Dragonfire

by Charles Jackson

  Devastator was nearer now, and it wasn’t even close to being a warm enough day to excuse the fine layer of perspiration that his nerves had produced, tiny droplets twinkling across his forehead below the base of his crown and running uncomfortably down the back of his neck below his high collar. The stage was set… his own men were in place… and all that remained was for Harald to give the signal to let slip the dogs of war.

  There was some faint sound of a commotion off to the west, a disturbance of some kind out beyond the nearer warehouses that might presumably be some dispute amongst the peasants and commonfolk as they vied for a position with any kind of view, held back by painted ropes and most of Burnii’s local garrison. None of that mattered now: most of them would be dead before sunset, like as not.

  The latest estimates placed the city’s regular population at close to ten thousand and most of them had filled the nearby streets and gathered at the edges of the more distant wharves in some vain hope of seeing some of the momentous spectacle. They’d get more than they bargained for soon enough, and Baal almost smiled as he considered the irony that it would indeed be a day that any survivors would remember for the rest of their dramatically-shortened lives.

  Most of the honoured guests would not likely survive the hour either. That was an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice in the grand scheme of things, and whatever apologies might need to be made could be delivered once the dust had settled and the Kingdom of Huon had been scoured from the pages of history. Few of the other nations with representatives present would kick up much of a fuss in any case: the terrifying reality of these new weapons the Blackwatch was about to unleash would ensure most of them came running back to the negotiating table, and woe betide any kingdom that dragged its heels.

  And then the moment was suddenly upon them. While still at least a thousand metres out from the wharves, Harald’s great warship began to come about, turning unexpectedly to starboard rather than continue on toward the royal dock as planned. With just seconds left before hell itself was unleashed, Baal moved the fingers of his right hand slightly and clicked off the safety catch on the Beretta shotgun exactly as Persephone had instructed the day before. Not a single guard or honoured guest – the king and princess included – took any notice whatsoever as he casually lowered the weapons’ muzzles to point directly at the back of Phaesus’ crowned head.

  It was a mere two kilometres between the western gates to the Burnii docks, but covering that distance meant forcing their way through narrow and winding city streets that were packed with thousands of revellers and other commonfolk either trying to get closer to the ceremonies or simply trying to go about their business as Endweek day carried on regardless.

  They’d passed through the gates and galloped along the high road as it curved back to the south-east, toward the harbour, where Randwick and the others had caught sight of Devastator between the rows of shops and houses that lined the heights there. She was close now – close enough for him to pick out the unmistakeable shape of cannon mounted on her open deck. He wasn’t sure exactly what the weapons could do but if even half of what the girl had told him were true, their power would be more devastating that anything the Osterlands had ever seen.

  Urged on at his command, the King’s Guard surged ahead, breaking into pairs and using the bulk of their own horses to force the crowds aside. Each pair would pause at an intersection, clear the way on either side, then wait for the next two pairs to power through with Randwick and the others close behind. The moment they were clear, the first pair would then charge ahead once more as their colleagues clear two more intersections further on.

  For Nev, who’d now been allowed at last to remove her fake blindfold once they’d passed within the city walls, it looked very much like the kind of operation motorcycle cops carried out back home at times when an escort was required to clear the way through busy traffic for some visiting dignitary. Although the mode of transport was far more archaic, their movements were carried out with the same tight, military precision, making their progress immeasurably faster than it would’ve been otherwise.

  Shotgun… Baal… A crowned head… The shotgun…!

  A brief succession of momentary images flashed through her mind, almost too fast for her to register, but the intent was clear all the same: Prince Baal was about to use Percy’s shotgun to kill someone else wearing a crown, and considering where they were and what was about to happen, it didn’t take a genius to work out who the likely target was.

  “The king…!” She shouted ahead to Randwick, the old man turning his head just enough to improve his hearing as they galloped on. “Baal has the shotgun! He’s going to kill the king!”

  “William…!” He barked loudly, reining in for a moment as they drew level with the young man’s horse at one crossing. “The king… get to the king! Baal’s going to kill him with a weapon you won’t recognise…” There was doubt in the officer’s eyes for just a moment, but the intensity of the old man’s gaze and his respect for his old commander were enough to burn through any misgivings. “Protect the king and princess at all costs and don’t let Baal near either of them… go… go now…!”

  “Riders… the King’s in danger! Rally to the king…! Hurrah…!”

  “Hurrah…!” The rousing call came back to him in return and leaving the rest of them behind, William of Zeehn surged forward, pushing his mount to full gallop with sword raised at the charge as the rest of his troop fell in behind.

  Nev and the others followed on as best they were able, but as the crowd had immediately parted to allow passage for a troop of screaming cavalrymen at the charge, it just as quickly came together again behind and the chaos left in the guardsmen’s wake was such that it was actually far more difficult for the rest of them to push on.

  As they rounded another short bend, the buildings suddenly disappeared on their left and they were left with a clear view of the docks and the harbour beyond, able to look out quite easily from the saddle over the heads of the milling crowds around them. Nev spotted Devastator in an instant – there was no mistaking the size and power of such a warship – and something familiar flickered in her mind as she took in the fearful emblem of the roaring lion emblazoned two-storeys high across her great sail.

  There was no time for any such distraction at that moment however and she pushed the thoughts away for consideration some other time. Devastator was coming about, turning her huge bow toward them as the vessel heeled around to starboard, with dozens of long, spindly oars rising and dipping in unison to the thrumming beat of a distant drum. With her vision clear now, she could also see tiny figures in red and black milling about on the deck, fussing about a single line of eight cannon like ants about their latest catch.

  “Oh God, the cannon… the cannon…!” She shrieked, pointing wildly and almost falling out of the saddle, the reality of what was happening reaching her a split-second later as Devastator prepared to unleash her first broadside. “Mister Randwick, they’re going to fire the cannon!”

  Devastator had made the turn – the first part of the signal Baal had been waiting for – and just seconds later her sail began to fold away as dozens of deck hands hauled it upward, releasing the captured breeze and immediately lowering the vessel’s forward motion. That was the second signal – the alert that the ship was preparing to fire – and it was also the moment that Baal was expected to curl his index finger around the shotgun’s trigger and ascend to the throne through two simple and rather brutal acts.

  Just point, aim and fire and the weapon will do the rest … the witch had told him. Turn toward the princess and do the same, and all his dreams would become reality.

  There’d been no time to practice, but he was standing just a few feet away and surely couldn’t miss…

  “The king…! Protect the king…!” That call rang out from somewhere off to his left and a chill speared his heart as he turned and saw that a troop of white-clad cavalry – King’s Guard, no less – had broken through the
front of the crowd at the far end of the boardwalk and were now thundering toward them at full gallop, lances lowered at the charge.

  There was no time to lose… no time for any more distractions. The horsemen were still too far away to be of any danger and he could see that a platoon of his own guard were already turning to face them, taking a knee and preparing to meet the charge with crossbows drawn. Turning back to the king, who was also rising from his seat now as the alarm was raised, Baal lifted the shotgun loosely to his right shoulder and took aim once more at the back of the man’s head.

  Charleroi had also heard that warning call, along with most of the nearby crowd and every other guest in the stands. Unlike most of them however, who instinctively turned toward the sound of commotion, she immediately turned toward her father, suddenly fearful for his safety, and was presented with the unmistakeable sight of Baal aiming something at his back.

  That it was some kind of weapon was now quite clear – she could see the prince’s finger curling about a trigger that looked much like one found on any crossbow – and it took no genius to recognise that it was pointed directly at the back of her father’s head. What happened next was born of pure instinct. With no weapon of her own, she turned her head in desperate search of anything she might use and her eyes settled on the only thing that was in reach.

  A flaming torch struck Baal savagely in the side of the head a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger, throwing off his aim as the shotgun discharged with a deafening blast and tore a plate-sized hole in the wooden decking at Phaesus’ feet. Percy had decided it would be hilarious not to warn Baal about recoil, and the shotgun had slammed into his shoulder like the kick of a mule, twisting him backward even as the impact of Charli’s thrown torch sent him staggering away to one side.

  Initially shocked by the roar of the Beretta, the king’s bodyguards leaped forward in the seconds that followed with their swords drawn. Three were instantly cut down by a volley of crossbow bolts fired by the prince’s men, while the fourth and nearest to Baal was run through by Garrick’s blade. Everything descended into a melee at that moment as two squads of Huon soldiers standing further back joined the fray, crossing swords with the Taas troopers as they attempted to push their way through to the king.

  “Traitor…!” Phaesus barked, rage growing in his eyes as he realised what the prince had just attempted. “Assassin…!”

  Fists clenched, he took a single step forward and drew the sabre at his own belt, raising it to strike at Baal. Garrick darted in, placing himself between the two men and slashed wildly at the king, who deftly parried the strike with his own blade and kicked the viceroy under the knee in return, drawing from him a cry of pain as he collapsed onto the boardwalk. Charleroi screamed at her father, shouting at him to back away – to get to safety – but Phaesus knew it was far too late for that as the prince’s guards gathered around them

  William and his lancers struck the Taas ranks at that moment, leaving men speared and screaming on the ground as their horses smashed them out of the way and powered on through. With lances wrenched from their grasp, they drew their sabres instead and began hacking their way forward, desperate to reach the king – now just metres away – before it was too late.

  Everything seemed to slow down for Princess Charleroi in that moment. Sounds faded away, peripheral vision blurred, and all she could see was the image of her father striding forward, blade raised as he advanced on Baal with murderous intent. He’d made it all of a metre and a half as the prince aimed the shotgun from the hip, fired again in a roar and cloud of smoke, and Phaesus IV collapsed to the boardwalk in a crumpled heap.

  Baal stood for a moment, transfixed as his mind tried to take in what had just happened – what he’d actually just done. As emotions that were equal parts fear and elation began to ripple through him, he looked up and locked eyes for a moment with the princess, her cries drowned out now by the screams of the panicking crowd around her. Without even thinking, he raised the weapon to his shoulder once more, aimed straight at her face and barely registered any reaction at all when no more shots were forthcoming.

  The moment was gone then, the pair of them suddenly separated by a wall of blue and gold as Baal’s personal guard closed ranks around him and prepared to face the troop of cavalry currently hacking their way toward the dais. The prince seemed almost in a daze, as if unable to believe what had just happened, however Garrick, sporting a distinct limp from the blow to his knee, was under no such impediment. Whichever way the battle turned from hereon in, there was much danger and no benefit to be had in either of them hanging about. With all the strength he could muster, the viceroy slipped his hand into the back of Baal’s collar and forcibly dragged the prince away, seeking to put much-needed distance between them and the King’s Guard.

  There was a terrible wound in the king’s side as Charleroi fell to her knees beside him seconds later, rolling him over as he groaned in agony. Whatever the weapon had fired had been powerful enough to punch straight through the silver chainmail of his ceremonial armour, the garb primarily intended as decoration after all rather than as any real manner of protection.

  “Father…! Father…!” She wailed, tearing a huge segment from the hem of her dress and pushing it firmly down over the wound as a makeshift dressing, although the fine white silk, which turned crimson within seconds, was far too thin to be of any real use.

  “Help me! Save the king…!” She screamed as loudly as she could, casting her eyes wildly about for aid as her words were lost in the clamour of hysterical crowds streaming away in all directions, seeking safety from the developing skirmish on the boardwalk.

  Phaesus was struggling to talk as he lay there in her arms, staring skyward with his arms waving feebly. A pink froth had gathered at one corner of his lips, joining the faint trickle of blood that had already wound its way down his cheek on the same side. Charli had no idea how bad his wounds actually were – although they looked terrible indeed – but it was fairly clear all the same that without immediate medical attention he wasn’t likely to last long at all… assuming it wasn’t already too late.

  It was at that moment that Devastator released her first broadside.

  XVI

  Havoc

  The panic that had begun to spread throughout the crowd degenerated into complete chaos as the roar of Devastator’s guns reached out for them across the water. Thick grey smoke billowed from the muzzles of all eight guns as they fired in sequence from bow to stern, the power of their roar so great that even from a distance of five hundred metres or more, it struck Nev and the others with physical force like a slap to the chest.

  The shriek of artillery came next as eight huge projectiles arced across the intervening distance in a fraction of a second and smashed apart the walls of harbour warehouses and office buildings like matchwood, followed moments later by powerful explosions as the shells detonated. Splinters and debris ripped through the air in all directions, killing and maiming dozens of screaming bystanders and adding to the hysteria that was already spreading throughout the city.

  More cannon opened up from the next line of Blackships, adding the weight of their fire to the carnage as Devastator’s gun crews went about the process of reloading. Their targets were the crewless warships moored at piers and wharves throughout the rest of the harbour area, peppering them with successive broadsides of explosives and incendiaries that tore the vessels apart and left their wreckage burning heavily within minutes. There was more firing further out to sea as several more squadrons of Blackships engaged patrolling Huon warships beyond the bay, quickly destroying them also as the attackers powered on toward the west, seeking out more targets.

  Nev would’ve been the first to admit she was terrified by the whole thing, and there was every likelihood she’d have taken the first opportunity to flee in the most opposite direction she could find had her horse’s reins not been securely tied to Randwick’s saddle. The old man had been forced to spend a moment or two b
ringing his mount under control as the first cannon had fired, the animal rearing in fright at the sound, but he’d settled her quickly enough and then galloped on once more, heading straight for the distant dais in the wake of William’s guardsmen.

  Devastator fired her second broadside and eight more shells screeched deafeningly overhead, smashing into the shattered remnants of the dockside buildings behind as William and his troop hacked their way through toward the king’s position with sabres swinging on either side, leaving blue-clad Taasi troopers screaming beneath their horses’ hooves.

  Three of his men had fallen to crossbows during the charge; the rest – him included – had struck the clustered infantry with a roar, smashing them aside with the impact of almost a tonne of armoured horse and rider. With Huon guards joining the fight on either flank, they were able to force a passage through to the dais in just a few agonisingly slow moments, and the young man’s heart leaped into his mouth as he caught sight of Phaesus lying there on the boardwalk in a crumpled heap, his head cradled in the princess’ arms as she wailed and screamed for help.

  “Guardsmen, the king…!” William bellowed at full voice, sliding from his saddle and finding a knee at the princess’ side in an instant. “Defensive positions… clear a path…!” He called out again, quickly taking in the environment around them before turning his gaze to the king’s condition.

  What he saw clearly wasn’t good at all. The folded material Charleroi had pressed against the wound in his side was already sodden, and blood had seeped out and stained his clothes from chest to groin on one side. He reached out to lift the dressing for a moment, wanting to see for himself the severity of the wound, only to have his hand slapped away by a young princess who was wide-eyed and bordering in the verge of hysteria.