“Agreed. But you are alive and not a puppet. So that’s something.” Draken leaned back and tipped his head against the sill, catching a glimpse of the bright sky beyond.
Who’s arguing? You command and they follow, Khel Szi.
Draken held perfectly still but for a muscle quivering beneath his eye. Bruche?
Of course. A hesitation and the voice softened, barely emerging from the waves. Come in … I would see you again.
Draken blinked. In? Into the sea? It could be a trap, damn it. But it sounded like him, felt like him. His sword hand relaxed as if ready to let the spirit command his muscles, to fight and kill. It must be a deception, or a trick of his own mind.
Galbrait hauled himself up, bent over, elbows on knees. His voice cut into Draken’s fixation with his spirit swordhand. “There’s nothing left for me there.”
Draken blinked at him. “At the moment, no. But your army is just ahead of you. Go to Akrasia and take control of it. Let your army annoint you King. Then you can go back.”
The Prince stared at him. “How? They’ve got a commander. That Rinwar priest.”
Galbrait had no idea about Aarinnaie and her knives. Draken allowed himself a small smile. “Leave that bit to me.”
“I will. I will do that.”
It seemed too easy. But he was weary of arguing and worrying. Draken got up. “Now come. You need a wash and fresh air. I expect you up and helping with duties at first light and to spend afternoons keeping your sword skills sharp for the rest of our journey.”
The Prince followed him out to the deck, obedient, saying little, keeping his gaze downcast under the curious stares of the crew. Draken retreated to the prow again as they hauled up water from the sea for the Prince to wash. Draken watched him strip and splash himself, scrubbing his hair and body with the caustic soap and rinsing as he shivered on the deck. Osias approached him and they spoke, though Draken couldn’t hear what they said. Setia climbed the rigging as if she’d been shipbound her entire life. He listened for Bruche, but the sea was silent.
Tyrolean nodded to Galbrait and came up the steps to the bow. “You got him up, Your Highness. Well done.”
“He couldn’t sleep in there for the entire journey. We have a fight ahead of us and we all need practice with the blade, me most of all.” Galbrait would make a formidable sparring opponent. But he didn’t meet Tyrolean’s eyes.
“And if our blades fail us against the Monoeans?” Tyrolean asked quietly.
Draken’s hands tightened on the rail, saying nothing. He had no answer—not one Tyrolean would approve, anyway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Two nights later bells pealed through Draken’s tired mind, brutalizing his sleep. He groaned, still with a shadowy Elena, her long hair soft under his hand, her voice making his heart ease. She turned her head to listen, her smile faltering at Setia’s voice—
“Khel Szi?”
His eyelids fluttered and he peered upward. Setia bent over him, her dappled brow furrowed. “Your Highness, there is a ship chasing our course and gaining. Osias confirms it.”
Draken rolled over with a grunt, stomach swimming with exhaustion. Elena’s pendant thumped against his bare chest, hot from his grip.
Tyrolean’s silhouette blocked the doorway, the twin swords sticking over his shoulders like Khellian’s horns. Wavering lantern light made him appear otherworldly and eerie. But his voice sounded firm, real. “We think it’s a Monoean ship.”
The warning bell still rung so that he could hardly think. “Stop the blasted bell,” he growled. “They’ll have heard it all the way to Dragonstar by now.”
Gods, his mind was muggy, though he’d had only one cup of ale before succumbing to sleep. His body felt battered, worn; his joints ached deep. Galbrait and Tyrolean had schooled him with the sword in the heat of the afternoon and every muscle bellowed a protest at the effects. He reached for Seaborn, wincing. Old injuries had tightened in his sleep. His knee protested a little less; he could expect it to give way when he least expected it.
“A galleon?” he asked, voice rough.
“Not so big as all that, but bigger than the Bane. It’s not close enough yet to make out its colors.”
“How is the light?” He pushed past Tyrolean, tightening his belt around his trousers, forgoing boots and shirt. Abruptly Brînian coastal clothing made sense. If he was forced into the water at any point, the last thing he’d want was boots on. Of course, if he was forced into the water, boots would be the least of his problems.
Tyrolean didn’t answer because soon enough Draken was striding over the deck, looking over the skies and light for himself. Only three moons yet, low on the horizon where Khellian had lingered the day before. Soon the sky would brighten, revealing all. He turned and stared into the darkness ahead. The ship was ghostly in the night, just barely catching a glint of the moonlight. Slowly his eyes adjusted and its masts and rigging formed jagged, stair-stepped peaks, sails billowing. Surely the Bane was their target. His ship abruptly felt very small. He glanced back at the peculiar moonglow, ghostly across the soft waves. Khellian had failed to appear for his Chosen’s latest fight, he noted dryly, but Korde waited to see if he could ferry any dead to his high mountaintops this night.
He rubbed his hand over his chest and around the back of his neck, trying to wake up. The chill night air would do the rest.
“Eerie, that. Like an omen.” He could detect the slight shudder in Aarinnaie’s voice as she pressed against his arm.
“Aarin, you should go below.”
“You need me. You need every hand when they attack.”
“She’s right.” Galbrait had been hidden in the moonshadow of a mast and eased forward. “And hiding won’t help if they board us.”
Draken had given up worrying about the rearguard of the Monoean fleet after so many nights without seeing any sign of it, curse him to Eidola. He’d assumed they thought they were too powerful to attack. But … “They don’t risk attack from the rear. They never have done.” It was one of the tactics that made the Monoean Navy so good. So damned hard to beat.
“They must’ve sailed out of our sight-line and back round,” Joran said. His forehead creased. That meant a quick sailing ship, surely faster than the Bane.
“Aye, and they knew they could outsail us before they left Sister Bay. They had plenty of time to look us over,” Draken said. He cursed in two languages and stared at the ship. Then he turned to find every eye of the crew upon him as if he’d ever commanded a ship at battle before. He drew a breath and scoured his mind for what he did know. “They’ll give chase, wear us down. We will end up fighting them. I think we must stand and fight here.”
Galbrait scowled, his fingers twitching but not straying to his sword hilt.
“They may well attack in effort to try to ‘rescue’ Galbrait, if they know he’s aboard,” Aarinnaie pointed out, her emphasis making no secret of her disdain for the Monoeans. Draken wondered if she was falling for Galbrait. He’d been through a romantic entanglement of hers before and certainly had no time for it now.
“It’s a thought,” Tyrolean said.
Draken frowned and glanced back at the trailing ship. Seven bloody Eyes, it seemed even bigger. The night was quiet, but there was a faint glow on deck. Fires, ready for arrows and hurling balls.
“Stoke the fires, cock the ballistae, set the casts,” he said.
Captain Joran nodded and passed the order. “And the harpaxes, Khel Szi?”
Draken shook his head slowly. A boarding could go both ways and they would be outnumbered. “Set them but do not fire until I order, no matter how close they get. We might use harpaxes to damage their hull if need.”
“Aye, Khel Szi.”
His sailors had already removed the oiled canvas covers and stowed them out of the way. Fires flared on the bow deck and behind the helm as sailors blew air through bellows into the metal troughs, stoking up the coals kept hot there. Ballistae creaked as men wound them to full tension. Casts were loa
ded with hurling balls. Sailors started hauling buckets of seawater to soak the decks; archers strung bows and strapped down heavy quivers at the rail. Draken noticed with no small pride their bows were stiff despite the salt air; every Brînian bowman worth his ale had an oscher bow from the humid Moonling woods of Khein, wood well-suited to harsh, damp conditions. Still, they were so few …
“Won’t all that just make them attack?” Galbrait asked, nodding his chin to the firetroughs, which were surely visible to the Monoean ship.
“They aren’t chasing us down to share an ale,” Draken said. “Keep under cover. I don’t need you taken out by an arrow.”
“I can shoot,” Galbrait said, lip curled.
“I’m aware.”
Halmar approached Draken. “You should arm now, Khel Szi. I will fetch your harness.”
Draken scowled at the approaching ship. The air was fair quiet, calm for these seas. Still it came quickly, cutting through the waves.
“I’ve no wish to drown in my armor.” Besides, it would make him easy for the Monoeans to pick out among his bare-chested crew, especially if any of the enemy had a lens. And with three moons—no four, damn the gods—rising and shedding more cold white light with every breath, a lens might just be of some use.
He’d left his lens at Brîn—too valuable to bring along to his death. And there’d been a less fine one in his kit when he was a bowrank commander. Maybe it was kept in his mother’s wardrobe … maybe even his bow had been tucked in the back. He missed that more. The realization startled him. This was his first battle at sea without a bow in his hand.
“Konnan.”
The szi nêre stepped closer, his dark, dappled brow clear, his gaze steady. For an ex-slave abused by his former master he was solid as an anchor caught in a sea floor crevice. “Khel Szi?”
“Find me a bow, will you?”
Halmar’s pierced brow raised, but Konnan simply inclined his head. “Aye, Khel Szi.” He disappeared below. Draken was willing to wager there’d be a spare bow or three; some few sailors had been killed during his scuffle with Ghotze.
Sailors grunted as they locked the first of the harpaxes into firing position. Longer than a man was tall and banded in iron, the thick wooden bolts would take precious moments and manpower for the enemy to cut through—moments Draken had no intention of giving the Monoeans. Every breath counted, outnumbered as they were. But he still wasn’t certain the harpaxes were needed. They numbered twenty-five. The enemy schooner must carry ten decades or a dozen, at least. It had to be a long-range battle if they had any hope at bringing the other ship down.
“Shall we fire, Khel Szi?” Joran had appeared at his elbow without his realizing.
It was tempting. Oiled hurling balls rested in leather slings. Sailors, even the galley lad, held smoldering bunts at the ready, and the bowmen had stretched and warmed their arms and shoulders. But the enemy ship was still far enough out that the odds of hitting the deck or sails were slim.
“Hold yet,” he said.
“Wise,” Tyrolean said. “This could be a protracted battle.”
“Or a fair short one,” Draken said quietly and strode to Brimlud for a few words. “They’re bigger than us. We might have to swing round and ram them to take them down.”
“That would take us down. Even with her metal-clad keel, I’d rather not.”
He met Brimlud’s eyes and spoke slowly. “If it comes to it, your duty is to make certain our sinking ship drags those Seven-cursed Ashen down with us.”
Brimlud squinted at him, eyes almost disappearing amid the wrinkles. “I understand, Khel Szi. I’ll do my best.”
“Good man.” Draken slapped Brimlud on the shoulder. He was proud of how nimble the Bane was; he hoped that pride wasn’t misplaced. He really hoped they didn’t have to use that agility to bring her down.
Konnan returned with the bow and two big, heavy quivers meant for sailors holding position, not for someone who was running all over the deck or climbing rigging. Draken did a quick estimate. Forty arrows. Ten quivers per man. Five thousand arrows, maybe six. “I’ll position on the aft deck; put the arrows there. Akhanar?”
Joran turned, shoulders squared. “Khel Szi.”
“The best bowmen on this crew, who are they?”
“Tolon and Hoka are best. The Mance.” His gaze flicked up to Draken’s face. “And you.”
Draken frowned but didn’t deny it. “How do you know?”
“I went ashore in Sevenfel and made inquiries, Khel Szi.” His gaze was unwavering, unapologetic.
“And you’re not asking for more coin?”
“You are Khel Szi. You will make it right between us. Or after this night it won’t matter.”
Ah. All pretense was dropping away. It made for a strange relief.
“Fair enough.” He raised his voice so all could hear him. “They might have as many as one hundred souls onboard. We can’t engage in a full-on battle with that ship, and we certainly can’t board her. Heavy artillery, and aim for the sails to slow her down.” He cast another glance at the moons. “Joran. Let the enemy give chase.”
Orders rang out. The ship listed to swordside as it shifted position a bit. Their sails luffed and fell, then billowed with wind as they caught the stream filling the enemy sails.
Tyrolean frowned. “You said something about ramming them?”
Draken took a sharp breath, suppressing the almost insurmountable desire to ask Tyrolean how many sea battles he’d been in. “They out-weapon us, outsize us, outnumber us. Their ship is better; their sailing is better. If it comes to it we can ram them, lay in with the harpaxes, and disable them enough take them down with us. We’ll have done the best we can for Akrasia and Brîn, which by Korde isn’t nearly enough.” He paused and added, quieter, “We’re likely going down, Ty. But by the gods, so are they.”
Tyrolean drew in a sharp breath through parted lips. But the momentary shock passed and his back straightened. “I’ll fetch a bow as well.”
“Tyrolean, wait.”
The Captain turned back, lined eyes narrowed.
“We have advantages. Fair winds to reduce their speed. Brimlud at the helm.” A humorless smile twitched his lips. “And me.”
Tyrolean stared at him. Gave a crisp nod. “Aye, Your Highness.”
Tyrolean’s nod shoved a little confidence through his fear. He might be a poor battle commander, but he was all these men had. “Aarinnaie and Galbrait, hold back. Let them capture you if it comes to it. You’re worth more than any of us alive.”
Aarinnaie opened her mouth to protest but Draken gave a sharp shake of his head and raised his voice enough the other sailors could hear him. “Take positions. Keep low until I call to fire. And then let Khellian’s wrath fall on them.”
The aft deck had little protection, and most of the room was taken by the ballistae. The men kept low now that the ballistae were cocked.
“Tolon and Hoka, to me.” The bowmen gazed up at him from the steps of the quarterdeck. “You two climb. I’ll watch from deck. Save your arrows until the Ashen are close enough to make real shots. When they’re close enough, and make no mistake, they will be, we need you to pick off their bowrank commanders and specialists. Hit the large artillery first. Anyone in red is an officer. If you see a glint, aim for it. That’ll be a lens in the hands of their akhanar or a bowrank commander.”
They gave crisp nods and hurried to the masts.
“I’ll be here, by you.” Osias climbed onto deck. The moonlight gleamed on his silver skin and hair.
“Osias—”
“I’ve my bow.” The Mance produced it from beneath his cloak, which wasn’t long enough to conceal the longbow but always seemed to manage it anyway. “And I can better glamour you if I’m close.”
A little glamour might buy Draken time. But the use of magic got him thinking. “Setia?”
“Here, Khel Szi.” She climbed the short flight, a bucket in her hand.
“Can you use the Abeyance out he
re?”
She twisted her head to look at the waves, and then the enemy ship. “I think not. There is no magic for me to draw on in the sea. The ground is too far below us and there are no living plants within my reach. I am sorry.”
“It’s all right. We’ll make do.” But the idea of using magic still niggled at him, a fleeting thought quickly overcome by the approaching ship.
“I’ll be drawing fire,” he told the sailor manning the harpax next to him. “Down on deck until you’re called. If I’m hit get the arrow out of me as quickly as possible. If I’m killed the timing falls to you. Your duty will be to use the harpaxes to join the ships, destroy their hull, and take them down with us.”
He watched his face as he absorbed this. Before the sailor could reply, chainshot peppered the sea behind them. Draken cursed and lifted a hand to Joran to give permission to fire. Orders chattered through the sailors, fires flared, casts creaked, the salty, metallic scent of oiled flamed, and hurling balls streaked across the sky.
Draken turned and nocked and sighted an arrow, getting the feel of the bow, noting the stiff cobalt feathers. The bow felt familiar; the sword an odd weight. Konnan had left two quivers resting against the ballista. Eighty arrows. He had no idea how long his shoulder would hold to draw, nor if he’d run through his arrows before he was hit. He was out of practice and his cover was poor.
A sailor lit the bolts on the ballistae and ducked out of the way. The ballistae strained and shot, soaring clear of the ship. Draken grimaced. They had to do better than that. But he nodded to the sailors. “Again.”
More of Bane’s hurling balls flamed across the sky. One bounced into a mainsheet on the enemy ship. Flames licked it, glaring against the night despite the moons, but it went out. The enemy answered with more chain-shot. One shredded a skysail. The pieces flapped uselessly. At least there were no flaming—
One of their hurling balls struck the deck, crashing and bouncing over the edge to sizzle into the sea. Another smashed into a sail and rolled down to wedge between a firetrough and the mizzen mast. Sparks flew and scattered. Setia rushed with a bucket of water and dumped it on the flaming ball, then jumped back as the water sizzled and spat back at her.
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