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.”
Chapter 20. Furies
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.
