by Karen Miller
Propping his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand, Alasdair rested his gaze on the shifting, seething ocean. A light breeze half-heartedly snapped the Ilda's canvas sail. Tinkled the witch-men's windchimes. The guiding voice of their god, or so they believed. Wood creaked. Water sloshed. Everything everywhere smelled of fresh wet salt. They'd been at sea for nine days, and Ethrea was weeks behind them.
Gently, inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Rhian. How did the training of the army progress? The soldiers who had travelled to Ethrea with the trading nations' boats, how were they settling in? Did they accept her authority? Did they accept Zandakar?
Zandakar. Rhian was right not to send him with the armada. If we should fail…God forbid, if we should perish…he truly will be Ethrea's last chance. But he is Zandakar…and he loves my wife.
He didn't doubt Rhian. Would never doubt Rhian. But neither could he doubt the bond she had with Zandakar. The warrior understood her in ways he didn't. Perhaps couldn't. She had an affinity for swordplay, for the hotas , that he lacked. She could be gentle, and loving, but in her heart burned a fire that was absent in his own. When she danced with her blade she was a stranger to him.
But not Zandakar. To Zandakar her heart is as familiar as his own.
He looked up as Ludo kicked his boot. “Stop fretting, Alasdair. She has Edward and Rudi. When it comes to the army they'll not let her steer wrong. Ethrea's people adore her. Any one of them would die for her in a heartbeat. And just to make certain, Helfred and his venerables and chaplains sing her praises from the pulpit morning, noon and night. She'll come to no harm while you're gone from her side. If she does, it'll only be for worry about you. I've never seen a woman so in love, cousin. If the woman the pair of you find me – if ever you do find me one – loves me even half as much, I'll be content.”
Ludo knew him so well. “We'll find you a grand wife, Ludo,” he said gruffly. “I promise. The finest duchess Linfoi's ever seen. Excepting my mother, of course.”
Ludo grinned. “Of course.” Then his amusement faded. “How far are we from the Mijaki warships, do you think?”
“I've no idea. Doubtless Han will tell us when we sail close.”
“Doubtless,” said Ludo, suddenly glum, and shifted to stare behind them at the rest of the armada, which like themselves coasted on the trade winds as Han's witch-men rested. “I still can't believe Dalsyn and Ebrich are sailing with us. What possessed them? Surely they had some underlings they could spare?”
Alasdair considered his cousin. “You never were political, Ludo. How could they stay behind, when the Emperor of Tzhung-tzhungchai was here? Of course they came. They want to keep an eye on him. They want history to reflect that they were present at the greatest sea battle of the age, that they led their mighty nations' warships against the invading horde of Mijak. Let Han take the credit? Let him bask in the adulation of the world?” He snorted. “I hardly think so.”
“And then there's you and me,” sighed Ludo. “Well, you. Don't you find it remarkable, if not downright laughable, that Alasdair of Linfoi is the crowned King of Ethrea? Seriously, cousin. When we were newly breeched brats tumbling out of apple trees in your father's ducal orchard, did you ever imagine we would come to this?”
“What? Rhian dubbing you Your Grace, the Duke of Linfoi?” Again, Alasdair regretted the lack of something to throw. “No. Never.” And then he let his own smile die. “Ludo, it's not laughable. It's terrifying. I spend all my waking moments afraid.”
Sober silence, as they stared at each other. “I'm glad you're king,” said Ludo. “I can't think of another man more suited. I can't begin to imagine what Ethrea would be like, were Rhian married to that poor fool Rulf and Marlan ruled without a crown. That's what I find terrifying. The thought that you aren't king. And Rhian's not queen.”
The wind chimes of Tzhung tinkled again as the ocean breeze gusted more strongly. Alasdair looked to the bow, but not a witch-man stirred. The trade winds, held back for so long by Tzhung's powers, bellied the sail and drove them onward towards unsuspecting Mijak.
“Do you still chafe at the tactics devised by Han and the queen?” said Ludo.
Alasdair shrugged. “How can I? They're sensible. If we lose Tzhung's emperor in this battle we're far more likely to lose the battle soon after. It's better Han concentrates on defeating Mijak instead of merely staying alive. Besides, it appeases the pride of Arbenia and Harbisland. Let Dalsyn and Ebrich lead the charge. Their ships have the most useful weapons, after all.”
“Aside from Han's witch-men,” said Ludo. “Let's not forget them.”
“No,” he said heavily. “Indeed, let's not.”
Another sharp gust of wind. The Tzhung windchimes danced urgently. This time their echo could be heard from other ships close by.
“Do I imagine things,” said Ludo slowly, “or do those windchimes sound…different?”
Alasdair stood and looked to Han's ship. The Tzhung sailors charged with care of the boat while Han and his witch-men slept, if they were sleeping, stopped what they were doing and turned their eyes to their emperor.
“No, Ludo,” he said, as the sailors dropped to their bare knees. “I don't believe you imagine anything. I think the god of Tzhung has spoken.”
In the bow of his ship, Emperor Han opened his eyes. As though following a silent command, he and his ten witch-men spread their arms wide. Moments later the Ilda's witch-men echoed them.
“They're all waking, Alasdair,” said Ludo, staring over the side at the ships sailing to starboard. “I think we're about to ride the wind again.”
That's what the Tzhung called it. Riding the wind . Also Sleeping on God's breath . So very poetic. Were the Tzhung a poetic race? He didn't know enough to know. And if their venture ended badly, he suspected he never would.
One of the witch-men in Ilda's bow turned and nodded, almost regally. He couldn't remember the man's name. They all looked alike to him, with their long black hair and their plaited moustaches and the tattoos sleeping under their skin.
“King of Ethrea,” the witch-man said, his reedy voice accented almost beyond understanding. “We ride the wind for the last time. When next we return to the world, we shall face the might of Mijak.”
Alasdair felt his belly tighten. A shudder ran down his spine. “You're certain?”
The witch-man's eyes were tranquil. “The wind has spoken. The wind is never wrong.”
Alasdair turned to Ludo, who no longer looked greenly seasick. Now his cousin's cheeks were drained to a chalky white. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” said Ludo faintly. “No. Alasdair, I'm scared.”
He gripped Ludo's shoulder. “So am I. It doesn't matter.”
The rising wind howled, then, and the Ilda's sails slapped hard against her mast. Suddenly the air seemed thicker. Less transparent.
“Here we go,” said Ludo. “Quick. We'd best get down.”
Han had told them to lie flat on their backs as the boat rode the wind. Flinging themselves to the deck, heedless of splinters, bruises and stains, they rolled onto their backs…
… and again the world disappeared in a tinkling of windchimes.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When they emerged from the dreamy, drifting unreality of riding the wind, Alasdair hauled himself to his feet, fighting to clear his mind of the lingering fogginess. Blinking, he clung to the Ilda's rail and tried to make sense of where they were, and what surrounded them. He heard shouts from the other boats in the armada, heard sails and rigging slap and crack in the wind, heard the Ilda's captain, Yanson, barking orders to his men. The flagship ploughed through a deep swell, and the air was full of spray and salt.
In the distance a dark smudge blotted out the horizon, as though black ink had been poured over the ocean.
“Dear God,” said Ludo, lurching to the rail. “Is that the Mijaki fleet?”
Alasdair nodded. “I think so.”
“Then may Rollin have mercy on us,” Ludo breathed. “W
e'd have no hope if they were half as many. Look at them. They're legion .”
Alasdair felt his fingers tighten on the railing. “Hold your tongue. Is that any way for a duke to speak?”
He said it because he had to, but his heart echoed Ludo's despair.
Oh, Rhian. I can't believe we'll prevail here. Not even with Han's witch-men. Thank God you didn't come. Thank God it's me here, not Zandakar.
In the bow, Han's witch-men stirred. In Han's ship, alongside them, the emperor shouted something in the Tzhung tongue and his loincloth clad sailors scrambled to obey. Alasdair watched as they collapsed their sails, halting the boat's progress. He heard Captain Yanson shout, and turned to see the Ilda's crew follow suit.
Where the Tzhung emperor went, the Ilda would follow. This was Han and Rhian's plan: that he'd drop back to the middle of the armada once the enemy was sighted, and the Ilda would drop back with him to act as his eyes. Hidden and protected by so many other ships, it would surely take Mijak a long time to realise he was the witch-men's leader.
Han's boat was an easy stone's throw away from the Ilda . Like harnessed carriage horses the two ships sailed side by side, surging and curvetting on the ocean's lively waves. There was no land in sight. Alasdair had no idea where they were. He'd never been so far from Ethrea in his life.
Watching Han closely, he saw the emperor's black silk tunic was salt-stained, his unbound hair tangled and salt-crusted. His ageless face was drawn with weariness. Alasdair looked past Han to the witch-men standing with him, and then to the Ilda's witch-men, still standing in their bow. They all looked weary. As though this great feat had spent them.
And still there was a battle to come.
Feeling eyes upon him, Han turned and smiled and smoothed a hand down his long hair. Its tangles untangled so it fell sleek and glossy black once again, rippling in his witch-wind like threads of polished silk.
Alasdair frowned. Tricks. He performs tricks to divert me. He is worried, even at this distance I can feel it .
The other ships of the armada were surging past them now, riding the wind of the real world to engulf Han's boat and the Ilda . First, on both sides, were the other ships of Tzhung-tzhungchai. Laden with witch-men, with no other weapons, unadorned and simple, like the very finest blade.
After them, on the port side, came Ebrich, Count of Arbenia, with his nation's mighty catapults strapped to the deck of his blunt, aggressive flagship. Its sails were blood red, its black-and-red striped hull hung with bear skulls and halberds. The rest of his nation's fleet hunted behind him, like hounds following their pack leader. Every deck was crammed with a catapult, their sails were striped to match their master's garish hull, and their hulls were hung with the skulls of smaller creatures. It was a wonder, seeing them, that any animal breathed in Arbenia.
Dalsyn, Slainta of Harbisland, sailed to starboard, his flagship so crowded with archers it was a wonder the long, sleek vessel didn't sink. The hulls of his fleet's needle-shaped warships were smothered in sealskin, and like seals they cut lithely through the waves. As each ship passed, Alasdair could smell the stink of pitch from the barrels stood waiting on the ships. Harbisland fought with fire, without mercy. He felt his heart lift, a little.
Perhaps Mijak won't have things all its own way.
The ships of the lesser trading nations followed close behind the dominant nations. As the last Harbisland warship passed their bow, Han snapped another command to his sailors. Captain Yanson, watching him closely, sent the Ilda's crew to work, one act and its reflection.
Han's ship and the Ilda leapt forward, their sails again set to drink deep of the wind, surging in the midst of Barbruish's biremes, Dev'karesh's triremes with their vicious ramming spikes, the deep-hulled warships of Slynt and Haisun. Surrounded by warships, Alasdair felt a sudden sorrow.
So much death. So much destruction. If they weren't all with us in this venture perhaps they'd be turning their weapons on each other. They have in the past. Their pasts are bloody tapestries of war. How lucky are we in Ethrea, to be spared such carnage.
Ludo, still beside him, as soaked with spray as he was, released a shuddering breath. “When I was a small boy,” his cousin said, subdued, “I used to dream of sea battles. The mighty nations of the world clashing on the waves. I used to think it romantic . Dear God. I was a fool.”
Alasdair shook his head. “You were a boy. And I doubt you were alone. Even now, back in Ethrea, I'll wager there are people wishing they were here with us. People who think this is some great adventure.”
“Adventure,” said Ludo, blotting salt water from his face with a damp linen sleeve. “Right.”
Looking ahead, where glimpses of the Arbenian fleet could still be caught between the crowding masts and hulls and sails of the armada, Alasdair allowed himself a grim little smile. “In the days leading up to this, I had some conversations with Ebrich and Dalsyn. They're treatied now, but in the past Arbenia and Harbisland have been bitter enemies. And do you know, they miss their warring? These are men who crave battle. They live to fight. These rulers…” He shook his head again, baffled. “They throw men at each other like rocks.”
“Would we be any different, if we weren't born Ethrean?” said Ludo. “I think our kingdom is the strange place. The rest of the world is like this.” He waved a hand at the armada surrounding them. “And I say thank God for our strangeness, cousin. We'd not stand a hope of defeating Mijak, else.”
Alasdair nodded. “Yes.” If they did stand a hope. If this wasn't a fool's errand. If they'd not been cozened into believing a lie.
Suddenly Helfred's stirring speech about faith wasn't as comforting as it had felt at the time.
Ludo was peering ahead, leaning dangerously over the Ilda's side. “I wonder how much closer we are to the Mijaki warfleet. I wonder how soon before the battle begins. I wonder if I want to know…perhaps ignorance is bliss…”
Alasdair grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him to safety before he upended over the side and was drowned, or crushed beneath the hull of Han's ship.
“Have a care, you fool! Must I explain your death to Henrik? Chairbound or not, he'd kick me from one side of the Eth river to the other.”
Paying no attention, Ludo pulled himself free of restraint and stood on the nearest coil of rope, seeking an advantage of height. “If only we knew what weapons Mijak will range against us,” he muttered. “Aside from the gauntlet Jones spoke of, that is.”
Alasdair, also looking ahead, felt his guts twist and his heart trip to a faster beat. “We'll know soon enough. We must be close by now.”
“Yes,” said Ludo, and stepped down off the rope as though he'd suddenly lost interest.
The deck of the Ilda thudded as the sailors followed her captain's curt orders, so that she and Han's vessel continued side by side. Without warning, Alasdair felt himself useless, a pointless decoration like brightwork or a posy of violets nailed to the mast. The least sailor on the Ilda had more value than he did. In the bow, Han's witch-men stood silent, as unnatural as men carved from stone. He stared at them, feeling sick.
The Ilda's not a warship. Are those three men enough to defend it? I have my sword. Ludo has his. Yanson and his sailors have their cudgels. And what use will they be if Zandakar's brother turns his gauntlet against us?
He started as Ludo took hold of his arm. “There's little point fretting, Alasdair. For good or for ill, we're here. It's best to believe we're here for a reason that will help Ethrea. They're saying their prayers for us, back home. Let's not disappoint them by succumbing to fear.”
Sensible advice. And from Ludo, no less. The world indeed was turned upon its head.
Now the salt-and-spray soaked air was threaded through with voices, singing. Songs of war and of courage, most likely, in a handful of different tongues, counterpoint to the rushing wind and the flapping canvas and the swift seething of water past wooden hulls. The sound might have been beautiful, if this were not such a deadly endeavour.
&nb
sp; And under the voices, a stready throbbing of drums.
Ludo sucked in a sharp breath and pointed. “ Look .”
The vessels ahead of them had started to spread apart, seeking to make of the armada a more scattered target. And through the widening gaps, past Han's stone-still witch-men, at last could be seen the black warships of Mijak – as thick on the ocean as autumn leaves on a forest pond.
Alasdair felt his open mouth suck dry. He'd never felt so alone, so vulnerable, in all his life.
Rhian.
On the Tzhung flagship beside them, Han shouted another command. Some change came over his gathered witch-men, and the witch-men on the Ilda , and on every ship surrounding them. The air stirred…it whispered…and though the sun shone unhindered, suddenly the world was cold.
Captain Yanson approached. A grizzled man in his middle years, with skin as weathered as the wood of his ship, he offered a respectful nod. “Your Majesty, Your Grace, best gird yourselves for battle. Just in case those heathen crows in the bow can't save us, and every blessed ship between us and those Mijaki murderers gets sunk to the bottom.”
“A wise suggestion, Captain Yanson,” said Alasdair. “And may I say Godspeed to you now, sir, in case events should overtake us and the chance does not arise again.”
Yanson smiled, showing a mouth missing several teeth. “Godspeed to you too, Your Majesty. It's been a pleasure and an honour sailing with you, and the duke too. And I'll tell you, though maybe I oughtn't, that when I heard Eberg's daughter wanted the crown on her head I thought well, there's the end of Ethrea. But by God, I was wrong. And you can tell her I said so.”
Absurdly, the rough compliment throttled his rising fear. “Captain, Her Majesty will be pleased to know it.”
And then there was no time for compliments, or anything else. The drumbeat of the armada abruptly picked up speed, like a horse surging from canter to gallop. Turning, Alasdair felt his heart surge with it.
Mijak's warships were upon them. The time had come to fight.
Ebrich, Count of Arbenia, struck the first blow. The sound of fireballs hissing through the air was startling. Menacing. Even above the singing and the drumming and the noise of a fleet under sail, the flaming catapult stones could be heard ripping through the salt-wind in a fearsome bid to sink the front line of Mijaki warships.