borne by the breeze, creeping toward the shore.
If there was any sense of formation to the mass of ships, it was not made clear by observation. Instead, they came as a swarm, neither in rank nor file, simply dark-timbered hulls churning through waters that seemed to recoil from the planks as if in revulsion. The fleet was at least as wide as it was deep, with a few sleek vessels drawing away from the vanguard in an undeniable hurry to reach the virgin shore.
The armada was propelled by a storm that seemed to swell in fury as the vessels moved closer to the trembling shores of Nayve. Imagined clouds grew real, and illusory darkness fell like a cloak of twilight as the sun, even in the midst of day, failed to penetrate the escorting vapor of murk. Harpies flew out from the land in great, shrieking clouds, to swirl and cavort through the plumes of smoky befoulment.
In contrast to the shapeless, natural force of the armada, the Metalfleet of Nayve sallied forth in three distinct wings. Each numbered more than three hundred vessels and advanced under full sail in a series of squadrons, twenty or thirty vessels strong. They made a great force in their own right but seemed impossibly small when measured against the vastness of the armada.
The first wing of Nayve’s boats, commanded by the Prussian Fritzi Koeppler, took the lead and stayed the closest to shore. The second, under the Englishman Rudolph, trailed the first by only a short distance, forming up within sight of Koeppler’s sails off the port quarter, somewhat farther out to sea. The third wing was commanded by the Sioux warrior Crazy Horse, and it held farther back and took a course that carried it beyond the sight of land.
Natac could see them all as he once again rode the natural saddle on the back of the great dragon. He could see the Worldfall, more than a hundred miles away in the direction of null, still plunging downward, and he couldn’t help but fear the many vast forces arrayed against his small, green world. From high above they watched the deadly dance of war. They would not remain observers: Regillix Avatar had already consumed the incendiary pellet of saltpeter and limestone that would allow him to belch forth great gouts of fire. Natac was cloaked in a suit of supple leather, including gauntlets over his hands and a mask that concealed most of his face. The material had been imbued with a magical protection by the sage-enchantress Quilene, so that it would protect his flesh from the fiery assaults of the harpies, whose recent arrival over the armada had not come as a complete surprise.
But neither would the lofty pair commit themselves in the first skirmish. Instead, they would watch and wait and strike where they could do the greatest good. For fifty years they had been patient, planning and learning and preparing for this. Natac reflected on that time, on the evolution of this plan, and he still wished they had more time-that the armada had never turned toward Nayve at all.
For decades, the Fourth Circle’s reconnaissance of the enemy fleet had been remote, conducted by sage- enchantresses using Globes of Seeing to watch the black ships. Eventually Regillix Avatar had flown forth, without a rider, for a direct look. The great serpent had swept close above the ghostly ships, learning that the vessels were made of timbers that could snap and buckle just like normal wood. The decks were crowded with ghost warriors who had fired arrows that proved to be real enough to prick skin and pierce flesh. The crewmen were garbed as legionnaires or Vikings, Zulu warriors or veterans of the American Civil War; lately their numbers had been swelled by great corps of Germans, French, Russians, British, and others slain in the Great War that racked the European continent.
As the armada moved closer to the Nayvian coast in later years, Natac-protected as now by a suit of enhanced leather-flew with the giant dragon, observing firsthand the armada he was determined to defeat. They swept close past the ships, enduring volleys of arrows shot from bows and crossbows. They also saw ranks of pikes, swords, and shields, but, thankfully, encountered no firearms among the invaders, nor even any spring- powered weapons comparable to the designs invented by the dwarf, Karkald. Nevertheless, the sheer number of the black ships and the utter lack of fear displayed by the ghost crewmen, were proof enough that the campaign, when it began, would be a desperate affair.
On land, that numberless horde would be like a tide, and Natac doubted that any army in the history of the Seven Circles would be able to effectively resist the attack. Therefore, the greatest hope of success meant that they would have to destroy much of the attacking force while it was still at sea. Violent experiments had shown that the ghost warriors could be wounded, could burn, and could drown just as mortal men. For decades that fleet had remained far from Nayve’s shores, out of reach of the land’s defenders. But for all that time, Natac had known beyond any doubt that this attack was inevitable; he had only lacked knowledge of the place and the time of the onslaught. Now, with the great turn toward land, the Deathlord at last had revealed his hand.
It took all of Natac’s patience to hold his position, leaning outward to peer past the great, scaly shoulder, observing the closing of the mighty fleets. The waiting was over, and he knew that he watched the commencement of the greatest naval battle the Seven Circles had ever known.
Ivan Dzrystyn was born a Cossack, raised to ride across the steppes of the Ukraine. Only two years earlier he had led a band of howling warriors against the Germanic barbarians who had invaded his homeland. Loyal to his czar and courageous beyond all reason, he had led a charge against entrenched machine guns. His shock, when he had found himself in Nayve, subjected to the sensual ministrations of a beautiful, brown-skinned druid named Sari, had quickly been replaced by a fervent enthusiasm to wage war for this new cause-a cause that rendered all of Earth’s wars, by comparison, into trivial squabbles.
Sari was with him now, spinning a powerful wind in the cockpit of their sleek sailboat, the Kiev pulling them slightly forward of the rest of Fritzi Koeppler’s wing, leading all the vessels of Nayve as the immense battle was joined. The Cossack smiled, a fierce grin splitting his flowing black beard as he realized that he would have the honor of striking the first blow in the defense of his new homeland. He crouched in the bow behind the weapon that looked like a large, primitive crossbow, but it was not at all primitive, as Ivan had discovered in mock combat.
“Faster, Sari!” he shouted. “Don’t let the bastards get in front of us!”
Wind exploded past as she heeded his call, and the Kiev leapt forward, a flying fish seeking to gain purchase in the air. They coursed past the bows of the first death ships, with those black sails looming high, still a mile away to port. Black clouds rose above those ships like tactical thunderheads, while a froth of brown water churned ahead of the enemy vanguard, a small tsunami surging in escort of the befoulment. In the opposite direction, just a fringe on the starboard horizon, the coastline of Nayve lay in wait.
“That one,” muttered Ivan, seeing one of the black-hulled ships surging into the lead, marking a course that would take it across his bow. Turbulence frothed in a wide V from the prow, and the small sailboat rose up as it struck the foaming crest. Ivan felt the boat rock up and over the wave, then lurch violently in the rough waters beyond. A thick miasma choked his nostrils, like the stink of a charnel house, but he fought the instinct to gag as he held on to the weapon and tried to draw a bead. He crouched behind the steel battery, hand on the trigger as he aimed at the enemy vessel’s broadside.
The Cossack glanced at the missile in the slot of his weapon, the metal shaft shining with a silvery glint, though Ivan’s reflection looked dark and murky in the strange twilight. The steel head was sharp and barbed, like a monstrous harpoon, while the tail of the shaft was feathered with bright plumes to insure the accuracy of its flight. Most unusual of all were the four vanes, thin triggers of aluminum, which jutted perpendicularly from different locations on the shaft. These were the burners-at least, that’s what the dwarf had called them-and when they were bent by impact, the shaft of the missile would supposedly ignite into a dramatic fireball. It had been tested on targets with satisfying results but never before used in war.
It pleased Ivan that he would be the first to discover if the device really worked.
The death ship before him was tall and wide in his sights, perhaps a half mile away now. He noted that the craft had three masts, each with three or four black sails aloft; in shape, it was not very different from the largest sailing vessels that he had seen on the Black Sea or making way up the Bug toward the city that was his sailboat’s namesake.
His introspection quickly gave way to the need for action, as the target seemed to grow to vast proportions before him. He pulled the trigger, felt the metallic twang as the powerful spring sent the steely arrow hurtling forward. The missile flew gracefully, and it seemed as though time slowed enough for him to enjoy every detail: the bristling vanes, sparkling wickedly in the pale sunlight, rotated smoothly as the feathered tail kept it on a true course. Climbing slightly-he had aimed high to adjust for the long range-the steel shaft curved gently through the top of an arc and angled downward, striking the death ship exactly in the center of the hull.
The arrow disappeared through the planks, and Ivan blinked in astonishment, unable to discern whether or not it had even made a hole in the black surface. Had it failed? In the next instant, he was rewarded by a flash, white light outlining the middle of the ship. Smoke puffed upward, followed by a blossom of orange flame roiling
