Premer Doralin stood on the bow of the ship, his smile broad as his eyes gazed over the breadth of his fleet of ships. The lookout, high above the deck of the ship, had just reported that the peaks of the Wytung Mountains had been sighted on the horizon. The premer immediately walked to the bow so that he would be able to see the peaks as they appeared. He was eagerly awaiting his first view of the mainland when the lookout shouted again.
Doralin gazed upward to see the lookout pointing to the south. The premer turned and gazed to port. Scores of huge ships bobbed atop the water, but he saw nothing amiss. He shielded his eyes from the sun and still could see nothing alarming. He turned and grabbed an officer who was walking by.
“Find out what the lookout is shouting about,” commanded the premer.
As the officer ran off, Doralin returned to gazing at the ships on his left flank. It was an awesome sight to behold as the huge ships rose and fell on the small swells. His mind drifted to the coming invasion, and he tried to picture the foreign city and what it would look like. The premer was deep in thought when the officer returned.
“The lookout has seen the sails of smaller boats,” reported the officer. “He thinks that they might be fishing vessels, but there are a lot of them. He thought you should be informed. Are they to be attacked?”
“Fishing boats?” frowned the premer. “We should not waste our time with them. I want this fleet together when we attack Alamar.”
The officer nodded and left. The premer faced forward again and returned his thoughts to the coming invasion. The fishing boats made his mind think of a peaceful city unaware of the coming storm, thousands of people going about their daily chores. He was well aware from the intelligence reports that the Sakovan armies were preparing for a fight, but he wondered if the citizenry had even been told of the coming mayhem.
The lookout shouted once more, and Premer Doralin gazed skyward. Again the lookout pointed to the south, but the man was obviously more frantic this time. Doralin turned to his left and raised his hand to block the sun. He could see the sails of the smaller vessels now as they came closer to his armada.
“Fools,” commented a voice as it came up alongside the premer. “Those small boats will be crushed if they get in the way of these huge ships.”
“Any sailor should know that, General Valatosa,” nodded the premer as he acknowledged the man next to him. “Can these Sakovans really be that stupid that they would put such small craft in front of this armada? I don’t think so. I think we are witnessing something a bit more nefarious than anything we expected. Summon a mage. Be quick about it.”
The small boats moved in close to the armada of behemoths. Premer Doralin watched with morbid curiosity as to what they would attempt to do. His jaw dropped and his eyebrows rose as the first harpoon was fired. The large ship that had been hit suddenly veered to port. Even as he was trying to understand what was happening, several other small boats sent harpoons flying into the large Motangan ships. The soldiers on the first ship hit started jumping overboard by the hundreds. Premer Doralin watched in awe as the floundering ship started to sink lower in the water. Several following ships slowed and started picking up the crewmen from the first ship. When the large ships slowed, they became easier targets for the Sakovans. The premer’s veins began to bulge and his hands curled into fists of rage.
“You require a mage?” asked the man in the black hood as he stopped next to Doralin.
“Send messages to the ships to our south,” demanded the premer. “No ship is to slow down for survivors. All small vessels are to be sunk immediately. Do it quickly. Thousands of lives depend upon it.”
The mage wove an air tunnel and began spreading the premer’s orders. Catapults from some of the ships tried to target the small boats, but the Sakovan crafts were agile, and the catapults had little effect on the enemy. Several more large ships were hit as Motangan archers raced to the rails. The screams and shouts of soldiers jumping from the sinking ships raged through the air. Doralin subconsciously bashed his fist against the rail.
The Motangan archers had better luck than the catapults. A rain of arrows flew into the sea, spearing the Sakovan boats that were within range. Doralin nodded with satisfaction as he saw several small boats floating with dead crews. Still, several more huge Motangan ships started sinking.
“What are your mages doing?” snapped the premer to the mage next to him. “Do they not have spells to counteract this attack?”
“No one has ordered them to attack,” balked the mage.
Premer Doralin turned abruptly, his open hand swinging hard into the mage’s face. The mage staggered backwards for a few paces. He looked up with hurt and rage on his face.
“Thousands of my men are dying out there,” bellowed Premer Doralin, “while your prima donnas stand watching. Order the mages to attack. Now!”
The mage moved away from the premer and immediately began sending orders to the other ships. Doralin turned back to observe the battle. Another half dozen Motangan ships were sinking, but bright fiery balls started soaring through the air as the mages began their attack. The small Sakovan ships started to burst into flames. Doralin nodded subconsciously and felt the presence of someone beside him. He turned to find General Valatosa alongside him.
“That will prove to be a fatal error,” the general said softly. “You should never strike one of Vand’s mages. He may obey you at the moment, but you will be marked for death.”
“I cannot believe those fools would wait for an order to defend themselves,” scowled the premer. “Do they think that conquering the Sakova will be a picnic? If anything, this attack on us shows their resourcefulness. We must never underestimate them.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” commiserated the general. “They have been treated as royalty by Vand, and they have let it go to their heads. Still, you must fully understand their motivations. They would kill Motangan soldiers just as quickly as Sakovan soldiers. They are a society unto themselves. They will not mourn the thousand soldiers that go down with the ship. They will mourn the dozen mages that were on it. They will conspire to see you dead for daring to strike one of their own.”
“My rage was not wise,” nodded the premer, “but I will not concede that it was uncalled for. Gather the rest of the mages on this ship. Call a meeting of them below in my cabin. I will be down as soon as possible.”
“As you wish,” nodded General Valatosa.
After the general left, Premer Doralin walked over to the mage he had hit. He leaned against the rail alongside the man.
“I apologize,” stated the premer. “My actions were uncalled for.”
The mage glared at the premer but did not speak. Doralin watched as the flotilla of small ships fled from the battle. He was glad to see that less than half of them survived.
“Have all of the ships been notified with my orders?” asked Doralin.
“They are all aware of the new instructions,” scowled the mage.
“You are not making this apology easy for me,” frowned the premer. “How can I make this up to you?”
“Striking a mage is forbidden,” spat the mage. “You are not fit to live.”
Doralin smiled tautly and shrugged as he drove the knife into the mage’s back. The mage cried out in alarm, and several sailors turned to see what was happening. The premer hoisted the mage’s body over the rail and tossed it into the sea. He turned to stare at the sailors who had observed the murderous act. One of the sailors ran straight for the premer, and Doralin braced for a confrontation.
The sailor smiled broadly as he approached. He stopped short and bent down to wipe the blood off the deck that had been spilled by the knifing.
“Sorry, Premer,” grinned the sailor. “I guess some of the men must have missed a spot cleaning the deck this morning.”
Premer Doralin grinned and placed his hand on the sailor’s shoulder.
“Hardly possible, sailor,” chuckled the premer. “You men at least are very efficient. You make me proud.”
The other sailors laughed and nodded at the premer as he walked aft. Doralin made his way to his cabin where General Valatosa had the other mages waiting for the meeting.
“Today’s attack on us has demonstrated a deficiency in our planning,” Premer Doralin began without preamble. “The mage corps must be prepared to take independent action when necessary to protect the lives of the soldiers. Absent official orders from me, mages will be allowed to do whatever is necessary to respond to attacks. Are there any questions?”
There were no questions and the premer dismissed the mages. General Valatosa remained after they had left.
“That was hardly a meeting,” frowned the general. “Was that necessary in the heat of battle?”
“It was necessary if they were to be down here when the other mage fell into the ocean,” shrugged Doralin. “In any event, the battle is over. The Sakovans will not try that tactic again.”
“They managed to sink a few of our ships,” frowned the general. “Sounds like it was a win for them.”
“It was,” shrugged the premer, “up until the mages began obliterating the Sakovans. The next time that tactic is tried, not a single one of our ships will be hurt. I want you to get an assessment of our losses, General. Let me know how many men and ships we have lost.”
* * *
Forty-seven skimmer boats floated upon the sea like a field of corks all tied to one another. Their sails were lowered, and the sailors were sad and disheartened.
“We lost a lot of good men today,” grumbled one of the sailors. “The catapults were easy to avoid, but many a friend went down with an arrow in him.”
“The mages were the worst,” griped another. “There is no way we can be useful against those mages. They can blast us out of the water before we get close enough to use the harpoons. We might as well go home.”
“Home?” questioned Formone, a young fisherman from a village north of Alamar. “And just where do you think home is? Yes, we lost fifty-three ships today, but they lost eighteen. Do you know what that means? We killed eighteen thousand of the enemy today. That is eighteen thousand Motangans that will not be available to rape and murder our wives and children. Yes, like you, I mourn the loss of my friends, but I am not about to give up this fight. At least not while I have a boat and weapons.”
“Are you serious, Formone?” asked one of the sailors. “We can’t go back there. Not a single one of us will get close enough to even scratch one of those behemoths. It would be suicide.”
“Maybe not suicide,” countered another sailor. “We could jump overboard if our boat is hit with one of those flaming balls.”
“Into what?” scoffed a sailor. “I am not sure what you were doing on the voyage from there to here, but I saw hundreds of sharks heading for the scene of the battle. No one overboard is going to survive out there. You might as well stay in the boat and burn to death.”
“If you aren’t willing to do what we came out here to do,” declared Formone, “you should give your boat to someone else. I plan to sink as many Motangan ships as I can before I die.”
“You’re nuts,” growled a sailor. “Show me a way to get close to those ships, and I will go with you, but I am not going back just to turn into a clova on a spit.”
“We just have to take them by surprise,” shrugged Formone.
“The last time, they saw us coming from a long ways off,” stated a sailor. “They didn’t understand what we were up to, and that is the only reason we got close enough to do any damage. We can’t do that again.”
“We can at night,” retorted Formone. “We know the direction that they are heading, and now we know their speed. It is simple to plot their location at any given time. We are small enough to sneak in between them without them noticing.”
“That might work,” mused one of the sailors, “but as soon as the first fireball goes off, it will be all over. We will be lucky to get two or three more ships.”
“Not necessarily,” countered Formone. “I suggest that we don’t strike right away. Pass by the closest ships and move further into the armada. As soon as someone notices us, we all fire our harpoons at the closest ships.”
“That might work,” conceded a sailor, “but you do realize what you are asking? We will get quite a few ships that way, but not a single one of us will be returning. We will be in the middle of three hundred ships with mages on every single one of them. We will be trapped.”
“What you say is true,” Formone acknowledged. “It is a one way trip. Because of that, I think each crew should decide this for themselves. Anyone who does not wish to be involved can cut his line to the rest of us right now. Float free and hoist your sails for the journey back to the mainland.”
“What mainland?” shrugged a sailor. “You were right before when you said that we have no homes. None of us are likely to survive this war, yet our actions tonight could save thousands of our friends and relatives. Count me in, Formone.”
Shouts of agreement rippled through the small group of patriots. Not a single man cut himself free from the line tying them all together.
“Alright,” explained Formone, “this is what I see us doing. We will want to strike in the middle of the night when most of their crews will be sleeping. Make sure that both your fore and aft harpoons are loaded and ready to fire. We will sail in groups of ten. The first group will have to penetrate the furthest into the armada. That is going to mean a lot of bobbing and weaving to get there without being seen. The second group will stay back about a thousand paces, and each group will do the same for the one in front of them.”
“We won’t be able to see that far at night,” frowned a sailor.
“I know,” nodded Formone, “but if we start out in proper formation and maintain a like speed, it will be close enough. The point is that we must not end up in a single clump. We must strike ships throughout the armada all at once. Fire your two harpoons and then try to get free. With any luck, one or two us might escape to describe this tactic to someone back home.”
“Aye,” nodded one of the sailors, “there are more skimmers in Fakara. It would be nice to tell them of our errors.”
* * *
The night was dark and foreboding as Formone piloted his skimmer towards the armada. Clouds had gathered overhead and were blocking the moon. Even the behemoths from the Island of Darkness were almost impossible to see. Formone stared ahead into the black of night, straining his eyes to determine if there was a ship in front of him. He couldn’t tell for sure, but the sea was alive with the sound of hulls cutting through the water and the occasional chatter of a seaman carried on the wind.
Formone felt his stern rise high in the water and quickly turned his head. He nearly gasped out loud when he saw the huge bow pushing his tiny skimmer aside. He pulled hard on the tiller and braced himself for the wake of the large ship. With sweat pouring down his brow in the cool night air, Formone adjusted his course to take him deeper into the pack of leviathans.
A short while later, Formone had to jerk the tiller around as one of the wooden whales appeared right before him. He brought his skimmer through a hard ninety-degree turn, his sails falling limp as his starboard rail banged into the hull of the Motangan ship. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled deeply. His partner used an oar to push the bow away for the leviathan, and Formone manned the tiller. Air filled the sails as the skimmer reversed course.
Formone turned again to port to pass behind the Motangan ship. The skimmer bounced wildly as they ran into the wake of the large ship. They rode out the turbulence and then Formone adjusted his course to the west so that he did not fall out of the armada.
For a brief moment, the moon peeked out between the clouds. Formone’s eyes widened with fear and excitement as he saw half a dozen leviathans around him. It was like seeing something on a dark night when a bolt of lightning flashes around you. Unfortunately, the brief glimpse provided by the moonlight also afforded the Motangans the chance to see the skimmers. Shouts immediately rang out from several directions. Formone wasted no time. He immediately pulled on the tiller to point the bow towards the closest behemoth.
“Fire,” he said softly, but urgently.
Formone’s partner did not hesitate. He fired his bow harpoon into the darkness. A tremendous crash of broken wood thundered in his ears as Formone immediately spun his craft to port to avoid the soldiers who would be jumping overboard.
Sounds filled the night as men shouted and hulls burst throughout the armada. Cargo shifted on the decks of tilting behemoths and eerie creaks drifted on the air like the sighs of dying whales. Splashes in the water came from every direction as Motangan soldiers abandoned their sinking ships.
Suddenly, the dark night sky blossomed with the brightness of several suns as intense white projectiles streamed into the sky. It was suddenly as bright as daylight, and the carnage that had only been visible as sounds in the night, became apparent to every set of eyes. Motangan ships all around were in various stages of sinking. Formone gasped as he saw that he and a behemoth were heading for the same spot in the ocean, their bows on a tangential collision course.
Formone fought the tiller as fireballs crisscrossed the sky. Arrows rained down from every angle and the Sakovan heard familiar cries as his friends were cut down. Formone barely won the race with the leviathan, the Motangans’ bow nearly clipping the stern of the skimmer. He exhaled his held breath and let go of the tiller long enough to fire his aft harpoon. He watched in amazement as the metal head burst through the side of the Motangan ship. He was so close to the Behemoth that he saw the smoke rise up inside the hull from the acid that was released by the impact. He knew that within seconds a large hole would burst in the hull. Formone tore his eyes away from the damaged ship and grabbed the tiller.
“Get us out of here,” shouted his partner.
“I am trying,” Formone shouted back. “Load another harpoon in the bow just in case.”
His partner nodded as Formone adjusted course towards the tail end of the armada in hopes that he could escape out the back. He was way too deep into the armada to sneak out the way he had come in. More bright projectiles shot into the air to replenish the light from the dying ones. That was when Formone noticed the behemoths sailing towards him. Not only had he managed to get deep into the armada, but he also managed to strike at its leading edge. Sneaking out the back was no longer an option. Formone turned once again to the south, but the wind was not favorable. Within moments Leviathans were all around him.
“This is it,” Formone said to his partner. “We have one more chance to strike a blow. Let’s make it good.”
His partner nodded silently and manned the harpoon. The huge Motangan ship bore down on them and arrows started to sail through the air, but the Sakovan did not fire the harpoon. He waited patiently until he was sure he would not miss. Formone looked up at the deck of the large ship and saw the archers firing at him. He also saw the black-cloaked mages running forward.
“It has to be now,” urged Formone. “The mages are coming.”
The Sakovan fired the harpoon just as an arrow pierced his skull. Formone watched in rapt fascination as the harpoon blasted through the wooden hull. He felt the arrow hit his chest, but he was not surprised. He smiled as the smoke billowed out of the hole in the behemoth, and then he fell face first to the floor of the skimmer.
* * *
“I want to know the amount of damage,” Premer Doralin shouted. “Get some more of those lights into the sky.”
One of the mages cast a spell and sent a bright projectile screaming into the sky. The premer turned slowly in a complete circle viewing the catastrophic damage inflicted on his fleet. There was not a single quarter where some of his ships were not sinking. He cursed under his breath.
“I want mages to contact every single ship in the armada,” demanded the premer. “Make a list of those who answer and those who do not. I must know the strength of my armies.”
General Valatosa hurried across the deck of the ship and halted alongside the premer. For a moment neither man spoke as they surveyed the devastation around them.
“I would estimate a third of the fleet is gone,” the general said softly. “That still leaves us with two hundred thousand men. That should be more than enough for the task at hand.”
“It should be,” snapped the premer, “providing those nasty little boats don’t return for another bite at us,”
“The ones that attacked us will never be returning,” replied the general. “It was a suicide mission. None of them survived. They didn’t even try to escape like the last time. They kept firing those harpoons until we killed them. You have to admire their courage.”
“I do admire their courage,” nodded the premer, “as well as their cunning in coming back after dark, but this episode makes me more determined to see those people annihilated. We have lost a tremendous amount of good men before this war is even started. I am now anxious to seize Alamar and show these Sakovans what ruthless cunning is meant to be.”
“We will have to slow the fleet soon,” commented General Valatosa. “We are getting close to shore.”
“We will slow,” nodded the premer, “but not before we change our formation. As soon as I get a list of functioning ships, we will guarantee the end of such surprise attacks. I want the fleet tightened up with a column of ships on each flank a distance off from the rest of the fleet. Those columns are to maintain a constant watch for enemy vessels. If an enemy ship passes the column into our fleet, I will hang the captain of the column ship who allowed it to pass.”
“A clever plan,” smiled the general. “We should pass that strategy back to Motanga.”
“I am not ready to report our losses to Vand,” Premer Doralin said softly. “Let us have a victory under our belt before we report in. That will soften the blow of our losses. In the morning we will crush Alamar. Tomorrow evening will be soon enough for a report.”