he said to the ceiling.

  Back and forth, back and forth. Ten paces, about turn, ten paces, about turn… Rinharte fretted. Her hand went to her empty scabbard and she scowled. Perhaps she should have given her parole to the knight-captain. But she would still be confined to Harab’s brig. A prisoner of the knights stalwart. Her sword only a mental prop and of no other use. She remembered asking herself what else could go wrong during the mess they had made of infiltrating Ophavon… This. A prisoner. She would be ashamed—if her misadventures on the orbital city had not used up all her shame. The Admiral was certain to be disappointed.

  “Another fifteen minutes,” Kordelasz said to the ceiling.

  Rinharte halted her pacing and turned to the marine-lieutenant. “Until what?”

  “Until that hatch opens and our marines are standing outside.”

  “You’re a foolish optimist,” Rinharte snapped, “or an optimistic fool.”

  Kordelasz grinned. “A hull conducts sound quite well, you know.”

  “So?”

  “I can hear… interesting noises through this bunk. Sounds of battle.”

  “It could be anything,” returned Rinharte, who knew far more about the workings of a warship than the marine-lieutenant. “The main gun, the loading mechanisms for the torpedo tubes, hatches slamming shut to maintain hull integrity…”

  “I know the sounds of battle, ma’am.”

  Rinharte returned to her pacing. Let Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz have his illusions. She knew well enough that a warship without muffled clatters and bangs was a dead hulk. She halted—

  She had heard a series of thumps through the hatch. The return of their gaolers?

  Kordelasz scrambled to his feet as the sound of the locking bolts on the hatch withdrawing echoed about the cell. He joined Rinharte. They waited patiently for the hatch to their prison to open. It did so. Slowly…

  An ogrish figure loomed in the gangway. Huge, in padded tan coveralls, a pea-green shell jacket, white cross-belts hung with weaponry; head a mask with goggled eyes and the slatted slit of a breather, topped by a black steel bill-less kepi… Boarding axe gripped in one enormous gauntlet.

  Rinharte felt her spirits lift. An Imperial Marine. Kordelasz barked out a joyful laugh.

  The marines could only be from Vengeful.

  The figure snapped a salute. “Boat-Sergeant Alus, sir.” The voice issued from a miniature lapel-mounted caster.

  Kordelasz grinned. “The cavalry has arrived.”

  Alus removed his helmet, and pulled his air-hood forward and off his head, revealing thuggish features: close-set eyes, broken nose, beetling brows and a slab of a jaw. He frowned. “Cavalry, sir?” he said. “We’re marines, sir.”

  The marine-lieutenant grinned. “You’re our marines, boat-sergeant, and that makes you the cavalry.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Alus.

  A marine behind Alus stepped forward, leant through the hatch and proffered two swords. Rinharte, as the senior officer, took the first. It was a regulation sword, its hilt and cross-guards unadorned. Kordelasz accepted the second blade. He whipped it through a complicated figure, testing it for flexibility and balance, and grunted in satisfaction. Rinharte made no such examination: a sword was a sword. Given her level of skill, one blade was as effective or ineffective as another.

  “We need to leave, ma’am, sir,” Alus said.

  Rinharte nodded and stepped from the brig. The marines—there were four, including Alus; a boat-squad—shuffled aside to give her space in the gangway. She caught a flash of blue and white behind her and jerked round in surprise. The ship’s gaoler. He stood at attention, his face blank, outside the hatch to his office. Clearly he had decided discretion was the better part of valour. Especially against boarders from Vengeful. It was unlikely any serving Navy officer, petty officer or rated had not heard of the renegade battlecruiser. And was aware of her crew’s reputation.

  “You came in through the boat-deck?” Kordel
asz asked Alus.

  “Sir,” acknowledged the boat-sergeant.

  “There were serjeants with cannons waiting there. How did you get by them?”

  Alus smiled with the evident satisfaction of a job that had been done well. “The Admiral sent an empty jolly boat in. We used it as cover. Marine-Captain Najib’s idea, sir.”

  Kordelasz gave Rinharte a pointed look. She acknowledged the point: sacrificing a small craft simply to provide cover for a shipboard assault was certainly unorthodox.

  At a nod from Kordelasz, Alus and his squad led the way towards the ramp to the upper decks. The gangway was deserted. The crew of Harab were nowhere in evidence. At general quarters, Rinharte surmised, which were not down here on the lower decks.

  “We’re going out through the boat-deck?” Kordelasz asked.

  Alus nodded. “Sir.”

  “How? Surely the jolly boat’ll never fly again?”

  The boat-sergeant turned to Kordelasz and gazed down at him. “We have two pinnaces moored just off the frigate’s hull, sir.”

  Rinharte demanded, “How are we expected to reach—” She broke off. “No,” she said. “Definitely not.”

  “It’s the only way, ma’am,” apologised Alus.

  “I am not leaving this frigate without protection,” protested Rinharte.

  “Rizbeka, the boat-sergeant’s right,” said Kordelasz. “We have no choice. They can’t dock one of the pinnace’s: the boat-deck is blocked by the crashed jolly boat.”

  “All part of Najib’s genius tactics, I suppose,” Rinharte said bitterly. “I suppose you’ve done it before.”

  “No, ma’am,” admitted the marine-lieutenant. “But I have met some who have… and survived.”

  Rinharte forbore from pointing out that he could hardly meet those that had not survived an unprotected trip through the vacuum of space.

  “It can be done,” Kordelasz insisted.

  Rinharte tried to catalogue the “daredevil” feats she had performed since that fateful day on Tanabria Station: parachuting from a speeding data-freighter, defeating a knight stalwart in a one-on-one sword-fight… and now she was expected to cross empty space from a starship to a boat. The prospect was terrifying. All spacers feared vacuum.