by Ari Marmell
***
By the time Atherton rejoined his team, they’d commandeered a pirate longboat and were ready to set out. The corporal paused only long enough to help them push off before clambering over the side.
“All right, boys,” he told them, reloading his weapons while the others rowed, “you all know what we’re looking for. I doubt they’ll be kind enough to have a signed and dated ‘We confess to being sponsored by Khador’ letter lying about in plain sight, so look for anything that might constitute proof. Take that ship apart down to the waterline if you have to. If there’s so much as a drop of Khadoran sweat soaked into the rigging, I want it. Got me?”
Five affirmative grunts, and then every breath was devoted to rowing.
Cannons roared across the choppy waters. Clouds of bitter smoke hung low over the various ships, angry wraiths waiting to swoop down upon the living.
The plan was for the Cygnaran galleons and ironhull to keep the pirates’ attention, allowing the tiny longboat to reach the nearest brigandine. It appeared, however, that a particularly sharp sailor had thought to keep watch landward.
The boarding party discovered this when a single gun port dropped open and something within spat fire.
Atherton reacted so quickly he might just have outpaced his own reflection. Both pistols rose, once more crackling with a cerulean aura, and each fired off a pair of shots.
The first, striking faster and harder than any mundane bullet, obliterated the cannonball yards from the vulnerable little vessel. The other three twisted, swerved, and blasted into the shadowy chamber behind the gun port. Atherton couldn’t possibly hear the bodies falling from this distance, but he knew they had, all the same.
“Now let’s just hope,” he said casually, basking in the open-mouthed stares of seasoned and normally unflappable commandos, “that it was just the one gun crew that saw us coming.”
Apparently, it was. Atherton cracked open his weapons to reload once more, no more guns fired—not in their direction, anyway—and the ship drew ever nearer.
***
The spent chain gun lying forgotten beside her, Benwynne hauled with a sharp cry, yanking her blade—a sword of almost saber-like design, rather than the popular and heavier battleblades—from the ribs of the latest pirate to die. As he’d been in life, his body was covetous, greedy, reluctant to give up the sharp steel, and the sergeant had been forced to plant a boot on the corpse before she had the leverage to tug it free.
All of which put her in the perfect position to watch, gawping, as a column of flame rocked the vessel Corporal Gaust had recently boarded. Chunks of the hull disintegrated, or spun off into the water. The smoke climbed fast and thick, a rather large and woefully disappointing jack-in-the-box. Ponderously but with growing speed, the brigandine began to list.
“Looks like the ship’s magazine,” Wendell commented, having appeared once more at the sergeant’s side only Morrow-knew-when. “Guess we’ve either got ourselves a suicidal pirate, or Gaust’s team put a shot somewhere they shouldn’t.”
“If he gets off that ship alive,” Benwynne snarled, furious enough to turn back the tide, “I may just kill him myself. The bloody hell is he thinking, Master Sergeant? How useful is our proof if it’s burned to cinders or sitting on the ocean floor?”
“He mightn’t have had a choice,” the mechanik said mildly. “Besides, there are other ships—”
“And if the only evidence of Khadoran involvement was on that one, Habbershant? What then?”
“Then I . . . Messenger, Sergeant.”
“What?”
Wendell pointed. From far up the beach approached a single horse, hooves spraying sand as it ran, carrying a rider whose tabard sported the golden Cygnus. He reined in his mount, dropped expertly from the saddle, and moved to address Lieutenant Craddock, the officer in charge of the beachfront operation as a whole.
He, in turn, scanned the beach with his own spyglass and then pointed straight at Benwynne herself.
“Bugger.” Still, the situation around her appeared largely under control. The bulk of the pirates were down, or at least hemmed into small pockets of resistance. Bulldog and the newly patched Shepherd seemed to be doing a pretty decent job of dealing with said pockets. Bulldog moved with a sharp, jolting limp, and various fluids dribbled from a cracked piston in its leg, but it appeared to be in no danger of slowing or toppling; Wendell’s team ought to be able to handle repairs easily enough after the battle. Wolfhound stood, long-cannon raised skyward, perhaps dividing its focus equally between shore and sea, trying to determine where it could land a shell to do the most good.
There was, in other words, nothing that required her immediate attention.
“All right, Master Sergeant. Let’s see what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until we get home.”
Her fatigued trudge and the messenger’s crisp walk brought them together on an open patch of ground. Unobscured by cloud, either natural or the result of burning powder, the sunlight bounced from the sand to warm them, massaging some of the seaside winter chill from armor and tired muscles.
The messenger, a young man whose disgustingly eager features and demeanor belonged on recruitment fliers, snapped off a salute and handed Benwynne a single sheet, folded but unsealed.
“Read under orders, ma’am,” he replied to her unasked question. “In case something went wrong and I had to deliver it verbally. Must be critical.”
The sergeant nodded once, flipped open the paper, and then hissed through her teeth like a venting engine. “They’ve got to be joking!”
“I don’t believe so, ma’am.”
Benwynne handed the missive to Wendell.
“They’ve got to be joking,” he parroted a moment later. This time, the messenger didn’t seem to feel a response was required.
“Have you any idea, Private,” Benwynne growled, “how important this operation could be? How meticulously we prepared for—”
“I’m just the courier, ma’am. Besides, the operation isn’t being suspended. These orders are specifically for the fifth. Squads two and six are to remain here and conclude—”
“The second and sixth are good, but they’re traditional army, not UE teams. We need—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Isn’t anyone ever going to finish a sentence?” Wendell asked plaintively.
“I’m sorry,” the messenger repeated, “but my instructions were quite clear. I was to deliver these orders immediately, and see that they were executed immediately. Timetable established by General Runewood personally.”
It was only her own military discipline—which, if she were being honest with herself, she’d already pushed to the breaking point—that kept Benwynne from cursing aloud. Instead, drawing her shoulders up, she turned back toward Wendell.
“Think Corporal Gaust and his team could hear the steam whistle from here, Master Sergeant?”
“I can adjust the aperture to make sure, Sergeant. I don’t recommend you stand nearby when it sounds, though.”
“Fine. Do it. Fighting withdrawal alarm.” That would be three long blasts, two shorts, under their current system of codes. “The squad’s pulling out and heading home.”
Where, she added silently, general or no, archduke or no, Alain Runewood is going to bloody well explain himself!
Limned in silver by cloud-filtered moonlight, the rider leaned over her charger’s armored neck as though whispering secrets. “Have I mentioned,” she asked, “how much I hate Corvis?”
Arius, named for the clergyman and national hero, twitched the chestnut ears that protruded from his heavy barding of blue plate and gold mesh, and otherwise failed to acknowledge his mistress’s confession.
Lieutenant Laddermore chuckled softly. The sound echoed slightly within her helm, for all that she currently rode with visor lifted. “I thought you might have heard it already,” she admitted.
Katherine Laddermore—not just “Lieutenant” but also properly “Lady,” though s
he wasn’t shy about telling people not to address her as such, thank you very much—didn’t much resemble the traditional knight. Raised in the court of the Archduke Fergus Laddermore, she had the gentle face, rich chocolate locks, and bearing of a princess. Taller and broader of shoulder than average, perhaps, but hardly imposing.
Until one stood in her way, or threatened her people. Until one watched her cut down the enemy as casually as if she were trimming the roses. Until she appeared, clad not in civilian garb, but the blue-and-gold armor of the Storm Lancers, crashing down on the foe like the wrath of the gods, the lightning itself heralding her earth-shaking charge.
Although not especially bloodthirsty, she’d rather have been doing just that at the moment. Her recent assignment to Corvis—a city of winding bridges, tight streets, and viscous muddy roads, all in the midst of a river-fed marsh quite some distance from any of the active fronts—was proving rather low on her list of favorite deployments.
Nor was she the only one to feel that way.
“Tell me again why we’re here, Lieutenant?” The voice drifted from behind, raised slightly to be heard over the grating chirp of distant frogs.
Katherine’s grin widened, though none of the men following could possibly see it. This was the same question Blevins had asked every evening since they’d arrived four days ago. At this point, a patrol beyond the city walls wouldn’t have felt complete without it. Plenty of officers might have frowned at the levity, but Katherine—again, due to her own disdain for her experiences in her father’s court—preferred a more informal relationship with her subordinates.
“There’s a war on, Blevins,” she answered sweetly, as though it had been a genuine question—again, much as she’d done every prior evening. “You might have noticed a few thousand people leaving Corvis earlier this week? Those would be soldiers joining the First Army at the front. And since the Second Army—that would include us, in case you’ve fallen and hit your head again—is still mobilizing units for long-term replacements, they needed the nearest available unit to hold the fort until they arrive.
“Now, would you care to guess who that turned out to be? Or shall I stop and draw you a diagram?”
A small swell of snickers washed over her, Blevins’ among them, and for that she was especially grateful. Anything to relieve the tension, in these earliest days of a reborn war . . .
She was just drawing breath to order one final sweep of the banks before starting the three-mile trek back to Corvis when a call from the rear of the formation interrupted.
“Riverboat, Lieutenant!”
Katherine hauled Arius around. “Anything suspicious?” Even with the outbreak of hostilities, both the Dragon’s Tongue and the Black River were too vital as commercial waterways for traffic to cease, so a riverboat—even this late at night—wasn’t automatically a danger sign. Still . . .
“Sorry, Lieutenant, make that three boats. Looks like a small trade flotilla. And no, nothing alarming that I can see from here . . .”
No real reason to check any further, but Katherine—a touch of informality with her people notwithstanding—preferred to err on the side of excess in the performance of her duties. “Gather up here,” she told the others. “I’m going for a quick look.”
Swiftly over a shallow rise, and then Arius’s hooves were splashing through cold marsh, kicking up water, mud, uprooted reeds, and the occasional flattened toad. Katherine twisted a toggle on the haft of her galvanic lance, traditional weapon of her Order. Sparks crackled; cobalt coils of electricity spiraled the length of the weapon, humming and sizzling in the humid air. Not enough to be dangerous—not yet—but more than enough to illuminate her way to the banks of the Black River.
And to ensure the sailors could see her in turn.
The lead vessel was abnormally tall for a riverboat. Something to do with the distribution of cargo, maybe? Katherine didn’t know enough about boats to do more than guess. Of the two smaller craft, the squat one might have more properly been called a barge, save that the deck was largely enclosed; the other was the most mundane of the lot, perhaps a crew-and-supply boat. All three propelled themselves with shallow paddlewheels astern, traveling in an uneven triangle.
She could see crew moving about on all three, though the barge held a much smaller contingent than the others.
All perfectly ordinary, other than the mild peculiarity of the late-hour travel, and any number of deadlines could justify that. So why were the hackles on Katherine’s neck rising, her fingers clenching of their own accord about the haft of her lance?
“Ahoy the river!”
One of the sailors—pale, dark-haired, dressed in patched but sturdy wools, and largely indistinguishable from any of the other sailors—stepped to the chipped railing of the lead boat to shout back. “Evening.” This was their only concession, however; the vessels showed no signs of slowing, let alone stopping.
Talkative bunch, I see. Katherine clicked her tongue at Arius, and the horse began to trot along the bank, keeping pace. The sound of mud squelching beneath his hooves was almost chipper. “Where are you bound, and with what cargo?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Lieutenant Laddermore, 33rd Heavy Cavalry, Second Army.”
“Uh. Just coal and a bit of raw ore heading downriver, Lieutenant. Delivery for Steelwater Coal and Steam.”
Again, it all sounded reasonable enough . . . “You have permits to deliver across Cygnaran borders, of course?”
The sailor coughed once. “Didn’t say we was delivering to a Cygnaran port, Lieutenant.”
Which meant either the Bloodstone Marshes or the gathering zealots in the Protectorate of Menoth. But before Katherine could say anything, he continued, “Still all legal.”
“I’m sure it is.” She frowned as Arius stumbled on the uneven swampy ground, but he righted himself swiftly enough. Had they been alone, she’d have been wildly amused at the “I meant to do that!” tilt to his head. “Would you mind heaving to, so I can come aboard and confirm?”
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant. You got no right. Besides, it’s your country who’s at war. How do we know you won’t just commandeer our coal?”
“Would my word suffice?”
The derisive snort was answer enough, but it no longer mattered. Because it was then that the knight finally realized what had been bothering her about these boats from the moment she’d beheld them.
These boats and, more significantly, boatmen.
Merchant-sailors hauling a valuable load along the Black River, in the black of night, during wartime? Of course they should be nervous! Anyone with half the brains of Katherine’s saddle-blanket would be nervous.
Except they hadn’t been. Only when she’d questioned them had their spokesman developed any sort of hitch in his voice. When they’d first floated past her, the visible crewmen had been going about their duties with absolute focus. No fearful glances out the portholes, or cast suspiciously in her direction. No pacing on deck, scrutinizing the shoreline. No quick whispers as they crossed paths.
So determined to keep themselves rigidly under control, to avoid drawing the slightest whiff of suspicion, they held themselves too calmly. They weren’t able to drop the act enough to make it real.
“I’m afraid,” Katherine said, readying herself with a single deep inhalation, “that I really must insist.”
The sudden burst of acceleration she expected, but the sheer speed of it caught her by surprise. In a spray of churning foam, all three vessels lurched forward as if they’d been fired from a cannon. No normal civilian steam engine—gods, not many military ones!—could provide that sort of push. Even running Arius flat-out, she’d only be able to keep up for a short time, and that was assuming something unseen in the treacherous marsh didn’t trip him up first.
But then, she didn’t expect to need to keep pace for long.
Katherine had kicked her mount into a gallop even before she’d fully recovered from her shock. Just as if she charged
a land-bound foe, she lowered the crackling lance, twisting slightly to aim it at the lead boat rather than straight ahead. For a moment, it almost looked laughable.
Until, with the flip of a switch, Lieutenant Laddermore called the lightning.
Generators within the haft shrieked, pitched so high they stabbed at the ears despite being nigh inaudible. The air ripped open with a thunderous burst, and the lance spat at the vessel with the fury of the storm.
The night turned white. Arcs of power raced across the hull on spidery legs of lightning, sharply reflected off the waters below. Smoke curled from the wooden paneling, and the man with whom Katherine had been shouting fell back screaming, body spasming until he disappeared from sight.
But where she’d anticipated a flaming gap in the hull, Katherine now saw only a blackened stain, smoking so faintly it was all but invisible in the darkness. Only in a few spots had the wood burned away completely, leaving cinder-rimmed holes. These exposed an inner layer of ceramics. Reinforced, or so she assumed, they would be weaker than steel but far lighter and, worse for the Storm Knight, not particularly conductive.
Katherine might not know much about boats, but this sort of craftsmanship she recognized just fine.
Dwarven craft. These were Rhulic vessels!
For perhaps a heartbeat, she hesitated. Rhul and Cygnar weren’t precisely allies, but they were trading partners; certainly no state of hostility existed between them. The repercussions if she were wrong about this . . .
But no. The vessels flew no flag, Rhulic or otherwise, and the crew certainly were no dwarves. Whatever she’d stumbled upon, it was in no way official.
At the boats’ current speed, even a heartbeat’s hesitation was significant. By the time Arius had once more built to a gallop, hooves digging deep furrows into the thick mud, the flotilla had opened up a lead of several dozen yards.
Still, she might catch up long enough to slow them, at least give the rest of her team the chance to—
An array of small ports opened in the enclosed barge. From them sprayed a wide arc of a thick, glistening liquid. It sat on the surface of the water, a single undulating blob that refused to break up in the current, and spread to coat the tufts of solid ground and the patches of bog that made up this stretch of bank. From a separate porthole flew a lit brand, tracing brilliant curves through the air as it tumbled toward the sludgy concoction . . .