Joren cocked a brow and turned to regard his friend. “Come again?”
“You alone seem to have some understanding with her is all I’m saying. I don’t imagine she’d be pleased with your change of plan. She was rather adamant that we allow her to do the heavy lifting and that you remain aboard the vessel.”
“I’ll deal with her displeasure later.”
“Gods, when she gives you the arsekicking that you have coming, don’t look to any of us to protect you.”
The laughter welled out of Joren before he could swallow it back. He clapped Faolan on the shoulder then strode across the deck to the nearest ladder. He descended to the waiting longboat and took up his position at the bow.
Ten more longboats joined them in approaching the shore. Hundreds of lanterns shone in the distance, small blooms of yellow against the darkness blighting the coastal town. Rowing slowly kept the noise to a minimum, though Joren noticed the water had an unnatural current, pushing them onward toward the shoreline.
It had to be Caecilia. He hadn’t seen her, but he thought he felt the enormity of her presence, something familiar lurking beneath the surface of the black water. With the moon blotted out by the bleak storm clouds brewing overhead, their boats coasted in near-darkness.
Nigel Gaumond led another of the shore teams, standing at the forefront of the boat with a hand on his pistol. Meanwhile, Hook organized the rescue efforts between the other vessels of their attack party until Joren returned to his command. Catriona, their werewolf ally from Cairn Ocland, had been tasked with leading the rescue on the small island. She commanded three dozen furious dire wolves prepared to rip out Ridaeron throats and another dozen werebears with a gift for earth magic.
The first cannon shots echoed like thunder through the night air. The two watchtowers flanking the bay exploded, chunks of stone splashing into the water and the great warhorns mounted atop them ruined beyond use. From elsewhere on the shore, warning bells tolled. More rounds blasted against the walls, smashed through the docks, and exploded in the streets. Fireballs sailed over the perimeter walls and laid waste to the buildings Moira had identified as guard posts.
The moment Joren’s boat struck the sandy shore, he and his men moved forward to meet the oncoming defense. He conjured a protective shield for the men and infused electricity into the wide dome. Dazzling bolts of power danced over the surface and sent the Ridaerons scrambling backward. Lacking magic, they defended against Joren’s invading party with crossbows, though it did them no good. To the pleasure of all within a dozen feet of Joren, the enemy’s ranged weapons collided against his magical barrier and clattered to the ground.
A big man charged and swung his hammer at the same time another Ridaeron slashed with a sword. As both clashed against the invisible force, bright white light exploded and sent up sparks. Their wielders shrieked as the electrical current hurled them back and they landed on the ground, smoking.
“Forward, men!” Joren yelled against the din of a hundred cannons. “They can’t stand against our spells! Show them no mercy, for they will have none for you!”
Swords met stunned bodies, and blood stained the ground. Warning horns blew an alert that echoed from one edge of the village to the next, but it was far too late, as a hundred of Eisland’s best and just as many Mordenians surged onto the shore.
They pressed through the opposition with magic. As expected thanks to Moira’s intelligence, catapults launched flaming vats of oil and grease toward their ships, but their foul ammunition crashed against a half dozen individual mages’ shields.
From what Joren had learned over the years, the Ridaeron Dynasty sailed three classes of ships: dreadnoughts with a complement of six to seven hundred men, single-deck galley ships often rowed across the narrow channel between their own nation and southern Samahara, and their common naval vessels comparable to the three-masted sloops of Eisland. Only one posed a true danger to their mission. If the dreadnought got on the water, they’d have an actual battle on their hands instead of the massacre they’d planned in his day cabin.
Thankfully, they’d taken out the docks and the enemy sailors would lack the manpower to prepare the ship. Joren looked forward to watching desperate Ridaerons swimming for their vessel to aid the skeleton crew of a few dozen men that likely remained.
Though the lighthouse remained dark, enormous bonfires and beacons lit across the hills and the low mountain. As predicted, a couple dozen crewmen dashed across the dreadnought’s deck to perform the impossible. They’d never prepare the ship for battle, but the sight made Joren cackle like a madman.
“Where’s that damned witch?” Nigel called. “Isn’t it her job to disable them before they’re a danger to our crews?”
“Yes,” Joren said.
Time was not a commodity Joren had in ample supply. They pressed forward and took the next guard station on the hill. Though it couldn’t be launched just yet, the opposing dreadnought aimed its cannons at the Jolly Roger, not entirely defenseless.
Then the cloud cover parted, dissipating enough to send a few silver beams glittering over the water, bathing all three Compact vessels in a celestial glow intensified by their magical shields. The Cannon and their allies made a beautiful sight.
Moments later, a dozen more men emerged from hatches and spilled onto the main deck of the enemy ship. They must have kept slaves in the dreadnought’s belly.
Joren’s grin faded. “Where is she?” he wondered aloud. Damnation. Had she turned tail and abandoned them after all?
He heard her roar before he saw her. Knowing Caecilia was the Neverland serpent hadn’t prepared him for the reality of her emergence from the water in full serpentine glory. Despite all the times he’d sailed through the heart of the Viridian, he’d never seen more than the razor-sharp tips of its spinal fin, or a flash of tail. Knowing the beast was not an it, but a she, changed his perception of the sea monster.
She shone in the moonlight, meters upon meters of shimmering russet scales and enormous body, easily twice as long as his ship. He stared for a moment, struck nearly senseless by the awe-inspiring sight of her.
Hells. No wonder Ridaeron had played it safe by avoiding Neverland for so many years.
Caecilia splashed onto the deck of the Ridaeron dreadnought and rolled, crushing men with her bulk, sweeping others into the water, and soon wrapping completely around it. They slashed and stabbed to little avail, their arrows but toothpicks in her tough hide.
Thank the gods that she’s on our side, Joren thought.
Her powerful tail cracked the mast, and then canvas sagged and sank to the deck. In the span of a few heartbeats, the serpentine witch capsized the ship and began dismantling it with merciless constrictions of her sinuous body.
The others thought Caecilia ugly, but Joren saw beauty in her at that moment, something different and unique, a grace that was purely hers.
As much as he wanted to admire the sight of her, and that of the sinking enemy ship, he had his own battles to face. The Marines pushed through the remaining resistance with ease, buffered by Joren’s spellwork and inspired by the Ocland shifters who barreled through the troops in their beast forms. Even the Ridaerons froze in the face of enraged wolves and charging bears.
“Over there.” Joren directed attention to a structure built into the cliff face once he dropped his shield spell. “Moira said our people would be inside.”
“Doesn’t look big enough,” someone muttered.
“They build downwards,” Nigel reminded them. “Much of that labor performed by their slaves.”
“Time to go get them all out. Nigel, you take your team inside and we’ll make sure the Ridaerons don’t push through behind you.”
“On it!”
Nigel and a dozen men veered off on their mission, while Joren returned his focus to the city wall. Another catapult exploded, taken down by well-placed cannon fire, but his attention shifted to the gates. Reinforcements were already marching through, sooner than expected.<
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“We hold this quarter no matter how hard they come at us,” he called out, rallying his troops. “Once Nigel comes up with the slaves below, we’ll fall back to the boats and cover their escape. Do not push into the enemy ranks!”
Voices raised in acknowledgment as their allied forces prepared for the next attack. The approaching horde split into three groups and spilled forward like a human tidal wave of muscle, roaring like animals themselves. These men didn’t resemble the humble, normal-sized diplomats in furs and leathers who’d visited during Gothel’s reign. The ground rumbled beneath their feet.
Of all the Ridaerons Joren had set eyes upon in the past, these appeared to be the most ferocious, giants with braided beards wielding morning stars, maces, and war hammers on handles as long as his legs. Eisland had long ago ruled mauls to be inelegant, uncivilized weapons.
Tiger Lily warned us, he thought, reminded of tales he’d read in ancient history books of their people sharing ancestry with giants. He’d always doubted it, chalking the stories up to exaggeration. Now he knew better.
A stocky Ridaeron with the breadth of a bull, wielding an oversized morning star, lunged at Joren. The spiked ball crashed into his personal shield and sent up sparks of energy, but didn’t shatter the magical barrier. The man struck again and again, until the shield threatened to shatter. When Joren retaliated with a point-blank fireball, his opponent bashed it with his weapon, deflecting it with a cacophonous ringing. The flaming sphere hurtled away, sputtering and dying before it landed.
Gods. Their weapons diverted magic!
Unlike some mages, however, Joren didn’t rely only upon sorcery. He drew his rapier, ducked beneath a hammer swing, and thrust forward, sliding the blade through an opening in the man’s armor. But as one man fell, another took his place, and each seemed larger than the last.
Blooms of magefire lit the back line of the defenses. Ridaeron warriors yelled and cried out in alarm as chaos ensued. Even Joren paused, uncertain as to what was happening. Then a familiar silhouette caught his attention, too tall and proud to miss, blue-white fire dancing around her arms.
“Cara!”
Another figure stepped up beside her, wielding lances of electricity like a spear in a manner Joren had never seen before.
Coming under attack from both sides, the Ridaerons broke ranks and lost their greatest advantage, but there were still fifty or more men between Joren and Cara. Despite having magic on their side, they couldn’t push through, not when the Ridaerons seemed to deflect as many spells as Joren and the others cast.
Jolee, a wolf shifter, moved up on Joren’s left side and cut through a raging berserker with her axe. “Nigel’s team is out with the prisoners. At least a hundred souls.”
“Get them back to the ships. I have to cut a line through for Cara.”
“I’ll let the others know.”
The Ridaerons struck hard and renewed their attack, pushing Joren’s men back and widening the gap between him and the other mages. Each time he thought he could break through to her or she to him, the fighting shifted.
He needed more men. He needed a bigger army. He needed a bloody miracle.
Drops of water struck his cheek and an eerie roar echoed across the city. The winds picked up, seeming to come from all directions at once, laced with the unmistakable buzz of magic. Joren spun around, trying to get a fix on the spell’s source, and found himself facing the port—and the miracle he’d prayed for.
The water funnel spun onto land without losing power or speed. If anything, it seemed to gain momentum, ripping up rocks and chunks of stone from destroyed buildings. The terrifying force of nature ripped through the Ridaeron troops and sent them diving for cover—at least those who managed to run away. Others weren’t so lucky, pulled into the vortex to be bludgeoned to death or drowned.
It could only be Caecilia. Her powerful attack gave Cara and those with her the opening they needed. They raced across the town square, stopping when they were safely behind the Eisland troops. Cara reached Joren’s side and threw her arms around him.
“Is this all of you?” he asked, searching for Camden among the small group. “Is this everyone?”
“Yes.”
A lead weight dropped in his stomach. “Get yourself and those with you to the longboats. You’ll come on the Cannon with me. Go.”
She left without argument, and that alone spoke volumes. Joren worried about her brother, but now wasn’t the time to lose focus.
“Get everyone to the boats!” he ordered. “Tell them to return to the ships.”
“We’re not leaving you on this blasted shore, Admiral,” one of the Marines protested.
“I’ll get him back,” Faolan promised as he landed beside Joren. “Climb on, you can sling your cover spells from the air.”
It wasn’t the full rescue Joren had hoped for, but they’d done more damage to the Ridaeron port than he’d dreamed possible. And with the fires raging on the island behind them, he imagined the battle there had gone just as well. All that was left was to pull back and get their people home.
Then he’d work on a plan to rescue everyone else.
Chapter 24
The moment Faolan touched down on the deck, Joren dismounted and dashed through the ship, knowing where he’d find Cara even before he burst into the infirmary and saw her at Baptiste’s side, despite her status as only an apprentice-level healer. She’d neglected those talents in favor of learning to tear down mountains with her mind.
Joren grimaced. Nothing about the scene surprised him. He watched for a time while she assisted the older mage tending to the wounded, jumping into her duties again like she wasn’t a woman rescued from slavery a half-hour prior.
“Your Highness,” said Germain, a young man with a dirt-smeared face. He bowed deeply to Joren despite the bruises exposed by his tattered burlap shirt—bruises that spread over his torso like a vicious watercolor staining cream canvas.
Once Germain acknowledged Joren, more attention darted to him. Attention he didn’t feel he deserved.
“No, no need to bow to me—”
“Not bow to you? Admiral, you came for us. You saved us,” said Ramond, a gunman sporting a bandage around his face and covering one eye.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” agreed another sailor.
Even those on cots tried to rise, tried to get up to bow to him, though he felt far from deserving when he’d spent the last weeks in luxury and comfort, enjoying the companionship of a beautiful woman while they worked their hands to the bone. Soon, he’d have to conduct a thorough headcount and determine who may never be among them again, cross referencing the missing against those sighted recently by rescued crewmen.
Joren cleared his throat and infused magic into his words, until his voice resonated through the infirmary. “Please remain in your cots. You’re injured, you’re tired, and you deserve the rest. Right now, I need to have a word with Lieutenant Leblanc, and then I promise I’ll return.”
Cara glanced at him, blue eyes bearing a weight he was desperate to share with her. His heart went out to her, and he admired her strength more than anything. If Rapunzel died, he’d never keep it together.
Camden had been his dearest friend, and he couldn’t have closure until he knew. “Please come with me, Cara.”
“Can’t this wait? I’m helping.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Baptiste touched her shoulder and murmured to her, “Go. I have this. You need rest, my friend. Please go with the admiral and leave our comrades to me.”
Reluctantly, she moved to follow him, only for a young girl with hair like ribbons of cloud to grasp Cara’s shirt and gaze at her imploringly. “Admiral—”
“Both of you come along,” Joren said.
Cara and the girl followed him through the ship to his cabin. He gestured them ahead of him into the stateroom.
“What’s her name?”
“Aurora. She doesn’t speak our language, only Ridaeron as f
ar as I can tell.”
“And your Ridaeron is only a little better than pigshit, if I recall from our study sessions.”
“It’s better than you’d think.”
“Ah. Well, she must be desperate for a nice bath. Both of you, I imagine. Why don’t I have Kendra see to her needs while we talk?”
Cara bit her lower lip. “And…she may not agree with that.”
“We won’t know until we ask.” Joren bent down on one knee in front of the young woman and smiled at her. It wasn’t difficult to speak to children. He loved them. “Hello,” he said, taking a chance on the central Ridaeron dialect. He’d studied their language extensively while in school. “I’m Joren. Who might you be?”
Her eyes lit up. “You speak like us.”
“I do. It took me many years to learn your language. Care to honor me with your name?”
“I’m Aurora.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Aurora. As you’re a friend of Cara, that makes you a friend of mine as well. Would you like some dinner, a nice hot bath, and a warm bed?”
“Very, very much,” she said shyly. “You’re not afraid of me?”
“What? No. Why should I be?”
Aurora tucked her chin.
“The guards at the mage-prison feared her, Joren,” Cara explained in Eislandic. “I don’t think she’s entirely human. A half-breed of some sort between their kind and some other magical being.”
Joren nodded, then twisted to glance behind him. Kendra was already in the doorway. “Would you please take Miss Aurora and provide whatever comforts she needs? She’s welcome to my bed tonight until we sort the sleeping arrangements. I’ll take my cot.”
“Of course, Admiral.” Kendra flashed Aurora a reassuring smile and beckoned her.
“Kendra will provide anything you want, Aurora. Please go with her.”
The moment they were alone, Joren stepped up to Cara and hugged her tight. “There are no words to express my sorrow, Cara. How did it happen?”
Sea Witch and the Magician Page 25