Forcing the Spring (Book 9 of the Colplatschki Chronicles)

by Boykin, Alma

  Pjtor aimed and threw, circled the horse and tried again. His first spear hit late, in the hind leg, slowing the animal but not stopping it. It spun and attacked Pjtor, and he had to use the spear to fend it off. Its claws raked the horse’s side and the stud screamed, kicking and bucking. Pjtor lost his seat but not the spear and fell on hip and shoulder with a gooshy thump. He braced the spear and stopped the vulf, gritting his teeth and pushing up, holding the monster far enough away it could not claw or bite him. Damn, it weighed too much, he couldn’t hold it much longer. It twisted, fighting to get past the cross piece.

  Bang the black and grey bastard shuddered and went limp. Pjtor let it fall, rolling away as he did. He was all over mud, sore, bruised, but alive. “You’re lucky, great Imperial Master,” a hoarse voice grated. “If th’ spear head’d broke, the thing could have gotten to you faster.” Pjtor got to his hands and knees, then stood. One of the hunters with the party had caught his horse and the beast churigon was tending to its injuries. “Your saddle took most of the blow, great Imperial Master.”

  Pjtor’s eyes bulged as he looked at his kill. Blessed St. Tamar, but it was as big as he was! From tail to nose it had to be over two meters long, as big around as a wine barrel. Well, the hide would make a wonderful winter blanket, he thought. “Any men down?”

  Three, one just bruised, one with a bite that might cost him the leg, one dead with chunks torn out of his body. The wounded and dead were loaded onto the sledges, a fresh horse caught and saddled for Pjtor himself, and they moved on, dragging downstream.

  Two nights later a light frost turned the grasses silver as the cold called the stars down so low Pjtor that could almost touch them. The ground fires and the sky fires matched, and for a dizzying minute Pjtor reveled in the wonder of being surrounded by stars, red and orange and silver and blue, below and above him, as the Landers had once been. Then his thoughts shifted to more mundane concerns, including his horse’s festering claw wound and how much longer the blasted ships would take to arrive.

  The first ships caught up with them two suns later, just as his horse began to show signs of recovering. A man at the rear of the army caught sight of a mast and sent word up the long line of soldiers and peasants. Pjtor acknowledged it but kept pressing forward. They’d been slowed by crossing a river that shouldn’t have been there. He needed to get to the lake, now called Silverleaf, before the full moon. The stars and moon would be especially bright, according to the moon guide, and he wanted to make use of it to get within as short of a distance to the walls of the fortress as possible. The ships with the cauldron cannons, as he thought of the squat gonnes, needed to be moored close to the walls before they fired, but not have other ships too near to them. At least the crew had learned why they could not fire all the cauldron cannons, or kettle-cannon as some had taken to calling them, at once. One of the gun instructors had made a model ship and rigged it to fire all ten on one side at the same time. Flip, splash, and the boat was underwater before Pjtor had more than blinked. The men agreed that they would not do that.

  Pjtor used the time waiting for the ships to sneak ahead of the main army, looking at the scene and updating his maps of the Harrier and Turklavi positions. That was, he wanted to do that, but Geert, Admiral Paulson, and General Green firmly recommended that Pjtor not expose himself to danger by scouting. “Imperial Master, you are a large target, literally and to use a figure of speech,” Green stated. “The moment the Harriers see you, you and anyone with you will be the focus for their attention. At some point that might be useful, even desirable. This is not that time, sir. And we do not know enough yet to know how best to approach the fortress. Scouting is not something you excel at, as you yourself have reminded us.”

  Pjtor fumed, snarled, paced, and at last agreed. Scouting . . . he had no patience for it. He missed as much as he saw, and he could not make himself focus on one thing for hours at a time. He sat in his fancy tent, a very comfortable structure that required three wagons to transport, watched scribes fill in the maps as the observers added information, and planned. At least he did have his ships, his wonderful, gun-laden ships.

  One afternoon, as he stalked the lakeshore trying to act invisible, he noticed one of the kettle-cannon boats seemed too low in the water. He marched over and looked more closely. Indeed, it appeared to be settling, evenly at least, and men were doing something with the balls and bombs, off-loading them it appeared. “What’s going on?”

  “Ah, your pardon great Imperial Master,” one of the officers called back. “Water seems to be seeping in the hull, and we’re unloading to see if lightening the ship will stop the leak.”

  Pjtor snorted, stripped off his coat, shoes and socks, handed them to one of the servants who followed him everywhere, and waded out to the boat. He clambered up the rope ladder and planted his fists on his hips. “A lantern and show me where,” he demanded. Pjtor followed a shaking sailor down to the lowest deck. Water shimmered in the lantern light. “Where are the pumps?”

  “We moved them up, out of the way, until we see if reducing the load might—”

  “Idiot!” Pjtor remembered not to roar, but he scared everyone as it was, judging by the absolute silence, aside from a wet trickle sound coming from the leak. “Get the damn things down here and start pumping. You, give me that and bring two more. You, the other you there by the hatchway, get the chandler down here with packing and tow, and some wood, and my tools. Move.” Damn it, he growled, I’m not going to sit around and watch Blessed Justice sink at anchor. I suspect the problem is over here, since it’s not that deep and that’s where the packing is hardest to get to.

  He took the lantern and walked carefully on the raised ribs, found a hook and hung the lantern, then crouched down, ignoring his wet feet as he felt the caulking and packing between the hull planks. Indeed, some tarred tow and oakoom, as the Dalfans insisted on calling it, had come loose, and he pushed it down, then lifted his finger. It bobbed up a little, suggesting that water pressure or bad material was making the seep into a leak. He grunted, pleased to find that he was right, and checked a few other probable places. Had anyone put enough tow in this hull, or had the idiots smoked it all? If they smoked it after it had been tarred, they deserve the slow death they’ll be suffering pretty soon. However, it suggested that he’d better have every boat checked. He heard huffing and grunting, and reversed direction, grabbed part of the pump, and moved the hoses into place. Soon the men were working hard on two pumps, and the creak and goosh of moving water replaced the sound of feet overhead and of the lake. The water level dropped, and Pjtor folded his arms, watching. The men pumped even harder, probably more scared of him than of drowning. Well, they’d seen what he could do if he were angry. And they knew that the five-tailed whip had traveled with the army.

  Once packing and patching material arrived, along with his tools and more workmen, Pjtor fixed the first seep himself. The shipwrights found a total of six leaks, and soon the scupper was no wetter than it should have been. “Here’s the problem, Imperial Master,” one of them observed. Pjtor brought the lantern and peered down. “Too little packing, too little tar, and she bumped the bottom at least once, knocking it loose.”

  I knew it couldn’t have been my design at fault. “I see.” He stood as much as possible in the very small space. “When you finish here, go to each ship and check them over, as long as you have light.”

  “We hear and obey, Imperial Majesty.”

  Pjtor left them to it, carrying his tools with him. “Where is the ship’s commander?” he asked when he got back on the upper deck and could stand up straight.

  Four men pointed to a figure in blue and brown, standing at the bow and looking across the lake toward the far shore and the Harriers’ fortress, talking to someone. Pjtor walked very quietly up to the man, his bare feet making no sound on the warm wood of the deck. “. . . rank foolishness. The guns are too heavy for the boat, that’s what is making it sink, and we can’t pump forever. We need big fightin
g ships like they use at sea, and those can’t be built here. The Harrier fishing boats will just swarm us and— awark!” Splash.

  Pjtor looked at the man kneeling on the deck, and at the not-quite swimming former captain. “And you are?”

  “Lex Shapiro, great Imperial Master. Third captain, sir, in charge of the guns and ship balance.” The slight man kept his eyes down.

  “And the second captain?”

  “Is on shore talking to one of the armorers about changing the carriages for the guns to make them heavier.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “Yes, Imperial M-master.”

  “And?” Pjtor folded his arms, noticing that apparently the former captain could not swim. No, he could, just very badly, churning up water and mud like a mill-wheel.

  “I wanted to make certain that no one tried to lighten the load into the water, sir, given the commander’s complaints about the guns and especially the ball-bombs.”

  Pjtor watched the former-commander floundering his way around the bow of the ship and out of sight. Would he be stupid enough to climb up on deck, or would he wade ashore? “Hmm. In that case I pardon your inaction. Advise the second captain when he returns that he is now in charge of the ship. I trust you have been told what is expected of the ship?”

  “Yes, great Imperial Master.”

  “Good, now go about your business. The repairs will be finished in a few more minutes. And if you wish to divide any luxuries former captain brought with him amongst the crew, you may do so. If you want to toss them into the lake, that is also approved.”

  “Very good, Imperial Master.”

  Pjtor left him kneeling, picked up the tool box and descended the rope ladder one armed, then waded back ashore. Waiting servants took the box, grunting at the weight. Pjtor pointed to the sodden former officer. “He is now with the infantry. See that he reaches a unit that needs replacement.” The vulf attack had strongly discouraged the usual deserters, but illness and accident always left holes.

  “Yes, Imperial Majesty, it shall be done at once.” Two of his guards marched off to removed the dripping idiot from Pjtor’s sight.

  Pjtor heard nothing more about too-heavy guns or leaky ships after that.

  The first hint of pre-dawn wind filled Imperial Eagle’s sails. She moved silently, the lake water sliding past her hull without more than a faint hiss of foam as the moon shimmered on the water. Ahead of her, Pjtor could see the shadows of two more great ships, the three kettle-bomb ships, and a dozen other vessels. He’d demanded that Admiral Paulson allow him to participate in the attack, and the greying man had thrown up his hands. “I cannot say no, Imperial Master, but if you make a foolish error or endanger the attack, I will take steps.”

  Pjtor had no problem with that. Now he stood on the deck of the Imperial Eagle half-wishing for a stronger wind to move them faster, while also thanking Godown for smooth water and a bright moon. They were attacking just before sunrise, when the guards should be sleepiest. Soldiers had marched around the lake that night, to attack from the east, with the ships coming in from the north. The fort sat on a peninsula, with a cliff on the south and shoals that made sailing close in too dangerous for Pjtor to risk unless he had to. The idea was to batter the fortress with the kettle-cannon. The big ships would add their guns to help the infantry if needed, and to discourage interference by other ships.

  He heard a hiss from above, and a paper-wrapped weight on a rope dropped down beside his head. He grabbed it, removed the message, and tugged twice. The weight disappeared back into the rigging. Pjtor took the note a few steps to a shielded lantern and read it. Blast and blazes, the lookout had seen a ship to their south and west, also riding the southwesterly wind and making better time, of course. Well, he’d wait and see what happened.

  The army had been intercepting supplies bound for the fort for several weeks already, so surprise was not really going to be total. But attacking with bombs from the water should do the trick. And Pjtor had a rather nasty card in his deck, a card carried on two of the troop ships that he hoped would make the Harriers most unhappy indeed. Pjtor jammed the note into his coat pocket and folded his arms, watching and praying, and counting the time by the sand-glass mounted beside the great wheel. Pjtor wanted to steer, but restrained himself. He needed to be ready to make decisions for the entire ship, not guiding the ship’s movement, and so he let the steersman do his task.

  Captain Brunov, standing beside Pjtor, nodded. “Tis a sweet ship, Imperial Master,” he observed.

  “Indeed. It will be interesting to see how she fares in larger waters.”

  “Hmm.” Brunov stopped, listening carefully to something. Pjtor cupped a hand to one ear. They saw a red flare on the top of the fortress wall. Well, Pjtor sighed, that came sooner than he wanted but later than he’d feared.

  Bang-boom. Splash. The fortress’s gun fired and the shot missed, dropping into the water. Pjtor’s ships held their fire. The kettle-cannon needed to be close to the fortress, closer than most gunners cared to be, but then most gunners Pjtor had met thought kettle-cannon were “suicide on a trunnion” as a man in New Dalfa had said. The squat guns fired almost straight up, and if the bomb went off too close to the gun, well, that was that. Which was why Pjtor was not on board, despite his initial plans.

  Instead he watched the attack begin once Imperial Crown started firing her sixteen-pounders at the fort. Only sailors would keep the ancient weight designations for cannon that fired eight kilo balls, Pjtor marveled yet again. He was too far away and it was too dark to see if the shots were doing damage, so he turned his attention to the stranger ship. Had anyone else noticed it? What kind of guns did it have? And would they have to fight it?

  One turn of the time glass later Pjtor had his answer. He peered through his New Dalfan binoculars and the faint first pre-dawn light allowed him to see a glimpse of the Turklavi ensign on top of the mast. His blood started to sing and a ferocious grin crossed his face. “Turn to the south. I want to cross her bow.” Unless the Turklavi had New Dalfan sailors and shipwrights, they couldn’t do what he was about to do, with a ship he designed and helped build.

  He heard Brunov gulp, then start giving orders. Men swarmed into the rigging, adjusting the sails on the three masts, and the helm swung about. Pjtor had no idea if the enemy ship had bow guns, but he did not intend to let her interfere with his plans. Imperial Eagle had been assigned to supporting and observing. She would not stand by and watch the other ships sunk if Pjtor had anything to say about it. He felt the Eagle heel over a little as she changed wind, then right herself. As they slowly closed with the stranger, Pjtor saw the first hints of sun glinting off gilding all over the ship, and wondered if the Turklavi had left anything un-decorated. One of the men preparing the deck for battle grumbled, “Glad I don’t have to keep that clean.” Pjtor smiled behind his mustache.

  The sun had been above the horizon for two glasses when the enemy ship drew within range. The stranger had not changed course, making Pjtor wonder a little as they closed, but only a little. He saw motion on the enemy’s deck and heard commands in a strange language. The stranger fired first, a deep, loud shot that hit the water with a very large splash ten meters ahead of Imperial Eagle. That meant they had larger guns, but how many? Pjtor crossed his fingers, whispered a prayer to Godown and St. Issa, and ordered, “Fire when ready, Brunov.”

  The order passed below decks and less than twenty heartbeats later, a full volley shook the Eagle. Bitter white gunpowder smoke streamed out of the gunports. As Pjtor watched, the stranger staggered, bits and pieces flying off of her rails and hull. One topsail went limp and Pjtor heard a thick New Dalfan accent cursing over the ringing in his ears. “Damn it for a mule. I said lower that muzzle ye great stupid git! I want the mast, not the laundry.” Pjtor spared a glance and saw the source of the complaint hammering at a wooden wedge with a wooden mallet, forcing the wedge out of the stack and lowering the barrel of one of the 8-pound deck guns. Pjtor felt a ru
mbling roll through his feet as the men below hauled the guns back into position, and he put one finger in one ear as he counted the time to reload. Why haven’t the Turklavi fired back?

  Booooom. Another broadside fired, rocking the Eagle once more. Boom swish sounded from the other ship, more quietly than before, and Pjtor ducked as a ball zipped past his head. Men screamed as splinters flew from damaged wood. But the enemy ship seemed to have a problem. As Pjtor straightened up, he saw that the other vessel had begun listing to starboard. Did he have time for another broadside or would it be a waste of powder and ball? “Deck guns fire at will,” he ordered. Someone must not have gotten the deck gunner’s message, because another shot went high, but it shattered one of the port side spars on the enemy’s mainmast, generating more screams and yells. The Turklavi ship listed further. “Tell the gunners to concentrate on the lowest hole,” Pjtor ordered. They should have time for one more—

  Boooooom. The rolling boom, answered by only one or two shots, sent more wood and smoke into the air. He heard screams and watched as men in yellow shirts and head wraps struggled on the deck of the other ship. Then something strange happened. All at once the vessel tilted farther to port, and farther, and heeled over with a creaking crack! Guns and ball and all kinds of thing poured out of the open gunports before the ship touched water. “What in Godown’s name?”

  “No idea, Imperial Master,” Brunov called from beside Pjtor once more. “But we are tying our guns down, and dogging the lower deck hatches. Even more so.”