Down to the Sea

ONE

Hanaga tu Zartak, the Qarth of the Blue Banner of the Kazan, left his stateroom and strode onto the foredeck of his flagship, the great battle cruiser Halanaga. A triumphal roar, echoing from half a thousand of his followers, greeted his appearance; clenched fists raised heavenward in salute.

His gaze swept the assembly, and then he lifted his eyes to the fleet of nearly a hundred ships, which even now was steaming out to sea. Fast-moving frigates plowed through the curling waves, spray soaring up, catching the early morning sun in what seemed to be showers of bright red rubies cascading across the decks. Billowing clouds of black smoke coiled from stacks, whipping out to windward, and water foamed up from astern as the frigates leapt forward to take position at the van of the armada.

Behind them rode the armored cruisers, several of the older ships still sporting masts, which this morning were stripped of sails. And finally came his ship and the five other great battle cruisers of the fleet of the Blue Banner.

Crevaga Harbor, known to the human cattle who inhabited it as Crete, already lay astern, the smoking ruins of their city a beacon that he knew would draw the fleet of the Red Banner as surely as the scent of rotten carrion drew the eaters of the dead. The human city had been under the direct control of his brother since its coal mines were a precious source of fuel for his fleet. The maneuvers of the last six months, the sweeping of the Cretan Isles, the destruction of his brother’s base of supplies and human slaves, had changed the course of the war, shifting the balance back to his favor. The long-anticipated final confrontation would be today, deciding whether he would hold the throne or his brother, Yasim the Usurper, would gain ascendancy.

The roaring cheers of his faithful echoed and reechoed, picked up by the other ships cruising nearby. A light frigate, racing at full steam, cut across the stern of his ship, plowing through the wake, bow shooting high into the air to come crashing down in an explosion of spray. The Shiv warriors, humans bred by the Holy Order of the Shiv, lined the deck with raised fists, their distant cries echoing.

He acknowledged their salutes, but his heart turned cold at the sight of them. The Order had been the one winner throughout this conflict, which had pitted the family of Zartak against itself. Five brothers had turned against one another, and now there were only two, Yasim and himself. But always the cult of the Shiv had been there, claiming holy neutrality and slowly gaining in power.

He had paid handsomely for their services, draining his coffers for warriors and for the assassins who had dispatched two of his brothers and various cousins. Once today was finished, there would be the reckoning with the Shiv. It was already planned, and he would see it through to its bloody conclusion.

He looked over his shoulder at the temple room, located just aft of the forward bridge. Hazin, his personal priest from the Order, had stepped on to the bridge, trailed by a steaming cloud of sweet-smelling incense. In his hands was the Holy Gir, the text of the Prophet Vishta, He who had walked between the stars.

As Hazin held the book aloft, all fell silent. Many fell to their knees and lowered their heads as Hazin, in the ancient tongue, called for the blessing. Hanaga endured the ritual. It was, after all, part of the game of power. The prayer finished, he stood back up and lowered his head to kiss the sacred text then turned to face the assembly.

“Today is the day we will claim victory!” he cried, and lusty cheers greeted his words.

“Today is the day we have striven for, the day that shall end the bitter strife caused by all those of my clan who wish to claim the empire. After today, my comrades, there shall be an end to it. We shall go home and again know peace.”

“Signal from frigate Cinuvia, my lord.”

One of the signal commanders stood respectfully at his side, hesitant to interrupt. Hanaga nodded for him to continue, even while cheer after cheer echoed up from the foredeck.

“Enemy fleet of seven battle cruisers in sight.”

Hanaga turned and looked at the assembly of staff officers gathered around him. “Was it not as I said it would be? The fleet of the Red Banner has taken our bait. Today, my comrades, we shall see my brother defeated-”

“Sire, there’s more,” the signal officer interrupted.

Hanaga looked over at the aging, gray-pelted officer, a loyal warrior who had stayed by his sicte when so many others had gone to the Usurper. He could sense the tension in his voice.

“Go on.”

“Sire, frigate Cinuvia also signals a report, a message dropped from a scout airship. Behind the fleet of the Red Banner, the White Banner fleet of your cousin Sar approaches as well, and is fifteen leagues to the southeast behind the Red fleet.”

Stunned, Hanaga said nothing. A lifetime of intrigue had taught him to make his face a mirror of indifference, and yet, those who knew him noticed the intake of breath, saw the nervous flicker of his eyes as he struggled for control.

He nodded, looking away, wondering how many other ships’ captains were, at this very instant, reading the same signal flags. When this day was finished, if she still lived, he’d gut Cinuvia’s captain for being either a fool or a traitor bent on shattering morale.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Hanaga finally replied in a soft whisper. “Let my cousin join my brother. Fifteen leagues gives us three hours before they come in range. We will smash my brother before they arrive. We will settle it today.” He scanned those gathered about him. “Settled here, now!”

All were silent.

“To your stations my andu, my brothers of blood. Not a word to those beneath you that Sar has betrayed us.”

The officers silently departed the bridge while pipers sounded the call to battle stations. The lower ranks, still ignorant of the news, cheered lustily as they ran to their stations.

Hanaga raised his glasses, training them forward. Yes, he could see the lead ships of his brother’s fleet on the horizon, which was dark with smoke. They were coming on fast. He wondered if their coal bunkers were nearly empty.

The voice of prudence whispered to him to pull back. The island behind him lay in smoking ruins. The vast stockpile of coal, hundreds of thousands of tons, enough to fuel the entire fleet for a month, was a raging inferno. The column of smoke was a beacon visible from a hundred miles away.

Pull back, draw him out. His troops occupied the hills above the town and would prevent any attempt at mining. But if his cousin had indeed betrayed him and switched sides, he could not hesitate. He had to destroy his brother today.

Damn Sar. Chances were that he would switch sides yet again, going over to the winner of this fight. To pull back now would show fear, and Sar would then join Yasim for certain.

An aerosteamer swept through his view for a second, trailing smoke. The air battle, which had been raging since before dawn, continued above the fleet. He lowered his glasses. The airship was several miles off, flame licking along its portside wing. Several Red Banner planes trailed it, weaving back and forth, flashes of light flickering from their forward and topside gunners. The burning ship’s port-side wing folded in, and the plane spiraled down, smacking into the sea. The Red planes broke off, dodging outside the range of a frigate’s guns, water spraying up several hundred yards short. The planes spiraled upward, gaining altitude.

Annoying flies, Hanaga thought, rarely capable of damaging a battle cruiser but bothersome nevertheless. He trained his glasses back on the horizon. It was difficult to discern, but he thought he could see the observation tower of a battle cruiser, a dot between sea and sky. The horizon, for the breath of a hand span, was black with smoke that continued to spread, sign enough that the entire fleet was approaching.

His frigates, storming forward at nearly fifteen knots, were now more than a league ahead and spreading out, while the cruiser squadron moved to windward, staying in formation, line abreast.

Walking to the railing he looked aft, back toward Crev-aga. The human city was in flames, marking the immolation of a hundred thousand, a city which had been part of his traitorous brother’s original fiefdom. So much for Yasim’s protection. It had fed the warriors of his fleet in an orgy of feasting that had lasted three days and nights.

The bridge around him was cleared, all having respectfully withdrawn, and he saw the priest of the Holy Order. He beckoned Hazin to come to his side.

“You assured me that the Grand Master had taken care of Sar,” he snarled, keeping his voice low so no one would hear the exchange.

“I did, Your Highness.”

“I emptied my treasury to your Order. Yesterday, when we assaulted this city, your precious Shiv warriors failed to arrive as promised.”

“Sire, you know a storm swept south of here. It delayed the transports.”

“And now Sar has joined my brother? To many coincidences, priest. Too many.”

“Sire, I can assure you that the Order honors its contracts.”

“Hanaga sniffed derisively. “If I believed all you told me, Hazin, I’d have died years ago. I do not believe in coincidences. I paid more than thirty million to the Grand Master to use the Shiv and thus spare my troops, and another thirty to assure that Sar either joined me or was killed.”

“And I can promise you he has joined you. Yes, his fleet sails behind your brother’s. And why? Wait until battle is well joined and you will see.”

Hanaga turned and caught the eye of his officer of the guard, motioning him to come over as well. “I have been assured by this priest that Sar is on our side.”

The guard, well understanding the tone of his master, said nothing, waiting for what came next.

“If Sar’s ships open fire on us, I want you to cut his heart out.”

Hazin’s gaze did not waver. “I can assure you, sire,” he whispered, “such theatrical statements are a waste of time for both of us. You will see the truth soon enough.” Ignoring him, Hanaga turned away, raising his telescope to scan the approaching fleet.

The smoke on the horizon continued to expand outward. The observation tower of a battle cruiser now rose well above the horizon, and he saw more tops as well. The range had to be less than seven leagues.

Hanaga turned to an aide and told him to pass the word to the master gunner to be certain to lay on the lead battle cruiser.

Speed dropped off slightly as steam was diverted from the engines to power the six armored turrets, two forward, two amidships and two aft. The ponderous turrets slowly began to turn to port, then back to starboard, testing their traverse. As they did, the single heavy gun in each turret rose, then lowered. The lighter turrets, lined up below on the lower gun deck, did the same, but these were powered by the muscle of a half dozen crew turning the traverse cranks.

Atop the main turrets, gunners handling the steam-powered multiple-barrel guns were busy loading clips of ammunition. Spotters were scanning the skies overhead, watching as aerosteamers dodged in and out, skirmishing, jockeying for position.

Another one came spiraling down, this one with the distinctive fork-tailed stem and single main wing of a Red Banner plane.

“Sire, may I point out that if Sar was not fulfilling his obligation, he’d be sailing with your brother. Instead, he is farther back,” Hazin whispered, daring to come to Hana-ga’s side.

Hanaga felt a cool uneasiness that the priest stood so close to him. The Order of the Shiv, once just another cult, was now a power to be feared even by those of the Golden Family of the Throne. After all, it was he who had first used them to murder his elder brother for control of the throne. Hazin had been the instrument behind that first arrangement and during the last twenty years of conflict Hazin had stayed by his side.

“I would interpret this as meaning that Sar is coming on at full steam,” Hazin continued, whispering softly. “Your brother is trying to avoid action with him and close with us first. This is not betrayal, it is fulfillment of an agreement.”

Hanaga looked over. Yes, the priest did have the “sense,” the at times unnerving ability to read minds. It was why he made such an excellent truth sayer, one who could read the thoughts of the unwary, who were not aware that a Master Priest of the Order often hid behind the throne at audiences.

He could sense the priest’s eyes looking at him, piercing, as if gazing straight into his soul. He knew the priest was trying to gain an advantage, and he held his gaze for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

“There is a game within a game, priest, and at this moment I shall simply carve straight in and see if Tenga”-as he said the word of the Immortal, he briefly lowered his head-“is with me or not.”

The priest smiled. “I never knew you across all these years to be religious. You use me as you use anyone else.”

“Yet I once called you a friend.”

He allowed himself to smile when he spoke the word friend. It had indeed been true. They were of the same age. Hazin, of a minor family, had been sent to be a playmate and companion before going off to join the Order. The Order had returned him, ten years later, to serve as adviser and liaison to a brother who would murder a brother and thus start the bloody civil war that had consumed the Empire.

“Once?”

“You have your path, I mine. Besides, did you not once tell me that only fools have friends, and emperors who are fools do not live long?”

“No, you still have friends, My Emperor. The difference is, at least with your friends, if you should decide to dispose of them, you give them a painless death.”

Hazin smiled. “Your offer to have my heart cut out rather than consign me to the amphitheater, is that a mark of friendship in our world?”

“If I want to be emperor, I need first of all to be ruthless, even to friends if need be. You told me that as well more than once. ‘The greater the power you seek, the fewer you should allow yourself to love. For ultimate power, let no one into your heart.’ Thus it was written by Batula the Prophet.”

Hazin smiled. “I taught you that, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

The emperor continued to stare at Hazin for a moment, as if trying to judge something, and then he turned away, deliberately focusing his attention on his brother’s fleet, drawing closer. The hulls of the battle cruisers, and even of the frigates, were clearly in view. The range was less than four leagues.

Behind him, the bridge crew was at work. The master gunner was quietly communicating via a speaking tube with the range finders perched inside the observation platform, which soared a hundred feet above the bridge. Receiving the report, he then pulled open another tube and passed the information on to the turrets, where gun elevations were being set. Technically, the two fleets were already within range. The heaviest guns were easily capable of reaching across four leagues. But no one had yet to master the two problems of long-range gunnery: firing weapons from the unstable platform of a ship’s deck and hitting a moving target.

Hazin left Hanaga’s side and went into his small temple. He emerged a minute later leading a human male-one of the Shiv.

Hanaga looked at him warily, as all of his race did, for the Shiv, though of the human cattle species, were not quite of them. The Order had experimented for ten generations to breed humans into the ultimate warriors of the Empire; the ultimate sacrifice to please the desires of Tenga. There were rumors that, on the island headquarters of the Shiv, the breeding of the race had been expanded to those of the ancient blood as well.

This human stood far taller than the unbred cattle, though not as tall as those of the blood of the Hordes. His face a pale olive, the skin an amalgamation of all the various subspecies of cattle since the breeders of the Order sought from all the human races the prime examples of physical strength and endurance, which they then bred. This specimen was, even for the Shiv, perfection: muscles clearly defined, powerful as it stood naked, a light sheen of sweat covering its body.

It stood motionless, showing not the slightest trace of fear.

Hazin stepped before him, drawing a razor sharp blade, which glinted in the sunlight, and held it before the Shiv’s eyes.

“Do you see what I hold?”

“My liberation,” it whispered in reply.

Hazin nodded and started his ritual chant in the ancient tongue, the Shiv joining him in the prayer. Many of those on the bridge looked over with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

The prayer finished, Hazin handed the dagger to the Shiv and stepped back. Without hesitation, it reversed the blade and cut its own throat, slashing with such force that Hanaga could hear the grinding of the honed steel against backbone.

Amazingly the sacrifice stood motionless, barely flinching as blood sprayed out, striking Hazin, spattering across the deck.

The Shiv continued to stare at Hazin, and he actually showed the flicker of a smile as the priest extended his hand and covered the victim’s eyes.

Finally, its legs buckled and the body fell, the dagger falling from its hand. A murmur of approval arose from the bridge crew; the sacrifice had been a good sign.

A halyard was looped around its feet by two novitiates of the Order who scurried out of the small temple, features cloaked by their robes. Grabbing the other end of the rope, they hoisted the body up, wind blowing the spray of blood out across the deck, stopping at last beneath the gunnery control tower where it hung limp, swaying as the ship cut through the foaming seas. The same ritual was being performed on every other ship of the fleet.

“Lead enemy ship has opened fire!” One of the bridge crew, glasses still raised, was pointing directly forward. Hanaga raised his glasses and caught the puff of smoke drifting from the forward deck of the lead ship of the Red Banner fleet.

Long seconds passed, and then he heard the low shrieking moan as the first shell winged in. From the sound he could tell it was off to windward. A tremendous geyser of water lifted up a quarter mile to starboard. Jeering laughter erupted from the topside deck crew.

It was meant as a challenge, nothing more.

His own battleships were ranging line abreast, half a mile separating each, leaving them plenty of room to maneuver while the armored cruisers continued to angle out to port, moving forward of the main battle van.

Ahead, the frigates were beginning to engage, and splashes of water rose from the first salvos. A lucky shot from the Red fleet caught one of his frigates amidships. A dirty gray plume of smoke erupted, followed a second later by a burst of steam exploding from the ship’s single stack.

“Master gunner announces we are within range, sire.”

Hanaga looked back into the armored bridge. The eyes of the helmsman, pilot, and chief communications officer were barely visible through the narrow slit cut in the foot-thick cupola of iron. He looked forward. The distance was two leagues, but the sea was nearly calm. There just might be a chance.

He nodded approval. Stepping back from the railing, he opened his mouth and covered his ears.

A steam whistle blasted, signaling the ship’s crew that the heavy guns were about to fire. A second later the four guns forward opened up, each launching a shell weighing over a quarter of a ton. The entire foredeck was instantly cloaked in a boiling yellow-gray cloud of smoke from the three hundred pounds of black powder that set each shell on its way. The entire ship seemed to freeze in position for a second, even to surge backward. The blast of fire tore the hood from Hazin’s head and swept over the jet black mane of Hanaga. He gloried in the sensation of the raw power as the most powerful weapon his race had forged on this world in a thousand generations unleashed its strength.

Screams of incoming shells tore overhead. Four of them impacted several hundred yards astern. Another exploded as it struck the water a quarter mile forward and slightly to port. Following the signal from the flagship, his other battle ships opened fire as well.

“Strikes forward of flagship,” a spotter shouted, eyes still glued to the oversize glasses mounted to the forward railing. “Three impacts spotted, two hundred paces short, can’t see the fourth. Enemy battle ships returning fire.”

“My lord, perhaps we should move inside,” Hazin announced, and Hanaga readily agreed. It was one thing to make the heroic display at the very start, but in seconds half a hundred shells would come raining down around his ships.

He stepped into the iron cupola, and even though the afternoon was not uncomfortable, the inside of the cupola was stifling hot.

The tension was tangible as the seconds dragged out. Even inside the cupola he could hear the scream of a shell passing overhead and then another. A towering fountain of water exploded just a hundred paces ahead, sending a shock through the entire ship. The iron grating beneath his feet lurched. More geysers soared, some three hundred or more feet into the air, one so close that a cascade of water showered the deck, dropping bits of coral from the ocean floor.

Everyone was blinded for long seconds amid the confusion of sea water and smoke. Then they were clear, afternoon sunlight flooding into the cupola through the narrow view port.

Directly ahead, less than a mile off, the swarming battle of frigates was in full swing. One of Hanaga’s ships was heeled hard over to port, deck already awash, survivors leaping into the foaming sea. Seconds later another simply exploded, magazine detonating, lifting the entire foredeck straight up and peeling it back from the hull, which blossomed outward. Fragments of iron and broken bodies tumbled hundreds of feet into the air.

Finished with the laborious task of reloading, the first forward gun fired again, followed seconds later by the second turret. Below deck, he could hear the secondary batteries opening up, pouring their shot into the frigate battle.

The frigate action was starting to get close, and several of the topside steam-powered machine guns opened up.

It was time to shift into battle-line formation, and he passed the order. Seconds later he felt the ship heeling beneath his feet. Forward, the massive turrets swung in the opposite direction, ready to fire a broadside. A cheer echoed up from below as the gunners amidships and astern finally saw something to shoot, the long closing to range finished at last.

“All primary guns, fire on the Red flagship,” the gunnery master cried. “Secondaries concentrate on the closest enemy frigates.”

The ship erupted in an inferno of noise. Steam hissed from turrets and the light machine guns. The thunder of the great engines below pounded rhythmically, secondary guns firing with sharp reports, and every few minutes one of the guns in the heavy turrets exploding with a thunderous roar that shook the entire ship.

“Asaga’s in trouble, sire!”

Two of the enemy frigates were bearing straight down on the battle cruiser, which was the sister ship of his own vessel. Chances were, they were mistaking it for the flagship. Hanaga braced, fists clenched, a silent curse on his lips.

Asaga’s main guns were fully depressed, slowly turning to bear. Its secondaries raked the frigates. Explosions detonated across the armored foredeck of the lead enemy ship, blowing its forward turret clean off. A thunderclap of light ignited, and the enemy frigate lurched, explosions ripping across its decks. The ship then shuddered, turning away.

The second frigate, however, emerged out of the smoke and confusion. Racing in without hesitation, it slammed into the starboard bow of the Asaga. A huge mine set in the frigate’s ram below the waterline blew.

The two ships actually leapt out of the water from the detonation, the entire forward half of the frigate disappearing. Asaga’s bow seemed to hang in the air for a second, and then it mushroomed outward. The explosion had snapped through its lower decks, penetrating into the forward magazines, which held nearly four hundred tons of shells and black powder.

The force of the explosion, even from half a mile away, stunned Hanaga. The men in the armored cupola staggered backward from the force of the blow. The forward hundred feet of the Asaga disappeared. The barrel of a five-inch gun, weighing several tons, came spinning out of the cloud of debris, slamming across the deck of the flagship, punching clean through the armor until it stuck out like a broken bone.

The aft end of the dying battle cruiser rose, then came crashing back down. Its forward momentum drove the ship forward ramming hundreds of tons of water through shattered decks and dragging the ship under. The stern lifted up, propellers still spinning, even as the boilers filled with water, exploding.

More detonations convulsed the ship as it corkscrewed. Aft turrets popped from their mounts. A hundred tons of iron and steel dropped, crashing into the water. The crews, if still alive inside, undoubtedly had been smashed to bloody pulps by the blow.

What was left of the ship went straight down. Air, raw steam, and flotsam jetted out of the broken armor plates and the open turret mounts. The stem disappeared beneath the boiling waves, and then, several seconds later, another explosion erupted, blasting part of the stem back out of the water as the aft magazines blew. The shock of the explosion raced through the water, sending a thunderbolt shock through the decks of the flagship.

The Asaga was gone. From the time of the ramming till all was destroyed had been less than thirty seconds…and a thousand of Hanaga’s finest sea warriors were lost.

The flagship had continued to turn, and the disaster was now astern. Five of Hanaga’s six turrets were engaged. The enemy van steamed in the same direction less than six thousand yards off while the insane swirl of the frigate battle raged between them. Both sides tried to block the other from closing while wanting, at the same time, to dash through and make their suicidal runs on the enemy battle cruisers. The light armored cruisers had joined the straggle as well. Both of the fleets having run to windward now turned in on each other.

He saw his first clear hit on an enemy battle cruiser, not the flagship, but still a deadly strike, lifting a forward turret clean off. Massive geysers rose hundreds of feet high, churning the turquoise water into a foaming maelstrom of dark sand, coral, and thousands of dead fish.

The two fleets raced on for several leagues, gradually angling in closer, leaving the frigate battle astern.

“Our flyers, my lord!”

Hanaga ran to the starboard side and peeked out through the open viewing slit. He had kept hidden a hundred aero-steamers, based on land and far heavier than the flimsy handful of planes launched from the rocking deck of a ship.

The airships swept in, hugging the water, several passing dangerously close to his own ship. When his forward turret fired, the shock of the passing shell tore a wing off of a plane. It flipped over, spiraling out of control and crashed into the sea.

The air fleet pressed forward, spreading out.

“Damn! They are not concentrating!” Hanaga cried, looking over at his signals officer. “Can’t you order them to concentrate on the flagship!”

“My lord, in all this confusion, they’ll never see the signal flags!”

“Try, damn it, try!”

Ignoring the danger, he stepped out of the aft hatch of the cupola and came around to the forward bridge. Part of the railing was gone, scorched black, and he noticed a greasy smear, what appeared to be the charred remnant of a leg that had slammed into the side of the cupola and lay broken and flattened on the deck.

— The aerosteamers continued forward and then, to his stunned disbelief, the first airship dropped its bomb a good mile short of the enemy fleet. It pulled up sharply and banked away. One after another the aerosteamers unloaded. Forming up after their leader, the airships started to climb, moving clear of the battle.

Only a handful of the airships pressed in, and all of them were torn apart by the firepower of the Red fleet’s steam machine guns.

Hanaga stood silent, glasses trained on the lead airship. He thought he could almost see the pilot, the master of his air fleet, and wondered if he was laughing.

“Your brother most likely got to him,” Hazin sighed. “I tried to warn you about that.”

“Masterful,” Hanaga whispered. “He must have reached him moons ago. A plan within a plan.”

“You would have done the same.”

Hanaga nodded, and then, letting his glasses drop, he slammed a fist against the side of the cupola. “But those were my airships!” he cried. “I’ll have the air master’s head on a spike for this!”

“If we survive,” Hazin whispered. “My lord, we are already outnumbered by the Red fleet alone. The air strike was your main hope. That is finished.”

Hanaga waved him to silence. If they had turned traitor, why not bomb his own ships? That was curious. Most likely the air master could not get the pilots to agree to a full betrayal and instead simply went for neutrality. Damn them all.

“Signals officer. Order all battle cruisers to turn straight into the enemy line!”

He looked back toward the armored cupola. The officer stood within, wide eyed. All had seen the betrayal of the air fleet and, with it, the dashing of their hopes for this day. With Asaga gone, the odds were now three to two against them, and on the distant horizon to the southeast the dark smudge of smoke, marking the advance of Sar’s fleet, was spreading out. Most likely the fleet was already in view from the upper gunnery control tower.

The officer still hesitated.

“Do it!” Hanaga roared.

The terrified face of the signals officer disappeared. Seconds later, a small top hatch on the cupola opened and the flags raced up on a halyard, catching the breeze, snapping out as they reached the base of the gunnery tower a hundred feet above the bridge.

A heavy shell came screaming in, the wind of it nearly knocking Hanaga over. It slammed into the water barely a hundred yards off the starboard rail. The shock of the explosion washed over him. He ignored it, his glasses trained on the enemy battle line.

The helm, responding to his command, sent the eighteen thousand tons of ship into a sharp, graceful turn, water slicing up from the bow, deck heeling over. As they straightened out, the forward turrets fired, the smoke temporarily blinding him.

Yellow gray clouds whipped past, and looking to port, he saw that all but one of his surviving battle cruisers had followed orders and were turning straight into the enemy fleet.

The maneuver had cut his effective strength nearly in half for now only the forward and middle turrets could bear on a target, while his enemy’s stem turrets could continue to fire. The maneuver had, at least for the moment, thrown their aim off, for the next salvo of shells arced high overhead, crashing down a half mile astern, and hitting where the fleet would have been if they had continued on their parallel course.

The battle of the light cruisers was almost directly ahead. The ships were slashing at one another at ranges of less than a thousand yards. A Red fleet cruiser disappeared in a monumental explosion. One of Hanaga’s frigates rammed another, blowing off the ship’s stem. The frigate actually survived the blow, backing off, its secondary bow intact.

A high shriek came roaring down from above.

Hanaga flung himself to the deck. The shell struck the flagship just aft of the bridge, detonating on top of the portside, a midships turret, blowing it apart. A shower of debris and choking black smoke blew forward. The only thing that saved his life was the heavy bulk of the cupola between him and the explosion.

He felt something hard slamming against the inside of the cupola.

He staggered to his feet and looked inside it. Wisps of Smoke coiled out of the view ports and then cleared. He felt a shiver of fear. A fragment from the explosion must have cut through the narrow access porthole aft-either that or up through the deck below. The red-hot metal then slashed around inside like a pebble tossed back and forth inside a shaken bottle. Everyone inside was smashed to a bloody pulp.

Another shell arced in, detonating just aft of the stern. The force of the blow raised the back end of the ship, then slapped it down. He sensed immediately that something was wrong, most likely a propeller torn off by the force of the blow or a drive shaft bent.

“My lord, we’ve lost the fighting bridge!” Hazin shouted, trying to be heard above the explosions, firing guns and steam venting from a broken line with the shrill roar of an undead spirit.

Hanaga nodded, still in shock from the force of the blow and the carnage that had been wrought where he had been standing only seconds before.

“The ship will have to be steered from the engine room!”

Hanaga still could not reply. His forward guns fired again, and, looking up, he saw that the enemy fleet was frightfully close, now less than a league away. Gunners were lowering their barrels. Soon they would be firing over open sights, and nearly every shot would tell.

The enemy fleet was holding its line, not breaking off to run. They were accepting the challenge of the suicidal charge.

“Your orders, sire?” Hazin cried.

Another shell screamed in, and he ducked low, flinching as the bolt struck the bow deck. But it hit at such a low angle that its percussion head failed to strike. He saw the massive bolt skid up off the deck and go tearing out across the ocean, tumbling end over end, disappearing into the smoke.

For twenty years I struggled to reach this moment, he thought. How many of my kin have I slain, how many assassinations, how many knives in the back and feasting cups of poison? How many treaties made to be broken, how many hundreds of thousands dead? All for the power of the Golden Throne, holding it against so many of my kin, my own brothers, till only Yasim was left to challenge me. Yasim, of all of them the weakest in moral strength, but also the most cunning. He held back until I had eliminated nearly every other rival, and then he struck.

In a mere glimmer of a moment all had changed. The dreams of dawn were now sinking like the bloodred sun into a bloodred sea.

And my brother will win this day. Damn his soul, he will win.

Hanaga looked back to the southeast. Or will it be Sar, the bastard? He had to smile. Damn, in a way we are all bastards. It does not matter if our fathers took the vow of mating or not. We exist to kill or be killed, to seek the power of the throne of the Kazan Empire and, once there, to slaughter any who might dream to replace us. Birth blood is but an excuse to reach for it. All that mattered in the end was seizing the power and holding it.

Another shell screamed in, this one striking astern, the force of the blow lifting the deck beneath his feet then slamming it down. He raised his glasses and focused it on his brother’s flagship.

No strikes yet. Then he saw what appeared to be a hit, bits of deck soaring up…but no explosion. Why no explosion?

We should have made a dozen hits by now. He saw one fire on an enemy battle cruiser, and that was all.

Why no explosions? Half their ships should be aflame or sinking by now. I have some of the best gunners in the Empire.

“Should we signal the fleet to break off?” Hazin asked.

Hanaga looked around. All was confusion. Several of his battle cruisers were still pressing straight in. One of them was on fire from halfway behind the bridge all the way astern, but its forward guns were still firing.

A brilliant flash of light erupted from the enemy line. A light cruiser exploded, tearing apart from stem to stern, magazines blowing, but the ships of the main van, all of them were still in action. A feeble cheer went up from the topside gunners of his own ship. Their cries were soon drowned out as another shell tore in.

An officer came up and saluted. “Sire, thank Tenga you are alive. Assistant gunner Sutana sent me to find you. He claims that none of our shells are exploding.”

– “I know that. I have eyes, damn it.”

“Sire. Assistant gunner Sutana begs to report that he ordered a shell fuse to be opened, and he discovered that the primer was bent.”

“What?”

The officer lowered his head. “Sire, the primer for the shell was bent so that it would not strike the detonator on impact.”

Hanaga looked at him, unable to speak.

More shells thundered in, a number of them the sharp, whining cracks of the enemy fleet’s secondary batteries. One of them struck the gunnery control tower, and, with a rending crash, the tower tottered and fell to starboard. The shrieks of its crew were cut short as the tower crashed onto the deck astern, piling in with all the other battle wreckage.

“Tell Sutana to install new fuses on all shells as they are brought up from the magazine.”

“Sire, that will delay firing.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Are you suggesting we fire shells that don’t explode instead?”

“No, my lord.”

The officer quickly withdrew, obviously terrified.

An enemy frigate emerged from its confusing battle, which had drifted astern, but was now catching up again with the main fleets. The frigates drove straight at the flagship. The secondary guns below deck trained on this new threat. Topside machine gunners opened up, tracers snaking out across the water, aiming for the bridge.

Hanaga stood silent, oblivious to the slaughter.

Hazin drew close to his side. “Sire, abandon ship.”

“What?”

“Sire, we have been betrayed,” Hazin said forcefully, looking straight into Hanaga’s eyes.

“Yes, betrayed.”

Without waiting for comment, Hazin stepped over to the starboard railing, leaned over and, drawing a red pennant from beneath his tunic, he started to wave it at a frigate that had swung out of the main battle and was now running parallel and slightly astern of the flagship. Within seconds the frigate started to speed up and draw closer.

Hanaga, barely noticing Hazin’s activities, stood silent. Always he had mastered the crisis of the moment, but this was beyond mastery. He had fallen into an elaborate trap. He finally looked over at Hazin, ready to give the order to have his heart cut out, but saw that the executioner he would have assigned was dead, his head blown off.

Another shell detonated astern. He could feel its blast ripping below deck, screams echoing up through the ventilation shafts, followed by bursts of steam.

Guns on both sides were fully depressed, shots angled so low that shells, when striking the water, skipped back up and screamed on. He caught a glimpse of one of his battle cruisers steaming between two of the enemy ships, all guns firing, and then it disappeared again behind the veil of smoke.

The frigate coming in on the starboard side reversed its engines, slowing to match the speed of the dying flagship.

Hazin was again by his side. “Follow me, my lord. Staying here now is suicide. You have to rebuild. There is still the army ashore, which can hold for weeks if need be. And remember, my Shiv will be landing on the opposite side of the island. We can hold, then negotiate with Sar or your brother later. Staying here, you die.”

Hanaga could feel the listing of the ship beneath his feet. It was taking on water astern.

No one was on the bridge other than he and Hazin. A forward hatch popped open, and sailors poured out, some of them horribly scalded, fur and flesh peeling off.

He looked back again at Hazin. “I was betrayed.”

“We have been betrayed, sire,” Hazin replied sharply. “Now, in the name of Tenga, come with me while there is still time. I can save you!”

As he spoke, he pointed at the frigate alongside, barely a dozen feet separating the two ships. A line snaked out from the frigate, and Hazin grabbed it, securing it to the railing.

“Sire!”

A couple of crew members of the frigate had hold of the other end of the rope and were shouting for them to come down.

“There will always be a tomorrow, Hanaga,” the priest said calmly. “Your legend must be rebuilt. The struggle must go on. Sar and your brother will have their reckoning, and you must position yourself to pick up the pieces afterward. Today is but a moment.”

Even as he spoke, the priest grabbed hold of the rope and swung himself over the side. Hand over hand he went down the rope, alighting on the deck, then motioned for Hanaga to follow.

Hanaga hesitated, but then went over the side, slipping down, burning his hands. Even as he reached the deck, the frigate turned off sharply and started to race away.

Hanaga, stunned, looked back at his once proud flagship, victor of a dozen actions, listing heavily, explosions tearing it apart.

Hazin put a comforting hand on Hanaga’s shoulder. “Sire, let’s retire to the captain’s cabin. You need a drink.”

Hanaga nodded, humiliated that he had abandoned his ship, leaving loyal sailors and comrades there to die. He tried to justify it as an action any emperor would take, and yet still it cut into his soul.

Hazin pointed at the hatchway leading into the captain’s cabin.

“You go after me. It would seem unfitting for me to go first.”

Hanaga nodded and stepped through.

And there, on the other side, he saw half a dozen of the Order.

There was a momentary flash of recognition, a realization of how all the pieces of this moment, laid out across years, had finally come to this.

The blow from behind staggered him, propelled him forward into the cabin. He gasped, clumsily reaching toward his back, feeling Hazin’s dagger in it.

Then those of the Order closed in to finish the ritual.

“I trusted you once,” he gasped, looking at Hazin, friend of his youth, Second Master of the Order.

“And that, sire, was always your mistake,” Hazin sighed, an almost wistful note in his voice.

The blows came, one after another, daggers cutting deep, driving in.

He no longer resisted. Weariness with life, with all its treachery, forced him to yield.

Hazin pulled the dagger from Hanaga’s back, held it as if testing the balance, and looked down at the dying emperor.

“The Empire,” Hanaga gasped.

Hazin smiled. It was the last thing Emperor Hanaga of the Kazan saw-someone he had once called friend knelt down to finish the job.