Rage of a Demon King (29 page)

Kitty said to the young woman, “Excuse me?”

As the wagon rolled up to the gate, Kitty was hidden from observation on one side, and had her back turned toward the guard on the other as she appeared lost in conversation with the young woman to whom she spoke.

Erik listened as she said, “You’re not from Jenkstown, are you?”

“No,” said the young stranger. “Our farm is only a few miles from here.”

“Oh, I thought you might be someone I knew a while back in Jenkstown. You look a great deal like her, but prettier.”

The girl laughed. “You’re the first to call me that,” she said lightly as the wagon rolled through the gate.

Erik strained to hear what was said next, but the voices were drowned out in the sounds of celebration. Soon he could tell that Kitty was safely through the gate and beyond the scrutiny of the guards. He waited another full minute, half expecting the sound of alarm to be raised. But all he heard was the city at play, and he forced himself to take a slow, deep breath, then turned back toward the palace. He decided his best course of action was to be seen
around, and should anyone ask about Kitty, make up some plausible excuse, that she was in another room, or off visiting the jakes. There would be enough traffic through the palace that he might get through the entire evening without anyone asking after her.

As Erik vanished into the crowd, two figures who had been hiding in the shadows across the street emerged. Dash turned to his brother and said, “I’ll follow the girl.”

“Why bother? We know she’s heading either for Avery’s estates or to Ravensburg. Those are the only places he’d send her.”

“Because Grandfather wants to know,” said Dash to Jimmy.

Jimmy shrugged. “Very well, but you’re going to miss the height of the celebration,”

Dash said, “It’s not the first time I’ve missed out on some fun because of Grandfather. If Father asks about me, make up some excuse. If the girl’s bound for Ravensburg, I won’t be back for a week.”

Jimmy nodded and slipped into the crowd. His younger brother turned and made his way through the gate, keeping sight of the distant hay wagon.

The next day dawned on two fleets locked in combat, skirmishing in the predawn gloom. They had caught sight of each other as the darkness had lightened in the hours before the sun finally climbed into the sky. Now, as the sun lay still hidden behind the distant mountains, yet illumined the morning, the battle was almost decided.

Nicholas cursed and shouted, “Order Belfors and his three to sail to windward! They’re attempting to hold us into the coast!”

A signalman high above shouted, “Aye, aye, Admiral!” and began waving signal flags. He soon shouted back, “Orders acknowledged, Admiral!”

The battle was going badly. If he lost any more ships, Nicholas was going to have to withdraw, and while he had no doubt he could outsail his opponent, the failure of his plan put a sour taste in his mouth.

Of all his father’s sons, Nicholas was the most like him when it came to achieving a stated goal, and he had intended to maul the Emerald Queen’s fleet. She knew the Far Coast well enough to understand that the risk to her fleet would come down the coast from Tulan. Nicholas’s only belief for some benefit to his Kingdom came from the belief that James’s plan was working and flotillas from Kesh and Queg were hitting the fleet as well.

It rankled him that he was only engaging warships, without even sighting the troop convoy, and the sole comfort that afforded him was the thought that should either the Quegans or Keshians intercept this fleet, there were that many fewer guardians to protect it.

Seeing no benefit in dying or taking his command with him, Nicholas shouted, “Word to the fleet! Withdraw!”

A red banner was run up while the lookout frantically signaled orders. Two ships were engaged in boarding actions and could not withdraw safely.

Nicholas weighed his options and ordered them left to fend for themselves. Each of his ships was rigged with a dozen barrels of fire oil down below, and if they were taken, the captains were ordered to put them to the torch, in the hope they’d take along an enemy ship grappled alongside as well as deny them a Kingdom prize.

The fleet off the Far Coast were the best deep-water sailors in the world, and their ships the most nimble. As soon as the order was relayed, like a finely practiced team the ships turned upwind and took a following reach, disengaging themselves from the slower ships of Novindus design. A few of the war galleys could stay with the Kingdom ships for a short burst, but as the slaves below became exhausted, they were no match for the Kingdom warships.

Nicholas saw his fleet moving away successfully, and said, “Captain Reeves, what’s the count?”

His second in command, the son of the Baron of Carse and a lifelong sailor, was officially the Captain of the
Royal Dragon,
though he knew he would never give orders as long as the Admiral was aboard. He said, “Seven of the enemy sunk, three burning, five more severely damaged.” Both men wore the duty uniform of the Kingdom fleet—blue jackets and white trousers, newly instituted by Patrick’s order—but even the Prince of Krondor couldn’t make Nicholas wear the new fore-and-aft hats the Eastern Fleet wore. He instead affected a broad-brimmed black hat with a very faded red plume, a legacy from his first voyage as a boy with the legendary Amos Trask. No man who sailed in the fleet made sport of that hat.

“And of our own?”

“We lost six, and five more are limping up the coast to Carse.”

Nicholas swore. At least sixty-five ships had sailed north against his own sixty, and this had been little more than a sparring match.

Nicholas looked at the morning sun. “Orders, Captain Reeves.”

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Signal the fleet to head west. Let them think we’re running to the Sunsets.” He gripped the railing on the quarterdeck. “At sundown, we turn south. Before dawn tomorrow, we’ll turn east and hit them while they’re outlined against the rising sun and we’re still in darkness.”

“Understood, sir!”

Nicholas watched the ponderous ships of the Emerald Queen fall away behind, finally turning southward as they gave up their attempt to overtake the Kingdom ships. Nicholas looked to the east, where he was leaving one of his ships crippled and sinking slowly, while his other boarded ship burned.

“This one is far from over,” said Nicholas to no one in particular.

Calis knelt.

“How long has he been like this?” he asked, using the subtle speech of his mother’s people.

“Weeks,” Calin told his half brother.

Pug lay unconscious in the center of the contemplation glade, at the very spot where he had first been placed, while Spellweavers worked around him to keep him alive. “Tathar?” Calis asked.

“We think he regains his strength, slowly. The wounds are also healing, slowly.”

Calis regarded the silent magician. His body was covered with huge scabs and scars, with flakes of dead skin peeling off, as if burned by the sun. Under the flakes, raw pink skin could be seen. Most of his hair, beard, and brows had been burned away, so he looked even younger than usual.

Acaila said, “We’ve tried mind probes, of the most cautious sort, and no one was able to reach him.”

Calis stood. “We were counting on his holding back until the end.”

Calin said, “I think he acted imprudently, but that is judging after the fact. At the time he took the risks, he thought the outcome worth it.”

Calis nodded. “Sinking the Queen’s fleet in the deepest part of the great ocean would have simplified many of our problems.” He shook his head in regret. “But I would rather have him standing healthy at Sethanon.”

Calin said, “Tomas will go to Sethanon.”

“What of the dragons?”

Calin looked concerned. “They doubt Tomas. Not his word, but they doubt his apprehension of the risk. For all their wisdom, only a few grasp the concepts of magic we know to be at play.”

Calis looked at his half brother for a long moment, then said, “May I speak to you alone?”

Calin moved his hand in agreement, indicating the younger man should follow him. When they were away from the others, Calis said, “Miranda?”

“No word from either Miranda or Macros since they brought Pug back. They went with Tomas to seek information on the demons under the mountains where you last found them.”

Calis looked off at the trees of Elvandar. He was silent for a long time, and his half brother didn’t say a word. In the fashion of the elves, Calin knew the other would say what was on his mind when he was ready.

After several minutes of silence, Calis said, “I miss her.”

Calin put his hand upon his shoulder. “You love her?”

“In a fashion,” said Calis. “Nothing like among the eledhel; it feels nothing like what I have been told of the recognition. But she found me, back when this all began, and she fills a dark and cold place within me as no one else has.”

“If it is still dark and cold when she is not with you, it is not truly filled.” Calin sat upon a large rock and said, “When your father first saw your mother I was there; I thought him but a boy smitten by the beauty of one without peer, a boy who had no conception of the feelings between a man and woman.” He sighed. “I certainly had no idea of what the future would hold.”

Calis had heard the story of his mother’s first visit to Castle Crydee, when the Tsurani had first threatened the Far Coast, and of his father’s first glimpse of the Elf Queen.

Calin said, “You are still very young, my brother. You have seen much, experienced much, but you’ve not begun to understand yourself. In many ways you are human, but in many others one of us. Patience is required in most things. Your father realized that quickly, when he first came to us, and for a human boy, those years he spent here taught him much.”

“Father’s unique. He possesses knowledge tens of thousands of years old.”

“Does he?” said Calin.

Calis turned to look at his half brother. “Ashen-Shugar?”

Calin said, “Macros said something to me a few days before he left. He said Tomas had Ashen-Shugar’s memories, but that all memories are suspect.”

Calis sighed. “All of this is suspect.”

Calin agreed. “I have stopped looking for reasons when it comes to the enemy.” His eyes took on a distant look. “When your father first came here, after the Riftwar and in the years that followed, I presumed to think that the worst was behind us. The war with the Tsurani was over, and the risk from the moredhel and the open rift calling back the Valheru was at an end.” He smiled a half-smile that Calis recognized as a mirror of his own. “I now realize that forces much more enigmatic and far more vast than I had imagined were involved.”

“What do you mean?” asked Calis, as he sat cross-legged at his half brother’s feet.

“Primal forces are moving, forces next to which the Valheru are minor annoyances. Other forces move to counter them, and I fear you and I, and those we love, may be crushed between them.”

“Have these forces names?”

“Many,” said Calin. “I speak of the gods.”

“The gods war?” asked Calis.

“It is the only explanation that fits all of what we know and still makes some sort of sense.” The still-youthful-looking elf said, “Tomas and I have talked many times about his memories. He counts me among his oldest friends, from that time of the first visit to Crydee. Much of what Tomas remembers is colored by how Ashen-Shugar saw the universe and his place in it. Some of that was tempered by the magic Macros used to place his mind in bond with Ashen-Shugar’s, ages ago, but Tomas still must rethink much of what he presumed to be true.”

“The Chaos Wars?”

Calin nodded. “We can speak of this at length tonight, after we dine with Mother.”

Calis got to his feet as his brother stood. Calis said, “I do owe her more of my time.”

“It’s been years since we’ve had you here,” said Calin, without any indictment, but clearly with regret. “It is easy to think we have ages, given our people’s heritage, but we both know how fragile life is.”

“True,” agreed Calis. “I promise that should we endure, I will return for a long visit.”

“Why not to stay?”

Calis shrugged as they walked toward the Elf Queen’s court. As they passed through a series of small clearings, many elves who had not yet greeted the Queen’s younger son did so. Calis smiled and returned each greeting, but when the brothers were again alone, he said, “I do not know if my place is here. My life is neither human nor elf, nor Valheru.”

“A legacy of magic,” said Calin. “You must define yourself, for no one else has the wisdom to do it for you.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Much as your father has had to do. As long as the mark of the Valheru exists, he will never be free of a certain suspicion.”

“I understand,” said Calis.

They moved into another clearing, this one loud with the voices of children at play. A half-dozen elven youngsters were chasing after a ball, kicking it back and forth.

“Football? In Elvandar?” asked Calis.

Calin laughed. “See those two over there?” He pointed to twin boys, children Calis had never seen before.

“Yes?”

“They taught the others. They are from across the sea. Miranda brought them and their mother here. Their father is now in the Blessed Isles.”

“Have many of those across the ocean reached us?”

“Not enough,” said Calin, as he resumed the walk. The ball shot toward them, and Calis deftly caught it on the instep of his left boot.

With a laugh, he kicked the ball high and stepped under it, bouncing it off his head a few times, then heading it back to one of the children, who caught it on a knee, bouncing it a few times as the other children “ooed” and “ahed.” “I remember playing on Sixthday at Crydee with Marcus when I’d visit Grandmother and Grandfather,” said Calis.

The twin who caught the ball on his knee kicked it to his brother, who passed it to a third child. The twins regarded Calis with suspicion. He said, “You two look very serious.”

When they didn’t reply, Calin said, “They struggle with their natural tongue.”

Calis nodded. In the dialect spoken in the Riverlands of Novindus, he said, “You play well.”

Instantly both boys’ faces were illumined with smiles. “Will you teach us how to bounce the ball on our heads?” asked one.

Calis knelt and said, “I must leave first thing tomorrow, but someday I will come back and teach you.”

The second twin said, “Promise?”

Calis said, “I do.” The boys turned and ran off to resume their game, and Calis turned to his half brother. “They asked me if I was telling the truth.”

“They grew up among humans. It has been very difficult for the ocedhel. They wrestle with what is natural to us. Learning our ways comes hard.”

Dryly, Calis said, “That I can understand.”

“You will resolve your struggle,” said Calin, as he motioned for his half brother to continue the walk to the Queen’s court, “someday.”

Calis nodded, and silently added, “If I live that long.”

Ships burned at dawn. Nicholas’s fleet had lost sight of the Emerald Queen’s northern squadron after sundown the night before, and had turned south, piling on all the canvas the ships’ yards could hold. Two hours later, the entire fleet had swung toward the east, and the Straits of Darkness.

They had been rewarded with the sight of fires before dawn as they encountered smoking hulls, burned to the waterline and sinking, both Queen’s ships and Keshian. Lookouts reported fires farther to the west.

As the sun rose, Nicholas saw the vast navy that still waited to slip through the Straits. He couldn’t judge how many had already made the difficult passage; perhaps as many as a third.

To the south, fighting was still under way as Keshian ships from Elarial were engaged with an equal number of the Queen’s warships.

Captain Reeves said, “Where are the rest of her escorts?”

Nicholas shouted, “We have her!” To the lookout aloft he cried, “All ships: attack!”

As the orders were relayed, Nicholas turned to Reeves. “We’ve outrun those ships we were tangling with yesterday.” He calculated. “We have perhaps an hour to do as much damage as possible before they come into sight. What she’s got left here are engaged with the Keshians, and the rest of them are on the other side of the Straits!”

He went to the quarterdeck rail and shouted, “Ready ballistas!”

Ballista crews ran to the fore of the ship, where a pair of huge crossbow-like engines of war waited. Each could launch an iron-headed missile three times the size of a man, used to strike at the waterline, or to foul rigging. Instead of the usual missile, though, a special shaft had been designed, one filled with the deadly Quegan fire oil. To use them was dangerous, for any mistake could result in the
Royal Dragon
burning to the waterline.

Behind him the attacking fleet, forty-seven of the original sixty ships he had left Tulan with, fanned out in attack formation. Nicholas’s ship lost wind, dropping her speed so the two flanks of the flotilla could sweep in from either side, doing the most damage to the huge body of ships milling in the water, almost at a dead stop, waiting for orders to enter the passage.

Nicholas shouted, “Master of Arms! Fire as you bear!”

The officer in the bow shouted back, “Aye, aye, Admiral!”

Two of the larger ships at the rear turned to engage, wallowing awkwardly, but potentially dangerous. The lookout shouted, “They bear catapults, Admiral!”

Nicholas said, “So I see,” as a huge war engine on the aft castle of the closest ship unleashed its cargo, a huge net of rocks. “Port your helm, Captain Reeves.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” came the calm answer as the net unraveled at the top of its arc, releasing the shower of rocks, each the size of a man’s head—or bigger.

The more nimble Kingdom ship swerved to the left and the rocks splashed harmlessly to the right of
where Nicholas stood. “That would have made a fair mess of the rigging, sir,” said Captain Reeves.

“Take us back to starboard,” said Nicholas.

The helmsman did as ordered, and the bow of the warship swung back on line, bringing it to where it would cross to the port of the big ship. They were close enough now that Nicholas could see the catapult crew frantically attempting to reload. “Bad choice,” said Nicholas. “Takes too long to reload and the men are exposed.”

As if reading his mind, bowmen in the rigging began firing on the catapult crew on the enemy ship. The Kingdom’s Royal Marines were ground soldiers, yet experienced at fighting aboard ship. They used short bows with good effect. Then the Master of Arms ordered the starboard ballista fired and it struck the middle of the enemy ship with a fiery explosion. Men screamed and Nicholas could see the mid-deck was packed with soldiers, many looking sick from the months at sea. At least a score fell over the side, partially or completely on fire. Others frantically and vainly attempted to beat out the fire, but discovered to their horror the secret of Quegan fire oil. Once it was ignited, only smothering in sand could put it out. Those throwing buckets of water on it were just spreading the flaming oil faster.

Nicholas tore his gaze from the grisly sight and looked at their course. “Hard to port,” he said. “It’s a mess in close, and I don’t want to get stuck in there with no place to turn around. We’ll keep nibbling at the edges.”

Orders were passed, and other ships in the flotilla did the same, launching their fiery cargo, then turning hard lest they become entangled with the ships they were attacking.

The lookout above shouted, “There are two war galleys backing oars in the middle of those burning ships there, Admiral.”

Nicholas said, “They want to come out and fight, but they have no room to maneuver. Let’s find something else to burn before they do find a way out.”

He ordered the flotilla to a southerly course, sailing toward where the Keshians had been battling the invaders. Smoke was beginning to obscure Nicholas’s vision. “Lookout!”

“Sir?”

“Keep a watch out for that northern squadron of theirs. If you catch sight of them, I want to know it before you can think!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

For an hour they hunted. Men screamed and died, and still the invaders’ ships seemed without number. Nicholas had personally fired four ships, and was approaching the fifth when the lookout shouted, “Ships to the north, Admiral!”

“How many?”

“I count at least a score of sails. . . . I count thirty. . . . Forty!”