by John Marco
Nicabar stumbled across the forecastle. In front of him was the Dread Sovereign, badly damaged and unable to move. Her heavy armor had defended her against most of the flagship's attacks, but the continuous volleys had destroyed her bowsprit and cracked her foremast, which was leaning like a falling tree. Her stern was in flames.
But Nicabar knew his own ship was faring no better. The massive dreadnought continued to take damage from the constant barrage from above, and because the cliffs were out of their arc, they couldn't return fire to beat back the Lissens. Soon they would swarm aboard with their scimitars. The thought made Nicabar cringe. A cannonball collided a few yards away, boring a hole in the forecastle and sending up a shower of wood. Men were jumping overboard to avoid the barrage, some with only stumps for limbs. Nicabar shook his fist at the hillside.
"You won't defeat me!" he cried. "Do you hear? I am your master!" The Lissens replied with a blanketing barrage. A storm of cannonballs riddled the deck.
Captain Blasco hurried toward him, dodging the cannonade. "Sir? We have to get out of here, seek cover!"
Nicabar barely heard him. On the eastern hillside he saw Lissens jeering. One in particular caught his attention, a hissing wildcat of a girl with long blonde hair. She called down to him, shaking a scimitar in her fist.
"Admiral," cried Blasco, "the sails are in flames. We can't stay here. We must abandon ship!"
"No!" cried Nicabar. "We won't leave the Fearless to these dogs!"
He turned to glare at his captain just in time to see a shot slam into his skull. Blasco's head shattered, showering Nicabar with brain and bits of bone. Blasco's body teetered for a moment, then crumpled to the deck. The sight stunned Nicabar. For a moment he couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. Absently he wiped at his bloodied face.
"Kasrin," he growled. "Kasrin!"
Quickly he stumbled from the forecastle, shouting the order to abandon ship. The Fearless had been defeated the moment they'd run aground. Despite the continuous fire from their flame cannons, there was no way they could best the waiting Lissens.
But Nicabar still had a score to settle. And if he couldn't do it with cannons, he would do it with his bare hands. When he had finally made it amidships, he tore off his coat and tossed it to the deck. Far below was the river, quickly filling with flotsam and turning red with blood. Nicabar took one last look at his beloved vessel, then jumped overboard.
Kasrin scrambled across the deck of the Sovereign, desperately dodging the flame cannon blasts. The last shot had completely felled the foremast, which had cracked and now lay half in the water. Nearly all the sails had been burned away, and Laney had reported that their own flame cannons were exhausted, their barrels melted. The air stunk of blood and fire, and as Kasrin skidded toward the middle of his vessel he noticed his wounded crew. Many had terrible burns, while others had bits of wood embedded in their bodies. Those who could helped the wounded toward the port-side, where they awaited Kasrin's order to abandon ship.
"Get these men out of here, Laney," he cried. "I'll follow directly." As his first officer started getting the crew off-ship, Kasrin studied the Fearless. She was badly damaged, almost completely in flames. Her cannons had slackened. Now only a few shots struggled out of her, mostly misfires that hardly struck the Sovereign at all. But the damage had been done. All around Kasrin, his ship was in ruins. They had won the day and destroyed the Fearless, but at a ghastly cost.
Kasrin joined Laney in getting the men overboard. When the last stragglers were safely off-ship, the captain and first officer followed them down. The estuary was full of debris and blood, and men screamed as salty water entered their wounds. Around them, the burning Sovereign continued to shed pieces. Kasrin looked around desperately. Lissens hurried down from the cliffs, splashing into the river to pull them safely ashore. Kasrin almost felt relieved, then heard a dreaded cry.
"Shark!"
He turned toward the scream and saw his boatswain pointing up the river. Near the Fearless, where her own wounded crew bobbed in the water, the first grey fin of a shark was slicing through the waves. Attracted by the blood and thrashing, it was soon joined by another and then another still, until at least a dozen dorsals were swishing among the men.
"Move!" Kasrin shouted. "Get ashore, now!"
He burst into action, shoving his men toward the shore. Each of them swam as quickly as they could. Kasrin urged them on, staying behind to shoulder a man whose legs had been incinerated in the bombardment. Dragged down by the extra weight, Kasrin could barely make it toward shore. A nearby scream told him that a shark had taken one of his men. He looked back and saw the bloom of blood as the screaming sailor was dragged beneath the waves. Other sharks joined the frenzy, and soon Kasrin and his men were surrounded as they raced toward shore. Men from the Fearless swam with them, equally desperate to reach safety. Kasrin didn't recognize them; he didn't even care. He just wanted to make it ashore.
Suddenly, something grabbed him. Kasrin panicked. The man he was ferrying dropped away, thrashing and screaming for help. Kasrin waited for the inevitable pain--but it wasn't a shark.
Kasrin turned and looked into the twisted face of Nicabar. Before he could get free, Nicabar had his hands around his throat. "Traitor!" roared the admiral. "I'll kill you!"
With all his weight Nicabar shoved Kasrin beneath the waves. Kasrin let out a gasp of bubbles. Blood and sharks were everywhere. He could see the frenzied creatures thrashing around him. Desperate, Kasrin brought up a fist and smashed it into Nicabar's face. The blow did nothing. Nicabar wrapped his fingers harder around Kasrin's throat, then lifted him out of the water.
"You God-cursed traitor!" he screamed. "You did this!"
"Nicabar, stop! The sharks . . ."
One more sailor fell to the jaws. A gurgling cry broke from the waves. Most of Kasrin's men were near shore now. He could see them through his watery vision, frantically climbing the rocks. Even as Nicabar continued to throttle him, Kasrin was grateful. They were almost safe.
"You want to join the Lissens, eh?" cried Nicabar. "You want to betray me?"
"Stop!" Kasrin sputtered, trying to work free of Nicabar's fingers. Behind the admiral, he saw a giant dorsal fin breaking the surface. "Nicabar . . ."
Once more Nicabar dunked him. Through bulging eyeballs Kasrin watched the white jaws open. Nicabar's thrashing legs churned up the river. Then the monster struck, wrapping its jaws around Nicabar's torso and puncturing him. Nicabar shrieked as the water turned crimson. Kasrin popped to the surface. Nicabar was whipped back and forth in the shark's jaws as the monster thrashed. Blood spewed from his mouth like a fountain. He reached out for Kasrin, gasping.
"Kasrin, help me!"
Kasrin splashed forward, trying to reach him. But the shark was already dragging him down. He screamed for Kasrin one more time, then cried out in horror as the beast took him below the surface. The last thing Kasrin saw was Nicabar's shining blue eyes, dropping like gemstones into the depths.
Jelena half ran, half slid down the rocky slope as she hurried to the rescue. The craggy shore was jammed with Naren sailors and Lissens who had come to help, wading into the water to fish out their broken, exhausted bodies. Jelena had dropped her sword and was now knee deep in the river, looking for Kasrin. The Fearless was a burning skeleton smoldering on the rocks. The bombardment had ceased, and now all she could hear were the cries of the wounded.
"Kasrin!" she called. She saw a wounded man staggering ashore and raced to help him. Sliding his arm over her shoulder she ferried him toward the rocks. But it wasn't Kasrin. Desperate, she looked back out across the river.
Then she saw him. Amazingly, Kasrin had slipped to safety while the sharks satisfied themselves with Nicabar's crew. He swam toward her, got to his knees, then quickly collapsed against the rocks. Jelena splashed toward him.
"Kasrin! "she called.
Groggily he opened his eyes. She went to him and lifted his head, cradling it in her arms. His jaw was swollen and bloo
d trickled from his mouth. His eyes had the most disturbing look to them, vacuous and dead.
"Jelena," he croaked. "We did it . . ."
"Yes," she said easily. "We did it. But you're hurt . . ."
"I saw Nicabar," Kasrin gasped. "He's dead."
"Shhh, don't talk." She put his arm around her shoulder and dragged him higher up onto the rocks. There she laid him on his back and brushed the blood from his face with the hem of her garments. "Breathe," she urged. "Easy . . ."
"My ship is ruined."
"Hush, Kasrin. It doesn't matter."
"It does!" He put his hands to his face. "I need her to get to Talistan. Don't you see?"
Jelena understood perfectly, but she merely stroked his head, trying to calm him. Out on the river, the Dread Sovereign was heavily damaged. Her cracked foremast had fallen into the water and her sails were nearly gone. Little fires burned along her deck, sending up ghosts of smoke. But it didn't matter. They had defeated the Fearless. And Kasrin was safe. "What am I going to do?" groaned Kasrin. "Biagio needs me."
"You will rebuild her," said Jelena gently. "We'll help you."
Kasrin gave a bitter laugh. "Rebuild? Look at her, Jelena. It's impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible," Jelena assured him. "Just like the Fearless wasn't unsinkable."
TWENTY-EIGHT
Captain L'Rago prowled the waters off the coast of Liss, following Nicabar's orders to protect the flotilla. It had been several hours since the Fearless and Sovereign had sailed for the Strand, and the waters around the Hundred Isles remained peaceful. The Infamous tacked south by southeast, dangerously close to the coast. She had lost sight of the rest of the armada and was about to change heading to rendezvous with the Black City and report a quiet sea.
L'Rago didn't like patrol duty. He didn't like protecting Nicabar's flank, or watching Kasrin get all the glory. So when his lookout in the crow's nest spotted a Lissen schooner, L'Rago was glad. He remained cheerful when the lookout spotted another ship.
But when the captain saw a dozen schooners through his spyglass, he froze. They had come flying out of an inlet like a swarm of angry bees, clearly intending to intercept the Infamous. He could see their metal rams, sharp and gleaming in the sunlight. Around him his men burst into action. L'Rago gave the only order he could.
"Reverse course!" he cried. "Get us out of here!"
They were miles from the rest of the fleet, and the schooners were closing in fast. Even the quick-keeled Infamous wouldn't be able to outrun them. L'Rago ordered his gunnery officers to ready the flame cannons as the Infamous turned hard to starboard, desperately trying to change course. L'Rago closed his eyes, considering his options. If they weren't so far south, they might have had a chance. If they had spotted the schooners sooner, they might have had a chance. But neither of those things had happened, so they had no chance at all. They couldn't outpace the schooners, and even with their flame cannons they couldn't outgun them.
"We're not going to make it," L'Rago whispered.
Oddly, he thought about Kasrin, and how sure the captain had been about the safety of Lissen waters. Kasrin had agreed with Nicabar, claiming that the bulk of the Lissen fleet was around Crote. For such a clever man, he had made a monstrous miscalculation.
Hadn't he?
"Oh, you filthy skunk," muttered L'Rago. He put a hand to his mouth, hating himself for being so blind. Then he ordered his first officer to break off their flight.
"Sir?" blurted the man incredulously. "Why?"
"We're going to stand and fight, Dani," said L'Rago. "And we're going to die."
"Captain, we have to reach the armada!"
L'Rago shook his head. "We can't reach them. Even if we did it wouldn't matter. Something tells me they have their hands full."
Lieutenant Dani didn't argue with his captain. He merely stood beside him, white-faced, and waited for the Lissens to engage. The Infamous got off three good shots, crippling one of the schooners. Then her sisters joined the battle and devoured the cruiser like a school of sharks.
TWENTY-NINE
After days of riding, Biagio arrived at Elkhorn Castle. A strong, midday sun hung overhead, lighting the valley and exposing the castle's ancient walls. Along the road, sheepherders moved their flocks between pastures, prodding them with dogs, which seemed to be everywhere in the Highlands. Donkeys pulled hay carts along the avenue, slowly disappearing up winding mountain roads. It was a picturesque sight and Biagio was heartened. Weary from riding and Barnabin's stoic company, the scene gave Biagio reason to smile.
"Finally," he sighed. He slowed his horse and surveyed their surroundings. Elkhorn Castle was an unremarkable place. It wasn't splendid like the Cathedral of the Martyrs, or built on a commanding perch like the Black Palace. There were no gigantic towers rimmed with gargoyles, nor anything remotely breathtaking. It was, Biagio surmised, a plain and simple place, perfect for a Highland prince.
"Shall I ride ahead?" asked Barnabin. "Inform the prince of your arrival?"
"You will do no such thing," said Biagio. "I have business with the prince, and I don't want him put off by pomp. Besides, I stink of the road. I doubt Redburn will even believe I'm the emperor. But he knows you, yes? You will convince him?"
"I will try. Redburn is a distant relation. But if he thinks I am in league with the Roshann, he may not trust me. The prince cares little for imperials, Lord Emperor."
Biagio rode ahead without replying. He had already expected difficulty, and Barnabin's suspicions were meaningless. The prince would need convincing. So Biagio trotted ahead at a brisk pace, reducing the distance between himself and the castle. He studied its simple architecture, liking the way it nestled naturally between the hills. It seemed part of the landscape, green with moss and brown with lichens, almost disappearing into the background. Redburn flew the crest of his clan from one of the battlements, a scarlet standard bearing golden antlers. Above that flew the Black Flag of Nar. Biagio supposed Redburn flew the Black Flag out of necessity, with no sense of love or loyalty. But it was a good sign nonetheless.
As he rode, Biagio scanned his surroundings. Elkhorn was a hub of commerce, and there were many men and children on the grounds working the fields and tending to chores, and the sheep bleated loudly with the barking dogs, filling the day with the sounds of farm life. There were riders, too, sharing the wide avenue. Many were on horses, but these didn't interest Biagio. What did interest him were the elk. Many of the Highlanders were on the backs of antlered deer--great, unusually shaped beasts that bounced as they walked. Though Biagio had seen the elk before on his travels through the Highlands, they had always struck him as odd, and he had never seen a great concentration of them before.
"Latapi?"
"Latapi," Barnabin echoed. "This is their territory. You will see more elk than horses here, Lord Emperor."
"Big," Biagio remarked. "And ugly."
"They may not be pretty, but they are swift and fierce fighters. Stronger than horses, and their antlers give them an advantage. You should see them armored for battle, my lord. I tell you, they are a sight!"
Biagio laughed. "I believe that." He studied one of the beasts as it trotted past, bearing a checker-garbed Highlander. It did indeed look more dangerous than a horse, so Biagio gave it a wide berth. The rider barely glanced at them as he passed. "They don't seem to mind strangers," Biagio said. "I wonder if the prince is in residence?"
"We will find out, my lord," said Barnabin. "Come."
The Highlander rode ahead of the emperor, toward the castle. Biagio followed, letting Barnabin lead him to a place where the road widened into a flat, well-travelled grassland. There were others like Barnabin here, ruddy men all wearing the plaid patchwork of Clan Redburn. The men were busy shoeing horses and elk and unloading carts, or just talking in little groups, hardly mindful of the strangers approaching. Two men were standing by a water barrel, chatting.
"Greetings, friends," said Barnabin. "How are you today?" One of the pair, a f
air-haired and middle-aged fellow, glanced over the pipe in his mouth. "Good day to you," he replied. "We're all fine here. Yourselves?"
Barnabin smiled. "A bit road weary, but perfectly good. We were hoping you could help us. Do you know if the prince is in residence today? We have business with him, and would like an audience."
"Business with the prince?" said the man. His gaze shifted between Barnabin and Biagio. "What sort of business would that be?"
"A grave matter," said Biagio. "For the prince's ears only."
Barnabin cleared his throat. "Not dangerous, you understand. But it's delicate and important. We think the prince would like to hear it. You wear his clan colors, I see. You are acquainted with him?"
"Well acquainted," said the second man. This one wore the plaid, too, but was far younger than his comrade. He had a glint in his eyes that made Biagio uneasy. He stared up at the emperor, studying him. "Who are you? What is your business with the prince?"
Biagio didn't like his tone. "Is the prince here? Or shall we ask someone else?"
The young man laughed. "You're an impertinent one! And I can tell from your dress you're not from around here. You have the look of the southern kingdoms about you. Might you be Dahaaran?"
"No."
"Cretan?"
Biagio sighed. "It's been a long ride, friend. And I have important business with your prince. If you don't want him angered, I'd suggest you fetch him at once. Otherwise I will tell him how you delayed my important news."
"Ah," said the man, nodding. "Very well." He turned to his friend with the pipe. "Mingo, will you find the prince for me? This pretentious ass has business with him."
Biagio was aghast. "How dare you!"
The man looked up. "I am Prince Redburn, you idiot."