He counted hundreds of ships—most were galleys by his reckoning, the rest smaller cogs, likely carrying men and supplies. Looking further north, Damian’s fleet swelled, and Daniel’s own men burned lanterns, signalling the other command ships. Endless ships followed behind.
Canon-fire broke through the sky to the west; most landed harmlessly into the water, but a few struck the first line of his ships. “Our volley! Now!”
The fire was deafening, striking mostly water, but grazing a few of the Dalian ships.
“Speed. Signal speed!” Daniel shouted.
Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.
His own vessel cut through the water; the canon fire from the west was louder, closer. The line of ships larger, and the white banner depicting Mother God flew clear in the late day gloom.
Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.
The line of ships came closer but slower. He knew that the Dalians were intent to fire from afar. He was not. It was a tactic Damian insisted on. Mount the motherless whores, the overlord always said. Break their fucking bones.
“To arms!” Daniel shouted, and there were scores of reavers, mercenaries, and Crimson Swords joining him on the deck. “Drive the fucking sheep from our waters! Plunder their ships! The shites give much to their goddess—we shall take it from them!”
They screamed cries of hurrah and death to the goddess!
Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.
The enemy line was close, no more than a hundred yards. “Nock and fire!” Daniel called to his archers. Arrows sailed through the sky and many more returned.
Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.
He saw the vessel that Jaremy had chosen: an immense war galley manned by knights. He chose well, likely a command ship.
Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.
Arrows whirred above.
“Now!”
Gangplanks dropped and he led his men across, meeting the steel of knights.
The movement of the knights was heavier in their gilded plate. Daniel parried their blows quickly, feinting, and leaving them off balance before pushing them off.
It was a cacophony of steel and blood.
Daniel found himself on the deck of the enemy war galley.
The barrage of arrows continued, and he shouted to the Crimson Swords to find them and take them down. He fanned out, ordering the reavers at his back, fending off knights as they came from all directions.
Parry. Deflect. Thrust.
His reavers swarmed in overwhelming numbers. He felt the blood and sweat trickle down his face.
And an unimaginable heat.
The stern of the boat was burning, and the sails were shrivelling up. He ignored it and pushed forward, clearing the deck and moving towards the portside.
However many knights fell to the wayside, there was always more. Arrows still whirred through the air—from his vessel, and the enemy’s. Cries echoed in the gloom, and there were less reavers than before.
He was losing the battle.
“I have you now, Corsair!”
Daniel turned his head to the sound of the voice. There a knight of middling height walked towards him, visor raised. The fires from the storm raged behind the knight; it looked like the inferno was drawing closer and closer.
The knight was alone. Daniel discovered he was too. The sound of the voice was beyond recognition, but the face he knew. That face that looked down at him from the cliff in Dale was so startlingly familiar. Knight-Commander Ser Jacob Merlen.
“Your holy vessel burns,” Daniel mocked.
“And your men bleed out. It needs not be this way. Surrender your sword, and I will see that you and yours are delivered unto the warm embrace of Mother God.”
“I would rather die at sea.”
The knight-commander laughed. “You cannot run, Corsair, so what else would you do? It is not too late to do right by your men.”
To the Deep Below we go. Daniel charged at the knight.
The knight-commander raised his steel. Daniel pushed against him to the side, and Ser Jacob grunted back and held his own. The knight was stronger than Daniel thought.
Daniel gave way, swinging his steel at the knight from the right side. The knight-commander parried every stroke. Daniel fell back, pacing and flicking his wrists, inviting the knight to lumber ahead.
Ser Jacob Merlen took the bait.
Daniel parried and deflected, quickly feinting to the knight’s lower left side; he grazed the steel, but the knight-commander pushed him away, just before a mast fell between them.
Heat blasted Daniel in the face, and the knight-commander was barely visible through the smoke. Daniel looked to and fro. The Dalians were pushing his own men further and further back.
The galley was near destroyed, but he knew the battle was out of reach.
He backed away, returning towards the gangplanks, looking all the while at the sea. It was difficult to see who fared better. Jaremy will know. I must needs—
Ser Jacob fell upon him. Daniel put up his blade, but he could not free himself from the knight-commander.
“Ser Johnathan will have met steel with your overlord by now. Surrender and I will be merciful.”
Grimacing, Daniel pushed back with all his strength, and the knight-commander skidded across the deck. Daniel fell on the knight, side-blows meeting steel. Ser Jacob continued to parry, but his movements were lazy and arrows suddenly whirred past his head.
The knight-commander backed away, meeting the ruin of wood and rail. Daniel pressed on, not knowing if the opportunity would seize itself again. Ser Jacob put his sword up, but Daniel batted it away.
“Mother God spared you years past!” the knight declared.
“You have lost, Ser Jacob.”
The knight’s face contorted in terror. Daniel turned his head slightly and saw a score of reavers standing behind, and a single Crimson Sword. “Word from Jaremy Dahk,” the man had said. “Our flank holds, and the remnants of their line flees north to join their flagship. We do not know how that battle fares.”
“Would you like to take back your words, Ser Jacob?” Daniel asked. Little that he could remember sounded sweeter to his ears.
“All in accordance to Mother God’s wishes,” the knight said flatly.
Daniel gripped his sword tightly and turned the tip on the knight-commander’s throat. If he but pressed a little further, the man would bleed out in the fire and fury. He wanted to do that so badly; the knights had taken so much from him, and the knight-commander more than any other.
A memory, an echo, called out to him, pleading for mercy. Or is it just…
Then a war horn broke the air. It was followed by two weaker, shriller notes. The overlord calls a retreat. We must obey.
He sheathed his sword. “We are even. You shall not fare better at our next meeting.”
Ser Jacob’s jaw opened in shock, though he said no words. Gathering his men, Daniel smiled, knowing what awaited the knight-commander.
Returning to the Black Tide, he ascended to the bridge. Jaremy pointed to the north-east and handed him a spy glass. In the distance was a new fleet with darkened hulls and burgundy sails. “The imperium. They do not come for us?”
“They passed the furthest line and opened on the Dalian ships,” Jaremy explained. “The overlord commanded we make no attempts upon them.”
“Nor shall we,” Daniel decided, pleased with the turn of events. “Not all ships will return to Lanan—see that they occupy the hidden ports up and down our coasts. Whoever wins this skirmish, I would not have them finding the fleet.”
“I shall relay that to the other ships.”
Daniel stared long at the ruin of the Dalian ships, though his eye lingered long at Ser Jacob Merlen’s command vessel. Small specks of white seemed to hurry to and fro on its deck, seemingly intent on repairing the ship. Vain, he thought, it is lost, abandon it. Dalians, even in the earliest days, were not known for his sense, he knew.
The Black Tide sailed by the shallows, but the blackened horizon further north
turned to red and orange. Who had the upper hand, he did not guess, but was glad for it all the same. Damian would be glad for it.
Crimson Swords, reavers, and mercenaries hooted and hollered below. “The luggards serve the overlord even if they would piss their pants to know it!”
Another replied uproariously, “They will break themselves before a stroke has fallen.”
Daniel turned towards Lanan in the distance. It was still faint, but he knew the upraised cliff and the stunted castle upon its perch from leagues out.
The Overlord’s Seat? Nay: the seat of power in all the realm. Damian is mad, but he knows the nature of these people: brutish, petty, and prideful. All these years, we have been flies upon their necks, endlessly fleeing from their swattings; and when we incensed them to drive us out of their homes forever, they are but reminded of who they wish to slay all the more.
Thus the overlord’s reign shall begin; and my servitude and vengeance.
Book IV
Strength of the Mountain
The Imperator’s Reaver
Dusk
6 September 15129
Andrew dropped to his knees; the searing pain was overwhelming.
Damian circled the deck of Ruination with sword outstretched, laughing and taunting. The mutes grinned broadly, their silence deafening. The Corsair, Shipp, and Trey were near, somewhere, but Andrew could not find them. It did not seem to matter. They would be as silent as the mutes.
“Had enough you shite?” Damian’s voice cut through the air, hard and cold, though he continued to circle. “You cannot sit my throne on your knees.”
Andrew staggered to his feet; the great sword Doom felt heavy in his hand, and he gasped with every breath. The overlord stood with a swagger, tossing his bastard sword, Turmoil, from hand to hand.
The captains, beyond sight, mocked and jeered. Andrew raised his steel, and though the poison from the overlord’s blade coursed through him, he tried to push it from his mind. When the deed was done, when the overlord no longer reigned upon the seas, the poison could take him.
Not before.
“Look, lads, the shite has fight in him,” Damian shouted out. “Corsair, did you not say the traitor would make me taste my own blood? Seems you have not lost your wager yet.”
“Oh, but he will,” a voice answered, Trey, Andrew thought. “Heh, any man who wagers against our tactician is a fool. You put an offer for one the islands yet, Shipp? Damian will not need all of them.”
“What would I do with an island?” Shipp answered solemnly. “If the overlord is feeling generous, he would let me build a dromond.”
“No more fucking dromonds!”
“There is your answer,” the Corsair replied. Andrew would not forget the voice of Daniel Baccan. Damian's right hand was there, the man who retrieved the treasure. He was as mad as the overlord. “You will not have the coin, whatever you may think. Shite as he is, his sword is not misnamed. Damian will bleed.”
“Would you like to be next?” Damian yelled.
Andrew pushed all the voices out; their banter did not matter. They were all complicit in the madness, even Shipp, his old captain. I must find some strength. Some resolve. He surged forth.
Damian met the blow. Andrew pushed hard at the overlord, but his hands shook; Damian’s strength was unfathomable, even if he was the smaller man. Andrew bent his legs, trying to push his weight against the cursed overlord; but his foes eyes lit up with a fire, and a widening smile befit the madness that had taken the wretch.
Andrew suddenly crashed across the deck amidst laughs and shouts.
“The mountain of a man is so humbled,” the overlord cackled. He brushed strands of dampened hair away from his face. “Mayhap he should have thought twice before turning his cloak.”
I had no choice, Andrew thought as he rose to his feet. The poison surged through his body, and he did not know how much longer he could stand. Doom felt so heavy, when once it was so light. “You are the turncloak.”
Damian burst out laughing. “I turned my cloak!? I am your fucking overlord, Andrew Dunctap. You kneel, obey, and whet your steel with the blood of my enemies. To think I was going to gift you a ship. Bloody well that I did not.”
Andrew refused to waver, he could not. The overlord lied to his reavers, his deckhands, and his captains; every man and woman who swore loyalty to him. Day and night he coveted the treasure that the Corsair brought back from the waste. Andrew never glimpsed it, and deckhands were gutted who caught the slightest hint of it. Whatever it was, it had changed Damian. Why can they not see it, why?
The answer did not come then, and it would not now.
Andrew took one tremulous step after another. He felt his muscles convulse in agony and his arms wavered. The overlord did not even raise his sword in answer; the cruel lines of his face contorted to a gruesome smile, and the shadows of the night cascaded over his boiled leathers: he was like a daemon bred in an endless abyss.
The overlord was so close, open and vulnerable. The agony coursed through Andrew’s body; and yet the tyrant was so near, the end to madness within reach.
Andrew keeled over.
Pain flashed across his eyes, and Damian’s gauntleted fist was drenched in blood. “Oh how powerless you are, you shite,” the overlord declared as he let the blood drip all over Andrew’s face. “None cross me and live to tell of it, you hear me, you shite!”
Andrew flexed his fingers. Doom was still in his hand. He could see naught but streams of blood and darkness, but if he would will it—
The pain was excruciating. He was on his back, and Damian’s boot rested on his forehead. “Do it, you bastard,” Andrew croaked. “Do it. End this charade.”
“This is not some play that the fools in motley put on in the streets of Dale. No, you traitorous shite, you will be scarred and broken, too weak to writhe in pain. I am not like those cowards who sit upon thrones of deluded kingdoms. Those who cross me feel Turmoil’s sting, as you do now.”
“End this fucking charade!”
“What you so desire shall be forever beyond your reach.” Damian’s voice slithered like a snake on the edge of hearing. “The darkness of the Deep Below awaits you.”
Rough hands grabbed at Andrew, hauling him towards the port-side rail. The mutes, so blindingly obedient, and the captains following this madness. He tasted the rushing waves on his lips.
“Do not forget his fucking sword!”
The mutes held him in place, while another cinched the great sword to his back, but a voice whispered in his ear. “Forget not the pact.”
Waves broke against him, the darkness deepening, and he hit the water hard.
“Damian!” Andrew shouted, sitting up in bed. The early light of morning flittered through the turret window. His skin was dry, stained only by sweat. The dresser and armoire stood on the opposite wall, and Doom leaned against the rock. It was as he remembered it the night before. He sat over the side of the bed, staring at the middling chambers. “That dream again.”
Two years had come and gone since that fateful night, but the dreams did not relent. Every night Andrew was reminded of the overlord's cowardice, and every night he had to stare at that grim, arrogant face as Damian flaunted his strength. When every day dawned, Andrew swore that the overlord would languish in the Deep Below, but unless a storm overtook the seas, Damian was no closer to ruin.
Andrew passed fingers over his left forearm, crossing pocks of blackened flesh. Turmoil’s sting. The imperator's healers did what they could, but the treachery is marked. Damian must meet his fate before he curses us all.
Tossing the blankets aside, he rose and crossed to the turret window. Isil had begun to stir: the people moved in and out of the labyrinth of streets, topped by the slate roofs of stunted homes, all guarded by the looming shadow of Mount Cimmerii.
He pulled himself away from the window sill and rummaged through dresser for small clothes and boiled leathers. Grunting, he snatched a tabard of burgundy with a brown
trim, a depiction of Mount Cimmerii emblazoned on the chest. Lastly, he retrieved Doom from its scabbard on the far wall. The steel gleaned in the morning light. He sheathed it across his back.
A knock rattled on his door.
“Enter.”
A diminutive, flaxen-haired lad in browns and blacks bowed low. Andrew snorted. “What do you want?”
The lad straightened, but his eyes never left the floor. “Imperator Argath Diomedes demands the presence of the Black Wrath.”
It was a name given to the warrior sworn to the life of the imperator, ever since the reign of Eovald Diomedes.
Andrew cared little for it.
A flowery name of fear, but a mockery all the same. “And where may the imperator be found in the early morning hour?”
The lad still did not raise his eyes, fumbling the words out. “In his study. He has called his inner council. I know no more.”
“Tell the imperator the Black Wrath will attend him at once,” Andrew snarled. “Begone.” The lad bobbed his head and hurried out the turret door.
The inner council, Andrew mused to himself. Lord Zachary Avin, the imperial treasurer, Lady Melany Ducat, the mistress of whisperers, and the dim-witted noble shite lords Anthony Kinot and Conlath Benet. Cowards, the lot of them, but the imperator must make them feel important. He squeezed Doom's hilt and walked out.
The stone stair wound tightly, the echoes of his footfalls resounding in the cold morning as he descended to Cimmerii's Hold. Maids and scullions scurried within the turret chambers, and when one dared emerged, she dropped a stack of sheets, quivering.
The nobles are not the only cowards, he thought, shouldering past the dim-witted maid.
The halls of the hold opened before him, wide and tall. Suits of plate and chain mail and mounted weapons lined the walls; they were relics of the past, wielded in battle when tyrants of the old kingdom and zealots of the theocracy hunted for the wealth of the Mountain. Andrew always thought the displays an ever-present reminder of the strength of men and steel against marauders. Interspersed between them were ornamental vases, goblets, sacred jewels, statuettes, and bountiful landscapes of famed artists—trophies of conquests and glories of the imperium's might.
The Prelude to Darkness Page 30