by Anthony Ryan
The captive just stared back in unblinking terror. Vaelin took a moment to study his face, feeling the song swell as he committed it to memory.
“Put him on a horse,” Vaelin told Orven, “and let him go.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lyrna
So many ships. The harbour was jammed with them, the masts resembling a gently swaying forest, the crews crawling over deck and rigging like ants as she looked on from her balcony.
“Must be over a thousand by now,” Iltis surmised.
“I make it twelve hundred,” Orena said. “If you put them end to end, maybe we could walk home.”
“Right now I’d rather swim,” Harvin muttered, straightening as he caught Lyrna’s glance. “Not that I would, Highness.”
Lyrna turned back to the harbour without reply. Her decision to accompany the Meldenean fleet when it sailed forth had not been well received, Iltis protesting about the obvious dangers whilst Harvin had the additional worry of Orena who, along with Murel, refused to be left behind.
“My queen needs her ladies,” she had stated. “She said so herself.”
She had expected some obstruction from the Shield but he had just frowned and said, “Of course, Highness. I would have you nowhere else but at my side if the choice were mine.” His dazzling smile was almost enough to order Iltis to strike him down there and then.
She could see him now, striding along the quay, exchanging words with various captains and sailors. Whereas he was all charm with her, his countenance when dealing with his own people was one of grim toleration, for all their obvious respect and relief at his presence. They disappointed him, she concluded. He wonders whether they were truly worth the sacrifice he was prepared to make.
“I realise it may be too early in my service to ask a boon, Highness,” Harvin said. “But when this is over, I formally request never to be sent to sea again. I’ve seen enough rat-infested bilge tubs for this life.”
Lyrna allowed herself a smile. “Your request is granted, my lord.”
She watched the Shield as he strode closer, face upraised as he found her on the balcony, bowing deeply and extending an arm to where the Sea Sabre was moored.
“My ladies and lords,” she said. “Our vessel awaits.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“The best way to avoid a trap,” the Shield said, “is to kill the bastard who made it before he gets a chance to set it.”
“As long as you can find him first,” Ship Lord Ell-Nurin pointed out.
They stood around a map table set up in the Sea Sabre’s hold, an extensive chart of the Isles and surrounding waters spread out before them. There were eight other senior captains present along with Belorath, now happily returned to his role as first mate. Ell-Nurin was the sole Ship Lord present, apparently the only member of the council Ell-Nestra could stomach for any length of time.
“Thanks to Her Highness we know the Volarians intend a feint,” he went on, finger pointing to the southern approaches. “Probably here, the most direct route to the capital aided by favourable winds. Whilst we can most likely expect them to send their troop ships to the beaches here.” He tapped at three bays on the northern shore of the largest islands. “Where the wind will be against them, but since they expect us to be fully occupied to the south, it won’t matter.”
“What does that tell you?” Lyrna enquired.
“That they’ll have to separate here.” His finger picked out a small speck some eighty-odd miles to the east.
“The Teeth of Moesis,” Ell-Nurin said. “A prophetic place for a battle.”
“The gods are bound to smile on us there,” Belorath put in. “If they smile on us anywhere.”
“You intend to attack as they separate?” Lyrna asked.
“Indeed, Highness,” the Shield replied. “We tack from the north-west with the wind in our favour, sink the troop-ships first. Without them their invasion is a pointless endeavour after all.”
“What’s to stop them simply joining forces again when they see our sails on the horizon?”
Ell-Nestra’s finger tapped a point just to the south of the Teeth of Moesis. “The Serpent’s Tail. The god left more than just his teeth behind.”
“A great stone reef, Highness,” Ell-Nurin explained. “Their southern division will have to navigate it to join up with the troop-ships. Not an easy task at the best of times.”
“All dependent on whether they stick to the plan outlined in the book,” Lyrna said. “A plan they may never have received.”
“There was more than one book,” Ell-Nurin said. “Safely received in Varinshold according to our sources. We are also advised the Volarian general wrote to the Council-man expressing his condolences at the loss of his son, presumably to a storm since no trace of his ship has been found.”
“We sail with the tide,” the Shield said, moving back from the table.
“The fleet is not fully gathered,” Ell-Nurin said. “Another two days will give us fifty more ships.”
“And hand the Volarians the Isles. We’ve tarried too long as it is, every scrap of sail will be needed to get the fleet to the Teeth in time.” He looked at Lyrna with one of his hateful smiles. “My first mate tells me Your Highness is a great exponent of Keschet. Perhaps you would honour me with a game once we’re under way?”
◆ ◆ ◆
He was a much better player than Belorath, relying on his own tactical acumen rather than learned strategies, improvising with considerable flair and imagination. But he was also overly aggressive and inflexible in the long game. But at least she didn’t have to string it out.
“Fifty-eight moves,” she said, plucking his emperor from the board. “Very impressive.”
“It must have been hard,” he said, reclining on his stool, his smile now genuine.
“Hard, my lord Shield? Keschet is very simple in essence . . .”
“Not the game. Pretending all those years. Not being you. After all, who wants the keenest mind in the room to be the princess in the corner? Did you do needlework whilst your father held his councils? I expect you’re very good at that too.”
“Actually I never learned needlework. Nor felt the need to sit through my father’s meetings, since I could usually anticipate every word likely to be spoken. But yes, it was hard to pretend stupidity to the stupid.”
“Now there is no need. The whole world can see your . . .” He faltered and fell silent, turning his gaze out to sea and the great host of ships surrounding them.
“My true face?” she asked, finding considerable enjoyment in his discomfort.
“I misspoke, and crave your forgiveness.”
She busied herself removing her pieces from the board. “I’m sure I’ll hear worse when I return to the Realm.”
“You think they’ll accept you?” he asked. “As you are?”
“You talk as if they have a choice. I am queen by right of blood. That’s all they need to know.”
“And you expect their instant servile obedience?”
“I am returned from the dead, bearing the scars of my suffering in service to the Realm’s need at this time of greatest peril. Surely the Departed must favour me.” She smiled and gestured at the board. “Another game, my lord?”
“I don’t think there’s much point, do you?” He leaned forward, all trace of a smile gone from his lips. “Why did you come? You could have stayed in the isles, sailed safely away if the battle went against us.”
“Perhaps I wanted to see you perform.”
His eyes flicked to the Keschet board. “You told me more than you intended, Highness. With you, seemingly simple moves always conceal complex intent.”
“My intent is not so complex. Win your battle and I’ll happily share it.”
“I intend to.” He rose and bowed before striding off towards the helm.
◆ ◆ �
�
A night and a day brought the Teeth in sight, a black nub on the horizon occasionally obscured by crashing waves. The Shield ordered the fleet to strip sails and took the Sea Sabre on ahead, dropping anchor barely a half mile away from the Teeth. They were an impressive sight at this distance, great slabs of stone rising from the sea, swirling currents bringing wave after wave to batter their flanks.
“A great serpent’s teeth?” Murel said when Benten had related the story of the Teeth’s origins. She gave a scornful laugh. “All gods are a lie, but that’s a gem.” She fell silent at Lyrna’s glare, the crewmen within earshot bristling with indignation.
“My apologies,” Lyrna told them. “My lady is young and knows very little.”
“Sorry, Highness,” Murel murmured, gaze downcast as the crew resumed their tasks.
“Gods are real to those that hold to them,” Lyrna told her, patting her hand, leaning close to add in a whisper, “But a lie is still a lie, no matter how big.”
The Shield climbed aloft with his spyglass, standing on the mainmast and scanning the horizon, hair whipping in the wind. Lyrna saw Murel staring in open admiration then looking away with a flush on her cheeks when she caught Lyrna’s eye. The hours stretched as Ell-Nestra maintained his vigil, the afternoon sun eventually burning through the haze and the sea calming in the warmer air.
He may very well be wrong, Lyrna thought, gazing at the empty sea to the east. The Volarian fleet could have passed by in the night and we would never know. She had never been a great believer in intuition, preferring reason and evidence to instinct and guesswork. But there was something in his certainty that told her they were in the right place, a lifetime at sea had to be worth something.
She occupied herself searching the waves for sign of the shark but finding no trace of the fin. Perhaps the echo of Fermin’s call had finally faded, or maybe it had sensed the coming battle and gone in search of easier prey. It was strange, but she found she missed it, the constancy of its presence had become a talisman for their continued survival. I should have given you a name, she thought. One should always name a pet.
“Hoist the black!” the Shield’s order sounded from above as he descended to the deck, sliding down a rope to drop at the helm. “Raise anchor! Archers to the rigging!” He took the wheel and spun it as the anchor was hauled from the sea, the ship’s prow pitching as they turned north. A large rectangular banner was raised to the top of the mainmast, completely black with no decoration. The signal for an enemy in sight.
Lyrna watched Ell-Nestra at the wheel, finding his expression graver than expected, the gaze he turned on her speaking of grim tidings. Something is very wrong.
They sailed north for a mile or so, turning and trimming canvas as the Meldenean fleet hurried in answer to the black banner’s call. The Shield gave the wheel to the helmsman and went to the prow, eyes narrowed as he stared ahead. Lyrna went to his side, remaining silent as he continued to stare, face rigid with suppressed anger.
“I,” he said after a moment, “am a fool.”
“They did not split their fleet?”
“Oh they split it all right. Their feint sails south as we speak. Five hundred ships.”
Five hundred. “The spies said their fleet was no more than twelve hundred ships. That would mean we sail towards only six hundred.”
“The fleet that landed in Varinshold was twelve hundred strong, the fleet in front of us nigh on two thousand. They have been reinforced whilst at sea.” He closed his eyes, cheeks bunching and fists balled on Skerva’s wooden shoulder. “Why did I not see this?”
“What do we do?” Lyrna asked.
He straightened, unclenching his fists and breathing out slowly then turning to her with a grin. “We do what we came to do, Highness. The wind is at our backs and there are many prizes to claim this day.” He turned back to the deck, pausing to brush his fingers over her hand, breath soft on her ear. “And I am so keen to hear of your true intent.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The Volarian battle line came into view all too soon, a long parade of dark-hulled ships all following the same southward course. “Trying to get some wind in their sails,” Belorath explained. “Probably want to hook round and have at our arses.”
“Watch your tongue in front of the queen,” Iltis growled but Belorath just laughed and tossed him a broad leather-bound shield.
“You and your fellow lordships can keep the arrows off the women. Best leave the fighting to us, eh?”
“Pirate dog,” Iltis grumbled, fixing the shield’s strap over his arm, Benten and Harvin doing the same, as the first mate strode away. They wore much the same kit as the Meldeneans, a broad helm with leather chin-straps and mail shirts, though Iltis had been forced to stitch two together to fully cover his chest. Lyrna and her ladies had donned specially tailored mail of smaller dimensions which proved remarkably uncomfortable with a tendency to produce large amounts of unladylike sweat. However, she felt it preferable to a stray arrow in the chest. She also had a small dagger strapped to her forearm, the blade a little longer than she was used to but she had practised and found she could still throw it with reasonable accuracy. She doubted it would be much use in the coming maelstrom but drew some reassurance from the feel of it against her skin. Never be without it.
The Meldenean fleet were strung out in two roughly equal divisions, one following the Sea Sabre the other a narrow-hulled vessel commanded by Ship Lord Ell-Nurin. “The Red Falcon,” Belorath had said. “Fastest ship afloat, some say.”
The lead Ell-Nurin’s ship was building over the Sea Sabre gave truth to his words, the prow cutting through the waves like a sword blade, sails seeming to strain against their lines from the wind that filled them.
“The bugger wants them all to himself!” the Shield called from the helm, raising a laugh amongst the crew. “Tighten those lines, I’ll not be beaten to first blood!”
At his insistence Lyrna had positioned herself close to the entrance to the hold, ready to retreat below if the deck became too dangerous.
“What’s that for?” Murel asked, seeing a sailor tossing sand from a bucket over the deck as the Volarians drew ever nearer.
“Blood,” Benten said. “It’s like to get slippery underfoot when it starts. Do the same thing on my father’s boat when we do the gutting.”
“Oh,” the girl said in a small voice.
“My lady,” Lyrna said. “You may go below.”
“Thank you, Highness, but I prefer to stay.”
No tears now, Lyrna saw as Murel straightened her back and drew a calming breath. No longer just a girl.
“Mangonels ready!” the Shield shouted and crewmen ran to pull the coverings from two bulky contraptions in the centre of the deck, others bringing baskets filled with projectiles and buckets of pitch.
The engines consisted of a single throwing arm fastened to a crossbeam around which thick lengths of rope had been wound. The ropes twisted as a crewman worked a lever to draw the arm back level with the deck. Their munitions were melon-sized balls of hemp, the rope wrapped tight around an iron core. Two were placed in the bowl at the end of the arm and soaked in pitch, a man with a torch standing by. One engine was positioned to cast its projectiles to the port side, the other starboard.
“I thought we’d be ramming them,” Harvin said. “Then jumping on board to kill the crew.”
“Most sea battles are won with flame,” Lyrna said. Though I’d hazard you’ll see all manner of death this day.
The Shield steered them towards the middle of the Volarian line, the Red Falcon heading for their rear. The archers began to loose before they were in range, tiny waterspouts appearing in the sea between the closing ships, the faint hiss of the falling shafts soon joined by the hard thunk of arrowheads on wood.
Lyrna could see the Volarians now, dark figures clustered at the starboard rail of a broad-beame
d vessel, swords drawn and grapples ready.
“Loose!” Belorath barked and the torch-bearer lit the hemp balls in the mangonel bowl, standing back as his comrade kicked the release lever and the arm sprang forward, casting its flaming contents at the Volarian ship. The two fireballs described a lazy arc, trailing smoke as they fell amongst the Volarian soldiery, a cheer rising from the Meldeneans as the battle claimed its first victims, a few flaming men jumping into the sea.
The Shield put them alongside the opposing ship at a distance of no more than fifty paces, the air between them now thick with arrows.
“Down, Highness!” Iltis raised his shield as Lyrna and the two women crouched, Orena wincing at the hard rain. A cry came from above and Lyrna glanced up to see a crewman fall to the deck with a bone-snapping thump, an arrow jutting from his chest as he gasped out his final breaths from a bloody mouth.
The starboard mangonel loosed again, the fireballs flying into the Volarian rigging this time, their mainsail catching light and sending burning debris onto the men below, their arrow storm faltering as fire took hold. The ship lurched towards them in a last desperate attempt to board, grapples flying from the deck to fasten on the Sea Sabre’s rail. The Shield spun the wheel and the prow swung to port, the crew hacking away the grappling ropes but not before a small group of Volarians had managed to scramble across. They were lightly armoured men with twin short swords on their backs, moving along the ropes with an unnatural speed and sure-handed grace. A few fell to the Meldenean archers in the rigging but four of them managed to make the deck, vaulting over the rail and drawing swords to hack down the nearest crewmen. They charged for the mangonels, parrying the slashing sabres of the crew with ease, killing the men servicing the engines in a matter of seconds.
Then the Shield was amongst them, his sabre moving in a blur, killing one then ducking under the thrust of another to hack through his lower leg. The other two launched a coordinated attack, one slashing at Ell-Nestra’s face whilst the other sought to deliver a killing blow to the chest. He backed away, parrying and twisting as they forced him against the starboard rail.