Tower Lord

“They don’t come with mercy!” the Shield yelled, standing at the rail with his sabre held aloft. “Don’t show them any!”

The crew responded with snarling assent as they followed him across the planks, sabres and spears raised high, the sight of the ensuing battle lost to the smoke now billowing about the Volarian deck.

“Um, Highness?” Lyrna turned to see Murel standing at the starboard rail and beyond her a very large Volarian ship ploughing directly towards them.

“Reload the engines!” She went to the starboard mangonel, working the lever as fast as she could, casting glances at the approaching monster. A few fireballs won’t stop this one.

“Murel!” she shouted. “Get the pitch!”

The lady didn’t respond, still staring out to sea, but not at the Volarian ship, at something moving towards it at great speed, its fin leaving a wake like a streak of white fire.

The shark rose from the sea, tail whipping and jaws agape, falling onto the Volarian deck in an explosion of splintered wood. It thrashed, scattering men and rigging like chaff, bodies and wreckage cast into the air, some men leaping into the sea in terror. The Volarian ship listed under the weight of the shark, the upper deck collapsing as she keeled over and the sea washed across her hull. Dozens of men thrashed in the water, the sea roiling as the great ship sank into the depths, then turning red as the shark’s head rose amongst the survivors, jaws snapping. Within a few seconds they were gone, the only sign of their ship a few splintered planks and barrels bobbing on the swell.

Very good, Lyrna thought, catching sight of the shark’s red stripes beneath the waves. Do it again.

? ? ?

By the onset of evening what remained of the Volarian fleet clustered together for protection like bison facing a wolf pack as the Meldeneans circled, casting forth an unending rain of fireballs. Occasionally a Volarian captain would try to strike out at the tormentors, but the sight of the shark was usually enough to turn them back. Three times it had leapt from the sea to destroy any ship coming close to the Sea Sabre, spreading terror amongst the Volarian fleet and sapping their crews’ courage with every shattered hull and blood slick. After the destruction of the third ship, a huge troop carrier which had gone down accompanied by the screams of the hundreds of men trapped belowdecks, many Volarian vessels had simply turned about and sailed off towards the east with every sail hoisted. By the time the sun began to wane Lyrna counted only some two hundred ships bunched together as the fireballs fell. The pirates’ skill and the shark had tipped the balance, but at a cost. She estimated at least half the Meldenean fleet was gone, numerous vessels adrift on the surrounding sea, their decks thick with corpses.

The last Volarian ships attempted to break out as night descended, the flaming hulls of their sisters robbing them of concealment as the Meldeneans closed for the kill. She saw a troop ship assailed by three pirate vessels at once, the crews swarming aboard with spear and sabre, sounds of battle soon replaced by screams of slaughter and torment. By midnight it was over, the Shield ordering sails trimmed and a south-easterly course set.

“We still have five hundred more to sink,” he said. “You’d best rest, Highness.”

He had given her his cabin to share with her ladies. They were both already abed, lying fully clothed side by side, hands dark with dried blood after hours spent tending the wounded. Lyrna settled next to Orena, provoking a fearful whimper. She began to stir but relaxed as Lyrna stroked a hand over her hair. “Shhh, all over now.”

Lyrna relaxed into the bed, bone-weary and hoping sleep would come soon, but knowing it was likely to elude her for some hours. She had seen too much today, the wondrous and the terrible, all crowding into her mind and making her long for the ability to forget. But when her memory brought forth a vision it was not of battle or screaming men snapped in half by a shark’s maw, it was an old man on a bed . . . so old, so sunken into age and regret, barely recognisable as her father, barely believable as a king.

She looked down at her hands and found they held no scroll . . . It’s different. Her hands went to her face, finding the burns, the fingers tracing over a scalp of stubble and ruined flesh.

“You are not my daughter,” said the old man on the bed. “She was beautiful.”

“Yes,” Lyrna replied. “She was.”

He coughed, a trickle of blood appearing in the corner of his mouth, his voice weak, pleading. “Where did she go? I have things to say to her.”

“She went to speak with the Alpiran ambassador.” Lyrna moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking the old man’s hand. “But she did give me a message.”

His tired but still-shrewd eyes narrowed. “I trust it’s an apology. I’ll not have a lifetime’s planning ruined by her weakness now.”

Lyrna laughed, realising she still missed this dreadful old schemer. “Yes, an apology. She said she was sorry for beating you at Keschet all those years ago. But she was too young to realise how galling it would be.”

“Hah.” He grunted, pulling his hands from hers. “Every chance taken for a jibe. Her mother was the same. Took the board away for her protection. Couldn’t have it known she was so . . . special. But that day I knew I had an heir.”

Lyrna felt a tear trace down her cheek, smiling at the old man’s scowl. “She didn’t do what you ordered. You must know that. She agreed to the Emperor’s terms and Malcius returned to take the throne. Your grand design was all for nothing.”

“And is he a good king?”

Lyrna stifled a sob. “He’s dead, father. He was killed before my eyes, with his queen and his children. Your wish is finally fulfilled, I am queen now, and I rule a land of ruin and death.”

His scowl transformed into a wry grimace, a bony hand coming up to lift her chin. “After the Red Hand it was all ruin and death too. But it rose again, because I made it. Grabbed it and dragged it to its feet in the space of a generation.”

“The people may not accept me as I am . . .”

“Then make them.”

“Our enemies are many . . .”

“Then kill them.”

Lyrna felt a sudden chill on her scalp, turning to find the windows open, drapery tumbling in wind and rain. She turned back to the old man, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I wish you had been a better man, Father.”

“A better man would have left no realm for you to inherit, ruined or not.” He smiled at her as the wind built, filling the room, the air cold enough to make her gasp . . .

She woke to find Orena and Murel battling to close the shutter on the window in the face of gale-driven rain, a dim lamp jerking about on the ceiling above. “Sorry, Highness,” Orena said, forcing the shutter in place. “We’d hoped not to wake you.”

Lyrna rose to be sent sprawling against the bulkhead by the pitching deck. “A storm?”

“It started about an hour ago,” Murel said, hunching her shoulders as a thunderclap reverberated through the ship, wincing in fear. “After today I thought I’d never be afraid again. Now this.”

Lyrna put a comforting arm about her shoulders and they sat on the bed, the howl and crash of the storm banishing all chance of sleep. “The crew think you’re touched by their gods, Highness,” Murel whispered. “Calling the shark from the depths. Odonor’s Hand they call you.”

“Udonor,” Lyrna corrected. God of the winds, the greatest of gods. If so, I wish he’d end this bloody storm.

? ? ?

The storm raged all night and for much of the following day, Lyrna venturing from the cabin only once to find the deck repeatedly swept by tall waves and the Shield alone at the wheel, gesturing for her to go back inside although his smile blazed as white as ever through the rain. She provided a welcome distraction for her ladies with a tutorial in the basics of court etiquette, meaningless frippery for the most part but it might offer some uses when they returned to the Realm; people did like their petty rituals. Orena proved the best student, mastering the curtsy and the mysteries of the bow with a fluid grace that made Lyrna suspect she may have found occupation as a dancer in the years before landing her fat but rich husband. Murel, however, quickly grew flustered by her own clumsiness, not aided by the ceaseless pitching of the deck.

“Mother always said there was an invisible rope about my feet,” she grumbled after stumbling through the correct greeting for a foreign ambassador.

The storm abated come evening and they emerged from the cabin to find the Sea Sabre alone on the ocean, save for the shark, its fin tracing a winding course through the waves some distance ahead. Belorath was at the tiller and the Shield at the prow.

“Where is the fleet?” Lyrna asked, moving to his side.

“Heading for the Teeth like us, I hope. Those still afloat that is.” His eyes remained fixed on the shark. “You truly have no notion why that thing does your bidding?”

“None. And I’m not sure it’s my bidding. What it did . . . Animals don’t hate, they just feed. It hates.”

“Or carries the hate of your dead beast charmer.”

“And he seemed such an affable young man.”

The first Meldenean ship came into view an hour later, soon joined by four more, the crews hailing them with cheers and waving sabres, increasing in volume when Lyrna moved to the prow. Udonor’s Hand, she thought, finding the phrase had a certain ring to it. Although she doubted the Aspects would appreciate having it added to her list of queenly titles, if any were still alive to object.