1
The sunny morning was only a memory now. The ocean had turned restless, tormented by the conflicting winds and magical effects, lacking natural continuity. Erratic, conical waves shot up and down at random, coated in thick foam, and the ships bounced among these transient ranges like so many arks of Noah littered on the slopes of the Ararat.
Had the worst of the deluge passed, or yet on its way?
The chaotic gales spread the smoke from the burning ships around, and the sky was dressed in a heavy suit of mourning, resulting in an oppressing gloom nearly comparable to nightly hours. Clouds coiled thickest directly above the battlefield, but towards the horizon, keenest of eyes could still perceive the light of day, bright rays of sunshine cascading through the swiftly opening and closing holes in the unnatural coverage. Not even the oldest sea dogs could claim to have seen such weather before. Many on both sides of the campaign were beginning to doubt if they should live to see port again, or land of any shape.
No one could be so presumptuous as to think the primeval powers at play were on any one side. Their mortal dispute had unwittingly aroused a calamity from the ancient world, and there were no elves or other fabled warriors left in this age to save humanity from it.
But, for now, the darkness was still held back.
One after the other, the Imperial champion’s bolts sprang forth to drive back the raging dragon, sparing the navy from annihilation. Seeing in their eyes a true hero, a concept quite as ancient and immortal as dragons, the knights and sailors pinned their hopes on Aurlemeyr, shielding the agent from pirate arrows, slingshots, and rogue waves, with their own bodies if they had to.
Unbeknownst to any of them—fortunately, perhaps—it was not any sense of heroism, or altruism, or even personal greed that drove the bearer of the Gilded Bow to persist and fight, but a reason rather less inspired.
It was her duty.
The sole reason why she was allowed to draw breath, by the weapon knit in her flesh.
Force of circumstance. Had she been at any liberty to leave, she likely would not have stayed for long.
Not that Aurlemeyr herself was conscious of any reasons at this juncture. Her cognitive capacity in its entirety was taken by the laborious task at hand. The dragon harassed the Crucifico with doubled vigor, despite its wounds, and intensified offense was the only method of defense against a foe like it. The godly engine within the warrior continued to run its calculations at the speed of thought.
Fire from sectors X8 down to X3 were avoided. Updating target information. Sixth sense coverage omnidirectional up to approximately twenty-eight feet. Output below Rank D unable to penetrate the scaling. Disabling firing modes of category D. Adjusting speed +4.12. Alert: rogue wave approaching from the east. Expected to cause approximately 37-degree shift in the platform. Stabilizing action necessary—canceled. Target inbound, offensive action takes priority. Recalculating trajectory. Readjusting output. Alert: local resources are almost depleted. Charging rate is reduced. Change of location is recommended. Search commenced for an alternative hotspot...
The Bow itself didn’t generate mana and, despite attacking exclusively with magic, Aurlemeyr was not a “sorceress”. The weapon could only function by converting naturally available energy to ammunition. Though a portion of each blast’s residual mana could be absorbed and recycled for the next attack, the rate at which this happened was not self-sustaining. Unless the Crucifico kept moving, the immediate surroundings would be entirely drained of resources, and the Bow would be out of power.
“Marshal,” the agent spoke aloud, even as she continued to shoot. “Could I ask the ship to be moved at least six hundred yards northwest, as soon as possible?”
Even in the middle of all the turmoil, Miragrave kept her ears open for that apathetic voice.
“Captain,” she passed the request to Belfraum without delay, “move the ship northwest, half a mile, and hurry.”
“Northwest?” the Captain repeated with a frown. “That’s where all the fighting is fiercest! I thought you said to avoid it!”
“We are all going to die,” she reminded him.
“Helmsman! Hard larboard!”
“And watch out for that wave,” Aurlemeyr continued.
“What wave?”
The turning ship became rocked by a swell that struck the side towards the starboard stern. It was difficult to see from the high quarterdeck and everyone around had to take a moment to recover their balance, while the upcast foam showered them. Then the dragon came swooping down again and the crew reflexively ducked to shield their heads, while the celestial cannon kept firing in rapid succession.
“This is sheer madness!” Captain Belfraum groaned as the threat had passed again. “Death could be better than living to see such things!”
“Careful! Lest your wish comes true,” Miragrave told him. “O' great champion, please tell me we’re making progress.”
“Don’t ask me things you don’t want to hear,” Aurlemeyr replied.
The answer was not so easy to give.
Although dragons excelled at resisting magical effects, they were not simply an unfeeling wall to all such. These creatures also possessed unrivaled sensitivity to the supernatural, and one of their eyes was dedicated entirely to perceiving the immaterial world. The beast could detect any attack before it was launched, by reading the associated formula, and respond in advance. This wouldn’t have been such a problem on solid land, where more advanced aiming systems were available, but on a mobile, constantly shifting platform, where only manual aiming was possible, landing the killing blow was less straightforward.
Contact could be made more reliably with scattered wide-area shots that covered the potential escape paths, but this also meant dividing the energy of the individual threads. The dragon could withstand direct hits below set magnitude, and dodge the slower ones of greater intensity. Therefore, only real way to take it down was to keep the beast in constant motion, tire it out little by little, and then nail it with an all-out attack when it was sufficiently slowed.
But beside its toughness and senses, the target possessed also another distinct advantage. The virtually inexhaustible generator of mana, which alchemists and wizards had coveted since time immemorial—its heart.
Which would expire first—the Bow’s magic, or the grand beast’s flesh?
“Satháan, su tiec thé!” the dragon howled, retreating higher to escape the numerous golden strings with exploding needles at their ends. “Caela sae nis ur otiénhé!”
Aurlemeyr didn’t know the Old Tongue, but the device fused in her body did. It gave her an unsettling feeling, a fit of nostalgia over something she had never personally experienced.
“Pitiful beast,” she murmured. “You don’t even know what you’re fighting for.”
It seemed the monster had more developed psyche than expected. Moreover, it was still immature. Perhaps, before any external elements, it was the psychology of the beast that would bring about the end of the game. More energy available again, Aurlemeyr increased the output, one decimal of a percent after another. It was going to take time, but the attacks were definitely leaving an impression. If only she could apply slightly more pressure, she would corner the beast...
However, the champion and the dragon were not the only participants in the battle.
“A ship inbound!” someone shouted. “Starboard! An enemy trireme, sir!”
Riding on a great wave on the starboard side had appeared a large northerner craft belonging to the Confederate fleet. It was odd to see such an antiquated ship type among the larger and fairer, but its effectiveness had not lessened over the ages. The slim shape of the trireme had allowed it to avoid the bolt addressed to it almost entirely. A large chunk of the stern was missing, smoke rising from it, but the craft never had such a large aftecastle as the newer ship types. The rudder and main sail still intact, the taken damage cost little in maneuverability.
The trireme depended not only on its solitary mast to move, but had—true to the name—three fully manned oar decks, for the total of a hundred and seventy organic engines to drive it. These hands, some of them forced into servitude from the remote villages of the far north kingdoms, delivered the craft through the storm to the Navy’s flagship, heedless of the winds that left many others stranded. The pace-setter’s drum rang through the dark hull of the craft from a distance, deep and ominous. The ship also sported a nasty-looking battering ram, extending far past the bowsprit.
“They’re about to ram us!” Captain Belfraum saw it and yelled. “Fast starboard, helmsman! All hands, brace for impact!”
The young sailor at the helm did his best to take the aft out of the way of the charging ship. But the Crucifico was much too slow to turn in any weather and sat at the foot of the coming wave, suspended. Collision was inescapable.
“Hahaha! Are your silk hands ready for a real fight!?” the Cottish Captain Fijord hollered from the helm of the enemy ship. “Pretty up your heads for me! I’ve come to collect!”
Everyone gripped whatever they could, the bulwark, the rigging, the masts, or just cast themselves flat on the sea-drenched deck, if nothing else was at hand. Aurlemeyr was too occupied by the duel with the dragon to pay attention to anything else, but the nearby knights hurried to hold her. They formed a wall around the young woman with their kneeling bodies, and stabbed their daggers into the deck boards like wall-climbers, to hold as still as they could.
A terrible crash, like a crackle of thunder, rang out as the trireme’s ram punched through the Crucifico’s side, a few yards above the waterline. Like a dart, the smaller ship poked into the boards of the Principality’s floating fortress and remained firmly stuck there. It was nowhere near large enough to topple the greater galleon, or even shake her by that much, despite the nasty initial jolt. But sinking the ship had never been the pirates’ intention.
They wanted their prize whole.
“So uncivilized,” Miragrave commented, holding onto the helm railing to steady herself.
Down on the main deck, General Phereis was quick to recover and arranged his knights for defense on both sides of the main mast. “The time has come for us to earn our pay! No mercy! No quarter! For the Empire!”
“OOOOOOOH—!” the Imperial Knights shouted in unison, drumming their tall shields with the short swords—with slightly more vigor than their Luctretzian colleagues, who hadn’t seen real war in their lifetimes, and were rather disturbed by the sight of pirates up close.
At this point, Waramoti as well had been released from chains, and his hand was glad to hold a sword again, even as his conscious mind bemoaned the fact. He had been forced to leave his valued lute aboard the Tempest before his dive, and at least for the time being, he was glad that he had. He'd also put on a better shirt of tough army design, as he joined the guard on the quarterdeck, mostly so that he wouldn’t be confused for a villain again.
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“The things I do for Art…” the bard lamented, testing the edge of his weapon.
“Be at ease, lad, I shall keep you safe,” Major Uleison nearby assured him.
“Thank you kindly, but I’m not a—Oh, never mind!”
The pirates were fewer in number and fighting an uphill battle, so to say, but such was business as usual for their ilk. They had their tricks. Before the Navy archers could recover from the crash and take aim, the rogues opened with a volley of grenades, small clay jars full of oil, capped with flaming cloth. They weren’t large enough to cause widespread damage, but light enough to be thrown far and accurately. Before even attempting boarding, they hauled dozens of such bombs up on the deck and the side of the galleon. With additional crossbow fire, they cleared room for boarding and forced the archers on the lower decks to close their hatches.
The topside defenders had to pull back from the starboard bulwark and put out the fires to regain their footing. For the purpose, they had large barrels of water on the main deck, mixed with a heat-suppressing chemical, and hurried to throw this on the flames with buckets. But at the same time, the buccaneers already cast up grappling hooks and lunged at the ropes, one wave at a time, to climb up like so many squirrels in rags.
Repelling such a miscellaneous band of rogues should have been a simple task for professional soldiers—had the battleground stood on hard rock. But fighting on a surface that was in constant motion, swaying randomly up and down, tilting left and right, backwards and forward, added a whole new level of challenge to the effort. The rough gales made standing upright close to impossible on the slippery deck that salty splashes of sea constantly washed. The job of conventional bowmen was frustrating beyond description or comparison.
On top of this, there was the great aerial monstrosity, making random dives, loudly roaring, so that one couldn’t hear even his own thoughts. No troop could entirely ignore that menace, knowing it might kill them at any given moment, even if doing anything about the problem was not in their power. Then there were the sudden loud bangs, booms, and flashes, and heat produced by the bolts of the Gilded Bow, which made for a no less disturbing effect than the dragon itself, and served to disrupt focus when one least needed it. Living through those dark hours was a battle of its own, even without fighting.
For the pirates, on the other hand, the situation was more or less business as usual. They wore no armor worth noting, only furs and random scraps of metal or leather; light shoes, if any shoes at all. Their accustomed feet kept them up on ship deck with ease, and they’d seen a storm or two, some natural, and some less so.
Captain Fijord's crew were in a league of their own even when compared to the other Confederates.
Death was the business of these northern raiders, giving as well as receiving, and they put not much stress on the method. Climbing over the bulwark, they leapt onto the deck with bloodthirsty vigor and fell upon the defenders without hesitation, loudly howling and shrieking, doing their very best to rattle the already shaken soldiers. Their weapons as well were of haphazard make, but they had no shortage of these, sabers and axes, knives upon knives, quickly cast away and replaced.
In the next moment, the air was full of clinking and clanking, and the other familiar sounds of battle, which some hear in their ears till late at night, unable to sleep or to forget, and which others can’t wait to hear soon again.
As tempting as it would’ve been to label this a romantic battle of liberty versus law, chaos against order, doing so would have been ultimately fallacious. No such beautiful titles could be forced on the desperate exchange, where there could be found quite as many motives as there were participants, both noble and vile. Some fought to protect their homes, yes; some fought to uphold the laws of the modern society, as they had sworn. Some fought for simple vengeance. Some fought for greed, for power. Some for glory. And some simply because they found the opposition unpleasant. And the vast majority fought for no real reason at all, but simply because they’d gotten swept up into something too much for their will to resist.
How many of them could still remember the original causes of the bloodshed? How many had been aware of the reasons in the first place? Nevertheless, fair or not, they could only fight on, so long as the fickle flame of life still burned in them.
2
Melodies of steel could be heard also played aboard the Heat Hammer, a solid mile and a half away. This orchestra was considerably more modest scale. The crew members nearby unwittingly forgot what they were meant to do, their attention stolen by the scene before the main mast, like something out of a myth.
A duel between the Terror of the Four Seas and the young Empress of Tratovia.
No one had expected there to be a real duel. Greystrode least of all.
Though he neared sixty in years, he remained tall and robust, and who could have dared to even guess the number of lives stolen by his sword? His opponent was but a girl, a noble, a frail flower in build. If the former truly meant to kill, the dispute ought to have ended in a single blow, surely.
And yet, though Greystrode’s murderous intent couldn’t be denied by anyone looking, the fight dragged on. Again and again, sword met sword, drawing no blood, and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand, despite the heavily unbalanced looks.
No. Slowly, but surely, the game was turning against the old captain.
Showing no fear, only calm, steady resolve in her gaze, Yuliana face one attack after another and turned them back. Her movements were quick and graceful, her responses sharp.
Focus. Remember. Fight like she fights. Face forward, keep your back straight. Head up high, knees low. Never retreat, never step back. Don’t look at the sword, look at the arms. Don’t aim at the weapon, aim at the body. Don’t be passive, attack. Attack. Always attack!
Her majesty’s defense worked impeccably and her advance was slow but certain. Meanwhile, the rage and impatience building up in Greystrode were ruining his flow completely.
“Arrrhh...!” the man groaned, finding himself pushed back. He applied more power into his swings, but that only made them easier for Yuliana to avoid and her counters came back even quicker.
But then, right as Yuliana thought she had the enemy cornered, the villain did something entirely unexpected. Letting out a loud, incoherent yell, he hastily turned and ran away, flailing his sword wildly around to prevent Yuliana from closing in.
“Jiggs, you’re up!” he shouted.
Immediately, the Quartermaster of the Hammer drew his saber, let out a loud war cry and charged at Yuliana from the side, forcing her to turn and block in a hurry. With his weight and momentum, the enormous tank of a man pushed her back with ease, and only her quick feet saved her from pushed down.
“How cowardly!” Yuliana cried, retreating. “You didn’t dare face me on your own!”
“The last I looked, your majesty, I was a pirate!” Greystrode replied without much shame, taking shelter in the aftcastle stairs. “Whoever said I must fight honorably? Be proud you could hold your own against a crippled old man! But now we’ll see how well you fare against somebody with two working hands.”
“Damn you…!”
Jiggs was twenty years younger than his Captain, his tattooed arms nearly as thick as Yuliana’s waist. Yet, despite his size, the bandit was quick. His bare feet stuck to the deck like octopus tentacles, while her shoes kept slipping. The power behind his relaxed but unrelenting swings were turning her borrowed cutlass to scrap.
It was a given that the officers bore better steel than their crew, but the sharply angled saber in Jiggs’s grip was in a league of its own, long and heavy, adorned with costly engravings. Moreover, he operated his arm with such control and finesse that didn’t match his crude appearance at all. He had studied her movements and technique while she scuffled with his captain, and had already a good impression of what she was capable of. Could anything less be expected from a cutthroat Greystrode himself approved as his second-in-command?
Yuliana had no more the luxury to think about theory or technique. Leaping backwards to avoid a sideways cut, mindful of her chest, her abused sword was left in the way and got struck off her grip, the slim blade bent in a pitiful V-shape. She was left with only Sai-Lin’s dagger, which she quickly moved to her dominant hand. Yuliana was well aware she wouldn’t repel a single blow with it, yet resisted defeat to the last in spirit.
To her surprise, the pirate wouldn’t go straight for the kill. He wasn’t going to end things so easily, but wanted to give the audience a show. Jiggs cast his saber away on the deck and faced her majesty empty-handed.
“Come on!” he shouted at her, mocking, striking his wide chest. “Bring it on, little girl!”
“Admirable sportsmanship,” she commented while keeping at a distance. The way to ease her dread with a jest—even in this, she realized she was copying Izumi.
Though Yuliana’s weapon gave her now a better chance, going anywhere close to the rogue and his thick fingers didn’t seem like a very good idea. She cut at his wrists a couple of times, to keep the man away, but hit nothing. Instead, he very nearly managed to snatch the dagger from her hold, his arms twisting like a pair of pythons. She pulled back and glanced over her shoulder. Other pirates were moving behind her, to cut off her escape. They weren’t going to let her avoid the duel to no end.
Yuliana went through her remaining options, but they all looked equally poor.
Was there no choice left but to rely on the Lord of Light, after all?
Even if it meant admitting defeat? Humans alone were helpless to change fate. They could depend on the mercy of the heavens to save them. Would Aiwesh even answer? The loss of the physical vessel was only a temporary inconvenience for the great spirit, and falling here was surely only further proof of Yuliana’s unworthiness as a medium.
No. Will I give up courage right when I actually need it? Am I going to run to others for help every time things begin to look bad? Then what meaning was there in coming all this way...?
She stopped retreating. Forcing her breathing calm, Yuliana faced Jiggs, lifted her guard, and stood her ground. She would throw herself at him and hope she could stab him at least once or twice, and hit something critical, before he would snap her neck. He saw into her eyes, read her resolve, and wriggled his fingers with a nasty grin, inviting her to try.
But right as they were about to fly into action, a cry from aloft stole their attention.
“Sail ho!” a man at the crow’s nest yelled.
“There are rather many, where I’m looking!” Greystrode answered the caller, gazing westward, where most of the ships scuffled in the stormy distance.
“Coming at us from leeward!” the sailor clarified, point ahead.
All turned towards the bow.
Across the dark waves, one point starboard, glided the brig of green sails, like a fleet-footed goddess of revenge.
“—It’s the Tempest, sir!”
“Well, fuck.” Greystrode’s smile faded.
The dark green brig slid beside the larger galleon like a landing swan, graceful and fast.
“All hands to arms!” the pirate Captain shouted. “Throw whatever you’re doing! Ready for battle! For dear life, by the devil of the deep! Here we’ll have them!”
But before anyone could answer his call, the first blow already landed. It didn’t come from the ship they were all staring at, passing them by on the starboard side, but straight from the front.
“HAAAAAAAAAAAAA——!”
Like a cannoball, the Prince came flying through the air at the duelists. He had climbed to the main mast during the approach and stood on the very edge of the mainsail boom, holding a rope tied to the end of it. As the brig passed, he leapt off the spar and let himself be swung over to the enemy galleon. To his good fortune, he had measured the length of his rope exactly right. Gliding nary a foot above the boards, he crossed the length of the deck, right at the duelists, while madly yelling. Yuliana caught a glimpse of a flash of metal as he passed right between her and the pirate man.
“Fu—!” Surprised, Jiggs drew a sharp breath and tensed. He froze completely and remained stiffly standing, his eyes rounded like pearls. Yuliana wondered what had gotten into him, but then saw the crimson waterfall pouring on his trousers.
“Oh!” She recoiled in disgust, as the pirate fell apart, cut in half above the waist.
Braking with his heels, the Prince let go of the rope a short distance ahead. His slide soon stilling, he came to stand before Greystrode at the foot of the aftcastle, firmly gripping his blood-soaked blade, his blue eyes burning with rage.
“Come!” he shouted at the old pirate. “It’s time we settled the debts, old man!”
“Hrrhhhnggg…” Greystrode twisted his face and growled, torn inside by wrath and reluctance.
Then, he abruptly turned completely calm and came forward with ease.
“Aye, it is time,” he answered. “I had hoped to save this until after the battle, but you really are too quick for your own good, son.”
To the great confusion of the Prince and Yuliana alike, the pirate sheathed his cutlass. Instead, he shoved his intact arm under his coat, soon to produce a peculiar object, a metallic pipe attached to an ornate wooden handle.
A mix of undiluted contempt in his eyes, Greystrode pointed the bore of his gun at the Prince’s chest.
“Too quick, even to die.”