Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

“Faster, Sari!” he shouted. “Don’t let the bastards get in front of us!”

Wind exploded past as she heeded his call, and the Kiev leapt forward, a flying fish seeking to gain purchase in the air. They coursed past the bows of the first death ships, with those black sails looming high, still a mile away to port. Black clouds rose above those ships like tactical thunderheads, while a froth of brown water churned ahead of the enemy vanguard, a small tsunami surging in escort of the befoulment. In the opposite direction, just a fringe on the starboard horizon, the coastline of Nayve lay in wait.

“That one,” muttered Ivan, seeing one of the black-hulled ships surging into the lead, marking a course that would take it across his bow. Turbulence frothed in a wide V from the prow, and the small sailboat rose up as it struck the foaming crest. Ivan felt the boat rock up and over the wave, then lurch violently in the rough waters beyond. A thick miasma choked his nostrils, like the stink of a charnel house, but he fought the instinct to gag as he held on to the weapon and tried to draw a bead. He crouched behind the steel battery, hand on the trigger as he aimed at the enemy vessel’s broadside.

The Cossack glanced at the missile in the slot of his weapon, the metal shaft shining with a silvery glint, though Ivan’s reflection looked dark and murky in the strange twilight. The steel head was sharp and barbed, like a monstrous harpoon, while the tail of the shaft was feathered with bright plumes to insure the accuracy of its flight. Most unusual of all were the four vanes, thin triggers of aluminum, which jutted perpendicularly from different locations on the shaft. These were the burners-at least, that’s what the dwarf had called them-and when they were bent by impact, the shaft of the missile would supposedly ignite into a dramatic fireball. It had been tested on targets with satisfying results but never before used in war.

It pleased Ivan that he would be the first to discover if the device really worked.

The death ship before him was tall and wide in his sights, perhaps a half mile away now. He noted that the craft had three masts, each with three or four black sails aloft; in shape, it was not very different from the largest sailing vessels that he had seen on the Black Sea or making way up the Bug toward the city that was his sailboat’s namesake.

His introspection quickly gave way to the need for action, as the target seemed to grow to vast proportions before him. He pulled the trigger, felt the metallic twang as the powerful spring sent the steely arrow hurtling forward. The missile flew gracefully, and it seemed as though time slowed enough for him to enjoy every detail: the bristling vanes, sparkling wickedly in the pale sunlight, rotated smoothly as the feathered tail kept it on a true course. Climbing slightly-he had aimed high to adjust for the long range-the steel shaft curved gently through the top of an arc and angled downward, striking the death ship exactly in the center of the hull.

The arrow disappeared through the planks, and Ivan blinked in astonishment, unable to discern whether or not it had even made a hole in the black surface. Had it failed? In the next instant, he was rewarded by a flash, white light outlining the middle of the ship. Smoke puffed upward, followed by a blossom of orange flame roiling outward, followed by pieces of hull and deck erupting into the air, propelled by the violence of the explosion. There was a moment of eerie silence, and then Ivan flinched under the guttural impact of a loud boom. Crackling flames engulfed the entire center of the death ship, and the mainmast toppled away, dragging rigging and sails to the water in a tangle.

Ivan heard Sari’s triumphant shout mingling with his own hoarse cry, but there was no time for celebration. Immediately he set about reloading the mighty bow. Choppy seas made the task difficult, but he was aided by a small crane as he lifted another shaft from the hold and finally laid it in the firing track. Before him the stricken death ship careened to the side, fire spreading rapidly until the entire deck was alight, sails still aloft going up like crackling torches. By the time the Kiev swept past, the burning ship was listing, and black shapes, some of them afire, were spilling off the deck, dropping to the water, where they disappeared into the depths.

“It’s true what the Mexican said: even ghosts can drown,” the Cossack observed with satisfaction and a certain amount of surprise. A look behind showed him that the rest of the First Wing came on in full sail. Many other druid ships were launching their missiles, and other vessels in the armada erupted into flame before him and to port. Ivan picked out another target, closer this time, and fired a lethal shot into the belly of the black hull. Arrows darted toward him, hissing through the air and thumping into Kiev’s deck. The smell of carrion was even thicker now, making it very difficult to breathe.

Seeing three or four death ships surging before and aft, Ivan loaded his next shot as a canister, two dozen spheres filled with incendiary explosives nestling in the breech. With smooth gestures he cranked back the spring and launched the spray of metal balls, many of the weapons striking along the side of a hull looming barely a hundred yards away. As Sari steered him past, that ship reeled and groaned under the onset of six or eight small fires, blazes that quickly spread to engulf the entire hull.

But now they were in the midst of the enemy fleet. The druid steered with consummate skill, spinning her wind and guiding the tiller at the same time, pushing Kiev through a narrow gap between two looming black ships. More arrows whistled toward Ivan, and he grunted in pain as one of the missiles bit into his shoulder. There was a third death ship beyond, and they could not get past; instead, the little sailboat bumped hard into the ebony hull. Sari fell, pierced by a dozen barbed arrows as she cried out his name.

Hit by another black shaft, Ivan stumbled but still managed to draw his sword as he saw the ghosts coming down at him, mouths gaping but silent. One, in the garb of a Roman legionnaire, fell to the deck following a single slashing blow, Ivan’s blade cutting ghostly substance just as it would have carved into human flesh. But he could not recover in time to block the next attack, delivered by a bayonet on the end of a long, rifled musket by a shrouded warrior who wore a tattered uniform of an American army of the 1860s. The shadowy blade pierced the Cossack’s guts, and he fell, grunting in agony. The last sound he heard was Sari’s scream as a pair of swarthy Mongols set upon her with smoking, lethal blades.

“The First Wing is meeting with some success,” said Regillix Avatar, curling his neck around to cast a glance at Natac.

“Yes,” the warrior agreed, looking down in awe. The murk over the armada was darkened further by plumes of thick smoke spewing up from spots of bright orange flames. A hundred or more of the sinister ships had been wrecked in the first clash. “Better success than I could ever have hoped. Look at those black hulls burn!”

“It is time for us to attack, as well,” the dragon murmured, and Natac could only slap the hard scales in agreement.

“Be careful,” he whispered, as Regillix tucked his wings. The great body plummeted through the air, angling toward the front of the armada, beyond the leading boats of Fritzi’s wing. Natac saw one of the white-sailed boats smash into a death ship’s hull, wincing as tiny ghost warriors scrambled across the doomed Nayvian vessel. How many would die today? He couldn’t even try to imagine.

The clouds were thick and swelling to all sides, obscuring Natac’s view of the sky. The dragon leaned forward, sweeping under the thick smear of smoke. Then the air was filled with shrieks, and harpies by the dozens swarmed out of the murk above the armada. The dragon belched a great fireball, incinerating a score of the hateful flyers, but many more swept past, spitting gobs of oily fire that spattered on Natac’s leather armor and seared the dragon’s tender wings.