Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

Lyrna had joined her Battle Lord on the Realm Guardʼs main practice ground to witness the trial of her Lady Artificerʼs first invention. The broad plain that played host to the Summertide Fair was mostly covered in snow now, troops of conscripts labouring through the drifts a good way beyond the row of targets placed at varying distances from the device. Each target consisted of four Volarian breastplates arranged in a square, Alornis having assured them the device had enough power to pierce their armour.

“The range, my lady?” Count Marven enquired.

“A Volarian ballista can manage about two hundred yards,” Alornis replied, locking the engineʼs thick string in place and stepping back. “Iʼm hopeful weʼll better it. They use wood for their bow staves, we have used steel.” She took a moment to align the contraption then thumped her palm onto a lever. The bow arms snapped forward in a blur, the bolt flying free too fast for Lyrna to track its flight, though the tinny clunk from one of the farthest targets indicated it had found its mark.

“Close to three hundred yards,” Count Marven said with a laugh, bowing to Alornis. “Well done, my lady. A remarkable feat.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I am not yet done. The original Volarian design was slow to load, taking over a minute to loose two bolts. However, I recalled seeing a grain seeder, which gave me an odd notion.” She reached for the windlass again and began to work it, the arms drawing back as the gears rattled anew. “Itʼs all a matter of aligning the cogs,” she explained, grunting a little with the effort. “The gears draw the string back to a certain point whereupon the box on the top releases a new bolt.” A faint clatter came from the engine as she continued to work the windlass. “And the next gear releases the string.”

The bow arms snapped again, scoring another hit on the farthest target. “All one need do is continue to turn the windlass,” Alornis went on, adjusting the engineʼs aim so the next bolt flew towards a different target. “Until the bolts are exhausted, whereupon a new box can be hauled up to replace it.”

She continued to work the engine, loosing bolts at varying trajectories until all targets had sustained a hit. When the last bolt had flown she stood back, perspiring a little despite the cold. “Still some details to work out,” she said, chest heaving a little. “It tends to seize up if itʼs not oiled frequently, and I think I can improve on the design of the bolt-heads.”

“Give me a hundred of those, Highness,” Count Marven said, his tone now entirely serious. “And Iʼll match us against any army the Volarians can field.”

Lyrna went forward to favour Alornis with a soft embrace, planting a kiss on her forehead. “What else can you show me, my lady?”

Illian ducked under the arc of his wooden blade and countered with a jab at his eyes, easily turned before stepping close to trap her arm under his shoulder, pulling her close. “Now what will you do, sister?” he asked in a light tone.

He saw her bite back a retort, features red with frustration, detecting the decision in her eyes a fraction of a second too late. Her forehead connected painfully with his nose, leaving him stunned for the brief moment it took her to wrestle free, her ash sword coming round in a clumsy but fast swipe at his midriff. His wooden blade connected with hers an inch from his chest, deflecting it with a loud crack, then sweeping it aside to thrust into her belly. She grunted from the blow and lowered her sword, chest heaving and eyes dark with resentment.

“Anger is your enemy,” he reminded her, wiping blood from his nose. “A little better this time, but still not fast enough. Practice your scales until midday then feed the dogs.”

She took a deep calming breath before nodding, her tone carefully modulated. “Yes, brother.”

He left her to it and strode across the deck where his company were engaged in their own practice, Draker teaching a trio of their younger members the basics of cutting a manʼs throat. “Gotta get it done in one stroke,” he advised, a beefy arm around the chest of a lanky youth named Dallin, a Renfaelin farmhand rescued from slavers shortly before their time in the Urlish reached its disastrous conclusion. “Forget about finding the veins.” Draker demonstrated the technique with a sheathed dagger. “Just cut deep and draw it all the way around. Then get hold of his hair and pull the head back to open the cut as wide as you can.”

Frentis passed Weaver on the way to the stern, Slasher and Blacktooth at his side as they often were these days, seemingly fascinated by his work. Halfway through the voyage he had abruptly stopped plaiting rope and begun working strips of leather into a tight arrangement fixed onto a circular frame, replying with only a vague smile when asked what he was about. The creation had initially resembled a shallow basket but its purpose had gradually become clear as Weaver fixed straps to the concave side and borrowed pitch from the crew to cover the curving outer surface.

“A fine shield, sir,” Frentis offered, pausing at his side and raising a hand for Slasher to lick.

“A Lonak design,” Weaver replied, an oddly familiar cadence to his voice as he used a large bone needle to thread twine along the edge of the shield. “Though rarely used, since their martial culture is essentially aggressive in nature.”

He continued to work, not looking up as Frentis moved on. Captain Belorath was at the stern, standing as still as the shifting deck would allow, his sextant trained on the horizon. Frentis had no notion of how the device worked or the meaning of the numbers the captain paused to scribble on parchment, but knew it was how he fixed their position on this ocean.

“Seas are calmer today,” he offered. In fact it was the first calm day for over a week; the stories he had heard of the Boraelinʼs tempestuous wintry nature had not been exaggerated.

Belorath replied with a customary grunt, raising his sextant once more. “But the clouds arenʼt. Promises another storm by tomorrow.” He squinted, keeping the sextant level, his eyes tracking to a brief glimpse of the sun through the cloud. “I believe, brother,” he said, consulting the numbers on his parchment. “We are less than two weeks from Volarian shores. Itʼs time a decision was made.”

“Eskethia.” Thirty-Fourʼs finger tapped the chart where a two-hundred-mile-long stretch of Volarian coastline traced from north to south. “One of the last provinces to fall to Volarian rule. The free people there may be less inclined to fight for the empire. Also, New Kethia is home to the largest slave market in the western provinces. Many of the slaves seized in your homeland will still be there, awaiting the winter auctions.”

“Well garrisoned?” Frentis asked him, although it was Lekran who replied.

“At least a division,” he said. “As our friend says, Eskethians are ever resentful at the loss of their sovereignty, though it happened centuries ago.”

Frentis eyed the chart closely, gauging the distance from Eskethia to Volar. Close enough to threaten the capital, but sufficiently distant to ensure any forces sent against us wonʼt have time to return when the queen lands. He raised his gaze to Belorath. “Captain?”

“Itʼs not a shore Iʼm familiar with, may take a while to find a suitable landing site. Luckily the coming storm should mask our approach from their patrol ships.”