unoccupied land. Less defined was the sea border and, while Ma’ahd had irritably agreed to keep his shipping in Pelasian waters when pressed by his God-King, his interpretation of what constituted ‘Pelasian waters’ was fluid at best.
So the Wind of God had taken it upon itself these past months to patrol the border region between the two powers, making her presence known and making sure she was to be found whenever a Pelasian ship crossed the line, chasing them back into their own territory.
Ghassan and the captain had considered what they would do if ever a Pelasian vessel decided not to run, or if they ever caught up with one while still in their waters. To leave it unmolested would be to invite further incursions, but to attack and sink the vessel might be considered an act of war by the God-King. It was a thorny problem and the compromise had been a decision that, in such circumstances, they would capture a vessel, strip it of anything useful and valuable and then escort them to their own waters before releasing them: a solution nobody could legitimately complain about.
And now it looked as though they would have their first opportunity to test the theory.
The Wind of God had come entirely by surprise upon the Pelasian scout half an hour ago, clearly a long way inside Calphorian waters; much further in than any vessel they had previously spotted. The arrival of the militia daram around a headland had shocked and panicked the Pelasians and the scout had turned as sharply as possible and begun to rig their sails to flee as fast as the wind would take them.
The daram was already at speed and bearing down on them, but the scout was light and fast. It would be a race.
And so, for just over a half hour they had been chasing down the small, single-sailed ship. There had been an appreciable closing of distance between them, but the result would be tight. In just over five minutes they would reach the contested waters and then the political ramifications of what they did would be less sure.
But the artillery master had reliably informed them that within a couple of minutes they would be in range to fire. At that point, the sails would be targeted, and then the hull. The scout would flounder and slow until they caught and dealt with it…
…as long as the artillerists were on form, anyway.
Ghassan, his teeth clenched and the spray lashing him repeatedly across the face, leaned further forward, urging the daram on desperately. The time had come to chastise these bastards for continually pushing acceptable boundaries. Besides, it was Ghassan’s life goal to twist the knife in the side of the satrap Ma’ahd until he could be properly dealt with. Minutes… it would all come down to a matter of minutes.
There, ahead, was the headland that marked the end of official Calphorian territory. Beyond that lay half a mile of free waters before they entered those belonging to Pelasia.
Minutes…
Ghassan frowned.
The headland was the point at which the border towers ended. This spur held an Imperial watch tower. The promontory at the far end of the next bay would hold the Pelasian one. The cove between was anyone’s water, but safer for everyone to stay out of it. Such was not the cause of Ghassan’s frown.
There was activity on the watch tower.
He frowned and shaded his brow from the bright sun, focussing his exceptional vision on that small wooden tower with its roof of thatch, its small palisaded compound that sheltered the complement of three men and its array of signalling devices.
He had realised that one of the men in the tower, almost half a mile away, was waving frantically. He was trying to discern the situation when he suddenly turned completely blind. Damn it!
The men in the tower had resorted to the signalling mirror, flashing the reflected sunlight at the ship and directly into Ghassan’s eyes. Half a mile was too close for the heliograph to be used. That was for long-distance signalling, the morons! He turned away, blinking, and could see nothing but amorphous purple and green blobs. Continuing to blink, trying to restore his sight, he reached out for the rigging boy he knew to be nearby. Feeling the boy’s shoulder, he grasped.
“See the signals coming from the tower?”
There was a silence and it took a moment for Ghassan to realise the boy was nodding. He grunted.
“Tell me what they say.”
Staring down into the shadowy area of deck and blinking was rapidly restoring his sight, but there was no way he was about to risk that again. The trick when at such a short distance from the source was to look in the right direction, but not directly at, the signal.
“It’s warning us to turn round, sir…”
Ghassan frowned.
“Do they say why?”
There was a silence and Ghassan was trying to decide whether the boy was waiting for more message or had merely nodded or shaken his head. He looked up and the blurred shape resolved itself into the rigging boy staring off into the distance.
“Fleet ahead, sir!”
“Fleet?” Ghassan replied incredulously.
“Yessir!”
Ghassan, still blinking, looked toward the tower as the warning was repeated. The boy hadn’t misinterpreted. That was clearly the signal. Ghassan shook his head. What to do? Could they afford to just let this go? He ground his teeth.
There was simply no choice. It was possible the message was false. What if the Pelasians had taken control of the tower? That was unlikely. If there was a fleet here, though, it had to be Pelasian and why in the name of the seven faces of Ha’Rish would they build up a fleet in sight of the Calphorian watchtower?
The questions were simply more numerous than any hope of answers.
“Take the word back to slow her down. Not to stop, but to slow the pace and be ready to come to a full stop or full speed at any moment. And hurry!”
Ghassan watched tensely as the headland neared, while the distance between the Wind of God and its quarry continued to close. His sight was improving all the time.
“Come on…” he found himself whispering under his breath, willing the ship to slow. He realised he was now actually nervous of what might be waiting around the headland.
As he watched, the ship showed signs of slowing, the gap between the Pelasian scout and themselves opening up finally. Hearing footsteps running up behind him, he turned, coming face to face with the captain.
“Sir.”
“What’s going on, Ghassan? We almost had him. The artillery master’s about to explode.”
Ghassan nodded sagely.
“I can understand that, sir. I was looking forward to this myself, but we were warned off by the watch tower.”
“Why?”
Ghassan opened his mouth to reply but, as he did, the answer appeared before them, stretching across the waters of the bay.
“Shit.” Both officers turned to look at one another.
As the Wind of God continued to slow, drifting forward, the headland passed by, ponderously, on their left. Ahead, the small black scout vessel sailed into unclaimed waters, out of their jurisdiction, and directly toward the mass of black sails that dotted the sea’s surface like an ebony disease.
“That’s one hell of a fleet” the captain said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Looks like three fleets massed together, sir.”
“How’d you work that out?”
“The flags, captain. Flags that I can see of three different satraps.”
The captain turned to the men gathering behind them and silently staring.
“Back to your places, men. Pass the word to turn as sharply as possible and get the hell out of here.”
He turned back to Ghassan.
“Do you think we’ll have time to rescue the guards from the tower?”
Ghassan shrugged.
