by John Marco
“And catch her in a cross fire,” guessed Duckworth. “Good idea.”
“Is it? Let’s hope so. Go; give the order.”
Duckworth was off in an instant, calling to his mates. Once again the Gladiator picked up speed, but this time the Glorious followed close behind, putting a small gap in the privateer line. Zerio watched their progress with satisfaction as the dreadnought sped to outmaneuver them. They had the windward, but not the time. Now they would have to face two ships—or sail right for the center of the line.
“Not bad,” said Zerio, congratulating himself. He had never faced a dreadnought captain in battle before. They weren’t so great, after all.
“She’s changing course!”
Kasrin gripped the rail, his knuckles turning white. The Dread Sovereign had picked up the wind and was nearly abreast of the Naren flagship, but another had joined her and was fixing the dreadnought in her guns. Along the deck Kasrin’s men prepared themselves. The starboard flame cannons hummed to life. Kasrin quickly calculated the range between ships. He had the speed, but not the time to outrun them.
“Look,” said Laney. “They’ve left an opening in their line.”
“That’s for us,” cautioned Jelena. “They want us to sail between them.”
“They know we have the range advantage,” said Kasrin. “Clever bastard.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Changing course wasn’t an option. Even if he could maneuver through the middle of the line, he had no port weapons to fight off the attack. The flag officer had left him only one choice. “We’ll have to take them both on,” he said. “Laney, take us in closer. Steady as she goes.”
Instead of coming full abreast, the Dread Sovereign stopped its turn to sail ahead, tacking toward the waiting Narens. Behind her, Vares’ fleet was getting into position, ready for its showdown with the privateers. It would be a battle, because the Lissens were outnumbered. But they had the skill, Kasrin reminded himself, and all he needed was for them to divert the enemy long enough for the Sovereign to slip on by. When the Sovereign was safe, Vares could turn against the Narens with the real advantage of the schooners—their legendary speed.
Off the starboard bow, the flagship and its escort were coming into range. Soon the Sovereign would be in the tailing vessel’s arc of fire. Kasrin glanced up at the topsails, full of wind and straining at the yards. The ship was at the limit of her speed, and about to take two broadsides. The Narens had outpaced them, bringing their own guns within range. A few moments more …
“Jelena,” said Kasrin quickly, “would it be asking too much for you to get below?”
“Forget it,” replied the queen. She stood beside him on the forecastle, studying the range of the closing Narens. “We’re almost in the arc,” she said. “Steady …”
The flame cannons tracked on their mechanical mounts. The calls of the cannoneers echoed from the gun deck. Laney stood at Kasrin’s side, ready to relay his orders, and the crew waited for the first concussion. When it came, it would be from the tailing ship.
“Steady,” said Jelena again. She had one hand wrapped around a line and the other on the rail, her body exposed to the coming firestorm. Kasrin steeled himself, waiting for the first volley, wondering how much punishment his newly repaired warship could take.
“Laney,” he said, “Cannons two and three on the tailing ship. Cannon one ready against the flag.”
“Cannon one, ready against the flag. Aye, sir.” Laney called out the order. Two cannons bore down on their first target. The other would use its superior range against the flagship.
“Get ready,” warned Kasrin. He could almost smell the powder of the Naren cannons. “Here it comes …”
Lightning and thunder exploded before them. The dusk brightened with muzzle blasts. Kasrin yanked Jelena from the rail, wrapping himself like a shield around her. One by one shots burst into the water, falling around their target. Jelena tore free of Kasrin, hurrying back to the rail and peering across the smoky sea.
“Close,” she shouted. “Blair, should we return fire?”
Kasrin grit his teeth. “Laney?”
“Aye, sir?”
“Blast ’em.”
Back aboard the Gladiator, Zerio was preparing his own batteries to open fire when he heard the dreadnought’s concussion. The twin detonations rattled the teeth in his jaw. Next to him, Duckworth dropped the spyglass in shock, shattering it.
“Holy hell!” cried Duckworth.
Two blazing bolts of fire shot across the water. There was a giant whoosh and the hiss of steam as one followed the other into the hull of Glorious, sending her heeling sideways. Stunned crewmen aboard the Glorious returned fire, but the sticky fuel of the flame cannons was already on deck, setting it alight. An alarmed cry went up. Two cannons got off shots, then another two. They slammed into the dreadnought, denting her armor.
Zerio fought to calm himself, amazed at the dreadnought’s firepower. She was still coming toward them, absorbing the best of Glorious’ guns and about to turn her weapons on Gladiator. The captain knew he had to get the dreadnought between them, to lure her into a cross fire.
“Duckworth, hard right rudder! Bring us along her port side!”
Duckworth wasted no time. Gradually the Gladiator turned to port, changing course just enough to avoid the dreadnought’s arc. As she bit into the waves, drawing ever closer to the dreadnought, she slowly drew her prey between the two ships.
“Come on, come on,” urged Zerio, willing the vessel around. She was safely away from the dreadnought’s starboard guns but still not ready to fire herself. Just a few more seconds …
“Duckworth,” shouted Zerio, “aim for her sails. Let’s slow this bastard down!”
Kasrin knew they were in trouble. Over the port bow, the flagship was quickly coming abreast, readying her batteries. Suddenly the Dread Sovereign was trapped, blasting away at her starboard enemy but with no way to return fire to port.
“Ahead!” Kasrin cried. “Get us out of here!”
The flagship opened fire. Cannonballs tore into the Sovereign’s sails. The flame cannons pummelled the smaller privateer, but she too returned fire, trading round after round with the dreadnought. Fires erupted in the masts; lines snapped and burned. An endless cannonade discharged from the enemy. The Dread Sovereign shuddered under the bombardment, trying to flee but losing speed as the sails tore open.
“Damn it!” roared Kasrin. He felt impotent against his portside enemy. “All cannons, continuous fire! Blow that bastard to pieces!”
The Sovereign lurched to starboard, swinging around to escape the port bombardment and bringing her guns to bear against the enemy’s stern. The flame cannons paused, re-acquired, then concentrated on their target’s aft, a close-range barrage that demolished the decking and sent up showers of splinters. Kasrin’s beleaguered crew cheered as they watched water gush into the privateer’s holds. Suddenly her guns stopped. Her sailors looked about in shock. But Kasrin’s glee was short-lived. Once again the flagship was changing course. She was almost behind the Sovereign now, her port cannons echoing Kasrin’s own successful tactic, targeting the dreadnought’s stern. Kasrin could see the privateer aligning the Sovereign in her arc.
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
The dreadnought had no aft guns. Like all the ships of the line, she was unprotected from the rear. Even as she struggled northward again, the privateer opened fire.
Commander Vares and his Hammerhead had tailed the Dread Sovereign at four hundred yards, getting into line behind her even as she made her dangerous moves. With her starboard cannons facing the privateers, the Hammerhead opened fire with all batteries. Down the line, the other schooners picked up the order and began blasting away at the wall of Naren ships. The privateers quickly replied, returning fire with their many guns.
But Vares had seen something go terribly wrong. Ahead of his schooner, the Dread Sovereign was taking heavy punishment. She had been out-maneuvered by two privateers, squeezed between them an
d their cannons. With her flame cannons, she had destroyed the stern of one vessel, but now her own aft was unprotected and being peppered with fire. She was struggling to escape with damaged sails.
Vares knew his queen was in peril. Even a dreadnought couldn’t absorb fire from the rear. The commander looked over the ocean to where a pair of Naren vessels bore down on him, trying to get the Hammerhead’s range. Shots erupted around the schooner, sending up whale spouts. The south wind tugged at her sails, urging her on.
“Speed,” Vares whispered. That was their advantage.
Past the bow he saw the Dread Sovereign desperately trying to evade. Gunfire stippled her stern.
“Dorin,” cried Vares. “Ahead. Prepare for ramming!”
She wasn’t called the Hammerhead for nothing.
Captain Zerio had just given the order to turn his ship toward port, raking the dreadnought’s stern with fire. The dreadnought continued limping away, trying to get speed from her ruined topsails. As he brought his vessel about, Zerio realized the dreadnought’s port guns were useless. The sails slackened and the Gladiator slowed. As Zerio confidently considered his next move, a sudden shout shattered his clarity.
High in the crow’s nest, a lookout cried a fearful warning. Zerio glanced eastward. Off starboard, a Lissen schooner was racing toward them, eating up the ocean with her silver ram. Zerio stopped breathing. She was two hundred yards off and gaining fast. The cannoneers trained their starboard guns against her, waiting their captain’s order.
“Stop her!” Zerio cried.
“She’s coming around again,” said Kasrin. “Ready starboard cannons!”
“Look,” shouted Jelena. She pointed past the privateer toward the dark horizon. “The Hammerhead!”
Kasrin raced to the railing. The enemy flagship was still out of their arc, but her portside cannons had ceased firing. The Sovereign’s stern was aflame. Crewmen batted at the fire with blankets. But now an avenging angel was coming to rescue them. With the wind in her sails and her arrow-sharp prow, she sliced open the ocean in her quest for vengeance. Kasrin watched as the privateer’s guns fired, frantically trying to gauge the range as the schooner raced toward them. A thunderous barrage blew from the flagship’s cannons. Around the Hammerhead the water exploded. Undaunted, she sailed on, gathering speed for her lethal ram.
“Blair, should we alter course?” asked Laney. “We can get them in our arc.”
“No,” replied Kasrin. Returning fire meant nothing now. “Hold steady north, Laney. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“But the flagship …”
“Forget the flagship,” said Jelena. Her eyes were locked on the Hammerhead. “Vares will take care of it.”
• • •
Commander Vares targeted the flagship’s hull. He was on the prow of his vessel, just yards from the ram, holding tightly to lines as the Hammerhead raced forward. The roar of wind and cannons echoed in his ear, and he could smell the gunpowder. A shot tore through the railing and battered the deck. The Hammerhead ignored it, homing in on the enemy’s hull. A hundred yards, then seventy-five, then fifty—they all blew by in an instant. The Lissens braced themselves, grabbing hold of lines and mooring cleats. Vares ducked as the schooner rushed forward, avoiding the overhead shots and the hot glare of the barrels. He held his breath, thrilling to the screams of the frightened Narens.
Mute with horror, Zerio watched as the schooner grew in his vision. Sensing their demise, the starboard gunners gave up their attack, abandoning their stations. Next to Zerio, Duckworth put his hands over his mouth and let out a terrified whimper. Barely a moment remained. Zerio thought of jumping ship, yet he simply couldn’t move.
The last rays of sunlight played on the ram. Zerio watched it gleam. He heard the wail of tearing wood, felt the fist of wind. The impact of the collision threw him skyward. With the detachment of a dream he saw the Gladiator crumble beneath him. And then he was falling, dropping toward the impaling spikes of ripped timbers.
Kasrin stared in disbelief. Behind the Dread Sovereign, the privateer flagship was sinking, its hull breached. Water rushed in, dragging it relentlessly downward, and sailors were spilling into the icy depths, struggling to avoid the crushing ram. Vares’ schooner pulled free of the wreck, bobbing at its prow like a feeding wolf, ripping the flagship’s flesh.
Laney quickly collected himself, ordering the crew to their stations and keeping their course. He and Kasrin exchanged wordless glances. Leaning over the railing, Jelena watched as the Hammerhead began circling after the other privateers. The ocean screamed with cannon fire.
“What now?” Kasrin asked her.
Jelena’s voice was grave. “Now we sail for Talistan.”
“No, I mean with the others,” said Kasrin.
“Vares is in command now. He will deal with the Narens.”
Something about the answer unnerved Kasrin, but he didn’t bother replying. He looked up at the ragged topsails, then back toward the flaming stern. Already his men had gotten the fire under control, dousing it with buckets of seawater. The Dread Sovereign was crippled again. The smell of her starboard flame cannons laced the air with spent kerosene, and her deck was littered with debris. But she was still alive. Remarkably, she was still on course for Talistan.
In the west, the sun had disappeared. By daybreak, they were to be in Talistan. With the Sovereign’s damaged sails, Kasrin knew it would be a tight run.
“Look sharp, crew,” he called. “We don’t have a minute to waste.”
As the Hammerhead turned back toward the battle, Vares noticed the waning defense of the privateers. Having seen the destruction of their flagship, the remaining vessels broke formation, desperate to flee.
But to Vares the battle had just begun. In their disarray, the privateers were the perfect prey, and Vares’ appetite for destruction had barely been slaked. Quickly he ordered a hard right rudder, bringing the Hammerhead about to cut off the Narens’ escape. Then, when his vessel was close enough, he ordered his signalmen to flash the flags, sending a simple message to his fleet—no prisoners, no quarter, no mercy of any kind.
Vares picked up his spyglass and chose his quarry. Like its namesake, the Hammerhead swam hungrily forward.
FORTY-FIVE
On the first day of summer, the forces of the Eastern Highlands gathered on the bank of the Silverknife. Under the command of Prince Redburn and perched atop their armored latapi, the clans of Greyfin, Glynn, and Kellen sat in the morning sun, ready for the coming battle. A small breeze blew across the meadow, stirring their flags. At the lead flew the brilliant crimson banner of the Red Stag. Other banners of blue, white, and gold flanked the prince’s standard, representing the gathered warriors of the Highland families. There was Olly Glynn beneath his bear flag and Vanda Greyfin under the standard of the shark, flanking Redburn and his numerous men. And behind them sat Cray Kellen upon his golden elk. The Lion of Grandshirl had come with two hundred men. With his fanged helmet and golden flag, Cray Kellen was daunting. He had a broadsword on his back and an emotionless expression on his face as he watched the force arrayed against them.
Across the river, the host of Talistan waited, hundreds strong and heavily armed. A line of cavalry held their vanguard, snorting beasts plated with green and gold armor and mounted by demon-faced lancemen. Behind their ranks sat Tassis Gayle resplendent in his own ornate armor and flanked by sword-bearing infantrymen. On his right were a contingent of Voskans, on his left a force of Gorkneymen. A line of longbowmen bolstered their rear, standing in perfect formation as they awaited their instructions. A few lieutenants rode through the ranks, calling out orders to the various regiments. Atop his black charger, Tassis Gayle was still as stone. He wore a golden helmet carved with a grotesque reptilian face and winged like a gargoyle, and a gigantic sword dangled at his side. Hidden in his suit of metal, he looked far more vital than Biagio had ever seen him. He looked, to Biagio’s despair, formidable.
Like Tassis Gayle, Biagio wa
s on horseback. He was among only a handful of the Highlanders not on a latapi, and because he had no antlers or armor on his mount, he felt diminished. Next to him, Prince Redburn was on a prize beast, a huge latapi with a wide rack and hammered iron plating protecting its neck and flanks. It was, Biagio believed, the most redoubtable beast he had ever seen, a creature to challenge the legendary lions of Chandakkar. It chewed its bit noisily, sensing the coming battle, never taking its eyes off its foes. Beside Redburn, Breena too was on an elk, a somewhat smaller but no less impressive beast. A worried expression twisted her lips. Other than Vandra Greyfin, Breena was the only woman on the field. Surprisingly, Redburn had not argued for her to stay at the castle.
Upon his chestnut warhorse, Biagio counted the enemy ranks. Gayle’s cavalry numbered nearly two hundred, and his infantry at least that many. The Voskans, who had been a nasty surprise to the emperor, numbered perhaps a hundred, and the Gorkneymen maybe fifty more. Biagio looked across the river wondering which one of them was Wallach. The duke had spared no expense for his vengeance.
Even with all four clans represented, Redburn had fielded a force of less than five hundred, hardly enough to match the army that Tassis Gayle had arrayed. Though the Highlanders had their latapi to bolster them, they seemed no match for the better-trained Talistanians. For the first time since hatching his scheme, Biagio felt regret. He had forged the Highlanders into a weapon, but Gayle was a seasoned warrior. Tassis Gayle knew how to win a war, and seeing him again atop a charger made Biagio cringe.
“They are so many,” said Redburn. “I did not expect it.”
“Nor I,” Biagio confessed.
“There weren’t supposed to be so many,” said Breena. “Lord Emperor, where is your navy?”
“I do not know.”
