Europa (70 page)

Wren watched the Hellan steamers chugging down the river and the marines rowing out from the beaches. It was all very quiet. There were no trumpets or horns, no battle cries or war songs. Just the soft slapping of oars and the sloshing of the waves and the rhythmic churning of the engines.

A single rifle fired, the sound echoing like a dull thud across the water. And then a second rifle fired, and a third. She could see the figures on the decks of the Furies moving along the railings, and she tried to guess which ones were shooting at the marines.

“If that’s the best they can do, this might actually go according to plan,” Tycho muttered. “Damn it. Row faster. Row! Lycus…”

“Don’t worry about your men,” Wren said. “Worrying won’t help them now.”

“Then what should I do?” he asked sharply, nearly snapping at her.

Wren shrugged. “When there’s nothing to do, then do nothing. Wait and see.”

He nodded. “Sorry. I guess you’ve done this before? Omar goes off to fight and you have to wait and watch?”

“Oh no,” Wren said softly. “I’m a vala of Ysland. I fight, too, usually.”

“But not this time?”

Wren felt the bracelets clinking softly on her wrists as she leaned on the window sill. “Especially this time. But I’m going to need your eyes. It’s too bright for me to see very far or clearly. Are the marines doing well? Are they nearly to the ships?”

“No, they’re barely halfway. And it looks like more riflemen are coming up on deck on the Furies.”

The sounds of gunfire popped and pattered like rain in the distance.

“Then maybe we can speed your marines on their way,” Wren said, stepping back from the window. “Keep watching them, and when they reach the Furies, tell me to stop.”

“Stop what?”

Wren raised her arms and she felt Yaga’s silver bracelets hanging loose and wobbly on her slender arms. She focused on her own soul, tightening it like a muscle, bearing down upon herself in her mind.

Woden, guide my hands.

She sent a pulsing wave into the bracelets and the many veins of sun-steel wrapped around them began to resonate. She felt them tremble against her skin, and suddenly all around her there was an electric energy in the air, and a soft breeze began to blow forward, down her arms and away from her finger tips.

Aether. There’s still quite a bit here from the storm last night. Now to see if it’s enough.

“Wren? What are you doing?”

She bit her lip.

Fly!

The aether raced down her arms across the shivering bracelets and blasted out the window and down across the surface of the Bosporus, and when it reached the flotilla of little wooden boats full of marines, it caught hold of the souls of the men, and it
pushed
.

“My God, something’s happening!” Tycho stretched up on his toes to keep his glass fixed on the boats. “They’re flying like arrows over the waves. They’re all holding on to the sides for dear life, bashing and thumping across the water. And they’re about to hit the Furies. No!”

Wren opened her eyes and dropped her arms to her sides, and exhaled the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She blinked and saw that the dark little blurs of the marines’ boats were no longer out in the open water but looked to be huddled up tightly against the hull of the first Eranian ironclad.

Tycho spun to stare at her. “You pushed the boats all the way there!”

“Actually, I pushed the men all the way there. The boats were just long for the ride,” Wren said. “Omar and Vlad should be able to take it from here. I don’t think I can do much else for them at this distance.”

“That was amazing.” The major gazed up at her in admiration.

“Thanks.” Wren slipped her hand around his neck to rest it on his far shoulder as she stood close beside him. For a moment they both stared out at the sea, at the men and ships in the distance, and the Hellan steamers bearing down on the Furies. “I guess they’re on their own now. So, what do you suppose we can do about those skyships?”

“Airships,” he said.

“I’ll call them whatever I want,” she said with a grin. “I’m a witch.”

Omar clung to the side of the little dory as he felt his naked flesh being hurled forward against his clothes, against the wind, against the wood of the boat. And all around him were the pale and terrified faces of young marines clinging right beside him, clutching at the seats and sides of the boat and dragging it along with them as the cold aether wind tossed them across the Bosporus like a skipping stone.

And just as suddenly as it began, it was over. Omar fell flat on his chest across the rear seat and felt the air rush from his lungs. He sat up, gasping. All around him the marines were picking themselves up, prying splinters out of their palms, rubbing bruises, and putting their weapons back into their sheathes and holsters. Wincing, Omar glanced up and saw the sheer steel wall of a ship’s hull less than an arm’s length away.

Thank you, Wren. Well done.

“Everyone, mind your heads if you want to keep them!” He drew his seireiken and the sun-steel blade shone brightly over the sweaty faces of the young marines. Omar slammed the sword into the hull of the Eranian ironclad right down at the water line so the foaming waves started to sizzle and hiss, and a plume of scalding steam flew up past his face, forcing him to duck back. “Now row!”

The marines scrambled into the seats and grabbed the oars and began rowing. In jerks and thrusts, they moved the dory along the side of the warship, dragging Omar’s burning sword straight through the armored hull. When they finally stopped and looked back, there was a melted gash as tall as a man’s hand running the entire length of the ship and they could see water gushing into the dark crack. A deep, echoing boom resounded inside the ship, followed by a series of metallic pings and groans.

“Go, go!” Omar waved at the marines and the marines rowed some more, pulling the dory away from the ship as the behemoth began leaning toward them.

When they were clear of the ironclad, Omar wiped his brow and scanned the scene behind him. Vlad and his marines were almost finished filleting the southernmost Fury while the other Hellan boats spread out in the shadows of the warships to take careful shots at the Turkish riflemen leaning over the railings overhead.

“Looks like the last one is ours,” Omar said. “Bring us alongside her.” The marines grunted in unison and their little dory surged across the choppy waters to the side of the last of the three Furies, and once again Omar slashed the huge ship from bow to stern right at the water line, and soon it too was groaning and listing.

Just as they met up with Vlad’s boat, Omar heard a tremendous moaning echo across the water and he turned to see the first Fury, the first one he had wounded, roll sharply over toward its gashed side. The steel hull smashed down into the waves, sending a great rolling tide across the Strait, and the marines grabbed their seats and gunwales as the small boats leapt lightly on the surge. The sinking ship came to rest at a violent angle with its steam funnels pointed up over the Seraglio Point and every bit of loose gear slid down the deck to tumble into the sea. Ropes and hooks and tool boxes splashed down, as did the Turkish sailors and engineers, though the latter scrambled to grab hold of the hatches and lines and rails on their way into the cold water.

A few moments later, the ship that Vlad had attacked shuddered and groaned as its still-cool boiler came to life and its propellers clawed weakly at the Bosporus. And a moment after that, the warship rolled over completely, plunging its decks below the waves and baring its barnacle-crusted hull to the heavens, its screws spinning wildly in the wintry air.

“I like your plan,” Omar called to Vlad.

The Vlachian prince laughed. “You admire my genius?”

“Well.” Omar paused. “I admire the fact that we’re winning.”

The marines continued firing their revolvers at the sailors on the last Fury, and the sailors continued firing their rifles down at the little boats floating in the warship’s shadow.

Soon this one will be underwater, and we can all go home.

Omar glanced back at the distance sea walls of the palace and waved, wondering if Wren could see him.

When the last Eranian ship began to lean over, the Hellans scrambled to get out of its way. The third warship sank very slowly, listing gently to port and displaying its decks to the palace. On the far side, Omar could hear the Hellan steamers firing their guns at the warship’s exposed hull.

Then one of the marines pointed up at the deck of the ironclad and shouted, “Look there! It’s Koschei!”

Omar squinted up and against the glare of the winter sky he saw the small figure of a man hanging by his legs from a flag pole in the center of the deck. The Rus warrior had regrown his arms and it appeared that, for the moment, no one had any interest in hacking them off again. The sailors on deck were all scrambling to reach the small launches along the railings and the marines were gleefully picking off the fleeing Turks. But no one was minding the dangling Rus man.

When the ship rolls, he’ll be trapped underneath if his legs aren’t cut free.

Omar grimaced.

God only knows how many times he’d have to drown down there in the cold and the dark before he does get free.

The Aegyptian briefly recalled the handful of times he himself had drowned. Most had been in shipping accidents, in storms, and he’d only be gone for a moment or two. Only once had he been intentionally drowned in a fight, but that too had only lasted a moment.

A moment is more than enough.

“Vlad!” Omar glanced at the prince. “I think it’s time we rescued your lost champion.”

The Vlachian nodded and waved his men to row back toward the sinking ironclad and Omar followed suit. When they reached the edge of its shadow, the warship was still high enough above the waves that the marines had to use their hooks and ropes to snag the railing and climb hand-over-hand out of the pitching dories up onto the ironclad’s sloping deck.

Omar waited patiently below, staring up at the sharp edge of the ship for the marines to reappear with the mangy-haired Rus, but instead a single Hellan youth stuck out his head and called down, “He’s chained and locked! We need to find a key!”

Damn my luck.

Omar sighed, took hold of one of the dangling ropes, and began to climb. Every pull made his shoulders ache and his back ache and his legs ache, and when he paused to rest and catch his breath he looked down to see that he was barely a third of the way up. The marines down in the boats were grinning up at him.

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered to himself. “I was climbing ropes when your ancestors were still worshipping Zeus, you stupid children.”

He climbed, and rested, and climbed. When he reached the top, four marines were waiting to help him over the rail, and then to help him up the steep slope of the deck toward the flag pole. He shook off their hands. “I can walk, thank you very much!”

When he finally grabbed hold of the flag pole and stood face to upside-down face with the prisoner, Omar was again out of breath, but he recovered quickly.

“Koschei!”

The hanging man opened his eyes and frowned. “Grigori?”

“What are you doing, just hanging around like this?” Omar grinned. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a war on!”

Koschei frowned a bit deeper and his black eyes flicked from side to side, looking at the marines scattered about the deck. “Where are the Turks?”

“Dead, mostly. Now mind your head.”

“What?”

Omar drew his seireiken and slashed the chains around Koschei’s feet and the Rus man smashed down onto the deck straight onto his head. He flopped over and two of the marines grabbed his arms to keep him from sliding down the deck. But the thick-necked warrior shoved them away and stood up. His thin black hair was plastered to his face with sweat and sea spray, and his black mustache bristled between his scowling lips and his thrice-broken nose.

“You’re looking well,” Omar said. “Care to come to Stamballa with us for lunch? I think they’re serving something with coffee and hummus.”

The Rus immortal cast his black glare left and right. “Is the captain dead?”

“Probably. Why?”

“I’m going to cut off his arms,” Koschei said. “And then I’m going to shove a sword up his ass and set fire to his—”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Omar said with a tired look. “But this ship is about to roll over and sink, so we need to be leaving. Everyone, back to the boats!”

They stumbled down the deck to the railing, and then descended the ropes into the wobbling, wavering boats below. Omar found himself sitting nose to nose with Koschei as the marines began rowing. They angled south away from the sinking ships, but soon turned east to cross the Strait and reach the shores of Stamballa.

“I saw you come across the water,” the Rus man said. “It was very fast. My mother helped you, yes?”

“You could say that,” Omar said. “Although, I have my own mistress of the aether, these days. A very talented young girl.”

“Bah.” Koschei waved his thick, hairy hand. “Children. They know nothing. My mother, she knows everything. How long have you been in Constantia?”

“Three days now.”

“Three!” Koschei grunted and slapped one of the marines in the head. “You see? You little children have two months to rescue me and you do nothing. Grigori comes and he gets me free in three days. This is a man!”

Omar smiled and glanced up at the walls of the palace receding into the distance. The Hellan soldiers were on the move, trooping around the point toward the south tower, toward the approaching airships.

“Grigori!”

“It’s Omar now, actually.”

“Bah. You are always Grigori to me. So, you have seen my mother, yes? How is she?”

Omar winced. “Actually, I’ve been a bit busy with the war and I haven’t been to see Yaga yet. But my apprentice has been to see her and I understand she’s doing just fine.”

“What is this? You haven’t seen her?” Koschei smacked Omar in the face. “Where are your manners? There is always time for manners. You taught me that. You will come see her with me now, when I go to her. She will be so happy to see us both, you will see.”