“Sor!” Simun shouted from the gangway. “She’s afire, my lords! Burnin’!”
Another look back along the line of ships showed two more in flames; one was grappled alongside a galley of his, and taken; another two were adrift, their oars limp as their entire crews swam for it. That left four unengaged, and they’d turned for the shore, hoping to beach their ships—at a guess, the Confed marines aboard had “insisted” on that with their assegais pressed to the helmsmens’ kidneys, and others guarding the hatchways to keep the oarsmen at their tasks.
“Well enough,” he laughed. “We can tow them off when they’re beached. Bit of a present for the King!” He turned, shading his eyes with a hand. “I wonder how that’s going?”
* * *
“Speaker Jeschonyk!”
The Speaker Emeritus of the Council of Vanbert was in a small boat, with an aide and two men rowing. He looked up at Demansk.
“My flagship is gone,” he said. “There.”
Demansk looked up as hands pulled the commander onto the trireme’s quarterdeck. The Speaker’s great quinquereme was wallowing, its starboard oars broken. From beyond it came a shape like nothing Demansk had ever seen by land or by sea, like a great turtle with two tubes belching smoke from the uppermost part of its . . . deck, he supposed it should be called . . . and a small square structure just before them. Wheels thrashed the water on either side, churning up more foam than a quinquereme’s oars, and driving it forward as fast as a trireme at ramming speed. It gleamed like wet iron . . . it was iron.
“But iron can’t float!” he heard himself say.
“It is iron,” Jeschonyk said bitterly from beside him; he started slightly. “Arrows bounce off it, catapult bolts do no damage—it sheared off the starboard oars of my ship and the one next to it in line, and—”
The iron ship was turning, a wide circle, much wider than a galley. After a moment it lay a hundred yards off, pointing at the command quinquereme’s stern; the ram that split the water ahead of it as it gathered speed was entirely comprehensible, unlike the rest of it. Demansk could hear a mysterious chuff . . . chuff . . . from it as it made its run, like the panting of some monstrous beast.
“A monstreme?” he said, bewildered. “A galley propelled by monsters?”
The wheels reversed and whipped froth mast-high as the ram slid into the quinquereme’s stern with a smashing crunch of timbers. The weird vessel backed off smoothly, and the quinquereme settled by the stern as water rushed into the huge rift. Its deck boiled with men as the hundreds of oarsmen ran screaming on deck, brushing aside the marines posted at the hatchway and throwing themselves into the water like fleas from a dying dog, heads turning the water black.
“What makes it move?” Jeschonyk cried, bewildered.
“At a guess, sir, it has something to do with fire—look at the smoke coming out of those two tubes.”
Demansk thought that that was the most likely logical explanation. He sympathized with the half-dozen vessels he saw beating a hasty retreat northwards, although he’d see their commanders poled and their crews decimated if he survived this. His gut was showing him pictures of monstrous clawed feet pounding a treadmill inside that iron weirdness, and huge fanged mouths gasping out chuff . . . chuff . . . Jeschonyk was flinching in time with it, nerve shattered.
A thunder-loud noise rippled across the water, overriding the clash of timbers and the screams of thousands of men in pain and fear of death. A billow of smoke rose from the odd square structure on the forecastle of an Islander quinquereme. Less than a second later, a fountain of splinters and body parts rose from a Confed vessel. More jets of smoke, and the prow of the Confed vessel dissolved in a shower of smoke and wreckage; when it cleared water was already running over the decking. Square fins rose out of the water and swam closer, waiting. Demansk could feel the blank black eyes and hungry mouths beneath them. That was normal, at least. They always got scavengers around a battlefield, land or sea.