by John Marco
Daevn waited in the castle's library for nearly an hour, assured by Faren that the duke was "on his way." He rested on one of the library's soft chairs and enjoyed a meal of hot soup and freshly baked bread, and flirted with the maid who had brought it. His request for dry clothes went unheeded, although he was assured by Faren that the maids were trying to find him something suitable. To Daevn, suitable would have been anything dry. It didn't even have to be clean. But they had set a fire for him in the library and that felt good, and he gorged himself on the soup and bread while he waited for Enli.
After almost an hour had passed, Faren came back into the chamber. The man spread his hands apologetically. "I'm so sorry," he offered. "But Duke Enli is feeling very poorly tonight. A bad fish from the kitchen, perhaps. He won't be able to see you now. In the morning maybe."
Daevn dropped his spoon into the empty soup bowl. "Where's Lorla?"
"I assure you the girl is unharmed," said the ever-smiling man. "She has been given a room of her own. I think she's already asleep. I've made arrangements for you to have a room next to hers. You can see her if you like."
Daevn picked up what was left of the bread and got to his feet. "Show her to me," he said, trying and failing to sound polite. It wouldn't do to upset his hosts too much. With Goth destroyed, he had nowhere else to go. "And Faren, those clothes?"
"Waiting for you in your bedchamber," said Faren. He stood aside and gestured toward the threshold. "If you care to go . . .?"
"Now, yes," said Daevn. He walked past the servant toward the door, and was almost out of the room when he felt the sharp tug at his throat. Daevn's hands shot to his neck. He was being dragged backward. A wire, or a rope . . . Faren was grunting, pulling him off his feet. Daevn tried to scream and couldn't. His throat muscles strained, gasping, but the wire was there, cutting into his flesh, making the smallest gulp of air impossible. He fought to dig his fingers under the garrote, but Faren was thrashing like a shark, dragging and pulling, making the wire dig deeper until it cut the flesh.
"You're a strong one, eh?" growled Faren. "Like reeling in a big fish!"
Daevn gulped for breath. Faren pulled harder still. Daevn's knees buckled.
"No one must ever know this thing we do!"
Daevn heard the words without understanding.
And then there was oblivion. He felt the distant sensation of the wire slicing his windpipe. Remarkably, it was hardly painful at all. . . .
SEVEN
The Prince of Liss
On the oceans of Nar, the days were short and the nights were long. Here in the north of the world, autumn had all but perished, and the white caps on the water grew taller as winter crawled closer. The Black Empire, that vast and criminal place, spread out in an endless sprawl on the horizon, but for the sailors of Liss the sight of so much land was far from comforting. They had put to sea months ago, leaving behind the ruins of their homeland and their sad wives, and had only their bright memories to comfort them in the cold quarters of the schooners. It was a bold and heartless mission, and many of them, barely boys, were untested. But battle was making men of them.
Fleet Commander Prakna had a single porthole in his cabin. It was a cramped room in the forecastle, and the round pane of glass was hardly the size of his head. But for Prakna, the porthole was a looking glass into another world. On quiet nights like this, when the lateness of the hour had hushed the sailors on deck, Prakna would stare out his window at the hazy glow of Nar, and wonder about its inhabitants. After ten years of war, he still found his enemies inscrutable. He would lose himself in the sight, lulled by the constant rocking of his ship, and recall his memories. And sometimes he would dream; of food and fresh fruit, of the warmth of the Hundred Isles, of the friendship of his wife and their lost lovemaking.
Prakna was weary. Like pirates he and his fleet patrolled the coasts of Nar, a great wolf-pack sharpening their teeth on imperial shipping. Prakna had been making good on his pledge to bring his enemy to its knees. Without the Black Fleet to protect them, the shores of Nar were his for the raiding. But only the shores, for the land was still dominated by Nar's army. In time, Prakna hoped, the strife inside the Empire would crack it in two, but until then they would sail the Naren waters and take what they wished, and make the Narens pay for what they had done.
Tonight was like any other for the fleet commander. His ship, the Prince of Liss, drifted lazily over the ocean. His tiny cabin was cold. A single candle burned in a hurricane glass on his desk. Above his head, the shallow ceiling creaked with the slow motion of the vessel, and a salty spray had opaqued his window. The blankets on Prakna's bunk were disheveled, the symptoms of another restless night, and Prakna sat at his desk, his pale face lit by candlelight, waiting for another dawn. A sheet of yellow paper lay on the desk in front of him. Prakna stared at it. Quite possibly, the letter would never reach its intended recipient. Yet Prakna had written it anyway. When he wrote, it was like she was here with him. He looked it over, then dipped his pen in the ink well to continue.
I will come back when I can. The Narens are not so strong without their navy, and I don't believe the Black Fleet will abandon them forever. Nar is still their home. And I know the pull of home, my love. When we have lured the fleet away from Crote, I will come back.
Prakna frowned at the last line. Bold promise. But one he wanted desperately to keep. J'lari would be needing him. Since the deaths of their sons, she had become like a ghost. He thought of writing about the Narens he'd killed, the vengeance he had taken, but then thought better of it. J'lari didn't like war. She had begged him to stay home. But he was the fleet commander, and there was no way the armada could sail without him. So he had left her. Long months ago.
When I return I will have gifts for you. I have a ring and other jewelry I've taken from the Naren women. You should see the women here, my love. They are not at all like the fine-boned girls of Liss. They are all big here and hard. The sight of them makes me miss you even more. And when they see us, they are horrified. They wonder why their navy won't protect them, and they scream at the sight of our ships.
Prakna loved their screams. He loved the terror the sight of his armada engendered in the Narens.
We have taken few losses. We are strong, so do not worry about me.
A lie, but Prakna wrote it anyway. Each time they raided a town their numbers diminished. They were not soldiers, his men of Liss. They were sailors. It was why they needed Vantran.
My love, I miss you. I miss our sons. If you knew the truth of my heart, you would not wonder why I do this thing. Men are different from the wives they leave behind, and I cannot help this vengeance that moves me. Tell the women of this ship's crew that their husbands do not fight for themselves, but for the honor of Liss.
Liss the raped. That's what they were calling his homeland now. The Hundred Isles had been ravaged by the Narens and their decade-long blockade, but she had never surrendered or lost her honor. She had stared down the dragon of Nar, defying the Black Empire and its voracious ruler, Arkus. For ten years Liss had hung on, alone, while the rest of the world watched the butchery, too afraid to challenge their imperial masters. Except for the Triin of Lucel-Lor, only Liss had out-lived Arkus. And now that Arkus was dead and his Empire in chaos, Liss was ready to rise from its ashes.
Sweet wife, I hope you're sleeping well tonight. I hope it's warm in Liss and that the morning sun will be fair. And remember my promise. You will see me again.
He signed it very simply, Prakna.
The fleet commander stared at his writing, returning the pen to the ink well. This letter would join the others in his drawer until a ship could be spared to return to Liss. That was happening less frequently now. They were very far north, and Prakna wanted them well prepared for the Black Fleet's return. For months they had been raiding the Naren coasts, hoping to lure Nicabar's dreadnoughts out of Crote's harbors. They had made some impressive gains, sunk over thirty merchant vessels. Eventually, Prakna knew, Nicabar would ha
ve to respond. He had never met the admiral but he knew his mind. He knew the captain of the Fearless could never live with such disgrace.
"We will take Crote," he whispered. "We will . . ."
It was the perfect base, ideally situated to attack the Black City. If they could take it, they could turn the tide of the war forever. But first they had to lure away the Fearless.
Prakna pushed the letter aside and leaned back in his chair. The Fearless. His one great nemesis. Not even the Prince of Liss was a match for that marvel. The flagship of the Black Fleet was like nothing he had ever seen--a floating fortress, indomitable. Unsinkable, they said. Prakna wondered. Nicabar and his ship had been the bane of the Lissen navy. A secret weapon meant to destroy them, the Fearless had been the cornerstone of the Naren blockade. She was slower than her sister dreadnoughts, but that was like saying a mountain was slow. She had a hull of spiked steel and twin long-range flame cannons, and she had sunk every schooner sent against her.
Like the Fire Bird.
Off the island of Meer, the Fire Bird had met the Fearless. A lucky shot from a cannon and she had burned, sinking in minutes. Some of the crew had made it to shore. But the waters of Meer were warm, good for sharks. Prakna closed his eyes. He had never wanted both his sons to serve on the same vessel. The news had come to him a week later. J'lari had been a ghost ever since. Silent. She and Prakna didn't make love anymore. To her, it seemed a waste. She was too old to bear him more sons. And Prakna had changed, too. The death of his boys had murdered his conscience, and he knew it. So he had been the one to whisper vengeful musings in the ear of his queen. He had rebuilt the navy and formed the armada. And when the word came to sail, he had been eager. There was nothing left for Prakna now but the honor of Liss.
Bleary-eyed with fatigue, Prakna laid his head down on the desk. He felt the rhythmic swaying of the vessel through the rafters, heard the hard slap of water against the hull as the Prince of Liss cut through the waves. His eyelids drooped as sleep took him. He hoped he wouldn't dream. . . .
A knock at the cabin door awakened him. Prakna's eyes slowly opened. Not more than an hour could have passed. The room remained dark. The candle still burned in its protective glass.
"Yes?" he said wearily.
The little door creaked open and Marus peered inside. Prakna's first officer smiled apologetically when he noticed his commander's head on the desk. "Prakna?"
The commander lifted his head and waved his friend inside. "Come in, Marus," he croaked. "I wasn't sleeping."
"You were," Marus corrected. "I'm sorry to disturb you."
"What is it?"
"A ship. Twenty degrees off port, running parallel to us."
"What kind of ship?"
"Too far to tell," said the officer. "But I thought you should know."
It was standard practice with Marus, and Prakna appreciated it. Marus was a fine officer--the kind of man a captain needed at his side. They had served together for years, and had known each other since their teens. When the time had come to pilot the Prince, Marus had been Prakna's first choice. And there was more to their kinship than just time. Marus had lost a boy, too.
"Go topside and wait for me," said Prakna. He looked around the room for his boots. "I'll be up."
Marus left the room and closed the door. Prakna located his boots beneath his bunk and slipped them on his feet. Outside the window he saw only darkness, but he knew that dawn was on their heels. He wondered what the light would bring. Another Naren ship. Merchant, almost certainly. Their course was bringing them near Doria again, a main seaport of the Empire. They had already raided Doria once, and the success of the campaign had sent a shockwave through the local shipping concerns. Prakna had ordered his patrol to keep near the city, waiting for the inevitable return of the merchant vessels. The fleet commander smiled to himself, pleased with his tactic.
He pulled on his coat, blew into the hurricane glass to extinguish the candle, and left his chamber. Out in the empty gangway he found the little ladder leading above deck. He ran up the ladder and pushed open the hatch, then stepped out onto the forecastle. A biting wind struck his face. Around him, the ocean roared. On the forecastle deck he located Marus. With him were two crewmen, both ensigns, both staring out into the darkness. Marus had a spyglass pressed to one eye. A single oil lantern flickered in the breeze. The Prince of Liss pitched violently as a swale slammed against her hull. Prakna joined the group, squinting as he scanned the distance portside. As the Prince rose on a wave, he glimpsed something far away. Cabin lights, he guessed. Marus handed him the spyglass.
"Too dark to see much," said the officer. "Not a warship, though. No escorts. She sails alone."
Prakna brought up the spyglass. The horizon was black and it took a moment to spot the vessel, but he caught a hazy glimmer. Big. Slow. But not a warship. Prakna's heart sank a notch. He hadn't really expected to see her here, but he was disappointed anyway. He collapsed the spyglass and handed it back to Marus.
"Signal the other ships," he said. "We'll pursue until it's light. Then we'll see what we're dealing with."
"Aye, sir," replied Marus, who immediately started barking orders to the men. The deck snapped alive with activity. Amidships the seamen cranked levers to trim the sails, while signalmen flashed messages with flags to the other vessels of the patrol. The Prince of Liss lurched to port as the pilot spun the wheel, turning the rudder in pursuit. She was in the lead, with a dozen of her wolf pups following. Prakna glanced to starboard. The first slivers of sunlight struggled over the horizon, lighting the Naren Empire. He had charted a course back to Doria, and he could see the landscape of the Dorian territories, infinitesimally small in the distance. To port was the blackness of the ocean, endless and deep. They were tacking north by northwest, into the wind. The heading had slowed them, but Prakna knew his schooner could run down whatever was out there. Nothing in the Black Fleet could outrun his schooners. During their long war with Liss the Narens had tested countless ship designs, yet still their vaunted war labs had been unable to develop a fast-enough keel. It was the one tactical advantage the Lissen navy had over their well-armed adversaries.
The Prince of Liss and the rest of her patrol pursued the unknown vessel for another hour, until the light grew. Prakna and his officers stood on the forecastle deck at the ship's prow, leaning over the railings as the sun illuminated their prey. The fleet commander had his eye fixed to the spyglass again. He could see the vessel clearly now. She was a big bastard, with wide mastheads and her sails full of air as she tacked to catch the wind. From her center mast flew the flag of Nar, the new one called the Light of God. Beneath that was the triangular standard of Doria, a yellow field bearing a single sword. Clearly, this was no warship. Amidships she was fat and multidecked, with huge cargo holds. Prakna closed the spyglass and made his deduction.
"Slaver," he said distastefully. "Probably sailing out of Bisenna."
Marus nodded. "Slaves. Poor wretches. Should we break off pursuit?"
"Pursue and overtake."
"Sir?"
"Those are my orders, Marus."
"Yes, sir. The Vindicator and the Gray Lady are closest."
"Have them approach port and starboard. We'll lead."
"Aye, sir," said Marus, then went off to carry out his commander's orders.
Prakna held tight to the rails as the Prince of Liss leapt forward, its razor-shaped keel slicing through the ocean. The Vindicator and Gray Lady broke free of the patrol and joined her, their steel-covered prows ready to ram. The fat slaver ship had obviously seen them and was maneuvering sloppily to evade. Marus shouted orders at the crew as the Prince ran headlong after the fleeing vessel. The sea-serpent flags of Liss tore at the masts as the schooners devoured the ocean. Sailors ran about the deck, drenched in spray, pulling ropes and trimming sails. The Prince's massive spritsail groaned and swelled with air. Off the port bow the Vindicator lurched ahead, while her smaller cousin, the Gray Lady, churned up the waves.
"They see us," Prakna shouted to Marus.
Marus looked distressed. "Aye, sir. That they do."
"No sentiment, Marus," Prakna called back. "They're not just slaves--they're Narens!"
It wasn't a slaver ship that Prakna desired, but for a time it would slake his lust. Even now, with the Empire wasting, Nar still dealt in slaves. It sickened Prakna. All Narens sickened him. In the conquered land of Bisenna, the Naren nobles harvested slaves like grain. Prakna had heard the tales. Some of his own countrymen had been enslaved, taken away to the Black City to toil in the filthy foundries of the war labs. To Prakna, it was a fate worse than death.
The Prince of Liss maneuvered closer to the fleeing slaver. Prakna could see the men on her deck now, wide-eyed with fear at the sight of the marauders. To the slaver's port side the Vindicator was narrowing the gap, its steel prow ready to ram. The Prince of Liss drew nearer. The Gray Lady tacked to the slaver's starboard. Prakna shouted to Marus, ordering the Prince ahead of their quarry. The schooner lurched as the captain spun the wheel. Abaft the forecastle, Prakna's sailors readied their cutlasses and clung to the railings.
Today we are pirates, thought Prakna. Like the Narens always say.
But they deserved nothing better, not even these wretches from Bisenna. To Prakna, they were simply Narens. They were of that hedonistic, evil race that enslaved their own and raped others. If he could, he would have burned them all alive.
Obviously outmatched, it didn't take long for the Naren slaver to fly its white. The big ship slowed as its sails slackened. Naren sailors were waving on its deck, signaling their surrender. Prakna was very still. The Prince of Liss churned forward. The Vindicator and Gray Lady swept wide, maneuvering to ram. Over the roaring surf Prakna could hear the muffled cries of the Naren sailors. He took a long breath, and for the smallest second reconsidered.