A messenger galley came racing down the line of ships, flying Jeschonyk’s banner and pulling just under their sterns; orders from the command, then. It was a light shell, undecked, with no ram—and a mast still stepped, although it hadn’t set any sail. A galley always unstepped and stowed its mast before action, of course; the shock of ramming would send it overboard, otherwise. Demansk took the sailing master’s speaking trumpet and stepped to the rail.
“This is Justiciar Demansk!” he shouted as the light craft came within hailing distance. His voice was a hoarse bull roar, roughened by a lifetime of cutting through the clamor of battle. “What orders?”
In theory, the officer commanding the racing shell shouldn’t have told him anything. In reality, a Justiciar was hard to refuse.
“The left-flank squadron is to move forward and cover the causeway, while we resume construction,” he shouted. “All other ships to maintain station.”
“Carry on!” Demansk said aloud. Oh, shit.
* * *
“What in the Shades are they doing?” Esmond muttered from the quarterdeck of the ship he’d named Nanya’s Revenge.
“Not what they should,” Adrian said. “But then, neither are we.”
correct, Center said. Center and Raj had agreed—they didn’t, always—that Casull should put his gun-equipped ships out to the left, seaward, and use them to crumple the Confed line inward. That would throw them into disorder, and then the more agile Islander vessels could strike at the flanks of maneuvering quinqueremes. Instead, Casull was playing it safe, keeping all the heavy ships, the ones with the cannon, and the steam ram with him in the center.
Usually a mistake, when you’re the weaker party but have better quality troops, Raj noted clinically. That’s when you have to throw double or nothing, and hope to win big. If you fight a battle of attrition, it usually ends up with the last battalion making the difference.
“We’ve been here most of the day,” Esmond fretted. “And done damn-all but back up. They’re not going to follow us out to sea, and even with summer it’s going to get dark in five, six hours. We should—wait a minute, they’re not just getting out of line, they’re moving.”
Ten triremes of the Confed fleet’s landward wing were moving, their oarsmen stretching out in a stroke . . . stroke . . . stroke . . . pace that they could keep up for an hour or so, but that wouldn’t exhaust them the way ramming speed did. Their smaller line was ragged as it drew away from the main body, but not impossibly so.
They’re heading for the causeway, Raj thought. Probably the Confed commander got nervous and decided he had to do something. A mistake. Anything that opens this battle up is to our advantage.
“They’re heading along the coast, south to the causeway,” Adrian said. “Esmond, they’re going to cover the causeway—start getting it repaired. We can’t let them do that.”
“We certainly can’t,” Esmond said; he’d put too much work and risk and blood into turning that into a disaster for the Confeds. “I’ll send a dispatch to the King.”
Adrian caught his arm. “No time,” he said. “We’re in the perfect position to intercept them, here on the right flank. If we wait, they’ll be past us and we’ll have a stern chase.”
Esmond hesitated, looking around. He was in command of the right, the landward anchor of the Islander line, six triremes manned entirely by Emeralds—most of their people had some seagoing experience, after all. Adrian’s arquebusiers were on board too, and the Strikers were working in their flexible light-infantry armor. It made the ships a bit heavier, but it would give any Confed that tried boarding a nasty surprise, and they were still faster and more agile than any but the very best of the enemy vessels.
“Six to ten . . .” he mused. Then, decisively: “We’ll do it. Signal follow me and prepare to engage.” To the helmsmen at the steering oars: “Come about. Oarmaster, take us up to cruising speed.”
Esmond’s Revenge heeled, turning in almost its own length, then came level on a course that would intercept the ten Confed vessels, bouncing forward with a surge that made most on the quarterdeck grab for rail or rigging. “Half a mile,” he mused. “Flank speed!”