'General Del Aglios, I hope you will excuse me but the Exchequer bade me ask you what it is that you do after battle?'
Del Aglios laughed and looked round at Jhered. 'Did he, indeed? He was giving his talk about facing and recognising fear, no doubt. Yes . . . you were by no means the first one to hear it. Well I'll tell you. The lives of thousands hang on the accuracy and wit of my orders and tactics. It is a fact to strike even the bravest with nerves. And when I return to my tent and look back on what might have gone wrong, those nerves get the better of me and I vomit my stomach dry.
'Now let me ask a question of one of you. Arducius. Tell me why you freed Gorian rather than burning him. I consider it forgiveness.'
'Forgiveness?' said Arducius. 'No. We have punished him in the worst way we can. We have left him alone.'
There was nothing to hear but the lapping of water on hull in any of the four docks. There were no lanterns, barring the tiny lights that lit the walkways. Karl Illiev wanted the Ocetanas as adjusted to the night as they could be. He walked among them. Every one was smeared in charcoal-based paint as were the decks, mast, oars and hulls of every ship. It would wash away soon enough but by then it wouldn't matter. Deck-mounted scorpions had been covered with black canvas but all were primed and ready. The sea-gate mechanisms had been oiled.
Outside, the Tsardon fleet was standing out of onager range. Lights blazed from a hundred points in a wide arc around the dock. The barrage of the first day had wrought significant damage on both sides, but in the end the Tsardon had been forced to relent. Kester Isle had an inexhaustible supply of ammunition and despite losing many emplacements was still more than capable of destroying the fleet should they move too close for long.
Instead, the Tsardon had decided to sit it out, knowing they outnumbered the Conquord vessels trapped in the four docks. Signals from the fleet at distance and from the observation decks topside whenever the mist slackened indicated the enemy's intentions. At least a quarter of their fleet, now known to be in excess of seven hundred sails, had continued sailing north. Ocetanas followed them but, outnumbered, were not engaging. Others would move south to intercept but the bald fact was that the Conquord did not have enough ships at sea to counter them. Not yet, anyway.
'The fate of every Ocetanas out there in the Tirronean Sea is in our hands. The vengeance for every Ocetanas taken by the Tsardon these past two days is ours to dispense. The sanctity of the Isle and the harbour at Estorr are ours to protect.'
Every eye was on Iliev. His torso was covered with blackened light leather, leaving his long powerful limbs bare and free to row, climb and fight. His shaved head bore the dark blue skullcap of the Ocenii but even its emblem was covered tonight. His gladius was at his hip, its scabbard and hilt wrapped in dark cloth.
'You all know your roles. Do not deviate. The sea at night is unforgiving, the enemy are numerous. Ocenii, be ready. Ours is the task of the battering ram. Those of you tempted to turn back to help, do not. The fleet must break out to muster.' He glanced down at the hourglass that sat on the dock master's stone table by the sea gates. The last grains were bunched to drain away. 'For Ocetarus, for our dead, for the Conquord.'
The hourglass emptied. Iliev nodded at the Ocetanas. 'The gates,' he said and ran for his corsair, his sandals whispering over the stone.
The corsair sat low in the water, its heavy spike balanced by the Ocenii marines at its stern. They were the ballast and the balance. A team of six that ran the gangway between the thirty oarsmen that powered the assault craft across the water. It was the marines that set the ramming angle and cruising attitude, using their weight to maximise sea conditions beneath the hull. One mistake and the spike could ram too high, or dip below the waves and swamp the deck. Only the best were drafted to the corsairs.
Iliev took the tiller and looked along his ship. Ocenii squad VII. All ready to die for him. 'Take us into the channel,' he said.
The corsair slid away from the dockside, joining the other of the front rank pair. Eight squads were in his dock, lined up while the sea gates opened. The ponderous movement was mesmerising. The reinforced steel grids made tiny eddies on the surface of the water while the crews wound the oiled mechanisms, ratchets unlatched.
Iliev commended his body to the sea and his heart to Ocetarus. Around him, the marines leaned against the aft rail, keeping the spike raised. With the slightest of clangs, the gates nestled into their open positions. There was no need for more words. Iliev pointed one gloved finger to the open sea and the Ocenii moved.
The corsairs were hidden from casual view by the outer harbour walls. Iliev indicated quiet running while they negotiated the wreckage of ships and artillery that still floated on the surface. In the deeps below, the eyes of the Ocetanas gone to their rest would be on them. It was nothing to trouble a trireme but a corsair's bow could dip if snagged.
Iliev looked along the coast and growled in his throat. The damage to the Isle's defences was more severe than he had thought. Smashed artillery littered the rocks at its base. Metal hinges glimmered in the faint starlight while broken timbers and frayed rope nudged the shoreline, flotsam from the barrage.
He glanced back. The eight corsairs were all out of the gate and the first of the attack biremes was ready. Clustered in the gloom behind, the rest would be ordered for action. Now the Tsardon would know the fury of the Ocetanas.
'Go,' he said.
It was four hundred yards, no more, to the first Tsardon vessel. Their arc stretched away out of sight, north and south, where the lights on their decks were lost to distance, darkness and mist. The Ocenii turned north-west, gathering just beyond the harbour walls, a line of spikes aimed at vulnerable wooden hulls. Out came the first bireme into the harbour. Iliev's hand rose and fell. The Ocenii dipped their oars.
Acceleration was smooth and quick. The thirty blades moved as one. Stroke, lift, return, dip, stroke. Iliev could feel the wind begin to caress his skin. He narrowed his eyes and focused on their target. A pair of triremes, lashed together to hold heavy onagers and defending a siege galley.
The marines began to move forward as the prow rose, keeping the maximum hull area against the water and the oars at the perfect angle. The Tsardon in their ships had made a grave mistake. Whatever guards they had would not be able to see beyond the pools of light cast by their lanterns and torches. If their ears were as blunted as their eyes, they would not know the Ocenii were on them until the first spikes were five strokes from their hulls.
Below him the sea ran a slight swell. His oarsmen drove their blades through the water at a forty rate. With a following wind, they could achieve speeds in excess of twenty knots over a short sprint. That was what he asked for now. To his starboard, squad IX rowed for the bow of the target. Two hundred yards to go.
'Not one arrow on this deck. Not one marine down before Tsardon blood is spilled. Stroke up. Forty-five.'
Oars strained against the water. Wood creaked, sounding like explosions to his ears across the silence of the water. How long before a lookout heard them, he wondered. How long before the bells started to ring. He could see the Tsardon trireme clearly now. Lanterns were hung in six places along its length, casting light fifteen yards across the water. Guards stood by each one, other men walked the length of the vessel. It was ferociously painted, as they all were. Homages to gods, beasts and the sea's elements adorned the hull. They were bright reds, greens and blues. At the prow, the spike was decorated as a ram's head. Soon to see nothing but the pit of the ocean.
'Unlatch the ladders,' he said. 'Ready the grapples.'
Marines knelt to the quick-release ties that held the ladders in place along the gangway. Others held the ends of grapples designed to keep the corsair fast against the enemy.
'Sixty and closing,' said Iliev. 'Prepare for impact. Stroke steady.'
The sudden strain of impact was enormous but expecting it was half the battle. Conquord scientists had struggled for years to construct a bracket that dispersed the recoil f
orces through the hull without shattering it.
The corsair hummed across the wavecaps. His oarsmen didn't falter and didn't slow. The speed energised every nerve and muscle in Iliev's body. He'd seen action off Tundarra, Dornos and Bahkir and he never tired of the fight. He was born to this. Born to the sea and the sword.
The first Tsardon shout was away to port and by the time the alarm had begun to spread in earnest, he was inside his target's arc of light. He saw guards running to the rail. He heard shouts and the bell rang out the attack. Ten yards. He crouched and grabbed the stern rail.
'Oars!' he shouted.
They were raised off the water and shipped. Oarsmen spun to face forwards, gripping the leather stays that would stop them tumbling forwards.
'Brace and use it. Now.'
The corsair's spike skewered the trireme's hull just above the waterline, driving into its haft and boring a jagged, splintered hole bigger than a man's skull through its planking. The impact shuddered back through the ship. Timbers screeched and protested. The Tsardon vessel was shunted sideways across the water.
Iliev strained hard against the rail, a growl dragging itself from his mouth. He felt his muscles bunch and tense. And at the moment of release, the entire squad was up. The ladders thumped against the side of the ship. Marines swarmed up followed by the oarsmen. Another shudder through the trireme signified squad IX at the bow. Iliev barked at his men to move faster. Up on the deck, fighting had begun. Arrows struck the corsair from another enemy ship close by.
'Move, move,' Iliev yelled as he scrambled up, last as protocol demanded.
He raced up the ladder, leaving behind his grapple, men who had turned to their bows to return fire. The Ocenii were spreading out along the deck. Already, Tsardon were dead by their hand. The confusion was spreading through the ship. Sleepy crewmen would be woken into chaos. He needed them kept where they were.
'Secure the hatches! Let's use their fires. I want this ship on the ocean floor.'
The second squad were scaling the bow. He saw the anchor rope chopped away. He turned away, heading for the aft hatch. He glanced across to the second ship, to which this one was lashed. It was coming to order quickly. They would have to work fast. Up on the aft deck, a marine thrust his gladius through the defence of the steersman before turning his attention to wrecking the tiller.
Iliev reached the hatch. 'Keep seven topside against the sister-ship defence. Twenty with me. The rest of you, back to the corsair. We're going to need a quick escape.'
Fire flared in the night sky. Iliev looked left. A sheet of flame was licking up the mast of a Tsardon trireme. He bared his teeth. Now the whole Tsardon fleet would know they were attacked. Here was where it began. He led twenty down the hatch into the confused gloom of the Tsardon oar deck. The odd lantern was still alight. Running footsteps behind him.
Iliev jumped down the bottom two steps and ducked. A sword flashed over his head and embedded itself in the steps. He spun on his back heel and stabbed upwards. His gladius found flesh. He dragged the blade down, twisting it out of the man's groin. Blood flushed on to the deck. A second blade jabbed above Iliev's head, finishing the man through his throat. His squad was thumping to the deck around him, going forward.
Iliev came to his feet. 'Wrecking team, get to work. Leave me an escape. Let's move.'
He swung around the stairs and headed for the curtained-off quarters aft. Arrows sang through a gap in the cloth, taking one of his men in the chest. Iliev swore and moved faster, two marines right behind him. He grabbed a knife from his belt, tore the rough woollen curtain aside and flung the weapon down the exposed way, hearing a shout of warning.
'Go, go.'
The Ocenii made it a hail of knives flashing past his ears, keeping the enemy heads down. They ran in after the volley. Left and right of a split piece of decking, bed rolls were scattered. Tsardon were still coming to their feet, groggy from sleep and drink. Iliev took dead centre, giving his men the room to spread into the space either side of him. It was cramped and low. He ran at a crouch, gladius and a second knife held in front of him.
Tsardon came at them. He blocked a blow and punched the enemy in the face with the hilt of his sword. Iliev moved up. The quarters were filled with the sounds of clashing blades and the shouts of men. More arrows came from the gloom ahead, one striking a Tsardon in the back of the head. Iliev punched out with his knife, feeling the blade slice into his enemy's arm. Others of the squad moved up on his left. Behind, the wrecking team was already at work. He could smell smoke.
'Pushing back,' ordered Iliev.
He spun a kick into the side of wounded man's head and watched him rock back. Iliev planted the foot and thrust forwards. His gladius drove in under the Tsardon's ribs, dropping him where he stood. The enemy crew were beginning to panic. Flame flared garish light on their faces and cast the Ocenii into yet deeper shadow. Iliev dropped to his haunches and swept his foot through the ankles of his next foe. He tripped sideways.
The heat began to rise. The trapped were ready to break. Smoke was filling the enclosed space. The line of Ocenii made an initial rush forwards, forcing the Tsardon oarsmen into a reflexive move back. He had no idea how many of them were back there. Thirty or forty, at least. They were shouting and bunching ahead, scared by the fires they could see taking firm hold.
'Back and up,' he ordered.
The Ocenii withdrew fast. Iliev backed past the last of the wreckers sprinkling light oil on the central decking, feeding the flames and obscuring their retreat. The smoke was choking and clogging. Arrows flitted through the smoke. Iliev lost another man.
'Go, up.'
The Tsardon broke. Iliev flew up the ladder, arms hauling him to the deck. A ring of Ocenii stood around the hatch, gladius and flask in hand. The last of his people was dragged up, a deep cut in his ankle. Oil and a torch were thrown down on the enemy crew first to the ladder. The hatch was slammed shut. Two Ocenii bent to nail it down.
Iliev scanned the ship. The mast was alight, the sail consumed by thick black smoke and harsh yellow flame. Men from VII and IX were firing across to the sister ship, keeping the crew from the platform that bound them together and on which three catapults sat. To the bow, the forward hatch belched smoke and flame. And along the length of the deck, the Ocenii held sway. The bodies of the Tsardon outnumbered those of his fallen, five to one. Below his feet, the screaming was starting and smoke edged up through the planks.
'Back to the corsair!' he yelled.
He ran to the ladders, waving his squad to him. One after the other, they slid forwards down the rungs, thumping into their oar and balance positions. His grapple men had been at work widening the ramming spike hole, deepening it to below the water line. Arrows began to fly from the sister ship and from another portside that was moving into position. Iliev ducked down below the rail. Three men to go.
Across the platform, he could see Tsardon working feverishly at the bolts that held their ship to the stricken vessel which was beginning to list. It had been a textbook assault. The change of angle would make the bolts harder to shift, pinning them into soft wood. Soon, the only way would be to hack them clear.
The last man reached the ladders. He slid down one and rocked it back to place in position between the oarsmen.
'Ready for release,' said Iliev.
'Ready, sir.'
'Clear.'
Iliev took a step back and jumped at the ladder, riding it down to slap into the gangway.
'Let go grapples. Oarsmen backwater. This ship is coming down on top of us.'
And indeed it was. Sea water was sluicing through the holes forward and aft and settling quickly in the base of the hull. The counterbalancing of the sister ship wasn't enough and the list was growing by the moment. Iliev held the tiller steady. The oarsmen pushed, forcing the spike out of the trireme. Marines stood at the bow keeping it down to ease the exit.
'Clear water.'
Iliev leant hard on the tiller. Marines ran astern to lift
the spike. Arrows flicked into the water around them. The corsair moved up the flank of the ship, chasing squad IX to open sea. The Trierarch looked back. Flame and smoke gouted from every oar hole. The deck was one sheet of fire, reaching high into the night sky and burning away the mist. It was unstable, falling quickly on its starboard side. Catapults slid from the platform across the burning deck and smashed through the rail on their way to the ocean floor.
'Stroke forty at first opportunity,' ordered Iliev. 'Let's clear this bastard. Target two at four hundred yards north. Good job, Ocenii. Ocetarus smiles on us.'
Rounding the bow, he could see that the enemy couldn't release the platform from the sister ship. He saw men chopping with axes, hacking with swords, desperate to free themselves. The target trireme began to go down. Steam scorched into the sky. The platform ripped free at last, shearing down through the hull of the sister ship, tearing a massive hole that exposed oar deck and keel timbers. Helpless to do anything else, the crew jumped into the frothing waters.
'Two for one,' said Iliev and his men cheered.
But behind them, the Tsardon had seen the heavy Conquord warships rowing from dock. The gargantuan siege galleys were moving into range. Their smaller sisters were already firing. Iliev saw a bireme of the Ocetanas hit with three consecutive stones. Its hull and mast were smashed, one stone shearing through the oar deck.
He commended the bodies of the dead to Ocetarus and turned for the looming new target. There was much work still to do.
Chapter 71
848th cycle of God, 11th day of Dusasrise 15th year of the true Ascendancy
Herine Del Aglios looked down over Estorr, across its harbour and out into the mists that hid the sea from her. The Omniscient brought the dusas mists every year. This year, though, there was a malice in their coming. She stared at the flags flying from both harbour forts, wanting them to be lowered but knowing that would not be the case. Kester Isle was compromised. The Tsardon were sailing almost unhindered along her coasts.
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