David Drake - Reformer

"Helm forward," Adrian commanded. "All ahead full, but wait for my command on the reversing levers. Go! "

The paddles beat faster, throwing foam up higher than the command blockhouse. Occasional droplets came through the vision slits, welcome coolness even when they stung the eyes. Water broke aside from the ram, and washed up the deck as far as the triangular-board wave breaker he'd rigged to keep the bow from digging in too deeply; he didn't want to think what might happen to this wallowing tub in any sort of sea. The forward motion built, like nothing he'd ever felt at sea before, even under oars — there was a blind purposeful waddle to it, a mechanical feeling. The galley grew, larger and larger. It was vastly lighter than the Wodep , but longer and higher at the gunwales. A dart arched out from the catapult, and another; distance made them seem to start slow and accelerate as they neared. They glanced harmlessly from the octagonal iron plates, with nothing but banging and sparks to show for it. Adrian ducked as one seemed to be coming straight for his eyes, but it caromed off the blockhouse as well. Closer, and he could see the empty oar ports of the trireme, the white faces of the men winching the catapults back.

Bang! Bang! More bolts skittering off the armor. They were aimed forward of the galley's midships, at a thirty-degree angle.

"Brace for impact!" Adrian shouted into the speaking tube. A man began pounding on a bell with an iron bar, loud enough to be heard even over the monstrous CHUFFF. . CHUFFF. . of the cylinders.

"Reverse engines!" he cried again, and wrapped his arm through a cloth-padded iron loop bolted to the timbers of the blockhouse interior.

Closer and closer, the sudden lurch as the paddles reversed, but far too late to do more than begin to slow the ram. Then. .

BOOOMM . The hull of the galley thundered like a giant drum, then cried out in a shrieking of snapping planks and timbers. Adrian was wrenched forward with a violence that almost pulled his arm out of its socket, and banged his head hard enough to bring blinding tears to his eyes, despite the padded leather helmet he wore. Somewhere there were screams of agony; men with broken bones, or those thrown against scalding metal and losing skin and flesh. When Adrian blinked his eyes clear and looked out the vision slit, he whooped nonetheless.

The galley was sinking, and fast. The Wodep hadn't just punched a hole in its side; the glancing blow had ripped ten yards of planking free of the slender strakes, and cracked most of those. Galleys had to be built lightly, if they were to be rowed at all; the Wodep was a massive lump of oak and iron by comparison, and when the two came together at high speed it was like a crockery pot striking pavement. As he watched, the other ship heeled over, raised its bow high and went straight down like a stylus punched into a watermelon.

"Left ten, paddles ahead one quarter — and well done, well done!" he shouted into the speaking tube.

The skipper yelled delight also, and pounded him on the shoulder. "With this ship, and you in command, sir, we'll sweep the Confeds back to the peasant pigstyes where they belong."

Adrian's grin left his face. "Rejoice," he said. "You're to have the honor of serving under the direct command of Prince Tenny, son to our overlord King Casull."

"Oh, shit," the man mumbled, staring at Adrian with dismay and then clapping a hand over his mouth.

"You really don't want to say that," Adrian murmured.

"Ah — thank you, sir. Yes," he went on, in a louder tone. "The Prince will lead us to glory!"

Well, he can't go far wrong, with a good crew and this ship, Adrian thought.

Don't count on it, lad, Raj thought grimly. You haven't seen as many high-ranking nitwits pull defeat from the jaws of victory as I have.

probability—

"Don't tell me," Adrian muttered. "There isn't a damned thing I can do about it anyway."

He looked eastward. There the Confederacy fleet was making ready for battle; according to intelligence, Justiciar Demansk was leading one squadron. Helga was still with him. . and maybe he could make her keep to shore. Adrian was painfully conscious of the fact that he couldn't imagine stopping her from doing something she wanted to do, whether as husband, father, or god incarnate with a thunderbolt in his hand.

ELEVEN

"Well, thank the gods , sir," the coastland skipper of the galley blurted, his nasal singsong accent strong under fairly fluent Confed.

"Yes?" Justiciar Demansk replied, raising an eyebrow. "I merely said you should adjust the rowing pace as you saw fit."

"I was thanking the gods I'd gotten one who understands a ship isn't commanded from the same end as a velipod. Sir. Thank you, sir. I don't mind the risk of getting killed, it goes with this trade, but I'd rather not lose my ship because some damnfool landsman won't listen . Thank you again, sir."

Demansk nodded frostily and turned his attention elsewhere. The Confederacy's Grand Fleet of the West was making as good time as he could expect. . when everyone was supposed to keep station so close their oars were almost touching. Speaker Emeritus Jeschonyk thought that that would reduce the risk of the fleet being disordered; as long as they kept to the holy line, the faster, lighter Islander vessels wouldn't be able to nip in with ram-and-run attacks.

It's won naval battles for us before, Demansk thought sourly, shifting his injured left arm to test it. A little pain, not too bad — not nearly as disagreeable as making Helga stay on shore had been; in the end he'd had to point out that coming might mean watching her precious Emerald die.

I just don't like the implications of this formation. We're conceding that the enemy are better than we are. That was true, on salt water; he still didn't like admitting it. The Confed fleet was fighting the way Emerald phalanxes had, in the old days; shield to shield, all spears out. It had a lot of punch — one of Demansk's ancestors had written in his memoirs that seeing four thousand men come over the brow of a hill in perfect alignment was the most frightening thing he'd ever seen in his life — but it lacked flexibility. That was how the Confed armies had beaten the Emeralds, using small units under independent command to work around flanks and into gaps, coming to close quarters with the stabbing assegai.

"At least it's calm," he muttered, and the sailing master nodded again. A calm sea was like fighting on a flat, even field — everything in plain sight, no surprises, no broken ground to disorder the formations. If he had to fight in a phalanx, that was the best place to do it.

Thing is, I just don't like fighting a battle this way, relying on brute strength and massive ignorance, he thought. It was. . uncraftsmanlike.

He had to admit that the fleet made an imposing sight. The working parties that had gotten them ready for sea hadn't stinted on paint and gilding, either. The hulls and upperworks were almost as bright as the helmet plumes and armor of the officers, lacking only the fierce glint that the sun broke off edged steel. Each craft had a figurehead in the form of a snarling direbeast; there was a remote mythological connection, to the legendary pair who'd supposedly been raised by one and founded Vanbert. He was surprised that the Confederation made so much of that myth, sometimes — the rest of it wasn't at all creditable, involving fratricide, kidnapping, woman-stealing and general mayhem. But then, Vanbert had been founded by a bunch of bandit fleecebeast herders, if you read between the lines.