War of Men

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “If Yarrington is like this, I'll be happy as a goat on a spit!”

  A smile touched the corners of Torsten’s lips, but he didn’t let it last for long. Then, turning to the east, toward their objective, he watched a pillar of smoke cut the moonlit sky, rising from the area of White Bridge. He hoped it wasn’t what he feared, for the Drav Cra burned their dead, turned them to ashes and spread them across the earth.

  Torsten inhaled deeply, unsure if the smell of cinder and the faintly sweet scent of burning flesh was just his imagination or not. Then he shouted, “Warriors of the Glass Kingdom! Our brothers await us across the White Bridge. It’s time we rid our lands of murderers and heretics. Find your peace with Iam, with yourselves, for in the morning, we march. And, in truth, I know not what awaits us.”

  VII

  The Daughter

  Mahraveh al’Tariq hung onto the mast of her new fleet’s flagship, the Shavi, with one arm. The cool breeze kissed her half-shaved head. She still wasn’t used to it, or the many tattoos inscribed along it and her neck marking her as the new al’Tariq afhem, which still felt like her skin had been burned by fire. She’d taken the name as well, as was custom—a fresh start.

  She extended her spear with her other hand, its razor-sharp tip cutting through the thick layer of fog settling in all around them as they neared Trader’s Bay. Wisps of gray and white swirled about it, creating a trail as if a spirit followed along with her. She knew the souls of those lost rested in the current beneath the creaking wood of the vessel. However, she couldn’t help but picture Jumaat up here with her.

  She’d been awaiting the fog, sitting on the coast of the Nipaval Islands, her new home, letting the waves run against her thighs, asking the God of Sand and Sea to cover their approach to Trader’s Bay with Siren’s Breath.

  Finally, he’d obliged.

  She could hear the rhythm of oar-men rowing below her and around her from the fleet she’d won in Tal’du Dromesh. In addition to those dozen, more ships had been delivered by the Jalurahbak Afhemate, when their afhem, Tingur, declared his allegiance.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what awaited them at Nahanab or in the bay, even so close as they were. The Glass had tightened their grip and kept messages from coming in or out. Mahraveh wasn’t even sure if any of the letters she’d sent reached her besieged father. Even Yuri Darkings’ birds or spies couldn’t seem to break the defenses.

  Mahraveh glared down at the ‘expert on Glassmen.’ Yuri stooped over a map on the upper deck. Every time he spoke, she considered having him tossed overboard. He may have accomplished his goal by escaping with Farhan to bring Muskigo’s plight to Latiapur, and Mahraveh’s ears, but the wrong man died that day.

  As if reading her mind, he looked up, eyes like a diseased vulture. He waved for her to come down, and she made no effort to hide her annoyance before sliding down the mast and dropping to his side.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “If I had to guess, their blockade will start here,” he said, pointing to an area of the strait that led from the Boiling Waters into Trader’s Bay.

  “And what do you know about these waters?” Mahi spat. She rattled off a few insults in Saitjuese so he wouldn’t understand.

  Yuri bit his lip, then glowered down his nose at her. From that angle, he really did look like a vulture. Mahi couldn’t understand why her father would ever have chosen to work with the man. And still, despite his many promises, Caleef Sidar Rakun had yet to be delivered safely to Latiapur.

  “I grew up on these waters, my Afhem.” Yuri spoke the title like it were a curse.

  “My Afhem, they’re ahead!” Bit’rudam shouted from the bow. They were the same two words, but from Bit’rudam’s mouth, they sounded so much different. He was young, like Mahi, but experienced in naval combat. He’d been the member of her new afhemate to escort her home after her victory; a loyal follower already, though probably not the best in a fight. He was too reedy, like Jumaat.

  Mahi collared her pink-skinned advisor. “Get inside and don’t come out,” she ordered. “For reasons I don't understand, my father wanted you alive, and so, you’ll stay that way.”

  Yuri whipped around to face her. Even the thought passing through the man’s head of aggression toward her brought the unmistakable rasp of swords sliding free. She stifled a sneer. All her life, even as Muskigo’s daughter, it took all her effort to garner attention, and when she did, it was to pull her away from some danger unfit for a lady. Now, she had it and their respect.

  “Of course,” Yuri said, offering a scant bow. “These days, I’m too delicate for fighting, anyhow.” He swept into the ship’s upper cabin, his long robe swishing at his back. He’d performed his duty in providing insight into the Glass fleet tactics and the region. Mahi was done with him, and she hoped, when her father was free, he’d be done with him as well.

  A concern for another time, she thought.

  She turned to Bit’rudam, and through the dense fog, offered him a curt nod. He brought two fingers to his mouth and blew. All around, loud whistles sounded from the silhouettes of the Shesaitju ships sailing alongside them. The heavy pounding of drums reverberated the deck beneath Mahi’s sandaled feet. It was a signal, but more than anything, it was meant to induce terror upon the enemy. One of her father’s many lessons was that in any battle where the sides were evenly matched, it is the more fearful party that loses.

  Mahi pushed her spear down and vaulted up onto the quarterdeck. The ship’s helmsman held them steady, but the day was calm. Perfect for battle.

  “Afhem Tingur!” Mahi called out to the ship alongside them.

  Mahi wasn’t sure how a man so plump and out of shape had ever claimed an afhemate; perhaps he was born into it. Regardless, he was the best ally she had, and his men loved him enough to never have turned on him, even after decades. Afhems weren’t known for their soft-spoken kindness, after all.

  “My ships are prepared, Afhem Mahraveh,” Tingur replied, moving to the railing. “On your signal. May the Eternal Current guide us!”

  Mahi waited a few long seconds, focusing on the sound of the water pounding against their hulls. Then she raised her hand, and said, “No, may it drown them,” before she thrust it forward.

  The driving rhythm of the drummers hastened, and Mahi turned to watch as they pressed through the orange-tinted fog, growing brighter with each beat of the drums. Water splashed. The persistent patter of oars, faster and faster.

  They’d spent the entire journey planning for battle—Mahi’s first real battle. Tal’du Dromesh was simple—not easy, but simple nonetheless: kill or be killed. But this was different. For years, she’d found herself sidling up as close as she could to her father and his commanders, listening to their legend of battles led by great afhems, or those about how King Liam got lucky in defeating them. Now, she'd have to glean strategy from every one, every story.

  Her heart rampaged against her ribcage as the moon’s soft orange glow became a searing assault upon her eyes. The natural fog turned to a very unnatural smog. Before leaving Nipaval, her new island, she’d confiscated every ounce of flammable whale oil from her many fisherwomen. Now, saturated with the stuff, Afhem Tingur’s rickety old ships sailed straight for the Glass blockade.

  Somehow, she knew it was what her father would do.

  For the Glassmen, fire was crucial to life. It kept them warm in their oversized houses and illuminated dark places. For Mahi’s people, it was a weapon.

  Thank the God of Sand and Sea for fog, Mahi thought again.

  By the time the warning horns of the Glass army sounded, Mahi could already see the tremendous shadows of their warships—big, bulky, not meant for maneuvering in such tight confines. They were meant only to intimidate and sink deep into the water so the soft pink-skins could hide from the sun in their cabins.

  “Raise sails!” Bit’rudam shouted.

  The Shiva lurched as her men raised sleek, angled sails. They couldn’t carry their ships as fast as t
he Glassmen’s, but they allowed for far better maneuverability in places like the rocky southern coast and now, Trader’s Strait. Shouting rang across the waters, stirred by racing and turning vessels. Heavy crossbows fixed to the Glass ships’ bulwarks rained down upon Mahi’s burning ships.

  Once close enough, and sure the heavy vessels would collide with Glass galleons, her oar men abandoned their positions and dove into the water. Shesaitju could handle a swim, especially these men from the isles. Their leather armor was lightweight, flexible, not hard steel that would sink them like rocks.

  The three flaming missiles rammed into the Glass warship at the center of their formation. Wood snapped and creaked, a sound like the gates of exile itself bursting. Mahi could feel the heat of the rising blaze even from where she stood, watching. Many creatures of the sea died for the oil which ignited it, now not in vain. She said a silent prayer, thanking the Eternal Current for its costly sacrifice.

  All the other Glass ships turned to take advantage of their artillery, just like Mahi, Bit’rudam, and unfortunately, Yuri had planned. Their captains, clearly in a panic and used to calmer seas, misjudged the depths and the mistake caused the racket of more splitting wood and gurgling water.

  The first part of the plan had worked. The Glassmen had spies and dignitaries all over the Black Sands. Even the blind missionary priests at the churches they built throughout the region couldn’t be trusted. It would all be enough to know about Mahi’s victory in the arena, but Glass women were weak. They’d underestimate her. She knew they wouldn’t expect her to charge head-on, and her gambit had provided the advantage.

  The fire pushed the enemy fleet apart and allowed Mahi’s to sail straight through. Soldiers leaped into the waters on both sides, some burning alive. They met Mahi’s own men in the waters‚ those who’d powered the flaming rams. There, they wrestled, the Shesaitju warriors claiming victory over most. Once through, Mahi’s ship turned one way, Tingur the other, and they were able to coast along both flanks of the enemy ships at the same time.

  “Shields!” Mahi shouted as they grew close enough to fall under arrow and bolt fire. She wore a buckler on her left forearm so she could wield her spear with two hands in battle. Less protection, more speed. She needed it, considering her slight build. Men scurried about the ship with their round shields raised, climbing the masts and booms, ready to swing over and board the enemy vessel. Others swarmed in the water, already climbing up the enemy hulls. Arrows slashed down at them and stained the water red.

  Mahi watched the fighting unfold as well as she could through the smog. Thousands of men in leather and steel, dancing around the decks of ships on both sides—leaping, climbing, swinging, all while fire raged at their backs.

  “My Afhem!” Bit’rudam shouted. His shield raised in front of her and an arrow clanged off before it could reach her.

  Mahi snapped into action. After the first of her warriors mounted the enemy warships, others fired up barbed arrows attached to ropes. They stabbed into the enemy deck, and dozens more of her men scurried upside-down along them like ants, scimitars between their teeth. Not her. She bounced up and tip-toed along the rope toward the aftercastle.

  She felt like a child again, trying to peek in on her father’s meetings in the bazaar. At least, that is, until she saw the face of a Glass soldier on the other side of a rail. He slashed at the rope. It frayed, didn’t split, but it was enough for Mahi to start losing balance. Another swipe and the line snapped free, but it was too late. She pushed off with one foot and flipped over the soldier. He turned just in time to meet a kick, delivered right to his jaw that tossed him over the railing.

  Mahi felt the rumble of footsteps behind her and ducked. A longsword raced overhead. She heard it connect with wood as she rolled right, then popped up, thrusting her spear into her attacker’s chest, under one of her knees. The Scorpion’s Sting strike. Her father’s terrifying second in command, Impili, taught her that move. She remembered how her chest stung after his training polearm prodded her.

  The soldier collapsed at her feet, and she took a beat to measure her surroundings. The Glass warship was massive, like its own little floating village. Tiered decks, more sails than seemed necessary—maybe it all made sense in the bitter north, though she doubted it. Here, it just seemed pretentious.

  The fighting continued to rage as her men boarded the warship from both sides, same as they had the rest of their vessels. The Glassman fell behind shield walls and guarded access to the lower decks, but they were no use in naval battle. Mahi grabbed hold of the jib, pulled herself up, and ran along the boom. She drove down amid their formation, breaking the shield wall so her warriors could penetrate the enemy defenses.

  She pushed herself straight up with her spear before the Glassmen could do anything about it. Their blades slashed against its shaft, but the blackwood was sturdy as iron and held as she flung herself back to her own ranks. Bit’rudam grabbed her hand to steady her, allowing for a slingshot around him to join back in the fray.

  In the arena, she recalled being terrified. Now, she understood all those times her father rode off to war against, or earn the allegiance of, some afhem. She felt that thrill of being on the brink between life and death, because she knew she was better than the warriors across from her. Her body twisted and bent, dodging their blows, swift and pliable as a sand snake.

  Glass soldiers fled the lower decks to escape their flooding ship only to meet death above. It was turning out to be a massacre worthy of Mahi’s father’s name, and judging by the pained cries of Glassmen filling the bay, the situation was the same all over.

  Then Mahi heard a drum—one of their own pounding frantically and without rhythm. She swiped her spear in a wide arc to keep any attackers at bay, then sprung toward the railing. She looked down and saw Yuri Darkings at her ship's aft, having stolen a mallet from a warrior.

  “From the bay, you damned fools!” he screamed, pointing. “From the bay!”

  Mahraveh followed his finger, and through the heavy mixture of fog and smoke, appeared countless tiny shadows. Oars flapped like dragonfly wings over the reflective water. Carved figureheads only made them seem more like monsters, and none of them bore religious symbols of Iam.

  “Drav Cra!” Mahraveh turned and shouted. “Drav Cra, port side and forwa—”

  A rogue arrow struck her in the shoulder just before she could raise her arm-buckler. The force knocked her back, and her spear slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the Shiva’s deck as she flipped over the railing.

  Cold water hit her, stealing her breath away. The two ships—one hers and one belonging to the enemy, rose up on their respective sides. Like mountains, they cast shadows over her, leaving her in near-total darkness.

  Her back smacked against debris and she twisted, desperate to find her bearings, but the Bay sloshed in response to the giant vessels at war, and she plunged beneath the surface. Blood swirled out from her shoulder, bright lines of pain coursing through it when she banged into another drowned corpse. Her lungs started to sting, and splotches of white closed in around her vision. She’d been so surprised by the arrow and the fall, that she hadn’t had a chance to even gather a lungful of air before finding herself lost in the waters, and what little breath she’d had was driven out by the impact.

  With the smoke and the fog, she couldn’t quite tell how far the surface was. She kicked as hard as she could and used her buckler to propel her, but she grew fainter with every motion, and as confusion beset her, she feared she might be swimming deeper.

  A spear poked through the water and slid under her waist. It left a shallow cut on her arm on its way by. However, it didn’t pull back for another attack. She wrapped herself around it and felt the world rising to greet her. She gasped and pawed for the side of her ship with her free hand. Her fingers slid between two blackwood planks. Before she knew it, she was being heaved up onto the deck, then rolled over onto her back, She coughed, water sputtering from her lungs.

&nbs
p; Yuri Darkings stooped over her, hands hovering above her shoulder wound like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to. Shoving him aside, she rolled to her knees and wiped spit from her mouth. The arrow still poked out of her shoulder. She snapped it off at the shaft, then stretched out the wound.

  “My Afhem,” Yuri said.

  “Give it here.” She ripped her spear out of his hands and used it to get to her feet. Yuri stood nearby, baffled until she said, “Thank you.”

  She thought she saw his rigid features ready to soften, then he scowled. “I told you they’d reuse the Drav Cra ships! It’s what those people do. Assimilate.”

  “Your people.”

  “Not the way they see me.”

  Mahi grunted and staggered toward the ship’s mast. Drav Cra longboats raced toward them. Tens of them, and Yuri was right, they weren’t manned by their builders, but more of the Glass army coming from the direction of the ravaged Winde Port docks. She remembered Yuri bringing them up while they planned this attack. He was convinced that when the Glass army betrayed their allies over Drad Redstar’s misdeeds in Yarrington, that they’d do whatever it took to conserve ships in order to help with reconstruction efforts in Winde Port. She’d dismissed him, but he’d been right. The Glass didn’t just defeat their enemies, they absorbed everything they had.

  I should’ve known better after all Father taught me.

  “Stay behind me,” Mahraveh told Yuri.

  “They’ll destroy our ships!” he protested.

  “Then it’s a good thing my father is on the land.”

  Drav Cra Longboats were explicitly built for ram-and-board tactics. They were smaller, with only a single sail and hard, iron prows designed to break ice. Like giant spears skimming the water. But those prows broke ships as well, and while some sailed crooked due to the inexperienced pink-skins controlling the oars, there were enough to make a mess of things.