“When you say ‘at the moment,’” Mee said, “you mean that the situation is . . . fluid.”
“I regret to say that indeed the situation can change at any time,” the advisor said.
“And the militia will no longer be able to control the uprising?”
The advisor looked embarrassed. “The militia will likely join their uprising, highness. The people are starving.”
“And what of the capital?”
“Calm. But unrest is coming.”
“And the Imperial Palace?”
“Secure, highness. The gates of the outer walls and also those of the inner keep have been sealed. Your personal guard is a thousand strong and will defend the palace to the death.”
“How long do we have?”
“There is no way to accurately—”
“How long?”
Again, the advisor looked pained. “If we’re lucky, four or five months. The people only just now begin to suspect the situation. Empires do not collapse overnight. If our forces are victorious in Helva, that news alone might be enough to avert catastrophe.”
Mee raised an eyebrow. “And if we’re not lucky?”
“A matter of days,” the advisor said. “The least spark could spawn an inferno, a rumor into a riot.”
“What happened to us?” Mee hadn’t meant it as an actual question. She teetered on the edge of despair, and the words had just slipped out.
“We tried to hang on to the conquered lands too long, expended too many resources,” the advisor said. “And then we were too slow to turn our might toward Helva. The half measures in Klaar were because we were afraid to commit more resources. We should have struck sooner, and with more confidence.”
Mee gathered her wits, lifted her chin. Aloof. Regal. “General Thorn will triumph. Perran will return to glory.”
The advisor bowed low, forehead touching the floor. “As you say, highness.”
“Have we had further word from the general?”
“Not since his routine contact two days ago,” the advisor said. “But one of your court magicians monitors the scrying crystal at all times should he attempt to contact us.”
“Then there is nothing for us to do but wait,” Mee said. “And to pray.”
***
General Thorn stood on the deck of the fleet’s flagship, watching the gray sea toss the thousands of ships all around him. The black clouds overhead were thankfully receding. Two nights ago an unexpected violent storm had come up from the south, battering the fleet. Ship-to-ship communication—a complicated system of colored flags—confirmed they’d lost nearly eighty ships in the typhoon. Considering the fierceness of the storm, it could have been much worse.
In all of Perran’s long, glorious history, no military scheme of this magnitude had ever been attempted. Ten thousand ships. As a young officer during the colonial campaigns, he would never have dreamed of such a thing.
The invasion of Helva was necessary to the survival of the Perranese Empire. But the truth was, Thorn would have lobbied for it anyway. The greatest war in human history, and Thorn would forever be known as the one who’d won it. There would be songs and stories, of course. Flattering statues of him. He was well aware of his own vanity and didn’t care. He would practice modesty if he failed.
Actually, he would kill himself if he failed. Honor would demand it.
But he didn’t plan to fail.
Success depended on a thousand little things going right, and at the moment more than anything he wished for some intelligence, and being on a ship at sea made gathering up-to-date intelligence problematic.
Still, there were ways.
A junior officer approached Thorn and saluted.
“The magician has made contact with the scout ships?” Thorn asked. They’d sent out scout ships a few days before the main fleet had departed Perran. Hopefully Thorn wouldn’t be invading blind.
“As you ordered, sir,” the officer said. “Our ship has spotted a cargo ship coming out of Kern. They report they should be able to close on it today and get prisoners for interrogation.”
“Excellent,” Thorn said
It would be impossible to keep ten thousand ships secret forever, but the longer the better. Prisoners from the ship out of Kern might tell him how far up the coast information had traveled, if at all. Catching the city of Sherrik by complete surprise would of course be preferable, but in the long run it didn’t matter. There were not even half the number of fighting men in the southern part of Helva to oppose Thorn’s landing. His spies had been confident about that. Pemrod would send troops, of course, but too few and too late.
“When the scout ship has prisoners, inform me immediately,” Thorn said.
***
The captain had told them to keep the weapons out of sight. Barazz wanted them to look helpless, a merchant ship fleeing for its life. Alem kept glancing into the coiled stack of rope where he’d hidden his crossbow and quiver of arrows. The others had done likewise, all of Barazz’s crew going about the business of sailing the Witch of Kern but none ever getting too far from a hidden cutlass.
Alem had been standing at the railing all day, watching the Perranese ship draw slowly but relentlessly closer. When it had gotten close enough to see details, Barazz had confirmed everyone’s fears. It was a Perranese vessel. The accordion sails and sleek, narrow design left no doubt. A smaller ship than the Witch of Kern, but faster for it. The men on the deck of the Perranese vessel looked like they were bunching along the rail, weapons and rope and grappling hooks ready for the ensuing clash.
“Don’t let them cross,” Barazz said, suddenly behind him. “They’ll get close and throw across the grappling hooks. If the hooks catch, they’ll pull the ships together and send everyone they have across. Pick them off with the crossbow if you can. I have another bowman in the crow’s nest.”
Alem swallowed hard. He’d told Barazz he’d handled a crossbow before, and somehow the captain had the idea he was some sort of expert marksman. Alem wanted to tell him he was no warrior. He’d been practicing with the crossbow but was far from an expert. He would do his best but—
“Don’t let them cross,” Barazz ordered.
“I won’t,” Alem said.
The Perranese ship was almost even with them now. Alem could see the grim faces of the warriors on the other deck. They didn’t seem afraid or eager or anything at all, really. That they would board the Witch of Kern and assault her crew was simply a matter of their existence.
Alem felt an urgent need to pee.
Maurizan appeared at his side, her brace of long daggers on her belt hidden by a long cloak. The gypsies had a signature fighting style, a dagger in each hand. They danced and dodged around their opponents, knives twirling in some lethal ballet.
“Feeling better?” Alem asked.
Her eyes flicked to his then back to the other ship. “My churning gut has been replaced by battle nerves. Probably some kind of survival instinct.”
Survival. The word jarred Alem. His first sea battle, and he would either live or die.
“I’m sorry,” Alem said.
Maurizan looked at him again, more piercing this time. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what I could have done differently,” Alem said. “But I’m sorry about the way it ended between us. Sorry I hurt you.”
She looked back out to sea. After a moment, she said, “No. I was foolish. You always belonged to another. I made myself think I could change that.”
“If it helps at all, I know what that feels like now,” Alem said.
“It doesn’t help.”
Maurizan tried to smile and failed, and somehow that hurt Alem more than if she’d scowled at him.
A swell suddenly pitched the two ships closer to one another. Alem saw men readying ropes and lifting weapons. The Witch of Kern tried to veer off, but it was too late. Arrows flew from the other ship and clattered on the deck and among the rigging behind Alem.
Nobody had s
aid the words go or charge or anything. They were just suddenly fighting.
He grabbed his crossbow, aimed at one of the men holding a coil of rope and twirling a grappling hook over his head. The deck dipped as Alem shot, and the bolt sped over his target’s head, hitting a different man behind him in the thigh.
Damn it. Alem scrambled to crank the crossbow and reload.
The warrior with the rope let the grappling hook fly. It clanged short against the gunwale and fell into the water. The warrior rushed to reel it back in.
Alem set a new bolt into the firing slot.
The other ship was ridiculously close now, and a dozen Perranese warriors swung out of the rigging on ropes over Alem’s head to land on the deck behind him. The sailors behind him roared a battle cry, and the racket of steel on steel filled the air as hand-to-hand fighting erupted. A grappling hook clanged home to Alem’s left, caught on the railing, the rope pulling tight.
Maurizan rushed to the railing, one of her long daggers in her hand. The iron stem of the grappling hook was long enough that it forced her to lean out dangerously over the water to reach where the rope was connected. She sawed on it with the dagger.
Across the narrow gap between ships, Alem saw one of the warriors raise a bow and aim it at Maurizan.
Alem lifted his crossbow. He remembered the bobbing motion of the ship, took aim, and held his breath. He timed it for the upswell and fired.
The bolt caught the warrior in the shoulder, spinning him back into the men behind him. Other warriors surged forward to take his place, brandishing weapons and ropes. More grappling hooks flew across the gap.
Maurizan finished cutting away the first grappling line and ran to another. Alem cranked the crossbow.
Another half dozen Perranese warriors swung across on ropes. Others were already attempting to haul in the lines connecting the ships, pulling them closer.
Alem aimed at one of the warriors with rope in his hands, and shot. The bolt pierced the man’s breastplate in the dead center. He dropped the rope, screaming, and fell back.
“Alem, look out!”
Tosh’s voice? Alem turned to look and—
Bodies smashed into him, knocking him to the deck. Legs all around him, the barefoot sailors and the booted, armored Perranese warriors. Steel clashed above. Below, a knee hit him in the side of the head. Somebody tripped and fell over him. A stab and a scream; others moved in to join the fray. Somebody stepped on his hand.
Get out of here, thicko, before you get trampled.
Alem spotted an opening in the legs and crawled on his belly toward it.
A scream and a sailor hit the deck hard next to him, his eyes rolled back.
Alem pried the cutlass from the dead man’s hand. He had no idea how to use it, but standing around slack jawed wasn’t an option. He swung at the nearest pair of armored Perranese legs. The blade bit deep in the leather part of the armor behind the warrior’s knee. He screamed and toppled, crashing into the deck. A sailor on top of him finished the job, jabbing a dagger into the warrior’s throat.
Alem scrambled to his feet, cutlass raised to ward off whatever came next.
A Perranese warrior lunged at him. Alem was barely able to bring the cutlass around to block. The warrior pressed his attack, and Alem backed away quickly, swinging the cutlass back and forth, trying to fend off the blows. He was clearly outmatched and wasn’t going to last long. The warrior was already batting aside his defenses with little effort.
One of the twins crashed in from the side, bringing her sword down in a two-handed strike. Kalli—the one with the long scar on her face—hacked at the Perranese warrior, penetrating armor, blood gushing. He screamed in pain and tried to bring his sword around to parry, but she was already laying into him with another savage chop. The blow caught him on the shoulder near his neck, blood spraying, and he went down, eyes bulging.
“Thank you,” Alem said, but Kalli was already moving on, throwing herself back into the thick of the battle.
Back at the railing, Maurizan sawed frantically at a grappling line with her dagger. Alem was alarmed to see three other hooks caught on the railing within twenty feet of her. The warriors across the gap hauled on the lines, drawing the Witch of Kern closer. Soon they’d be able to leap across easily. Sailors ran to the other lines, tried to cast them off.
A volley of arrows flew from the Perranese ship. One missed Maurizan by an inch.
The others didn’t miss.
The arrows fell among the sailors attempting to cast off the grappling-hook lines. They twitched and died, falling to the deck, still uselessly clutching the arrows protruding from chests or necks or bellies.
Alem rushed to one of the lines, hacked at it with the cutlass. It wouldn’t be fast enough, he realized. They were tossing across lines faster than he could cut them. They’d soon pull the ships together, and the rest of the Perranese would storm across and overwhelm them.
The line Alem was cutting suddenly went slack and fell into the water, but not from his end. He looked up, saw the Perranese hurriedly cutting the lines on their side. A ragged cheer went up from the sailors behind Alem. He turned to see them putting down the last of the Perranese warriors. Bodies from both sides littered the deck.
Barazz appeared at the railing next to Alem. He was covered in blood, one red hand still clutching a cutlass. He pointed out to sea past the prow. “There.”
The three ships were surprisingly close, triangular sails white and bright against the blue sky, sleek hulls slicing the waves as they headed directly for the Witch of Kern.
“Who are they?” Alem asked.
“They fly the flag of Sherrik,” Barazz said. “The duke’s flag. Luck is on our side. A few more minutes and we would have been dead.”
Maurizan and Alem exchanged nervous, relieved smiles.
“Maybe they will escort us in,” Barazz said. “I’d sure feel safer if they did.”
Alem looked back at the carnage on the deck. The fight had taken its toll on the crew. A number of sailors lay dead. Alem spotted Tosh, who bled down one arm, but the wound didn’t seem critical.
He sighed with relief but then saw Kalli kneeling next to her twin sister. Nell lay on her back, eyes open and glassy. Those eyes would never see anything again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Rina and the rest of them hadn’t expected to catch up with Count Becham’s party so soon.
They also hadn’t expected to find the army camped across the road in front of them.
They’d crested a small hill and had reined in their horses upon seeing the army. At least a thousand men, horses and supply wagons.
“Royal banners,” Hark said. “Troops from Merridan.”
“Why here?” Rina asked.
“Maybe they heard you were coming,” Brasley said.
Rina frowned at him.
“A joke,” Brasley said. “Suddenly everyone hates jokes now?”
“Riders,” Talbun said. “Heading this way.”
Four men in full armor galloped toward them. One carried a royal military banner. The halted in front of Rina, and the one wearing an officer’s ribbon lifted a hand in greeting. “Duchess Veraiin?’
“I’m Duchess Veraiin,” Rina said.
“Well met, your grace. We’ve been expecting you.”
“See?” Brasley said from the side of his mouth.
“Shut up,” Rina whispered back. To the officer she asked, “Expecting me how?”
“Count Becham preceded you,” the officer said. “As you see, we’re bivouacked below. Tents have been prepared, and General Inshaw invites you to join him for a feast tonight.”
“A feast?” Rina raised an eyebrow. “The general’s army travels well.”
“The general is a champion of civilization, even in the wilds,” the officer said.
“Tell the general we will be happy to join him,” Rina said.
The officer saluted again, and then he and his men rode back down the hill.
&nb
sp; “Where’s this army going, I wonder,” Hark said.
“We’ll ask General Inshaw. Come on.” She spurred her horse down the hill toward the camp.
***
They sat at a long table, laughter and conversation filling the grand tent. The encampment had more of a holiday feel than of an army off to war. As honored guests, Rina sat to the general’s right at the head of the table, Count Becham to the left. Bishop Hark, Sir Gant, Brasley, and Talbun occupied the next seats down the line, followed by various junior officers.
“Five thousand men to Sherrik, you say?” Hark held out his cup, and a servant behind him leaned in to refill it with wine.
“Yes, by barge. But that will only take them so far. They’ll need to strike out across land before hitting the white water.”
General Inshaw had probably been a powerful figure at one point in his life, but now, in his early sixties, he’d gone bald and fat, and he seemed to think a constant flow of red wine instrumental to conducting any good military campaign. His defining feature was an enormous white moustache that curled at the ends like boar tusks. He’d been all too delighted to host a duchess, a count, and a bishop for a feast far too elaborate for an army on the march. The man seemed to think he’d gone far too long without the jolly good fun of a good old-fashioned war, and it was about time another had come along.
“Will that force be large enough to hold the city?” Rina asked.
Since arriving at Inshaw’s camp, Rina and her party had been inundated with news of the incoming Perranese fleet. Reports from various spies conflicted. Some said the Perranese were sending a small expeditionary force. Others warned against an all-out invasion, and a few said there was no fleet at all and the whole thing was a complete hoax.
“More than sufficient, I should think,” Inshaw said. “Sherrik’s walls are high and its gates thick. With our men reinforcing the duke’s, I imagine they can withstand a siege indefinitely.”
“Is it to be a siege, then?” Brasley asked.
“That’s what I would do if I thought it would be a short one,” the general said. “Capturing Sherrik gives them a deep-water port and a strong foothold on Helvan soil. With Sherrik in their hands, they can resupply in relative safety. The trick is speed. The longer a siege lasts, the less likely the Perranese are to succeed. It’s why I successfully lobbied Pemrod to send as many troops as possible. The Perranese might have overwhelmed the walls in a few days, but an extra five thousand fighting men will put a stop to that. Whether our men get overland to Sherrik in time is the only question.”
The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2) Page 21