Scimitar War (33 page)

≈

“Your pardon, Admiral!” Captain Betts barged into the great cabin with a hasty salute. “Akrotia has changed course. It’s angling in toward Rockport Harbor.”

“Battle stations, Captain Betts! I’ll be damned to all Nine Hells if I’ll let that thing burn a city!” Joslan hefted himself out of his chair, grabbed his cutlass and clipped it on his belt. “Signal the armada.
War Hammer
and
Bright Star
will beat to windward and take position in the river mouth. The tide is flooding, so that should work in our favor.
Joyous
is to stand well off. If things go poorly, they are to report our efforts to the emperor.
Stalwart
will form up with us on an attack course.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral!”

He followed the captain out of the cabin and up to the quarterdeck, the nervous tension of the past few days melting away before the heat of the oncoming battle. The waiting was over; it was time for action.

Signal flags fluttered from halyards, and he watched the armada start to disperse. Joslan and his captains had spent many hours devising an attack strategy, launches skittering back and forth between ships during their slow, tedious sail.
Indomitable
’s main deck was alive with activity as the sailors prepared according to plan. They furled and struck the great square sails to the deck, braced the yards tightly fore and aft, and stripped away every bit of unnecessary canvas, cordage and rigging. Only the jibs and staysails remained up to aid the sweeps. The deck was remarkably barren by usual standards; they had dismantled and stowed the smaller war engines days ago. Now the weapon crews worked with blocks and lines to bring up great granite spheres from the hold, ammunition for the siege catapult. The marines and ballista crews were put on the sweeps or armed with buckets and assigned to fire control.

Preparations would be complete in a matter of minutes, but it would take at least an hour for all the ships to maneuver into position. Joslan paced the quarterdeck, steeling his nerves for the long wait.

“School of mer off the port bow!”

“Not again!” Joslan exclaimed, raising his glass to look. Not a single mer sighting for days, and now, just as they readied to attack Akrotia, the beasts showed up. It was disconcerting enough to think that they had been pacing the armada unseen all the way from Plume Isle; the timing of their reappearance could not be coincidence. As before, the mer stopped, raised their weapons toward Akrotia, then charged off. “What in the blazing Nine Hells are you doing?” he muttered.

≈

Edan edged near to the shore and tried to sense the seamage’s magic, but felt nothing. A little closer…but not too far; he didn’t want to run aground. His inability to see under the surface was maddening. The thought of those cold, impenetrable depths sent shudders of fear through his mind, but the constant anger helped keep the fear at bay. Strange…Sometimes it bothered him, sometimes it didn’t—his thoughts, her thoughts…their thoughts.

Two of the warships that had paced him up the coast now raced past him and anchored at the river mouth. He would have laughed; did they think they could block his way? Of course, the inlet wasn’t wide or deep enough for him anyway, so their blockade seemed a parody of courage. Two larger ships approached from seaward, but he wasn’t overly concerned; he would burn them if they ventured too close. But the mer…

He had spied the foul creatures on the surface just after he turned toward shore. Now they were below the waves where he could not see. They were planning something, he just knew it! The same trick they had played at Plume Isle, perhaps?

Edan felt a twinge of fear, immediately followed by a surge of rage. His whole life he had been afraid: of drowning, of failing, of being alone and unloved, of some deep fault inside that made him powerless, weak and worthless. He cast out his senses, looking for the seamage, trying to rid himself of the bothersome thoughts. Then he felt it—a hard pull from below that halted his progress. He called the winds to scream through his upper reaches, straining against the resistance, but he remained stuck.

The mer had done it again, had dared to bind him! And this time it looked as if the warships were poised to take advantage of his immobility. Wild anger burned away his trepidation. He let it wash over him, stoked his fires and threw caution to the winds. He would
not
be afraid any longer. He would
not
be a coward and a fool. If the mer and the warships sought to trap him, let them come! He would lure them in and burn them all.

≈

“The city’s stopped!” the lookout cried.

“What?” Joslan ceased his pacing and reached for his spyglass, but it was hardly necessary; Akrotia was barely a half mile away. “Something that large does not simply stop! What the hells is going on?”

Captain Betts squinted at the city and said, “I don’t know, Admiral, but the lookout’s right. And it’s slued over to starboard like it’s caught on a shoal, but the water’s near five hundred feet deep there.”

Joslan cursed. “Could the city be deeper than—” Suddenly hundreds of mer surfaced between the Akrotia and
Indomitable
. He focused his glass until he could see them clearly. They lifted their weapons and thrust them toward Akrotia. He ground his teeth in frustration. Never before had he wished he could communicate with these creatures, but it would certainly be helpful now. He looked back to Akrotia; it almost looked like it was broaching. A memory of Captain Veralyn’s report of
Fire Drake
’s demise prompted a sudden realization.

“The mer! They’ve hooked a kedge into its hull!” He pounded his fist onto the railing in triumph. “Bring us into catapult range, Captain, and position the ship for firing. Signal
Stalwart
to do likewise. If Akrotia can’t move, we can stand off and pound it to bits!”

“Aye, sir!”

The orders were relayed and signal flags fluttered in the fluky breeze. Under sweeps and minimal sail, the two battleships steered straight at the behemoth, a pair of mice attacking an elephant. But these mice had teeth: each had a siege-caliber catapult mounted amidships just forward of the foremast, able to throw a three-hundred-pound granite sphere two hundred fifty yards. Built for assaulting land-based fortresses, the weapons were rarely used for ship-to-ship combat; they were so unwieldy to aim and load that it was virtually impossible to hit a moving target. But Akrotia wasn’t moving, and it resembled a fortress more than a ship of any kind. Joslan had studied Akrotia for days now. He knew he could damage it. The question was, could he sink it before his ship burst into flames?

“Aim for the waterline, Captain. And keep the bucket crews working. I want every bit of this ship doused!”

“Aye, sir!

Crews worked frantically, heaving around the great catapult, blocks creaking dangerously as the projectiles were lowered into the launcher. Chains of men spread throughout the rigging to haul up buckets of seawater, and the topmen poured it onto every sail and spar. Water flew as if they were sailing through a squall, and all the while the men heaved on the triple banks of oars to the pounding of the time-keeping drum.

“In range, Admiral!” the captain shouted. Akrotia loomed like a mountain before them.

“Right! Position for starboard-side firing, and have the sweeps keep us on station.” Joslan looked over his shoulder to see
Stalwart
just reaching firing range as well. “Fire when ready, Captain!”

“Catapult crew, ready…” The captain paused, and every eye on the ship stared at their target. Here was a chance to avenge their fellow seamen, to sink this monstrosity of stone and magic and end the menace for good.
Indomitable
turned slowly, her headway easing as the sweeps churned backward. Admiral Joslan found himself holding his breath in expectation. Then came the word they’d all been waiting for.

“FIRE!” the captain roared, and the catapult crew pulled the trip line.

The crack of the catapult’s discharge shook the ship from beak to poop, rattling their ears like a clap of thunder. All eyes watched the great stone arc gracefully toward its target. It hit like a battering ram, shattering one of Akrotia’s lower balconies, showering the sea with shards of stone. The crew cheered and thrust their fists into the air, and the captain shouted to reload the weapon.

Wind sprang up from astern, and the captain ordered sail reduced to keep them in position. The sweeps backstroked against the pressure, and sailors scrambled to shorten sail.

Joslan lifted his spyglass to assess the result, and strangled back a curse. The damage was superficial, too high to violate the integrity of Akrotia’s hull. Another resounding crack, and he turned to watch
Stalwart’s
shot also strike well above the waterline. “Depress the angle of fire,” he ordered, “and signal
Stalwart
to follow suit! We need to punch a hole at the waterline, not just damage her brightwork!”

While the catapult crew struggled to adjust the weapon, the bucket crews continued to douse the ship with tepid seawater. Every man aboard was soaked to the skin, including the admiral, but Joslan ignored the torrent. He concentrated on their foe, the position of the ships, the rate of fire and the angle of their strikes. He strode the quarterdeck, glared at Akrotia, and prayed to all the Gods of Light that he was just imagining that the deck was getting warm beneath his boots.

≈

A silent scream of agony tore through Edan as stonework splintered under the impact of the catapult’s shot. Helplessly, he watched as the second ship fired. The pain ignited his anger, and not just at his enemies, but at himself. He had allowed himself be trapped, had let rage override caution, and now he was paying for it. Unlike the scratches dealt by the smaller warship, these weapons actually hurt him.

Life is pain
.

The thought flickered in his mind…their mind.
Someone is always trying to hurt you, and if you don’t fight back, you die.
It galvanized him. If he didn’t stop the attacks and break free, they would bash him to pieces.

The ships before him were made of wood and canvas, tar and hemp. Edan searched for an open flame to coax, but found none. It was of no consequence; if it was flammable, he could burn it. He concentrated and brought his fire to bear. It was difficult; the ships were barely within range of his influence, and dripped with water. He pleaded with the fire and, finally, a sail ignited. He called the breeze to feed the flames, but men cut the sail away, and the cinders fluttered into the sea.

Closer
, he thought.
I need to draw them closer
. The winds answered his call, but the sailors struck the rest of their sails and rowed against the wind, keeping their distance.

Small colored flags fluttered, and both ships fired their catapults again. Stone shattered with lancing pain, this time the impacts close to his waterline. Akrotia was built strong enough to withstand hurricane waves, but it would not hold up under the battering of stone against stone. Again and again the ships fired, and the granite spheres smashed upon him. Then, like the crack of a bone, he felt a hairline fracture in his hull.

Crazed by pain and frustration, Edan raged at the wind, determined to draw the ships to him and immolate them. Gale-force gusts howled around him, pushing on his walls and towers. He turned, and the wounded portion of his hull slid away from the ships. Their next attacks fell on undamaged stone. The pain was muted, and allowed him to think clearly for a moment. He angled the winds and shifted some more. Whatever was mooring him to the seafloor was imperfectly spaced around his hull, tight in some places, and slack in others. Edan shifted the winds again, pulling them in a cyclonic motion, and slowly he spun. He felt the tension on the moorings build as the lines crossed and twisted, and a plan formed in his mind.

Higher and higher he urged the winds. He rotated faster. The warships fired again, but their shots fell on another uninjured section. Each rotation increased the tension on his moorings, pulling him down. He felt water lapping at the edges of his harbors. With a surge of panic, he slammed all of his doors to prevent flooding if the sea spilled over his seawalls. The wind screamed, Edan turned, and the pressure increased.

Soon, he knew, something would break.

≈

“Captain!” Joslan yelled over the howling wind. “We’ve got to concentrate our fire! Hold position and wait for the damaged section to come around, then fire as your target bears. Signal
Stalwart
to do the same.”

“Aye, sir!”

The admiral scowled as he glanced at the bare spars overhead. They had cut away the burning jib and furled all of the rest of the sails, and still they struggled to hold their position against the wind that now roared down on their starboard stern quarter. They had done some damage, but they would have to do a lot more to sink this thing.

“Admiral!” called the captain. “Might I suggest we wear ship against this blow? We’re taking the brunt of the chop on our transom, and the oarsmen are having all Nine Hells of a time keeping us on station!”

“Only if we start to lose our position, Captain!” Joslan commanded. “If something goes wrong, I want to be able to throw a headsail up and bear away. If we put our bow into the wind, she’ll be in irons and we’ll be relying wholly on our sweeps. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.” The captain looked at the wind chop breaking against the transom, then beyond. “
Stalwart
is starting to lose ground. They’re taking more wind than we are, and I think— There, sir! They’re coming around to put their bow into the wind!”

“Damn it, Quincy,” the admiral muttered as if the captain of the other ship could hear him. “Don’t get yourself in—”

“Target’s coming into view, Captain!” the lookout called.

“Fire as the target bears!” Betts ordered.

Joslan gripped the rail and watched, rapt, as the granite ball flew. The catapult crew knew their weapon, but the wind fouled their aim. The shot arced downwind and crashed into the sea feet from Akrotia’s hull.