Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Lord Nortahʼs company met them head-on before they had seized more than a few feet of the deck, attacking with a disciplined ferocity that did great credit to their months of training. The Lord Marshal himself hacked his way through the Varitaiʼs ranks, breaking their formation apart, fighting with an unconscious skill and precision Lyrna hadnʼt seen since her days with Brother Sollis. His war-cat fought at his side, reaping death with every swipe of its claws. With the Varitai all hacked down or forced over the side, Nortah rallied his soldiers into a tight wedge and led them onto the Volarian ship, overcoming the remaining crew as they mounted a desperate stand around the mainmast. A few had evidently attempted to surrender judging by the number of unarmed men Lyrna saw cast into the sea.

“Highness!” A sailor came running from the helm, pointing to port. “Captain Larhten begs to report more ships to the west.”

Lyrna peered into the gathering dusk, making out the faint lines of tall masts. The dark brings scant relief, it seems. She looked to the east where the Red Falcon could be seen, fire spouting from her prow to engulf a Volarian troop-ship. Beyond her more Meldenean vessels were assaulting the remaining enemy line, the sky alight with a continual cascade of flaming balls as the mangonels did their deadly work.

“Tell the captain to turn west,” she told the sailor. “And signal the Realm vessels to follow us. Our allies have this matter in hand.”

Unfortunately, it was clear an unseen hand still exercised some form of command over the Volarian fleet, and felt no desire to allow her to confront the latest threat. A squadron of ten vessels separated from the central cluster of ships to plough towards them at full sail. The wind was in their favour and they managed to place themselves directly in the Queen Lyrna ʼs path, heaving about to face them, arrows and ballista bolts filling the air between them as they closed. Lyrna clasped her hands together and stood still as the air buzzed about her, a bolt flicking through her hair just below the ear. Iltis moved his bulky frame in front of her, holding his arm in front of his face as if shielding himself from a rain shower, grunting as an arrow grazed his forearm.

Lyrna turned a questioning gaze to Alornis as she finished refuelling the engine. “The last of the oil, Highness,” she reported, her voice as devoid of expression as her face.

“Donʼt spare it, my lady,” Lyrna advised. “A blazing ship makes a bigger impression than a scorched one.”

The first Volarian ship to come into range was of considerably smaller draught than the Queen Lyrna and Alornis was obliged to depress the spout of her engine as she swept by, liberally dousing her in flame from bow to stern, heralding the now-familiar chorus of screams. Alornis managed another fulsome blast at the next ship, a considerably larger troop-ship well supplied with ballistae and archers. The stream of fire managed to sweep many from the rigging but not before they had killed a dozen or more Realm Guard and the crew manning the port ballista.

Lyrna turned to see the last dregs of fire dripping from the engineʼs spout, Alornis meeting her gaze and giving an apologetic bow. Lyrna pointed her towards the now-silent ballista.

Despite the flames still licking at its ropes and sails the Volarian troop-ship maintained its course, a full Free Sword battalion assembled on deck. Lyrna was about to order Nortah to bring up the rest of his regiment but saw that the Lord Marshal had anticipated the need, the soldiers running to form ranks with remarkable precision despite the confusion all around.

The port ballista clattered into life once more, Alornis aiming whilst Davoka worked the handle. Lyrna followed the flight of one bolt as it streaked across the gap to claim the life of a Volarian Free Sword officer who had unwisely chosen to stand tall at the rail, no doubt as an example to his men. She hoped they learned the lesson well.

“Highness!” It was Larhten, calling from the helm and pointing to something beyond the Volarian ship. Lyrna blinked away the smoke-born sting in her eyes and sought to discern something through the haze. The King Malcius, she saw as the view cleared. Fitting that my brother should come to save me.

The King Malcius came on at full sail, her archers casting a shower of fire arrows at the Volarian troop-ship before she ploughed into her starboard hull with a splintering crunch. The fires now littering the sea painted the subsequent spectacle with flickering shadows, the sight of a host of steel-clad men rushing from the King Malcius to assail the Free Swords seeming unreal somehow, like something from a dream, or a nightmare.

Lyrnaʼs gaze was soon drawn to the sight of a burly man throwing himself into the densest knot of Volarians, his mace rising and falling with deadly effect. At his side was a taller and more slender figure wielding a longsword. She watched as together they hacked their way the length of the ship, their knights following in a thrashing mass of steel, driving the Free Swords back with such murderous zeal most chose the scarce safety of the sea rather than stay to fight on. By the time the Queen Lyrna had drawn up alongside the troop-ship the two figures were standing at her port rail, removing their helms to greet her with a bow.

“Good evening, my lords,” she called to Fief Lord Arendil and his grandfather.

“Forgive me, Highness,” Banders called back, his broad features slick with sweat. “But are we to land soon? One more week at sea and my knights are like to hang me.”

Lyrna turned to survey the scene, the sky now black and the only illumination coming from the many blazing ships. The tumult of combat had faded though she could still hear men screaming somewhere, voices calling for help in Volarian mingled with the odd gurgling sound that accompanied a sinking ship.

“Indeed, my lord,” she called to Banders. “A landing is overdue.”

The ship sat on the beach like some great wounded beast, her masts sheared away and much of her sides stripped of timber, exposing the complex web of beams that somehow contrived to hold her together. It was Benten who recognised her as the Fief Lord Sentes ; his sea-trained eyes had a knack for discerning the slight differences that distinguished one ship from another. “Seems sheʼs been driven too far up the beach to be taken off by the tide,” he said. “Itʼs a marvel sheʼs still in one piece.”

The short voyage to the bay had yielded only five ships from the thirty that had sailed with Lady Reva, all severely damaged and barely afloat, though their precious cargo of troops and supplies were mostly intact. The Sentes brought the total to six, but she could hardly be described as seaworthy. In all just over two-thirds of the Queenʼs Fleet had survived the storm, though casualties had been heavy and the battle with the Volarians had claimed at least another thousand lives. Although Lyrna saw the flush of victory of many faces, she knew the battle had in fact been indecisive, Ship Lord Ell-Nurin estimating they had captured or sunk no more than half the Volarian fleet.

“Whoever commanded them was wise enough to withdraw under cover of night,” he surmised. “One of our scout ships reported seeing sails on the southern horizon.”

She took the first boat to the shore, overriding all objections with a silent glare. The time for caution had died in the storm. For all the acclaim shouted at her from the surrounding ships as the boat wended its way towards the beach, she knew their morale would still plummet like a stone when the reality of their situation became apparent. They need to see a queen.