Chapter 21

Behind the main fleet, the two taskforces were still engaged with the Graysails. The smaller vessels of the Tressenites were nimbly dodging among the more cumbersome warbarges and even the smaller Theocracy ships.

True to orders, great care was being taken to avoid unnecessary damage to the single Morrovalan galleon among the smaller, sleeker craft. It took great restraint on the parts of the captains of the Theocracy barges, though, as the galleon was making its presence felt quite sharply.

"You're certain they've no wizards?" growled Vice-Admiral Pegahan, looking at the aide who had approached.

"Sir, it's not wizardry, but alchemy, they swear to it," said the aide, bowing low. In the lessening light of evening, as the sun neared the sea to their west, another bright flash of light erupted from the Morrovalan ship and lofted itself into the rigging of a nearby barge. Where that white-hot point of light landed, fires erupted in an instant and moments later, the sails and rigging were an inferno with crewmen scurrying for the deck, some simply falling to avoid the flames. Those that fell over water may have survived.

That marked the fourth barge made even more cumbersome and less swift by its rigging being reduced to cinders by that cursed Morrovalan ship. Yet, he had orders from Moghran to capture the crew alive if at all possible. Admiral Pegahan's own flagship bore several scorch marks from the cursed things. Water would not extinguish the burning balls of blue-white fire, though it did keep the decking from igniting quite so readily beneath them. In the end, metal shovels had been used to hurl the thing over the side and let the sea deal with the cursed devil's fire.

It seemed the Morrovalans knew something of their relative safety in the battle, and pressed their position on more than one occasion, else they were foolhardy folk in that small Westron nation.

"I want that ship stopped, order two ships to engage and grapple it to a halt. Board and take captives at any cost," snapped the admiral, coming to a decision in the matter. "Ten pieces of blessed gold to each captive taken alive and ten lashes for each man who kills one."

The aide gave a curt salute, touching his fingertips to his brow, then fled the high bridge.

Admirals were honored and privileged among the commoners, and even had access to some measure of the power and rights of the nobility. One of those was his personal slave, a young woman of some loveliness that made many think her a sorceress. She was not, but he allowed people to fear that she might be.

Lydia stood in the corner, wearing a clinging blue silk gown and waiting quietly for the admiral to call upon her. "What do you think, Lydia?" he asked.

"I think the Morrovalans will present the People of the One with more problems than can be foreseen easily," she said. "Already, I hear their people's names on too many tongues. They are a power on the rise among the heretics and shall shine brighter still among the circles of the unholy."

No, she was no sorceress. However, she had proven herself a canny individual at reading the lay of political terrain. Her observations had helped bring the admiral to that lofty posting and kept him there, safe from varied machinations of political rivals and even some among the nobility.

Were she not a slave, she would have made more than an excellent wife.

"Your folk had run-in's with these Morrovalans, no?" asked the admiral, peering back at her.

"They did, master," she replied, bowing her head slightly to acknowledge the correctness of his words. "The Barony of Relenford has had more than one war with the Morrovalans, and lost each of them soundly. Duke Anasper is a wise leader, allowing men whose expertise is war to lead the conflict and standing his own pride aside."

"Almost, some of these heretics seem folk worth knowing, Lydia," he said.

"As master says," she said, bowing slightly again. He had long ago taught her well to avoid allowing his grudging allowances of respect to heretics from swaying her words. Agree to heartily, and he would say she overstepped her license, and she would find herself sent to the taskmaster of the ship to perform a humiliating and painful penance. Disagreement earned nearly the same punishment, and occasionally a sound slap from the admiral, himself.

Two of the massive barges were converging on the galleon and he smiled. Soon.

One of the barges simply exploded. There was no fire nor flame leaping from the Morrovalan ship to the barge. It simply turned itself into a blooming fireball of expanding orange flame and splintering timbers. A distant sound of cheering came from the Morrovalan ship as those pieces of burning wood and debris rained down about their own vessel.

The other barge, however, collided with the galleon. Grappling hooks were set and ropes thrown over railings. The men of the Morrovalan vessel poured from belowdeck. There were a surprising number of them on the smaller ship, but still no match even for the marines alone among a barge's crew. Boarding ramps began falling to the lower galleon's deck from the higher barge's and men started charging down them, clad in the black plate and mail of the Theocacy marines. "That should put an end to that," said the admiral with a tone of self-satisfaction while Lydia nodded alongside him.

The smaller vessel seemed to be resisting stoutly, however. Green-clad men cast back the marines, wielding long shimmering blades and heavy bows. More of the white balls of fire lofted from the deck of the galleon and rent chaotic holes in the ranks of the marines as men aflame ran, panic stricken, into their fellows.

"I fear it won't be that easy," said Lydia, her tone marked by worry. "They've rangers aboard, even our marines will not overwhelm them easily."

"Assemble the magi, then," hissed the admiral. "I aim to put an end to that vessel's annoyance."

"Lydia nodded curtly and shuffled off to pass commands to the admiral's subordinates.

On the deck of the Windwhisper, captain Herdel DisMorren screamed orders to his crew. "Fire the damned flares into them!" Another volley of low-angled mortar fire sounded their hollow thuds that made the decking vibrate with resonance. Foot-round spheres of white-hot chemical concoctions tore through the massed marines on the larger warbarge, sending frightened men running in all directions. "Cut those bloody grappling ropes, get us loose!"

The rangers were fighting admirably, but they were outnumbered by ten to one if Herdel could be sure of any numbers. Already a tenth of their number were down or wounded to the point of not being of use.

Crewmen wielded axes and cutlasses feverishly against the thick hawsers that bound the galleon to the warbarge. They parted only grudgingly, wood protesting as hooks set into the underside of the gangplanks tore boards up from the deck and left groves in the wood before ripping toprails off and then they were free.

The rangers continued firing volleys of arrows toward the warbarge as they pulled away and more flares were hurled at the bigger ship's rigging. "Prepare another sparhawk," said the captain to his first mate as that bug-eyed man approached.

"Aye, sir," said the mate, grinning widely enough to show the few gaps in his teeth. "That last one was a beauty, no?"

"Indeed, Mister Delter, indeed," said the captain, nodding sagely.

The orcs had fallen upon the three women with a fury and suddenness that left the trio reeling. All of them had been knocked from their seats upon their horses and were scrambling in the mud with a dozen orcs around them.

Surely, had the orcs been sensible enough to wish to kill the women, they would have died. However, orcs were given to baser desires than simple killing. Certainly death was planned, but not until a few other needs were sated.

Salira tried to crabwalk from beneath the particularly large specimen of orc standing over her and yanking at his codpiece with a malicious grin on his misshapen face.

One of Siska's orbs took him in the back of the neck with a solid chunk that sounded for all the world like an axe striking a tree. Around them, now that Siska's wits had returned from the initial shock of being hurled from her saddle, orcs were falling. She guided the orbs with flicks of thought and they responded in less than an instant, sometimes even before her thought was fully formed.

The wizard reached out a tendril of mana to shove the falling orc away from herself and looked for Thean. The soldier was in the dark, by her lack of magesight. Two orcs had thought to make easy prey of the woman, though, and one of them was trying to hold his insides in and falling to his knees.

The petite soldier lashed out blindly toward the sound of the other orc's breathing and missed his throat by a hair's breadth. That orc seemed, at that point, to take note of his comrades falling all about him, like wheat before a scythe. Surprisingly, this seemed to steel his resolve and he lashed out at Thean with his long, curved scimitar.

The blow was aimed well, and Thean had no idea it was even coming. Salira, panicked, grabbed the arm and pulled it back, trying to at least throw off the orc's aim.

When his arm tore free of his shoulder with a sickening ripping sound, Salira blinked in amazement. The spell she had used vanished and the orc screamed into the darkness about himself. Thean sank her blade into his chest with uncanny precision, guided by his howls and it was over.

Of the dozen, ten lay among the dense trees siding both sides of the trail. Two must have gotten away, yet Salira doubted they would be causing further troubles. Siska stood silently and the wizard could see faint tendrils of mana connecting the young apprentice and her Talas spheres. Staggeringly complex formations of magical essence were formed around the spheres. She's giving them instructions, thought the mage. Like she did the healing spell on me.

Half of the spheres sped off ahead of them, zig-zagging wildly through the trees, scouting. "What did you tell them to do?" asked Salira.

"They will kill any orc that they can sense," said Siska. "They know the taste of orc now, and will be able to tell them at some distance."

"A pity you cannot make a thousand and send them after Theocracy soldiers," said Salira.

To her surprise Siska seemed to think on that a long moment, then she nodded. "If there were a way to know one man from another, I could. But I don't think I can make one that can tell how a man thinks."

Thean mused aloud, climbing up onto her mount behind Salira, "Perhaps it would be best to kill all but one man in ten," she said. "The remaining men would surely be good ones, whether or not they started out so."

Siska grinned at her. "Don't tempt me," she said. "Yet, I find most men pleasant enough creatures to be around."

The soldier nodded. "As do I, young Siska. As do I."

The remaining three orbs took up their circular path about the trio, forming their own bodyguard of tiny, deadly troops. "You will have many of the order clamoring for how you crafted those," said Salira. "You should start taking notes on your experiments, unless you seek to have to teach each wizard individually how something is done."

"Could others craft them?" asked Siska.

Salira peered at the orbs and the spell-constructs that moved about them. "Some could, perhaps not as elegantly or quickly as you do, but some could make them. Phillip and Tarmal could."

Siska nodded. "I thought Tarmal could, he is considerably more adept than Phillip, I feel."

Thought it was complimenting her own husband, Salira bristled at Siska casting aside her own mentor so easily. "You should never underestimate Phillip Naamans," said the wizard. "He is cleverer than many think. He simply prefers to have a simple life, free of distraction."

At utterance of those last words, she winced at the sudden stiffness behind her. "Thean, I did not mean you, dear," she said hastily.

The stiffness in the posture of the woman behind her remained, though. "I understand," said the young soldier. The whole of the exuberant tone that Thean spoke with was gone then, and only a rather dead monotone came from her throat. "I probably do set my sights too high in hoping to capture the heart of a wizard," she said.

"You do not!" gasped both other women in unison. Siska and Salira looked at each other a moment, then smiled, Siska nodding for the older wizard to go on.

"We're just people with a gift from the One, young woman," said Salira. That sounded odd, given that Salira barely looked eighteen years age, herself. "I don't have your reflexes - or your ears, apparently. You managed to skewer an orc in the dark, two in fact."

"I wondered if I got that first one, I thought I felt my blade bite," said Thean in a considering voice.

Siska chuckled at that and Salira smiled over her shoulder, though Thean could not see her do so. "Just your interest in him has made Phillip something of a different man," she said. "So don't doubt that he has interest in you in like measure."

"Seems a bit odd to be fighting off orcs in the night one moment, then giving romantic advice the next," murmured Siska, urging her horse to move a bit faster. "Is war always like this?"

"I wouldn't know," said Salira.

"Yes," said Thean. "When you fight for your life, it focuses you in on what is important in the world, and why you must live on."

"And what is important, Thean?" asked Siska, sounding very interested in the coming answer.

"Living all you can," said Thean. "To do less is an insult to the One. War simply makes you see to it more efficiently than peace."

"I've lived plenty already," groused Salira. "I would say that I am past giving myself to lusts after a battle. Yet, something tells me if a man were with us just now, he would not be utterly safe."

"Far from it," said Siska, smiling at the older wizard. "If Mannis were here..." she let the words drift off as an odd look came to her face. "But I think I am not his favorite of people anymore."

The other two women let the silence around Siska settle about them as well and they continued riding. A distant yell marked where an orc had come across one of the spheres that scouted for them, or perhaps the other way around.

The city seemed oddly at rest as the column started into it. Houses were shut tight, as if expecting a storm, but there was little sign of panic. Where would they flee to? thought Phillip. Some from the country surely must have told them there are orcs in the uplands.

Tornadin rode near him, the alert eyes of the young nobleman scanning the alleys and side streets. No one moved, and few animals did, either. Truly like a storm was brewing.

The city was rather bowl shaped, and from this edge, the bay was below them. Lights played out on the ocean beyond the bay in the darkness. Some of those lights were coming toward the bay itself - an alarmingly large number of them.

"The main fleet attacks," said Tarmal, leaning aside to speak quietly to Phillip. "I suspected the orcs were but a distraction."

Phillip nodded in agreement and turned toward Tornadin. "Take half your men and go toward the bay, surely there are others forming up to defend the city."

"I don't take orders from..." growled the young nobleman when Keeley cut in.

"Do it, Lord Tornadin," said Keeley. In the darkness, her voice had a weight to it. She expected to be obeyed and Tornadin found himself half turning to begin rallying his men before she spoke again. "But take all of your men, the Defenders and Mentors should be more than adequate protection for the refugees and I."

Phillip bagan to protest, but Keeley stayed his words with a soft touch upon his arm. "I have issued a command, Mentor," she said, though her voice was not unkind, simply stating a fact.

The wizard blinked at the girl's face in the lamplight from one of the few tall lampposts that had been lit and remained alight. He caught a flicker of eye movement from the girl toward Tatyana. So, the woman gives advice to she who would be queen? he thought.

"As milady commands," said Phillip, half bowing from his saddle and nodding toward the confused-looking Tornadin. At another, almost imperceptable, nod from Tatyana, he spurred his horse and began issuing commands in a booming voice.

Lord Templar Moghran watched in the darkness as the ships rejoined the main armada from the two taskforces he had dispatched to deal with the Graysails. "What do they report?" he asked the courier. The ships had been in range for signal lamps for more than long enough to send short messages.

"They report over half the Graysails were sank before retreating, milord," said the courier.

"And the Morrovalan vessel?" asked Moghran.

"It escaped, milord," said the young man, flinching back when the Templar's hand clenched into the ball of a fist.

The templar looked at no one in particular among the command staff about him. "I can understand the Graysail sloops escaping, they are very fast and maneuverable. But the Morrovalan ship was a merchantman galleon. How did it elude us?"

"They use demonic magics milord," said the messenger defensively. "I heard they can launch balls of hellfire from their hands and hurl it into the rigging of a ship two hundred paces off."

"Alchemical fire and mortars, milord," said Tarasha into his ear, though loudly enough for others to hear who were nearby. "The Windy Islanders invented the things to help them fight off Coghlandish mercenaries. They were meant to simply illuminate the skies at night, but apparently, they can be used offensively, as well."

"Appearantly," said Moghran with more than a little admiration in his voice. "It seems we've once again underestimated these heretics in Morrovale." He fell silent for a long moment, and all the speaking around the bridge fell to silence as well. Finally he spoke, and reanimated with a suddenness that caused several nearby to cringe with surprise. "We can wait no longer, sound the attack."

The room became a frantic flurry of activity as couriers sprang into motion and the fleet admiral began issuing individual ships' orders.

A loud drum began hammering from the rear of the ship and the oars extended and dipped into the water in unison. The nearest ships began moving soon after in an expanding ripple of motion. Nearly a thousand ships moved toward Tressen, each carrying a company of well-drilled and hardened marines and other troops, as well. It was a force of a dozen armies and it was meant to crush Tressen in one blow.

Maegan shifted from beneath the muscular arm of the Templar and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her body ached all over. He was not abusing her, near as she could tell. Yet he was making frequent and demanding use of her. One thing she would have to remember about Templars was that they were fine specimens of manhood, despite any spiritual shortcomings they might have.

Had she not kept in mind that he was perfectly capable of killing her at any moment and eating her heart, she could come to take willingly to the role of his lover. She stood up and padded from the bedchamber and stopped when she entered the dim light of a single candle in the sitting room. The Templar's squire sat in the armchair where her knife was secreted. He peered up over a thick book at her. "The Templar is finished with your services this night?" he asked, sounding far too interested and eyeing her figure in the doorway quite openly.

She had thought they would be alone and neglected to put any clothes on. Maegan had the presence of mind to perform her role, though. She dropped to her knees and bowed her forehead to the floor. "My master is finished with me and sleeps soundly, master," she said.

"Good," he said softly. "I have needs that I think you would meet quite nicely."

Despite the protestations of her muscles, Maegan nodded. "Yes, master," she said. He was a good-looking, if somewhat hard-eyed lad. Like the templar, giving herself to him would not be odious in and of itself. He had a thick head of straw-colored hair and a good, strong jaw featuring a cleft. He could have easily been a youth from Morrovale, actually, and she found herself wondering if she would ever see Morrovale again.

The role of slave was settling around her firmly, already, and she felt herself giving in to it more and more easily. Soon, she would no longer think of escape, simply of pleasing her masters so that they would be kind to her. Had she truly kissed the Templar during their lovemaking of her own accord? Certainly it has simply been reflex.

The squire rose from the armchair, smiling at her, and extended a hand. "Come, we'll go to my chambers," he said. She looked back toward the doorway, seeking for even the dubious protection of her gauzy clothes.

"Come, now," he said, sounding a bit more stern and she found herself rising and taking his offered hand. When a master gave his hand to a slave it was considered a high honor and an invitation to walk alongside them, temporarily elevated to a status almost equal to a citizen of the Theocracy. More than a couple of months of this, and she would be unable to even contemplate escape anymore.

They entered the long hallway and a guard standing there eyed her as they went past. The squire just smiled. "When I'm finished, perhaps," he said as they passed the soldier.

The soldier gave the young squire a bit of a salute and nodded. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Just the same, take your time. I wouldn't rush a man."

The squire chuckled and guided her down the hall to another door and opened it for her, to her surprise. As soon as the door shut behind them, sealing off the light from the corridor, a woman's voice sounded from the darkness beyond. "Master?" Tessa's voice!

"It's okay, Tessa, I'm with a friend," said the squire, speaking quietly.

Tessa shifted somewhere in the room and light sprang from a covered lamp. She was wearing one of the gauzy outfits of a slave, but she sat in one of the chairs in the room and made no move to kneel.

Opposite her at the table was another man, older than the squire by what surely must be twenty years. He wore the gray doublet of a labor slave, as opposed to the see-through cloth of a pleasure slave, like Maegan had become, and Tessa was obviously intended to be, as well.

Maegan gaped around her for a moment before Tessa began speaking. "This is Randal and Lerron, and they work for the duke," she said excitedly, but quietly. "They're spies for Lord Anasper."

The man at the table only eyed Maegan for a moment before bowing. "Sergeant," he said. "I had hoped to be able to get you free of the Templar, but he seems most attached to you, already. I am Lieutenant Lerron DesMarra of the Morrovalan army on duty here, and this is my second Sergeant Randal. Our orders require us to maintain our secrecy and stay with the fleet, else we would have already spirited you off this ship."

"I still think we should, sir," said Randal, the young sergeant, throwing himself into a chair and glaring at the other spy. "We've learned enough of this action to inform the duke."

"And I say we've not. Besides we shall find leaving easier if we wait until the confusion of battle," snapped the older man.

The young man's shoulders sagged. "They made me behead a man today, Lerron," he said in a lost tone. "And that is but one of the many things I've been forced to do in this 'role'."

"Things that would have been done by someone who enjoyed them were you not there," replied the lieutenant, sitting up straight. "They're not your fault, lad, keep that in mind."

"I try," said the young man.

Maegan was overcoming the rather poleaxed sensation that had taken her limbs. "You're spies for the Duke?" she asked. "Why did you risk making contact with us?"

"Because we'll not watch fellow soldiers of Morrovale being used as slaves without trying to help," snapped the older man. "Our job is to spy, but we are still men of Morrovale. You are women of Morrovale, soldier or not."

A faint blush came to Maegan's cheeks. "I suppose we've all done undesired things to keep their place in this, yes?" she asked.

"I've done foul things that it will take much penance to overcome after I get home," said Randal, running his fingers through thick blond hair. He brightened. "There was a Morrovalan ship in the sortie from Tressen earlier, and I believe it still sails. I saw flares being used to light other ships' rigging afire and heard that the head Templar was enraged that it was not captured as he had ordered."

"That would be the Lord Ambassador's ship, the Windwhisper," said Maegan. "It brought us here and was to be the ambassador's personal messenger and courier, as well as running freight between Morrovale and Tressen."

"To Morrovale?" asked the older spy, sitting up. "But Morrovale is land-locked."

"Lord Harlen and his wives negotiated a treaty with the Barony of Sarilan for rights of passage," she said. "It was quite a surprise to everyone but Duke Anasper. They are dredging the river from Saril to Norboro to make it deep enough for real ships to come upriver to Norboro."

The two men whistled at the scale of such a project, but that was most of a world away and three years in their past, as they told her of themselves.

"You've been impersonating a squire for three years?" she asked, her voice rising with incredulity.

Randal nodded. "Though I was but a soldier at first, I've only been recently tapped to become a squire for a Templar."

"I thought Templars had to perform some dark rites to begin their training," she said.

"They do," said the sergeant as he winced. "As I said, I've done things that will require me to serve years of penance."

"We only brought you down to show you where to come during the battle to find some clothes and a weapon or two," said the older man. "And to let you and Tessa know each other were okay. You need to get back to your place in the Templar's cabin soon, he will be rising when the attack begins. Somehow I doubt he will be best pleased to find you gone."

Even as her nethers moistened at the thought, she cringed. "No, he would not, he has special - requirements - when he is first awakened." Did she cringe out of worry about his demands or out of her body's eager reaction to fulfilling those demands?

Tessa, who had remained silent during this exchange, rose and kissed Maegan. "Do what you must, my love," she said in a very low whisper. "I know it is because you have to."

"Yes," said Maegan, though guilt made her blush. "It will be over soon, though, no?"

The two men nodded as the women kissed again then Maegan moved for the door and Tessa to cover the lamp again.

Maegan and Randal reentered the corridor and she immediately caught sight of the soldier, smiling as he looked up from his post.

He had a certain eagerness in his eyes and she inwardly cringed, though she let none of that show. "Sir, you said?" asked the guard as the walked toward him.

"Yes, well," said Randal, half stammering and looking at Maegan with eyes that suddenly did not nearly look as hard as they had when she first met him.

"My master toys with you, Holy warrior," she said, kneeling before the guard and peering up at him through her long lashes. "He ordered me to come to you after we were done, but wanted a bit of jest first."

"Some people have no sense of humor," growled the sergeant, pretending mild annoyance at Maegan and the guard, both. "Enjoy her, she's quite expressive," he added, giving Maegan one last, thankful smile.

The soldier chuckled. "It was pretty good," he said, though his attention was fully upon the pretty red-haired woman kneeling before him. In the hour that followed, the hardest part of matters was not panicking when others passed them in the corridor, the soldier pinning her slender body to the wall with his own and thrusting eagerly into her.

She thought she would die of shame as Tessa walked by, though her tall, blond girlfriend seemed to take no more notice of her or her impassioned moans as she did of the floor or walls. At the last possible moment, as Maegan felt sure her heart would break, Tessa cast her a tiny smile and nod.

The first barges succumbed quickly to barrages of shot from catapults on the shoreline of Tressen. The catapults were fired eagerly, if not accurately, and as the ships streamed into the bay, one could hardly fire at them without hitting something.

As one Barge heeled onto its side, crew and slaves alike scrambling over its hull and casting themselves, those that could swim, into the waves, another barge slammed it out of the way and plowed onward, closer to the shoreline.

The carnage in the water seemed horrible, but was little compared to that planned for Tressen's streets this night.

Bonfires on the shore lit the scene well enough, and the moon made a surprising appearance overhead, giving everything an eerie blue-black cast. Another barge tipped its bow to the heavens as it took on water, the carven angel upon the point seeming to strain for the sky on it's long wings before the ship sank to rest upon the bottom of the bay with only five paces of bow protruding from the water.