William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Another shell detonated astern. He could feel its blast ripping below deck, screams echoing up through the ventilation shafts, followed by bursts of steam.

Guns on both sides were fully depressed, shots angled so low that shells, when striking the water, skipped back up and screamed on. He caught a glimpse of one of his battle cruisers steaming between two of the enemy ships, all guns firing, and then it disappeared again behind the veil of smoke.

The frigate coming in on the starboard side reversed its engines, slowing to match the speed of the dying flagship.

Hazin was again by his side. “Follow me, my lord. Staying here now is suicide. You have to rebuild. There is still the army ashore, which can hold for weeks if need be. And remember, my Shiv will be landing on the opposite side of the island. We can hold, then negotiate with Sar or your brother later. Staying here, you die.”

Hanaga could feel the listing of the ship beneath his feet. It was taking on water astern.

No one was on the bridge other than he and Hazin. A forward hatch popped open, and sailors poured out, some of them horribly scalded, fur and flesh peeling off.

He looked back again at Hazin. “I was betrayed.”

“We have been betrayed, sire,” Hazin replied sharply. “Now, in the name of Tenga, come with me while there is still time. I can save you!”

As he spoke, he pointed at the frigate alongside, barely a dozen feet separating the two ships. A line snaked out from the frigate, and Hazin grabbed it, securing it to the railing.

“Sire!”

A couple of crew members of the frigate had hold of the other end of the rope and were shouting for them to come down.

“There will always be a tomorrow, Hanaga,” the priest said calmly. “Your legend must be rebuilt. The struggle must go on. Sar and your brother will have their reckoning, and you must position yourself to pick up the pieces afterward. Today is but a moment.”

Even as he spoke, the priest grabbed hold of the rope and swung himself over the side. Hand over hand he went down the rope, alighting on the deck, then motioned for Hanaga to follow.

Hanaga hesitated, but then went over the side, slipping down, burning his hands. Even as he reached the deck, the frigate turned off sharply and started to race away.

Hanaga, stunned, looked back at his once proud flagship, victor of a dozen actions, listing heavily, explosions tearing it apart.

Hazin put a comforting hand on Hanaga’s shoulder. “Sire, let’s retire to the captain’s cabin. You need a drink.”

Hanaga nodded, humiliated that he had abandoned his ship, leaving loyal sailors and comrades there to die. He tried to justify it as an action any emperor would take, and yet still it cut into his soul.

Hazin pointed at the hatchway leading into the captain’s cabin.

“You go after me. It would seem unfitting for me to go first.”

Hanaga nodded and stepped through.

And there, on the other side, he saw half a dozen of the Order.

There was a momentary flash of recognition, a realization of how all the pieces of this moment, laid out across years, had finally come to this.

The blow from behind staggered him, propelled him forward into the cabin. He gasped, clumsily reaching toward his back, feeling Hazin’s dagger in it.

Then those of the Order closed in to finish the ritual.

“I trusted you once,” he gasped, looking at Hazin, friend of his youth, Second Master of the Order.

“And that, sire, was always your mistake,” Hazin sighed, an almost wistful note in his voice.

The blows came, one after another, daggers cutting deep, driving in.

He no longer resisted. Weariness with life, with all its treachery, forced him to yield.

Hazin pulled the dagger from Hanaga’s back, held it as if testing the balance, and looked down at the dying emperor.

“The Empire,” Hanaga gasped.

Hazin smiled. It was the last thing Emperor Hanaga of the Kazan saw-someone he had once called friend knelt down to finish the job.

“Sir, what the hell is it?”

Lieutenant Richard Cromwell scrambled up through the lubber hole and out onto the fighting foretop. Squatting next to the lookout, he raised his glasses.

The fog, which had rolled in at nightfall, was breaking up. Occasional stars and one of the two moons winked through the overcast. But that was not what interested him. It was the glow on the horizon, a dull red light that flared, waned, and flared again. Occasional flashes, like heat lightning on a summer’s night, snapped around the edge of the burning glow.

Just before sunset the lookouts had reported a smudge of smoke on the horizon. They had taken a bearing and sailed toward it throughout the night. Now at last they had something.

“When did you first notice this?” Richard asked.

“Just a couple of minutes ago, sir. I called you as soon as I was certain it was not my eyes playing tricks,” the lookout, a young Rus sailor, replied slowing, stumbling over his English.

Richard nodded. The glow of one of the rising moons had more than once tricked an old hand into thinking something was out there.

There was another flash, this one a brilliant white flare that reflected off the low-hanging clouds.

“Good work, Vasiliy. I think I better wake the captain.”

Richard stood, a bit unsteady. The rising seas, which had been blowing up since late afternoon, had finally laid him low. Coming up to the foretop, where the roll of the ship was accentuated, made it infinitely worse. Only a novice went down from the foretop through the lubber hole. Experienced sailors climbed out onto the shrouds and momentarily hung suspended, nearly upside down, before reaching the ratlines, then going down hand over hand. Some of the top men would simply grab hold of a sheet or halyard and, if wearing leather gloves, slide down to the deck.

Ignominious or not, he gingerly went feet first through the lubber hole, reached the ratlines underneath, and carefully went back down to the deck, hanging on tight for a moment when a wave out of rhythm with the eight to ten foot rollers, raised the bow up high, before sending it crashing down.

Knees wobbly, he hit the deck and made his way up to the bridge. Making sure that all buttons were properly snapped and that his collar was straight, he approached the door to the inner sanctum, the captain’s cabin, and knocked.

“Come.”

He stepped into the darkened cabin. “Cromwell, sir, senior officer on watch. There’s light on the horizon. Foretop lookout spotted it about ten minutes ago. I think you better come up and see it, sir.”

The dimmed coal-oil lamp by the captain’s bunk flared to life.

With a weary sigh, Captain Claudius Gracchi swung out of the bunk, feet going into his carpet slippers. Nightshirt barely covering his knees, he stood up, fumbling for the spectacles on the night table.

Putting the glasses on, he looked at Cromwell. In spite of the spectacles and rumpled nightshirt, Claudius still had the bearing of a Roman patrician: hair silvery gray and cut short, shoulders broad despite his sixty-five years of age. Long ago, before the Republic, he had actually commanded a galley, but he had adapted well to the new world created by the Yankees and was as adept in commanding a steam cruiser as he had been commanding a ship powered by sail and oars. His stern bearing was simply a bluff. He was a favorite with the sailors of the fleet, known as a man who was just and always willing to hear someone out. Command of the Republic’s newest cruiser was seen by everyone as a fitting capstone to an illustrious career.

“What kind of light is it, Mr. Cromwell?”

“Sir, a red glow, like a fire, but there are flashes, something like heat lightning, but it’s different somehow.”