Gav Thorpe - The Crown of the Conqueror

Irritated by his own restless behaviour, Urikh paced to the rail and stared down at the crew busying themselves on the main deck. He gripped the polished wood tight to hold steady and affected an air of unconcern, while inside his stomach lurched not just with the motion of the ship but the thought of the impending chaos of battle.

Feeling slightly repulsed at his own fear, his thoughts turned to his brother, Jutaar, at that moment leading a legion in Salphoria somewhere. As youngsters it had always been Jutaar that would be the first into any potentially dangerous situation, whether investigating caves in the mountains above Askh or sneaking into the private gardens of the neighbours to spy on the womenfolk getting dressed. When faced with own his hesitance, Urikh reassured himself that it was natural for a sane and intelligent man to feel fear; and that his brother was too stupid to know when to be properly afraid.

Far from the steady glide Urikh had experienced on the previous days of the journey, the ship crashed through the water in a series of surges, hurled across the water with every draw of the sweeps, the whole vessel shuddering as the drumbeat boomed and two thousand and four hundred men threw their weight forward in unison. The alternating sensations of acceleration and slowing put Urikh in mind of a charging ailur, legs bunching and releasing, muscles tensing and relaxing.

He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the other ships, many so close to each other that their oars were almost touching. His apprehensions about fighting evaporated as he looked at the might of Askhor crowded around him. Urikh could appreciate the sense of power and achievement his father felt when he led a legion into battle; though he could not quite comprehend Ullsaard's apparent addiction to war that had driven him to personally lead the invasion of Salphoria.

This was what being a governor — being a Prince of the Blood — was meant to feel like.

The prince gloried in the spectacle of thousands of men, the effort and resource represented by this fleet and its crew, all bent to a common purpose: the execution of Urikh's will. To rule was not to sit on chests filled with askharins, or to have one's pick of any maiden for the royal bed. The reward for being in charge of the greatest empire ever created was not the politics and the negotiations — though Urikh enjoyed manipulating others. The simple exercise of power, the ability to enact one's plans and desires without hesitation, to command the loyalty and effort of countless servants, was the benefit of the Blood.

Urikh realised he was grinning, hand slapping the rail in time to the oar-drums. He glanced around the aft deck to see if anyone had noticed; standing next to the three men hauling on the tiller, Eroduus caught Urikh's gaze and smiled back with a wink.

"And those limp pricks back in Askh wonder why I bought a fleet," the captain called out. "There is not a race or blood duel at Maarmes that could match this, eh?"

Urikh laughed back, forgetting for a moment to appear stately and in control. He sneered at himself for the indiscretion and turned his back on Eroduus, his mood soured by the captain's intrusion.

Other than exchanging shouts with the crews of the closest ships, there was no way for the fleet captains to communicate with each other. Urikh could see nothing of the enemy ships from his vantage point, forced to listen for the sporadic shouts coming from the mastheads. He heard the cry of sails being sighted two miles downriver and waited impatiently for the number to be confirmed. The merchants who had been forced back by the pirates had claimed they were set upon by at least six vessels. Urikh hoped they were all in the water to be sunk; if he could deal with this situation with one act, it would be all the better.

"Four sail ahead!" came the next call.

That was good enough, to Urikh's mind. Even if the Mekhani were left with two ships, they were probably not going to threaten a well-crewed Askhan vessel. His only worry was that the pirates would realise their plight and flee too soon. Nightfall was no more than three hours away and darkness would allow the Mekhani to slip from the trap.

"Six sail ahead!"

Urikh smiled and rubbed his hands together. He felt the presence of Eroduus at his side and glanced at the captain.

"We have drawn them all out," said Urikh. "Now all you have to do is sink them."

"I think we can manage that, prince," replied Eroduus.

With the flagship leading the fleet like a mother swan followed by her cygnets, the twenty Askhan warships swept down the Greenwater. A mile ahead, the two galleys that had been despatched as bait were turning upriver, their spear throwers and catapults launching missiles at the low-beamed Mekhani ships trying to encircle them.

Though outnumbered, the Askhan vessels were handled better, oars moving with efficient strokes while the sweeps of the Mekhani ships had little coordination, some thrashing, others plunging deep into the water. Someone had shown the Mekhani how to build the ships, but not how to crew them. The desert tribesmen also had no war engines and were subjected to a hail of spears and boulders as they closed to board the Askhan ships. Fountains of water erupted around the closest pirate as boulders plunged into the river, while ropes were parted and the dirty white sail was torn by the flight of barbedtipped bolts.

"Eight sail ahead!"

Both Urikh and Eroduus looked up at the masthead in surprise.

"Count them again!" roared the captain between cupped hands. Urikh directed an accusing glance at his admiral, who answered the glare with an innocent look of incomprehension.

"Sorry, captain!" came the next call. Eroduus shook his head in disappointed resignation. The eyes of both men widened at the next cry. "Nine sail!"

There was muttering through the crew and the legionnaires on deck; the news must have permeated down to the oar decks as a babble of voices drifted up from the open hatches.

"Stop their noise," Eroduus snapped at the officers standing below the aft deck rail. They headed into the mass of men, cursing and snarling.

"Your mastmen do know how to count, yes?" said Urikh.

The captain ignored the icy remark and strutted to the starboard side to bellow at the trireme surging through the water alongside. Listening to the short exchange, Urikh heard it confirmed that there were at least nine galleys ahead.

"Doesn't matter," said Eroduus on his return. "We still have more than a match for them."

As if given a cue by fate, another shrill cry sounded from the mast top.

"Three sail to aft!"

Sure-footed on the rolling ship, Eroduus reached the aft rail beside the tiller a few strides before Urikh. Nothing could be seen of the ships themselves, but three white patches against the forest canopy on the bank were sliding along the coast. They were headed for the merchant ships that were now nearly a mile behind.

"They must have been hidden in one of the side channels," said Urikh. He rounded on Eroduus. "Why were they not seen?"

The captain could only answer with a nonplussed shrug and a shake of the head. Eroduus stared back upriver, lips pursed tight, jaw clenched; he stood so still that he might have been mistaken for a carving set to look over the stern of the ship.

"What should we do?" said Urikh, keeping his voice calm, though inside he was seething with anger. Blame and punishment could be meted out later; his first concern was to deal with the rapidly-changed circumstance in which he found himself.

"That is your choice, prince," said Eroduus, suddenly springing into life again. "Three options. One: split the fleet. Two: turn back and save the traders, leaving the galleys ahead to fend for themselves. Three: keep on ahead and hope that the merchants can deal with three galleys on their own."