Captain McCalla squinted into the fog. Many things weighed on him. The princess, one of them. His hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled.

“Something wrong, sir?” The first mate saluted.

At first the captain said nothing, then, quietly, “Raise the anchor.”

“Aye.” The first mate took a deep breath and cupped both hands around his mouth.

Maccalla seized the first mate’s wrist. “Quietly.”

The first mate stopped, nodded, and scurried down into the fog.

A dark shape loomed in the half-light. A storm? Difficult to tell how close it was. But he felt a storm brewing in the air.

Yet in the wind, McCalla smelled iron, or rust. That was not like a storm. It troubled him.

A rumble told the captain that his anchor was lifting.

At a soft word, the sails unfurled, and the ship eased forward. McCalla gripped the wheel.

Guiding her forward, he gazed into the fog. A cold pit had formed in his stomach.

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For some minutes, they sailed, and the storm-shadow grew. So did the scent of iron.

“Looks like we’re in for some nasty weather, sir.”

The captain nodded again, but his mind was racing. A day of strange occurrences. The strange lights in the fog that morning, the lifeboat, with one man, barely alive. The princess. The strange book she took from the dying man. And now the scent of iron on the wind.

“Fetch me the princess.”

“Aye sir.”

At last the storm broke. Lightning painted the sky. Thunder roared overhead. In the vanishing light, he could see clearly. On deck, a strangled cry went up among the crew. Someone sounded the alarm.

Out of the dark and fog, a mountain of iron appeared. Moving slowly as a cloud, it bore down on them—the face of an iron warship. The scene had flashed before their eyes: It’s prow tore at the water. A thousand oars heaved it onward, great oars like tree trunks, and yet they were twigs when compared with the ship whose iron bulwark they propelled. It rose above them, tall as a castle, rimmed with thorns and spikes. Pale shafts of light came from the many windows, narrow as slits in the dark mass.

McCalla clenched his teeth and held on for dear life. The iron prow burst upon their ship. Wood flew into the air. Debris fell like rain—splintered timber and sea-spray.

Pain wracked his body, and he flew into the railing, grasping at it, barely holding on, but for a moment, all was still. All was quiet.

The sea beat gently against the hull of each ship.

Then, with a final snap like a thunder bolt, McCalla’s mast broke, and fell into the sea. The flag whipped as it fell, and then was lost under the waves. At that same moment, from windows in the prow of their iron dreadnaught, the hell-troopers of Abarath Sul leapt into the air, and landed on the deck.

With one final oath—to who? It mattered not—A battle cry rising in his throat, McCalla shut his eyes, let go the wheel, and drew his sword.