Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  “We will watch her, further,” Simonel said. He closed his eyes and in his mind he saw the woman as she should be, gowned and hair braided, pale skin healthy and flushed with life. He couldn't help but put her in the dress of the People, in his mind. He knew what order he should give. Not only for the safety of his people, though he knew well the many dangers of a spirit clothed in flesh. The thought of what the woman had suffered made his stomach turn. Still, though it seemed unlikely in the extreme, he could not have her killed without some proof of the threat.

  “Who?” Nanamak asked.

  Simonel cocked his head in thought. Most of his scouts and warriors would see her only for the damage her role in the ritual had caused. Indeed, most of his people would see only that. He knew better than to give one of them such an assignment. “How far has the containment of the other fires progressed?”

  “The scouts have them contained, they feel there remains some threat, but only if our enemy takes a role again,” Nanamak said.

  “If I am not needed, I will watch her for the next few days,” Simonel decided. “If I see signs that she has become possessed, I will end her suffering.”

  “And otherwise?” Nanamak asked. The Ancient's voice held no inflection. Simonel looked over at his mentor, but saw no expression to signal his feelings on the matter.

  Simonel toyed with the hilt of his sword. “Otherwise... she will become a royal guest and receive my protection.” He felt the skin on his arms prickle at the declaration. Though his actions had gained him favor thus far, he knew such a decision would anger many of his people. It risked division at a time when his people might not survive it.

  Still, the roiling sensation in his stomach eased somewhat. He saw again his mental image of the woman, dressed in a gown, her blonde hair braided, and a smile on her lips. It seemed right, and some part of him realized that if his people saw past their prejudice, they might agree.

  “As you wish, my King,” Nanamak said. After he rose from his slight bow, Simonel almost thought he saw a faint smile on his mentor's lips.

  ***

  Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken

  The Boir Sea, East of Boirton

  Fifteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Admiral Christoffer Tarken stood with his arms crossed behind him and watched Captain Elias command his ship. A part of him wanted to step in, to bark out commands and take command of the ship as the fight drew near.

  He understood that part of him, the part that hated to set back and watch. He'd come to peace with the fact that he would never again command a ship of war in battle when he accepted his promotion to Admiral.

  And, he had to admit, Captain Elias performed just as well as he might. Though the Captain had no suspicion of it, the Admiral had, in fact, endorsed the Admiralty Board's decision to promote him after the conclusion of the Northern Fleet's attack on the Armen. That promotion might take longer than expected, Christoffer thought, but it would come at a time when their suddenly vulnerable nation needed such strong leadership.

  “Mr Gunnar, please ensure that the Heavy Casters are ready for action, and that the Wizard's Shot is prepared,” Elias said.

  Christoffer watched with confidence as the young Second Lieutenant hurried forward. Though Lieutenant Henning had seniority, it seemed more and more likely that the junior officer would receive promotion in the near future.

  Assuming, of course, that we survive this little adventure, he amended. With that thought, his eyes went to the enemy vessels, a mix of lean Armen raider sloops and crude Noric galleys. Behind the smaller vessels, a larger, familiar steel-hulled warship approached. Christoffer felt his heart twist in pain as he saw his son's vessel, the Mircea, in the hands of the enemy. He had some faint hope that his son had somehow survived, perhaps escaped to some other ship, yet he knew, in his heart, that his eldest son had fought to the last. He didn't have it in him to abandon a fight, not until it was clear that he could do no more.

  “Master Henning, take charge of the marines and prepare to board the Mircea as we come along side. They are to save their caster shots for the Armen leaders,” Elias called out. “Master Lorens, ensure that the boarding golems are ready, but do not send them in unless I give the order.” That made sense, Christoffer knew. While the boarding golems were designed to attack only the enemy... no one truly trusted that without safeguards or desperation. Better to save them for if they were truly needed.

  The ship's Captain looked over at the Admiral, “Sir, will you take part in the boarding?”

  “No, Captain,” Christoffer smiled, “I think I'll leave that to younger men.”

  “Very well,” Captain Elias said, “Lieutenant Jonas, detach two men from your defense party as escort to the Admiral.”

  The youngest of the Lieutenants stood a bit straighter, “Aye, sir.” He turned to where several of the largest sailors stood, swords and boarding pikes in hand. “Coxswain Jenkins and Carpenter's Mate Brussels, you're on protection detail.”

  Christoffer swallowed a sigh as the two big men moved over to stand to either side. A tall man himself, the two loomed over him. Jenkins was a big, broad man and, from his gap-toothed grin and crooked nose, no stranger to brawls or fighting. Brussels, the poor bastard, was an earthblood, his pebbly skin dark. Christoffer felt no surprise to see a mageborn in a trusted position aboard a naval vessel The stigma that went with a mageborn legacy had no place aboard ship. Christoffer himself felt it stupid to blame a mageborn for their circumstances, especially when their condition originated from some sorcerer who tampered with either them or one of their ancestors while still unborn.

  Christoffer peered over the angled armor rampart and watched as the small craft drew near. The small ships would normally carry fifty to a hundred warriors each, but he saw many manned by at most a dozen men.

  “Looks like they went to smaller crews,” Captain Elias said. “I guess they figured that would be plenty for their purposes.”

  Admiral Tarken nodded slightly at the confirmation of his expectations. The Armen had put most of their warriors on land to enforce the siege. The dozen small ships would carry two hundred or so warriors total, more than enough to swarm under a merchant ship or any light warship that might try to slip through the blockade.

  The Mircea's firepower would reinforce that and clearly the Armen believed they controlled the sea.

  “Let's disabuse them of that notion, shall we?” Christoffer said with a smile.

  “Yes, sir!” Captain Elias said. He watched the approach of the small vessels carefully, and glanced at the heavy caster crews. Christoffer saw him make the decision at almost the same instant he would have, “Helm, hard to starboard!”

  The helmsmen spun the ship's wheel, and the Ubelfurst turned sharply to present it's broadside. The caster ports opened along its armored side as crews cranked the levers that brought the weapons out of their protective cradles.

  “Heavy Casters, Fire!”

  The call went down and, as one, the heavy casters on the port side of the ship opened up on the dozen small ships leading the attack.

  Most Boir warships mounted thirty or more heavy casters in a broadside, with four or five chasers which could be brought to bear to either side. The Ubelfurst mounted forty three heavy casters along each side and another six in chaser mounts at the bow in an almost even mix of fire and force heavy casters. The fire casters targeted the closest of the enemy vessels, mostly Noric galleys. The force casters, with their longer range, targeted the more distant vessels.

  The Noric galleys erupted into flames, many of them entirely engulfed in the first salvo. The more distant Armen sloops took fewer hits, but those hits smashed the length of the slight vessels and tossed ship's timbers and bodies high into the air.

  The second volley fired in unison a moment later at the handful of remaining sloops. The fire casters suffered on accuracy, but the massed fire tore the remaining craft into tiny pieces. What they did to the pirate crews made Tarken's stomach turn.<
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  “Helm, hard to port!”

  The ship heeled over again, just as the sporadic fire erupted from the Mircea's chasers. Three of the shots missed cleanly, but one, a force caster shot, struck one of the open heavy caster ports near the bow. The entire caster exploded as the shattered symbols released their energy.

  Christoffer jerked his eyes away from the painfully bright flash and detonation that signaled the death of that caster and crew. He felt a grim pride, however, that the armored bulkheads contained the blast and that the crew continued their movements. “A fine ship and crew, Captain,” The Admiral said, as he watched the surgeon's assistants rush forward to search for survivors.

  He saw the men who stood nearby straighten with pride and those more distant do the same as their shipmates passed his words forward.

  “Prepare the Wizard's Shot, sir?” Lieutenant Gunnar asked.

  “No, Mister Gunnar, not yet, we'd prefer to take the Mircea intact,” Captain Elias called. He glanced over at Christoffer, who nodded at the unspoken addition, we have no way to reload it, so best to save it for when we really need it.

  The Armen crew of the Mircea seemed to realize their predicament and the other large ship began to turn, to present a broadside of its own.

  “Chasers and sharpshooters, pick your targets!” Lieutenant Gunnar called out, his voice pitched to carry to the marine sharpshooters in their armored nests high above the deck. “Fire!”

  The whine of the heavy casters and sharpshooters long casters sounded more muted than the full broadside. Even so, the accuracy of their fire showed as impacts rocked the Mircea.

  The other ship began to return fire, but in a staggered, ragged series of shots. Armen archers in the rigging cut loose a volley of arrows. The warding sigils deflected the handful of accurate shots, as flame and thunder smashed the waves. Without the concentrated volley the defense sigils held, though Christoffer saw steam erupt from a couple areas of armor which took multiple impacts. The arrows arced down, some of them aided by spell or spirit. One sailor went down with a scream, arrow buried in his face. A marine sharpshooter let out a cry from his armored nest in the rigging.

  Captain Elias shouted commands to the helm as the ships drew closer. Christoffer gave one last scan of the horizon. As yet, no other blockade forces had drawn near.

  “Boarders, stand ready!” Lieutenant Henning shouted.

  The two ships closed, and a thunder of destruction passed between them. The concerted volleys from the Ubelfurst hammered the Mircea. Sections of armored plate exploded, and the concentrated fire blasted Armen sailors off the deck or set them aflame. “Grapnels!” Henning shouted.

  The grapnels shot out, thrown by the men detailed to the task. They pulled the ropes taut and into the prepared lashings. The men heaved to pull the ships close together. Shots from the marine sharpshooters rose to a crescendo of hissing and whining fire until each caster's energy ran out.

  “For Boir and the Duke!” Lieutenant Hennings shouted. The wave of Marines swarmed over the railing. Boarding ladders fell over the angled ramparts and men thundered across the gap. Five or six of the lead men fell, either blasted by caster fire or pierced by arrows. The rest surged across the gap and set to battle with their boarding pikes, swords and clubs.

  The melee quickly spilled into chaos. Armen from the rear of the ship leapt the gap to the Ubelfurst's bridge deck. Two missed their footing and fell. Their screams cut off abruptly as the hulls clashed together to crush them. Sparks of energy discharge crackled between the two ships as the warding symbols equalized.

  The earthblood, Brussels, gave a grunt as a thrown spear caught him in the shoulder. The earthblood toppled to the deck like a felled mast. Jenkins gave a shout and leaped over the fallen man, his hooked hatchet swung in a vicious arc at the Armen who'd just finished his leap aboard. The Armen dropped to the deck with a shrill scream, his smashed face buried in his hands.

  The Admiral turned at a shout and saw a dozen more Armen swarm over the two helmsmen and the other sailors detailed to guard them. He drew his own sword, and stepped forward with a lunge to run through one of the attackers.

  A dark face, covered in red tattoos, loomed in his vision, lips drawn back in a grimace of fear, eyes wide and white. Christoffer swung his blade up and caught the downward slash, and slammed the hilt of his sword into the Armen's face.

  Blood and teeth splattered outwards. The Armen stumbled back, replaced by another, his spear leveled to run Christoffer through. Jenkins gave a deep bellow and shoulder checked the man hard enough to lift him up and over the rampart.

  Christoffer lunged again to take another Armen in the back as he tried to hack at Jenkins. Two Armen at the wheel gave off their attempts to cut the guide chains and charged forward.

  Side by side with Jenkins he stood. He blocked their wild swings, but could not get in an attack of his own. Someone let out a bestial bellow and a looming figure charged past, to pick up one of the Armen by his leather vest. The Armen let out a shout, and swung his sword to hack at the figure, but the earthblood's tough skin turned the blade. Brussels slammed the Armen into the rampart hard enough that Christoffer heard the man's ribs snap in a horrific crunch.

  The other Armen, faced by both Jenkins and the Admiral, let out a ululating cry and drew some tribal fetish from around his neck. He went to activate it, but Jenkins swung his hatchet in a swift blow that severed the Armen's hand. Christoffer's blade caught the man in the throat a moment later.

  Christoffer stepped over the bodies and took the helm. The enemy had failed to cut the chains that connected it to the rudder and the ship's golem still grumbled below decks. He kept the helm hard over, to maintain it close to the other ship for the moment.

  Brussels tossed the limp body of his Armen over the side and moved up to stand next to Admiral Tarken. He still had the spear head through his shoulder and shallow cuts laced his face and shoulders where the Armen's blade had failed to penetrate his tough skin. Tough bastard, Christoffer thought, though not surprising given he's the product of sorcery. Earthbloods were mageborn, men and women whose ancestry included someone whom sorcerers had experimented upon. All earthbloods had pebbly, dark skin, almost a hide, and they tended to be stocky and heavily muscled. Brussels was no exception, save that with his height, he must mass almost three hundred pounds. Christoffer felt uncomfortable to be so close to the other man, not from any sense of distrust, but rather, from his own private shame. For just a moment, he thought of his youngest son and he wondered again if he could have done anything differently.

  Christoffer shook those thoughts off and looked around. The shouting and chaos on the other ship settled somewhat and Christoffer saw from the tangle of bodies that his Marines seemed to have carried the battle. Christoffer looked down at the severed hand that held the magic fetish and nodded at Jenkins, “Get that overboard, I don't want to know what it does.”

  The coxswain nodded and used one of the Armen broadswords to lift up the item, hand and all and pitch it overboard.

  Lieutenant Jonas rushed up the stairs, a flanked by a pair of armed sailors, “Admiral, Captain Elias' respects, he's captured the Mircea. He regrets to inform you that Lieutenant Henning was wounded.” The two sailors moved to take the helm as the Lieutenant spoke, “He's appointed Lieutenant Gunnar to command the Mircea if that meets your approval, sir.”

  “Absolutely.” Christoffer said. “Will Lieutenant Henning recover?”

  “Ship's Doctor says he took a blow to the head,” the Third Lieutenant replied. “It might be serious but he doesn't know yet.”

  “Understood.” Christoffer said. “Inform Captain Elias that we are to divide and make way as soon as possible, as per the plan.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Lieutenant hesitated. “Sir, he also reported that he's taken some prisoners as well as the remains of some of the Mircea's crew. He asked if you'd prefer to have them transported over, or if you'd prefer Lieutenant Gunnar to see to any prisoners and the services.”
<
br />   Christoffer closed his eyes for a moment, he couldn't help the tears that made his eyes burn, but he kept his military bearing. The unspoken message from the Captain was that they'd found the remains of his son. That they'd mentioned taking prisoners in the same statement implied retaliatory treatment of the Armen wounded for whatever horrors they'd inflicted upon the Boir sailors, officers and Marines they captured.

  “My respects to the Captain, prisoners will be interned until we make port, and they can be tried or kept for ransom,” Admiral Tarken responded. “We perform services for our people aboard the vessels they perished on, as we always have. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye aye, Admiral,” The Lieutenant snapped off a sharp salute and turned away to relay the message.

  Christoffer stepped over to the rampart to stare out over the waves. Spray lashed his face as the two ships broke apart from one another. He welcomed the cold spray, it allowed him to hide the tears that rolled down his face.

  ***

  Lady Amelia Tarken

  The Eastwood

  Fifteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Amelia picked another handful of berries and forced herself to eat them slowly. She recognized the huckleberries from one of her outings as a child. They'd been the only thing she'd found edible in the past few days. Though she loved the outdoors, her previous outings had included at least one maid and a handful of servants. Being alone in the wild and foraging for food left her with an empty stomach and cold, shivering nights.

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Amelia glanced around again at the ancient trees that surrounded her. She had felt uneasy for the past few days, almost as if someone watched her every move. At first she'd thought it some animal or predator. The thought had made her climb a tree each night as it grew dark. Yet Amelia doubted an animal would stalk her for so long or that a predator would hesitate to attack prey so helpless as she must seem.