Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

Arian saw the three black, wedge-shaped sails on the eastern horizon and his heart went cold. They emerged out of nowhere, taut triangles of sable in the dawn sun-glare, moving fast against a running swell.

‘Full sail!’ he shouted.

The crew were already complying. Sailors hauled to unfurl the buffeting mass of white sailcloth. The fabric filled out, catching the brisk easterly, making the ship jerk forwards in the water and cutting a line of foam through the waves.

The Ithaniel was not a warship; she was a light cutter, a dispatch-runner, a jack-of-all-trades employed by Lord Riannon to pass missives and personnel between the hawkships of the main fleet. She was fast, but not the fastest. She carried two quarrel repeaters — one fore, one aft — and a complement of thirty spearmen amidships.

None of that would make much of a difference, for Arian had seen the look of the sails coming after him. He knew the manner of ships they belonged to, and why they ran fast through the contested northern ocean.

‘How long have we got?’ asked Caelon, the master’s wind-bitten face screwed up against the glare.

‘We can beat west,’ said Arian, ‘hard as Khaine’s blades. Might stumble into one of Riannon’s patrols.’

Caelon didn’t look convinced. ‘Anything else?’

‘Move the bow-fixed repeater aft. We’ll loose a few as they close. Might even take one out.’

‘It will be done.’

‘They’ll come up fast,’ warned Arian. ‘I’ve seen this before. We’ll need to jig around like a hare or they’ll eat the wind from our sails before noon.’

Caelon ran a nervous hand through his long brown hair. He was from Chrace, a veteran of many battles and didn’t quail easily, but the odds did not favour them and he knew it. ‘And the cargo?’

Arian smiled coldly. ‘The cargo. Perhaps we’d better let him know. If he’s awake, that is.’

Caradryel of the House of Reveniol was a light sleeper, easily disturbed by the sway and creak of a sea-going vessel. He habitually used the morning hours to recover his equilibrium; unconsciousness, as he was fond of remarking to himself and others, was his natural and optimal state. Involuntary assignment to Riannon’s war-staff had not succeeded in altering the habits of a short lifetime, something he was perfectly aware did not endear him to the duty-minded crew.

For all that, by the time the captain had made his way down to his cramped cabin, Caradryel was awake to receive him. The prince pushed himself upright, smoothing silk sheets over his knees. His pale blond hair fell about his shoulders, stiff from salt and sun and badly in need of beeswax and lustre-oils.

The barbarism of war , he reflected sadly.

Arian had to duck as he entered.

‘Bad news, lord,’ he said, glancing sidelong at the crumpled sheets with poorly hidden disapproval.

‘I heard the commotion,’ said Caradryel. ‘The cause?’

‘Three druchii raiders, closing fast. We’re no match for them, I’m afraid, and they have the weather on us.’

‘Regrettable. How long have we got?’

‘A few hours. We’re bearing hard west, but unless Mathlann conjures something they’ll overhaul us before sunset.’

Caradryel drew in a long breath. He would have to put in an appearance on deck, which was an irritant. ‘Thank you for informing me,’ he said. ‘Given the circumstances, I think the best we can do is put up a creditable fight. Do you think we’ll take one down with us?’

‘I’ve mounted the repeaters aft,’ said Arian. ‘If they fail to spot them we might get a scalp.’

‘Very good. I’d have done the same. And I assume we’re now bearing full sail?’

Caradryel enjoyed seeing the look of exasperation on Arian’s face when he enquired about nautical matters. Both of them knew that his experience of commanding a ship of any kind was somewhere less than negligible, though the game of pretending otherwise amused Caradryel almost as much as it annoyed Arian.

‘Of course,’ said Arian stiffly. ‘We have archers in the high-top and spearmen arming in the prows. If you have any further recommendations, though, do be sure to pass them on.’

Caradryel bowed. ‘I certainly will. Now, if you will give me just a few moments I will join you on deck. It may take me a while to choose a robe.’

Arian stayed where he was. ‘You realise, lord, how serious this is?’

Caradryel gave him a steady look. ‘I do indeed.’

‘I cannot see a way out of this. The druchii are not merciful captors. You may wish to make… preparations.’

Caradryel smiled. ‘Captain, you deserve better than ferrying princelings between the fleets. Calm yourself — I have no intention of dying under traitors’ blades.’

Arian looked unsure how to reply. Caradryel maintained the smile — the polished, courtly smile that had carried him smoothly through a hundred encounters and came as easily to him as sleeping.

‘For they are such grotesque blades, are they not?’ Caradryel added. ‘No taste, our fallen kin. No taste at all.’

The hours did not pass quickly. The three dark-sailed hunters steadily hauled the gap closed, sailing with reckless skill through a wind-chopped sea. Arian drove the Ithaniel as hard as he had promised to, straining the rigging and almost losing the mainsail twice. The crew worked as hard as he did, for they all knew the odds; only at the very end would they take up bow, blade or spear, ready to fight to the last, knowing that captivity would be far worse than a clean death in combat.

Arian leaned over the railing of the ship’s sloping quarterdeck, watching the foam-edged wake zigzag away towards the enemy. On either side of him stood two big repeater crossbows, each one wound tight with iron-tipped bolts. The shafts were huge — as thick as his thigh and longer than he was tall.

By then he could make out the detail on the lead druchii corsair: a rune of Khaine on a satin-black ground, elaborate and gauche. It looked like a spatter of blood on dark glass, glistening wetly in the strong sun.

Like most of those now serving in the Phoenix King’s navy, Arian was not old enough to remember the time before the Sundering. Horror and grief had thinned the ranks of those who had been there at the time, eight hundred years ago during the dark days when his race had cracked itself apart. Arian could, though, remember the subsequent years of horrific bloodshed. He could remember believing, long ago, that a reconciliation would somehow be found.

Now he entertained no such dreams. He knew, as all on Ulthuan surely knew, that war would now be with them for as long as any could foresee. Most of the druchii who crewed the corsair ships would not have been born in Ulthuan and would have only a sketchy knowledge of their ancient home. Most of the crew he commanded had never known a world in which the druchii were not mortal enemies from a frozen land across the oceans. The two sundered kinfolks now looked at one another and saw nothing more than an enemy, as alien now as the greenskin had always been.

How far the sons of Aenarion had fallen.

‘They sail like maniacs,’ observed Caradryel.

Arian hadn’t heard him approach. He remained poised on the railing, eyes fixed out to sea. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

‘If you say so. Why not explain it to me?’

Arian pointed out the lead vessel. It was still too far out for a bolt-shot, but every buck of its prow brought it closer. ‘That’s the one they want to close first. Caelon’s spied grapples in the bow and it’s stuffed with troops. I’d guess fifty, maybe more.’