Conqueror’s Moon (59 page)
Snudge sipped wine, making no reply.
The prince rose. “Perhaps you’d like to get a little more sleep in my cabin. It’s a tiny place, but God knows it’s warmer and drier than that cramped coop on the gundeck.”
“It’s best that I sleep with the other armigers. But perhaps a short stay in a more private spot would be best if I must attempt scrying.”
Conrig said, “I’m afraid you must. Stergos can bespeak our own war-fleet and even contact the Tarnian windvoice traveling with the mercenaries. But I must depend on you to give us oversight of the foe, even though the work drains your strength.” He hesitated. “Is it very hard on you, Snudge?”
“I can bear it, Your Grace, for duty’s sake.”
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Shearwater threaded her cautious way through the rocky channel, aided by a spring tide, and finally gained the open waters of Cala Bay. Meanwhile, with Snudge overwatching and giving periodic reports to Conrig and Stergos, the advancing armada of Honigalus made better time as the wind veered to the east and blew more steadily. By sundown, the sky was heavily overcast and a cold drizzle brought misery to seamen forced to climb the rigging of the tall ships to shorten sail. Honigalus and Peel plainly intended pressing on through the night, but the individual ships of the armada now gave each other wide sea-room and proceeded with great caution.
“They’ll hit the Lord Admiral’s force in the morning, after they pull together again into battle formation,” Skellhaven predicted. “But we still have the advantage, Your Grace. We’re bound to reach Woodvale first. Too bad about the Harriers, though.”
The Tarnian frigates pressed on doggedly toward Intrepid Point, but none of their skippers would predict when they might reach Blenholme Roads and join the Lord Admiral’s fleet.
Snudge and Skellhaven departed the captain’s cabin to their separate duties, leaving Conrig and his brother alone, brooding over a chart by lamplight. The night was full of the distinctive sounds made by a great ship under sail: the creak of timbers, the squealing of spars and booms, the slap and hum of rigging, and the continuing rush of water sliding past the hull.
“Brother,” the prince said after a time, “bespeak our father. We may as well find out whether the king’s brave attempt to educate the Lord Admiral and his captains in the niceties of small-craft warfare has failed or succeeded.”
“And we must learn how he fares bodily as well,” the alchymist said in quiet reproof, “although the ship’s doctor professed to be amazed at his unexpected vitality.”
The chief windvoice aboard Woodvale’s flagship Princess Milyna was a cheerful young alchymist named Vra-Bolan.
Ho, Gossy! So it’s you again, is it? There’s really no news. We’re riding in mid-bay, waiting and praying. I can hear the men below singing loud songs. The Lord Admiral ordered an extra ration of grog to cheer them up.
“Bolan, the Prince Heritor would talk to King Olmigon, if His Grace hasn’t retired for the night.”
He’s actually in remarkable fettle. He came aboard this morning with no crown or other symbol of royal authority, and an hour or so ago the fo’c‘sle gang decided something had to be done about that before tomorrow’s battle. So they crowned the old man with the iron band from a tarnblaze cask!
Stergos passed on this bit of intelligence to Conrig, who burst out laughing.
It took Vra-Bolan only a few minutes to reach the cabin where the king lay, and then father and son conversed haltingly on the wind. Conrig soon learned that Olmigon’s scheme for the small-boat flotilla had finally been accepted by the admiral and his commanders, although they still nursed serious doubts. The outlook now seemed so grim that almost anything was worth a try—even sending sloops and cutters to attack men o‘ war.
I had to demonstrate the damned maneuvers over and over again, the king complained, first to Woodvale, then to the fleet captains, and finally to the shallop skippers themselves, maneuvering squadrons of dried beans around tiny warship models on a tablecloth. The little fellows know what they have to do, though, and they intend to do it -well… You realize, of course, that most of them will die.
“Yes, sire,” said the prince.
Take care of their people.
“Of course.”
Is there any hope of magical assistance from Ullanoth?
“I fear not. She gave us gales on either side of the island when we needed them and calmed the winds that favored our foe. It exhausted her. We bespoke her not long ago. What strength she can summon she intends to use tomorrow to Send herself to Fenguard and claim the crown of Moss. That’s her highest priority. I can hardly fault her.”
No… Con?
“Yes, sire?”
You should know that if my insane deathbed ploy does help launch the Sovereignty, much is owed to your wife Maudrayne and to the shaman Ansel, who enabled me to reach Woodvale. Show them your gratitude also.
“I will. And I intend to acknowledge the emperor’s role as well. The entire island will hear of his oracle and marvel at it. Perhaps I’ll put Bazekoy’s face on the coinage of the Sovereignty.”
He’d probably think that a great joke…
“How do you feel, Father?”
Tired. Content. There’s not much pain. Did I tell you that I dreamed of Bazekoy only a day ago? That was how I knew my time had come, that I must leave my deathbed and take action. But the emperor also spoke strange words to me that pertained somehow to you. He said, “They’re coming: cold iron and cold iron clashing. Warn your son to take refuge then, forsaking victory, for these two are the foe no man can defeat‘’… I couldn’t fathom what he meant.
“I don’t understand it either, sire. Was he saying that Cathra cannot win the upcoming battle? If so, that contradicts his response to your one Question. It puts paid to all our hopes.”
No. I think it must mean something else entirely. If only I could grasp the damned slippery thought and force it to yield up its gist!
“Take heart. Perhaps this dream of yours was just a dream, and no arcane portent at all. Put it from your mind and rest. Tomorrow, when I see you again, we can speak more of this if you wish.”
The king bade both of his sons good night, but they still sat at the chart table, reluctant to go to their cabins. With the index fingers of either hand, Conrig idly traced the rugged coastline of High Blenholme—from Tarn in the far northwest, from Moss in the northeast. The two fingers came together in Cala Bay.
He gasped as the realization came to him. “Oh, God, Gossy! Could that be it? The Hammer and Anvil?”
The brothers regarded each other for a moment in a dread surmise. Then the alchymist said, “Since the Wolf’s Breath, our winters have been mild, without great storms in the south. But the volcanos are calm now. And Ullanoth’s twin gales… might they act as inadvertent precursors? If our father’s dream was indeed warning that Hammer and Anvil storms are sweeping down from the Barren Lands—”
“But when will they clash?” The prince’s eyes glittered as he moved one finger up the chart, northward between the promontories of Blackhorse and Eagleroost, into the comparative safety of Blenholme Roads. “When?”
Stergos said, “We know a blizzard rages in Moss, and Prince Somarus and his army are trapped by heavy snow in the northern interior. Yet it could be days before the storms reach Cala Bay-—if they come at all. You said it yourself, Con: Perhaps Father’s dream was only a dream, and nothing more.”
The Prince Heritor’s body relaxed. His hands fell into his lap and he sighed. “In any case, we can’t let such a thing influence our strategy. Tomorrow we fight Didion. And who knows? By the time we meet the King’s Grace, he may have had another dream that will explain it all to us.“
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But there would be no meeting and no explanation.
Much later, when Conrig was finally preparing to go to bed, Stergos entered his tiny sleeping cabin without knocking. The alchymist’s robes were awry and his face streamed with tears. He seemed unable to speak and only stood helpless until the prince took his shoulders and shook him.
“Gossy, what is it? What’s happened?”
“Vra-Bolan just bespoke me the news. Our father is dead, peacefully in his sleep. You are the King of Cathra.” As his younger brother stood frozen, Stergos knelt and kissed his hand. “I—I’ve not yet told the others.”
Conrig pulled the alchymist to his feet. “Nor will we tell them. Not until we reach the Lord Admiral’s flagship and see Father’s body with our own eyes. Only then will I be willing to don the iron-hoop crown he wore and undertake the duties of a king.”
“Oh, Con. He never was able to sing his Deathsong!”
“He sings it somewhere. Don’t worry.” He drew the weeping alchymist to the cabin door and thrust him into the corridor. “Leave me alone now, Gossy. Pray for our father’s spirit, but pray especially hard for me.”
When Conrig was alone again he took a bottle of malt liquor from his trussing coffer, filled a beaker to the brim, and downed it, hoping to silence the gush of speculation that rose like a black tide in his brain. But the remedy was futile and so he drank more, cursing beneath his breath, and finally fell insensible into the cabin’s mean, narrow bed.
thirty-four
Viscount skellhaven brought Shearwater alongside Princess Milyna as another scarlet dawn broke over Cala Bay. The waters were choppy, and bursts of chill rain drenched Conrig and Stergos as they transferred to the Cathran flagship. The Lord Admiral and his officers had prepared a solemn reception, but the new king brushed aside all ceremony and said that he and the Royal Alchymist would view the remains of their father at once, escorted only by Woodvale.
Olmigon was laid out in the admiral’s sleeping-cabin. They had dressed him in plain robes, placed two candles beside his head, and assigned four knight-lieutenants as a guard of honor. The improvised crown, a slightly rusted circlet, lay on his breast.
Stergos knelt at the foot of the bier and drew the scarlet hood of his habit over his head. As the Lord Admiral hovered uncertainly and the guards presented their swords, Conrig regarded the late king’s body in silence for a brief minute. Then he took the iron cask hoop and set it upon his own wheaten hair, which was still wet with rain.
“This is the only coronation I shall have… Whether I retain the throne of Cathra at the end of this day now depends upon you, Lord Woodvale, and the brave seamen under your command. Are your windvoices ready to transmit orders to the other ships of the fleet?”
“Aye, Your Grace. Save for the small craft, who have no adepts aboard. They’ll be signalled with flares when the enemy heaves into view. The light forces know their role and need no further direction. King Olmigon spent many hours coaching their skippers in naval tactics, as he did my own commanders.”
Conrig smiled thinly. “Whatever Olmigon advised—no matter how much his ideas contradict conventional naval practice—that you must do. Those are my orders.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Vra-Stergos uncovered his head and said, “I was just bespoken by Princess Ullanoth. She says that the armada of Didion is coming at us. They are less than thirty leagues distant.”
Woodvale nodded. “Time to attack, then—cockleshells in the van. There are thirty-seven of the small gunboats, sire, augmenting our twenty-nine men o‘ war.”
“And sixty-five warships of Didion, Stippen, and Foraile,” Conrig said, smiling without humor. “Which gives us the advantage of a single craft. Carry on, my lord.”
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Skipping away close-hauled on the rising east wind, the small boats moved to the right flank of the lumbering, overconfident enemy, then turned west and ran among them out of the misty rain. The result was everything Olmigon might have hoped. The masthead lookouts and scrying adepts aboard the ships of the armada saw the approaching sailboats, but had no idea what they were up to. Even shrewd Galbus Peel believed that the ragtag flotilla must consist of a mob of panicked fishermen, hoping to reach the coves below Eagleroost ahead of a strong squall.
When the Cathran boats opened fire, the great ships of Didion and their allies manned their own guns. But the attackers were so small and fast-moving that they could hardly be targeted. Warship after warship, hampered by their innate clumsiness, was struck at close range by bombshells and fire-casks of tarnblaze—not fired in wasteful random broadsides but aimed with frugal precision near the waterline or at critical structures on deck. Fourteen of the proud corsairs were holed so badly that their crews abandoned ship. Six more frigates— and two huge Didionite barques—lost their masts or saw their sails consumed in tenacious sheets of unquenchable flame. The four-decker Casabarela Regnant, looming above the rain-pecked waves like some monstrous floating fort, was singled out for special attention by tiny marauders who slipped beneath her guns and bombarded her rudder. With steering damaged, she lost way and was soon nearly dead in the water. Fires dotted her from stem to gudgeon, and black smoke poured from her ornate sterncastle. Frantic figures swarming on the forward boatdeck were attempting to lower the captain’s gig, so that King Honigalus, Fleet Captain Peel, and the all-important cadre of wizards could transfer to another ship. For a deadly half-hour, like wolves slashing at the heels and underbellies of giant elk, the small craft darted among the enemy vessels as if daring them to retaliate.
They did, of course, once the initial element of surprise was lost.
Agile as the fighting sailboats were, the sheer number of guns firing on them guaranteed their eventual doom. When their limited supplies of munitions were exhausted, they attempted to run away, but less than a dozen escaped the infuriated Didionites and Continental corsairs. The few that did attempt to surrender were blown to bits.
There was a lull, after which Honigalus and Peel, newly installed aboard the barque Riptide, regrouped their disheveled fleet. Nearly a third of the original force was unfit to fight and began a retreat to the Continent. The others pressed on toward the twin lines of Cathran warships that Fring and his cohort of scryers had overviewed standing before the entrance to Blenholme Roads.
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