Calis sighed. “All of this is suspect.”
Calin agreed. “I have stopped looking for reasons when it comes to the enemy.” His eyes took on a distant look. “When your father first came here, after the Riftwar and in the years that followed, I presumed to think that the worst was behind us. The war with the Tsurani was over, and the risk from the moredhel and the open rift calling back the Valheru was at an end.” He smiled a half-smile that Calis recognized as a mirror of his own. “I now realize that forces much more enigmatic and far more vast than I had imagined were involved.”
“What do you mean?” asked Calis, as he sat cross-legged at his half brother’s feet.
“Primal forces are moving, forces next to which the Valheru are minor annoyances. Other forces move to counter them, and I fear you and I, and those we love, may be crushed between them.”
“Have these forces names?”
“Many,” said Calin. “I speak of the gods.”
“The gods war?” asked Calis.
“It is the only explanation that fits all of what we know and still makes some sort of sense.” The still-youthful-looking elf said, “Tomas and I have talked many times about his memories. He counts me among his oldest friends, from that time of the first visit to Crydee. Much of what Tomas remembers is colored by how Ashen-Shugar saw the universe and his place in it. Some of that was tempered by the magic Macros used to place his mind in bond with Ashen-Shugar’s, ages ago, but Tomas still must rethink much of what he presumed to be true.”
“The Chaos Wars?”
Calin nodded. “We can speak of this at length tonight, after we dine with Mother.”
Calis got to his feet as his brother stood. Calis said, “I do owe her more of my time.”
“It’s been years since we’ve had you here,” said Calin, without any indictment, but clearly with regret. “It is easy to think we have ages, given our people’s heritage, but we both know how fragile life is.”
“True,” agreed Calis. “I promise that should we endure, I will return for a long visit.”
“Why not to stay?”
Calis shrugged as they walked toward the Elf Queen’s court. As they passed through a series of small clearings, many elves who had not yet greeted the Queen’s younger son did so. Calis smiled and returned each greeting, but when the brothers were again alone, he said, “I do not know if my place is here. My life is neither human nor elf, nor Valheru.”
“A legacy of magic,” said Calin. “You must define yourself, for no one else has the wisdom to do it for you.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Much as your father has had to do. As long as the mark of the Valheru exists, he will never be free of a certain suspicion.”
“I understand,” said Calis.
They moved into another clearing, this one loud with the voices of children at play. A half-dozen elven youngsters were chasing after a ball, kicking it back and forth.
“Football? In Elvandar?” asked Calis.
Calin laughed. “See those two over there?” He pointed to twin boys, children Calis had never seen before.
“Yes?”
“They taught the others. They are from across the sea. Miranda brought them and their mother here. Their father is now in the Blessed Isles.”
“Have many of those across the ocean reached us?”
“Not enough,” said Calin, as he resumed the walk. The ball shot toward them, and Calis deftly caught it on the instep of his left boot.
With a laugh, he kicked the ball high and stepped under it, bouncing it off his head a few times, then heading it back to one of the children, who caught it on a knee, bouncing it a few times as the other children “ooed” and “ahed.” “I remember playing on Sixthday at Crydee with Marcus when I’d visit Grandmother and Grandfather,” said Calis.
The twin who caught the ball on his knee kicked it to his brother, who passed it to a third child. The twins regarded Calis with suspicion. He said, “You two look very serious.”
When they didn’t reply, Calin said, “They struggle with their natural tongue.”
Calis nodded. In the dialect spoken in the Riverlands of Novindus, he said, “You play well.”
Instantly both boys’ faces were illumined with smiles. “Will you teach us how to bounce the ball on our heads?” asked one.
Calis knelt and said, “I must leave first thing tomorrow, but someday I will come back and teach you.”
The second twin said, “Promise?”
Calis said, “I do.” The boys turned and ran off to resume their game, and Calis turned to his half brother. “They asked me if I was telling the truth.”
“They grew up among humans. It has been very difficult for the ocedhel. They wrestle with what is natural to us. Learning our ways comes hard.”
Dryly, Calis said, “That I can understand.”
“You will resolve your struggle,” said Calin, as he motioned for his half brother to continue the walk to the Queen’s court, “someday.”
Calis nodded, and silently added, “If I live that long.”
Ships burned at dawn. Nicholas’s fleet had lost sight of the Emerald Queen’s northern squadron after sundown the night before, and had turned south, piling on all the canvas the ships’ yards could hold. Two hours later, the entire fleet had swung toward the east, and the Straits of Darkness.
They had been rewarded with the sight of fires before dawn as they encountered smoking hulls, burned to the waterline and sinking, both Queen’s ships and Keshian. Lookouts reported fires farther to the west.
As the sun rose, Nicholas saw the vast navy that still waited to slip through the Straits. He couldn’t judge how many had already made the difficult passage; perhaps as many as a third.
To the south, fighting was still under way as Keshian ships from Elarial were engaged with an equal number of the Queen’s warships.
Captain Reeves said, “Where are the rest of her escorts?”
Nicholas shouted, “We have her!” To the lookout aloft he cried, “All ships: attack!”
As the orders were relayed, Nicholas turned to Reeves. “We’ve outrun those ships we were tangling with yesterday.” He calculated. “We have perhaps an hour to do as much damage as possible before they come into sight. What she’s got left here are engaged with the Keshians, and the rest of them are on the other side of the Straits!”
He went to the quarterdeck rail and shouted, “Ready ballistas!”
Ballista crews ran to the fore of the ship, where a pair of huge crossbow-like engines of war waited. Each could launch an iron-headed missile three times the size of a man, used to strike at the waterline, or to foul rigging. Instead of the usual missile, though, a special shaft had been designed, one filled with the deadly Quegan fire oil. To use them was dangerous, for any mistake could result in the Royal Dragon burning to the waterline.
Behind him the attacking fleet, forty-seven of the original sixty ships he had left Tulan with, fanned out in attack formation. Nicholas’s ship lost wind, dropping her speed so the two flanks of the flotilla could sweep in from either side, doing the most damage to the huge body of ships milling in the water, almost at a dead stop, waiting for orders to enter the passage.
Nicholas shouted, “Master of Arms! Fire as you bear!”
The officer in the bow shouted back, “Aye, aye, Admiral!”
Two of the larger ships at the rear turned to engage, wallowing awkwardly, but potentially dangerous. The lookout shouted, “They bear catapults, Admiral!”
Nicholas said, “So I see,” as a huge war engine on the aft castle of the closest ship unleashed its cargo, a huge net of rocks. “Port your helm, Captain Reeves.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” came the calm answer as the net unraveled at the top of its arc, releasing the shower of rocks, each the size of a man’s head—or bigger.
The more nimble Kingdom ship swerved to the left and the rocks splashed harmlessly to the right of where Nicholas stood. “That would have made a fair mess of the rigging
, sir,” said Captain Reeves.
“Take us back to starboard,” said Nicholas.
The helmsman did as ordered, and the bow of the warship swung back on line, bringing it to where it would cross to the port of the big ship. They were close enough now that Nicholas could see the catapult crew frantically attempting to reload. “Bad choice,” said Nicholas. “Takes too long to reload and the men are exposed.”
As if reading his mind, bowmen in the rigging began firing on the catapult crew on the enemy ship. The Kingdom’s Royal Marines were ground soldiers, yet experienced at fighting aboard ship. They used short bows with good effect. Then the Master of Arms ordered the starboard ballista fired and it struck the middle of the enemy ship with a fiery explosion. Men screamed and Nicholas could see the mid-deck was packed with soldiers, many looking sick from the months at sea. At least a score fell over the side, partially or completely on fire. Others frantically and vainly attempted to beat out the fire, but discovered to their horror the secret of Quegan fire oil. Once it was ignited, only smothering in sand could put it out. Those throwing buckets of water on it were just spreading the flaming oil faster.
Nicholas tore his gaze from the grisly sight and looked at their course. “Hard to port,” he said. “It’s a mess in close, and I don’t want to get stuck in there with no place to turn around. We’ll keep nibbling at the edges.”
Orders were passed, and other ships in the flotilla did the same, launching their fiery cargo, then turning hard lest they become entangled with the ships they were attacking.
The lookout above shouted, “There are two war galleys backing oars in the middle of those burning ships there, Admiral.”
Nicholas said, “They want to come out and fight, but they have no room to maneuver. Let’s find something else to burn before they do find a way out.”
He ordered the flotilla to a southerly course, sailing toward where the Keshians had been battling the invaders. Smoke was beginning to obscure Nicholas’s vision. “Lookout!”
“Sir?”
“Keep a watch out for that northern squadron of theirs. If you catch sight of them, I want to know it before you can think!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
For an hour they hunted. Men screamed and died, and still the invaders’ ships seemed without number. Nicholas had personally fired four ships, and was approaching the fifth when the lookout shouted, “Ships to the north, Admiral!”
“How many?”
“I count at least a score of sails. . . . I count thirty. . . . Forty!”
“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 grin
ding 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.”