by John Marco
"Marus," he said quickly. "Left full rudder. Turn us against the small one."
"Left full rudder, aye, sir," shouted Marus. He called the order down to the pilot. At once the Prince moved to port, turning her shining metal ram toward the hull or the smaller dreadnought. A giant concussion ripped open the air. Prakna turned to look at the Fearless, afraid she had opened fire. But it wasn't the flagship that was firing. It was the third dreadnought, the one stalking Gray Lady. Far in the distance, the dreadnought's flame cannons exploded to life, sending streams of fire against Gray Lady's already damaged hull. The guns sang out in unison, obscuring the dreadnought behind a wall of flame and black smoke, and in a moment the Gray Lady was engulfed in fire. The flames caught the wind and spread across her deck and rigging.
Prakna watched, horrified. The dreadnought's flame cannons detonated again. And again they blasted Gray Lady, scorching her hull and blowing apart her yard-arms, until she was only a flaming hulk drifting across the ocean. The men on board the Prince of Liss fell mute.
"Attention, lads!" Prakna screamed at them. "Look alive!"
The sound of their commander's voice snapped the sailors from their stupor. Each of them braced for the ramming. The dreadnought was perpendicular to them now, growing ever closer but still refusing to fire. The Fearless opened fire instead.
To Prakna, it was the like end of the world. Only once before had he heard the Naren flagship's cannons, and then it had been from a great distance. This time, he was the target. The sky overhead ripped open with an orange blast, burning down the tops of his masts and incinerating the men in the crow's nest. Louder than an earthquake came the wave, searing off the flag and slicing through the high rigging. Another blast ripped past them to starboard and another one to port, and all at once the air turned rancid with the smell of burning kerosene. Prakna's eyes flooded with tears and the skin beneath his uniform cooked in the heat. The Prince roiled forward, toward the smaller dreadnought. The blasts from the Fearless dissipated, and Prakna knew suddenly why he was still alive. The Fearless couldn't fire directly at them for fear of striking her sister.
"Stay on course!" Prakna shouted to his crew. The other dreadnought was still not firing on them, probably for fear of striking the Naren flagship. The Prince of Liss, the top of her masts smoldering, churned toward her prey, her giant ram extended. Quickly the dreadnought changed course, steering hard away from the advancing schooner. Prakna cursed and shook his fist at them, but the dreadnought was just fast enough to avoid the Prince's ram, scraping away from her. Behind the Prince, the Fearless was still sailing away in the opposite direction, almost out of gun angle and not maneuvering to re-acquire. The small dreadnought followed her big sister away from the Prince. Prakna gripped the railing, his knuckles white, his mind racing. Miraculously, they had escaped, and with enough sail intact to carry them away. Slowly, ponderously, the Fearless tried to turn its starboard guns against the Prince, but the schooner was already pulling away from them. The crewmen cheered at their escape, howling at the Naren vessels as they skirted away. But the burning hulk of the distant Gray Lady tempered their mirth. Already the three dreadnoughts were converging on her, and the little cruiser with the ruined rigging had managed to turn back toward the Fearless. Gray Lady burned in the center of them, helpless.
"Prakna?" asked Marus carefully. "Should we change course to help her?"
"Help her?" said Prakna gravely. "How? She's dead, Marus. Stay on course. Get us the hell out of here."
Dead. Haggi and the rest of them. As the Prince churned away from the melee, her flags torn away and two of her crewmen burned to husks, Prakna fell into a miserable silence. He watched in revulsion as the Fearless and her escort vessels closed the noose around Gray Lady's neck. The Naren flagship turned cannon-side to the schooner. All along her burning decks, the men of the Gray Lady jumped overboard, abandoning their attempts to tame the flames engulfing their ship. With a thunderous boom, the Fearless' guns opened fire on the schooner, annihilating her.
She just blew apart. She was there and then she wasn't, and all that was left of the small schooner was a burning slick on the ocean and a collection of flotsam. The men of the Prince stared in disbelief. Prakna stared too, and was completely unable to speak--not even to Marus who was looking at him for support.
"Prakna?" asked the captain. "What now?"
Prakna held up a hand to silence his friend. Haggi had been a good man. A family man, like Prakna himself. When they returned to Liss, Prakna knew, he would have to tell Haggi's young wife that her husband was dead. But he wouldn't tell her that he had been destroyed so casually, or that his ship had simply evaporated. His memory deserved better than that.
"Sir," Marus pressed. "What course? Should we turn to warn the others?"
"We go south," declared Prakna. "We'll warn the others if we see them. If not we sail for Lucel-Lor, as fast as we can." The fleet commander smiled sadly at his captain. "She's out of Crote, Marus. Now we have to find Vantran."
FOURTEEN
The Ancient Oak
Richius Vantran was accustomed to the forest. He had grown up in Aramoor, a small nation famous for horses and huge, brooding fir trees. He had spent a lifetime in the woods, travelling with his kingly father and fishing along lakesides, and hunting when the deer were in season. Richius always welcomed the chance to be outside among the trees, to taste sweet air and expel the foul castle breath from his lungs. Like all Aramoorians, he was as much a woodsman as he was a soldier and, also as other Aramoorians, he vastly preferred the first profession. To be with nature and think on small things was what Richius liked best. And to be on horseback was the most sublime of all.
In Lucel-Lor, just as back home, the coming winter meant the need for firewood. The citadel of Falindar lay far to the north, and the ocean winds could be fierce. There were many hearths to fill in the grand palace, many hands and feet to warm. And the Triin of the citadel, more warriors than woodsmen, had gladly granted the responsibility to Richius. It had been days since Lucyler had left for Kes, and the castle on the hill was quieter than usual. Richius had idled the hours away with his wife and daughter, enjoying their company, yet still with his mind adrift. He worried about Lucyler. He worried about Simon. But most of all he worried about Aramoor and the armies of Talistan trampling his homeland. He needed to get home. He needed to know what was happening in Aramoor and with Biagio. Even with Dyana and Shani and all the friends and warriors of Falindar around him, he was alone on an island, adrift and deaf, and he hated it.
And so it did not surprise Richius at all when he willingly agreed to help provide firewood for the citadel. It did not surprise Dyana either, who was glad to have her brooding husband occupied. What surprised them both, however, was Richius' choice of assistant. Chopping down trees and lugging back logs was heavy work and couldn't be done alone, and so Richius had selected Simon to help him. Richius liked Simon. He had made this startling admission to himself just hours after meeting the odd fellow. And Simon had been the perfect guest since. He was never underfoot and kept his promise to stay far away from Dyana and the baby. Instead of skulking the halls, Simon spent the bulk of his time in his chambers, alone, eating everything the kitchen would bring him. He and Richius spoke on occasion, and Simon's temperament had become somewhat less waspish. Most surprisingly of all, the Naren had been grateful for Richius' suggestion.
"It would be good to get out of the castle," Simon had told him. "For both of us."
So the next morning, Richius and Simon set out from Falindar, the oddest-looking pair the palace had ever seen. They were dressed in traditional Triin garb--not the blue jackets of warriors but the plain clothing of ordinary workers. Richius had left his prize sword behind, trading it for a toothy axe, a twin of which was carried by Simon. Lightning, Richius' mount, led the way down the long and winding hillside road, and Simon trotted along behind on a powerfully built gelding. Behind were a pair of mules, brawny gray beasts strong enough to haul the wagon the
y would soon be filling with logs. The wagon would hold two good-sized trees, a full day's labor, at least.
It was a good morning, clear of clouds. Richius' breath trailed out in puffs of steam. On the horizon, the rocky mountains of Tatterak loomed with austere permanence, and at their base was the emerald hue of the forest.
Richius relished the ride ahead. They kept their pace light and easy, not wanting to exhaust the mules, and before long they were in the confines of the forest. A narrow road wound through the woods, reaching toward Dring and the southern regions of Lucel-Lor. The path was empty today and quiet, and the birds that hadn't migrated to warmer climes chirped and whistled in the trees. The path was full of fallen leaves, collecting in pockets along the roadside where the wind had mindlessly shunted them.
Richius and Simon hardly spoke as they rode. Simon kept to the rear and attended the mules, who plodded along without complaint or interest in their surroundings. When they were well into the forest, Richius at last turned to speak to his companion.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked. "The forest, I mean. Like home, sort of."
"It's very nice," said Simon dryly. "Cold, but nice."
"Oh, this isn't cold, Simon. It's going to get a lot colder before long."
"Then we'd better stop sightseeing and get our wood, shouldn't we?" The Naren looked around with an unseasoned eye. "This looks like as good a place as any to start chopping some trees."
Richius shook his head. "No. A little farther. Let's explore the forest a bit more. Personally, I'm glad to be away from the citadel. The longer we're gone the better. And we're not going to get it all done in a day."
Simon raised a questioning eyebrow. "You don't think much of the place, do you, Vantran? I can tell."
"That's because it's not really home. Not my home, anyway. And not Dyana's either. I don't think any of us belong in Falindar. Not even Lucyler." Richius shrugged, resigned to his fate. "But it looks like we're stuck with it. Come on. Not much farther."
Simon agreed, not caring where they found their firewood. He followed Richius apathetically, like some sort of older brother, and trotted along without speaking as Richius spied the forest. But Richius felt Simon's eyes on his back, always watching. It was an uncomplicated stare, without malice, and Richius had given up trying to decipher it. Since bringing Simon to Falindar, he had decided to accept Simon's story--mainly because Simon hadn't given him cause to doubt it--and the older Naren's strange ways were becoming predictable. It had been a long time since Richius had lived among his own kind; he had almost forgotten how pensive they could be.
They travelled for another mile and more, until at last the elms and birch trees thinned and fell away, and they were in a grove of oak trees. The giants of the forest reached high into the autumn sky, dominating the world with their height and their stout, rugged trunks. Richius smiled when he saw them. This was why he had ridden so deep.
"Here," he declared proudly. He reined his horse to a stop and dropped down to the ground, surveying their surroundings. The place was serene, like a dream. He unstrapped his axe from the saddle and turned his smile on Simon. "This is it. We'll find what we want here."
Simon slid nonchalantly off his own horse, plainly unimpressed. He took hold of his axe and strolled over to Richius. "Which one?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Richius. "Pick one."
"You're the woodsman, Vantran. They all look the same to me." He blew into his hands to emphasize his discomfort. "Frankly, I don't give a damn which one we cut down. As long as it keeps us warm."
"You'll get warm enough swinging that axe," Richius assured him. "Come on, your choice. But not too near the road. I don't want to block it." After tying off the horses and mules, Richius walked off the road and into the forest a little, bidding Simon to follow. The older man laughed a bit and shook his head, obviously amused with Richius' enthusiasm but polite enough not to insult him. Richius held his tongue, determined to get Simon involved. He wanted--he needed--a friend of his own bloodline, and Simon was the closest thing he had. Like it or not, Simon was going to pick a tree for them.
"That's a good one," Richius suggested, pointing out a hardy-looking oak not too close to other trees. "Enough distance to swing our axes. Big, too. What do you think?"
"Fine," agreed Simon quickly. "Whatever."
"Come on, Simon. Put some heart into it. What do you think? Really, I mean."
Simon looked at Richius squarely. "I think it's a tree. I think if we cut it into pieces it will burn. That's good enough for me."
Richius tried not to look hurt. Simon caught the little furrowing of his brow and sighed.
"I'm just not a woodsman, all right? I mean, hell, I only agreed to help you to get away from the castle for a while, breathe some clean air. So now we're out here, right? Let's just chop the thing down and be done with it."
"Fine," said Richius. He hefted up his axe and went toward the oak. Simon followed quietly after him. The dead leaves crunched beneath their boots, emphasizing the cool silence between them. Richius lifted his axe and made to strike, but Simon abruptly stopped him.
"Wait," said Simon. "Wait." He looked at the oak disdainfully, shaking his head. "Not this one. It's too . . ."
"What?"
Simon scoffed. "Too small. Yes, too small. This thing wouldn't keep us warm for a week."
"Too small? This tree is plenty big. Come on, Simon, quit playing games."
"It's too small, I tell you." Simon buried his axe head in the ground and folded his arms over his chest. "I won't chop this one. I want to pick one of my own."
"Lord almighty . . ."
"You said I could," snapped Simon. He retrieved his axe and tramped off deeper into the forest.
"How big do you want it?" Richius called after Simon.
"Big!" Simon laughed over his shoulder. "As big as Falindar. Bigger!"
"Oh, yes? And who's going to cut it down? You and I? Alone?"
"I'm not as feeble as you think I am, Vantran. I'll show you how to cut down a tree!"
Richius laughed, caught up in the folly. Behind them, Lightning and the other animals had disappeared from view but Richius gave little heed. For the first time in months, he was actually enjoying himself. Simon stopped at several trees, looking each of them up and down before dismissing them with feigned disgust.
"Bring me a giant!" he called dramatically, wringing his axe in both hands. And then suddenly Simon stopped walking, and his eyes lifted toward the heavens. Before them, blocking out the sun and the sky beyond, was the widest, tallest, greatest oak tree ever, a behemoth that made all the others in the forest shrink like dwarves. Older than the mountains, older it seemed than earth herself, the ancient oak stood before them, a perfect specimen of untouched time.
"That one," Simon whispered, thunderstruck.
"That one?" asked Richius incredulously. "Are you insane? We can't chop that thing down alone. It would take the two of us all day. Lord, it's bigger around the middle than Aramoor."
Simon was resolute. "That one," he said again. "Oh, yes. No doubt about it. That's the bastard I want."
"Simon, be reasonable. We've only got one wagon."
"We can come back for the rest," argued Simon. He did not take his eyes from the tree or raise his voice an octave. He was entranced. And something more. An unhealthy spark played in his eyes. Now when he wrung the axe handle he did so slowly, absently, studying the quarry before him. Richius let out a loud, exasperated breath.
"It's too old," he said. "I don't think we should cut it down. Look how beautiful it is. It's probably been here for centuries."
Simon nodded darkly. "Yes. Centuries."
"We should let it be, show it some respect."
"No. I won't. It is too old. Too damn old." He pointed his axe at it accusingly. "Look at it. It should have been dead decades ago, but it's a cheat. It's stealing life it has no right to anymore, like some piggish Naren lord."
Richius felt profoundly sad. "I think it's ve
ry beautiful," he said. "I don't want to chop it down."
"Beautiful?" chuckled Simon. "On the surface, maybe. But not deep down beneath the skin. No. It's lived too bloody long to be anything but a graceless pig. You said I could pick the tree. Well I pick this old wretch. Help if you want. Or don't. Whatever."
And without another word Simon swung his axe against the ancient oak, slamming the blade into its bark and slicing a deep wound. He took another blow and then another, and soon the chips were flying out of the enormous trunk, little dents in a suit of armor ten feet wide. Richius watched Simon work, wondering at the hatred that had so suddenly engulfed him. Simon kept swinging his axe without pause. Finally, inexplicably, Richius took up position on the other side of the great tree trunk and began hacking away at it. Simon stopped. His eyes lifted to look at Richius, and a smile crossed his lips. He waited for Richius to complete a swing before swinging his own axe again, and in two strokes they had the rhythm--Richius then Simon then Richius then Simon, and slowly, very slowly, they chipped away at the ancient oak.
It was a monumental task. Within minutes Richius' forehead beaded with sweat. Simon was already breathing hard. But they shared encouraging glances as they fought against the stubborn bark and stony flesh, grunting as they pushed their muscles to the maximum. They worked for an hour or more, and when they had finally cleaved a deep crevice in the trunk, Simon held up a hand in surrender.
"God, I'm tired," he wheezed, laughing. He leaned against his axe, his face and shirt doused with sweat. They had only dug a fraction into the massive tree, and had many more hours of work ahead of them.
"You're sure this was a good idea?" quipped Richius. He, too, was exhausted.
Simon nodded angrily. "Very sure. Water." He pointed weakly toward the roadway in the distance. "We should have brought some water."
"I'll get it," said Richius. He dropped his axe and made his way back to where they had left their horses. The water skins they had brought with them were fat and cool. Richius retrieved them, along with the food they had brought along. He was more than just thirsty. The hard work had famished him. And there was still so much more to do. First they had to fell the big tree, then start chopping it, then drag the pieces into the wagon. Richius cursed a little under his breath, berating himself for letting Simon choose the tree. But then he remembered the Naren's determined glare and the violent way he swung his axe, and he decided that he was glad Simon had chosen the tree. Whatever anger he was feeling was being directed straight through his axe and into the old oak, and it was like they were truly countrymen, maybe even friends.