The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  My love, I miss you. I miss our sons. If you knew the truth of my heart, you would not wonder why I do this thing. Men are different from the wives they leave behind, and I cannot help this vengeance that moves me. Tell the women of this ship’s crew that their husbands do not fight for themselves, but for the honor of Liss.

  Liss the raped. That’s what they were calling his homeland now. The Hundred Isles had been ravaged by the Narens and their decade-long blockade, but she had never surrendered or lost her honor. She had stared down the dragon of Nar, defying the Black Empire and its voracious ruler, Arkus. For ten years Liss had hung on, alone, while the rest of the world watched the butchery, too afraid to challenge their imperial masters. Except for the Triin of Lucel-Lor, only Liss had outlived Arkus. And now that Arkus was dead and his Empire in chaos, Liss was ready to rise from its ashes.

  Sweet wife, I hope you’re sleeping well tonight. I hope it’s warm in Liss and that the morning sun will be fair. And remember my promise. You will see me again.

  He signed it very simply, Prakna.

  The fleet commander stared at his writing, returning the pen to the ink well. This letter would join the others in his drawer until a ship could be spared to return to Liss. That was happening less frequently now. They were very far north, and Prakna wanted them well prepared for the Black Fleet’s return. For months they had been raiding the Naren coasts, hoping to lure Nicabar’s dreadnoughts out of Crote’s harbors. They had made some impressive gains, sunk over thirty merchant vessels. Eventually, Prakna knew, Nicabar would have to respond. He had never met the admiral but he knew his mind. He knew the captain of the Fearless could never live with such disgrace.

  ‘We will take Crete,’ he whispered. ‘We will . . .’

  It was the perfect base, ideally situated to attack the Black City. If they could take it, they could turn the tide of the war forever. But first they had to lure away the Fearless.

  Prakna pushed the letter aside and leaned back in his chair. The Fearless. His one great nemesis. Not even the Prince of Liss was a match for that marvel. The flagship of the Black Fleet was like nothing he had ever seen – a floating fortress, indomitable. Unsinkable, they said. Prakna wondered. Nicabar and his ship had been the bane of the Lissen navy. A secret weapon meant to destroy them, the Fearless had been the cornerstone of the Naren blockade. She was slower than her sister dreadnoughts, but that was like saying a mountain was slow. She had a hull of spiked steel and twin long-range flame cannons, and she had sunk every schooner sent against her.

  Like the Fire Bird.

  Off the island of Meer, the Fire Bird had met the Fearless. A lucky shot from a cannon and she had burned, sinking in minutes. Some of the crew had made it to shore. But the waters of Meer were warm, good for sharks. Prakna closed his eyes. He had never wanted both his sons to serve on the same vessel. The news had come to him a week later. J’lari had been a ghost ever since. Silent. She and Prakna didn’t make love anymore. To her, it seemed a waste. She was too old to bear him more sons. And Prakna had changed, too. The death of his boys had murdered his conscience, and he knew it. So he had been the one to whisper vengeful musings in the ear of his queen. He had rebuilt the navy and formed the armada. And when the word came to sail, he had been eager. There was nothing left for Prakna now but the honor of Liss.

  Bleary-eyed with fatigue, Prakna laid his head down on the desk. He felt the rhythmic swaying of the vessel through the rafters, heard the hard slap of water against the hull as the Prince of Liss cut through the waves. His eyelids drooped as sleep took him. He hoped he wouldn’t dream . . .

  A knock at the cabin door awakened him. Prakna’s eyes slowly opened. Not more than an hour could have passed. The room remained dark. The candle still burned in its protective glass.

  ‘Yes?’ he said wearily.

  The little door creaked open and Marus peered inside. Prakna’s first officer smiled apologetically when he noticed his commander’s head on the desk. ‘Prakna?’

  The commander lifted his head and waved his friend inside. ‘Come in, Marus,’ he croaked. ‘I wasn’t sleeping.’

  ‘You were,’ Marus corrected. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A ship. Twenty degrees off port, running parallel to us.’

  ‘What kind of ship?’

  ‘Too far to tell,’ said the officer. ‘But I thought you should know.’

  It was standard practice with Marus, and Prakna appreciated it. Marus was a fine officer – the kind of man a captain needed at his side. They had served together for years, and had known each other since their teens. When the time had come to pilot the Prince, Marus had been Prakna’s first choice. And there was more to their kinship than just time. Marus had lost a boy, too.

  ‘Go topside and wait for me,’ said Prakna. He looked around the room for his boots. ‘I’ll be up.’

  Marus left the room and closed the door. Prakna located his boots beneath his bunk and slipped them on his feet. Outside the window he saw only darkness, but he knew that dawn was on their heels. He wondered what the light would bring. Another Naren ship. Merchant, almost certainly. Their course was bringing them near Doria again, a main seaport of the Empire. They had already raided Doria once, and the success of the campaign had sent a shockwave through the local shipping concerns. Prakna had ordered his patrol to keep near the city, waiting for the inevitable return of the merchant vessels. The fleet commander smiled to himself, pleased with his tactic.

  He pulled on his coat, blew into the hurricane glass to extinguish the candle, and left his chamber. Out in the empty gangway he found the little ladder leading above deck. He ran up the ladder and pushed open the hatch, then stepped out onto the forecastle. A biting wind struck his face. Around him, the ocean roared. On the forecastle deck he located Marus. With him were two crewmen, both ensigns, both staring out into the darkness. Marus had a spyglass pressed to one eye. A single oil lantern flickered in the breeze. The Prince of Liss pitched violently as a swale slammed against her hull. Prakna joined the group, squinting as he scanned the distance portside. As the Prince rose on a wave, he glimpsed something far away. Cabin lights, he guessed. Marus handed him the spyglass.

  ‘Too dark to see much,’ said the officer. ‘Not a warship, though. No escorts. She sails alone.’

  Prakna brought up the spyglass. The horizon was black and it took a moment to spot the vessel, but he caught a hazy glimmer. Big. Slow. But not a warship. Prakna’s heart sank a notch. He hadn’t really expected to see her here, but he was disappointed anyway. He collapsed the spyglass and handed it back to Marus.

  ‘Signal the other ships,’ he said. ‘We’ll pursue until it’s light. Then we’ll see what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ replied Marus, who immediately started barking orders to the men. The deck snapped alive with activity. Amidships the seamen cranked levers to trim the sails, while signalmen flashed messages with flags to the other vessels of the patrol. The Prince of Liss lurched to port as the pilot spun the wheel, turning the rudder in pursuit. She was in the lead, with a dozen of her wolf pups following. Prakna glanced to starboard. The first slivers of sunlight struggled over the horizon, lighting the Naren Empire. He had charted a course back to Doria, and he could see the landscape of the Dorian territories, infinitesimally small in the distance. To port was the blackness of the ocean, endless and deep. They were tacking north by northwest, into the wind. The heading had slowed them, but Prakna knew his schooner could run down whatever was out there. Nothing in the Black Fleet could outrun his schooners. During their long war with Liss the Narens had tested countless ship designs, yet still their vaunted war labs had been unable to develop a fast-enough vessel. It was the one tactical advantage the Lissen navy had over their well-armed adversaries.

  The Prince of Liss and the rest of her patrol pursued the unknown vessel for another hour, until the light grew. Prakna and his officers stood on the forecastle deck at the ship’s prow, lea
ning over the railings as the sun illuminated their prey. The fleet commander had his eye fixed to the spyglass again. He could see the vessel clearly now. She was a big bastard, with wide mastheads and her sails full of air as she tacked to catch the wind. From her center mast flew the flag of Nar, the new one called the Light of God. Beneath that was the triangular standard of Doria, a yellow field bearing a single sword. Clearly, this was no warship. Amidships she was fat and multidecked, with huge cargo holds. Prakna closed the spyglass and made his deduction.

  ‘Slaver,’ he said distastefully. ‘Probably sailing out of Bisenna.’

  Marus nodded. ‘Slaves. Poor wretches. Should we break off pursuit?’

  ‘Pursue and overtake.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Those are my orders, Marus.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Vindicator and the Gray Lady are closest.’

  ‘Have them approach port and starboard. We’ll lead.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Marus, then went off to carry out his commander’s orders.

  Prakna held tight to the rails as the Prince of Liss leapt forward, is razor-shaped keel slicing through the ocean. The Vindicator and Gray Lady broke free of the patrol and joined her, their steel-covered prows ready to ram. The fat slaver ship had obviously seen them and was maneuvering sloppily to evade. Marus shouted orders at the crew as the Prince ran headlong after the fleeing vessel. The sea-serpent flags of Liss tore at the masts as the schooners devoured the ocean. Sailors ran about the deck, drenched in spray, pulling ropes and trimming sails. The Prince’s, massive spritsail groaned and swelled with air. Off the port bow the Vindicator lurched ahead, while her smaller cousin, the Gray Lady, churned up the waves.

  ‘They see us,’ Prakna shouted to Marus.

  Marus looked distressed. ‘Aye, sir. That they do.’

  ‘No sentiment, Marus,’ Prakna called back. ‘They’re not just slaves – they’re Narens!’

  It wasn’t a slaver ship that Prakna desired, but for a time it would slake his lust. Even now, with the Empire wasting, Nar still dealt in slaves. It sickened Prakna. All Narens sickened him. In the conquered land of Bisenna, the Naren nobles harvested slaves like grain. Prakna had heard the tales. Some of his own countrymen had been enslaved, taken away to the Black City to toil in the filthy foundries of the war labs. To Prakna, it was a fate worse than death.

  The Prince of Liss maneuvered closer to the fleeing slaver. Prakna could see the men on her deck now, wide-eyed with fear at the sight of the marauders. To the slaver’s port side the Vindicator was narrowing the gap, its steel prow ready to ram. The Prince of Liss drew nearer. The Gray Lady tacked to the slaver’s starboard. Prakna shouted to Marus, ordered the Prince ahead of their quarry. The schooner lurched as the captain spun the wheel. Abaft the forecastle, Prakna’s sailors readied their cutlasses and clung to the railings.

  Today we are pirates, thought Prakna. Like the Narens always say.

  But they deserved nothing better, not even these wretches from Bisenna. To Prakna, they were simply Narens. They were of that hedonistic, evil race that enslaved their own and raped others. If he could, he would have burned them all alive.

  Obviously outmatched, it didn’t take long for the Naren slaver to fly its white. The big ship slowed as its sails slackened. Naren sailors were waving on its deck, signaling their surrender. Prakna was very still. The Prince of Liss churned forward. The Vindicator and Gray Lady swept wide, maneuvering to ram. Over the roaring surf Prakna could hear the muffled cries of the Naren sailors. He took a long breath, and for the smallest second reconsidered.

  Then he gave the order.

  ‘Signal the Vindicator,’ he shouted to Marus. ‘Ram her.’

  Marus nodded grimly. Along the deck the order was passed. The signalmen flashed their colored flags. A quick reply followed from the Vindicator. The schooner changed course by mere degrees, pointing her shining steel prow at the hull of her prey. Like a giant shark the vessel swam forward, ever faster as her sails took up the wind. The men on the deck braced themselves. Gray Lady broke away, paralleling the lumbering slaver, while the Prince of Liss took up position in front of her. The captain of the Naren vessel was screaming, frantically waving off the Vindicator. Prakna shook his fist.

  ‘Now!’

  Vindicator’s prow slammed the helpless slaver. The crack and groan of wood shuddered as the slaver’s hull imploded. Screams went up from her deck and cargo holds. Vindicator bobbed upward as her prow tore through planking, rising like a rhino horn to open the fatal wound. The Prince of Liss circled in front of the crippled slaver, her crew silent.

  ‘Look at that,’ muttered Marus.

  The Naren ship trembled as the ocean poured into her, drowning her lower decks and holds. Naren sailors abandoned the doomed vessel as she listed starboard. The Gray Lady bore down on the sailors as they bobbed aimlessly in the water, shocked and panicked. Prakna watched as the Gray Lady’s keel flattened the sailors. The Vindicator ripped free of the ruined hull, pulling out a gory mess of wood and pitch as she fought to change direction before the wreck could drag her down.

  Prakna crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied. The Prince of Liss slowed as it circled the Naren ship. The big slaver was listing badly, sucking in water. She groaned and shook as the ocean consumed her, pulling her relentlessly down. A medley of shouts rang from her decks as the men raced to abandon her, throwing themselves over her broken railings.

  The flooded cargo holds were silent.

  Vindicator had broken free and was slowly sailing away from her victim. Gray Lady circled around for another pass. Wild-eyed Narens swam in all directions, desperate to escape the hunting schooners. Some swam toward shore, foolishly attempting the impossible distance. Others merely floated there, astonished, as the keels of the warships smashed in their skulls.

  In a few short moments, the Naren vessel was gone. Prakna’s jaw clenched. She was a god-cursed slaver. She deserved to go down – with her crew and cargo. The fleet commander watched the bubbling ocean until all that was left of the ship was froth and even that vanished away. He turned away from the railing and found himself looking at Marus. The first officer’s expression was grave.

  ‘She carried slaves,’ Prakna mumbled, more to himself than to Marus. ‘To work in the war labs. To build ships . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Prakna swallowed. ‘Return to patrol,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be back in my cabin.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Marus let his commander walk away. But Prakna took only a few steps before Marus called after him.

  ‘Prakna?’

  Prakna stopped to face his friend. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Next time,’ said Marus, ‘it will be the Fearless.’

  Eight

  Dark-Heart

  On board the Intimidator, Simon Darquis whiled away the hours topside. Around him, the everyday tedium of sea-life went on oblivious to his presence. He was the special passenger of Count Renato Biagio, and that was all any of the crew needed to know about their strange shipmate. Simon did what he could to stay out of their way, but he needed to be out in the sun, to let its weak rays redden his skin and let the wind chafe his face. Because his stomach couldn’t stand the endless rocking of the ocean, he found the self-imposed starvation easy; everything that went down his gullet came right back up anyway. It had been three agonizing weeks since they had set out from Crote, and Simon hadn’t downed a decent meal since. Always thin, Simon was now gaunt, precisely the look required for fooling the Jackal. He had hung his disguise - the uniform of a Naren legionnaire – from one of the mastheads, and he occasionally bundled it in a net and trolled it overboard. Like his own flesh, the uniform needed to be well weathered if he were to look his part. He had a pair of standard-issue boots in his cabin too, the soles so worn that his toes almost touched the earth. Simon had come up with the ruse himself, and Biagio had approved it.

  Simon didn’t know the Jackal of Nar and bore him no grudges. In an odd way he even admired Vantran. He
had thrown the Empire into chaos, had abandoned his kingship in Aramoor, and had forged the Triin into an army capable of defeating Vorto’s legions. And all for the love of a woman. Had circumstances been vastly different, Simon imagined, they might have even been friends. But Simon was Roshann, and Biagio’s vengeance was unstoppable.

  He hadn’t explained his mission to Eris. She could never understand it anyway, and if she knew the truth it might have ended her love instantly. Despite her proximity to Biagio, the innocent girl knew very little about the Roshann’s business. And it wasn’t exactly a bargain he had struck with Biagio. Whether or not he married the dancer, Biagio expected this of him. Eris was merely a prize for years of good service. She was also the Master’s way of showing his unique affection for Simon. Simon knew this and shuddered at it. But he had been honest with Biagio. He loved Eris, and would do anything to marry her – even steal a child. Truthfully, he knew the child would never leave Crote alive. If she left the island at all, it would be in pieces. Biagio was fond of sending people heads.

  His lord was a monster; Simon knew that now. As he watched the waves go by from the deck, he realized that he served a madman, someone whose mind had been devoured by drugs. Biagio hadn’t always been this way, and Simon mourned his memory. In the early days of the Roshann, when Biagio was young and Simon but a boy, the count had been a hero to the people of Crote. He had brought the island into the folds of the Empire, had fed the peasants with endless shipments of supplies from the mainland, and had given Crote something it desperately desired – respect. With Biagio at the emperor’s right hand, it was no longer fashionable to call Crotans olive pickers or drunks. They were the people of the Roshann, feared and dangerous. And for that one great gift the people of the island adored Count Biagio, and would forgive him anything.

  Even insanity.

  It was a cold day on the deck of the Intimidator. The cruiser cut through the churning waters effortlessly, her sails full of air. Simon stood at her stern and watched the cruiser’s wake. She was a fine ship, newer than most in the fleet. Not as grand as the Fearless, of course, but far better suited to their secretive task. They had rounded the cape of Lucel-Lor and were heading for Falindar. Captain N’Dek wanted no mistakes, so he kept his vessel far from shore. In these waters, N’Dek had told Simon, there were giant sea serpents and squids capable of dragging even the Fearless beneath the waves. N’Dek was a vicious man, prone to alarming lies, but Simon kept one suspicious eye on the deep anyway. For a man raised on an island, he detested the sea.