R. Salvatore - The Dame

“Quarter,” Shiknickel called down.

Mcwigik began a slow cadence of patting both hands and the crew began to pedal in unison at the easy pace.

As the Palmaristown warship continued its turn and gained speed, obviously unaware of Shiknickel’s boat or those trailing, the captain called for a turn back to the right. When the angle was right he shouted down, “Full and fast, and get ready for a jolt!”

A powrie barrel boat was built for head-on collision, with a devilish ram leading its charge just below the waterline. Many buffers had been engineered around that ram, and, even without them, the thin planking of a typical surface sailing ship would have proven no match for the concentrated pounding of a barrel boat’s solid ram. Slammed against a stopped ship, with only the power of pedaling dwarves, that ram would still break through to some degree. In this case, with the barrel boat coming in at an angle before a fast-sailing ship, the explosion knocked every dwarf from his seat and sent Mcwigik flying against the front inside wall.

But the dwarves were laughing, for they knew that their unsettling bounce had been nothing compared to what the unprepared crew of the sailing ship had just felt.

Indeed, the powrie ram drove a gaping hole in the starboard bow of the warship, and the momentum had lengthened that hole considerably, splintering planks near to midship. A man plummeted from the rigging, dislodged by the sudden and unexpected impact. Several others went flying over the rail, and all on the deck were tumbling, caught completely by surprise.

Without even being told, the powries rushed back to their seats and began pedaling in reverse. Wood creaked in protest, for the ram was fairly stuck, and the heavier warship dragged the barrel boat along as its momentum played out.

“Forward! Back!” Mcwigik shouted in succession, the reversals rocking the barrel boat and tearing apart more of the sailing ship’s planking in the process. From above, they could all hear the Palmaristown sailors crying out, “Powrie boat!” and calling for nets and arrows.

That brought more laughter than anything else, for every powrie on Shiknickel’s boat understood the damage they had inflicted on the warship, and all knew that the blustering sailors would very quickly be far more concerned with the fact that their ship was sinking than with the powries.

The barrel boat finally slid free.

“Put her back a dozen and watch the show,” said Mcwigik.

“Can’t see a thing,” one dwarf remarked to the giggles of the others.

“Listen, then,” Mcwigik replied. “Sure to be a song sweet to me ears.”

They heard but didn’t feel another loud crash.

“Tikminnik’s boat,” Shiknickel called down. “Get yer caps ready, boys, for she’ll list over soon enough!”

Much cheering and rubbing of hands ensued.

Within a very short time, the Palmaristown warship lay on her side, most of her underwater. Men bobbed and splashed or hung on desperately to the rigging while the powrie boats circled like sharks.

Shiknickel led the way onto the deck, calling for gaff hooks as he went. Heartbeats later, the first third of the crew in rotation had climbed from the tower, long hooked poles in hand. The remaining dwarves pedaled slowly and turned to Shiknickel’s call, bringing the barrel boat beside one floundering sailor after another.

“Please, sir, no!” one man cried desperately. “I’ve a wife and little girl!”

“And ye should’ve stayed home with them, eh?” a powrie replied. He slapped his gaff hook down hard, catching the man by the shoulder, and hauled him to the side of the rounded deck.

Other dwarves were fast to the spot, serrated knives in hand. They expertly opened up the best areas for a long and thick bloodletting. And so it went throughout the rest of the day, until the sharks arrived. The boats went to the aid of their netted kin then, helping them finish cutting away the pesky ropes and then holding tight to the listing craft, keeping back the sharks while the crew powries bailed her.

The next morning the seas were calm, the Palmaristown ship and all her crew gone from sight, with not even flotsam to be seen.

The powrie captains and their top advisors all sat atop their respective decks.

“Where to, then?” one asked. “Getting tired o’ waiting for them fools to come out here in the open waters.”

“From the west, always,” another observed.

“Palmaristown,” Shiknickel explained. “West and at the mouth of the river.”

“And with most of her fleet down? And most of her men out fighting on the field?” Mcwigik asked slyly.

Half a dozen barrel boats started out to the west, a shiver of sharks.

Hungry sharks.

They were in range of Palmaristown’s archers, but in range, too, of the monks on St. Mere Abelle’s wall with their devastating gemstones.

Dame Gwydre and Laird Panlamaris rode from their respective ranks simultaneously, meeting on the field at a tent Panlamaris’s men had set up. Beside Gwydre rode Father Premujon and Brother Pinower, and a pair accompanied Panlamaris, as well, including Father De Guilbe.

The sight of the large and imposing monk distressed Gwydre, but not as much as it unsettled poor Premujon. She felt naked out here without Dawson beside her. Reports magically collected by the brothers had reached her of his escape from the Palmaristown ships in the gulf. She was beside herself with relief but sorely missed the man she had leaned upon for so many years.

Given the events in the gulf, where Palmaristown warships had somehow been defeated, Gwydre eagerly accepted the invitation to parlay with her opponents, hoping against reason that the impasse might be at an end. As she neared the tent and noted the expression on Laird Panlamaris’s face, her doubts overwhelmed her optimism.

A table had been set inside the tent, three chairs on each side. Gwydre took hers in the middle, directly opposite Panlamaris.

“Lady, it is good to see that some among you have a bit of honor, at least,” Laird Panlamaris began. “A very tiny bit.”

“Good tidings to you, too, Laird Panlamaris,” Gwydre retorted, “who came unbidden with his army to the gates of a chapel and stained the field before her with the blood of innocent men.”

“Innocent?” Father De Guilbe growled, but Panlamaris silenced him with an upraised hand.

“You know Father De Guilbe,” Panlamaris said. “And this is Captain Dunlevin Brosh, who commands the Palmaristown fleet.”

“Father Premujon of Chapel Pellinor,” Gwydre replied. “And this is Brother Pinower, who speaks for St. Mere Abelle.”

“What?” De Guilbe noted, his brow furrowing. “Saint?”

“St. Mere Abelle,” Dame Gwydre said again. “Until recently known as Chapel Abelle.”

De Guilbe gave a wicked chuckle. “The fool Artolivan. Does he think that his symbolic gestures will help him against the inevitable fall? Will he hide behind a name-a name he dishonors with every treasonous action he takes?”

His voice grew louder with each question, his outrage bubbling over. “We will return to our mission when I am installed as the proper head of the Order of Abelle!” He slammed his fist on the table, trembling.

Gwydre and the two monks accompanying her looked to one another helplessly, incredulously. The dame turned to Laird Panlamaris. “You support this subversion?”

“Subversion?” the old warrior repeated. When De Guilbe began to bellow in protest again Panlamaris reached out and forcibly pushed the man back into his chair.

“Subversion?” he said again. “You would say that to me after what happened in the gulf?”

Dame Gwydre eyed him with confusion. “Your ships tried to attack-”

“You sent powries against my warships!” Now Panlamaris’s voice began to tremble and rise with righteous outrage. “Powries! Bloody-cap dwarves working in concert with the ships of Vanguard!”