Rage of a Demon King (30 page)

“It’s their northern element, returning to find they’ve been outrun,” said Captain Reeves.

Nicholas swore. “Look at all these fat wallowing barges! We could sink them all day long without danger.”

Then the lookout shouted, “Admiral! Those two war galleys have turned and have gotten free of the sinking ships!”

“Well, that makes it interesting,” said Reeves.

Nicholas nodded. “I could use some more time. Master of Arms!”

“Sir?” came the reply.

“How stands our arsenal?”

“We have another forty missiles, Admiral.”

Nicholas shouted to the lookout. “How far do you judge those two ships?”

“Less than a mile, Admiral.”

“Reeves, who’s to our north?”

Reeves knew the Admiral knew the disposition of the fleet as well as he did, but wanted to hear it from another to help crystallize his thoughts. “Sharpe’s squadron, Wells’s squadron, what’s left of Turner’s group, and a full third of the fast cutters.”

Nicholas said, “Orders! Sharpe and Wells are to move to the north and intercept. I want them to harry and delay, but not to engage!”

The lookout shouted, “Understood,” and started signaling.

“Then I want the cutters to burn those galleys!”

Nicholas knew he was sending several of those fast little ships to the bottom. They had limited offensive capacity, but if two or three could get close enough, they could fire those war galleys, while the Kingdom-class warships could sink three dozen troop ships each under ideal conditions.

“Acknowledged, sir!” shouted the lookout as the first order was received.

The carnage continued throughout the morning, and at an hour before noon, word came the concentration of enemy warships was too heavy. The northern element of the Queen’s fleet had ignored Wells’s and Sharpe’s squadrons when it became clear they wouldn’t engage. Now they were bearing down on the heat of the fighting. Nicholas saw that the cutters had one of the huge
war galleys burning and another surrounded. The concentration of bow fire from the galleys was incredible, a veritable rain of arrows, and these ships manned ballistas. With calm precision, their crews would reload and fire, and each time another of the small cutters was damaged or sunk.

Nicholas took one last look at the damage he had done, then said, “Captain Reeves, it’s time to run for Freeport!”

Captain Reeves did not hesitate, for he could see another huge war galley that had followed the first two out of the mess of troop ships, now rowing furiously in their direction. Captain Reeves gave orders to the helmsman, and Nicholas shouted, “Master of Arms!”

“Sir,” came the reply, hoarse from hours of breathing the stinking smoke of burning oil.

“As we bear, I would appreciate your putting a missile down the throat of that galley that’s racing toward us.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As the ship heeled, the ballista was fired, and the fiery projectile hurled across the gap, striking the forecastle of the approaching galley. Flames exploded across the upper third of the ship’s bow, but only, those men on deck were killed.

Below, the horator steadily beat his drum and the galley slaves pulled as the ship bore relentlessly down on the
Royal Dragon.

Nicholas calculated and decided they were unlikely to get clear of the ship. “Lookout!”

“Aye, sir?”

“Does she bear a ram?”

“An iron-clad one, sir, at the waterline.”

“Well, Reeves,” said Nicholas, “unless we get a sudden burst of wind, I’m afraid I’m about to get your ship sunk.”

“Always a risk, sir,” came the impassive reply.

The men stood calmly watching as the huge warship bore down on them, its bow now completely engulfed in fire. Reeves looked up and shouted, “Trim the topgallants, Mr. Brooks.”

His first officer shouted the order, and men quickly tied off ropes and moved yards.

The
Royal Dragon
heeled over, hard to port, as the galley bore down. Nicholas could feel the heat of the flames across the narrowing gap. His marines began firing down into the deck of the enemy ship.

“Master of Arms!” cried Nicholas.

“Sir!”

“See if your marines can distract their helmsman!”

“Aye, sir!”

Without waiting for the order to be relayed, those bowmen aloft started peppering the rear of the enemy ship with arrows. Nicholas didn’t know if they could see the enemy helmsman, but he thought it likely an incoming fusillade might cause him to duck and lose hold of the helm. Even a deviation of course by a few yards might spare the
Royal Dragon.

Nicholas watched in mute fascination as the enemy ship bore down relentlessly on his ship. He could hear the faint thud of the horator’s drum from belowdecks as he shifted tempo, and he knew the call for ramming speed had been given. “I think you’d best grab on to something solid, Captain Reeves.”

“Aye, sir.”

Then the
Royal Dragon
moved, slightly, and heeled over even more, as the wind freshened. Whether it was the incoming arrows, or the blinding smoke from the flaming bow of his own ship, the steersman on the galley did not compensate for the speed of his target.

The grind of steel against metal accompanied the sight of the
Royal Dragon’s
helmsman being flung from his wheel as the other ship’s ram struck hard into the tiller of the Kingdom ship. A low grinding continued, and the flames from the galley fired the
Dragon’s
spanker. “Fire stations, Captain Reeves,” said Nicholas evenly.

“Sir,” said the Captain. He started shouting orders, and the crew raced towards the buckets of sand. Men aloft started cutting away rigging to loose the flaming sail.

As if being pushed along, the
Royal Dragon
jumped forward, and another sailor hurried to grab the helm as the helmsman lay stunned. “Well, Reeves,” said Nicholas, “it seems providence may be with us for a moment.”

“Sir,” said the Captain, relief on his face as the two ships separated. “I hope we don’t come that close again any time soon.”

“Agreed—” said Nicholas, then his eyes widened. He looked down to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his stomach, and blood beginning to flow down his white trousers. “Oh, damn,” he said. His knees gave way.

A flight of arrows struck the rigging above their heads as the marines from an enemy ship nearby launched a random attack on the
Dragon,
hoping to strike anyone. Captain Reeves shouted, “I want best speed!”

Men flew through the rigging and the Kingdom fleet disengaged itself from the struggle. Get the Admiral below!” Reeves shouted.

A short time later Nicholas lay on his bunk with the ship’s chirurgeon attending to the wound. Captain Reeves entered and said, “How is he?”

The chirurgeon said, “Bad, sir. I fear the worst. If we can keep him alive until we reach Freeport, a healing priest may be able to save him. But he’s beyond my meager talents.”

The Captain nodded and returned to the quarterdeck, where his first officer waited. “Mr. Brooks?”

“We lost the
Prince of Krondor,
the
Royal Swift,
and a score of the cutters. We estimate we sank thirty or more of their cargo ships, and a half dozen of their war galleys.”

Reeves glanced to the stern, where the enemy fleet was now a low black mass on the horizon. “Is there no end to them?”

“Apparently not, sir.” The first officer asked, “How is the Admiral?”

“Touch and go.”

“Can we turn to Tulan?”

“No, we must make best speed for Freeport. Those are the orders.”

“But the Admiral?”

Reeves said, “Those are
his
orders.” He sighed. “We wait a week in Freeport, then we head to Krondor.” Softly he said, “Those are the orders.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. Until Lord Nicholas recovers, everything rests in Lord Vykor’s hands in Krondor.”

The first officer saw how troubled the Captain was, and felt the same. Prince Nicholas, youngest
son of Prince Arutha, had been Admiral of the Prince’s fleet, supreme commander of the Royal Navy in the West, as long as either could remember. He was the man who held the fleet together and, more, he was royalty, the King’s youngest brother. For him to die on any captain’s watch would be difficult enough, but for him to die when the Kingdom needed her fleet at its best was tragic.

Reeves, who was Nicholas’s second in command, said, “Orders to the fleet. I’m taking command. Pass word of the Prince’s injury. Then order best speed for Freeport.”

“Aye, sir.”

Nakor studied Pug. Calis asked, “Will he wake soon?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Who can say?”

The Isalani watched as his student continued to administer the healing energies, aided by the Spellweavers of Elvandar. Nakor had dined with Calis, Calin, and their mother the night before, and they had discussed the best course of action.

Nakor had agreed to ride with Calin to Crydee, where they would use the Tsurani transport device to get to Krondor.

Sho Pi would remain behind in Elvandar and continue to help heal Pug.

“I wish I knew what was going on in there,” said Nakor. “In where?” asked Calis.

“In Pug’s mind. Something is happening, and only the gods know what it is.”

Pug floated in a void, and again he knew he was detached from his body. Only this time he had none
of the references he had possessed when he had been aided by the elven Spellweavers. He did not even know how he had come into the void. The last thing he remembered was preparing to attack the fleet of the Emerald Queen. Then there had been a blinding flash and he had found himself floating.

He also had some sense that time was passing, but he couldn’t tell how long he had been here. In the void there was no way to orient himself, either in space or time.

Then a voice came:
Greetings.

Pug spoke with his mind.
Who is there?

Suddenly Pug was someplace else, a realm of shadows but still without any physical frame of reference. Mountainous figures, dwarfing him to insignificance, ringed his position. They were near enough that he could sense how large they were, but distant enough that he could apprehend their overall shape. They were roughly human in form, but that was a generous use of the term
human.
Each rested upon a gigantic throne. Pug sensed these figures were living, though they resembled nothing so much as figures carved from a dark rock of unknown nature.

Pug attempted to see detail, but it was as if his mind would not hold the image of what he saw. He turned from figure to figure, and as he thought he recognized a detail, it would flee.

“Who spoke?” he asked aloud, but no words echoed in the air. He heard his voice in his own mind, but the sound was absent.

A figure emerged from the surrounding gloom, a figure robed in black. Pug waited patiently as the figure approached, and at last she removed a veil that hid her features. Pug asked, “Do I know you?”

“We have met once before, magician,” came the icy voice, and Pug felt physical pain as it ran through him like a frozen blade.

“Lims-Kragma!” he said.

The goddess nodded.

Pug looked around and said, “But this is not your realm.”

“Everything is within my realm, eventually,” said the Goddess of Death. “But it is not the place of our previous meeting, magician.”

“Who are these mountainous figures?”

The goddess held out her hand. “These are the Seven Who Control.”

Pug nodded. “Where are we?”

“We are in the realm of the gods,” said the goddess. “This is what you thought you saw when you sought to tear Macros the Black from within the mind of Sarig.” She waved her hand and a faint image of the Celestial City sprang up, surrounding the lower third of the mountainous seven Greater Gods. “But that, like this, is simply another level of perception. Despite your powers, nearly unmatched for a mortal, you have not the ability to truly apprehend our reality.”

Pug nodded. “What am I doing here?”

“You are here to make a decision.”

“What?”

“To live or to die.”

Pug said, “Is that a decision to be made?”

“For you, magician.” She placed her hand upon his shoulder and, rather than discomfort, he felt a strangely soothing touch. “You will never enter my realm unbidden, for to you has fallen a curse.”

“A curse?”

“You will not realize it at first, but eventually you will know it for what it is.”

“I don’t understand.”

The Goddess put slight pressure on Pug’s shoulder and walked him forward slightly. Other figures came into view and Pug could see that most of them stood motionless, with eyes closed. One or two had their eyes open and regarded them as they passed.

“This is the closest a mortal may come to viewing the gods, Pug of Crydee.” Pug glanced at the goddess and saw that she again looked as she had when he and Tomas had first visited her hail years before, but smaller. On that visit she had towered over them both.

“How is it this time we are of equal size?”

“It is a function of perception,” she said, stepping away from him. Instantly she towered over him as she had before. “Now look at the Controllers.”

Pug did, and all he could see were the foundations of the Greater Gods’ thrones; they appeared a distant range of peaks, nothing more, their tops lost in the dim sky.

Then the Goddess returned Pug to the size he had been when they first met.

“What have you to say to me?” he asked.

“You are at a nexus. You have three choices. You may release your hold on life now, and enter my realm. You will be rewarded for the good that you have accomplished. Or you may choose eternal life.”

“As did Macros?”

“Macros makes assumptions about his existence that are not valid. The sorcerer’s fate is not what he thinks it to be.”

“You said I have three choices?”

“The third is that you can escape the curse and return to living now, but you shall know the loss of those you love, the pain of thousands, and the sting of bitter failure at the end of your life. You will die in futility.”

Pug said, “You paint three difficult alternatives.”

“I will tell you this, Pug,” said the Goddess. “Your position in our universe is unique. Macros unlocked your potential as a baby, before leaving you where you would be found. He ensured that your Tsurani training would be modified, so that you would return the Greater Magic to Midkemia, and he saw to it that you survived the Riftwar. Because of the sorcerer’s interference over the centuries, you play a role far more critical than your birth would have predicted. You stand poised to shake pillars upon which gods rest. This cannot go unnoticed.