Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

A few moments later, the ship that Vlad had attacked shuddered and groaned as its still-cool boiler came to life and its propellers clawed weakly at the Bosporus. And a moment after that, the warship rolled over completely, plunging its decks below the waves and baring its barnacle-crusted hull to the heavens, its screws spinning wildly in the wintry air.

“I like your plan,” Omar called to Vlad.

The Vlachian prince laughed. “You admire my genius?”

“Well.” Omar paused. “I admire the fact that we’re winning.”

The marines continued firing their revolvers at the sailors on the last Fury, and the sailors continued firing their rifles down at the little boats floating in the warship’s shadow.

Soon this one will be underwater, and we can all go home.

Omar glanced back at the distance sea walls of the palace and waved, wondering if Wren could see him.

When the last Eranian ship began to lean over, the Hellans scrambled to get out of its way. The third warship sank very slowly, listing gently to port and displaying its decks to the palace. On the far side, Omar could hear the Hellan steamers firing their guns at the warship’s exposed hull.

Then one of the marines pointed up at the deck of the ironclad and shouted, “Look there! It’s Koschei!”

Omar squinted up and against the glare of the winter sky he saw the small figure of a man hanging by his legs from a flag pole in the center of the deck. The Rus warrior had regrown his arms and it appeared that, for the moment, no one had any interest in hacking them off again. The sailors on deck were all scrambling to reach the small launches along the railings and the marines were gleefully picking off the fleeing Turks. But no one was minding the dangling Rus man.

When the ship rolls, he’ll be trapped underneath if his legs aren’t cut free.

Omar grimaced.

God only knows how many times he’d have to drown down there in the cold and the dark before he does get free.

The Aegyptian briefly recalled the handful of times he himself had drowned. Most had been in shipping accidents, in storms, and he’d only be gone for a moment or two. Only once had he been intentionally drowned in a fight, but that too had only lasted a moment.

A moment is more than enough.

“Vlad!” Omar glanced at the prince. “I think it’s time we rescued your lost champion.”

The Vlachian nodded and waved his men to row back toward the sinking ironclad and Omar followed suit. When they reached the edge of its shadow, the warship was still high enough above the waves that the marines had to use their hooks and ropes to snag the railing and climb hand-over-hand out of the pitching dories up onto the ironclad’s sloping deck.

Omar waited patiently below, staring up at the sharp edge of the ship for the marines to reappear with the mangy-haired Rus, but instead a single Hellan youth stuck out his head and called down, “He’s chained and locked! We need to find a key!”

Damn my luck.

Omar sighed, took hold of one of the dangling ropes, and began to climb. Every pull made his shoulders ache and his back ache and his legs ache, and when he paused to rest and catch his breath he looked down to see that he was barely a third of the way up. The marines down in the boats were grinning up at him.

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered to himself. “I was climbing ropes when your ancestors were still worshipping Zeus, you stupid children.”

He climbed, and rested, and climbed. When he reached the top, four marines were waiting to help him over the rail, and then to help him up the steep slope of the deck toward the flag pole. He shook off their hands. “I can walk, thank you very much!”

When he finally grabbed hold of the flag pole and stood face to upside-down face with the prisoner, Omar was again out of breath, but he recovered quickly.

“Koschei!”

The hanging man opened his eyes and frowned. “Grigori?”

“What are you doing, just hanging around like this?” Omar grinned. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a war on!”

Koschei frowned a bit deeper and his black eyes flicked from side to side, looking at the marines scattered about the deck. “Where are the Turks?”

“Dead, mostly. Now mind your head.”

“What?”

Omar drew his seireiken and slashed the chains around Koschei’s feet and the Rus man smashed down onto the deck straight onto his head. He flopped over and two of the marines grabbed his arms to keep him from sliding down the deck. But the thick-necked warrior shoved them away and stood up. His thin black hair was plastered to his face with sweat and sea spray, and his black mustache bristled between his scowling lips and his thrice-broken nose.

“You’re looking well,” Omar said. “Care to come to Stamballa with us for lunch? I think they’re serving something with coffee and hummus.”

The Rus immortal cast his black glare left and right. “Is the captain dead?”

“Probably. Why?”

“I’m going to cut off his arms,” Koschei said. “And then I’m going to shove a sword up his ass and set fire to his-”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Omar said with a tired look. “But this ship is about to roll over and sink, so we need to be leaving. Everyone, back to the boats!”

They stumbled down the deck to the railing, and then descended the ropes into the wobbling, wavering boats below. Omar found himself sitting nose to nose with Koschei as the marines began rowing. They angled south away from the sinking ships, but soon turned east to cross the Strait and reach the shores of Stamballa.

“I saw you come across the water,” the Rus man said. “It was very fast. My mother helped you, yes?”

“You could say that,” Omar said. “Although, I have my own mistress of the aether, these days. A very talented young girl.”

“Bah.” Koschei waved his thick, hairy hand. “Children. They know nothing. My mother, she knows everything. How long have you been in Constantia?”

“Three days now.”

“Three!” Koschei grunted and slapped one of the marines in the head. “You see? You little children have two months to rescue me and you do nothing. Grigori comes and he gets me free in three days. This is a man!”

Omar smiled and glanced up at the walls of the palace receding into the distance. The Hellan soldiers were on the move, trooping around the point toward the south tower, toward the approaching airships.

“Grigori!”

“It’s Omar now, actually.”

“Bah. You are always Grigori to me. So, you have seen my mother, yes? How is she?”

Omar winced. “Actually, I’ve been a bit busy with the war and I haven’t been to see Yaga yet. But my apprentice has been to see her and I understand she’s doing just fine.”

“What is this? You haven’t seen her?” Koschei smacked Omar in the face. “Where are your manners? There is always time for manners. You taught me that. You will come see her with me now, when I go to her. She will be so happy to see us both, you will see.”

“Uhm.” Omar nodded slowly, rubbing his cheek. “Maybe. Although you can see we’re not heading that way at the moment.”

“Yes, yes, I see. We go to kill more Turks, yes? Fine with me.” The Rus man snorted and spat at the water, but missed and hit the inside wall of the boat instead. “So, Grigori, why so serious? You’re not the same man as before, all smiles and games. You look like these Hellans, all grim-face and pissing your pants.”

“Well, it’s the Hellans I’m worried about. I certainly wouldn’t mind if Constantia became a part of the empire, but I have no wish to see this lovely old city burned to the ground or thousands of innocents murdered in the process.”

Koschei shrugged and picked at his bent nose. “People die.”