by Aaron Yeager
Athel rolled her eyes and holstered her firearm. She suddenly felt the urge to be far away. Some of the trees had mentioned a small trading port several miles inland, and she found the thought of walking there alone irresistible.
“Uh, wait,” Margaret requested timidly as Athel began walking away. “Did you have them removed permanently or will they grow back in the spring?”
“Will what grow back?” Athel asked as she threw a rope ladder over the side and began climbing down.
“Your horns.”
“Wysterians don’t have horns,” Athel corrected as she descended.
“Are you sure?” Margaret called out.
“No, I’m not, why don’t you ask Alder to make sure.”
* * *
Several hours later, Margaret giggled with elation under the shade of a palm tree as she and Alder searched through her textbooks. It was fun for her to try to speak in Wysterian with him; even though she could tell that she was pronouncing most of it wrong, but she didn’t care. It was like having a secret language, a password to the world of the Treesingers, and it made her feel like a part of it for the first time in her life.
“Kai’ila nou aru tsu’nai alli,” Margaret sounded out.
“No, not quite,” Alder corrected in the common tongue. “You need to get used to the two different verbs instead of one. ‘Aru’ describes the location of an inanimate object, but for living things, you use ‘Iru.’”
Margaret scratched a note in her book to remind her of the difference. “Well, what about zombies?” she asked innocently.
“What are zombies?” Alder asked as he rotated a coconut between his knees, cutting into the ripe green husk.
“How can you not know what zombies are?” Margaret asked, shifting her weight as she knelt in the sand in her Navy uniform. “Didn’t you ever read any children’s horror comics?”
“I’m afraid I missed those,” he stated politely as he tore away the husk, revealing the dark brown nut underneath.
“Well, a zombie moves around, but it’s not alive anymore. They go around all tattered and decaying, eating people.” Margaret held out her arms before her with limp hands, and moaned deeply as she rolled her eyes back into her head and swayed from side to side.
“And that scares little kids?” Alder asked.
“Only the girls. The boys are too tough to get scared by stuff like that.” Margaret looked over and saw Alder staring at her with the most bizarre expression on his face. It was as if he had seen a snake crawl out of her ear and could not decide how to react to something so completely outlandish.
“Anyway, my point was that they’re kind of like you, now that I think about it,” she said with an academic snort.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Gerstun, but for the last time, we are not cannibals,” Alder insisted, offense plain on his face.
“No, I mean that you move, but since you’re a man, you don’t have a soul,” Margaret corrected. “So, what verb would you use to describe where a man is, iru or aru?”
“Iru, I suppose,” Alder said, shaking his head in bewilderment.
Margaret began scribbling in the margin of her textbook. “Use ‘Iru’ for men and zombies,” she mumbled to herself as she wrote.
Alder took the coconut and placed it at the apex of a large pile of them he had formed in the shade. Breathing heavily, Captain Evere walked up to the pair of young people in the shade. Despite the heat, the captain was still wearing his thick black wool raincoat over his uniform and his face was that of a ripe beet as he wiped it with the back of his sleeve.
“Can I help you sir?” Alder asked.
“Is that all you have?” Evere criticized, referring to the pile of coconuts. “You’ve been at it all day.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Alder apologized. “If you were to assist me, I could collect and peel them much faster.”
“Captain’s don’t peel husks, laddie,” he said, scratching his sweaty neck. “We’ve got a bigger problem. Now that that tree is gone we have to look to the torn sails.”
“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Alder admitted. “Do you have a plan?”
“You have a sewing kit, don’t you, boy?”
“Aye, sir,” Alder affirmed suspiciously.
“Well,” Evere said, slapping Alder on the back reassuringly, “you better get started if you are to be done by nightfall.”
Alder sighed and rose to his feet. He walked toward the Dreadnaught, where hundreds of feet of torn sails flapped lazily in the warm wind.
“May I ask you a question, sir?” Margaret asked innocently.
“So long as it’s quick,” Evere said, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose.
“Why are you wearing your wool coat in this heat?”
“Because he thinks it makes him look tough,” Mina called out from the deck of the ship above.
“Stow your tongue, woman,” Evere grumbled as he walked off.
Margaret pulled out her notebook and began scribbling. “Black raincoats make you look tough,” she mumbled to herself as she wrote. Suddenly she felt a chill run up her spine as Dr. Griffin approached, holding something cone shaped in each hand.
“I’m really sorry, but I think I’m going to get my annual physical from someone else next time we make port,” Margaret stuttered out as she began gathering up her things frantically.
“Aw, Mina already talked to you, didn’t she?” Dr. Griffin said, a frown on his face. “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to find someone else to eat this ice cream.”
“I-Ice cream?” Margaret asked, stopping in her tracks.
“Your file said that peppermint was your favorite,” he said with a twinkle in his eye as he held out one of the ice cream cones.
“Really? Wow, those files are pretty thorough, aren’t they?” Margaret said, reaching out to take the cone.
“Aw, you’re no fun at all,” he pouted. “You’re supposed to get all huffy and say something like ‘Hey, you aren’t supposed to look in my file!’”
“Oh, sorry,” Margaret said as she took the cone. She put her hands on her hips and spoke in a deeper tone, doing her best Athel impression, “Hey, you grubby log, you aren’t supposed to look in my file!” She smiled and adjusted her glasses. “How was that?”
“That was a great Athel,” Dr. Griffin teased, “only you need to squint your eyes more.”
Margaret moved to take a lick of ice cream, but the melting scoop fell off the cone and landed with a splat on the sandy ground. Her lips became pouty and her eyes went misty, but before she could complain, Dr. Griffin set down his cone on a rock and took a small black sphere out of his coat. As he concentrated, the surface of the sphere began to ripple, as if it was made out of water, and the air hummed. As if moved by unseen hands, the ice cream lifted up off the ground and arranged itself perfectly back onto Margaret’s cone, as though it had never fallen or been disturbed.
“Pretty neat, huh?” Dr. Griffin asked, as he opened his eyes.
“Eeew,” Margaret exclaimed, holding it as far away from herself as her arm would allow.
“What do you mean, ‘eeew?’” he asked, offended. “That was a fifth-level spell.”
“Yeah, but it’s been all over the ground. I can’t eat it now.”
“It’s fine, I restored it.”
“And some of it landed on your shoe.”
“Look, it’s perfectly clean, now eat the ice cream!” he hollered.
Margaret jumped back, surprised at his tone of voice. The cone fell and splattered on the ground again.
“Okay, just what are you up to?” Mina asked, as she walked up, the fur on her back and tail standing on end.
“What? A ship’s doctor can’t give out a welcoming present to a new crew member?” Dr. Griffin defended as Mina twisted his arm behind him.
“Not when it’s laced with one of your flaky potions, now move along before I write you up,” Mina commanded as she shoved him away.
“It was just a tranquilizer,” Dr
. Griffin grumbled as he stumbled away. Mina and Margaret watched him as he climbed up a rope ladder and disappeared over the gunwale above.
“Excuse me,” Margaret said as she pushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face, “but are all Navy doctors like that?”
“You mean crazy?” Mina sighed heavily. “Yes, every last one of them.”
Chapter Thirty One
Steel Weather
Captain Sykes was absolutely bubbling with elation, but he let none of it show on his chiseled face as he motioned for his navigators to maintain their current course. It was an amazing sight to see. A hundred feet to both the starboard and port sides of their Navy interceptor sailed a second and third ship, and beyond them, a fourth and fifth ship, flying in a wedge-shaped formation with the St. Downing at the head. Even in his wildest imagination, he had never thought it would feel this way. Their squadron was but one of seven, moving in coordination as they harassed the besieged defenders of the Giravi Pirate Guild fleet, whose motley assortment of ships scurried along several thousand meters before them.
One of the pirate ships had taken a direct hit to their mainsail and had fallen behind the pack. Rather than turn to reinforce and defend their injured ally, the other vessels had increased their pace, determined to use their stricken vessel as an unwilling sacrifice to stall the advance of the Navy squadrons.
But Admiral Roapes had seen right through that little ploy. A runner approached Captain Sykes, saluting quickly to expedite his message. Captain Sykes saluted slowly in return, much more slowly than was necessary. The message was clear to those who witnessed the silent reproach. Dignity always trumped expediency. Captain Sykes watched the men internalize the lesson, and lowered his hand only when he was satisfied.
“Squadrons Echelon and Brendegar are ordered to ignore the rearguard vessel. Our squadron is to engage it directly,” the man said.
Captain Sykes felt like cheering aloud, but only nodded and signaled the gunnery crews to prep their cannons. The men worked quickly and efficiently, and Captain Sykes breathed in the sharp scent of fresh powder being loaded.
The keystone of Naval tactics was to keep yourself upwind and above your target. That allowed you to maintain initiative and close range at will and made it impossible for your opponent to close with you, as no ship could sail directly into the wind.
At Captain Sykes’ orders, the caller in the upper crow’s nest used his flags to send a signal to the other ships in the squadron, and in a testament to the skills and discipline of their crews, the ships turned nearly in unison to a new course that would place them windward of the pirate ship. Gears and chains groaned and clanked as the yardarms were turned and the sails caught the wind. The St. Downing heeled away slightly as the sails ceased their flapping and caught the full force of the wind. Captain Sykes looked over and saw the wakes of shimmering silver as they fanned out on either side of the vessel like an opening horseshoe. It was the friction with these ethereal wakes that allowed ships to steer, although details about them were closely guarded by the Stonemasters’ circles.
The Navy interceptors moved quickly now through the skies, dispersing small clouds as they moved within firing range of their target. Captain Sykes could feel the tension rising in the air as combat approached. To someone familiar with battle, it was as easily perceptible as a change in scent or temperature. Sykes ordered his lead cannon to give the message that was as old as Naval warfare itself. A flaring red tracer round was fired high over the pirate vessel’s bow. If they did not lower their colors and surrender, then the attack would begin.
The pirate ship raised a second black flag next to the first, and Captain Sykes let out an audible snort at the stubborn defiance.
“The ship is called the Succubus, and it is known to have several Diade crewmembers on board,” his leftenant reported as he scanned through his data crystal.
“Then we shall make sure to keep them downwind of us,” Captain Sykes commanded as he signaled the squadron to attack. The ships turned so that their prey was directly ahead of them and all the cannons focused forward and opened fire. The cannons let off cracks like lightning, the cannonballs streaking out so quickly that they appeared to be only black darts against the blue sky. The other interceptors in the squadron joined in. The noise of so many cannons combined into a sustained cacophony of such force that Captain Sykes could actually feel the sound passing through his body. Clouds of dirty smoke rolled out ahead of the St. Downing, momentarily obscuring their target. When the smoke dissipated, they could see serious damage to the hull of the enemy ship. A fire had erupted on the quarterdeck and the lower mizzenmast had been completely shorn away. All over, pieces of timber and cordage flaked off the ruined ship and fell toward the brutal seas thousands of feet below.
Amazingly, the Succubus returned fire with three of its cannons, and Captain Sykes instantly recognized the danger. The cannonballs burned a dark green as they flew, leaving a whisper thin trail of smoke behind them.
“They’re using venom shells,” Captain Sykes warned, drawing his saber.
The men on his ship tried to duck for cover, but there was little available that would protect them from above. The enemy rounds explodedin the air, showering the Navy ships with sizzling gobbets of green slime. Where the slime hit the deck, it burned and sizzled, dropping down out of sight as the acidic quality of the venom burned through the deck and fell into the ship. Alarm bells were rung on deck, warning the men below to check on the powder magazines, lest any of the droplets ignite them.
The doctors were called up from below, but for many of the men who had been sprayed by the venom, it was already too late. Their eyes rolled back into the heads as they collapsed, their skin turning black where the poison had soaked into their bodies.
Captain Sykes leapt down before the mast and began searching for what he knew was coming. He ran past groups of men carrying the injured below, while others came up to load the cannons for another volley. There was a sound like the roar of a dragon and the deck leapt up beneath his feet, knocking the men to the ground before concealing them in great plumes of rising black smoke. One of the powder kegs had exploded, and the St. Downing listed to one side as her navigators fought to correct her course.
Captain Sykes felt a trickle of blood running down his cheek and somehow knew that it was his. Before him, he saw what he had been looking for. A small globule of slime that had not burned through, but instead was rolling its way along the deck. Captain Sykes stood up and followed its intended path, then could make out through the choking smoke several more. Hundreds of small green droplets converging on a single point near the bowsprit. He ran up to where the droplets were melting into a single larger blob. As he approached, the mass leapt at him, as if sensing his intentions. The captain did not attempt to dodge one way or another. Instead he blocked with his saber, allowing the blob to wrap itself around the steel blade. Without a moment’s hesitation, Sykes threw the saber overboard, the blade already beginning to melt as it dropped out of view where it could do no more damage.
Captain Sykes stood up and surveyed his crew. Already spare cordage was being used to tie down loose sails and ladders, and ‘all clear’ bells rang from below signaling that the fires had been successfully put out. He turned around to look at the Succubus just in time to see it torn in half by a volley of mortars, huge cannonballs three times the normal size and filled with time-delay explosives.
A shadow fell across the deck of the St. Downing, and Captain Sykes and his command crew instinctively looked above them to see the ship that had fired the mortars. It was an awesome sight. A silver warship, easily ten times their size, with six levels of gun decks, the sunlight reflecting off the steel plates of its armored hull. It moved slowly and inexorably, as if no force could ever halt or impede its progress.
“Truly,” Captain Sykes said as he saluted, “she is worthy of the name Indomitable.” Seeing his example, the men on deck saluted as the enormous warship passed overhead and leveled it
s gun decks at the stricken vessel.
How did an idiot like Roapes ever get an Ironclad? Sykes wondered to himself.
* * *
On the bridge of the Indomitable, Admiral Miguel Roapes watched with pleasure as the ruined portions of the Succubus fell from the sky, trails of smoke leaving marks in the sky like scratching fingernails. Admiral Roapes enjoyed mortars much more than regular rounds. Rather than simply punching holes in an enemy vessel, they tore it apart. He held his hands in front of himself, imagining that it was his mighty hands that effortlessly plucked the ship to pieces.
He had personally chosen the gorgeous women on his staff manning the bridge, based on his own specific qualifications. As befitting their special rank on the admiral’s staff, they wore a special uniform that reversed the usual Navy colors. Instead of a white uniform with blue trim, they wore a blue uniform with white trim, and an even shorter skirt than was normal.
“These pirates are parasites,” Admiral Roapes began. His navigators looked at each other with a smile and rolled their eyes, knowing that another long winded monologue was approaching. “They contribute nothing to society. They build nothing, reinforce nothing, add to nothing,” he said as he ran his fingers through his gray goatee.
“Oh, don’t worry about it so much Miguelito,” Rachael soothed, pouring him a fresh glass of wine and running her manicured fingernails gently over the top of his shaven head. Her uniform strained to contain her voluptuous curves as she leaned over and gave him a light kiss on the cheek.
“They have no sense of self-control, no decorum,” he complained between long gulps of wine. “They live only to satisfy their own selfish desires.”
“Squadron Hyperio has managed to maneuver windward of the remaining Giravi ships, Admiral. They can attack immediately or wait until Uptherion Squadron is in position,” his attaché Nicole reported smartly. Admiral Roapes watched her as she spoke. Of all the women on his staff, she alone seemed uncomfortable with the uniforms they wore. Perhaps it was because she was the first female officer in a long line of male officers in her family, or perhaps it was because she came from Falmar, a kingdom renowned for its retentive attitudes. Whatever the reason, she always appeared to be slightly uncomfortable in her own skin, and that, combined with her sharp intellect and stunning good looks made her irresistibly cute, which of course was why she had been chosen to be his personal attaché.