Men all around him screamed in terror, throwing themselves to the deck, hiding behind barrels, wailing as they sought whatever cover they could.
‘Dragons!’ they all cried. ‘The Gods have sent dragons to devour us.’
But Nicholas did not hide. He stood tall on the deck watching the creatures intently. And as he did he saw them fly past the fleet, in the direction of the Kudreyans. He also felt a need to
correct the crew for as a child one of his favourite books was entitled
Ancient Beasts Lost to Science: Their Description and Habits
. It was a tome he read avidly again and again – for
what child could fail to be enthralled by monsters? And in it these creatures were described perfectly.
‘They are passing,’ he called to the men around him. ‘And they are not dragons but wyverns, a lesser creature both in size and intelligence. They are fierce though and their
tails are poisonous, but they are not after us – they seek a different quarry.’
It was true; for as the men recovered their wits and stood again they saw the wyverns fly past both them and the Kudreyans. They headed onwards, into the north and west, towards Osperitsan
Island.
The Admiral turned to him. ‘You know of these creatures?’
‘I do,’ said Nicholas. ‘And I also know that they fight for us. Let us put these pirates to the torch and see such a thing for ourselves!’
Brave words, he thought. In his mind, though, a picture of his daughter came to him. She was smiling and happy, and it was an image he tried to keep even as battle raged all around him, for he
knew now that he would never see the real thing again.
Never was a form of warfare so determined by the whims of the Gods than battles at sea. No sooner had the wyverns disappeared back into the lowering clouds, then the north wind started to pick
up and the scent of approaching rain filled the air. It got stronger, even as the pirate ships got close enough for Nicholas to see the men readying the gangplanks and hanging in the rigging. The
caravels encircled their foes, discharging volleys of flaming arrows that bounced of hulls, skipped over decks or lodged in sails. Small fires were started, but the pirates were prepared, dousing
them with sand, water or sailcloth. The Kudreyans got ever closer; it would be minutes before the fleets clashed.
Then Nicholas and the Admiral nodded at each other and the signal was given. From every waiting ship, all twenty of them, both large and small, the artillery was released. The lead Kudreyan
ships were deluged by ballistae raking their decks, wreaking havoc among the tightly packed men waiting to board their targets. Catapults fired great faggots of burning wood soaked in pitch. The
wind caught some of them, causing them to drop hissing into the sea, but others clattered on to the decks or caught the sails, causing real fires this time, ones that could not be easily
extinguished. Arrows were exchanged between both sides as the seas started to churn in the strengthening wind. Soon the decks of the Kudreyan vessels were slick with blood and even Nicholas could
hear the screams and cries of the wounded. But still the Kudreyans kept coming. Most of their ships were screened by the lead vessels and were relatively unscathed and their decks were swarming
with people armed with short stabbing blades, cudgels and knives, weapons suited for the cramped conditions of a boarding action.
Then the lead pirate ship, its sails burning, its decks littered with dead and wounded caught a nearby carrack, one smaller than itself, its ram driving into the vessel’s stern with a
crack and groan of broken timber. The grappling hooks and gangplanks were flung from both sides and over them swarmed the pirates, tattooed on both face and body, gold rings through ear, nose, lip
and eyebrow, screaming their bloodlust at their foes, many of them spitting blood from self-inflicted wounds designed to terrify the enemy. From his position close by Nicholas could hear the ring
of steel and lusty screams of the combatants. The battle had finally begun.
And so did the rain, cold, heavy, hitting the ship at a steep angle. The leaden waves rose and fell, ever the more powerful as the wind increased. The pirate ships were driven by sail only, with
no provision for oars, and many were caught by surprise. They bunched, a few even collided before the sails could be partially furled and their keels turned. It was now or never.
The signals were given and using both oar and sail three of the galleons including the
Dunventia
headed straight for the heart of the disrupted enemy fleet, swatting any vessels too slow
to take evasive action to one side.
As with so many naval battles, the conditions seemed to turn everything into a free-for-all. As the galleons drove into the heart of the enemy fleet, they were surrounded. However, they were
much higher and larger than the pirate vessels and these, given the close proximity of their opponents, were unable to bring their rams to bear. As the pirates scaled their hulls to attack, the
archers fired down upon them, dislodging many but nowhere near all of them. The pirates closed around them, hemming them in, surrounding them. Ropes were used to lash the hulls of their ships
together, making a platform for all of the ships’ crews to cross, leaping from vessel to vessel, so that soon hundreds and hundreds of men were swarming like beetles around the galleons, all
trying to secure a vantage point to scale one of the dozens of ropes that had been hurled aboard and secured with grappling hooks. Three galleons, proffered to them in an almost sacrificial manner
– what a prize just one of them would be for the Kudreyans! The pirates were confident in their numbers, singing as they went about their work; Nicholas drew his sword and leapt to slash at
the heads of the first men to appear over the sides of the flagship. The galleon rolled as the sea swelled, the rain fell harder and harder, a thin film of blood and water covered the deck.
But it was then that the pirates discovered their folly. So focused were they on the destruction of the galleons that they had ignored the rest of the fleet and now saw that they, too, had been
surrounded in turn. Over the decks of the pirate vessels came the marines of Tanaren hacking and butchering those that stood in their way. For the galleons had set themselves up as bait for their
greedy foe and it had been swallowed whole with no regard to consequence.
And now the pirates were paying the price.
It took a long time before the battle was finally won, for the pirates were fierce and determined. At sea, running was not an option and, surrounded as they were, the only thing they could do
was fight. But again the men of Tanaren had the advantage, for the pirates were pressed between two opposing forces – the high galleons from whence archers rained death and boarders were
repelled with cold steel, and the surrounding carracks, laden with grizzled hard-faced warriors preparing to give no quarter. With the galleons at their backs and a press of men before them, not
all of the pirates could bring their arms to bear and they were crushed against each other, impotent and helpless, an easy target for missiles and fire. Finally, long after the futility of their
struggle was obvious to all, they threw down their arms and surrendered. Duke Nicholas, his sword smeared and bloody, his tunic spattered with gore would return to Osperitsan in triumph.
The pirate ships were burned; there was to be no booty taken here. As the flames consumed them one by one, Nicholas watched grimly. From the masts of each ship swung the lifeless bodies of the
pirate commanders; the remainder of their crews sat bound in rope and chain in the brig or served as ballast among the waterlogged keels. Ten ships held the prisoners, including two galleons. These
would return to Thakholm, where they would be dealt with, incarcerated or executed as justice demanded. Two ships had been lost, the carrack that had been rammed at the outset of the battle and one
hapless caravel, caught by the wind and flung against a pirate hull. where it was smashed like matchwood. Twenty-four ships then, all mostly undamaged, continued onwards to Osperitsan.
They got there in the late afternoon of the following day, the island jutting out of the smoky sea like a great black cloud, its features indistinguishable against the sinking sun, sitting atop
the island like a great ruby housed in a ring. It was such a fierce light that eyes had to be shaded before it could be looked upon. One thing Duke Nicholas could see, though; one thing he did not
need to squint to make out. Neither he nor anyone else among the fleet, waiting silently as they steered their vessels towards Osperitsan harbour, could avoid seeing it.
For high in the sky over the town and the manor house the wyverns were circling.
By Keth and Syvukha, and the burning damnation of the great furnace, what had happened here? Was the extent of his treachery so great that his punishment should be so
draconian, so extreme? It was as if all the Gods had colluded against him, and who was he to argue, for the Gods, though fickle and prone to fanciful whims, were always ultimately just. His
punishment, thought Einar, as he sat alone in the great hall of what had once been Wulfthram’s manor house, was well deserved.
And it had all been going so well. Though Wulfthram had died, his wife was imprisoned and he had talked the other imprisoned barons round, using persuasion not threats. Vorfgan was securing the
town and harbour and was meeting little resistance; he had even managed to destroy the southern Duke’s ship. Einar could see now, though, with hindsight, that he had fallen into the trap of
thinking only of what had gone well and ignoring what hadn’t. Nevertheless, that night he swore that he would see Wulfthram to the Gods as he had promised Ceriana, as though by doing that his
guilt and culpability would be somehow assuaged. He was a big man but an even bigger fool, thought Einar. How could anything he had done be justified?
Things then started to go downhill quite quickly as the night wore on. While he was talking to the imprisoned barons, Ceriana had escaped, The seneschal had helped her and, though he was caught
and killed, they could not track her down. Then the house of Artorus had burnt down. Women and children, terrified by the bloodshed, had taken refuge there and, though some escaped into the streets
beside themselves in terror, others had been trapped inside. He had walked through the place the following morning looking at the charred corpses, some of them little more than infants. There were
dozens of them and at that point he knew they could never capture the hearts of the locals, despite him being one of them. Without having the minds of the people, he knew the rebellion would fail
sooner or later and his own life would be forfeit.
There had been resistance at the harbour, too. Vorfgan thought it secured but reckoned without the spirit of the doughty fisher folk. They slaughtered many of his men before order could be
restored, and with order came executions and with executions came simmering hostility. And a hostile crowd needed men to suppress it, more than they could afford.
Still, despite the stiffness of the resistance, the island had been taken and, shortly after leaving the charred and smoking hulk of the house of Artorus, he did keep his word. The local priest,
Sidden, helped consign Wulfthram to the flames surrounded by a large and tearful crowd, all of whom were surrounded by Vorfgan’s spear. Despite their presence, he was spat upon many times
for, unlike Vorfgan, he was known and trusted here and so everyone knew of his unforgiveable switch in loyalties. His mood started to spiral downhill at that point; he barely listened afterwards as
Vorfgan laid out his plans to defend the harbour from the inevitable counter-invasion and to fortify the town over the winter against Wulfthram’s men, many of whom had taken to the country,
hiding, organising, and ready to start some sort of guerrilla war against them. At least that’s what Vorfgan thought. Personally Einar had stopped caring overmuch – he would fight, he
would never be taken alive, but unlike the excited blond man talking to him, he knew that their grand plans were looking increasingly unachievable.
But little did he suspect how exactly the end would come.
Earlier the previous day he had been with Vorfgan, checking to see how the walls of Osperitsan Town were being strengthened. Vorfgan was smiling; he had not stopped since he
had taken the town.
‘The harbour is ready, Einar,’ he said triumphantly. ‘When the fleet comes they will be repelled; their ships cannot all get in the harbour at once and so we will burn them,
one at a time.’
‘That is good,’ said Einar in a monotone.
‘And then I shall return to Clutha and leave this place to you. Even as we speak my men are attacking Vihag; it may even be taken by now. Then it is Thakholm and after that we give our
terms to the Grand Duke. It is a shame Wulfthram’s widow is gone but she was hardly a core part of our plans. Cheer up, big man.’ He slapped Einar on his shoulder. ‘Things move
quickly and, to our advantage, there is little that can stop u...’
He was cut short. ‘What was that?’ he said, his face puzzled.
Einar did not answer for a second. ‘Hooves,’ he finally answered. ‘Horsemen up from the harbour.’
‘No, man, not that. That.’
Einar heard it this time. ‘Sounds like some sort of bird, or an animal, caught by a predator.’
‘No,’ said Vorfgan. ‘It is not that; it is something bigger.’
Einar looked at him; he seemed perturbed, even fearful. Einar’s hearing was not what it used to be, so he couldn’t be sure of what he had just listened to. He turned his head towards
the road from the harbour.
A horseman, one of Vorfgan’s, was careering along the road apparently heedless of his own safety. Behind him two other horses appeared over the crest of the hill, riding just as hard. The
first horseman charged through the opened gate in the partially reconstructed city walls, heading straight for Vorfgan in the square.
‘Run!’ he screamed, his voice hoarse, his eyes wide with terror. ‘Monsters! Demons! Our doom is come!’
‘Wait, man!’ Vorfgan called out angrily. ‘Stop! What is wrong? Tell us!’