Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  “You assured me that the Grand Master had taken care of Sar,” he snarled, keeping his voice low so no one would hear the exchange.

  “I did, Your Highness.”

  “I emptied my treasury to your Order. Yesterday, when we assaulted this city, your precious Shiv warriors failed to arrive as promised.”

  “Sire, you know a storm swept south of here. It delayed the transports.”

  “And now Sar has joined my brother? To many coincidences, priest. Too many.”

  “Sire, I can assure you that the Order honors its contracts.”

  “Hanaga sniffed derisively. “If I believed all you told me, Hazin, I’d have died years ago. I do not believe in coincidences. I paid more than thirty million to the Grand Master to use the Shiv and thus spare my troops, and another thirty to assure that Sar either joined me or was killed.”

  “And I can promise you he has joined you. Yes, his fleet sails behind your brother’s. And why? Wait until battle is well joined and you will see.”

  Hanaga turned and caught the eye of his officer of the guard, motioning him to come over as well. “I have been assured by this priest that Sar is on our side.”

  The guard, well understanding the tone of his master, said nothing, waiting for what came next.

  “If Sar’s ships open fire on us, I want you to cut his heart out.”

  Hazin’s gaze did not waver. “I can assure you, sire,” he whispered, “such theatrical statements are a waste of time for both of us. You will see the truth soon enough.” Ignoring him, Hanaga turned away, raising his telescope to scan the approaching fleet.

  The smoke on the horizon continued to expand outward. The observation tower of a battle cruiser now rose well above the horizon, and he saw more tops as well. The range had to be less than seven leagues.

  Hanaga turned to an aide and told him to pass the word to the master gunner to be certain to lay on the lead battle cruiser.

  Speed dropped off slightly as steam was diverted from the engines to power the six armored turrets, two forward, two amidships and two aft. The ponderous turrets slowly began to turn to port, then back to starboard, testing their traverse. As they did, the single heavy gun in each turret rose, then lowered. The lighter turrets, lined up below on the lower gun deck, did the same, but these were powered by the muscle of a half dozen crew turning the traverse cranks.

  Atop the main turrets, gunners handling the steam-powered multiple-barrel guns were busy loading clips of ammunition. Spotters were scanning the skies overhead, watching as aerosteamers dodged in and out, skirmishing, jockeying for position.

  Another one came spiraling down, this one with the distinctive fork-tailed stem and single main wing of a Red Banner plane.

  “Sire, may I point out that if Sar was not fulfilling his obligation, he’d be sailing with your brother. Instead, he is farther back,” Hazin whispered, daring to come to Hana-ga’s side.

  Hanaga felt a cool uneasiness that the priest stood so close to him. The Order of the Shiv, once just another cult, was now a power to be feared even by those of the Golden Family of the Throne. After all, it was he who had first used them to murder his elder brother for control of the throne. Hazin had been the instrument behind that first arrangement and during the last twenty years of conflict Hazin had stayed by his side.

  “I would interpret this as meaning that Sar is coming on at full steam,” Hazin continued, whispering softly. “Your brother is trying to avoid action with him and close with us first. This is not betrayal, it is fulfillment of an agreement.”

  Hanaga looked over. Yes, the priest did have the “sense,” the at times unnerving ability to read minds. It was why he made such an excellent truth sayer, one who could read the thoughts of the unwary, who were not aware that a Master Priest of the Order often hid behind the throne at audiences.

  He could sense the priest’s eyes looking at him, piercing, as if gazing straight into his soul. He knew the priest was trying to gain an advantage, and he held his gaze for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

  “There is a game within a game, priest, and at this moment I shall simply carve straight in and see if Tenga”—as he said the word of the Immortal, he briefly lowered his head—“is with me or not.”

  The priest smiled. “I never knew you across all these years to be religious. You use me as you use anyone else.”

  “Yet I once called you a friend.”

  He allowed himself to smile when he spoke the word friend. It had indeed been true. They were of the same age. Hazin, of a minor family, had been sent to be a playmate and companion before going off to join the Order. The Order had returned him, ten years later, to serve as adviser and liaison to a brother who would murder a brother and thus start the bloody civil war that had consumed the Empire.

  “Once?”

  “You have your path, I mine. Besides, did you not once tell me that only fools have friends, and emperors who are fools do not live long?”

  “No, you still have friends, My Emperor. The difference is, at least with your friends, if you should decide to dispose of them, you give them a painless death.”

  Hazin smiled. “Your offer to have my heart cut out rather than consign me to the amphitheater, is that a mark of friendship in our world?”

  “If I want to be emperor, I need first of all to be ruthless, even to friends if need be. You told me that as well more than once. ‘The greater the power you seek, the fewer you should allow yourself to love. For ultimate power, let no one into your heart.’ Thus it was written by Batula the Prophet.”

  Hazin smiled. “I taught you that, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  The emperor continued to stare at Hazin for a moment, as if trying to judge something, and then he turned away, deliberately focusing his attention on his brother’s fleet, drawing closer. The hulls of the battle cruisers, and even of the frigates, were clearly in view. The range was less than four leagues.

  Behind him, the bridge crew was at work. The master gunner was quietly communicating via a speaking tube with the range finders perched inside the observation platform, which soared a hundred feet above the bridge. Receiving the report, he then pulled open another tube and passed the information on to the turrets, where gun elevations were being set. Technically, the two fleets were already within range. The heaviest guns were easily capable of reaching across four leagues. But no one had yet to master the two problems of long-range gunnery: firing weapons from the unstable platform of a ship’s deck and hitting a moving target.

  Hazin left Hanaga’s side and went into his small temple. He emerged a minute later leading a human male—one of the Shiv.

  Hanaga looked at him warily, as all of his race did, for the Shiv, though of the human cattle species, were not quite of them. The Order had experimented for ten generations to breed humans into the ultimate warriors of the Empire; the ultimate sacrifice to please the desires of Tenga. There were rumors that, on the island headquarters of the Shiv, the breeding of the race had been expanded to those of the ancient blood as well.

  This human stood far taller than the unbred cattle, though not as tall as those of the blood of the Hordes. His face a pale olive, the skin an amalgamation of all the various subspecies of cattle since the breeders of the Order sought from all the human races the prime examples of physical strength and endurance, which they then bred. This specimen was, even for the Shiv, perfection: muscles clearly defined, powerful as it stood naked, a light sheen of sweat covering its body.

  It stood motionless, showing not the slightest trace of fear.

  Hazin stepped before him, drawing a razor sharp blade, which glinted in the sunlight, and held it before the Shiv’s eyes.

  “Do you see what I hold?”

  “My liberation,” it whispered in reply.

  Hazin nodded and started his ritual chant in the ancient tongue, the Shiv joining him in the prayer. Many of those on the bridge looked over with a mixture of curiosity and awe.


  The prayer finished, Hazin handed the dagger to the Shiv and stepped back. Without hesitation, it reversed the blade and cut its own throat, slashing with such force that Hanaga could hear the grinding of the honed steel against backbone.

  Amazingly the sacrifice stood motionless, barely flinching as blood sprayed out, striking Hazin, spattering across the deck.

  The Shiv continued to stare at Hazin, and he actually showed the flicker of a smile as the priest extended his hand and covered the victim’s eyes.

  Finally, its legs buckled and the body fell, the dagger falling from its hand. A murmur of approval arose from the bridge crew; the sacrifice had been a good sign.

  A halyard was looped around its feet by two novitiates of the Order who scurried out of the small temple, features cloaked by their robes. Grabbing the other end of the rope, they hoisted the body up, wind blowing the spray of blood out across the deck, stopping at last beneath the gunnery control tower where it hung limp, swaying as the ship cut through the foaming seas. The same ritual was being performed on every other ship of the fleet.

  “Lead enemy ship has opened fire!” One of the bridge crew, glasses still raised, was pointing directly forward. Hanaga raised his glasses and caught the puff of smoke drifting from the forward deck of the lead ship of the Red Banner fleet.

  Long seconds passed, and then he heard the low shrieking moan as the first shell winged in. From the sound he could tell it was off to windward. A tremendous geyser of water lifted up a quarter mile to starboard. Jeering laughter erupted from the topside deck crew.

  It was meant as a challenge, nothing more.

  His own battleships were ranging line abreast, half a mile separating each, leaving them plenty of room to maneuver while the armored cruisers continued to angle out to port, moving forward of the main battle van.

  Ahead, the frigates were beginning to engage, and splashes of water rose from the first salvos. A lucky shot from the Red fleet caught one of his frigates amidships. A dirty gray plume of smoke erupted, followed a second later by a burst of steam exploding from the ship’s single stack.

  “Master gunner announces we are within range, sire.”

  Hanaga looked back into the armored bridge. The eyes of the helmsman, pilot, and chief communications officer were barely visible through the narrow slit cut in the foot-thick cupola of iron. He looked forward. The distance was two leagues, but the sea was nearly calm. There just might be a chance.

  He nodded approval. Stepping back from the railing, he opened his mouth and covered his ears.

  A steam whistle blasted, signaling the ship’s crew that the heavy guns were about to fire. A second later the four guns forward opened up, each launching a shell weighing over a quarter of a ton. The entire foredeck was instantly cloaked in a boiling yellow-gray cloud of smoke from the three hundred pounds of black powder that set each shell on its way. The entire ship seemed to freeze in position for a second, even to surge backward. The blast of fire tore the hood from Hazin’s head and swept over the jet black mane of Hanaga. He gloried in the sensation of the raw power as the most powerful weapon his race had forged on this world in a thousand generations unleashed its strength.

  Screams of incoming shells tore overhead. Four of them impacted several hundred yards astern. Another exploded as it struck the water a quarter mile forward and slightly to port. Following the signal from the flagship, his other battle ships opened fire as well.

  “Strikes forward of flagship,” a spotter shouted, eyes still glued to the oversize glasses mounted to the forward railing. “Three impacts spotted, two hundred paces short, can’t see the fourth. Enemy battle ships returning fire.”

  “My lord, perhaps we should move inside,” Hazin announced, and Hanaga readily agreed. It was one thing to make the heroic display at the very start, but in seconds half a hundred shells would come raining down around his ships.

  He stepped into the iron cupola, and even though the afternoon was not uncomfortable, the inside of the cupola was stifling hot.

  The tension was tangible as the seconds dragged out. Even inside the cupola he could hear the scream of a shell passing overhead and then another. A towering fountain of water exploded just a hundred paces ahead, sending a shock through the entire ship. The iron grating beneath his feet lurched. More geysers soared, some three hundred or more feet into the air, one so close that a cascade of water showered the deck, dropping bits of coral from the ocean floor.

  Everyone was blinded for long seconds amid the confusion of sea water and smoke. Then they were clear, afternoon sunlight flooding into the cupola through the narrow view port.

  Directly ahead, less than a mile off, the swarming battle of frigates was in full swing. One of Hanaga’s ships was heeled hard over to port, deck already awash, survivors leaping into the foaming sea. Seconds later another simply exploded, magazine detonating, lifting the entire foredeck straight up and peeling it back from the hull, which blossomed outward. Fragments of iron and broken bodies tumbled hundreds of feet into the air.

  Finished with the laborious task of reloading, the first forward gun fired again, followed seconds later by the second turret. Below deck, he could hear the secondary batteries opening up, pouring their shot into the frigate battle.

  The frigate action was starting to get close, and several of the topside steam-powered machine guns opened up.

  It was time to shift into battle-line formation, and he passed the order. Seconds later he felt the ship heeling beneath his feet. Forward, the massive turrets swung in the opposite direction, ready to fire a broadside. A cheer echoed up from below as the gunners amidships and astern finally saw something to shoot, the long closing to range finished at last.

  “All primary guns, fire on the Red flagship,” the gunnery master cried. “Secondaries concentrate on the closest enemy frigates.”

  The ship erupted in an inferno of noise. Steam hissed from turrets and the light machine guns. The thunder of the great engines below pounded rhythmically, secondary guns firing with sharp reports, and every few minutes one of the guns in the heavy turrets exploding with a thunderous roar that shook the entire ship.

  “Asaga’s in trouble, sire!”

  Two of the enemy frigates were bearing straight down on the battle cruiser, which was the sister ship of his own vessel. Chances were, they were mistaking it for the flagship. Hanaga braced, fists clenched, a silent curse on his lips.

  Asaga’s main guns were fully depressed, slowly turning to bear. Its secondaries raked the frigates. Explosions detonated across the armored foredeck of the lead enemy ship, blowing its forward turret clean off. A thunderclap of light ignited, and the enemy frigate lurched, explosions ripping across its decks. The ship then shuddered, turning away.

  The second frigate, however, emerged out of the smoke and confusion. Racing in without hesitation, it slammed into the starboard bow of the Asaga. A huge mine set in the frigate’s ram below the waterline blew.

  The two ships actually leapt out of the water from the detonation, the entire forward half of the frigate disappearing. Asaga’s bow seemed to hang in the air for a second, and then it mushroomed outward. The explosion had snapped through its lower decks, penetrating into the forward magazines, which held nearly four hundred tons of shells and black powder.

  The force of the explosion, even from half a mile away, stunned Hanaga. The men in the armored cupola staggered backward from the force of the blow. The forward hundred feet of the Asaga disappeared. The barrel of a five-inch gun, weighing several tons, came spinning out of the cloud of debris, slamming across the deck of the flagship, punching clean through the armor until it stuck out like a broken bone.

  The aft end of the dying battle cruiser rose, then came crashing back down. Its forward momentum drove the ship forward ramming hundreds of tons of water through shattered decks and dragging the ship under. The stern lifted up, propellers still spinning, even as the boilers filled with water, exploding.

  More detonations convulsed t
he ship as it corkscrewed. Aft turrets popped from their mounts. A hundred tons of iron and steel dropped, crashing into the water. The crews, if still alive inside, undoubtedly had been smashed to bloody pulps by the blow.

  What was left of the ship went straight down. Air, raw steam, and flotsam jetted out of the broken armor plates and the open turret mounts. The stem disappeared beneath the boiling waves, and then, several seconds later, another explosion erupted, blasting part of the stem back out of the water as the aft magazines blew. The shock of the explosion raced through the water, sending a thunderbolt shock through the decks of the flagship.

  The Asaga was gone. From the time of the ramming till all was destroyed had been less than thirty seconds…and a thousand of Hanaga’s finest sea warriors were lost.

  The flagship had continued to turn, and the disaster was now astern. Five of Hanaga’s six turrets were engaged. The enemy van steamed in the same direction less than six thousand yards off while the insane swirl of the frigate battle raged between them. Both sides tried to block the other from closing while wanting, at the same time, to dash through and make their suicidal runs on the enemy battle cruisers. The light armored cruisers had joined the straggle as well. Both of the fleets having run to windward now turned in on each other.

  He saw his first clear hit on an enemy battle cruiser, not the flagship, but still a deadly strike, lifting a forward turret clean off. Massive geysers rose hundreds of feet high, churning the turquoise water into a foaming maelstrom of dark sand, coral, and thousands of dead fish.

  The two fleets raced on for several leagues, gradually angling in closer, leaving the frigate battle astern.

  “Our flyers, my lord!”

  Hanaga ran to the starboard side and peeked out through the open viewing slit. He had kept hidden a hundred aero-steamers, based on land and far heavier than the flimsy handful of planes launched from the rocking deck of a ship.

  The airships swept in, hugging the water, several passing dangerously close to his own ship. When his forward turret fired, the shock of the passing shell tore a wing off of a plane. It flipped over, spiraling out of control and crashed into the sea.