Dark Empress

by S. J. A. Turney

  The time was coming for Samir to take on the ultimate challenge that life on board the Empress had to offer, and when that time came, he would use it to turn the wrath of the most dangerous men within a thousand leagues on the satrap Ma’ahd. Whatever Ghassan thought he was doing, Samir had not lost focus on the goal ahead.

  Soon, Ma’ahd… soon.

  In which a fleet is found

  The wind rushed through Ghassan’s hair as he leaned over the prow and gazed ahead. Without taking his eyes off the black sail some distance in front, he sniffed. There was a barely-perceptible change in the wind and he bellowed commands over his shoulder back to the men under his command. Captain Jaral, way back at the stern with the other officers, would receive any appropriate information, passed from man to man along the deck, while relevant instructions would reach the correct people en-route.

  Since Ghassan’s promotion to second in command this summer, there had been a shift in the purpose of the Wind of God that only he and the captain seemed to have recognised. There had, over the last year or more, been fewer and fewer complaints among the merchants of Calphoris concerning pirate activity. Looking into the incidents that had been reported, along with information from other sources, it was clear to Ghassan and his captain that the pirates of the coastal waters had inexplicably turned their focus toward Pelasian shipping.

  Inexplicable to most, but not to Ghassan. On first discovering the situation, he had recognised instantly the hand of Samir in this. Somehow, probably through gaining higher rank, Ghassan’s brother had managed to steer the pirates to more Pelasian targets. Oh, it wasn’t a black and white situation, by any means, since there were still incidents with Imperial merchants; even horrible ones. But the frequency had declined.

  Moreover, Ghassan had noted with a sense of optimism, the Dark Empress had not been in a recorded incident with Imperial shipping in at least a year. Samir had turned his attention at last to the wicked satrap Ma’ahd and that suited Ghassan just fine.

  The end result of this shift in pirate activity was that Ghassan had managed to persuade the captain also to take more of an interest in the movements of Pelasian shipping, though, in truth, he hadn’t taken much persuading. Over the years, they had located and chased down the Empress numerous times. They had almost caught her once, but the pirate crew seemed almost prescient. They were always either already running when the militia turned up, or prepared to get away at a moment’s notice. Though Ghassan had tried to take the pirate vessel to the best of his ability, he found that somewhere, deep inside, he was profoundly grateful that they’d never managed to capture Samir.

  Besides, the Pelasians were making a nuisance of themselves these days. Though years ago the militia had put paid to Ma’ahd’s attempt to extend his territory east, sending missives after that first meeting to the God-King in Akkad, demanding that he keep his satraps under control, there was still a constant threat.

  A line had been drawn, metaphorically speaking. Watch posts of both the Calphorian militia and the Pelasian satrap had been constructed from the coast into the desert sands, glaring at one another warily over a half mile of unoccupied land. Less defined was the sea border and, while Ma’ahd had irritably agreed to keep his shipping in Pelasian waters when pressed by his God-King, his interpretation of what constituted ‘Pelasian waters’ was fluid at best.

  So the Wind of God had taken it upon itself these past months to patrol the border region between the two powers, making her presence known and making sure she was to be found whenever a Pelasian ship crossed the line, chasing them back into their own territory.

  Ghassan and the captain had considered what they would do if ever a Pelasian vessel decided not to run, or if they ever caught up with one while still in their waters. To leave it unmolested would be to invite further incursions, but to attack and sink the vessel might be considered an act of war by the God-King. It was a thorny problem and the compromise had been a decision that, in such circumstances, they would capture a vessel, strip it of anything useful and valuable and then escort them to their own waters before releasing them: a solution nobody could legitimately complain about.

  And now it looked as though they would have their first opportunity to test the theory.

  The Wind of God had come entirely by surprise upon the Pelasian scout half an hour ago, clearly a long way inside Calphorian waters; much further in than any vessel they had previously spotted. The arrival of the militia daram around a headland had shocked and panicked the Pelasians and the scout had turned as sharply as possible and begun to rig their sails to flee as fast as the wind would take them.

  The daram was already at speed and bearing down on them, but the scout was light and fast. It would be a race.

  And so, for just over a half hour they had been chasing down the small, single-sailed ship. There had been an appreciable closing of distance between them, but the result would be tight. In just over five minutes they would reach the contested waters and then the political ramifications of what they did would be less sure.

  But the artillery master had reliably informed them that within a couple of minutes they would be in range to fire. At that point, the sails would be targeted, and then the hull. The scout would flounder and slow until they caught and dealt with it…

  …as long as the artillerists were on form, anyway.

  Ghassan, his teeth clenched and the spray lashing him repeatedly across the face, leaned further forward, urging the daram on desperately. The time had come to chastise these bastards for continually pushing acceptable boundaries. Besides, it was Ghassan’s life goal to twist the knife in the side of the satrap Ma’ahd until he could be properly dealt with. Minutes… it would all come down to a matter of minutes.

  There, ahead, was the headland that marked the end of official Calphorian territory. Beyond that lay half a mile of free waters before they entered those belonging to Pelasia.

  Minutes…

  Ghassan frowned.

  The headland was the point at which the border towers ended. This spur held an Imperial watch tower. The promontory at the far end of the next bay would hold the Pelasian one. The cove between was anyone’s water, but safer for everyone to stay out of it. Such was not the cause of Ghassan’s frown.

  There was activity on the watch tower.

  He frowned and shaded his brow from the bright sun, focussing his exceptional vision on that small wooden tower with its roof of thatch, its small palisaded compound that sheltered the complement of three men and its array of signalling devices.

  He had realised that one of the men in the tower, almost half a mile away, was waving frantically. He was trying to discern the situation when he suddenly turned completely blind. Damn it!

  The men in the tower had resorted to the signalling mirror, flashing the reflected sunlight at the ship and directly into Ghassan’s eyes. Half a mile was too close for the heliograph to be used. That was for long-distance signalling, the morons! He turned away, blinking, and could see nothing but amorphous purple and green blobs. Continuing to blink, trying to restore his sight, he reached out for the rigging boy he knew to be nearby. Feeling the boy’s shoulder, he grasped.

  “See the signals coming from the tower?”

  There was a silence and it took a moment for Ghassan to realise the boy was nodding. He grunted.

  “Tell me what they say.”

  Staring down into the shadowy area of deck and blinking was rapidly restoring his sight, but there was no way he was about to risk that again. The trick when at such a short distance from the source was to look in the right direction, but not directly at, the signal.

  “It’s warning us to turn round, sir…”

  Ghassan frowned.

  “Do they say why?”

  There was a silence and Ghassan was trying to decide whether the boy was waiting for more message or had merely nodded or shaken his head. He looked up and the blurred shape resolved itself into the rigging boy staring off into the distance.

&n
bsp; “Fleet ahead, sir!”

  “Fleet?” Ghassan replied incredulously.

  “Yessir!”

  Ghassan, still blinking, looked toward the tower as the warning was repeated. The boy hadn’t misinterpreted. That was clearly the signal. Ghassan shook his head. What to do? Could they afford to just let this go? He ground his teeth.

  There was simply no choice. It was possible the message was false. What if the Pelasians had taken control of the tower? That was unlikely. If there was a fleet here, though, it had to be Pelasian and why in the name of the seven faces of Ha’Rish would they build up a fleet in sight of the Calphorian watchtower?

  The questions were simply more numerous than any hope of answers.

  “Take the word back to slow her down. Not to stop, but to slow the pace and be ready to come to a full stop or full speed at any moment. And hurry!”

  Ghassan watched tensely as the headland neared, while the distance between the Wind of God and its quarry continued to close. His sight was improving all the time.

  “Come on…” he found himself whispering under his breath, willing the ship to slow. He realised he was now actually nervous of what might be waiting around the headland.

  As he watched, the ship showed signs of slowing, the gap between the Pelasian scout and themselves opening up finally. Hearing footsteps running up behind him, he turned, coming face to face with the captain.

  “Sir.”

  “What’s going on, Ghassan? We almost had him. The artillery master’s about to explode.”

  Ghassan nodded sagely.

  “I can understand that, sir. I was looking forward to this myself, but we were warned off by the watch tower.”

  “Why?”

  Ghassan opened his mouth to reply but, as he did, the answer appeared before them, stretching across the waters of the bay.

  “Shit.” Both officers turned to look at one another.

  As the Wind of God continued to slow, drifting forward, the headland passed by, ponderously, on their left. Ahead, the small black scout vessel sailed into unclaimed waters, out of their jurisdiction, and directly toward the mass of black sails that dotted the sea’s surface like an ebony disease.

  “That’s one hell of a fleet” the captain said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Looks like three fleets massed together, sir.”

  “How’d you work that out?”

  “The flags, captain. Flags that I can see of three different satraps.”

  The captain turned to the men gathering behind them and silently staring.

  “Back to your places, men. Pass the word to turn as sharply as possible and get the hell out of here.”

  He turned back to Ghassan.

  “Do you think we’ll have time to rescue the guards from the tower?”

  Ghassan shrugged.

  “I don’t think there’s any rush, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger.”

  The captain boggled at him.

  “Ghassan, what are you blathering about?”

  “If that fleet was gathering to come against us, firstly they would have removed the watchtower guards so they couldn’t warn anyone; secondly, they wouldn’t have ships in our water just in case this very thing happened; thirdly, they would be gathering the fleet in Pelasian territory, out of sight of our scouts. By the time they got here, they’d be at full speed and it would be too late to warn anyone.”

  He frowned and a slow but uncertain smile spread across his face.

  “I think we’re looking at a symptom of civil war, captain. There are no ships there flying the Pelasian flag or the God-King’s banner. Just three satraps, and I think they’re all unpopular border lords. They’re gathering in unclaimed water so that no Pelasian sees them in advance. Those bastards are being gathered to go against their own, captain. It’s the only answer.”

  The captain narrowed his eyes.

  “I hope you’re right, Ghassan.”

  The young first officer nodded.

  “They’re not bothering with us. They’ve seen us, but they’re not even sending a scout out toward us. They just don’t care; it’s simply not about us any more.”

  The captain smiled.

  “We may just have caught a break here, Ghassan. A civil war in Pelasia would keep them occupied and off our back for a while; give us a breather.”

  “I’m not too sure about that, sir. The authority of the God-King is the only thing that’s keeping the worst of the satraps under control right now. I dread to think what these three lords would be up to if they didn’t have to answer to the throne.”

  The captain blinked.

  “You really think they’d have a chance against the crown?”

  “Satrap Ma’ahd doesn’t do things unless he is fairly sure of success, sir.”

  “It may be, then, that the man we’ve been watching anxiously for the last decade is our main hope. Gods I hate it when politics gets too involved in the military.”

  Ghassan shrugged. An image of Asima being dragged from a burning palace rose unbidden in his mind.

  “It’s in the hands of the Gods, sir, not us.”

  In which Samir has to move fast

  The Dark Empress rushed across the sea, bouncing from crest to wave crest and throwing spray up in a wall that burst over the prow and washed across the deck. Samir grinned a feral grin as he set his gaze on the black sail ahead.

  It had taken a great deal of wheedling and arguing to persuade captain Khmun to come this far into Pelasian waters. Khmun had now been confirmed as the successor to Surafana on the council of twelve and was uneasy straying too far from Lassos at this juncture. The captain had been dubious about Samir’s unwavering desire to take the Empress against any black sail to be found at sea and the very idea of heading deep into Pelasian waters was just asking for trouble.

  Still, Samir had persisted and had finally won the day. He had wanted to see M’Dahz, even if only from a distance; the port must now be churning out Pelasian ships and a hive of activity, given the number of relatively new vessels they had spotted bearing the insignia of the satrap Ma’ahd. Finally, Samir had sold the idea to Khmun as a scouting mission, highlighting the need to know more about what the satrap was up to with these new ships he was building.

  In truth, there was some validity to that mission goal, but what Samir really wanted to achieve was twofold: to see M’Dahz once again after a decade gone, and to insult the satrap as much as possible by sinking his ships, preferably within sight of the town.

  And two leagues from shore they had spotted a Pelasian scout ship. At such a distance, Samir couldn’t quite make out the pennant, and the vessel could belong to any satrap, but it was clearly Pelasian. At that point they had been a little to the west of M’Dahz, not far from the old Imperial border and their quarry had taken flight as fast as the small, nimble scout could manage, heading directly south toward land.

  Samir, wary of getting too close to land so far west, had requested a decision of the captain, though Khmun had deliberated surprisingly little. The vessel had seen them and it was a matter of pride to chastise them for that. The Empress had a reputation to maintain, after all.

  It was also a matter of pride to the officers and men of the Dark Empress that no vessel in the Sea of Storms could match her for speed. Khmun had set his considerable naval expertise to streamlining the hull, re-working the sails and masts and organising the placement of his oarsmen to maximise their strength. Every time the Empress chased down a fast ship or escaped one due to an extra turn of speed on the oars, those men were put down for an extra ration of liquor or share in the booty. The incentives had impressive results.

  So, despite the impressive pace of the lightweight Pelasian scout, the pirate vessel continued to gain on them, closing the distance as the miles rolled past. The ships had quickly come into full sight of the coast, previously visible only as a thin line of hazy brown on the horizon. In what appeared t
o be a pathetic attempt at evasion, the scout tacked to port and began to run along the coast, some distance from shore. At this point, the hills and dips of the coastline had become distinguishable and a dark smudge rising from the horizon some distance to the east had to be M’Dahz. Samir smiled. If they timed this right they could sink the scout within plain sight of the port watchtowers.

  The dark smudge that…

  Samir shook his head. His eyes must be playing tricks on him.

  The smudge had moved.

  If only he had Ghassan’s sharp eyes.

  No. The smudge was definitely moving. And that meant that it wasn’t M’Dahz at all.

  He frowned and his eyes widened.

  They were ships. There were definite sail shapes that could be made out if you looked carefully enough.

  “Shiiiiiit!”

  Samir turned and ran along the deck, shouting to the captain, but Khmun was already busy. Samir realised with horror that the lookout aloft on the main mast was shouting warnings, but pointing astern.

  “Oh no.”

  His heart sinking, Samir ran to the rail, casting his eyes to the wake behind them and then, with growing dismay, in a wide arc out to sea on the port side of the Empress.

  The shapes of black Pelasian vessels were dotted on the horizon in every direction. What had to be a sizeable fleet was moving up from the east, the smudge on the shore, while a wide cordon of Pelasian warships tightened a net around the pirate ship. They were coming from almost every angle.