by Alex Lidell
The cheering stops.
Fear creeps across the deck in the form of shuffled feet and muffled prayers. Rima’s face is pinched.
“Replace the youngsters on the lookout platform with a solid hand,” he snaps at Domenic. “I shouldn’t have to tell you such basics, Commander.” Rima’s gaze sweeps the incoming frigate, our merchants, and the Aurora’s tense deck. His fingers drum his thigh. It is disgusting and disgraceful, what Rima has done. The man-of-war has caught our captain off guard, and he knows it. He had been so certain his backwater post and lack of previous engagements would translate into continued tranquility, he went to sea without so much as a surgeon aboard. I’d feel glad the Eflian is getting his due, if the crew and merchants were not about to suffer for it.
A heartbeat ticks. Then another. And then Rima raises his face high, reclaiming the poise of the confident—even arrogant—master. “’Tis but a single ship,” he announces. His voice is not so deep as Domenic’s, but it carries remarkably. “We’ve no cause to fret. The Aurora can easily take a ship of thirty guns, and I’d wager this little scoundrel has but twenty-two to offer us mischief! Is that not right, Mr. Dana?”
A muscle twitches in my temple. If clearing for quarters is any indication of this crew’s battle readiness, the little scoundrel will give us plenty to worry about. But this isn’t the time to say so. Whatever else Rima might be, he is the Aurora’s captain. The crew looks to him for survival.
“Aye, sir,” Domenic says calmly. “Twenty-two guns on her at the most.”
Good answer.
But not good enough. The seamen stay silent. Uncertain.
Rima puts his hands on his hips and smiles. “Is there any man jack on here who doubts the League’s honor outshines that of the Republic’s dogs?” he demands of the hands.
Scant shouts of “No, sir!” pelt deck.
I add my own voice to the ragged chorus. It’s all I can do. Honor will not turn the tide of the coming battle, but a unity of spirit may. And our captain knows it.
Rima feigns to be hard of hearing. A child’s move but effective. The hands call out again, louder, in greater unison. “No! Republican dogs! League honor!”
The seamen’s eyes focus on their captain. They may obey Domenic’s orders from fear of the lash, but a goodly number—if mostly Eflian—actually trust Rima to have their best interests at heart. And even those less certain of their captain’s holiness are swept along in the vibrant energy of the crowd. The rising din of two hundred voices joining together will wake the most timid spirit. And it does. Even my own heart pulses in reluctant accord with the brewing excitement.
Rima rides the wave of energy just long enough before adding fuel. “Who shall see victory this day?”
“Us!’
“Who will make the Republic cowards regret entering the Siaman?” he shouts.
“The League!”
A moment’s pause as he grips the hungry eyes of the crew. “Who will do me proud this day?”
Fists pump the air, and I find mine among them. “The Aurora! The Aurora! The Aurora!”
Chapter 19
There are two preparations for battle any ship makes. The first is the official, practiced routine of sailors and officers attending to their battle stations, readying their weapons and ordering the workspace just so. The second is internal, happening within the soul of every man and woman as they brace themselves to meet gazes with death. Some pray. Others chatter incessantly over things that little matter. Still others face their fears in stoic silence, feeding an illusion of total confidence. As an officer, I’ve seen it all and have been drilled extensively in the latter.
Which is why the sight of two Felielle seamen opening their wrists with a knife sends me into a frenzy.
I’m about to shout alarm when Ana’s small hand touches my shoulder. “It’s all right,” she whispers quietly. “They aren’t trying to take their own lives. They are becoming blood brothers. It’s one of the more archaic Felielle rituals, but it counts.”
“Counts as what?” My eyes are riveted to the flowing blood as the men press their opened wrists against one another. One of the two has plainly misjudged the depth of the cut and is slowly turning pale. If this keeps up, we won’t need the Tirik’s help to kill ourselves off.
“It makes them legal brothers, so if one dies, his family will come under the other’s care.”
“Can’t they just agree?” I shake my head.
“An agreement is a word of man. Brotherhood of blood is protected by the Goddess and the law. If we were on land with a Felielle army, a priestess would have been summoned to oversee the rite, but here...”
“Quiet on deck,” Domenic commands, ending my conversation with Ana and pushing me aside as he ascends the quarterdeck. “You are a messenger, Ash. Stay out of the way. Mr. Kederic and Ms. Lionitis, join Lieutenant Kazzik on the gun deck below, if you please.”
Kederic touches his hat and jogs to the companionway. Ana starts after him, then hesitates and steps toward me instead. Her hand clasps my wrist. “Stay safe, Nile,” she whispers. “All right?”
I shift my weight uncomfortably, the warmth of Ana’s hand creeping through my sleeve. The fear in her eyes is so raw, I feel that I must say something to cool the fire. Preferably, something true. “The lower gun deck is safer than here. The ship’s hull will protect you some down there,” I say, nodding toward the ladder. “So help the rest of us out and fire quickly.”
A ghost of courage touches her mouth, safety’s promise fueling her resolve. “I will.” Giving my wrist a final squeeze, she starts toward her station.
“Ah, Ms. Lionitis, one moment, if you please!” Rima smiles as Ana turns toward him and touches her hat. He puts a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “You’ve impressed me with your improvement since coming aboard, I must say.”
I tense.
Ana smiles.
“Point of fact,” Rima continues, “I believe you would do well with the upper deck guns. You have it in you, and you must find it. Yes?”
Ana’s smile falters.
The bastard pats her on the back, propelling her toward the small battery on Aurora’s main deck. “Song! Sand! Down to assist Mr. Kazzik on the gun deck, if you please.”
My nostrils flare, and I squeeze my fists tight to keep my tongue in check. At least in this arrangement, Ana will be under Domenic’s command and might learn something, though the first officer will have to split his attention with other duties.
As if aware of my thoughts, Domenic beckons the middie to him. “Lionitis, stay with me,” he says calmly. “We shall—”
Rima’s arm bars Domenic’s path. The captain waves Ana away and squints. “You aren’t fearful of the battle, are you, Mr. Dana?”
What? I stiffen, my nine years of naval discipline the only barrier to answering the insult on Domenic’s behalf. If anyone on the ship is a coward, it’s the bloody captain himself. Domenic—
I take a breath. Domenic can take care of himself.
Domenic’s shoulders tighten. “No, sir. I hope I’ve never given you cause to think otherwise.”
Rima smiles again. “Very good, Commander. I shall leave this little scramble to you. We well outgun that small ship, and I believe the learning experience will serve you well.” Rima taps his thigh. “Do not take too long however, as I hate for the merchants to lose time for the sake of your education.”
He has to be jesting. The captain of the Aurora did not just decide to hide the battle out in his cabin.
Or perhaps he did. My gaze follows the manipulative bastard as he descends the companionway ladder, and this time I can’t help the low growl escaping under my breath. “The captain’s confidence in the Aurora’s crew is bloody inspiring.”
Not low enough.
Domenic spins around, the back of his hand sailing at my lip before his eyes even meet my gaze. He pulls the strike, though the narrowing of his brows promises the next one will land.
“Give my compliments to Ms. Li
onitis.” A formal naval instruction telling me to deliver a message to Ana. Domenic’s voice is cold and the command not strictly necessary, as Ana stands only a few steps away. Still, since I’m to be the messenger during battle, it is best to stay consistent. “And inform her that she shall take charge of our four carronade guns.”
Ana. I pull my mind from Rima’s antics and turn to her. She doubtless heard the first officer’s instruction, but protocol mandates I repeat the command anyway. With the Tirik frigate bearing down on us, its gun ports open and its carnage minutes away, we can’t afford to just assume that others heard orders correctly.
Despite first Domenic and then me having informed Ana of her station, the girl makes no move toward the guns. Ana’s face is too pale for comfort. I stifle a frown. Ana needs to pull herself together. Now.
“No,” Ana whispers to me finally. “I cannot do it, Nile. Tell Mr. Dana… Tell him to choose someone else.”
“There is no one else.” I find her frightened hazel eyes and hold them. “This is your command. Your first. And you will do well. Trust yourself.”
“There has to be someone else.” Ana’s voice catches in the chasm between panic and despair. Already petite, she seems even smaller now with her shoulders hunched and her lower lip between her teeth. “I don’t know what to do.”
Waves and hail. I will my voice to calm confidence, as if there is all the time in the world for this conversation. “Listen to your senior men, then. They’ll guide you.”
Ana blinks from me to her crew. The four sets of men mill about their guns, with much motion and little result. There will be no help from them. My jaw tightens. This isn’t my ship. Isn’t my crew. But it still is my war, no matter how far I’ve run. I draw breath. The decision I am about to make is a bad one. But somehow it is the only one I can make. Because even if the men could guide her along, Ana is in no condition to lead.
I thrust a neckerchief into Ana’s hand. “All right, then. You will do what I tell you. Put this around your ears and straighten up. Taller. Head up.”
Ana steps back, wide eyes staring at me. Hers and the gun crew’s both. On the quarterdeck, Domenic is maneuvering the Aurora in front of the trailing merchants. Whatever else, he’s a good seaman, even by Captain Fey’s standards. And he will bring our starboard battery to bear soon.
“Lionitis, now.” My voice isn’t that of a friend any longer, but of an officer addressing a middie. “Cover your ears, straighten your back, and pay attention.”
And after a heartbeat, Ana nods.
As do I.
“Load the guns,” I tell Ana, letting her shout the orders to the men. They’d heard me, of course, but we might as well do things properly. The hands set to work with tolerable efficiency. I hope their resolve will remain in the face of fire.
One at a time, my four gun captains raise their fists. They are ready, but I hold fire. The Aurora is only now reaching the outer envelope of her range and the fog makes aiming difficult. It is a game of nerves now, both ships wanting the opening volley. My heart picks up speed.
The Devron closes.
The gun captains shift their feet and throw expectant glances at Ana, at me.
I ignore them. We are not close enough. Not yet. It would do little good to send shot harmlessly to the ocean floor only to receive a harsh blow while reloading. Firing well will trump over firing first.
“Fire!” Ana calls out suddenly and much too soon.
So much for nerve.
The gun captains jerk their lanyards. The starboard carronades belch and buck, discharging in unison. The deafening crack of the cannon still echoes in my ears as smoke engulfs the deck. I cough.
The shots fall short of their mark, of course. I want to strangle Ana, but I raise my brow at her instead. The consequences of her order will teach her more than my chastising.
Or they should. I don’t think Ana, pale and shaking, even sees me.
Domenic does. In the time it takes me to yell, “Reload,” Domenic takes in the scene. Our gazes meet over the heads of reloading men and scurrying boys. His eyes are deep and startled, and the sudden comprehension in them sends a shock through me. Then, through the roaring din of action, he mouths two words before turning away. Carry on.
For a moment, I stand there, quiet and satisfied.
And then it is the Devron’s turn.
A terrible report of great guns shatters the air as the Devron’s full broadside discharges at once. Fountains rise where two balls fall short into the sea. Two more pass through the Aurora’s sails, leaving clean holes in the canvas. The rest smash our hull. My ears are still ringing from the cannon’s harsh boom when, three paces away from me, a man screams as splintered wood rips through him. A moment later, he is still.
Ana crumples to the deck.
My gut clenches. I drop to a knee beside her, the sharp tang of gunpowder filling my nose. “Where are you hurt?” I ask, my hand roving her body.
“I want to go home,” Ana whispers. Tears stream down her face.
I continue searching. The ship rolls beneath us, slowly and rhythmically, as if soothing itself. “Where are you bleeding, Ana? You need to tell me.”
She shakes her head.
“Ana, are—” I cut myself off. She isn’t hurt. Not in the flesh, anyway. Relief washes over me. And fury. And sympathy. I feel them all and have time for none. Grabbing Ana’s coat, I haul her to her feet. “You want to live? Then fight.”
She ignores me.
The gun crews are staring at us now. Several of the men cower on the deck. Half of those still standing have eyes closed in prayer. Their trust in the command cadre is disintegrating to bilge water, and that will get everyone killed. I let Ana go and step forward, my head rising high and facing the wind. “Guns! My guns!” My voice carries over the deck. Heads turn at the declaration, Domenic’s among them. The energy of command crackles in the air beside me, and I drink deep, twisting to face my men. “On your feet! Sponge out your guns!”
The crews jump to the task, the drilled motions a shield against terror.
“Load cartridge!” I snarl. “Run out your guns!”
Powder cartridges and wads are rammed down the cannons’ throats. The gun captains choose shot to feed their beasts.
A small voice clears her throat behind me. “I’ll…” Ana whispers. “I’ll—”
“Go help the wounded,” I snap, sparing her a shooing motion with my hand. My attention belongs to my crews, and I nod as they finish reloading and push their guns into place. “On the up roll,” I call, raising my voice for the captains to hear over the deck’s commotion. “Fire as you bear.”
“What do you make of our enemy?” Domenic’s voice catches me by surprise as the boom of the cannon subsides.
I turn my head to find the first officer behind me, watching as my crews fire and reload the carronade guns again. I wonder how long he’d been there beside me. He asks nothing of Ana.
I reach for my nonexistent hat and touch my forehead instead. Between the fog of cannon and nature, our sight of the enemy frigate is limited to muzzle flashes. “She is moving toward the convoy, sir.”
“Yes. But for what purpose? She cannot take them unless she disables us first.” Domenic frowns. I do not think he expects an answer, but I give him one anyway.
“Perhaps the Devron has something else in mind to amuse us with? A sister frigate hiding in the fog?”
He squints into the mist, but there is no time to reply as a shrill cry from larboard spins Domenic and me around.
“Boarders! Boarders to larboard! Repel boarders!”
I see the grappling hooks clamped to the Aurora’s side. Making use of the smoke, fog, and carnage, the Tirik rowboats had caught us unaware. Devron’s seamen pour over the side, shouting like rabid animals. Dressed in shirts of faded red, the Tirik men and women lean toward tan skin and light shades of thick hair. More crimson flashes in forms of makeshift armbands and neckerchiefs. The Tirik literally wear their allegiance on
their sleeves. As far as I’m concerned, it makes knowing who to kill easier.
“I’m duly amused,” Domenic growls under his breath as he draws his sword.
I’ve time for a half smile before one of the Spades thrusts a cutlass into my hand and Domenic disappears from view. The deck swarms with weapons and bodies. Song and Sand are here, having somehow found their way back to deck with a pair of pistols. One of the boys fires into a man’s stomach and stands frozen as the foe looks down at the wound and falls atop another body. One in a middie uniform.
A shove from behind jolts me. I spin. A Tirik sailor swings a cudgel at my temple, the whites of his eyes shimmering with the fever of the fight.
I throw myself down, and the cudgel strikes someone else.
“Ash! Look high,” Catsper calls as I scramble back to my feet.
I look up to see a mountain of man rushing me with an axe.
“Be still,” Catsper commands and points his gun over my shoulder. The weapon discharges with a sharp crack, and the axe wielder staggers away, still swinging wildly despite the hole in his chest.
The marine discards the pistol, now useless.
I gasp shakily, uncertain whether I love Catsper for saving my life or despise him for trusting said life with a pistol’s uncertain aim. No time to decide. Two men rush Catsper at once, and I circle around to cut one of them from the back.
“Tolerably good, Ash,” Catsper says as my target falls. My lungs burn too much to answer even if the pounding of my heart would allow me to form words. The magic in my blood rumbles but fortunately stays put.
The Tirik are pressing us inward. The black-uniformed marine boys rush about, fighting with skill and vigor if not size. I wonder where the other members of the Aurora crew are. Surely our numbers surpass what I see on deck.
A shrill pipe calls in three bursts. A signal. Not ours. The pipe sounds again, this time accompanied with shouting in Tirik. Retreat. To the boats.
I jerk. I speak Tirik tolerably well, but I can make little sense of the command.