[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXV

[Chris]

Sorry for so late in replying but it was well worth it! VERY Cool! I
always love a battle scene and this was done VERY well! 


Chris
The Lurking Fox




-----Original Message-----
From: mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org
[mailto:mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org] On Behalf Of C. Matthias
Sent: Sunday, November 09, 2008 2:03 PM
To: mkguild at lists.integral.org
Subject: [Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXV

And here's the scene everybody has been waiting 
for.  I crafted the outline of the battle, while 
Ryx filled in all the details and did the 
writing.  He wrote quite a bit longer than I 
expected him to, so this scene gets it's own chapter!  Enjoy!

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXV

Raising Orange and Blue

         “Highness, you may wish to take cover.” 
Ptomamus said with a wry grin, hefting his oval 
shaped laminated shield.  “Archers, take your 
mark!”  Ahead of the Spear and slightly to one 
side one of the narrow, swift longboats was 
rapidly closing into bow range.  Phil was well 
prepared, standing between the reassuringly 
massive frame of Rupert and the plotting table 
which was substantial in itself.  He could hear 
the thin whistling hiss of arrows falling short 
of their mark as the enemy vessel engaged 
prematurely.  On the forward castle the Spear’s 
small, but heavy, torsion ballista let loose with 
a rattling crash of wood, launching a heavy 
wooden spear tipped with iron at the foe.  The 
shaft barely arched at all, flying on a swift, 
deadly course into the enemy ship’s bow just as 
it made a feinting turn.  Screams issued from the 
stricken crew as the heavy shaft pierced the thin 
hull and rattled along the deck among the 
rowers.  The longboat immediately stalled in the 
water and continued its turn on inertia as chaos 
erupted with crew attempting to dodge the last energies of the ballista
shaft.
         “Loose!” bellowed the marine 
commander.  At the limits of their range the 
archers lofted a salvo of arrows high into the 
air.  The injured ship responded to the incoming 
hail of steel tipped shafts, but only 
half-heartedly.  A few shields were upraised just 
as the deadly rain of long shafts came 
down.  Many fell short into the water or 
hammering into oars left floating untended.  Some 
few found flesh with another rippling cry of 
stricken crew.  A desultory response of arrows 
arced back toward the Spear but was met with a 
wall of shields and found no mark.  “Rake her clean!  Ware to port!”
         The crew of the Spear rowed on, 
protected by a wall of sturdy shields against the 
broken assault of arrows lofted by the enemy 
crew.  Another vessel closed opposite the first 
but abruptly burst into flame as a splash of 
searing fire crashed into it amidships from 
another ship in Phil’s fleet.  The Singing Bird’s 
crew burst out in a raucous cheer as their first 
blow in the battle was stricken cleanly.  Further 
down the line another Dromonai caught one of the 
enemy skirmishers attempting to cross it’s bow a 
moment too late.  With a thunderous crack the 
heavy warship crushed the smaller ship’s bow, 
turning it across the Dromonai’s beam and then 
splitting it amidships.  What crew that survived 
the impact attempted to board but were 
efficiently repelled by the Dromonai’s well trained crew of marines.
         “Brace!  Fire crews to the bow!”  Phil 
heard the marine commander bellow from the main 
deck of the Spear and brought his attention back 
to their own situation.  The burning longboat had 
turned abruptly attempting to escape the range of 
the Singing Bird’s forward projector, but that 
only brought it directly across the Spear’s 
bow.  Phil felt the entire ship shudder from the 
impact and leaned forward with the resulting loss 
of forward speed.  The impact had the same 
results; the longboat was sheered amidships by 
the Burning Spear’s bronze ram, the two halves 
rolling and spilling the screaming crew into the 
water where they continued to burn.  Archers 
swiftly ended their cries and a small coterie of 
marines cast off those who attempted to scramble 
aboard.  To either side the stricken remains of 
the doomed ships began to sink swiftly but the 
fire continued to burn, churning the water into 
which the broken hull sank.  Black smoke boiled 
up from the depths and the driving wind swept it 
across the deck.  Phil’s eyes watered at the oily 
acridness of it but he refused to look away.  Men 
with buckets of fire sand moved along the deck 
pacing the ruin, ready to douse fires but other 
than a few singed oars no damage was sustained.
         Throughout the one-sided battle the 
winged creatures wheeled overhead, occasionally 
making diving swipes but never low enough to be 
brought down by arrows.  Even while they repelled 
the assault the ships kept an acute eye on the 
skies with archers ready to respond.
         “That gave us a good softening up, aye 
Captain!” the marine commander whooped from the 
deck below with a leer. “Let the boys taste some blood, aye!”
         “That’s just the hors d’oeuvres, 
Bethmaed, keep your eyes to the sky.  Aramaes?”
         “They’re coming into the forward line, 
Captain, shipping oars to slide through.  Seven 
lengths.  We shall be in projector range in 
moments.”  Aramaes looked up at the creatures 
still circling in a ragged spiral several hundred 
feet above.  “Wish those blasted beasts would make their play.”
         “Fire crews to their posts!  Charge the 
forward projector, aft projector stand ready!” 
Ptomamus called across his deck.  From across the 
water Phil could hear the voices of other 
commanders, and the subsequent echo from their 
deck officers, giving similar orders.  “Shield 
bearers make ready on the forecastle!”  Phil 
moved out of the way as the specialized 
crewmembers filed up onto the aft castle and took 
up their posts at the heavy bronze projector.  He 
started briefly at the strong hand that came down 
to clasp his shoulder.  “Highness, I daresay that 
crossing of blades does not look to be your 
forte, but you’ve been touched by the dragon’s 
blessing.  Could you master the aft projector?”
         Phil looked from the captain to the 
heavy tube on its swivel, bronze gleaming with 
the polish of many loving hands.  He noticed that 
the center man was missing from the small squad 
and remembered; the chief of their crew had taken 
a shaft in the lung during the night skirmish two 
days before.  He stubbornly clung to life below 
deck with the other injured.  “Honored, Captain, 
though I do not wish a second such blessing.”  He 
moved to join the two men quickly checking over 
their weapon as they did each day.  One of them 
opened a small bronze locker at the base of the 
pedestal and took out the intricately worked 
bronze handle that would work the siphon pump to 
pull the dangerous components up from the twin 
tanks below and combine them in the reservoir in 
the pedestal.  There the two components would 
begin their inflammatory reaction needing only 
the kiss of air to ignite, pressurizing the bell while they mixed.
         “Fire in the air!” cried out a watcher 
on the mid castle, arm outflung toward the half 
dozen arcing globules of brilliant scarlet 
climbing into the air from the lead element of 
the Marzac fleet.  Black smoke trailed behind 
them defining the path of each toward its 
target.  Ptomamus left Phil, eyes darting across the fusillade swiftly.
         “Hard to starboard, port crews to 
shield!” One of the streaming gobbets of fire 
came toward them and from the port bow a 
second.  As the Spear was the leading ship in 
their line, by a mere half length, she earned the 
first and most concentrated power of the enemy 
projectors.  Phil leaned and the Spear listed 
sharply.  Shield bearers rushed out among the 
oarsmen along the port bulkheads, interlacing 
their laminated square shields and sheltering below them.
         “Captain!” a startled cry brought Phil’s 
head around, as it did the entire compliment of 
the aft castle save Aramaes and the captain.  A 
man was mounting the rear rail, his black face 
and charred leather armor dripping water.  One 
side of his face was seared to more cinder than 
flesh, the eye socket a glaring hole oozing a 
viscous clear ichor.  The steersman who had 
called warning drew his short curved blade but 
did not abandon the tiller, moving to put the 
heavy beam between himself and the enemy 
boarder.  Quicker than Phil would have expected 
of someone suffering such injuries the man surged 
over the rail and drew a pair of long, slender 
blades to advance on the startled steersman.
         Rupert captured his attention before he 
could cover the two paces from rail to tiller, 
the heavy ape in the brilliant orange of a 
Whalish marine surged across the deck and 
collided with the boarder using his heavy 
shield.  The fire charred man was sent reeling to 
the rail and lost one of his poniards but managed 
to rally without falling overboard.  If the 
presence of several hundred pounds of ape clad in 
marine garb gave the man pause he did not seem to 
show it, nor injury for the deadly collision.  He 
sprang toward Rupert with a quiet snarl, unarmed 
shoulder leading and poniard held low to make a thrust around the
shield.
         Instead Rupert threw his arms wide and 
stood upright, towering over the charging foe and 
with a deft twist avoided the thrust that slid 
across his heavy armor.  Those huge arms closed 
around the hapless enemy with unrestrained force, 
the sound of bones snapping echoing loudly across 
the deck though the foe made no sound other than 
the gurgling rush of air being crushed from his 
lungs.  Futilely he poked at Rupert’s back with 
his weapon until his failing hand let it 
fall.  With a grimace of distaste Rupert hefted 
the still struggling body and hurled him over the rail.
         “A half length more!  Forward crew 
select your target!” Ptomamus was bellowing over 
the strangely organized chaos raging on the deck 
below.  Phil returned his attention to the 
slightly less urgent danger only to see that it 
had already passed.  One projectile of fire had 
landed among the oars along the starboard side 
while the other had glanced off of the layered 
shields and further coated those same oars with 
more fire.  The fire crews were working to douse 
the oars while the  burning shields were simply 
cast away into the water.  A few of the crew 
seemed to have taken some of the splash from the 
gobbet that glanced from the shields but their 
heavy leather and cotton gambesons protected them from immediate harm.
         Across the water and closing with 
ponderously slow deadliness the numbers of the 
Marzac fleet seemed insurmountable and Phil 
cowered where he stood, his clumsy paw-hands 
grasping at the handles of the projector and his 
tall ears backed in mounting terror.  Fire 
blossomed among the enemy ships in a rapid 
exchange that erupted from aft of the leading 
elements.  Five of their tainted Dromonai 
abruptly burst into raging flame and the others 
swiftly slowed as their crews, unprepared for the 
flank attack of Pythoreaus’ magically concealed line, were raked by
arrows.
         “Ramming speed!  Loose the dragon!”
         On the main deck below the aft castle 
the drummer’s beat increased swiftly, the oarsmen 
bending to their heavy beams, and the Spear 
surged forward.  With a whistling thump the 
forward projector loosed its bottle of 
pressurized chemicals.  With a consistency 
slightly less cohesive than tar the gobbet was 
spat forth, immediately bursting into searing 
flame.  Some quantity clung to the flared bell of 
the projector but the heavy bronze withstood the heating unaffected.
         Phil looked to the two men, hardly old 
enough to be putting on a good beard, working 
with him at the aft projector.  He could see the 
fear in their eyes, but also the grim resolve in 
the set of their jaws and steady looks.  He knew 
that fear, the first time he had ever stood crew 
on one of Whales’ greatest technological secrets, 
and loosed the deadly fire.  He knew the fear of 
war, of true war and not the skirmish of a 
superior vessel riding down and burning an 
inferior one, of the war he had faced in the 
distant kingdom of Metamor and came away from so 
dramatically changed as to be truly a different man.
         A rabbit.
         White, pitiable, unable to lift a fork 
or tie on his own doublet, but a Prince 
nonetheless.  The one day ruler of these 
thin-bearded youths in their Whalish orange, and 
he could not betray them with the base instincts 
of the animal that he had become.
         That he, Prince Phil of Whales, had 
become.  It had not become him, it would not 
master him.  He swallowed the painful lump in his 
throat and forced his ears upright 
fitfully.  “Charge the projector.” He ordered 
with deceptive calm.  The fear still coursed 
through his veins, but he cast a cloak of furious 
anger over it.  Anger for what had become of him 
at Nasoj’s bidding.  Anger for what had become of 
the world under the spreading taint of 
Marzac.  Anger for all of those slain in the 
Whalish harbor attacked in the dark of night.
         Anger, a furious boiling fury, for the absolute futility of
war.
         “Aramaes, convey open maneuver!  Forward 
projector loose to port, take down that dromus!  Aft, Prince, are you
ready!”
         “Aye, Captain!  Charged and awaiting 
your order.” Phil called back over his 
shoulder.  In turning his head he could see that 
one of their line was falling back 
aflame.  Others had slowed and fallen back to 
fight lesser fires or deal with smaller ships 
charging past their larger, slower main battle 
craft like small dogs chasing horses.  They were 
in the thick of the fight now, as abruptly as the 
time for two salvos to pass from fire ship to fire ship.
         “Ships to the northeast, captain!” 
called out the spotter on the midcastle.  “No masts, longboats!  Coming
fast”
         “Damn!” Ptomamus spat as he took up his 
spyglass to gaze toward the northeast.  Phil 
could make out a broadening line of fast moving, 
slender, low-riding boats as dark knives cutting 
rapidly through the wind rippled sea.  “Not 
Whalish.  More for Marzac.  Aramaes, where is Stohshal?!”
         “Behind yon rain coming on under full 
sail.” Aramaes, his head sweating with the effort 
to keep communication open between their 
disparate fleets.  “They will cross through the 
rain in a few minutes yet, north of the Marzac line.”
         “Fire forward, ware the skies!” someone, 
Phil did not identify who, cried out in 
fear.  Forward he could see a arc of fire 
climbing upward from one of the Dromonai that had 
escaped Pythoreaus’ opening gambit.  Now wholly 
among the enemy host Phil’s second had let his 
magic concealment drop.  His fleet did not come 
around to engage the larger ships from the rear, 
however, only firing their aft projectors as they 
continued onward toward the bulk of the Marzac 
host, the wind driven galleass and other slower 
manoeuvring ships already hampered by the 
wind.  Phil looked up and saw that the ragged 
spiral of flying beasts had broken up; they were 
falling from the sky like catapult stones with 
much larger shadows swooping down toward them from an even higher
altitude.
         In the mid-point of its arc the gobbet 
of fire loosed at them was suddenly haloed by a 
blinding coruscation of blinding white light that 
traced back to a fast moving shadow plunging from 
the storm clouds above.  After a few brief 
seconds the orange fireball exploded in a broad 
fan of burning spume that was cast across the 
waves impotently.  “Twenty degrees to port, avoid 
that fire.  Archers attend the sky!”  The 
plunging shadow resolved itself into a sleek 
bodied dragon as it closed swiftly with the 
creatures dropping down toward the broken Whalish 
line.  “Fletch those feathered beasts, the 
dragons are with us!  Phil!  Eyes to our 
starboard beam, loose on that drom before she turns!”
         Startled by the order and chagrined at 
his own unfocused gawkery Phil grasped at the 
handles of the projector and quickly sighted the 
low slung enemy attack boat turning aft of a 
Whalish ship, its own aft projector manned by 
someone clad in white, to make a strafing run 
with archers.  Leaning against the weight of the 
fire-filled projector he spun it about, sighted 
across the curve of the bell and the flanks of 
the long tube to get the elevation, and with the 
wind in his ears he depressed the levers that 
would open the valves in the throat of the projector.
         With a hearty thump the projector bucked 
against its pedestal and jumped in his hands but 
he held steady on his target.  The burning gobbet 
of cohesive chemicals leaped across the distance 
between the Spear and the Marzac-tainted drom, 
crashing across its bow and spewing fiery tar 
across the length of the boat’s deck.  The 
scattered chemicals roared skyward with a shriek 
that echoed the last cries of the stricken ship’s 
crew, consuming wood and flesh alike.
         “Clear the throat, prepare to charge.” 
He ordered his squad, bringing the projector back 
into its stowed position.  An arrow rattled off 
the bell of the projector but he paid it no heed 
as one of the feathered beasts loosed by the 
Marzac fleet came down upon the Spear’s 
forecastle in more of a crash than a 
landing.  Its impact crushed the forward 
projector crew before they had an opportunity to 
escape and sent many others crashing from the 
elevated deck to land among the crew below or in 
the water.  Floundering for a moment the beast 
thrashed its huge multicolored wings, sending the 
twisted projector upon its stand tumbling overboard.
         A quartet of marines surged up the short 
stair onto the forecastle, three with swords and 
the last wielding a ballistae bolt as a 
spear.  The monstrosity whistled a deafening hiss 
through a mouth more akin to reptiles than birds; 
long and narrow and studded with a daunting array 
of sharp yellowed-ivory teeth.  With a wing it 
one marine over the railing negligently when the 
man leaped forward to stab with his 
shortsword.  Another was caught in those deadly 
jaws and thrashed about like a rat in a dog’s 
muzzle.  Sword and shield spun away in the water, 
the man’s screams silenced almost unvoiced by the 
violence of the attack.  Staunchly the remaining 
two leaped in, sword and spear thrusting but 
without apparent result.  The beast dominated the 
forecastle, its weight rocking the boat and 
dipping the bow deep into the water and slowing 
their speed despite the efforts of those still at their oars.
         A shadow passed overhead prompting Phil 
to duck reflexively, his eyes cast up only 
briefly at the rainbow blur of feathers flashing 
by in a thunder of broad wings.  The creature 
hissed its frustration having missed whatever its 
jaws sought and its broad wings dug at the air to 
swing it toward another ship in the fighting 
line.  A plummeting blue shape, however, brought 
its flight to an abrupt halt when a dragon 
crashed down upon it, talons digging through 
feathers and flesh before driving the beast into 
the water.  Before both sank out of sight Phil 
saw the dragon’s head snap forward once, twice, a 
third time with each bite coming back frothing blood.
         “Aramaes!” Ptomamus bellowed over the 
chaos and tumult of the battle pitched on all 
sides, coming out of a crouch with only the most 
brief of glances at the airborne fight sinking 
into the sea.  “Tell ours to switch away from the 
new longships, they’re battling the Marzac!”
         Phil looked forward while rising to take 
control of the remaining fire projector aboard 
the Burning Spear, his ears flat back against his 
skull.  A pair of Dromonai coursed side by side 
across the rear of the Spear and Phil turned 
toward them with the projector only to stop when 
he noted that commanding the projectors on each 
of those ships were white-clad sailors.  The 
shoved aside the confusion at the change of 
uniform and looked for another target.  On the 
forecastle the feathered reptile used its wings 
as impromptu shields against the arrows directed 
toward it by every able hand aboard the 
Spear.  Few were able to penetrate the broad, 
brightly hued feathers deeply enough to find a 
mark.  Meanwhile the fearsome head thrust forth, 
snapping at any who attempted to close for a more 
direct attack.  Two had fallen to those jaws and 
some half dozen more struggled to regain their 
feet having been struck down by the heavy wings 
and sent falling into ranks of oarsmen.
         The hulking, broad-shouldered girth of 
Rupert was among them, surging forward as 
implacably as a ram.  Without bothering with the 
stairs he grasped a railing and hauled himself 
onto the forecastle before charging headlong at 
the beast.  Phil could not help the startled 
sound that escaped his throat when he watched his 
friend of many years close to grapple with such a 
deadly menace.  “Phil, amidships to 
starboard!”  Phil wrenched his sight away from 
the orange-clad ape and rainbow hued bird 
grappling on the forecastle and spied the smaller 
vessel, a coastal oar-ship, closing swiftly 
either to ram or rake their oars.  He swung the 
projector about and sighted at the enemy vessel, 
quickly scanning the deck for anyone clad in 
white though he did not immediately understand 
why that would be of any concern.
         A sudden lurch of the deck at the moment 
he depressed the valve releases on the projector 
sent the viscous globule of fire high and Phil 
was forced to abandon his grasp on the projector 
to duck a responding salvo of arrows.  The two 
crewmen tasked with assisting him at the 
projector couched their shields upon the wood and 
blocked a majority of the arrows.  A few clanged 
off the heavy bronze of the projector without 
leaving any marks.  A heavy cracking sound, not 
of breaking timbers but steady like the striking 
of a woodsman’s axe, issued from some distance 
away and did not abate.  The pirate ship that had 
just dodged an eminent death by fire lurched out 
of line when a small explosion of splintered wood 
erupted from the stern.  A second issued from the 
base of the tiller a second later, and a third a 
second after that took the head off of an oarsman 
positioned toward the vessel’s stern.  The steady 
rattling sound continued with each sharp report 
of wood against wood followed almost immediately 
by another crash along the target’s hull.  Phil 
was momentarily more concerned with holding the 
projector steady for clearing than finding the 
source of the smaller ship’s protracted demise.
         On the forecastle the feathered reptile 
was in a sad state, one wing snapped and dragging 
and the considerable weight of Rupert astride its 
back.  Though the creature’s frame was far larger 
than the ape’s, its weight was only half that of 
its attacker.  Muscle against muscle it could not 
withstand Rupert’s enraged thrashing.  The 
marines had withdrawn to direct their attention 
at other foes once they saw that Rupert had the 
creature well in hand.  Those huge hands had 
finally managed to capture the head attempting to 
bite and, with one savage twist, wrenched it 
fully around so fiercely it was almost ripped 
off.  Hefting the unwieldy bulk Phil’s bodyguard 
cast it overboard and watched it for a moment 
before stepping from the rail and slapping his 
chest with both hands once.  A ragged and very 
brief cheer rose up and quickly faded under 
another heavy vibration through the deck.
         The Spear lurched and wood creaked with 
a protesting groan but there was nothing visible 
to have caused such a momentous impact resulting 
in several seconds of confusion.  Phil understood 
the nature of the impact, however, when a few of 
the marines leaned over the railing and thrust 
harpoons into the water.  “We’ve been rammed by a 
whale, cap’n!” bellowed one of the marines as his 
comrades quickly rushed across to look over the opposite gunwale.
         “Hold your stations!” the captain roared 
above the confusion, his attention focused on 
their next target, a Whalish dromon lacking any 
apparent fire projectors and running interference 
for the Iron King, the huge Pyralian flagship 
that formed the center of the Marzac 
fleet.  “Ready for boarders from below!  Marines 
protect our oars!”  He thrust an arm toward a 
handful of oars tangled in what looked like the 
tentacles of a squid but far larger than any Phil 
had ever seen before.  “Use the quicklime!”
         The Spear shuddered once more and a 
spume of water erupted into the air from another 
cetacean assault.  A handful of marines hurled 
harpoons at the beast before it could return to 
the depths.  Others turned small casks of 
fire-sand, into which quicklime had been mixed, 
on the tentacles tangling their oars.  Within 
seconds the steaming, frothing gray mixture had 
the intended result, freeing the oars as the 
tentacles withdrew.  “Prince, prepare your 
fire.  As soon as we draw abreast of the Iron 
King lay a shot along her upper decks!”
         As if given orders by some unseen 
commander the ships nearest the Iron King began 
to draw together, focusing upon the Burning Spear 
and the last remaining pair of dromonai from 
Phil’s attack line coursing steadfast at their 
stern.  Two more of the fey, feathered beasts 
came crashing down upon the deck and it looked, 
to Phil’s eyes, as if a score of small and medium 
ships were turning toward them with the enemy 
dromon charging directly toward them.  The steady 
cracking of some unseen machine of war continued 
unabated and Phil could see impacts walk across 
the water and over one of the smaller long ships 
of the Marzac fleet, swiftly snapping its 
lightweight timbers.  The small ship folded 
amidships like a child’s toy while the gouts of 
water sent up by whatever device caused its death tracked off toward
another.
         Phil leaned down quickly and tapped his 
projector loader lightly on the shoulder before 
the lad could charge the pressure bottle.  “Short the charge, one second
only.”
         Calm despite the terror deep in the 
depths of his eyes the man blinked, 
“Highness?”  Phil gave a quick nod and took up 
the handles of the projector once more.  Unsure 
what was asked but given an order to follow the 
crewman grasped the injector handle and drew 
forth only a very small quantity from the twin 
reservoirs housed in their bronze kettles below 
the Spear’s deck.  Grinding his teeth to fight 
back his own heart-crushing fear Phil ignored the 
chaos closing rapidly on their small island of 
wood, flesh, and bone.  Screams rippled through 
the air mingled with the rattling crash of a 
siege engine, the whoop of fire projectors 
discharging from other ships, shrieking birds and 
dragons, and under it all the wind-driven 
susurrus of the ocean and creaking wood.  After a 
few very long seconds Phil raised the projector 
and aimed along the length of the Spear’s main deck.
         Rupert had once again closed to grapple 
with one of the flying beasts that had landed 
amidships somewhere between the mid and 
forecastles.  Phil could only see brief flashes 
of colorful feathers over the railings of the mid 
castle, but the second of the birds once more 
reigned chaos on the forecastle.  Wrapping his 
blunt fingers around the discharge handles Phil 
gave them a firm squeeze.  Fire leapt forth, only 
a small gibbet of burning fury that arced from 
stern to bow, missing the single mast by the span 
of a single hand, and struck the winged beast 
broadside.   While it shrieked and burned, sooty 
smoke torn by the wind and forward, Phil dropped 
the nozzle for clearing and sought other targets.
         The entire battle seemed muffled, muted 
like sounds would get when he backed his ears but 
his ears were upright and his vision clear.  He 
could see the travel of arrows from ship to ship, 
the floating puddles of wood and fire and flesh 
scattered across the wind-tossed sea.  Creatures 
moved close under the surface of the dark, 
polluted waters but to his unsure sight they 
appeared to be more concerned with battling some 
other submersed foe than those above.  A gleam in 
the air resolved itself into the polished edges 
of an arrow seen along the length of the 
shaft.  Before his cognitive thoughts realized 
what his eyes were seeing the object had passed 
out of sight over his head.  He twitched in 
reflex but by the time his muscles chose to react 
the danger had passed beyond him.  Another 
caromed noisily from the shield upheld by 
Ptomamus who still stood his post at the forward 
railing shouting muffled orders.
         One of those orders slowly wended its 
way through Phil’s battle-deadened senses, 
through the small blot of fear that he set aside 
negligently, and sank into his 
brain.  “Brace!  All oars ramming speed!” 
Ptomamus was yelling, his shortsword thrust into 
the air before him.  Phil raised his eyes from 
his captain’s back, looking along the deck past 
the slumped, burning remains of the jungle-born 
rhukh, to the looming bulk of the Marzac-tainted 
Whalish dromon before them.  It was ponderously 
turning broadside, making a target of itself for 
the Burning Spear’s forward speed.  Arrows 
sizzled through the air, whistling past Phil, 
chirping as they struck the metal of the 
projector or the couched shields of Phil’s 
crew.  Someone spun and fell, the mage Aramaes, 
an arrow jutting from the muscle of his upper arm.
         With a curse the wiry, bald mage snapped 
the shaft and yanked it free before standing.
         With a grinding crash that resounded 
through the hull like a crack of thunder the 
Burning Spear crashed into the enemy dromon 
amidships and came to an immediate halt.  Sailors 
surged over the gunwales of the enemy ship only 
to be brought up short by the burning corpse on 
the Spear’s forecastle.  “Full charge, now!” Phil 
commanded of his crew as he stood from behind 
their shields to grasp the handles of the projector.
         “Already charged, highness.” The loader 
said as he stood slightly into a stoop and tried 
to cover Phil with his shield without blocking 
his aim.  Under his feet Phil felt the deck tilt 
strangely, but it was a subtle change and he could account for it.
         “Back all oars!  Marines forward!  Phil, to port aft!”
         Phil caught the order with only one ear 
and after a moment of thought more brief than the 
heartbeat of a hare he chose to not 
obey.  “Captain, move!” he called out.  Ptomamus 
turned to look back and realized he stood looking 
down the polished bronze throat of the aft 
projector.  He quickly darted to one side with 
Aramaes, still staunching the flow of blood from 
his arm, close at his side.  Something stung 
Phil’s ear but he ignored the pain and loosed the contents of his
projector.
         Unlike the small discharge used to 
immolate the bird the full chamber threw forth a 
massive gobbet of fiery death.  It flew over the 
heads of the Spear’s crew but grazed the mast 
sending a fan of fire across the deck from 
midcastle to forecastle before crashing into the 
side of the enemy dromon where the greater number 
of enemy crew were attempting to navigate their 
way onto the Spear.  The stricken did not cry 
out, they had no opportunity to do so before they 
were immolated.  Clad in their heavy cotton 
gambesons, by now thoroughly soaked with sweat 
and salt spray, the crew of the Spear largely 
ignored the spatter of fire raining down among 
them and fought on, the oar crews trying to back 
the Spear out of the burning remnants of the enemy.
         A ship that, at one time, they may have 
sailed beside.  Whose crew they may have shared 
cups with, or dice; brothers or husbands or 
fathers all.  And yet they fought fire with fire, 
steel with steel, shedding blood of brother and 
friend alike under the dark touch of fey magic.
         Sweaty, soot stained, and bloodied a 
crewman leaped up the stairs from the main deck 
and planted his sword, tip down, to the deck 
before sketching the most brief of salutes. 
“Cap’n, keel be snapped!” he croaked and then 
coughed.  “Whale did ‘er crack, anna Hamish’s 
Folly there, she do ‘er alla way!” He jerked his 
chin toward the burning wreckage still firmly 
captured by the Spear’s ramming spar.  “Takin’ on water, an quick!”
         Ptomamus looked at his fighting men, 
then the ships around him, his gaze roving over 
the tangle of hulls and oars, before casting his 
gaze to the one dromonai of their line still 
holding close.  The second had been separated 
from them by a smaller ship that had fouled their 
oars with an anchor line.  That smaller ship, in 
turn, had been overrun by a handful of fishing 
boats.  Reaching into his coat Ptomamus withdrew 
a white sash banded with red.  With his arm 
raised he waved it side to side, indicating to 
any ship paying attention to them that the Spear 
had been mortally wounded and was sinking.  Under 
normal circumstances a similar flag would be run up the mast.
         “Ferth, get all you can from below to 
abandon ship.  We’ll hold the decks until we’re 
treading water.” Ptomamus gave the man’s shoulder 
a clasp and vaulted the railing.  Phil could hear 
him issuing orders from the deck below while he 
worked his way forward, sword held high.
         “Highness?” asked one of his 
crewmen.  Both remained at their post, shields 
held ready.  Blood welled from a cut to the brow 
of one revealing the yellow-white gleam of 
bone.  Though blind in one eye by the steady rush 
of blood he remained steady and focussed.
         “Charge her up again, my 
brothers.  Until she drowns let’s keep the dragon 
talking.”  They both grinned fiendishly and, 
under the cover of their shields, resumed their 
posts.  With a grinding shriek the Spear hauled 
itself from the guts of the Marzac-tainted 
dromon, Hamish’s Folly.  It rolled into the waves 
immediately, throwing what crew that remained on 
the deck into the sea where they attempted to 
swim toward the Spear.  Arrows, harpoons, and 
nets struck them or snared them within 
seconds.  Phil waited while the pressure bottle 
charged and watched the watery melee.
         Some strange looking boat, built along 
the lines of a longboat but much more broad 
amidships than any Phil had ever seen before, 
stroked forward from somewhere aft of the 
Spear.  The middle of the boat was wider to 
support some strange rotating assembly upon which 
a curious mangonel had been installed.  On each 
side of the mangonel was a massive wheel upon 
which a dozen men worked in well trained unison 
to keep the multiple arms of the queer siege 
engine rotating.  As each arm came forward it 
hurled a small sphere from its bucket, once every 
second or so, with so much force Phil was unable 
to track the shot through the air.  The arm then 
rotated forward, attached to a central spindle, 
and another smashed forward with another shot.
         Phil was intrigued by the device, having 
seen the results of those high velocity shots, 
but could only examine it for a breath or two 
before the entire device and its crew disappeared 
under a charring splash of Whalish fire.  He 
ducked reflexively though the attack struck 
almost a hundred yards distant, the prince’s lip 
curling in anger.  That ship had been not been of 
the foe’s fleet, but it had also not been from 
Whales.  Phil cast about hastily, seeking the 
source of the fire that had ended the smaller 
boat’s valiant, if strange, attack.
         Beyond the burning hulk of Hamish’s 
Folly he spied the dromonai sliding out from the 
shadow of the Iron King’s stern, immediately 
noting that none of the crew wore white.  Though 
the Spear’s deck was listing notably Phil was 
able to keep his footing steady.  An arrow 
hammered the side of the pressure bottle but he 
ignored it.  Taking several seconds to gauge his 
elevation, the wind, the direction of his 
target’s movement he took a long breath and let 
it out.  A sting lanced his shoulder but, as with 
the arrow, he ignored it.  The projector growled 
and spat forth the churning sputum building pressure in its gut.
         “All hands abandon ship, fight in the 
water!” Ptomamus’ order was weak with distance 
but Phil set it aside for a moment, looking for 
more foes.  His shot soared high over the smoking 
ruin of Hamish’s Folly and caught the aft castle 
of the enemy dromonai, not one Phil could put 
name to, at the steersman’s post.  Much of the 
fire cascaded overboard in a spray but enough 
remained upon the deck to reduce the tiller to a 
cinder.  It also immolated the fire crew and 
coated the enemy’s aft projector in a fountain of fire.
         “Charge!” Phil cried out, trying to spy 
the enemy ship’s forward projector through the 
smoke and flame of the burning ship between 
them.  “Charge, then abandon ship!”  The Iron 
King was an arrow shot away but the archers on 
its decks were distracted by some foe on its 
opposite side.  At least, they were ignoring Phil 
on his sinking ship, and the mob of smaller ships 
battling around the sinking Spear.  The two young 
men exchanged a glance but did as Phil ordered, 
hastily charging the projector before scrambling 
up the listing deck and making their way over the railing.
         Alone on the deck Phil hunkered down 
behind the projector’s pedestal and tried to 
track the bow of the enemy dromonai through the 
smoke and fire.  With each passing breath the 
Spear took on more water, tilted further toward 
its port gunwale.  A shadow across his gaze 
brought Phil’s attention to a man standing near 
at hand, water dripping from his dark leather 
armor and the ragged orange of an unkempt Whalish 
marine uniform.  The man’s face was unshaven and 
twisted into a rictus of rage as he bore down on 
Phil.  His upraised arm came down in a powerful 
chop just about the same moment Phil realized 
that the unkempt sailor was from the Hamish’s Folly.
         Digging his claws into the deck Phil 
scrambled around the pedestal of the projector, 
avoiding the stroke of the man’s sword by a few 
inches.  Grasping at the barrel of the projector 
Phil swung it as firmly as he could but the 
sailor only put up a hand and halted its swing 
easily.  Stepping close the bearded foe braced 
the barrel of the projector so that he might 
swing over it and Phil could only dodge hastily 
to avoid the wild stroke of the short, broad 
blade that swept at him.  The steep angle of the 
pitching deck caused him to slip, dropping to 
hands and paws to dig his claws into the age and 
salt hardened wood.  His attacker had similar 
difficulties, but with the heavy bronze  barrel 
of the projector to steady himself he kept on his 
feet and made a stabbing thrust after the fallen prince.
         Phil twisted with a startled cry, his 
heart hammering in his throat, ears pressed flat 
back against his head as he twisted around to 
keep his eyes on his attacker.  Others were 
coming out of the water as the far rail of the 
sinking Galleas dipped into the water.  The man’s 
thrust struck the deck missing Phil by a mere 
inch and, reacting purely by instinct, Phil 
reached out and grasped at the hilt with one 
clumsy handpaw, pulling at the sword even as he 
raised his leg and lashed out with a kick toward the sailor’s knee.
         Pushed by the power of a hundred pounds 
of rabbit the kick was far more than the sailor 
could have ever expected from another 
human.  Phil’s foot slammed against the side of 
the man’s knee and the joint gave way with a 
loud, cracking pop.  If the pain of it registered 
Phil saw nothing of it in the sailor’s face, nor 
did the man scream, but with only one leg he 
toppled when his knee folded sideways.  With a 
snarl of rage the man slipped down the tilting 
deck and one of the sailors hastily clambering 
aboard rammed a makeshift spear, a salvaged 
ballistae bolt, through the man’s back.
         Having dispatched Phil’s attacker the 
sailor yanked loose his spear and used the butt 
end of it to send another boarding sailor reeling 
back with a smashing stroke to his face.  “O’er 
th’ rail, ‘ighness!” the Whalish sailor bellowed, 
scrambling back and striking out at another 
boarder.  “On th’ ‘igh side, git ye o’er, I can 
nae ‘old ‘em all!”  Sparring with two Marzac 
tainted sailors he worked his way toward the 
tiller bar that spun loosely, the rudder now 
almost fully out of the water.  Phil slid down to 
the projector briefly and tried to turn it once 
more toward the Galleas beyond the burning wreck 
captured by the Spear’s bow, but the heavy bronze 
was too much for him.  With one last thought he 
reached down and yanked the charging lever fully open.
         Digging claws to wood Phil turned about 
and scrambled up the steeply pitched deck, 
hooking his handpaws over the pedestal of his 
spyglass and using it like the rung of a ladder 
to stand on while he reached up to haul himself 
over the railing.  The Whalish sailor moved from 
tiller to navigation table in the same way, using 
them as platforms upon which to battle the 
increasing numbers of fury-faced enemies pulling 
themselves onto the submerged portions of the 
deck.  “Come on!” Phil cried out, his voice 
sounding small and childish in the din of battle taking place around
them.
         Arrows whistled past and the air was 
filled with the screams of the dying, the roaring 
bellows of those engaged in the exchange of 
death.  A shaft shattered against the rail 
leaving a few broken inches of wood attached to 
the simple steel arrowhead a hand’s width from 
Phil’s foot.  Others whistled past him close 
enough to tug at the sodden fabric of his 
clothing, drawing his eyes up to the towering 
wall of the Iron King’s hull a couple of 
ship-lengths away.  Other arrows responded to the 
King’s flight, sending those archers ducking back behind a phalanx of
shields.
         Thrusting out a hand while hooking one 
of his feet through the balustrades of the 
railing Phil helped the Whalish sailor climb up 
beside him.  Half a dozen bodies floated in the 
water below, some charred, others trailing clouds 
of blood, and shadows moved beneath them in the 
battle-fouled water.  As the Spear rolled fully 
onto her side the deck became too steep for the 
Marzac soldiers to climb, but they still made all 
due effort.  One even approached from the bow 
with a sword in each hand.  Before he had closed 
within a dozen feet, however, a fusillade of 
arrows sprouted from his body and sent him 
reeling off the curved hull and into the other 
flotsam bobbing against the Spear’s hull.
         “Can ye swim, ‘ighness?” The Whalish 
sailor asked, not one from the Spear that Phil 
was familiar with, but with the blossoming 
bruises and welts disfiguring his face Phil could 
not have named him had they been brothers.  He 
bled from numerous small injuries but still 
seemed to be in fighting shape.  Phil looked back 
over the curving hull of the Spear at the distant 
water where bodies floated and shadows flitted 
about a few meters below the surface.  The 
Burning Spear’s oars stood skyward like a futile 
picket line.  Another ship had drawn up along the 
Spear’s keel and Phil could see where the stout 
wood had split a few meters aft of the ram.  It 
was not a Whalish ship, and its crew was not in 
Whalish colors, but the line of archers manning 
its narrow center deck and lofting rapid flights 
of arrows at the deck of the Iron King told Phil 
that they were not allies of Marzac.
         In such situations the Enemy of an Enemy 
could not be such a terrible foe, Phil 
thought.  “That ship, there!” He pointed one paw 
at the vessel, noting only with a strange 
detachment that his fur was stained with pitch, 
soot, and blood.  “We must get to that ship, I 
opened the projector valves!”  The sailor stabbed 
at an enemy trying to use the navigation table as 
a platform to climb higher and gave the nearby ship a cursory glance.
         “Get ye down t’ th’ keel, 
‘ighness!”  The ballistae bolt was captured by 
the sailor it was thrust at and abruptly yanked 
out of the man’s hands.  “’Afore dey swim ‘round 
th’ hull!”  Before Phil could suit suggestion to 
action the sailor grasped the collar of his 
uniform and hauled him down the curve of the hull 
in a barely controlled slide.  Arrows whistled 
past, rebounding off the curved hull or sizzling 
into the water at large, dark shadows moving 
about just below the depths of boat keels.  A 
massive gray shape passed below the rolled Spear 
and out of sight beneath the nearest longboat; a 
whale of some sort, trailed by a host of other 
figures and leaving a cloud of dark blood in its 
wake.  The Spear’s keel was now a full man’s 
height from the water as the boat continued its 
ponderous, protracted death roll.
         Phil stepped up to the edge of the heavy 
beam and looked across at the unknown longboat, 
the colors splashed across its bow and the 
pennant fluttering from its stern identifying it 
as a Sutthaivasse vessel.  A gaily clad man 
standing amidships was watching Phil with a keen 
eye and leaning forward with one booted foot up 
on the narrow rim of wood.  Phil noticed that the 
steersman of the longship was clad entirely in white.
         “Gotta jump an swim fer it, ‘ighness!” 
barked the sailor at Phil’s side, “They’s comin’ 
up th’ bow!”  Phil spied the half dozen soot 
blackened soldiers climbing to their feet on the 
curve of the Spear’s bow.  One fell almost 
immediately, feathered by an arrow through his 
torso.  Phil stepped up to the edge of the keel 
and tensed his legs, readying to leap from the 
dying boat’s keel toward the unknown safety of 
the Sutthaivasse longship, and then he glanced down at the dark water
below.
         A great eye was staring up at him, 
affixed in the center of a grayish monstrosity 
almost as long as the distant longship.  Long 
tentacles stretched toward the Spear’s bow, 
moving slowly in the water while the huge squid 
regarded the tiny rabbit two meters above.  Phil 
froze, his heart clutching in a spasm of terrible 
fear.  Men he could face, fire and enemy ships he 
could face, but a monstrosity from the pages of 
sailors’ fables completely unmanned him, rooting 
him in place.  The huge orb moved about within 
its socket with terrifying acuity, the pupil 
narrowing to a black point in which Phil saw 
himself reflected, rippled, refracted, and 
twisted into a vague white outline garbed in Whalish orange.
         Other forms began to appear around the 
massive squid in the water; smaller forms human 
in shape but with pale faces full of menace.  The 
Merai clustered about the huge creature in a 
swift moving mob, their short spears thrusting at 
its flesh while others surged up from the water 
in startling leaps toward the Spear’s slowly 
rising keel beam, spears out thrust toward 
Phil.  Still more swarmed the Burning Spear’s 
crew as they struggled away from their doomed 
ship, trying to drag them below the wind whipped 
waves.  Such a task was not quite so easy as 
drowning a hapless fisherman, however.  The 
Spear’s crew were hardened soldiers and fought 
with the tenaciousness of angry cats using 
whatever weapons they could grab; daggers or 
arrow shafts and even sharp splinters of broken wood.
         “Yahshua’s crutch, boy, now no th’ time 
fer fear!” Phil felt himself suddenly grasped by 
the scruff of his neck and lower back and thrown 
bodily through the air toward the waiting 
longship.  He let out a startled cry and flailed 
through the air as chaos erupted around him.  The 
spears of the Merai missed their mark, angry 
faces watching their small target tumble flailing 
through the air above their reach.  The beast 
with the terrible eye rose up in the water, 
sending a frothing wave cascading from its 
blue-grey hide and its mob of attackers tumbling 
away in its wake.  Huge tentacles rose up with 
deceptively languid sweeps, crashing over the 
attackers swarming across the Spear’s hull and 
sending them tumbling from the hull like tenpins 
and snapping stout oar shafts negligently.  One 
hapless sailor was caught up and dashed with a 
meaty crunch upon the unyielding wood.
         Their attack ruined by the swift anger 
of their monstrous target the Merai scattered, 
lost in a cloud of ebony ink fouling the 
water.  A few made thrusts with their spears at 
the crew on the Sutthaivasse longship but their 
attacks were turned by the vessel’s hull or the 
swift reaction of shield bearers crowding close 
above the seated oarsmen.  The squid’s tentacles 
dashed enemy sailors and sent waves crashing 
against both ships as it sank back into the 
depths, lost in the darkness of its own inky 
release.  The Spear’s crew were pushed away from 
the Merai as well, those not dragged to their 
watery deaths in the depths, toward the dubious 
safety of the Spear’s sinking hull or one of the 
many smaller boats moving to cluster close about 
the wreck.  More longships and smaller fishing 
boats were moving toward the sinking wreck.
         Phil had little time to ponder which of 
those might be friend or foe as the water rushed 
up to meet the trajectory from one ship toward 
the next.  Three oars from the longship drew 
together, laying spade over spade below his 
plunge, but he missed their support and splashed 
down into the water between the shafts.  Inky 
black water blinded his sight as he was 
submerged, the sounds of the battle rushing into 
his sensitive ears behind a rush of water, 
reduced to the sharp sounds that traveled easily 
in water.  Phil kicked at the enveloping water in 
a panic as he tried to sort up from down and 
eventually managed to grasp the shaft of an 
oar.  By the time he found his head above the 
water his lungs were screaming for air and his 
heart felt like it was going to hammer itself 
through the restraint of his ribcage.
         Wrapping both arms about the oar he 
pulled himself up as high as he could and coughed 
the water from his mouth as he dashed the water 
from his long ears and short fur with a violent 
shake of his head.  He rubbed his face against 
the back of one arm to squeeze the tainted water 
from his eyes, the pollution of countless 
substances causing them to burn fiercely.  Ink, 
blood, pitch, and spent fire chemicals clung to 
his white pelt turning him a foul gray.  He felt 
a hand slip under his arm to pull at him and 
turned to find Whiett hanging from another oar 
closer to the hull of the unnamed longship.  A 
long gash across his brow covered his face in 
blood but through the gore his eyes were bright 
and furious, his mouth drawn back in a leering 
grimace of rage and fear.  With Whiett’s aid Phil 
worked along the oar supporting him until the 
gaily clad crewman of the longship could lean 
down close enough to grasp his hand.  If he was 
put off by the fact he was attempting to rescue 
an oversized rabbit in a wet uniform he showed only a strange
gleefulness.
         An iron grasp suddenly seized one of 
Phil’s feet and haul him down so strongly he 
almost lost his grasp on the oar and squealed in 
terror despite himself.  Whiett wrapped a leg 
over the oar he was holding to grasp at Phil’s 
shoulders with both hands, getting dunked for his 
efforts, and the aristocrat aboard the longship 
was almost hauled from his precarious perch but 
did not release Phil’s dangerously sharp-clawed 
hand.  Between the three Phil hauled himself up 
despite the strong grip of hands pulling at his 
foot until he could get his free arm over the low 
gunwale of the long ship.  The grasp upon his paw 
shifted higher and continued to haul at him about 
his waist, the fingers of the hands tipped with 
short claws that tore at the dyed cotton of his 
Whalish orange and hooked at the gambeson 
beneath.  Twisting about Phil looked down to see 
the furious glare of a Merai hauling itself up 
his body, streaming blonde hair plastered over 
the all-too-human visage above flaring gills 
creating a disorienting ruff below the creature’s chin.
         The gills, bright pink and fluttering, 
gave the Merai the look of a poorly beheaded 
corpse.  With a cry half anger and half horror 
Phil raised up his free foot and gave the Merai 
two stout kicks to its face.  Bones shattered 
beneath his powerful strikes and the Merai’s 
hands spasmed, the entire body going stiff and 
reeling back, knocked out or dead Phil did not 
care.  Blood trailed across the surface of the 
dark water that swallowed the Merai with no 
further trace.  Free of the seagoing anchor Phil 
dug his claws into the long ship’s hull and 
scrambled over the gunwale with the aid of the 
aristocrat.  Whiett was helped aboard by other 
crewmen to join several other Whalish crewmen 
fished from the water.  Phil saw none of the 
Spear’s other command crew aboard and feared for 
their fates.  Nor did he spy his faithful 
bodyguard, the omnipresent shadow at his shoulder for over a decade.
         “Rupert?” He asked hoarsely of Whalish 
crewmen but they could only shake their heads.
         “Took that devil bird overboard when we 
listed, sire.” One of them offered wanly, “On our low side.”
         The gaily clad man stood at Phil’s side 
and laid a hand upon his shoulder with strange 
familiarity, “We’ve many friendly boats in the 
water, Prince, I am sure that one may rescue 
him.”  Phil turned to look up at the man and felt 
a falling sensation of startlement at the visage 
that regarded him.  Clean shaven but for a narrow 
bit of hair upon his chin in the manner of a 
duelist or brigand his skin was not tanned as a 
sailor’s.  Phil had seen the man’s face before, but he knew not where.
         “He is an ape, sir, not a man as you may 
know.”  Phil scanned the water but among the 
living and dead he spied no great form clad in 
orange among the waves.  A susurrus of rain 
brushed across the battlefield, wind pulling at 
the many fires to send thick black smoke low over 
the wind pulled whitecaps and obscure his 
sight.  “We must pull back, I opened the charging 
port on the projector.  What of the sailor who threw me overboard?”
         “A fishing boat plucked him from the 
water.  Captain, withdraw from the wreck, recall 
the formation.  Where is that Marzac fireboat?”
         “Without a rudder it’s fallen behind the 
King, sire.” Reported the stoutly muscled 
commander of the long ship.  “We can hope that 
her captain was on the aft when it was fired.”
         “We can hope.”  The man never took his 
hand from Phil’s shoulder and the young prince 
felt too exhausted to bother correcting the odd 
man’s overly familiar gesture.  “Well, your 
highness, you’re down a flagship.  Have you any 
other you’d like us to put you aboard?”
         “What of the Singing Bird?  She held our 
aft until we struck the Folly.”
         “Other side of the King.” Reported the 
captain, waving off another long ship much like 
the one Phil now stood upon.  How many, the 
prince wondered, of these swift boats were 
coursing through the Marzac fleet now.
         Phil scanned the waters but saw only 
wreckage and small, swift boats darting among the 
hulks.  Some few of the larger ships were still 
afloat, their crews battling upon the decks to 
keep themselves from being boarded.  Phil had no 
way of knowing which of those ships were friend 
or foe.  Others sat foundered, their oars sheered 
or fouled by drapes of fishing nets, crews 
expending their stores of arrows to carry on the 
fight.  Eventually his gaze came upon the only 
vessel still capable of carrying a fight; the 
Iron King a few ship lengths away.
         Raising an arm slowly he pointed a 
handpaw toward the huge Pyralian flagship.  “There, let’s take her.”
         With a gleeful leer and bright laugh the 
fop clapped Phil’s shoulder with a gloved 
hand.  “Captain, flag for boarding, bring whoever is still afloat to the
King!”
         “Aye, sire!” The captain responded with 
a similar toothy smile of merry expectation.  One 
of the deck crew fished an orange flag bisected 
by blue and handed it to another crewman holding 
a spare ore.  The butt of the flag had been sewn 
to fit over the oar’s spade and, once fitted, the 
crewman raised it.  A muffled crunch boomed 
through the air and the resultant shockwave sent 
the long ship tipping unexpectedly as the Burning 
Spear’s aft storage bottles, heavy bronze 
constructs designed to hold intense pressure, 
gave way to the unrelieved force.  Under normal 
circumstances an accidental fuel backflow could 
be vented through the projector but Phil had left 
that valve secure while opening the charging 
handle allowing the fuels to mix uncontrolled 
within the storage bottles.  Now fully submerged 
the aft deck of the Spear could only direct the 
explosion into the depths which was a small 
saving grace considering how close the 
Suttaivasse ship was.  If there were any Merai in 
the waters around the Spear it would be far more damaging.
         Freed of the weight of its aft castle 
the Spear’s bow, hauled by the weight of the 
massive bronze ramming spar, dipped into the 
depths.  For a moment the shattered deck rose 
into the air roaring with fire before sliding 
swiftly into the dark water.  Roiling bubbles 
followed its death plunge belching pitchy 
smoke.  Phil watched quietly as did the unshipped 
Whalish crew, some of them crying out in anger 
and anguish at the death of their mighty warship.
         “For vengeance!” Whiett bellowed, 
wreathed in thick smoke driven from the Spear’s wake, “For Whales!”
         “For vengeance!” echoed the crew, arms 
thrust above their heads holding weapons brought 
with them from the Spear or provided by the 
Sutthaivasse crew, “For Whales!”  Emboldened the 
couched themselves and turned their attention 
toward the swiftly approaching hull of the Iron 
King.  There were already ropes dangling from the 
Pyralian warship’s upper deck, cast there by 
earlier boarding attempts.  Several of its lower 
ranks of oars were fouled by tow ropes or anchor 
lines dragged across them by fishing boats.  A 
fishing net had even been cast across an upper 
rank.  As they approached a blue clad Pyralian 
soldier plunged from the upper deck, bounced from 
the shafts of oars, and splashed unto the water.  He did not resurface.
         “Fireship ahoy!” someone yelled as the 
ship Phil had earlier attacked came around the 
stern of the iron king.  Arrows sliced through 
the air sending everyone ducking for 
cover.  Cries filled the air as many found marks 
among the crowded deck.  Phil heard the sharp 
reports of others striking wood, one of them 
slamming down within an inch of his nose as he 
huddled under a shield held over him by a 
crewman.  He glanced up toward their attacker as 
a return volley was lofted by the long ship’s 
crew.  He saw the forward projector swinging 
around to take a bearing on them but a dark form 
swooped low over head, a great red serpentine 
body canted sideways to skirt the Iron King’s 
hull and slam into the dromonai’s mast.  The huge 
ship listed alarmingly under the added weight 
wrapping about the upper mast.  Wood cracked 
loudly and with a roaring whoop the projector 
discharged.  The burning globule of lethal fire 
missed its mark by several lengths to splash 
impotently into the water between two other long 
ships following close to their stern.
         From its perch the dragon’s long neck 
swivelled around to bear the mighty head toward 
the ship’s bow, loosing a stream of its own 
fire.  The dragon’s breath bathed the forward 
deck, immolating the fire crew and a score of 
archers.  Before the surviving crew could reply 
to its attack the dragon launched itself from the 
mast further upsetting the ship and dropped back 
into the water with a mighty splash.  The crew of 
Phil’s ship let out a victorious whoop and with a 
series of mighty yells leaped from the deck, 
casting themselves toward the rope-tangled lower 
rank of oars.  No Merai rose from the depths to 
challenge them as they scrambled from the water 
onto the oars.  A hand on Phil’s shoulder brought his attention to
Whiett.
         “Ready to take our new flagship, 
Prince?” the burly commander grinned, his face 
blackened by soot.  “Just hang onto my back, 
aykay? I’ll get you up there in one piece.” Phil 
thought a moment and then nodded and looked up at 
the Iron King’s gunwale far above.  As he watched 
another of the King’s crew was sent pinwheeling 
through the air with a cry of terror.  He plunged 
through the first rank of oars and crashed down 
upon the second where he hung in the net thrown 
across the oars.  Before he could gather his wits 
one of the Whalish crew clambering upward stuck 
him with a rapid half dozen thrusts of his 
dagger.  Whiett knelt and helped Phil clamber 
onto his back.  “Hang on tight, your 
highness.”  One of the Sutthaivasse crewman held 
them up for a moment to strap a shield over 
Phil’s back.  The broad leaf shield was larger 
than Phil but its stout weight was a reassurance against attacks.
         Phil did as he was bade and clutched at 
Whiett’s neck and waist as the commander jumped 
overboard to grab at the rope draped between two 
of the King’s oars after only a brief 
dunking.  The prince was thankful for the many 
years of hard seamanship that lent the muscular 
man’s almost indomitable stamina.  Other members 
of the Sutthaivasse crew joined them, the gaily 
clad aristocrat among them with no regard to salt 
water fouling his garish raiment.  The slender 
man moved more swiftly than Phil would have ever 
expected, eschewing the dangling ropes to clamber 
up the hull of the ship directly using the most 
spare of handholds as if blessed with the claws of a squirrel.
         The deck of the Iron King was in 
absolute chaos by the time Whiett hauled himself 
over the upper railing.  Orange clad Whalish 
marines and leather clad Sutthaivasse sailors 
battled hand to hand with blue clad Pyralian 
marines on the main deck while high on the 
forecastle a single orange clad form engaged a 
score and more of the blue clad Pyralians.  If 
there was any coordinated response to the 
boarding action it had long since been broken; 
the upper rowers had abandoned their seats to 
join their brothers in the failing attempt to 
repel the boarders leaving the ship dead in the 
water.  Reinforcements were blocked from coming 
to the main deck from below by knots of 
Sutthaivasse sailors at the gangways.  Only the 
aftcastle remained as a redoubt with a few dozen 
sailors protecting the command crew tenaciously.
         “Subdue the command crew if you can, 
Whiett.” Phil advised as the commander helped him 
down.  “Pyralia will be in our debt for what 
little we can salvage of this debacle, especially their nobles.”
         “Aye, highness.  Stay close to 
me.”  Whiett unlimbered his sword and took the 
shield from Phil’s back before moving toward the 
closest group of Whalish marines working their 
way toward the aft deck.  Phil saw their goal; 
Rupert holding court with the remaining dozen 
sailors still fiercely trying to regain the high 
ground.  With broad sweeps of his mighty arms, 
wielding some manner of bludgeon, Rupert pushed 
them back or knocked them to the deck where they 
seldom rose again.  Those that did get within the 
sweep of his truncheon found themselves facing 
the crushing embrace of the gorilla’s thick arms 
or the easy strength in a single hand as they 
were scooped up and thrown overboard.
         Within minutes the Sutthaivasse sailors 
outnumbered the Whalish marines in their bright 
orange but the gaily clad man who had pulled Phil 
from the water, to whom the western Pyralians 
deferred, ceded command of the ship to Phil’s 
forces without rancor.  Securing the main deck 
was well underway before Phil had come aboard and 
within minutes the only bastions of resistance 
were the aft castle and gangways leading from the 
lower decks.  Rupert made quick work of his 
aggressors when he spied Phil amidships, crashing 
through them with a furious sweep of the wooden 
spar he used as a truncheon.  He crashed down 
from the forecastle and smashed his way through 
any who stood in his path not wearing Whalish 
orange.  The Sutthaivasse sailors quickly got out 
of the way but the Pyralian sailors, under the 
dark touch of Marzac’s taint, rose up to challenge his course.
         All such challenges were invariably brief.
         The great ape was covered in cuts and 
under his coarse silvered black fur was an 
assortment of bruises that would have left even a 
toughened mercenary in convalescence for 
weeks.  His uniform was more rags than clothing, 
the banded steel gleaming through torn leather 
under the Whalish orange.  An arrow stood from 
one shoulder where it had become entangled in the 
ragged remains of the ape’s heavy armor.  Phil 
gave his bodyguard’s thick, bloodied arm a 
welcoming clasp as Rupert came to a lumbering 
halt before him and slapped his other arm over 
his chest in a thumping salute.  Whiett only 
shook his head and moved to join a group of 
Whalish marines forming up behind a shield wall 
and preparing to assault the aft castle.
         Securing the last redoubt upon the main 
deck was a pitched affair but swift as the 
Whalish and Sutthaivasse numbers quickly swarmed 
the defenders.  Rupert led the charge using two 
shields and no weapon at all, bulling his way 
through a half dozen Pyralian soldiers and 
breaching their defensive line.  The uniformed 
gorilla easily subdued the captain with a single 
negligent back-handed swat when the man leaped at 
him with a poniard.  The other members of the 
Iron King’s command crew suffered similar fates 
under the subduing blows of Whiett’s men when 
they fled from Rupert only to be pinched between 
two forces of superior numbers.
         Phil stood near the midcastle and 
surveyed the waters around them as the battle 
reached its end and realized that, with the 
capture of the Pyralian warship, the Marzac fleet 
had been wholly routed.  Off in the eastern 
distance a smattering of sails full of storm 
winds were all that remained of the tainted 
armada, harassed in their retreat by the wind 
ships and fishing boats of Whales.  Dragons 
replaced the rainbow feathered reptile-birds in 
the skies overhead, the great beasts patrolling 
the scattered Marzac fleets left foundered by the 
battle.  Trios of Sutthaivasse long ships slipped 
like barracuda through the wreckage bobbing on 
the wind whipped chop, riding up and down the 
waves in smooth unison.  Several Whalish warships 
cruised the battlefield like hungry sharks, their 
crews challenging those aboard foundered ships.

         “We have secured the ship, Highness.” 
Whiett, sweaty and haggard from the long day, 
reported stoically while standing rigidly at 
attention despite the steady rocking of the 
deck.  The storm called forth by the cooperative 
effort of Whales’ dragons and mages had passed 
but the sea still rocked with wind pushed 
swells.  “We’ve pushed the last of the Pyralian 
resistance into the storage decks.  We can be under way within the
hour.”
         “Storage decks?  They have control of 
the food and water stocks?” Phil asked wearily 
from his seat at the previous captain’s 
desk.  The Pyralian royal refused to offer up his 
name and Phil had yet to find it on any of the 
ship’s manifests.  Apparently the touch of 
Marzac’s influence did not prompt the captain to 
maintain any logs or journals that Phil could 
find.  The surviving command officers of the Iron 
King were safely secured in the ship’s forward crew quarters.
         “Aye, highness.  We will have to provision from our escort.”
         Phil shrugged slightly, “Let them stew 
there, unless they hamper us.  Can they scuttle 
the ship from the storage deck?”
         Whiett shook his head, “We could not 
find any access from the bilge or ballast decks 
to the stores.  They are, for the time being, as 
secure as could be wished, without slaying them 
to a man.  They fight like rabid beasts.”
         “We’ll avoid that.” Phil shifted in the 
captain’s chair.  It was a heavy, well 
upholstered edifice that dominated the desk 
behind which it stood and verily swallowed Phil’s 
slight frame.  Only Rupert, standing to Phil’s 
right shoulder, was its equal for domineering mass.  “What news of our
own?”
         “Pythoreas’ fleet lost three vessels 
with much of their crews.  Four others have been 
foundered.”  Whiet did not soften from his stance 
as he delivered the grim numbers.  “Our own fleet 
lost five, all of them Dromonai, and six have 
been foundered or damaged beyond any ability to 
pursue this war.  With fair weather they may limp 
back to Whales.  Stohshal lost two, one more 
foundered, of his windrunners.  He reports his 
flota fully capable of continuing pursuit of the Marzac remnants.”
         “Who is still in contact with him?”
         “Aleid from the Mace, highness, running off our port bow.”
         “Have him advise Stohshal, and any of 
the fishers with him, to hold station at seven 
leagues off the Marzac isles.  No need loosing 
anyone else to that dark influence.” Phil leaned 
his elbows upon the heavy desk and ran his blunt 
fingers over his brow and ears.  “Any news of the Burning Spear’s crew?”
         Whiett heaved a sigh and 
frowned.  “Ptomamus took a Merai spear and was 
fished from the sea by the Singing Bird.  Captain 
Raemus’ physician says that he will survive if we 
can return him to the care of 
priest-physicians.  Aramaes is said to have 
continued in pursuit of the Marzac aboard one of 
the fishing boats.  Many others were lost to the Merai and their
creatures.”
         Phil sighed with equal weight as the 
numbers of the lost continued to rise.  The black 
taint of Marzac drove the touched beyond any sane 
reason or acknowledgment of pain and loss.  They 
fought without yielding until slain or 
incapacitated, and even bound or imprisoned 
fought their fetters beyond the limits of any 
sane warrior.  The Whalish prince scrubbed at his 
face with both hands and winced as his fingertips 
agitated a cut he had received when –
         When, he had to ponder but could not put 
a memory on the event that earned each cut or 
bruise or singe.  At some point a burning object 
had even seared a finger-wide hole cleanly 
through one of his ears.  “Once we are fit to get 
under way have our course set eastward with any 
ships capable of carrying the fight.”  He touched 
the nick across his cheek gingerly with a 
fingertip noting how tender the flesh was.  There 
would be a marked bruise accompanying the cut in 
the days ahead.  “Have them re-crew among the seaworthy ships.”
         “We are continuing after the Marzac 
fleet, highness?” Whiett frowned.  The men were 
on the bring of total exhaustion and the mages 
who had carried their burden for days had been scattered or slain.
         “Yes, commander.  We must see this thing through to the dregs.”
         Whiett gave a single nod and then 
saluted before turning crisply on his heel to 
exit.  A shadow waiting in the hall outside 
stepped nimbly out of the sailor’s path.  Once 
the doorway was clear the shadowy form 
approached, revealing the foppishly clad nobleman 
who had pulled Phil out of the sea.
         “A word, Prince?” he asked.  Phil sat a 
little more straight in the high-backed captain’s 
chair.  He sensed in the raffish courtier more 
than he at first seemed.  Rupert also shifted 
slightly where he stood at Phil’s right shoulder.
         “Yes, good sir, enter.  You command the 
Sutthaivasse fleet that came to our aid?”
         The visitor gently closed the door 
before crossing to pick up a stool set to one 
side.  With a shake of his head he set the stool 
down before the desk and settled upon it.  “Nay, 
I merely pull the ears of their leaders, as do 
you.  I lack the understanding of seamanship to 
do more than confuse myself.” The man smiled and 
rested his hands upon his knees.  “Even the least 
of your deck swabs is the greater sailor than I, 
Prince Phil.”  The noble’s eyes shifted their 
focus slightly, “Rupert.” He continued with a nod 
of greetings to the battle worn gorilla.
         Phil twitched one ear in the manner 
others might raise an eyebrow.  The man offered 
the greetings easily, without any apparent unease 
at addressing two pointedly atypical 
animals.  “It is good that you know us, sir, but 
in the confusion of battle we were not likewise introduced.”
         The raffish aristocrat smiled brightly 
with a soft laugh.  Despite helping a 
battle-grimed rabbit from water tainted by oil, 
pitch, and blood, climbing aboard an enemy ship 
and doing battle with its darkly possessed crew, 
the foreigner looked completely unruffled.  His 
hair was only slightly disarrayed and his finery 
barely smudged with only a single popped 
seam.  “Ahh, indeed, your highness.” He bowed 
smoothly from his stool.  “In the brief without 
the pedantic roll of titles, I am Malger, 
youngest son of Hendil Sutt, and heir to the archdukedom of Western
Pyralia.”
         So, Phil thought, the rumors of a 
surviving Sutt heir were proven true.  That in 
itself tipped an entire new kettle of chum into 
the water considering the history of the man’s 
sire.  “The Sutt line was severed near a decade 
past.” Phil said flatly, watching the young 
nobleman.  “No word of any hidden heirs, or even 
bastards, has arisen since that purging.”
         The archduke, so he titled himself, 
shrugged.  “No bastard bythrow am I, as the old 
serpent was strictly adherent of his faith’s laws 
in that regard, I assure you, Prince.  When word 
of this purging, as you call it, reached my ears 
I fled certain death by mere breaths.  I have 
since been hiding in places few would dare follow.”
         Another twitch of his ear revealed 
Phil’s scrutiny.  “There are few places assassins 
fear to tread.” He pointed out blandly, 
“Especially those tasked with the death of the 
Bloody Fist and his line.”  Hendil Sutt had been 
given many names over the years, and in Whales 
that name was the Bloody Fist, for obvious 
reasons.  While he had maintained strict 
neutrality with Whales during his eastward 
expansion across the mainland Phil’s adoptive 
father had known that it was only a matter of 
time before his covetous eye turned westward, 
toward Whales.  Phil understood that no small 
part of the destruction of the Sutt house was 
financed by Whalish gold through the house of du Tournemire.
         “Of the last five years, however, I have 
indeed lived in a place where all but the most 
dedicated of assassins fear to tread.” Malger 
reassured him.  Phil found the noble’s coquettish 
smile and dancing words evading the point of his 
explanation bothersome after the exertions of the day.
         “Such place being?”
         The man reached up to clasp a pendant 
that dangled at his breast.  “Not a place 
unfamiliar to you, Prince, or your man-at-arms 
there.”  Phil noticed that the pendant was a 
crescent moon, the symbol of one faithful to the 
goddess Nocturna.  Upon the same golden chain was 
a silvery lump of some unrefined metallic ore.
         Nocturna, Phil puzzled in his head.  One 
of the Daedra though her role in the dark 
pantheon was oft seen as negligible, goddess of 
the First hell, the land of Dreams, nightmares, 
and omens.  Or omens that were nightmares in 
themselves, depending on how well heeded the 
messages were.  Phil’s eyes darted from the 
pendant to the man’s face and memory blossomed 
within his vision; that same face, the same coy 
smile, leaning on the tiller of his ship as a 
monstrous wave rose up to swallow it.
         “The wave –“ Phil started to gasp but 
all thoughts upon the odd man being in his dreams 
were dashed when he drew the pendant over his 
head.  He underwent a striking, and very 
startling, transformation when the magic of the 
pendant was removed.  The angular face of a 
raffish mainland noble winked away to be replaced 
by the tapered angular muzzle of a predatory 
animal.  Merry brown eyes deepened to the dark 
brown gaze of a beast while the moustache became 
a bristle of whiskers.  Dark, dense brown fur 
covered the beastial visage across nose, brow, 
and short ears while pale cream covered chin and 
throat.  His clothing, however, only changed 
enough to fit his tall, slender frame.
         A breath hissed from Phil’s lungs and he 
pushed back into his seat.  Had he been sitting 
upon a stool as Malger was he would have toppled 
backward.  Rupert huffed an angry grunt and moved 
forward a pace.  An upraised hand, brown furred 
with light brown palm fur between dark pads, 
paused the ape from immediate violence.  “Your 
prowess in dealing with Loriod is well known, 
Rupert.” The dark eyes gleamed merrily above the 
sharp-toothed animal smile.  “I would rather not 
enjoy a reprise performed upon my person.”
         Phil spluttered, his ears flicking an 
agitated dance of chaotic emotions.  “You are –“
         “Malger dae ross Sutt, Archduke of 
Western Pyralia, at your service young Prince.” 
Malger sketched another fluid bow with a flourish of one hand.
         “Dream Serpent!” Phil managed to pull 
the name from his memory, “Duke Thomas’ court bard!”
         Malger churred a laugh, “No bard am I, 
your highness, nor direct retainer to the Duke 
though, yes, I have often attended the various 
functions of his court in my capacity of musician.”
         Phil blinked and then guffawed 
loudly.  “Ah, the fickle gods!” he shook his head 
and squeezed tears of near-hysterical laughter 
from his eyes.  After the stress and strain of 
the day, thrown as an aperitif after months of 
worry and work, the revelation of the Archduke of 
Western Pyralia being as cursed as Phil himself 
was almost too much to take in.  “To face war 
with a magical darkness, again, and find to my 
side sent not only the son of a long dead 
conqueror, but one that was a Daedra touched 
dream sender embraced by Metamor’s curse as well!”
         Malger’s feral grin widened showing off 
the slender ivory spears the Keep’s touch had 
left to him.  “It is good that you heed your dreams, too, Highness.”
         Phil waved a paw dismissively, using the 
back of the other to wipe tears from his cheek 
fur.  That only served to smudge the soot and 
blood fouling his white fur all the more.  “We 
can thank your patroness ere we sleep, duke.” 
Phil slid forward in the huge chair and locked 
gazes with the foppish marten with a conqueror’s 
surname and title.  “Tell me, archduke minstrel 
late of Metamor Keep, how come you across a 
continent and half an ocean to cast your lot at 
the side of a crown prince rabbit?”
         “T’is a long and convoluted tale to 
spin, your highness.” Malger rose from his seat 
and crossed to the captain’s liquor 
cabinet.  Finding an unopened bottle of Port he 
decanted it into three of the goblets taken from 
the cabinet, offering two to Rupert.  While 
Phil’s bodyguard sampled each delicately Malger 
swirled his about languidly within his 
goblet.  “It involves a young one-eyed mage, a 
bishop of the late Patriarch’s retinue, an 
assassin too dogged for even Metamor to sway, and 
a lot of misadventure.”  Once Rupert had 
satisfied himself that the wine contained nothing 
immediately dangerous the three shared in 
Malger’s toast, raising their glasses in salute 
before partaking of the fine wine.
         Phil let the wine chase the aftertaste 
of war from his mouth and could not help but 
smile at the odd marten’s effusive good cheer.  “I am listening.”

----------


May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias


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