by Rice, Morgan
At its start, it was a variation on the plan they’d used with the smaller groups of ships. Akila sat, watching while the ships under his command scattered and hunted, harried and ran. They drew their targets away from the main body of the fleet, only this time, they didn’t swarm together to attack the vessels they’d lured away. This time, they kept running, drawing more ships and pulling them further out.
All the while, Akila held the galley in position, its oarsmen poised, forcing himself to wait even though there were ships that could have used his help. Even though there was a rebel ship burning now in the distance. There would only be one chance to get this right.
He saw it then. The flagship of Felldust’s fleet came into view, appearing from behind walls of other vessels as they broke away to attack his fleet. They scattered like hounds chasing after rabbits, and in doing so, they left their leader exposed.
“Row!” Akila ordered, and his men were more than equal to the task. The galley powered forward, cutting through what had once been an impenetrable wall of ships to strike at what lay beyond.
Akila wasn’t naïve enough to believe that killing the First Stone of Felldust would end the invasion like magic. This wasn’t a case where cutting off the snake’s head would kill the body, but it might slow things. It might cause the invasion to fragment as the different factions there found themselves fighting for control of the fleet. Without a leader, it might not scatter to the four winds, but it would split into smaller things they could deal with.
“Maybe I can even declare myself First Stone,” Akila said with a laugh. That was how things worked there, wasn’t it? The strongest took the ruler’s seat. “Maybe I could just order them all to go home.”
Somehow, Akila doubted that it would work like that. He wasn’t even sure that he was going to survive this. He could kill Irrien though. The first impact from the galley’s ram would tear through the hull of his flagship, and they could pull back to give him to the water, picking him and his men off at will as they tried to flee the sinking ship.
Akila stood as close to the prow as he dared right then. The galley was a giant spear, and he was its point, ready to slam home in Irrien’s heart. He drew his short swords, ready to fight…
And that was when he saw Irrien’s flagship start to shift in the water.
It turned, and if Akila had thought it would be ponderously slow, he was wrong. It turned with all the speed of his own ship, and Akila hesitated at the thought that it was heading straight for him now, not trying to get away, but charging.
Akila’s head snapped around to give the order to break off. A good commander thought on his feet. They’d missed this moment, but there would be another, and another, until finally he found the chance to make this tactic work. They needed to break for open water, maybe help one of the distracting ships.
But as he looked around, Akila saw the ships that were closing in from other directions. The ones that had been chasing his ships had broken off, and were skimming their way back in toward the flagship while the rebellion’s ships continued to run.
Akila had thought that he was thrusting at the heart of Felldust’s fleet. Now, it was more like he was running into the palm of its hand, and its fingers were coming in to crush him. The First Stone had outthought him. He’d left an opening, and Akila had charged in like a novice on his first day of sword practice, to be rapped on the head while he went for too easy a thrust.
In a real fight, though, that kind of thing could still work. Just so long as you made sure your attack struck home too, and you were prepared to pay the price.
“Keep going,” Akila ordered. “We’re going to take them with us, if nothing else! Get ready to board!”
The galley and the flagship continued on their collision course. Ramming was out. The only question now was which way to go. Which way would the First Stone choose when the time came to turn? Would he turn at all? No, Akila decided. He would plow on, the determined warrior relying on the strength of his ship.
That meant Akila could pick his side.
“Port rowers, be ready to ship oars. Tillermen, be ready to go hard starboard. Soldiers ready on the port side.”
For a moment or two, there was a scramble as his men hurried to their positions. The sailors who weren’t going to be in the first rush of battle found rails to brace themselves against, guessing what he was planning.
Akila waited as long as he dared. Finally, he couldn’t leave it any longer.
“Now!” he yelled. “Ship oars. Hard starboard!”
It was a risky move, but potentially a decisive one when fighting with galleys. If you couldn’t ram, you scraped down the side of the enemy’s ship and tore away their oars with your hull to leave them limping. That made it easy to attack from an angle they couldn’t defend.
Except that even as he called the attack, he saw the hooked spikes on the sides of the Felldust flagship. He saw it pulling in its own oars. It was ready for this, and if they didn’t pull away—
The thought cut off in the crash of wood against wood. It was a collision in slow motion, but even so, the impact made Akila fall to one knee as the hooks tore into his ship, ripping at it as they went past one another. They gouged into the oar banks of his ship, and Akila heard men screaming.
The ship seemed to scream too, in the groan and crack of wood pushed beyond its breaking point; in lines that snapped and iron plates that buckled. The whistle of arrows joined those sounds as the two ships’ crews shot at one another, and Akila ducked out of the way as one struck the deck beside him.
As quickly as they’d come together, the ships were past one another, but that brought no relief with it. Akila could feel the galley beneath him listing in the water, the whole thing tilting and rolling as it struggled to recover from the impact.
“Bring us to bear!” he yelled, hoping that someone was listening. “Bring us around or we’re dead!”
It made no difference. Akila could give all the orders he wanted, but the ship and its crew just weren’t capable of making it happen. He didn’t know how many oars they’d lost, or how many men. However many it was, it was too many. They were trying to turn, but now the fight was like a man weighed down with heavy sacks trying to keep up with a duelist. It was the kind of fight Akila had always tried to have, but now he was on the wrong side of it.
He watched Irrien’s flagship turn, as gracefully as a blade-covered swan. It spun toward his ship, and now it was lined up to strike amidships. Akila’s galley was turning, but it could never do it fast enough.
He saw the ram of the flagship bearing down on them, and all Akila could do was brace for the inevitable, crushing impact. All he could do now was try to die well.
That, and take Irrien with him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The others on his flagship braced against whatever they could grab while they rammed the enemy’s galley, but Irrien remained impassive in his throne. He would not let others see him clinging to the mast like some weakling. He was strong, and in moments, he would be victorious.
He had a moment to savor the way he’d drawn in his enemy. This foe had been a cunning one, worrying at the edges of his fleet the way wolves hounded the edges of a herd. He’d forgotten, though, that Irrien was not some deer or cattle to be brought down. He was a fighting man, well used to such tactics. The folk of the dust had fought that way for years.
Irrien had been patient. He’d let his enemy’s confidence grow. Then he’d left his opening. Now he smiled. He enjoyed the moment when he outthought an enemy. When it came to the politics of the city, he loved watching their faces when they realized that some plot had failed. He loved watching their hope fade.
There was a place for all of that, but there was a place for violence too. For proving yourself the stronger, the deadlier, the more able. Irrien drew his sword and waited.
The impact of the collision was like the shaking of a mountain, making the boards beneath Irrien’s feet rumble and knocking some of his slaves sprawl
ing. His flagship plunged into the galley like a sword through the side of a foe, then held to it, as tightly as a lover. It would need to pull back soon so that the weight of the ruined vessel didn’t drag them all down, but for now, there was killing to be done.
“Attack!” Irrien ordered, and the violence began.
He watched arrows rain down, from his men and those of the enemy who hadn’t been knocked down. He saw a spear flung between the ships, thrown by one of his crew who fancied himself an expert with it. Irrien snorted. An expert did not throw away his weapon.
He stayed seated as the first warriors leapt between the two ships. There were those who leapt from the enemy galley: rats leaving their sinking ship or brave men eager to take the fight to an enemy. He saw a sailor leap with a long knife clutched in one hand, grabbing onto the rigging of Irrien’s ship as he sought to leave his stricken vessel. He saw a warrior wearing mail leap across the gap between the two only to be pushed back, tumbling down into the water below.
“Fool,” Irrien said softly. The word was quickly lost in the sounds of the battle.
His own men leapt onto the enemy ship, using lines and hooks to pull it close enough to make the leap. There were always those who sought to impress Irrien with their bravery and their eagerness. Irrien even encouraged them, offering coin and better spoil shares to those who were the first to scale walls or board ships. He did it because they were invariably the first to die, and lesser men had to be given the illusion that it was worth it. A good leader knew when to buy loyalty and when to command it. Oh, and when to use fear. Any man seen to be holding back would suffer for it.
Irrien was not holding back. He was letting the battle bloom like a flower before plucking, or wine left before drinking. Some pleasures were better when taken at their peak. So he sat and watched as one of his warriors clove through the collar bone of a foe with an axe; as an enemy cut him down in turn with rapid thrusts of a knife.
The chaos spread, and Irrien set his sword across his knees, waiting for the perfect moment. He watched a foe impaled on a spiked shield, scrabbling at the edges and trying to thrust over it with a short sword. He saw a slave woman get in the way of the violence, cut down by a backhand sweep of a sword. Irrien cursed the waste there, and the stupidity of the woman for getting in the way in the first place.
He saw a man leap across with a blade in either hand. He was scarred and whip lean, moving like water through the violence around him, his blades singing with every clash of steel.
Irrien watched him and knew without being told that this was Akila. He’d learned to read men by watching them fight, learning about them in the only arena where a man couldn’t hide what he was. He watched Akila, and Irrien liked what he saw. This was a man who was direct, but not foolish, quick thinking, but not flighty. When Akila parried blows meant for others, Irrien saw that he cared about his men. When he commanded them even as he fought, Irrien saw the ability to keep a clear head in the chaos.
A foe worth killing, then.
Irrien stood, taking his long blade in both hands. His slaves stepped back from him as he let his cloak fall. He stilled himself, checking the angle of the sun so that he wouldn’t be blinded by it as he fought.
Then he strode forward and started killing.
There were probably men for whom fighting was hard. For whom it was a rush of emotions and needs cluttering the simple beauty of the violence. Irrien didn’t feel that. There was a sea of cold rage flooding through his limbs, yet he floated above it, directing and reacting with the speed that had always been his gift despite his size.
He swept his sword around in an arc that smashed through a man’s shield, taking half the arm beneath. He deflected a sword blow with the cross guard of his sword, then struck out with the pommel, feeling bone break.
He spun, cutting upward to hack through a man’s leg, ducked an attack, then threw one foe into another. He paused for a moment, listening to the clash of blades as if trying to hear the song within, then plunged back into the fray.
He’d always been a skilled warrior. In his tribe, they had reckoned his father stronger, until the day Irrien had killed him. He’d honed his skills then, through years of war and the challenges of the city. He’d had combatlords brought from the pits of the Empire to teach him more, and blade masters from a dozen different lands. Always, he’d had them poisoned when he was done, to make sure that they could tell no one of any weaknesses they saw.
No man could hope to stand against him now.
They tried, though, as Irrien cut his way across the deck of his ship, aiming for the spot where the rebels’ leader fought. Akila danced his way from enemy to enemy, slicing and moving, never still. Already, Irrien found himself planning for the fight ahead, and that was dangerous. He felt a sword glance from the armor he wore, trapped it with his blade and thrust through a man.
Space started to open up around him as men kept back from the swings of his sword. That was to Irrien’s advantage. It meant that he could see attacks coming, and could pick his targets one by one. His long arms and strong frame meant that he could close the distance quickly, picking out a sailor and striking him down before he could even raise his sword.
Twice more, Irrien struck, each time picking the weakest looking of the foes around him, each time cutting them down with savage blows that carved right through their flesh. He kept his blade sharp.
“Enjoying taking out men who can’t give you a good fight?” Akila asked, stepping into the space that Irrien had opened up with his blade.
Irrien shrugged. As he’d thought, Akila’s attachment to his men was a weapon to turn against him. Every weakness could be exploited. A man who did not understand this deserved to die.
Irrien struck out first, although he didn’t commit, the way many large men might have. He was already anticipating Akila’s evasion, although the rebel leader surprised him by springing forward, not dodging sideways. Irrien had to spring back, barely avoiding the blow.
“You’re fast,” he said, with a grim smile. “That’s good. A man should have foes worth killing.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Akila shot back. “But until one shows up, I’ll settle for killing you.”
Irrien ignored that. Weak men allowed themselves to be goaded.
He parried as Akila sprang forward, the rebel’s twin blades seemingly everywhere at once. Irrien blocked three strikes, dodged a fourth, and kicked out to force Akila back. He tried a lateral sweep of his sword, which Akila ducked, then cut low so that the man had to jump.
“You dance well,” Irrien said, and cut halfway through saying it, aiming to take his foe by surprise. There were no rules in war. In truth, Irrien only obeyed those in the rest of life because they helped to get him what he wanted.
Akila parried the strike with his blades crossed, and Irrien felt the impact of it. The other man circled then, keeping his distance and darting in for strikes. He feinted high and cut low. Irrien went to parry, and Akila came back high again. Irrien jerked his head back, but felt the tip of the blade nick his jaw.
He attacked then. Speed and cunning counted, but so did strength, and Irrien had that in abundance. He cut and cut, forcing Akila to move, to block, to dodge. Irrien wore his foe down, while around him the battle raged. He saw an opening to attack, and in that moment two warriors stumbled into their way, struggling over a hatchet.
Irrien cut them both down, not caring that one of them was his follower. No one kept him from a death he had claimed.
He went back to chasing Akila. The rebel leader probably thought that he was wearing Irrien down, but Irrien could fight for hours if he had to. Even so…
He let his blade drag a little, as if the weight of the great sword were too much. He even let a shallow cut through, allowing it to scrape along his arm, only partly parried. He feigned a stumble.
“Really?” Akila demanded, lowering his weapons. “You caught me with that trick once with your fleet, remember? I’m not—”
Irrien lunged then, snake fast and deadly. He’d guessed that his opponent wouldn’t take the bait. He’d guessed that he would lower his guard. Always being that extra step ahead was what won fights.
It won this one. Irrien felt the moment when his sword struck home, plunging deep into Akila.
Irrien had a moment to savor that victory—until he realized that Akila was pulling himself forward, along the blade, moving closer. What kind of strength did it take to do that? What kind of insanity did it take to do it just for the sake of some cause?
Akila suddenly lashed out, and Irrien shrieked despite himself, feeling pain blossom in his shoulder as Akila’s sword bit home. The wound was deep.
Irrien was stunned.
“You won’t win,” Akila said.
“Of course we will,” Irrien replied.
Irrien rallied and kicked the sword from Akila’s hands.
He heard Akila gasp with pain as he shoved his own sword deeper.
“Ceres… will stop you,” Akila gasped.
Irrien shook his head.
“I thank you,” he said. “You were a worthy foe.”
He stepped forward and kicked Akila from the ship, his long blade still embedded in him, and watched him plunge overboard, into the murky, bloody waters.
“But not worthy enough.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stephania was serene as she made her way to the Hall of Knowledge, gliding as the elegant heart of a coterie of guards and handmaidens, nobles and spies. She’d always seen the value of information, and this was the place where she could find out almost anything she wanted.
She just hoped that it held answers that could save her child.
Some of the nobles looked as though they hadn’t walked so much in years, and Stephania smiled a little at forcing them to make the effort. It was good for a ruler to keep those around her a little uncomfortable.
A ruler. Stephania didn’t get tired of thinking that. When she’d been just a noble, Stephania had assumed that royalty was a tiny step, and it was, but it was more than that. It was a shift in state, taking her from being one of the foremost of a group of peers to something different. Something special. She could order any one of them executed on a whim, and they knew it.