Tower Lord

CHAPTER SIX

Lyrna

So many ships. The harbour was jammed with them, the masts resembling a gently swaying forest, the crews crawling over deck and rigging like ants as she looked on from her balcony.

“Must be over a thousand by now,” Iltis surmised.

“I make it twelve hundred,” Orena said. “If you put them end to end, maybe we could walk home.”

“Right now I’d rather swim,” Harvin muttered, straightening as he caught Lyrna’s glance. “Not that I would, Highness.”

Lyrna turned back to the harbour without reply. Her decision to accompany the Meldenean fleet when it sailed forth had not been well received, Iltis protesting about the obvious dangers whilst Harvin had the additional worry of Orena who, along with Murel, refused to be left behind.

“My queen needs her ladies,” she had stated. “She said so herself.”

She had expected some obstruction from the Shield but he had just frowned and said, “Of course, Highness. I would have you nowhere else but at my side if the choice were mine.” His dazzling smile was almost enough to order Iltis to strike him down there and then.

She could see him now, striding along the quay, exchanging words with various captains and sailors. Whereas he was all charm with her, his countenance when dealing with his own people was one of grim toleration, for all their obvious respect and relief at his presence. They disappointed him, she concluded. He wonders whether they were truly worth the sacrifice he was prepared to make.

“I realise it may be too early in my service to ask a boon, Highness,” Harvin said. “But when this is over, I formally request never to be sent to sea again. I’ve seen enough rat-infested bilge tubs for this life.”

Lyrna allowed herself a smile. “Your request is granted, my lord.”

She watched the Shield as he strode closer, face upraised as he found her on the balcony, bowing deeply and extending an arm to where the Sea Sabre was moored.

“My ladies and lords,” she said. “Our vessel awaits.”

“The best way to avoid a trap,” the Shield said, “is to kill the bastard who made it before he gets a chance to set it.”

“As long as you can find him first,” Ship Lord Ell-Nurin pointed out.

They stood around a map table set up in the Sea Sabre’s hold, an extensive chart of the Isles and surrounding waters spread out before them. There were eight other senior captains present along with Belorath, now happily returned to his role as first mate. Ell-Nurin was the sole Ship Lord present, apparently the only member of the council Ell-Nestra could stomach for any length of time.

“Thanks to Her Highness we know the Volarians intend a feint,” he went on, finger pointing to the southern approaches. “Probably here, the most direct route to the capital aided by favourable winds. Whilst we can most likely expect them to send their troop ships to the beaches here.” He tapped at three bays on the northern shore of the largest islands. “Where the wind will be against them, but since they expect us to be fully occupied to the south, it won’t matter.”

“What does that tell you?” Lyrna enquired.

“That they’ll have to separate here.” His finger picked out a small speck some eighty-odd miles to the east.

“The Teeth of Moesis,” Ell-Nurin said. “A prophetic place for a battle.”

“The gods are bound to smile on us there,” Belorath put in. “If they smile on us anywhere.”

“You intend to attack as they separate?” Lyrna asked.

“Indeed, Highness,” the Shield replied. “We tack from the north-west with the wind in our favour, sink the troop-ships first. Without them their invasion is a pointless endeavour after all.”

“What’s to stop them simply joining forces again when they see our sails on the horizon?”

Ell-Nestra’s finger tapped a point just to the south of the Teeth of Moesis. “The Serpent’s Tail. The god left more than just his teeth behind.”

“A great stone reef, Highness,” Ell-Nurin explained. “Their southern division will have to navigate it to join up with the troop-ships. Not an easy task at the best of times.”

“All dependent on whether they stick to the plan outlined in the book,” Lyrna said. “A plan they may never have received.”

“There was more than one book,” Ell-Nurin said. “Safely received in Varinshold according to our sources. We are also advised the Volarian general wrote to the Council-man expressing his condolences at the loss of his son, presumably to a storm since no trace of his ship has been found.”

“We sail with the tide,” the Shield said, moving back from the table.

“The fleet is not fully gathered,” Ell-Nurin said. “Another two days will give us fifty more ships.”

“And hand the Volarians the Isles. We’ve tarried too long as it is, every scrap of sail will be needed to get the fleet to the Teeth in time.” He looked at Lyrna with one of his hateful smiles. “My first mate tells me Your Highness is a great exponent of Keschet. Perhaps you would honour me with a game once we’re under way?”

He was a much better player than Belorath, relying on his own tactical acumen rather than learned strategies, improvising with considerable flair and imagination. But he was also overly aggressive and inflexible in the long game. But at least she didn’t have to string it out.

“Fifty-eight moves,” she said, plucking his emperor from the board. “Very impressive.”

“It must have been hard,” he said, reclining on his stool, his smile now genuine.

“Hard, my lord Shield? Keschet is very simple in essence . . .”

“Not the game. Pretending all those years. Not being you. After all, who wants the keenest mind in the room to be the princess in the corner? Did you do needlework whilst your father held his councils? I expect you’re very good at that too.”

“Actually I never learned needlework. Nor felt the need to sit through my father’s meetings, since I could usually anticipate every word likely to be spoken. But yes, it was hard to pretend stupidity to the stupid.”

“Now there is no need. The whole world can see your . . .” He faltered and fell silent, turning his gaze out to sea and the great host of ships surrounding them.

“My true face?” she asked, finding considerable enjoyment in his discomfort.

“I misspoke, and crave your forgiveness.”

She busied herself removing her pieces from the board. “I’m sure I’ll hear worse when I return to the Realm.”

“You think they’ll accept you?” he asked. “As you are?”

“You talk as if they have a choice. I am queen by right of blood. That’s all they need to know.”

“And you expect their instant servile obedience?”

“I am returned from the dead, bearing the scars of my suffering in service to the Realm’s need at this time of greatest peril. Surely the Departed must favour me.” She smiled and gestured at the board. “Another game, my lord?”

“I don’t think there’s much point, do you?” He leaned forward, all trace of a smile gone from his lips. “Why did you come? You could have stayed in the isles, sailed safely away if the battle went against us.”

“Perhaps I wanted to see you perform.”

His eyes flicked to the Keschet board. “You told me more than you intended, Highness. With you, seemingly simple moves always conceal complex intent.”

“My intent is not so complex. Win your battle and I’ll happily share it.”

“I intend to.” He rose and bowed before striding off towards the helm.

A night and a day brought the Teeth in sight, a black nub on the horizon occasionally obscured by crashing waves. The Shield ordered the fleet to strip sails and took the Sea Sabre on ahead, dropping anchor barely a half mile away from the Teeth. They were an impressive sight at this distance, great slabs of stone rising from the sea, swirling currents bringing wave after wave to batter their flanks.

“A great serpent’s teeth?” Murel said when Benten had related the story of the Teeth’s origins. She gave a scornful laugh. “All gods are a lie, but that’s a gem.” She fell silent at Lyrna’s glare, the crewmen within earshot bristling with indignation.

“My apologies,” Lyrna told them. “My lady is young and knows very little.”

“Sorry, Highness,” Murel murmured, gaze downcast as the crew resumed their tasks.

“Gods are real to those that hold to them,” Lyrna told her, patting her hand, leaning close to add in a whisper, “But a lie is still a lie, no matter how big.”

The Shield climbed aloft with his spyglass, standing on the mainmast and scanning the horizon, hair whipping in the wind. Lyrna saw Murel staring in open admiration then looking away with a flush on her cheeks when she caught Lyrna’s eye. The hours stretched as Ell-Nestra maintained his vigil, the afternoon sun eventually burning through the haze and the sea calming in the warmer air.

He may very well be wrong, Lyrna thought, gazing at the empty sea to the east. The Volarian fleet could have passed by in the night and we would never know. She had never been a great believer in intuition, preferring reason and evidence to instinct and guesswork. But there was something in his certainty that told her they were in the right place, a lifetime at sea had to be worth something.

She occupied herself searching the waves for sign of the shark but finding no trace of the fin. Perhaps the echo of Fermin’s call had finally faded, or maybe it had sensed the coming battle and gone in search of easier prey. It was strange, but she found she missed it, the constancy of its presence had become a talisman for their continued survival. I should have given you a name, she thought. One should always name a pet.

“Hoist the black!” the Shield’s order sounded from above as he descended to the deck, sliding down a rope to drop at the helm. “Raise anchor! Archers to the rigging!” He took the wheel and spun it as the anchor was hauled from the sea, the ship’s prow pitching as they turned north. A large rectangular banner was raised to the top of the mainmast, completely black with no decoration. The signal for an enemy in sight.

Lyrna watched Ell-Nestra at the wheel, finding his expression graver than expected, the gaze he turned on her speaking of grim tidings. Something is very wrong.

They sailed north for a mile or so, turning and trimming canvas as the Meldenean fleet hurried in answer to the black banner’s call. The Shield gave the wheel to the helmsman and went to the prow, eyes narrowed as he stared ahead. Lyrna went to his side, remaining silent as he continued to stare, face rigid with suppressed anger.

“I,” he said after a moment, “am a fool.”

“They did not split their fleet?”

“Oh they split it all right. Their feint sails south as we speak. Five hundred ships.”

Five hundred. “The spies said their fleet was no more than twelve hundred ships. That would mean we sail towards only six hundred.”

“The fleet that landed in Varinshold was twelve hundred strong, the fleet in front of us nigh on two thousand. They have been reinforced whilst at sea.” He closed his eyes, cheeks bunching and fists balled on Skerva’s wooden shoulder. “Why did I not see this?”

“What do we do?” Lyrna asked.

He straightened, unclenching his fists and breathing out slowly then turning to her with a grin. “We do what we came to do, Highness. The wind is at our backs and there are many prizes to claim this day.” He turned back to the deck, pausing to brush his fingers over her hand, breath soft on her ear. “And I am so keen to hear of your true intent.”

The Volarian battle line came into view all too soon, a long parade of dark-hulled ships all following the same southward course. “Trying to get some wind in their sails,” Belorath explained. “Probably want to hook round and have at our arses.”

“Watch your tongue in front of the queen,” Iltis growled but Belorath just laughed and tossed him a broad leather-bound shield.

“You and your fellow lordships can keep the arrows off the women. Best leave the fighting to us, eh?”

“Pirate dog,” Iltis grumbled, fixing the shield’s strap over his arm, Benten and Harvin doing the same, as the first mate strode away. They wore much the same kit as the Meldeneans, a broad helm with leather chin-straps and mail shirts, though Iltis had been forced to stitch two together to fully cover his chest. Lyrna and her ladies had donned specially tailored mail of smaller dimensions which proved remarkably uncomfortable with a tendency to produce large amounts of unladylike sweat. However, she felt it preferable to a stray arrow in the chest. She also had a small dagger strapped to her forearm, the blade a little longer than she was used to but she had practised and found she could still throw it with reasonable accuracy. She doubted it would be much use in the coming maelstrom but drew some reassurance from the feel of it against her skin. Never be without it.

The Meldenean fleet were strung out in two roughly equal divisions, one following the Sea Sabre the other a narrow-hulled vessel commanded by Ship Lord Ell-Nurin. “The Red Falcon,” Belorath had said. “Fastest ship afloat, some say.”

The lead Ell-Nurin’s ship was building over the Sea Sabre gave truth to his words, the prow cutting through the waves like a sword blade, sails seeming to strain against their lines from the wind that filled them.

“The bugger wants them all to himself!” the Shield called from the helm, raising a laugh amongst the crew. “Tighten those lines, I’ll not be beaten to first blood!”

At his insistence Lyrna had positioned herself close to the entrance to the hold, ready to retreat below if the deck became too dangerous.

“What’s that for?” Murel asked, seeing a sailor tossing sand from a bucket over the deck as the Volarians drew ever nearer.

“Blood,” Benten said. “It’s like to get slippery underfoot when it starts. Do the same thing on my father’s boat when we do the gutting.”

“Oh,” the girl said in a small voice.

“My lady,” Lyrna said. “You may go below.”

“Thank you, Highness, but I prefer to stay.”

No tears now, Lyrna saw as Murel straightened her back and drew a calming breath. No longer just a girl.

“Mangonels ready!” the Shield shouted and crewmen ran to pull the coverings from two bulky contraptions in the centre of the deck, others bringing baskets filled with projectiles and buckets of pitch.

The engines consisted of a single throwing arm fastened to a crossbeam around which thick lengths of rope had been wound. The ropes twisted as a crewman worked a lever to draw the arm back level with the deck. Their munitions were melon-sized balls of hemp, the rope wrapped tight around an iron core. Two were placed in the bowl at the end of the arm and soaked in pitch, a man with a torch standing by. One engine was positioned to cast its projectiles to the port side, the other starboard.

“I thought we’d be ramming them,” Harvin said. “Then jumping on board to kill the crew.”

“Most sea battles are won with flame,” Lyrna said. Though I’d hazard you’ll see all manner of death this day.

The Shield steered them towards the middle of the Volarian line, the Red Falcon heading for their rear. The archers began to loose before they were in range, tiny waterspouts appearing in the sea between the closing ships, the faint hiss of the falling shafts soon joined by the hard thunk of arrowheads on wood.

Lyrna could see the Volarians now, dark figures clustered at the starboard rail of a broad-beamed vessel, swords drawn and grapples ready.

“Loose!” Belorath barked and the torch-bearer lit the hemp balls in the mangonel bowl, standing back as his comrade kicked the release lever and the arm sprang forward, casting its flaming contents at the Volarian ship. The two fireballs described a lazy arc, trailing smoke as they fell amongst the Volarian soldiery, a cheer rising from the Meldeneans as the battle claimed its first victims, a few flaming men jumping into the sea.

The Shield put them alongside the opposing ship at a distance of no more than fifty paces, the air between them now thick with arrows.

“Down, Highness!” Iltis raised his shield as Lyrna and the two women crouched, Orena wincing at the hard rain. A cry came from above and Lyrna glanced up to see a crewman fall to the deck with a bone-snapping thump, an arrow jutting from his chest as he gasped out his final breaths from a bloody mouth.

The starboard mangonel loosed again, the fireballs flying into the Volarian rigging this time, their mainsail catching light and sending burning debris onto the men below, their arrow storm faltering as fire took hold. The ship lurched towards them in a last desperate attempt to board, grapples flying from the deck to fasten on the Sea Sabre’s rail. The Shield spun the wheel and the prow swung to port, the crew hacking away the grappling ropes but not before a small group of Volarians had managed to scramble across. They were lightly armoured men with twin short swords on their backs, moving along the ropes with an unnatural speed and sure-handed grace. A few fell to the Meldenean archers in the rigging but four of them managed to make the deck, vaulting over the rail and drawing swords to hack down the nearest crewmen. They charged for the mangonels, parrying the slashing sabres of the crew with ease, killing the men servicing the engines in a matter of seconds.

Then the Shield was amongst them, his sabre moving in a blur, killing one then ducking under the thrust of another to hack through his lower leg. The other two launched a coordinated attack, one slashing at Ell-Nestra’s face whilst the other sought to deliver a killing blow to the chest. He backed away, parrying and twisting as they forced him against the starboard rail.

Iltis gave a roar and charged forward with his sword levelled, Harvin and Benten on either side. The Volarian managed to turn aside the big man’s thrust but had no defence against the overhand slash delivered by Harvin, the sword cleaving through his shoulder. Benten hacked at the remaining Volarian as he continued to battle the Shield, earning a cut on his arm as the man easily side-stepped the blow and delivered a counter, only to fall dead a second later as Ell-Nestra’s sabre speared him through the neck.

Lyrna saw that the Volarian ship was adrift now, her deck covered in flame and her sails burning rags. All around the sea was full of battling vessels, many already fully aflame. Through the smoke she could see a Meldenean ship jammed between two enemy vessels, her deck a seething mass of combat.

She called to the Shield and pointed. He went to the rail, sabre dripping blood across the deck. “We’ll need those mangonels working,” he said.

She nodded and beckoned her lords over to the engines, dragging the bodies clear and gathering the remaining ammunition. “Can’t say as I know how to work such a thing,” Harvin said.

“It’s easy,” Benten said, grimacing a little as Murel tied a bandage about his arm wound. “This lever draws back the arm, that one releases it.”

They managed to have it readied by the time the Shield had steered them within range of one of the Volarian ships. Lyrna touched a torch to the pitch-covered hemp and Benten kicked the lever, the fireballs sailing into the centre of the enemy ship without any obvious effect. They repeated the process two more times as the Sea Sabre closed, their efforts rewarded by the sight of a decent-sized blaze rising from the Volarian ship’s deck but also drawing the ire of her archers.

“Faith!” Iltis grunted as they huddled under his shield, an arrowhead appearing through the leather binding just above his arm.

“Grapples out!” Belorath yelled as the Sea Sabre scraped against the Volarians’ hull. Crewmen ran to cast their three-pronged hooks across the gap, one falling to an arrow and plunging over the side. However, the thickening smoke offered some protection as the rest of the crew clustered around and hauled on the ropes, pulling the two ships together then throwing boarding planks across the divide.

“They don’t come with mercy!” the Shield yelled, standing at the rail with his sabre held aloft. “Don’t show them any!”

The crew responded with snarling assent as they followed him across the planks, sabres and spears raised high, the sight of the ensuing battle lost to the smoke now billowing about the Volarian deck.

“Um, Highness?” Lyrna turned to see Murel standing at the starboard rail and beyond her a very large Volarian ship ploughing directly towards them.

“Reload the engines!” She went to the starboard mangonel, working the lever as fast as she could, casting glances at the approaching monster. A few fireballs won’t stop this one.

“Murel!” she shouted. “Get the pitch!”

The lady didn’t respond, still staring out to sea, but not at the Volarian ship, at something moving towards it at great speed, its fin leaving a wake like a streak of white fire.

The shark rose from the sea, tail whipping and jaws agape, falling onto the Volarian deck in an explosion of splintered wood. It thrashed, scattering men and rigging like chaff, bodies and wreckage cast into the air, some men leaping into the sea in terror. The Volarian ship listed under the weight of the shark, the upper deck collapsing as she keeled over and the sea washed across her hull. Dozens of men thrashed in the water, the sea roiling as the great ship sank into the depths, then turning red as the shark’s head rose amongst the survivors, jaws snapping. Within a few seconds they were gone, the only sign of their ship a few splintered planks and barrels bobbing on the swell.

Very good, Lyrna thought, catching sight of the shark’s red stripes beneath the waves. Do it again.

By the onset of evening what remained of the Volarian fleet clustered together for protection like bison facing a wolf pack as the Meldeneans circled, casting forth an unending rain of fireballs. Occasionally a Volarian captain would try to strike out at the tormentors, but the sight of the shark was usually enough to turn them back. Three times it had leapt from the sea to destroy any ship coming close to the Sea Sabre, spreading terror amongst the Volarian fleet and sapping their crews’ courage with every shattered hull and blood slick. After the destruction of the third ship, a huge troop carrier which had gone down accompanied by the screams of the hundreds of men trapped belowdecks, many Volarian vessels had simply turned about and sailed off towards the east with every sail hoisted. By the time the sun began to wane Lyrna counted only some two hundred ships bunched together as the fireballs fell. The pirates’ skill and the shark had tipped the balance, but at a cost. She estimated at least half the Meldenean fleet was gone, numerous vessels adrift on the surrounding sea, their decks thick with corpses.

The last Volarian ships attempted to break out as night descended, the flaming hulls of their sisters robbing them of concealment as the Meldeneans closed for the kill. She saw a troop ship assailed by three pirate vessels at once, the crews swarming aboard with spear and sabre, sounds of battle soon replaced by screams of slaughter and torment. By midnight it was over, the Shield ordering sails trimmed and a south-easterly course set.

“We still have five hundred more to sink,” he said. “You’d best rest, Highness.”

He had given her his cabin to share with her ladies. They were both already abed, lying fully clothed side by side, hands dark with dried blood after hours spent tending the wounded. Lyrna settled next to Orena, provoking a fearful whimper. She began to stir but relaxed as Lyrna stroked a hand over her hair. “Shhh, all over now.”

Lyrna relaxed into the bed, bone-weary and hoping sleep would come soon, but knowing it was likely to elude her for some hours. She had seen too much today, the wondrous and the terrible, all crowding into her mind and making her long for the ability to forget. But when her memory brought forth a vision it was not of battle or screaming men snapped in half by a shark’s maw, it was an old man on a bed . . . so old, so sunken into age and regret, barely recognisable as her father, barely believable as a king.

She looked down at her hands and found they held no scroll . . . It’s different. Her hands went to her face, finding the burns, the fingers tracing over a scalp of stubble and ruined flesh.

“You are not my daughter,” said the old man on the bed. “She was beautiful.”

“Yes,” Lyrna replied. “She was.”

He coughed, a trickle of blood appearing in the corner of his mouth, his voice weak, pleading. “Where did she go? I have things to say to her.”

“She went to speak with the Alpiran ambassador.” Lyrna moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking the old man’s hand. “But she did give me a message.”

His tired but still-shrewd eyes narrowed. “I trust it’s an apology. I’ll not have a lifetime’s planning ruined by her weakness now.”

Lyrna laughed, realising she still missed this dreadful old schemer. “Yes, an apology. She said she was sorry for beating you at Keschet all those years ago. But she was too young to realise how galling it would be.”

“Hah.” He grunted, pulling his hands from hers. “Every chance taken for a jibe. Her mother was the same. Took the board away for her protection. Couldn’t have it known she was so . . . special. But that day I knew I had an heir.”

Lyrna felt a tear trace down her cheek, smiling at the old man’s scowl. “She didn’t do what you ordered. You must know that. She agreed to the Emperor’s terms and Malcius returned to take the throne. Your grand design was all for nothing.”

“And is he a good king?”

Lyrna stifled a sob. “He’s dead, father. He was killed before my eyes, with his queen and his children. Your wish is finally fulfilled, I am queen now, and I rule a land of ruin and death.”

His scowl transformed into a wry grimace, a bony hand coming up to lift her chin. “After the Red Hand it was all ruin and death too. But it rose again, because I made it. Grabbed it and dragged it to its feet in the space of a generation.”

“The people may not accept me as I am . . .”

“Then make them.”

“Our enemies are many . . .”

“Then kill them.”

Lyrna felt a sudden chill on her scalp, turning to find the windows open, drapery tumbling in wind and rain. She turned back to the old man, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I wish you had been a better man, Father.”

“A better man would have left no realm for you to inherit, ruined or not.” He smiled at her as the wind built, filling the room, the air cold enough to make her gasp . . .

She woke to find Orena and Murel battling to close the shutter on the window in the face of gale-driven rain, a dim lamp jerking about on the ceiling above. “Sorry, Highness,” Orena said, forcing the shutter in place. “We’d hoped not to wake you.”

Lyrna rose to be sent sprawling against the bulkhead by the pitching deck. “A storm?”

“It started about an hour ago,” Murel said, hunching her shoulders as a thunderclap reverberated through the ship, wincing in fear. “After today I thought I’d never be afraid again. Now this.”

Lyrna put a comforting arm about her shoulders and they sat on the bed, the howl and crash of the storm banishing all chance of sleep. “The crew think you’re touched by their gods, Highness,” Murel whispered. “Calling the shark from the depths. Odonor’s Hand they call you.”

“Udonor,” Lyrna corrected. God of the winds, the greatest of gods. If so, I wish he’d end this bloody storm.

The storm raged all night and for much of the following day, Lyrna venturing from the cabin only once to find the deck repeatedly swept by tall waves and the Shield alone at the wheel, gesturing for her to go back inside although his smile blazed as white as ever through the rain. She provided a welcome distraction for her ladies with a tutorial in the basics of court etiquette, meaningless frippery for the most part but it might offer some uses when they returned to the Realm; people did like their petty rituals. Orena proved the best student, mastering the curtsy and the mysteries of the bow with a fluid grace that made Lyrna suspect she may have found occupation as a dancer in the years before landing her fat but rich husband. Murel, however, quickly grew flustered by her own clumsiness, not aided by the ceaseless pitching of the deck.

“Mother always said there was an invisible rope about my feet,” she grumbled after stumbling through the correct greeting for a foreign ambassador.

The storm abated come evening and they emerged from the cabin to find the Sea Sabre alone on the ocean, save for the shark, its fin tracing a winding course through the waves some distance ahead. Belorath was at the tiller and the Shield at the prow.

“Where is the fleet?” Lyrna asked, moving to his side.

“Heading for the Teeth like us, I hope. Those still afloat that is.” His eyes remained fixed on the shark. “You truly have no notion why that thing does your bidding?”

“None. And I’m not sure it’s my bidding. What it did . . . Animals don’t hate, they just feed. It hates.”

“Or carries the hate of your dead beast charmer.”

“And he seemed such an affable young man.”

The first Meldenean ship came into view an hour later, soon joined by four more, the crews hailing them with cheers and waving sabres, increasing in volume when Lyrna moved to the prow. Udonor’s Hand, she thought, finding the phrase had a certain ring to it. Although she doubted the Aspects would appreciate having it added to her list of queenly titles, if any were still alive to object.

By the time the Teeth came in sight there were over a hundred ships following the Sea Sabre, and perhaps another three hundred at anchor in the shallows to the west of the rocks. The Red Falcon was there, albeit bearing the scars of battle, the clean lines of her hull dark with scorch marks and her figurehead smashed beyond recognition.

The Shield put the Sea Sabre alongside and Ell-Nurin took a boat across to confer.

“No.” Ell-Nestra shook his head, voice firm. “No more delay.”

“More ships arrive by the hour,” Ell-Nurin protested. “We’ll need strength to move against their southern division.”

“Udonor gave it to us last night,” the Shield insisted. “Can you recall a storm of such power sweeping the Erinean at this time of year? He sends us a gift and I’ll not waste it. One more turn of the glass, my lord, then we sail to end this.”

The Serpent’s Tail was well named, a twisting submerged snake of rock extending over twenty miles south of the Teeth, its course laid bare by the succession of wrecked Volarian vessels driven onto it by the storm.

The crew became oddly subdued at the sight, ship after ship blasted by waves, tattered sails tossed by the wind. Lyrna noted the guarded glances they cast in her direction, reverence and no small amount of fear on every face. Udonor’s Hand is not merciful, Lyrna surmised surveying the line of wrecks. For which I am grateful.

“I count over two hundred, my lord,” Belorath reported to Ell-Nestra. “There’ll be more already sunk or smashed to splinters.”

“A battle won without a single sabre bared or arrow loosed,” the Shield mused. “Seems your shark will have to wait a while to feed his hate, Highness.”

A shout came from aloft, the look-out pointing off to the south. The Shield took his spyglass to the prow, scanning the waves for a moment before ordering sails to full and changing course. “Or perhaps not.”

There were some twenty ships moving south at a slow crawl, close together with scant canvas to catch the wind. On seeing the danger they clustered even closer, trimming sails as their ragged crews crowded the decks, weapons ready.

“Don’t these bastards ever give up?” Harvin groaned.

The Sea Sabre overtook the Volarians in short order, circling with the rest of the fleet, edging closer as the mangonels were readied and archers climbed the rigging.

“Reckon we can hit ’em from here,” Harvin surmised, standing at the rail. “Crave the honour of the first throw, Highness.”

“Granted, my lord.”

He grinned, slapping his hands together and stepping forward. The ballista bolt caught him square in the back, punching through the mail shirt as if it were paper. He staggered for a moment, staring at the bolt’s steel head sticking from his chest with raised eyebrows and an odd grin, then falling flat on his face.

“Harvin!” Orena rushed to the body, pulling it over, hands fluttering over his face, desperate pleas coming from her lips in a torrent. “Love, come back to me love, come back to me . . .”

“Bastards!” Iltis lit the hemp and slammed his boot onto the release, running to the rail and shouting into the fireball’s wake. “Don’t you know when to fucking die!?”

Lyrna crouched at Orena’s side as she cradled Harvin’s head in her lap, whispering now. “Come back to me . . .”

Lyrna looked at the former outlaw’s empty eyes, his teeth bared in the same odd grin. He was the most likely of us to die laughing.

She joined Iltis at the rail, watching a hundred fireballs descend on the Volarian ships in an inverted fountain of blazing teardrops. “I seek pardon for my language, Highness,” her Lord Protector said in a soft voice.

Lyrna wrapped herself around his thick arm, hugging the rigid muscle tight, her head resting in his shoulder. The flames grew quickly in the midst of the cluster, a tall column of smoke rising, screams drifting across the water. Soon swimming men came splashing out of the smoke, a hundred or more desperate enough to hope for rescue from their enemy, all destined to perish as soon as they came within bowshot.

I know you’re here, Lyrna thought, scanning the waves. Who will you find to hate now?

A great crash erupted from the burning ships, flaming splinters bursting into the sky as the shark ascended from the inferno. It rose free of the wreckage, twisting in the air, tail whipping upwards before it dived back down into the carnage, jaws wide and hungry.

Somehow Lyrna knew she would never see it again.

They gave the dead to the sea at twilight, the Meldeneans standing in silent regard for their fallen crew-mates, more than twenty canvas-wrapped bodies weighted and lowered into the waves. As each corpse was readied to be carried to the rail crewmen would come forward to choose an item from the belongings laid out on a cloth at their feet. Any coin or valuables had already been collected by Belorath who would see them safely to the bereaved families, the trinkets left behind were merely tokens of remembrance: a die, a Keschet piece kept as a lucky charm, a favoured knife. The only words spoken were the names of the fallen men, enunciated clearly by the Shield to be crossed off the ship’s roll by his first mate.

The ship’s carpenter had fashioned a basic raft for Harvin, his body placed on a bed of pitch-soaked rope and rags, the sword Lyrna had given him resting under his crossed arms. Benten and Iltis lowered him over the side and the former brother said the words at his queen’s behest. Orena stood between Lyrna and Murel, clasping their hands in a tremulous grip, her cheeks dry now as she seemed to have exhausted her tears.

“We stand in witness to the end of the vessel that carried this man through his life,” Iltis said. “We know there are those in the Realm who would remember him without kindness or high regard. But we knew him as a friend and a comrade in a time of great trial, and he never failed us. An outlaw he may have been, but he died a Sword of the Realm, beloved by his woman, his friends and his queen. We give thanks for his deeds of kindness and courage and forgiveness for his moments of weakness. He is with the Departed now, his spirit will join with them to guide us in life and our service to the Faith.”

He let go of the rope holding the raft and it drifted away on the swell. Benten raised a bow notched with a flaming arrow and let it fly, the raft soon a fiery square on the broad ocean, carried towards the horizon and lost to view before the hour was gone.

The Shield found her as night fell, keeping company with Skerva once again. The sky was clear now, all trace of the storm gone from a sky lit with numberless stars, the air cool and pleasing on her skin.

“Your Highness owes me an answer,” Ell-Nestra said, resting against the figurehead’s arm. “Your true intent.”

She nodded, eyes still rapt on the sky. “When I was little, I tried to count them all. It proved very difficult, so I devised a plan. I would study just one section of sky seen through a window in the palace roof, count all the stars visible within it then multiply the result with the sky’s overall area.”

“Did it work?”

Lyrna breathed a soft laugh. “The number was so large there is no name for it. But that’s not the interesting thing. You see when I came to check my figures, for a good scholar always checks their figures, the number of stars in the window had changed. It was the exact same date a year later, but there were two more stars in my count. Two distant suns that simply hadn’t been there a year before.”

“And what did this tell you?”

“That if the stars in the sky are not fixed, then nothing is fixed. Nothing is eternal, all is temporary and ever-changing.” She turned away from the stars, meeting his gaze. “Nothing is fixed, my lord. No course is so set it cannot be changed.”

He gave a wry smile. “You would have us change course.”

“I would.”

“Might I ask in what direction?”

“I understand the Coldiron River is navigable to oceangoing vessels at this time of year, all the way to Alltor.”

“Which stands besieged and in dire need of relief.”

“Quite so.”

“And you command this in return for the debt we owe you?”

“You owe me nothing. My father tipped the scales and I tipped them back. I speak only sound strategy. You must know the Volarians will not just swallow this defeat and leave you in peace. This has been but one battle in a war that will end only with their utter ruin. And that ruin will start at Alltor.”

He moved closer, no smile on his lips and just honest appeal in his gaze. “I offer a counterproposal, Highness.” He nodded towards the west. “We have a fine ship, a loyal crew and all the world’s oceans to sail. The Merchant Kings have large fleets, I hear.”

Lyrna laughed, shaking her head. “You would make me a pirate queen?”

“I would seek to preserve your life. For I find it has great value to me.”

“A queen does not live, she reigns, and my reign has begun. Will you take me to Alltor?”

He moved closer still, looming above her, brows creased and eyes lost to shadow as he stared down at her. “May the gods save me, but you know I’d take you anywhere.”