Chapter 18
image

Even in his sleep, Septimus could feel the change in weather, and when he awoke he already knew what his servant would tell him. They'd passed from fine weather into heavy seas, and their progress had slowed accordingly.

As was his custom while at sea, he was awake before dawn to dress and eat breakfast, so he could inspect the ship after the change of the watch. He was just finishing his tea when Captain Horacio entered, his fair hair plastered to his skull with rain.

“All is well?” Septimus asked.

“As well as can be expected in this weather,” Horacio replied. Horacio hung his sodden cape on a hook, then poured a cup of tea before taking his seat.

“The federation reported one of their ships is off station,” Horacio said. “She may not be lagging far, but visibility is too poor to tell.”

“Which one?” Septimus asked. “Is it Vachon, again?”

Horacio nodded, then raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip. “She's too slow,” he said. “Or up to mischief.”

Horacio did not trust their temporary allies—the sign of a good flag captain. Septimus did not either, but he must act as if he did while preparing for any eventuality.

“I'll ask Commodore Grenville for his explanation. If she can't keep up, better that we sail with one fewer ship than wait for her,” Septimus said.

Horacio nodded. “Our ships are all accounted for, at the moment. But if the storm strengthens—”

“Remind all ships of our course and where we will rendezvous if we become separated,” Septimus said.

Even if this was a winter gale come early, they would not turn back unless they were at risk of foundering.

Though he wondered if they were indeed sailing the best course—the federation had helped plan this route, and offered up a deep-sea route previously unknown to imperial captains. But that did not mean it was the best route, merely better than one he could have found for himself.

It was difficult managing a flotilla of nearly thirty ships—harder still when half the ships only nominally recognized your authority. The ships had different capabilities, with the federation ships tending to be smaller and swifter, while the imperial ships were generally heavier, if slightly slower.

Federation ships sailed in a single line, forming staggered rows for battle. Imperial ships sailed in parallel columns and preferred a wedge formation for attack.

They did not even share a common signal language, nor was there interest in teaching the enemy the signals used in time of battle. Instead they'd agreed upon a dozen common signals for use during this voyage, and for the rest, messages were laboriously spelled out using the trading alphabet.

It was hardly efficient, but each navy was jealously guarding its own secrets. The federation likely still held the secret of the swiftest currents, choosing to share a lesser course instead. Similarly, Septimus would closely guard the empire's secrets, telling the federation captains only what they needed to know in order to complete their task.

Just in case these one-time allies should turn back into foes.

“Signal to Commodore Grenville to join me for final planning once the weather clears,” Septimus said.

The rest of Horacio's report was routine, and after dismissing him, Septimus put on his oiled linen cape, pulling the hood over his head.

The rain was blowing nearly horizontally as he stepped out on deck, the bow crashing across the angled waves. Lines had been rigged to help sailors keep their footing on the slippery deck, and Septimus held on with one hand as he made his way to the wheelhouse.

Lieutenant Flavian looked up from the charts and drew himself to attention. “Admiral, the storm has slowed us a bit, but nothing yet to be worried about. We were able to take a midnight sighting and were on course at that time.”

Their course was nearly due east, while the winds were currently shifting between south by southwest and southwest. Hardly ideal, but better than if they were coming from the east. Fair weather would be preferable, of course, or a storm from the west, but even this contrary wind was better than being becalmed.

He remembered the last time he had sailed to battle—the weather had been as fair as any he'd seen in all of his years on land and sea. Perfect sea weather the sailors had whispered, and they'd attributed their luck to the presence of Emperor Lucius in their midst.

It would be a handy thing to command the weather, but he would not want Lucius here. The emperor was a poor sailor even in the best of weather. For him, the current conditions would be agony.

If, that is, he survived them at all. No illness had been named, but the emperor's shocking decline could not be hidden. Likely poison that caused him to grow so thin, and for his hands and legs to tremble as if he were a graybeard. His mind was still as sharp as ever, but the body that housed it was failing.

Septimus had urged the emperor to return home, but understood why he had stayed. It was not just that news from Anamur would arrive in Sendat at least two weeks before it reached Ikaria. It was also a question of whether or not the emperor would be alive to hear that news.

The vessels that had stripped the arsenal bare had also revealed that Zuberi had named himself emperor-in-waiting. A prudent step, given that the emperor had left his realm without an heir, but Zuberi's patience would not last long. Sooner rather than later he would take the crown for himself. If Lucius returned to his realm, obviously weak and without allies, it would be a simple matter for Zuberi to welcome the emperor home, then see that the imperial physicians ensured the emperor's swift death.

Ironically, Lucius was probably safer in the hands of his former enemies than he would be in his own palace.

As for Septimus—he knew that he would share the emperor's fate. Even if he achieved victory at Anamur, the next emperor was unlikely to reward one who had shown such devotion to Lucius.

It was ironic. His own father, Septimus the Elder, had been executed because he had conspired with those who had hoped to depose Nerissa and put Lucius on the throne in her place. Septimus the Elder had known nothing of Lucius besides his bloodline. He'd talked not of the man who would be emperor but of the glories of the past, and of the days when the old blood ruled supreme, while the newcomers were kept in their place.

As for himself, Septimus despised those who reckoned a man's worth solely by his lineage. He had refused to take part in the rebellion, and for that reason his life had been spared.

If he'd realized the measure of Lucius's worth, he might have joined with his father and been executed along with the rest of Lucius's followers. As it was, it was only his indifference that had spared him to now serve the emperor.

If he survived this, he would ask Lucius about the rebellion, which in hindsight seemed out of character. The emperor he knew was not a man who asked others to make sacrifices. He was a man who risked himself, first. Empress Nerissa had never done anything that was not to her own advantage, and he was certain the same had been true of the old imperial line, for all that the other old bloods liked to talk about the glorious days when Constantin's descendants had ruled.

Lucius was different. He not only did great things, he inspired his men to believe that they could be great as well.

Septimus had never imagined himself as a war leader—he'd taken the post of admiral expecting to be a bureaucrat, much as he'd been when he'd been in charge of Karystos harbor. Lucius had changed how he saw himself—and how he saw his duty to the empire. As Septimus made his way back below, he vowed that he would not fail his emperor.


“All ships at anchor,” Captain Horacio reported. “And the gig is bringing Commodore Grenville aboard.”

“Very good,” Septimus said. “Signal the lead captains to confirm that all is in readiness for tomorrow.”

As previously agreed, they'd anchored for the night two hours west of Anamur, at a spot where they could neither see land nor be seen in turn. With luck, the attack tomorrow would come as a complete surprise.

The federation had long used such tactics, but until recently the imperial navy had been unable to reliably fix their position at sea without visible landmarks. Mounting a surprise attack against a fixed point onshore had required periodic forays to check one's position against land—and good luck that these navigation checks were not seen.

Since they planned to set sail just before dawn, Commodore Grenville was coming aboard tonight. He'd asked permission to join Septimus aboard Karzai for the actual battle. Ostensibly it was so that the two commanders would speak with one voice, but he suspected that Grenville wanted a closer look at the mysterious Ikarian weapon known as the Burning Terror.

Septimus had agreed to his request. Grenville could look as long as he wished, but he would not be able to determine how the Burning Terror was made. He'd likely take away the impression that the weapons were crafted by sorcery—an impression that was widely shared in the Ikarian fleet.

Grenville had reportedly not seen the effects of the Burning Terror for himself, but his navy had not been so lucky. It was nearly a year ago that Septimus and Emperor Lucius had led the Ikarian fleet against a federation blockade, with devastating results. The federation forces had been utterly destroyed—and the federation itself had immediately sued for peace.

It was a lesson that he hoped Grenville remembered. And one that he planned to teach the Vidrunese tomorrow.

Ikaria needed her enemies to fear her. To understand that to attack the empire was to be destroyed. By showing overwhelming strength now, he hoped to avoid a conflict that would reveal this as a bluff.

He had limited supplies of the Burning Terror, and it might be months before the engineers were able to replenish them. Ikaria itself was already weakened from within, as the various factions competed to succeed Emperor Lucius. The empire was vulnerable, and if both Vidrun and the federation were to attack, the empire would not survive.

But their enemies did not know of this weakness. It was Septimus's task to project confidence in front of their allies and to win a victory tomorrow that would crush the Vidrunese utterly.

He went to the side to meet the gig that had brought Grenville over. Due to the commodore's missing leg, he could not climb the ropes, so instead a sling was lowered over the side.

Lieutenant Flavian swore under his breath at the sailors who were hauling the lines, promising dire retribution if they allowed their visitor to swing against the side of the ship, but Grenville was hoisted to the deck without injuring either his person or his dignity.

“Welcome aboard, commodore,” Septimus said. “I am pleased that you will join me to witness our victory.”

“Thank you, and I hope your confidence will be rewarded,” Grenville replied. He continued to be cautious, making it clear that the responsibility for failure would be Septimus's alone.

Credit for any victory would of course be shared—but Septimus intended to make certain that all knew it was the Ikarian vessels that had struck the decisive blow.

Grenville was accompanied by his aide, an unsmiling woman who wore the uniform of a lieutenant as if she had been born in it. The lieutenant scrambled easily up the rope ladder with a satchel swung over her back, and after she climbed aboard, the sailors tossed up a leather sack that presumably held Grenville's luggage.

The lieutenant was directed to Horacio's quarters, which would be Grenville's for this night, while Grenville himself accompanied Septimus to the large chamber that served him as a dining room, when it was not being used to plot war.

The steward was pouring out the wine when Captain Horacio joined them. Surprisingly, Horacio still wore his sea uniform rather than having changed for dinner to honor their guests.

“Admiral, my pardon for disturbing you, but the priest needs you to witness the sun's blessing upon our . . . mission,” Horacio said.

His words were sheer nonsense, but Septimus nodded as gravely as if they had made perfect sense.

At that moment Lieutenant Flavian entered, trailed by Grenville's aide. “Lieutenant, if you would entertain our guests? I must see to the blessing,” Septimus said.

Flavian blinked, then said, “It would be my honor, captain.”

With a short bow, Septimus followed Horacio from the room. He waited till they were up on deck, out of earshot of their guests, before saying, “Priest? Blessing? What are you playing at?”

Horacio looked grim. “It was all I could think of,” he said. “Maybe the commodore will think that our weapon is fueled by some ritual with the sun that you don't want him to see.”

It was a clever thought, Septimus conceded, though he wished Horacio had thought to speak with him first about this rather than taking him by surprise.

“What is so urgent that you must invent children's tales to excuse my absence?” Septimus asked.

“Message from Captain Quintus. Appears he took more water in the hold than he thought. His stores of silver powder are soaked through.”

“Damn him for an incompetent fool,” Septimus swore. He began to pace back and forth on the deck, unable to keep still.

There was no excuse for such incompetence. Quintus had known how important the powder was. He should have kept it in his own cabin and slept in the cargo holds, if it came to that. And he should have discovered the damage when it happened, not when it was too late to do anything about it.

“Three ships for the attack should be enough,” Horacio said. “We don't have to tell the federation why we are altering our plans.”

“They'll know something is wrong,” he said. “Grenville saw that we planned to use four.”

Besides Karzai, four other ships were supplied with ballistae and both skilled engineers and the ingredients necessary to make the Burning Terror. Septimus had planned on using four vessels in the attack, holding one in reserve so that the emperor was not left wholly defenseless.

He could carry out the attack with three vessels, and it would probably succeed. But four would be better.

What would Lucius do if he were here? But even as the question formed, he already knew the answer.

“Tell Antilochus that he is to take Quintus's place,” Septimus said. “As for Quintus, I will deal with him later.”

He sent Horacio to change into his dress uniform, while in keeping with his excuse, Septimus waited on deck until the last rays of the sun had faded before rejoining his guests.

“All is as it should be,” he replied. He accepted a glass of wine from his steward and raised it high. “To victory! And to the glory of Emperor Lucius and King Bayard.”

His guests raised their own glasses. “To victory!” they echoed.


The island of Anamur had long lived in the shadow of its neighbors. Tribal warfare on the mainland had kept any from laying claim to it, but with the rise of the Vidrunese empire had come the first real threat. The Vidrunese were not sailors, but they did not need to be. They simply constructed a vast fleet of galleys to carry their soldiers, then launched an invasion. Hopelessly outnumbered, many of the nobility had fled to Ikaria, where their descendant Aitor would later rise to power as emperor.

Aitor had sought a reputation as a war leader and begun a series of conflicts with Vidrun—fought as proxy wars in the southern lands as both countries sought to extend their territories. His son had continued the tradition, seizing Kazagan, but able to advance no farther. It had been left to Empress Nerissa to codify the current stalemate, which her supporters had hailed as victory.

Not once had the empire tried to take the conflict directly to Anamur, where it had all started. This attack would go down in history, along with the irony that both the man who led the attack and the emperor who had ordered it were of the old blood.

The ships had set sail in the predawn mist, and as the sun broke, they moved into position outside the main harbor at Anamur City, the capital of Anamur. From his position in front of the wheelhouse, Septimus observed the order of battle, Commodore Grenville at his side.

The harbor relied upon defensive fortifications. Two massive forts flanked the entrance to the harbor, and intelligence reported that there were usually two dozen galleys stationed within, including a handful that were crewed at all times. Galleys were not as fast as sailing ships, but they could be launched swiftly regardless of weather, and were well suited to defending shore positions. The Vidrunese had good reason to think this harbor impregnable.

After consulting Grenville, Septimus had made his own plans. Seven federation vessels formed the front line—their task was to intercept any galleys that made it out of the harbor. Just beyond the federation ships were the four imperial vessels that would strike the decisive blow, his own Karzai among them. The rest of the fleet formed a staggered wedge behind them, ready to lend assistance if it should be required.

At Septimus's signal, the four ships of the strike force dropped sea anchors, so they swung with their port sides facing the harbor, providing a stable platform for launching the attack.

“It is time,” Septimus informed Grenville. “Would you care to witness the first blow?”

“Of course,” Grenville said. He followed as Septimus led the way to the port side, the thud of his wooden leg against the deck providing an uneven cadence.

Septimus blinked at the scene before him. Captain Horacio stood next to the brass kettle as a strange figure emptied the last wooden bucket of powder into the mix, then clapped his hands together three times, which was apparently the signal for the sailor to begin cautiously stirring the mix with a long wooden paddle. It took Septimus a moment to recognize the man as his engineer Antonio—who for some reason had chosen to wear a gold chain around his neck, a saffron-colored loincloth, and nothing else.

As Antonio saw their approach he deliberately turned his back on them, raising both hands to the sky as he proclaimed, “In the name of the All-Seeing Sun I command you, by the power of his rays we will smite down our enemies.”

Apparently Horacio had told Antonio of his deception, and one or possibly both of them had decided to expand upon it.

Grenville was not a stupid man; he would suspect that he was being tricked. With luck he would decide that the religious trappings were meant to disguise the sorcery that gave the weapon its power.

After all, who would suspect that such a terrible thing could be assembled from a common recipe, much as a baker made bread?

“We are ready for your command,” Captain Horacio said.

Good. He pulled out the long glass and saw the first signs of activity in the harbor.

“Raise the battle flag,” Septimus said. As Horacio repeated his order, he turned to Antonio. “Now,” he said.

Antonio gestured, and a sailor handed him a bundle of rags, which were carefully dipped into the heated mixture, then pulled out. Gingerly the missile was loaded into a ballista. Grenville's eyes widened in disbelief as the sailors prepared to launch.

“When does it get set ablaze?” he asked.

“When the gods will,” Septimus said, falling into the spirit of the deception. At Antonio's signal, the ballista was released as the first missile arched high into the air, landing on the roof of the northern fort.

In this stone-poor land, all buildings were of brick, including the massive fortifications. But their roofs were made of wood . . .

Septimus pulled out his long glass and stared at the fort, while beside him Grenville did the same.

He heard the sounds of more missiles being launched, and Horacio's reports that the other three ships had begun their own bombardments. He waited, his breath caught within his chest, until finally he saw the first flame blossom. The roof began to glow with first one, then two, then four separate flames burning. He swung the glass and saw that the southern fort had also caught fire.

He closed the glass with a snap. “Signal Dauntless and Aitor's Pride to switch to targets within the harbor,” he ordered.

The Burning Terror could not be extinguished by water, nor by beating it out with blankets. It ignited upon contact and would burn until it had consumed all in its path. It was as terrifying on land as it had been when used at sea.

He turned and saw that Grenville's face was pale. Septimus said nothing. There was nothing that needed to be said.

He left Grenville to his thoughts and returned to the wheelhouse, where Horacio kept him apprised of the battle's progress.

Though it was not a battle—it was far too one-sided to be called such. A handful of galleys managed to row out from the harbor and were swiftly destroyed, their crews leaping into the sea to avoid being burned to death. Most drowned in sight of shore, having never learned how to swim.

It took less than an hour for the forts to collapse, their brick walls no match for the inferno that destroyed the timber frames within. By then most of the buildings within reach of the ballistae had already been set ablaze. He'd given the order to cease fire, making it appear to be a deliberate choice, when in truth they were nearly out of missiles.

The destruction was even greater than he'd hoped, as a steady sea breeze spread the flames far beyond the reach of his weapons. By noon thick black smoke rose up over the island, obscuring what was left of what had once been a proud capital.

Four ships had achieved victory, while the rest had stood as witness. No one would forget what they had seen this day—especially not their allies.

It was just past noon when Grenville sought him out. The commodore's face was coated with soot, as if he'd spent the entire battle standing next to the engineers operating the twin ballistae.

“If you had five hundred men, you could take the city,” Grenville said.

“And I'd need five thousand to hold it,” Septimus replied.

Grenville nodded in agreement. “A terrible thing to destroy in hours what it took generations to build,” he said.

It was a sentiment that Septimus agreed with, but he could hardly say so.

“If it makes the Vidrunese think twice about attacking us, then it will be worth it,” Septimus replied.

“And what now? Will you stay to watch the city burn?”

Septimus shook his head. “We've done what we came here to do,” he said. “We sail for home.”