by W. J. May
Six more men ran down below deck, readying the anchored crossbows—three two-man machines that fired a spiked anchor into the hull of another ship, latching it to the Old Maid to enable boarding.
And Rhen, along with the remaining crew, readied for hand-to-hand combat, field battle on the water.
He pulled his sword from the scabbard strapped to his hip, swinging it in a wide arc over his head, stretching his shoulders and loosening up. His body felt light without the heavy armor of a knight, armor that was too arduous for travel. He would just have to be good enough to not get hurt.
"Prince." One of the sailors approached, holding a shield. It was wooden, the length of half of his body and unpainted. Deep holes already punctured the surface, blows from arrows in previous fights, but it would do well enough.
"Thank you, Geoff," Rhen said, pulling his arm through the strap on the back, his bicep straining under the weight. The man's eyes lit up, surprised and thankful for the recognition. Rhen nodded once more, releasing him, and Geoff circled back to the captain brandishing more weapons.
It was odd, Rhen realized as he stood there, so odd to be waiting on foot without Ember's strong body to hold him aloft. But it was better this way, better she was safe with Cal in the castle stables than at risk on the water. Even if he would pay for it when they reunited in Rayfort, Rhen smiled, picturing the moment. Leaving Ember was never easy, even when it was for her own good, but trying to get back in her good graces would be pure torture.
He looked back to the horizon where the ship was quickly becoming more visible. The center mast held no flag, no identifying marker as were the rules of sea travel. Each ship must have the flag of its kingdom and the flag of its city or occupation. Looking up, Rhen took note of the flags on this ship—the brilliant red flag of Whylkin decorated with a deep black rearing stallion, the great horse of Whyl the Conqueror that was said to be twice as large as any that had been born since. Below it, the flag of a merchant, a blue canvas split diagonally down the center with a white stripe and the image of a ship's wheel.
Below that, Rhen caught sight of Jin standing with his hands outstretched, pointing to the sea, silhouetted by the sun. His fingers seemed to almost glow against the clouds—impossible. But, Rhen squinted, can that truly be just the sun?
He stepped forward.
Why was the boy holding his hands like that? They moved in circles, in some sort of dance, fingers twisting in and out of one another.
"Prince Whylrhen," Captain Pygott said from behind Rhen.
He didn’t want to look away.
Something was happening—something the boy had been hiding.
Some might think it crazy, but Rhen lived and breathed magic—was it even possible the boy did too?
Or—Rhen paused, taking a moment to slow his racing mind—he could be praying, practicing some Arpapajo ritual that he, a newworlder, knew nothing about...
Rhen turned, facing the captain and forgetting about Jin—there were more pressing matters.
"We engage on your command," the old man said, bowing his head. Rhen balled his hands into fists, looking back out toward the ship now twice the size it had been moments before.
"As soon as it is within distance," Rhen said, "make the call."
The captain nodded, moving back to the stern, standing at his proper place behind the helm. And Rhen turned, standing with the other soldiers, just waiting and watching as the enemy neared. All of them fidgeted, anxious and excited, too much electricity for their bodies to contain.
His feet held firm, but even Rhen couldn't stop the ticking of his fingers on the hilt of his sword, over and over, in a subconscious pattern he had been using since his time as a squire.
When the ship was so close that Rhen could begin to make out the men on board, Captain Pygott raised his voice.
"Ready!"
Rhen flexed the muscles in his hands, tightening and loosening his hold on both sword and shield.
"Aim!"
He held his breath.
But before the word fire could leave the captain's lips, a flight of arrows from the other ship flew over the water, fast approaching. Rhen lifted his shield, waiting for the thunk of metal on wood, but instead he heard the pattering of splashes.
He looked up, catching sight of the amazed gazes beside him.
The other ship had missed—their arrows sailing at least thirty feet to the right of the ship.
"Fire!" Pygott yelled and the archers stood from behind the protective wood at the bow of the ship to launch their own set of arrows.
A hit.
Five arrows landed directly on target.
And with that, the battle had begun. Without needing orders, the archers continued to launch wave after wave, sending blankets of arrows onto the opposing ship. The enemy continued to misfire, landing set after set of arrows into the sea, almost as though they believed the Old Maid was fifty feet to the right of where it actually stood. Either the wind was being unusually favorable, or...
Rhen shot a quick glance up at Jin, whose hands still danced before his face, a face that spoke of intense concentration.
He scrunched his brows, smelling a secret, sour taste on the wind. But now was not the time.
Screams ripped through the air. The opposing ship was in turmoil, and it was still early in the fight. The Old Maid remained untouched, unscathed.
"Petore," the captain called. A man beside Rhen turned around. "Send word downstairs to prepare the crossbows!"
He dashed away.
Rhen focused ahead. The other ship was not two-lengths away, the men aboard were in complete madness. Even at such a length, Rhen could see soldiers running from side to side, looking every which way, confused and terrified, shocked each time a new volley of arrows landed on top of them.
One length away.
Suddenly, a shout went up, ringing in Rhen's ears as the remaining soldiers on the enemy deck turned on their heels. Like one, they moved in a wave across their ship, to their starboard side, looking at the Old Maid with shock and horror written across their faces.
Rhen heard the harsh, guttural sound of Ourthuri words being screamed, too soft to make out but loud enough to cause Rhen to lift his sword.
He had been right.
It was the Ourthuri driving unmanned ships.
It was the Ourthuri preparing for war.
In one moment, Rhen felt totally vindicated, totally satisfied in all of the lies he had been spouting over the years, all of the secrets he had found and kept.
For once, his hunch had paid off. For once, his spying had done the trick.
And then the ship was right beside them.
"Steady!" The captain called. But the men all knew what to wait for.
In an excruciatingly long pause, both ships seemed to stop, as though time had ceased to exist, halting on a note of pure anticipation.
Wind pushed against flapping sails, but nothing else moved.
Almost afraid to avert his eyes, Rhen continued to look ahead, meeting the terrified stare of an Ourthuri soldier as the enemy ship pulled perfectly parallel to theirs. The man's eyes were almost black in the daylight. His skin was hardened, tough like leather, dark brown with the hint of green.
Whipping chains blasted through the air, ripping through the silence. The crash of splintering wood followed, and it could only mean one thing—the anchors had been loosed. Brown chips exploded into the sky, raining down on both decks, splashing into the water, smacking into the sails.
A second later, the chink of a crank hit Rhen's ear, and the Ourthuri ship began to move against the tide, unnaturally closer to the Old Maid. Ten clicks later and boom, wood slammed into wood.
The anchored crossbows had done their job, securing the bond between the ships.
Knowing what came next, Rhen raised his sword and yelled, a deep and throaty sound, rippling with the anger that boiled under his skin.
Those Ourthuri wanted to hurt his people. And thinking of Jin, Rhen knew they had a
lready succeeded. But they would not succeed again. Rhen had a nephew to protect, a new babe in the palace, a new future of the kingdom.
He would not let his family or his people down.
Without blinking, he charged, running to the edge of the ship and stomping over the wooden planks that had just been laid like bridges across the gap.
Slicing his sword through the air, the crash of metal clanking metal reverberated from mast to mast.
A man possessed, Rhen moved on pure instinct, lifting his shield to catch a blow from one soldier just to turn on his heal and cut another with his sword. Years of playing at battle had prepared him well, and the training from old knights resurfaced, letting his muscles move on pure memory.
Silver danced across his vision—silver and red.
Rhen pulled his sword from the chest of the man before him, blood spurting from the wound, already turning to face the next foe.
Geoff stood behind him, engaged with a lesser swordsman. He would be fine.
Spinning, Rhen searched through the curtain of moving arms and shields for anyone in need of help.
There.
Captain Pygott had abandoned ship, running across the boards to join in the fray, and had been caught against a man twice his size. Rhen charged, kicking the chest of a man who tried to face him, pushing him out of the way. He held his shield to the left, over his head, to guard against any flying daggers, and moved swiftly parrying enemy blades with his broadsword.
In one move, he pushed the captain out of harm's way and swung his right arm high overhead, catching the Ourthuri's curved sword in its path. A deafening clang roared in his ear, his bicep straining against the strength of his foe, his elbow twisting painfully toward the ground.
Rhen stepped back out of the way and dropped his shield, gripping the sword with both hands. He would need his full strength for this.
The Ourthuri twisted the curved blade before his face, spinning it in a circle, trying to intimidate Rhen. But then his eyes flicked to the gold hilt of Rhen's sword, his lids lifting high up into his brow before narrowing to a slit.
I guess he knows I'm a prince, Rhen thought. Gold encased swords were rare in both kingdoms. Ones decorated with precious stones? Even rarer.
Good, Rhen thought, angling the sword just slightly so the reflection hit the other man's eye.
And then he charged, aiming low and for the man's leg, an unexpected spot. But his opponent saw it coming, slapping Rhen's sword away, returning with a strike at Rhen's neck.
Rhen dodged, jumping back and out of arm's length before surging forward once more. Up then down, circling left and swinging right. He feigned one way, moving his sword to the other.
They were evenly matched.
And Rhen's strength was running low.
A whistle tickled his ear, and too late to do anything but duck, Rhen fell to the floor, smacking his nose against the wood. Blood pooled from the wound, forming a puddle on the boards below his face.
He jumped up, preparing for a sword that never came. The Ourthuri stood before him, arrow lodged in his chest, looking just as surprised as Rhen before sinking to the ground.
What the...?
Rhen curved his neck, searching for the archer. No man from Whylkin would shoot so close to his prince, no one. But what Ourthuri would have taken the same chance?
Not ten feet away, an Ourthuri stood, aiming an arrow into the fight. He let go. The bow whipped. The arrow soared.
Rhen followed as it flew through the crowd and watched, disbelieving, as it landed squarely in the chest of another surprised Ourthuri warrior.
Yet one more arrow raced through Rhen's vision.
A third Ourthuri fell.
"Keep one alive," Rhen screamed, suddenly understanding what was going on. Ordered suicide, the man had been ordered to do this, ordered to maintain secrecy at any cost. And there was only one person who could demand such a thing, one person who held so much authority—a king.
A fourth arrow.
And then Rhen was on the man, his sword slicing through soft flesh. The bow clanked to the ground, precious nerves in the man's wrist had been severed.
But there was no scream.
Instead, as Rhen took one small second to look at the man's already paling face, there was only a small smile, bubbling over with foam.
The man fell next to his bow, body shaking wildly on the wood.
Poison.
The entire deck was still, silent except for the rivers of blood spilling and splashing into the ocean.
The enemy had been destroyed.
"Idiot," Rhen cursed softly. Leave one alive, always leave someone alive to question. "Search the ship," he said louder, a command.
"In all of my years," Captain Pygott said softly, approaching Rhen with a grim expression, "I have never seen something like that. A fight to the last man, yes, but never such a surrender. There are stories, of course. But there are always stories. To witness such a thing in the flesh," he shook his head, "even I am left speechless." He paused, and then raised his hand to Rhen's shoulder. "What have you uncovered here?"
"You mean what did I fail to uncover?" Rhen shrugged out of the captain's grip, balling his hands into fists, fighting the urge to punch at the floor.
"Whylrhen—"
"Prepare the ship, we continue on to the Golden Isles," Rhen interrupted, not meeting the concerned blue eyes that stared him down.
Only when the captain left did Rhen move, running his vision over the bodies crumpled on the floor. He shuffled to the closest man, kneeling to get a look at his arm.
Three ebony stripes were tattooed around his wrists and a triangle of dots decorated his hand.
Rhen recognized the mark. A soldier.
He flipped the fingers over, searching for another mark on the palm, something else to identify him, but there was nothing.
Just a common soldier.
Rhen walked around the other bodies, doing the same, but they were identical.
Until he reached the archer, the body Rhen had saved for last. Each wrist wore the standard soldier marks, but when he flipped it over, the same dotted triangle had been painted on the inside of his palm.
He was from the inner ranks, the warriors specially chosen to protect the king. But if he was meant to protect the Ourthuri king, what was he doing so far from home?
"Prince Whylrhen," someone gasped from behind.
Rhen stood, facing the voice. It was Geoff. And behind him, chained and shackled together, stood four very skinny Ourthuri. Rhen grinned, heart feeling light as excitement bubbled in his brain.
Perhaps all hope wasn't lost. Not yet.
"Help them aboard the Old Maid," Rhen ordered and moved to the makeshift bridge between the ships. "We'll question them from safer grounds."
He crossed over, hearing the creak of straining wood.
As soon as everyone had touched safely down on the clean, and now cluttered, deck of the Old Maid, the chains released from the crossbows below deck, detaching from the ship and dropping into the sea. Immediately, the other ship caught the tide, slipping slowly away.
It was only a matter of time before it sank, but Rhen hoped to be miles closer to the Golden Isles before that happened. And much closer to answers too.
If only he could get these prisoners to talk.
He looked at the rusted chains around their hands, the red welts on their wrists, the bones pushing against thin skin.
Treating them like anything but prisoners might just do the trick.
"Do any of you understand what I am saying?" He asked, looking down at their wrists. All four were painted with three thick bands of simple black lines. Farmers, peasants, the lowest class. The Kingdom of Ourthuro was composed of a hundred islands, each with its own somewhat individualized language—that Rhen knew half of those tongues was something he preferred to keep secret for as long as possible. But as it was, only a member of the upper classes would understand his Whylkin speech.
Movement b
rought Rhen back as one of the men stepped forward. He was tall and lean, shaped completely different from Rhen. His hair hung in straggles over his face, black and wiry, malnourished, and his eyes held the calculating tick of intelligence.
"I understand," he said in a deep, cautious voice, accented harshly, choppy so two words came out sounding more like four. As he moved in front of his companions, Rhen saw burns on his hands, bumpy scars in place of tattoos, and it could only mean one thing—the man was a criminal, he had been degraded, his old marks burned away and replaced with those of an unmarked—a slave.
Perfect, Rhen thought. Just the sort of man who might talk.
"Why were you imprisoned on this ship?"
"I tried to marry above my station," he said softly, shuffling his feet.
"Your companions?"
"They sold their labor in return for food for their families."
"And what labor was that?" Rhen asked, leaning in closer, moving his hand subconsciously to the hilt of his sword. The man's gaze flicked down, but he returned Rhen's gaze, unafraid.
"We were told very little, but I believe we were being taken to Whylkin to steal supplies—wood, livestock, food."
Rhen leaned back, brows scrunched together as he ran a hand through his wild hair. "Why? The Golden Isles are richer than our lands have ever been."
"Richer in metal, yes, but not in other things like fertile soil and hunting game."
Rhen exhaled heavily—this was news to him.
"With so much gold, why not buy it? Why risk so much for something you could purchase justly?"
The man shrugged. "My king is a greedy man."
"All kings are," Rhen said under his breath, wondering what his father would do with this information. Try to push trade prices up between the kingdoms, or try to weaken Ourthuro until they would pay anything for the supplies they needed. But could that really be it? Why the suicide? Why the poison? "Did you hear anything else? Any conversations between the men aboard?"
He shook his head.
Rhen sighed. It would not help to push these men, not yet at least. He could tell they were tired with their backs hunched in, swaying on feet that looked barely able to hold them upright.