thirty-four
Viscount
skellhaven brought Shearwater alongside Princess Milyna as
another scarlet dawn broke over
Olmigon was laid out in the
admiral's sleeping-cabin. They had dressed him in plain robes, placed two
candles beside his head, and assigned four knight-lieutenants as a guard of
honor. The improvised crown, a slightly rusted circlet, lay on his breast.
Stergos knelt at the foot of
the bier and drew the scarlet hood of his habit over his head. As the Lord
Admiral hovered uncertainly and the guards presented their swords, Conrig
regarded the late king's body in silence for a brief minute. Then he took the iron
cask hoop and set it upon his own wheaten hair, which was still wet with rain.
"This is the only
coronation I shall have . . . Whether I retain the throne of Cathra at the end
of this day now depends upon you, Lord Woodvale, and the brave seamen under
your command. Are your windvoices ready to transmit orders to the other ships
of the fleet?"
"Aye,
Your Grace. Save for the small craft, who have no adepts aboard. They'll be
signalled with flares when the enemy heaves into view. The light forces know
their role and need no further direction. King Olmigon spent many hours coaching
their skippers in naval tactics, as he did my own commanders."
Conrig smiled thinly. "Whatever
Olmigon advised—no matter how much his ideas contradict conventional naval
practice—that you must do. Those are my orders."
"Aye, Your Grace."
Vra-Stergos uncovered his
head and said, "I was just bespoken by Princess Ullanoth. She says that
the armada of Didion is coming at us. They are less than thirty leagues
distant."
Woodvale nodded. "Time
to attack, then—cockleshells in the van. There are thirty-seven of the small
gunboats, sire, augmenting our twenty-nine men o' war."
"And sixty-five
warships of Didion, Stippen, and Foraile," Conrig said, smiling without
humor. "Which gives us the advantage of a single craft. Carry on, my
lord."
Skipping
away close-hauled on the rising east wind, the small boats moved to the right
flank of the lumbering, overconfident enemy, then turned west and ran among
them out of the misty rain. The result was everything Olmigon might have hoped.
The masthead lookouts and scrying adepts aboard the ships of the armada saw the
approaching sailboats, but had no idea what they were up to. Even shrewd Galbus
Peel believed that the ragtag flotilla must consist of a mob of panicked
fishermen, hoping to reach the coves below Eagleroost ahead of a strong squall.
When
the Cathran boats opened fire, the great ships of Didion and their allies
manned their own guns. But the attackers were so small and fast-moving that
they could hardly be targeted. Warship after warship, hampered by their innate
clumsiness, was struck at close range by bombshells and fire-casks of
tarnblaze—not fired in wasteful random broadsides but aimed with frugal precision
near the waterline or at critical structures on deck. Fourteen of the proud
corsairs were holed so badly that their crews abandoned ship. Six more
frigates—and two huge Didionite barques—lost their masts or saw their sails
consumed in tenacious sheets of unquenchable flame. The four-decker Casabarela
Regnant, looming above the rain-pecked waves like some monstrous floating
fort, was singled out for special attention by tiny marauders who slipped
beneath her guns and bombarded her rudder. With steering damaged, she lost way
and was soon nearly dead in the water. Fires dotted her from stem to gudgeon,
and black smoke poured from her ornate sterncastle. Frantic figures swarming on
the forward boatdeck were attempting to lower the captain's gig, so that King
Honigalus, Fleet Captain Peel, and the all-important cadre of wizards could
transfer to another ship. For a deadly half-hour, like wolves slashing at the
heels and underbellies of giant elk, the small craft darted among the enemy
vessels as if daring them to retaliate.
They
did, of course, once the initial element of surprise was lost.
Agile as the fighting
sailboats were, the sheer number of guns firing on them guaranteed their
eventual doom. When their limited supplies of munitions were exhausted, they
attempted to run away, but less than a dozen escaped the infuriated Didionites
and Continental corsairs. The few that did attempt to surrender were blown to
bits.
There was a lull, after
which Honigalus and Peel, newly installed aboard the barque Riptide, regrouped
their disheveled fleet. Nearly a third of the original force was unfit to fight
and began a retreat to the Continent. The others pressed on toward the twin
lines of Cathran warships that Fring and his cohort of scryers had overviewed
standing before the entrance to Blenholme Roads.
"The Tarnians have just
bespoken me that their adverse winds have suddenly reversed themselves."
Vra-Bolan reported to the Lord Admiral. "They are now charging past
Intrepid Head with half a westerly gale in their sheets, and estimate that they
will come up behind the foe in less than three hours."
"Westerly?"
Woodvale frowned. "How strange, with east winds so strong hereabouts. But
it's welcome intelligence all the same, if we can only hold out until the
Harriers arrive. Inform King Conrig of this development, and see if he has
further tidings from the Mossland sorceress."
The original plan devised by
the Lord Admiral and his staff for the defense of Blenholme Roads was in a
classic mode: two battle lines, the longer and stronger in the vanguard, strung
out between the opposing headlands, would stand and repel enemy attackers. King
Olmigon had insisted that this plan be abandoned—simply because it was so tried
and true as to be obvious.
As
Didion swept up the bay, also arrayed in two lines, the Cathran ranks suddenly
broke and erupted into a bizarre free-for-all advance. Some angled east and
others went west, engaging the smaller enemy warships on either wing, while
leaving the great capital ships of Honigalus at the center of the line with no
one to fight at first. It was an audacious trick and one that again took the
invaders by surprise. What followed was a fierce, messy mêlée scattered over
many square leagues along either shore, dragging on for more than three hours
in shallow, treacherous waters, where Cathran knowledge of local navigational
hazards counted more than the superior firepower of the enemy. As more and more
Didionite ships were cut to pieces, their corsair allies lost heart and began
to retreat—only to run head-on into the guns of approaching
As the battle drew to its
climax, Woodvale and his captains blessed the madness of dead Olmigon, who had
demanded that they throw away the rulebook of conventional naval warfare. Riptide,
the substitute flagship of Honigalus, was being chased northward up the
Roads by the Princess Milyna and two heavy Cathran frigates. The
Cathrans were gaining steadily. Before night fell the contest would be decided.
Wrapped in stormgear against
the rain and wind, Conrig stood on the quarterdeck with the Lord Admiral,
Stergos, and a gaggle of jubilant ship's officers and windvoices, debating with
himself whether to demand Didion's surrender or simply blow Honigalus's barque
apart. He burned to revenge himself against his royal antagonist. But if he
did, then Prince Somarus would inherit his brother's throne.
The war
would remain unwon.
The king cupped his mouth in
his hand and spoke into the alchymist's hooded ear. "Gossy! It's time to
bespeak Fring and his master and put an end to this."
Before the Royal Alchymist
could respond, a green-glowing figure appeared on the streaming quarterdeck
before them. Woodvale and his officers jumped back in stunned amazement; but
Conrig and Stergos recognized Ullanoth.
"My Sending is weak and
can only last a few moments," she said urgently. "Lis-ten!
You and your people are in terrible danger. The great storms you Southerners
call Hammer and Anvil are converging on
The
apparition flickered and vanished.
"Did
you hear?" Conrig shouted at the Admiral. When Woodvale nodded dumbly, he
continued. "My father warned me this might happen. He had a final dire
premonition."
"The Hammer and
Anvil!" The young alchymist Vra-Bolan repeated the words, stricken with
awe. "Not since the advent of the Wolf's Breath have we suffered their
fury."
As if to confirm Ullanoth's
words, a sudden fusillade of sleet swept over the warship. Then, paradoxically,
the wind began to fall off. The Lord Admiral began to issue terse commands to
the windvoices and officers.
Conrig said to Stergos,
"Bespeak the King of Didion. Confirm Ullanoth's warning. Tell him I offer
honorable terms of surrender if he will accept the Sovereignty and become
my vassal. Riptide may precede us into the harbor at Eagleroost, while
other vessels of his fleet have my permission to take sanctuary in whatever
Cathran port they can safely enter, provided that they strike their
colors."
The reply was slow in
coming. But in the end, whether he believed in the Hammer and Anvil or not,
Honigalus of Didion could not dismiss the reality of the three enemy warships
hard-charging in his wake.
Fring spoke: His Majesty
King Honigalus is pleased to accept the Sovereignty, given one final
demonstration of goodwill by King Conrig of Cathra.
"Ask
what he wants," Conrig said.
Stergos did, and when the
answer came, he was surprised to see a sardonic smile upon his royal brother's
face.
"Tell
Honigalus that Cathra graciously condescends to agree," Conrig said.
The ships caught in the
great tempest were drenched in freezing rain and battered by hurricane blasts.
Hopelessly topheavy as their rigging took on a burden of thick ice, they
foundered and sank without a single survivor. A pitiful handful of men o' war
belonging to Cathra and Didion, along with three Tarnian frigates, reached safe
havens. All of the Continental corsairs still in
Hours
later, when the sleet storm was over and snow sifted gently down on the
battlements of
To accommodate the custom of
the barbarians, a declaration of surrender was signed in the blood of both
Conrig and Honigalus, and Duke Farindon Eagleroost and his two adult sons
contributed drops of their own blood as witnesses. Then there remained only a
single thing left to be done.
"Let the Princess
Maudrayne be admitted to the presence chamber," the duke said with evident
reluctance.
His wife, Duchess Sotera,
whose hair was almost the same rich auburn shade as that of her distant
kinswoman, led Conrig's wife into the assembly of nobles and high naval
officers. Sotera's face was red and swollen from weeping, but Maudrayne seemed
so coolly serene that most of the men believed she knew nothing of what was about
to happen.
Without prompting, Maudrayne
strode to Conrig, knelt, and kissed his hand. "My liege," she
murmured with eyes cast down. "My husband. I congratulate you on your
great victory."
"Thank
you, madam. My late father informed me of the way in which you helped him. For
this I will be eternally grateful."
Maudrayne
lifted her head and looked him full in the eye. "And how will your
gratitude be shown, Your Grace?"
"First we must speak of
another matter." Conrig's voice was remote. He held out a hand and
Stergos, his lips quivering, gave him a document, which the king passed in turn
to the woman kneeling before him. "Please read this. You may rise. If you
understand what is written, sign your name to it."
She stood, and her gaze
flicked over the parchment. "A bill of divorcement. They tell me you
intend to make a marriage with the sister of Honigalus, Princess Risalla, so
that Didion's place in your new Sovereignty is affirmed."
"That's
true. Will you sign the bill?"
She
said softly, "And what does the other lady think of this alliance?"
Conrig frowned. "If you speak of Princess Risalla—"
"Not
she. The other."
"The newly crowned
Conjure-Queen of Moss has already pledged to me her fealty. As First Vassal,
she rejoices that Didion and Cathra are to be united in a dynastic family. And
when the great benefits of Sovereignty are fully understood by your uncle, the
High Sealord of Tarn, I'm confident that he will also pledge. A new era is
about to begin on our
Maudrayne gripped the vellum
so tightly that it began to crackle. She turned about, letting her gaze sweep
over those present in the room. All of them, excepting Duchess Sotera, who had
buried her face in her hands, seemed to be holding their breath.
"How can I not agree to
sign the bill, knowing the great good that will come of it?" She went to
the side table where pen and ink waited and scrawled her name. Then she took
the document to Conrig, dropped it at his feet, and screamed out: "Now pay
the price!"
She turned and ran from the
room like a deer, leaving the men shouting, Sotera collapsed in the arms of the
duke, and Conrig on his feet, flushed with rage.
"Go
after her!" he cried.
Four of Eagleroost's
household knights dashed for the door. Stergos hastened with them, desperately
calling, "Maude!"
The rest of them waited,
some displaying shock and bewilderment, others plainly sharing the king's anger
and muttering of lèse majesté and even treason. Count Feribor Blackhorse picked
up the bill of divorcement and handed it over to Conrig, smiling enigmatically.
Then Stergos returned. His
normally pleasant features had turned into a mask of stone. "She has leapt
from the parapet into the waters of the bay," he told his brother.
"May God have mercy on her—and upon you."
"Fool," said Red
Ansel the shaman. "What if I had not been anchored nearby in Fulmar? Not
even a Tarnian could survive more than a few minutes in these icy waters. You
and the unborn babe might have died—and what would I tell my Source?"
"Shut
up," said Maude, drawing the blankets more closely around her nakedness
and crouching closer to the sloop's tiny galley stove. "If your precious
Source had wanted me dead, I'd be lobster-food by now. Suppose you do something
worthwhile by making me a hot drink. I've never been so cold since I fell
through the ice of the River Donor when I was twelve years old."
"They're coming down to
search for your drowned corpse," Ansel warned her. "Look—you
can see torches on the steps leading to the dock."
"First my drink, then
you can up anchor and set sail for home. The snowfall has stopped and the
night's clearing nicely now that the Hammer and Anvil have done their
work."
"What a piece of
work!" the shaman muttered. But Maude knew he was not speaking about the
storm.
Conjure-Queen Ullanoth of
Moss put aside Subtle Loophole and let the sight of softly falling snow outside
her tower window ease the pain of her watching. Conrig had temporarily
slipped away from her control. She feared that might happen if she did not
accompany him on the journey to Cala, but she had had no choice. Her own
kingdom must come first. There would be time for the Sovereign of High
Blenholme later.
After she dealt with runaway
Beynor ... and found a way to obtain the great collection of sigils hidden by
his exiled co-conspirator, Kilian Blackhorse. The young fool had babbled the
secret to his Sala captors in the Dawntide Isles, and she had heard and seen,
nearly overcome by a burst of wild exultation as she realized what those
sigils might do, were they in her own hands.
Maudrayne and her unborn son
were a delicious paradox. The Tarnian woman had been transformed from an antagonist
into a potential ally the moment she had signed the bill of divorcement.
According to Cathran law, her son had first claim to Conrig's throne, having
been conceived in wedlock. The proud Sealords of Tarn would find a way to use
Maudrayne's son against the man who hoped to force them into vassalage. And
she, Ullanoth, would use the lot of them in turn.
It would be so very
interesting to mull over the possibilities during the long winter nights,
thinking and watching and listening and planning. When spring came, unlocking
the icy fastness of the Boreal Sea, she'd know the best way to act.
The
sloop, its sails filled by the magical airs of Red Ansel, was long gone by the
time searchers from
Stars came out in the sky
above Blenholme Roads, only to be overwhelmed when the Great Lights appeared in
the north. Bright shimmering curtains, thrusting lances, and slow explosions of
red and green and golden radiance stretched from horizon to horizon, whispering
about what they might do next.