Tales of Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Neenahwi left Crews and crossed the gang plank once more. The swaying of the ship was still something she was uncomfortable with, and now with congealed blood coating her boots and filling her nostrils, she steeled herself not to fall or stumble. She went at once to her quarters at the rear of the ship; a simple private room with a hanging hammock and a cushion on the floor. A double rectangular window let in the light from the stern of the ship—one of her few demands for assisting with this plan. She sure as shit wasn’t going to parade around naked before the crew.

  She disrobed and flung open the windows. Perching on the window sill, Neenahwi took a deep breath and fragmented her mind, forming an image of the albatross. The hooked beak, the downy white feathers on wings that stretched out wide, the webbed feet; all down to the smallest detail. For those details were important; screw one of those up and the natural elegance of this master of flying would be disrupted.

  Neenahwi the albatross leapt into the air, wings beating, unconcerned with the crowds gathered at the railings of the ships nearby watching their wizard at work.

  She hurried up to the deck, still fastening the belt around her robes after dressing, to find Crews waiting for her.

  “There are fifteen ships. We have to get out of here.”

  The admiral puffed his cheeks and blew, spinning on his heel as he thought. “What do they look like?” he asked.

  Neenahwi sighed, frustration and anxiety building within her. “Three as big as this one,” she said pointing to the captured ship, bobbing listlessly without sails off their starboard bow. “Twelve smaller ones, with just the one mast.”

  “Like a scout ship? A trader?”

  “I don’t bloody know, Crews. I’m a wizard not a fucking fisherman.” Not being able to answer his questions more helpfully was painful to her; it wasn’t normal for her knowledge to be so limited. But she also thought that it didn’t bloody matter given the number of them. “It’s more than we have, so why not run? Let’s pull them back to Redpool where we have more ships.”

  Crews fixed a fake smile above his strong jawline. She knew she was pushing him, especially in public like this, but she didn’t imagine her father would have been quiet either.

  “They won’t follow, my lady. They will take back our prize and then we will lose them. We have searched for their new fleet, even a fraction of it, and now with your help we have found them.”

  “Don’t pat me on the head, Crews. I’m not going to just roll over and let you rub my belly. Sink the ship and they’ll have nothing.”

  “I will not!” he barked, almost forgetting his patient facade. But it was just a moment, his varnished exterior returning. “We will meet them, and we will show them who rules the waves. Maybe you would like to retire to your quarters?” He turned on his heel and walked to the aft castle without waiting for a response.

  “Not bloody likely,” she muttered under her breath, suddenly unsure what to do. She paced a circle as Crews dispatched his orders to the captains that had hastily assembled on The Drake. The men and women nodded their acceptance without a word of complaint or challenge and returned to their boats and teams of oarsmen for the short crossing back to their ships.

  Neenahwi stood in the center of the main deck, sailors scurried like ants around her; industrious but to what purpose she was not sure. Marines left behind to guard their prize waved to their friends as The Drake pushed away. She was in the way. Neenahwi walked to the prow and rested a hand on the great figurehead of the winged drake as she watched the fleet set sail to meet the Pyrfew ships now visible on the horizon.

  The breeze was stiff but the surf was little more than a lover’s kiss on the hull. The fresh sea air flooded her lungs and she steadied herself. Neenahwi’s hand went to her pendant and she could have sworn she felt it pulse in her grip. Releasing her hold she noticed the blood that still wept from the wound; the needle on the pendant’s rear had continued to scratch at her flesh, the constant sting of the irritation forgotten. She’d gotten angry with Crews, and in truth, she hadn’t really meant to. It was the demon stone. It seems that with great power, comes the ability to get really pissed off.

  Calls for full sails chained through the sailors on duty and The Drake overtook the other ships of Crews’ small fleet to take the lead. He was new to the admiral job, and though she was beginning to admire his bravery, she would have to talk with Mareth about getting him to hold the rear in the future—they didn’t need to lose another admiral who felt he had something to prove.

  The distance closed quickly, little more than half an hour before the Pyrfew fleet became visible as independent ships. The Pyrfew ships sailed in groups of four, in what appeared to be a fairly tight formation. A larger ship such as the one they fought earlier that day with the smaller ships flanking and one at point. All except for one group of three smaller ships that was missing its big sister—surely the broken ship they had left behind.

  “Prepare arms!” came the call from Woodell, Crews’ first lieutenant. Marines scurried on deck from their resting places; weapons sharpened, naps taken, or prayers given; she did not know. But this was a well drilled lot. She watched with interest as teams assembled around each of the ballistae, turning the repeating crank to test the mechanism and confirm they had a full complement of armaments.

  The Pyrfew ships were less than a mile away now and it felt like the whole crew was holding its breath. All except Woodell, who shouted words of encouragement or admonishment. The silence would be gone soon. The Edland ships came alongside each other, matching speed, heading face-on toward the arrow formations of the Pyrfew fleet.

  Half a mile. She could see the ships clearly now. The smaller vessels looked odd—even to her now that she thought about it—quite unlike the scouting ships of Edland. But before she could give it further thought, Woodell called out again.

  “Forty-five degrees to port! Line them up!”

  The Drake listed as the wheel turned and the sails were set. Neenahwi looked behind to see the other four Edland vessels match course and speed, falling into procession behind them. Ships of the line against their wedge formation.

  The turn sent them toward the most northerly of the group of ships. Whether this tactic took their opponents by surprise or not she couldn’t say because they did not change their course. They were close now. She could see the smaller ship at the head of the formation clearer now. Its deck was completely clear and glinted in the sunlight; metal sheets? Oars appeared from their holes in the side of the smaller ships and dipped into the white flecked sea in unison, propelling them forward. All of the smaller ships had matching figureheads; something reptilian.

  Were these small ships going to ram them? They were so small they wouldn’t be able to do anything. So what was going on? It was not like Pyrfew troops to blindly rush to death.

  Neenahwi descended from the fore-castle, taking the steps two at a time as she hurried to make her way to Crews, when Woodell called the distance to fire.

  “Fire on the lead. Ready, aim, fire!”

  Thwum. Thwum.

  The silence ended and the chaos began. The steady sound of the ballistae repeating their action. The cranking of the iron cogs and gears. Men and women calling out to each other to adjust the aim. All of this filled the air and Neenahwi couldn’t help but find herself drawn to the railing as a moth to a bonfire, eager to see their work.

  It was mixed. Some of the initial volley stood out from the wood of the lead ship like whiskers on a teenager’s chin, but more skittered off the armored deck to fly uselessly into the sea. Shit! These ships have a shell.

  “Mast!” went the call from Woodell. The withering fire concentrated on the single mast of the lead ship. It was a tough shot with two moving vessels and the constant shifting of the ballista under its repeating action so most missed the mark. But one hit the target, splitting it a third of the way up. And then another struck, bringing the square-sailed rigging down onto the deck. But the ship did not stop. The oars beat a steady r
hythm. It did not change course.

  A great rattle of wood and metal, ropes and pulleys were audible across the sea. Neenahwi watched in trepidation as huge stones fired into the air from the larger ship of each group. Neenahwi had not rebuilt her defenses, so mesmerized was she with the action all around her. She closed her eyes and fractured her mind, once and then again. One aspect of her consciousness pulled on a thin thread of raw power from the demon stone and weaved it once more into a shield in front of her, the hardened air pushing aside marines standing by her side. The other aspect of Neenahwi remained waiting, alert—she needed to be ready.

  The rock sailed through the air serenely, growing larger and larger. It was falling too close to The Drake, it might even hit it and she didn’t want to risk that. The other aspect of Neenahwi pulled another thread from the demon stone—and she could feel it calling out to her, wanting to take more—and formed it into a thrust of counter force enough to disrupt the boulder’s course; it splashed into the sea. But one of the other ships of the line was not so lucky. She heard the screams as the rock plowed through people and wood.

  Neenahwi hurried up to the aft castle, pushing aside the crew and marines alike with her shield to clear a path. She had to find Crews.

  The Drake, as first ship of the line, was now past the first armored Pyrfew ship, and the ballistae could not swivel far enough to fire at the ship in its wake. The Orca opened fire on the lead armored ship to little effect, and now its two similarly built companions were closing as well.

  “Crews!” she called.

  He didn’t turn to face her and his profile betrayed little apparent concern. Crews surveyed the emerald green battleground through his looking glass. “They mean to harry us with the small ships. Skirmishers. And then pick us off with their catapults. These are old tactics…”

  The lead Pyrfew ship quickly closed on The Orca, its oars tearing up the waves in time to a muffled drum beat. The ship’s low design made it impossible for the ballistae to fire down at it as it came so close. Its oars picked up speed and there was a shuddering smash as it hit the larger Edland ship on the starboard side. Without missing a beat, the marines on board dropped ropes and scurried down to the metal coated deck, crossbows slung across their backs. A score of marines charged around the metal deck slippery with sea spray, looking for signs of people or their egress. Neenahwi grabbed the spy glass from Crews fist without so much as a murmur of apology. She looked through it and saw the looks of confusion on the faces of the marines. There was neither door nor defender. Crews calmly took another spy glass from his pocket and matched Neenahwi’s focus.

  The second group of Pyrfew ships was nearing the third ship of the line. The other two armored ships of the first group had now closed with The Orca as well, turning to avoid collision. Their line was being swarmed by the smaller armored ships; it looked to Neenahwi like a family of turtles nipping at the heels of the bigger ships.

  Turtles? No. Surely not…

  “Turn us around, Crews! We have to help them.”

  The flag girl looked to her Admiral to see if he would give her new instructions. But Crews had another mind. “No. Belay that order. We stick to the line!” Neenahwi muttered a curse at the man’s pig headedness. Crews’ belief in Edland’s naval superiority was clouding his judgement.

  The Orca tried a different tactic against the turtles dragging along at its sides. Small objects arced through the air, thrown by hand, to hit the surface of the armored ships. Arrows followed quickly after; fire arrows by the streak of flame they left imprinted in Neenahwi’s eye as they sliced through the air. The surface of the deck burst into flame. Pitch bombs, bringer of fire and chaos to any normal ships. But metal armor did not burn.

  And the Edland ship was not the only one with fire.

  Neenahwi watched in horror, her stomach sinking, as the reptilian figureheads of the two pursuing ships opened. Great spouts of fire erupted, shooting across the twenty feet of sea separating them from The Orca. The flames hit the side of the Edland ship like a torrent, churning and tumbling upwards and across the hull. The fire spilled over the deck of the ship and sailors ignited like human candles. Neenahwi’s knuckles were white as she held the spy glass, scanning to see what was happening. Some of the sailors leapt into the burning sea, others ran around wildly. The flames did not stop coming, the tempo of the Pyrfew ships’ oars increased to bring the draco-turtle ships either side of The Orca. The fire spewing spouts turned to bathe the ship completely, streams of flame flicking from side to side like a drunk trying to piss straight.

  “What is this?” said Crews, removing the looking glass from his eye, staring slack-jawed at the devastation behind him. More flame erupted in the bright, crisp afternoon. The third ship of the line, The Falcon, under similar attack. Neenahwi stared at him, momentarily at a loss as much as he was. Admiral Crews was the first to snap out of it. “Come about!” he hollered. “Signal the rear to disengage!”

  “Get me close!” called Neenahwi, her mind racing, the anger building inside her. The demon stone throbbed against her chest. So Pyrfew has some secret weapons, eh? Well Llewdon, we’ve got something you weren’t expecting either.

  The Drake lurched as it turned. The crew scrambled to adjust sails and not stall. Marines stood still at their post. Good training or fear? She’d give them the benefit of the doubt today. Watching your friends on The Orca be consumed by fire was not something they would see every day. She was sure they would shed a tear for their fallen comrades while at the same time saying a quiet prayer to Atarah that it wasn’t them. The turtle ships scoured the tall wooden sides of the ship. Flames licking up and onto the deck. Ropes lit up in a blaze; small, dancing fires raced up to catch hold of the sails.

  The Orca was fucked. Another mark against you, Llewdon.

  The Drake completed its turn, coming about with the stricken Edland ships between it and the larger Pyrfew ships that had resumed their onslaught of catapulted rocks. Neenahwi rushed down the main deck screaming obscenities to clear her some space at the railing. She gripped the demon stone pendant in her left hand and squeezed hard. The needle sunk into her flesh. It felt like the sharp metal squirmed, gouging a hole in the palm of her hand; blood dripped down her wrist.

  She focused on her right hand. All of the anger, all of the power from the stone, she brought into herself and weaved into a tight ball of heat and hate. She would never have been able to do this without the stone. Here at sea there was no mana for her to draw on. Her own life force would have been spent like sparked tinder. But with the pendant and the hard-won little red rock set in it by her father, she felt powerful.

  Neenahwi flung the fiery ball at the turtle’s side, another aspect of her mind carrying the ball of energy straight and true where her arm would never have been enough. Though no smaller than her fist, the ball exploded satisfyingly on contact with the hull, the rear quarter of the starboard side blown to pieces in a shower of splinters. Oarsmen, little more than chum after the explosion of wood and metal, fell from the rent into the water.

  “Aim for that hole!” called a voice. Woodell. Thankfully he had been paying attention and the ballista crews resumed their firing with glee to have such a vulnerable target. Bolts ripped through the breach in the hull, screams audible from the oarsmen inside. Other bolts smashed into the hull which broke off in long planks now that the turtle’s shell had been cracked open.

  “Set course between The Orca and The Falcon!” came a call from the rear. Neenahwi looked up to see Crews staring down at her, a steely look in his eyes. He nodded his respect at the display of her talents. She shrugged off the unwelcome attention and squared her shoulders, raising her chin to look down at her destruction. She was not just a fucking scout. She was the daughter of Jyuth. She was a Wolfclaw!

  The Drake split the distance between the two listing, blazing bonfires of the Edland first-class ships. At least this would give her more chance to even the tally.

  Neenahwi focused on drawing another
ball of energy as she calmly made her way across deck, people scattering to get out of her way or pushed aside forcefully by the shield that still surrounded her. A turtle ship was pouring fire on The Falcon and she could see straight down its reptilian figurehead.

  The fiery ball flew out of her hand. Her attention guiding the missile—Neenahwi almost one with the ball—until it smashed into the carved reptilian neck.

  There was silence for a fraction of a second, the air and all sound sucked into the impact. And then Neenahwi and her crew mates were reeling from the deep boom of the explosion. She blinked. The turtle ship was gone. Burning debris rained down on the waves from a greasy black cloud.