Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  The metal plates that covered the Terrapin’s hull, giving the ship her name, began to glow with a green and blue radiance. The gleam of the constructs was faint, at first, then strengthened as the helmsman sent the magic flowing into the steel plates.

  Alcazar had revised his original formula, combining magic with contramagic held together by the Seventh Sigil, to strengthen the steel and turn the plates themselves into a weapon. Alan had asked that the magic be enhanced to give off an eerie glow. The effect was even more spectacular than Alan had envisioned.

  I owe this to you, Jacob, Alan thought, reflecting on his older brother, the priest, who had discovered the Seventh Sigil. Though I doubt you’d be overly pleased to see the use I’m making of it.

  The Terrapin glittered, as dazzling as a blue and green star. She held her course and now the King of Guundar saw her deadly peril. Alan could hear Hobbs bellow, “All hands, brace for ramming!”

  The King fired at the rapidly approaching Terrapin, but the Guundaran gunners must have been shaken by the sight of the gleaming ship bearing down on them for the guns fired sporadically and did little damage. The gun crews never had a chance to fire again.

  The beakhead of the Terrapin plowed into the King of Guundar, catching her amidships, smashing into her with a horrendous crash that very nearly sliced the ship in two. The masts and rigging of the two ships were inextricably tangled, binding both ships to each other. Hobbs would have part of his crew already at work with axes to free the Terrapin, while others were racing to board and attack the Guundarans.

  Alan could not take time to see if his ship had sustained critical damage. He had to concentrate on his own mission. The boats slipped through the Breath, hidden in the mists and the smoke that was drifting out into the harbor.

  The boats crept near the Hoffnagle. Alan could see her ship’s crew intent on watching the battle between the brightly shining Terrapin and the critically wounded King of Guundar and he could hear the Hoffnagle’s captain shouting orders, probably planning to attack the Terrapin before she could free herself from the tangle of wreckage.

  The Hoffnagle’s lookouts never saw them. The first her crew knew their ship was being boarded was hearing the thunk made by the grappling hooks as they latched onto the ship’s side. Alan and his men leaped from the boats to the attack, shouting and yelling like fiends, firing pistols and slicing through flesh and bone with their cutlasses. They tossed grenades down the hatches into the decks below, the blasts tearing apart those who had been rushing up on deck to defend the ship. Alan sent his men down the stairs to fight any who had survived.

  The battle was short and brutal and over in moments.

  The deck was slippery with blood. The wounded screamed or groaned or simply quietly died. Alan sent a man to take the helm and ordered his crew to round up prisoners. He sought out the Hoffnagle’s captain to demand his surrender.

  “A valiant effort, sir,” said Alan politely. “But the day is ours. I request your immediate surrender.”

  The captain swore at him in Guundaran and refused to relinquish his sword.

  Alan did not have time to bandy words. He drew his pistol, cocked it and aimed it at the man’s head. The captain continued to swear at him, but he did hurl his sword onto the deck. Alan picked up the sword and used it to point to the Hoffnagle’s boats.

  “You and your men, sir. In there.”

  The captain stared at him blankly, either not understanding or feigning not to understand. Alan guessed the latter, since most Guundarans spoke Freyan from having served with Freyan troops.

  “I’m giving you and your crew a chance to live, sir,” said Alan. “I suggest you take it, otherwise we will throw you into the Breath. You may take your wounded with you. And I’ll thank you to give me your uniform coat and your hat. Order your officers to hand over theirs, as well.”

  The captain glared at Alan in fury and swore at him again. Alan raised his pistol and the captain began stripping off his coat. He tossed it and his bicorn hat contemptuously on the deck, then ordered his crew to do the same with their uniforms. Alan’s men harried them at gunpoint as they sullenly picked up their wounded and retreated to the boats.

  “I would not sail into Wellinsport if I were you, sir!” Alan called to the captain as the Guundaran lifeboats sailed off. “You might receive an overly warm welcome!”

  Once the Guundarans were gone and the ship was his, Alan took stock of the situation, which was better than he had expected. The unexpected attack had so completely overwhelmed the Guundarans that hardly any of his boarding party had been wounded and none of his men had been killed. The sailor with the most serious injury was a man who had sprained his ankle slipping in a pool of blood.

  Alan took advantage of the moment’s respite to study the Terrapin. She had freed herself from the tangled wreckage of the King of Guundar, which was good, for the King was sinking. Her crew had abandoned ship, taking to the lifeboats.

  Regrettably the Terrapin had not escaped the collision unscathed. One of the masts and both balloons were gone. The crew had been forced to cut their own rigging to free the ship, which meant some of the sails were lost as well. Still the Terrapin remained afloat. Her airscrews all appeared to be in good working order and Hobbs would have the crew at work making repairs.

  Alan signaled with his dark lantern, asking if the Terrapin could continue with the mission. The answer came back in the affirmative. The Terrapin doused her lights, including the blue-green glow of the iron plates, and Alan lost sight of his ship in the smoke and the darkness.

  He donned the Guundaran captain’s coat and hat, while his men changed into Guundaran uniforms. He glanced up at the Guundaran flag, which was still proudly flying, and gave it a mocking salute.

  “Helmsman, sail into Wellinsport as though we owned the place,” said Alan.

  The helmsman grinned as he ran his hands over the brass helm. The Hoffnagle left the channel and sailed into the harbor, where the three Guundaran warships were still firing rockets into the city.

  The smoke grew denser the nearer they sailed to the burning city. Alan was grim as he watched the flames flare red among the thick, black smoke. He had always loved Wellinsport from its happy association with the Rose Hawks days. If he ever retired from the navy, he planned to move to Wellinsport to live out his days in sunshine and fair winds.

  Seeing the city in flames and thinking of the helpless civilians who had died in the fires, Alan felt no compunction about giving the next orders, though by doing so he was breaking every one of the so-called civilized Rules of Warfare.

  He gathered his small crew together. “Those of you dressed as Guundaran officers join me on the quarterdeck. Remember, we must give the appearance that nothing is amiss. The rest of you pile anything that will burn on the deck: bedding, linens, blankets, the lot. Coat the bottom of the masts with pine tar and douse the rigging with spirits. Make absolutely certain you’ve thrown all barrels of gunpowder overboard. I want to start a conflagration, not blow us to kingdom come.”

  He turned to the crafter. “Mr. Henderson, you know what you are supposed to do. Stand ready for my order.”

  The Hoffnagle sailed confidently toward the three warships and Alan knew the moment he saw signal flares rise from the ship nearest him that the Guundaran lookouts had caught sight of the Hoffnagle. The captain was probably asking what was going on, why the Hoffnagle had entered the harbor.

  Alan ignored the signals. The wrong response would be worse than no response.

  He tied his handkerchief around his nose and mouth and kept his glass to his eye, keeping watch on the warships, pausing now and then to impatiently wipe away the tears caused by the smoke. The moon was visible, but only through a smoky haze, and he could not see much. So far, the Guundarans did not appear to be suspicious.

  His crew had completed their work. They had thrown the gunpowder overboard, then piled up everything that would burn from straw mattresses to sailcloth and soaked it with the potent “Sp
ud” spirits, pine tar, and bottles of wine from the captain’s private store. They stood on deck, eagerly waiting to jump into action. The Hoffnagle drew closer to her victim, and Alan took his place beside the helmsman.

  Two of the Guundaran ships rode at anchor, lobbing their rockets into the city with impunity, secure in the knowledge that no one could stop them. They knew the shore batteries that would have pounded them to bits were in friendly hands and the Freyan fleet was miles away in Sornhagen. The Hoffnagle was able to sail so close to the third ship that the captain didn’t bother with signal flares. He called to them across the expanse of the Breath, asking a question in Guundaran.

  Alan cheerily waved his bicorn in answer. He had no idea what the man had said, but it didn’t much matter.

  “Mr. Henderson, give the Guundarans our answer.”

  The ship’s crafter spoke a word and snapped his fingers. Blue sparks leaped from his hand, soared through the air, and landed on the piles of spirit-soaked refuse. He hurried about the ship, starting fires.

  The magical flames spread quickly, running up masts doused with pine tar, licking at the sails.

  “Hold your course,” Alan told the helmsman, and shouted to his crew, “Stand by to grapple.”

  Fire was every ship’s captain’s worst nightmare. Crafters protected the hulls and masts and rigging, sails and balloons from flame by placing magical constructs on them during the ship’s construction. But in a contest between fire—a force of nature—and magic, magic generally lost.

  The crew of the enemy ship nearest the Hoffnagle saw her burst into flame. In the lurid light, they could see the sailors standing by with grappling hooks, ready to grapple and board. The Guundaran captain realized he had been tricked and his ship was in dire trouble. He shouted frantic orders for his marines to fire on the blazing Hoffnagle.

  Bullets rattled around him, but Alan ignored them. The marines would have difficulty finding targets in the smoke. Most of the shots went over his head or smashed into the hull.

  The helmsman guided the Hoffnagle close to the enemy ship and, at Alan’s command, the sailors flung their grappling hooks over the side, then heaved on the lines, dragging the ships close together. Masts tangled, snaring the rigging. The flames quickly spread from the Hoffnagle to the Guundaran ship, even as her crew fought desperately to cut their ship free.

  Aboard the Hoffnagle, the heat was growing intense. Pieces of blazing silk rained down from the burning balloons. A spar fell and landed, burning, on the deck in front of Alan, narrowly missing the helmsman.

  “Into the boats and shove off before that ship blows up,” Alan ordered his crew. “We tossed our gunpowder, but the Guundarans didn’t toss theirs. I’ll take the helm.”

  “What about you, sir?” the helmsman asked.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Alan promised.

  The helmsman hesitated.

  “That was an order!” Alan said sternly.

  The helmsman reluctantly departed. He and the rest of crew piled into the Hoffnagle’s boats and released the ropes that held them. They did not sail away, however. Orders or no orders, they clearly intended to wait for their captain.

  “Shove off, you fools!” Alan shouted angrily.

  “Can’t hear a word you’re sayin’, sir,” an old sailor bawled in response. “Must be the smoke cloggin’ my ears.”

  Alan remained at the helm, doing his best to steer the blazing Hoffnagle toward the other two enemy ships. That proved difficult, for the two ships were now inextricably tangled.

  The remaining two Guundaran ships had ceased firing rockets. Their crews had more urgent matters as they tried to flee the Hoffnagle, which was now engulfed in flame. Alan wished them luck. The Guundaran ships might manage to escape him, but if they made it as far as the harbor’s entrance, they would find the Terrapin lying in wait.

  The heat was intense, the air hard to breathe, making his lungs ache. More spars fell, and one of the masts sagged. The sails had caught fire. Blazing cinders landed on Alan’s sleeve, setting it on fire. He batted out the flames with his hat. Fire erupted on the deck at his feet, threatening to cut off his retreat.

  His crewmen shouted at him, urging him to run. They were in danger, as well, for if the enemy ship attached to theirs exploded, they would all go down.

  Alan ran. He leaped through a wall of fire and reached the boat with his coat in flames. The crew seized hold of him and dragged him into the boat, dumping him unceremoniously into the bottom and beating out the flames with their bare hands.

  They sailed off as fast as they could go, heading back to the Terrapin. The crew assisted Alan to a seat. He could not feel the pain of his burns yet, but that was only a matter of time.

  He started to give an order, but he was seized with a fit of coughing that doubled him over. The old sailor drew his attention, pointed back to the harbor.

  “Look there, sir! You did it!”

  Alan managed to stop coughing long enough to see a massive explosion rip through the Guundaran ship grappled to the Hoffnagle. Both ships burst into a gigantic ball of fire. The concussive force of the blast struck the boat, causing it to rock violently.

  Alan shielded his eyes from the brilliant light, trying to see the outcome. The fireball had vanished and with it the last of the Hoffnagle. The other two Guundaran ships were still afloat, although one appeared to be sailing erratically.

  “Knocked out the helm,” said the old sailor with a cackle.

  The Guundaran ship veered wildly off course and collided with her sister ship. The two smashed into each other with such force Alan could hear the wood splintering.

  “Sunk ’em both, by God,” stated the old sailor.

  He gazed at his captain in awe, as did everyone on board the boat. No one said a word.

  Alan barely heard him. He was starting to feel the pain of his burns. His coat sleeve was charred and in tatters; his arm was red and starting to blister. He had burns on his legs, and his face radiated heat. He put his hand to his cheek and felt blood where a bullet must have grazed him. The excitement of battle began to ebb away, leaving him drained.

  He turned back to his crew and saw them gazing at him, slack-jawed, openmouthed.

  “Five to one, sir,” said the old sailor in solemn tones.

  “What are you yammering about, Sikes?” Alan demanded irritably.

  “Five to one, sir,” the old sailor repeated, awed. “You took on five ships and scuppered ’em. Every one. I’ll wager no other captain in the history of captains has ever done the like.”

  Alan blinked and looked around the harbor. Four of the Guundaran ships had disappeared beneath the mists of the Breath and the fifth was on her way to join them. Only the tops of her masts showed. The Guundaran flag fluttered pitifully and then the mists and smoke swallowed it.

  Survivors in lifeboats were all that was left of the Guundaran warships. Some of the men were sailing for the shore batteries, hoping to join up with Guundaran troops. They would not stay there long, for when Admiral Tower and the Aligoes Fleet returned, the forts would soon be back under Freyan control. Others were hoping to escape into the Trame Channel. None of the Guundarans sailed toward Wellinsport, undoubtedly fearing, as Alan had warned, the warmth of the welcome.

  Alan regarded his men with pride. “I’ll wager no other captain in the history of captains has ever had a crew like mine. I could not have done it without you men.”

  He felt close to tears and he had to pause to clear his throat. Fortunately, he could blame his emotion on the smoke.

  When he was recovered, he said sternly, “Did I see a jug of spirits at the bottom of this boat?”

  The crew looked sheepish, and the old sailor shoved aside a tangle of rope with his foot to reveal the jug hidden beneath.

  “Dunno how it got there, sir,” he said and passed the jug to Alan.

  He pulled out the cork and inhaled the reek of the strong Guundaran Spud liquor.

  Alan raised the jug in the traditional
naval toast. “The King. God bless him.”

  The sailors cheered as he lifted the jug to his lips and swallowed. The fiery liquid bit into his throat and he gagged and retched. “God! That stuff’s awful!”

  He passed the jug to the sailor nearest him in the boat, who solemnly drank the toast. The crew passed the jug between both boats until everyone had taken a pull and handed it back to Alan.

  He held the jug high. “I give you King Ullr. May God rot his black soul and damn him to hell.”

  The crew roared with laughter that stopped abruptly when they saw Alan upend the jug, dump out the liquor, and then toss the jug into the Breath.

  The crew watched the jug sink in sorrowful disappointment.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The citizens of Wellinsport were prepared to meet the enemy. They had thrown up barricades all over the city, blocking the roads with overturned wagons and carriages, furniture, barrels, and anything else they could find to toss on the pile.

  Elderly veterans took down their blunderbusses from the walls and manned the barricades, standing side-by-side with razor-wielding street toughs and children armed with bricks and paving stones. Women stood on rooftops, armed with coal scuttles filled with red-hot coals.

  Henry admired their spirit, but not only were troops marching over the Indigo Road into the north of the city, troops stashed on board the warships would soon be entering the city from the harborside. His people could soon face a thousand disciplined well-armed Guundaran soldiers that would crush all resistance like an avalanche thundering down the side of a mountain.

  He could tell the moment the first ranks of the Guundaran soldiers encountered the barricades by the crackle of gunfire and cries of outrage and defiance. He shook his head in grim foreboding.

  “I fear the worst, Mr. Sloan,” he said, and added with a disapproving glower, “Why are you smiling?”

  “It had occurred to me, my lord, that Guundaran soldiers are accustomed to fighting what we might term ‘civilized’ battles in which opposing forces line up across from each other in orderly rows on the field of conquest. The orders are given: Fire, reload, fire. Advance. Retreat.”