There Will Be War Volume VII

by Jerry Pournelle

  They had labored all day, escaped death so many times. Were they cursed, to be so forced into yet another struggle?

  “Stations for tacking,” Derec said. “We’ll see how badly the captain-general wants to fight us.” He could still not bring himself to speak of the man disrespectfully.

  Birdwing came across the wind easily. “Ease her a bit,” Derec ordered. “Keep her full.” He ordered the guns loaded with roundshot and gauged his distance carefully. “Back the main tops’l,” he said finally. “Run out the larboard battery.” He was going to give Collerne a hard choice. “Ready, boys!” he called. “Aim carefully, now!” The ship’s motion altered as the main topsail backed, as the ship’s speed checked and its corkscrew shudder ended. Carefully Derec gauged the ship’s motion. Tops’l aback, Birdwing was a far steadier platform.

  “Fire!”

  The deck shuddered to the salvo. White feathers leaped from the sea around Torn.

  “Fill the tops’l! Reload and run out! Helm down!”

  Derec looked at the other race-built ship, eyes narrowing. His maindeck culverins, longer though with a smaller bore than the demicannon on the gundeck, were ideal at this range. He would claw to windward, fall off, fire, then claw to windward again while his crews reloaded: he was going to punish Torn II mercilessly on the approach, make her pay for every fathom gained. The enemy couldn’t reply, not without luffing out of the wind to present her broadside.

  Collerne had two choices now, Derec knew. He could continue beating toward Birdwing, paying for every inch with lives, or he could luff and open the battle at this range. The battle wouldn’t be decisive at a half-mile’s distance—the two ships would fire off their ammunition at this range, fail to do mortal damage, and that would be the end of it. Derec prayed Collerne would choose the latter outcome.

  “Back the main tops’l! Run out!”

  Another broadside crashed out. “Fill the tops’l! Load! Helm down!”

  Luff, Derec thought fiercely as he looked at the enemy. Luff, damn you.

  The enemy were determined to stand Derec’s fire. His heart sank at the thought of killing more of his countrymen.

  Having no choice, he did what he must. He fired another broadside, tacked, fired the larboard guns. _Torn’_s bow chasers replied, pitching a ball at Birdwing every few minutes; but Torn had to be taking punishment as she came into the culverins’ ideal range. Her sails were as pitted by shot holes as the cheeks of a whore with the Great Pox.

  Five hundred yards. “Fire!” He could hear the sound of shot striking home. Four hundred. “Fire!” Three. “Fire!”

  The wind blew the ocean clear of smoke. Derec stared to leeward, hoping to see a mast fall, a sail flog itself to bits, anything that might allow him to slip away. Nothing. Reluctantly he gave the orders.

  “Fill the mains’l. Clew up the t’gallants. We’ll give the captain-general the fight he’s come for.”

  The guns lashed out once more and then Torn luffed elegantly, the bronze guns running out the square ports, two lines of teeth that shone in the bright southern sun.

  There were gaps in the rows of teeth: two ports beaten into one, another empty port where a gun may have been disabled. Derec’s breath caught in his throat.

  Fire lapped the surface of the ocean. Torn’s crew had waited hours for this and it seemed as if every shot struck home, a rapid series of crashes and shudders that rocked the deck beneath Derec’s feet. There was a cry as a half-dozen of Marcoyn’s marines were scattered in red ruin over the fo’c’sle, then a shriek, sounding like the very sky being torn asunder, as a ball passed right over Derec’s head to puncture the mizzen lateen. He was too startled to duck.

  Birdwing‘s guns gave their answering roars. Derec gave the command to fire at will. He could sense the magic shields Tevvik wove about the ship; felt a probe, felt it easily rebuffed. There was only one enemy wizard now; he was as tired as everyone else. The range narrowed and the marines’ murderers began to bark. Gunfire was continuous, a never-ending thunder. A musket ball gouged wood from the mizzen above Derec’s head; he began to pace in hope of discouraging marksmen.

  Derec’s ship seemed to be pulling ahead as the range narrowed and Birdwing stole Torn’s wind. Derec didn’t want that, not yet; he had the foretops’l laid aback, allowed Torn to forge ahead slightly, then filled the sail and resumed his course.

  Fifty yards: here they would hammer it out, guns double-shotted with a round of grape choked down each barrel for good measure. A maindeck culverin tipped onto its crew, its carriage wrecked by a ball. There was a crash, a massive rumble followed by a human shriek. Derec stared: the main topgallant had been shot away and come roaring down, a tangle of rigging and canvas and broken timber. Marcoyn already had a party hacking at the wreckage and tossing it overboard. Derec clenched his teeth and waited. Thunder smote his ears. Gunpowder coated his tongue in layers, like dust on a dead man.

  The wreckage was clear—good. The enemy was falling a bit behind. “Set the fore t’gallant!” Derec roared; the seamen gave him puzzled glances, and he repeated the order.

  Canvas boomed as the topgallant was sheeted home; Derec could feel the surge of speed, the lift it gave his nimble ship. He peered over the bulwark, squinting through the smoke that masked the enemy. With his added speed, he’d try to cross her bows and let her run aboard: he’d have his every gun able to rake down the enemy’s length with scarce a chance of reply.

  “Put up the helm!” A musket ball whirred overhead; two quarterdeck murderers barked in reply. The marines were cursing without cease as they loaded and fired, a constant drone of obscenity. Derec wondered where they found the energy.

  Birdwing curved downwind like a bird descending on its prey, Derec staring anxiously at the enemy. He felt his heart sink: the blue sky between the enemy’s masts was widening. Collerne had been ready for him, and was matching Birdwing’s turn with his own.

  “Helm hard to weather!” Frantic energy pulsed through Derec. “Hands to the larboard guns! Run ’em out! Braces, there! Brace her around!”

  If he made his turn quick enough, he might be able to slide across Collerne’s stern and deliver a raking shot with his fresh larboard broadside, a stroke as devastating as that which Torn had fired into Birdwing’s stern that morning.

  Sails boomed and slatted overhead. The firing trailed off as the guns no longer bore. Derec ran frantically for the larboard rail and saw, too late, a tantalizing glimpse of Torn’s stern, a glimpse lasting only a few seconds before it slid away. Derec beat a fist on the rail. The maneuver hadn’t worked at all—Collerne had anticipated everything. The ships had just changed places, larboard tack to starboard, like dancers at a ball. And Torn was firing with a new broadside now, not the one he’d punished for the last few hours.

  “Luff her! Gun crews, fire as you bear!” He’d get in one unopposed broadside, at least.

  The unused broadside blasted away into Torn’s starboard quarter. Derec could see splinters flying like puffs of smoke. He filled his sails and surged on.

  Now they were yardarm-to-yardarm again, the guns hammering at point-blank range. The crews were weary, taking casualties, and the rate of fire had slowed; the deadly iron thunderstorm was blowing itself out. A whirring charge of grape caught SuKrone in the side and flung him to weather like a doll, already dead; a musket ball whanged off Derec’s breastplate and made him take a step back, his heart suddenly thundering in panic. Frantically he began pacing, his feet slipping in pools of blood.

  Who was winning? Torn had been hard hit, but her weight of armament was superior; she had a larger crew, having probably taken men off the damaged Sea Troll; and Derec was forced to admit she had the better captain. Birdwing had been hit hard in the first fight, and her crew were exhausted. Everywhere he looked Derec saw blood, death, smoke, and ruin.

  He’d try his trick one more time, Derec thought. He couldn’t think of anything else. If it didn’t work, he’d just fight it out toe-to-toe until there was nothing l
eft to fight with. He wouldn’t surrender. If Birdwing lost, he’d take one of his stolen pistols and blow his own brains out.

  Birdwing was forging ahead, the topgallant still set. Very well. He’d try to do it better.

  “Hands to tacks and sheets! Hands to the braces! Ready, there? Helm to weather!”

  Birdwing lurched as the rudder bit the water. Bullets twittered overhead. The enemy wizard made some kind of strike, and Derec felt it deep in his awareness; his mind lanced out and parried. He could sense Tevvik there, feel a part of the foreigner’s mind merge with his own.

  If you ever do anything, he begged, do it now.

  The answer came. Very well.

  Derec looked up again, saw the blue space between the enemy’s masts increasing. Damn: he’d been anticipated again.

  “Hard a-weather! Sheets, there! Man the starboard guns!”

  They were dancing around again, just changing places. The bonaventure and mizzen lateen boomed as the wind slammed them across the deck. Derec saw the enemy stern and knew he could never cross it, knew it for certain—and then there was a yellow flash, Torn’s windows blowing out in rainbow splinters, bright light winking from each gunport along the maindeck. Guns boomed, firing at empty sea. Derec’s mouth dropped as he saw an enemy marine, standing with his firelock in the mizzen chains, suddenly fling his arms back as each of the powder flasks he carried across his chest went off, little dots of fire that knocked him into the shrouds…

  Tevvik, Derec thought. He specialized in fireworks. But now Derec was screaming, his throat a raw agony.

  “Fire as you bear!” Birdwing was going to win the race: the maindeck explosion had paralyzed the enemy, possibly blown the helmsmen away from the whipstaff.

  The guns went off, flinging hundreds of pounds of metal into the helpless ship’s stern. Torn wallowed, the wind pushing her away. Derec could hear her crewmen screaming for water-buckets. Tevvik must have set off a pile of cartridges on the maindeck, spreading fire, making guns go off prematurely while their crews were still ramming shot home…

  Birdwing followed, firing shot after shot; Torn’s crew was desperately fighting fires and could not reply. Derec sensed a new energy in his gunners; they were firing faster than they had since the enemy’s approach. They knew this was victory and wanted to hasten it.

  “Captain.” It was one of the surgeon’s assistants, a boy in a bloody apron. Derec glared at him.

  “What is it?”

  “The wizard’s unconscious, sir. The Liavekan, what’s-his-name. He just yelled something in his heathen tongue and collapsed. Surgeon thought you’d need to know.”

  Derec put his hand on the boy’s arm. “Compliments to the surgeon. Thank you, boy.”

  The guns roared on. Torn got her fires under control, but the explosion had devastated the crew: they didn’t have the heart to continue. When all the gun crews dribbled away, heading for the hatches, the officers conceded the inevitable and hauled down their colors. Birdwing came alongside to take possession.

  Collerne, leading his surviving officers, surrendered in person, a tall white-haired man in beautifully crafted, muscled armor, a splinter wound on one cheek, both hands blackened where he’d beat at the fire. Derec looked into the man’s eyes, hoping to see some sign of friendship, of understanding for what Derec had had to do. There was nothing there, no understanding, no friendship, not even hate. Derec took his patron’s sword wordlessly.

  “We’ve done it, SuPashto! Beaten ’em!” Marcoyn was by Derec’s side now, his pale unfocused eyes burning fire. “We’re free!” Marcoyn saw Collerne standing mute by the poop rail; he turned to the captain-general, stared at him for a long moment, then deliberately spat in his face.

  “Free, d’ye hear, Collerne?” he roared. “You thought you’d strangle us all, but now I’ll throttle you myself. And now I’ll be captain of your ship as well.”

  The spittle hung on Collerne’s face. He said nothing, but his deep gray eyes turned to Derec, and Derec’s blood turned chill.

  Derec put a hand on Marcoyn’s armored shoulder. “He’s worth more in ransom alive,” he said. “You and your people take possession of the other ship.”

  Marcoyn considered this, the taunting grin still on his face. “Aye,” he said. “Maybe I’d like their money more than their lives.” He gave a laugh. “I’ll have to give it some thought. While I enjoy my new cabin on my new ship.”

  He turned to his men and roared orders. There were cheers from the marines as they swarmed aboard Torn and began looting the enemy survivors. Collerne’s eyes turned away from Derec. There was no gratitude there, just an emptiness as deep as the ocean. Despair filled Derec. The rapier in his hand felt as heavy as a lead weight.

  “Go to my cabin, Captain-General,” he said. “Wait for me there. I’ll send the surgeon to tend to your hands.” In silence, Collerne obeyed. Derec sent the other officers below to the cable tier and had them put under guard.

  Suddenly Derec was aware of Tevvik standing by the break of the poop. How long had the wizard been there? His face showed strain and exhaustion, but he’d heard everything; his hooded expression demonstrated that well enough.

  Derec glanced up at the mizzen shrouds. There wasn’t room any longer for all the countrymen he’d killed; the ghosts, he thought, would have to stand in line.

  It wasn’t over yet, Derec knew. The Two Kingdoms trading fleets came to the Sea of Luck every year, and sailors had long memories. Squadrons would hunt for Birdwing, and even if Derec received the protection of one of the cities, there would still be kidnappers and assassins. No end to this killing, Derec thought, not until I’m dead. Will the gods forgive me, he wondered, for not killing myself and ending this slaughter?

  The two race-built ships spun in the wind, locked together like weary prizefighters leaning against one another for support. Wreckage and bodies bobbed in the water. From Torn II came a smell of burning.

  Derec realized he was the only man remaining who could navigate. He ordered his charts to be brought up from the safety of the hold.

  “Secure the guns,” he said. “I’ll chart a course north, to Liavek.”

  The sea was kind that night: a moderate wind, a moderate swell. The two ships traveled under easy sail and echoed to the sound of repairs.

  Near staggering with weariness, Derec paced Birdwing’s weather rail. Collerne still waited in Derec’s cabin. Marcoyn was probably drunk and unconscious in the admiral’s cabin aboard Torn. Only Derec was without a place to sleep.

  There was a tread on the poop companion, and Derec saw Tevvik approaching him.

  “You have recovered?” Derec asked. His tongue was thick. No matter how much kaf he consumed his mouth still tasted of powder.

  “Somewhat.” The wizard’s voice was as weary as his own. “May I join you, Captain?”

  “If you like.” Exhaustion danced in Derec’s brain. He swayed, put a hand on the bulwark to steady himself.

  Tevvik’s voice was soft. “You will have to make a choice, Captain,” he said.

  “Not now, Wizard.”

  “Soon, Captain.”

  Derec said nothing. Tevvik stepped closer, pitched his voice low. “If Marcoyn gets his way, you will all die. His Scarlet Eminence won’t make a deal with a butcher.”

  “This is my affair, Wizard. None of yours.”

  “Only the thought of ransom kept him from another massacre. What will happen when he realizes the ransom will never come? Liavek isn’t at war with the Two Kingdoms—their price courts will never permit you to ransom a neutral. When Marcoyn thinks things through, there will be trouble.” Tevvik’s easy smile gleamed in his dark face. “I can deal with Marcoyn, Captain. He will have gone overboard while drunk, and that’s all anyone will ever know.”

  Derec glared at the foreigner and clenched his fists. I’ll have my own discipline on my own ship," he grated. “I don’t need wizard’s tricks, and I won’t be a party to conspiracies.”

  “It’s far too late for th
at, Captain.”

  Derec jerked as if stung. “It’s not too late to stop.”

  “Events generate their own momentum. You of all people should know that.” He leaned closer, put a hand on Derec’s shoulder. “Marcoyn’s marines have the firelocks, Captain. He has possession of one ship already, and he can take yours anytime he wants.”

  “He needs me. The man can’t navigate.”

  “Once he turns pirate, he can capture all the navigators he needs.”

  “I can deal with him, Wizard!” Derec’s voice roared out over the still ship. Tevvik took a step back from the force of his rage.

  His mind ablaze, Derec stormed down the poop ladder, past the startled helmsman, and down the passage that led to his cabin. The guard at the door straightened in surprise as Derec flung open the door.

  Collerne looked up. He was out of his armor and seated in one of Derec’s chairs, trying to read a Zhir book on navigation with his bandaged hands. Derec hesitated before the man’s depthless gaze.

  “I want you off my ship, Captain-General,” he said.

  Collerne’s eyes flickered. “Why is that, Mr. SuPashto?” He spoke formally, without expression.

  “I’m going to put you and your officers in a boat and let you make your way to Gold Harbor. You’ll have food and water for the trip. A backstaff so you can find your latitude.”

  With a careful gesture, Collerne closed his book and held it between bandaged hands. “You are running for Liavek, are you not? Can you not let us off there?”

  Derec looked at him. “It’s for your safety, Captain-General.”

  Collerne took a moment to absorb this. “Very well, Mr. SuPashto. I understand that you might have difficulty controlling your people now they’ve had a taste of rebellion.”

  Suddenly Derec hated the man, hated his superiority, the cold, relentless precision of his intelligence. “You would have strangled and eviscerated every man on this ship!” he said.

  Collerne’s voice was soft: “That was my duty, Mr. SuPashto,” he said. “Not my pleasure. That’s the difference between me and your Mr. Marcoyn.”