1

All of the Heat Hammer’s six decks were burned clean through, leaving a wide, almost circular hole by the aftcastle stairs, on the larboard side. A column of black smoke billowed out of the hole, while seawater gushed in through the pierced bottom. With a lot of self-sacrificing effort by the crew, and a good deal of whipping by the officers, the fires on the deck were eventually put out, the flooding in the hold contained, and the connected rooms sealed. Only one hole wouldn't drown such a mountain of wood. The blood-red galleon remained afloat but permanently tilted to one side.

The sails had been furled at the time of the strike, leaving the damage to the masts and rigging minimal, but everything between the entry and the exit points of the hole and in their immediate vicinity was on fire, if not flooded. Suppressing the flames on the open main deck was simple enough, but on the levels below the damage was fast spreading, demanding the full attention of the crew. Due to the on-going effort to put out the blaze and pump out the water, the ship was unable to join the other survivors in the Confederates' rushed assault against the Navy. Or so it appeared.

In truth, Captain Greystrode was in no real hurry to go anywhere.

Thanks to the Prince and his pet dragon’s valiant efforts, the crippled vessels left behind were perfectly safe, for the time being. The battle would no doubt come to them, in due time, and they would be ready and prepared again when it did.

Judging the worst past, the old pirate left the crew at the firefighting effort and the repairs, and passed to the aftcastle to retrieve their unwilling passenger.

“What was all that noise!? What is happening out there!?” Yuliana demanded the man as soon as he entered. All the terrible clamor and quaking she had no way to explain by reasoning had nearly driven her mad with confusion, whilst she was trapped in the Captain’s quarters. But the rogue spared her no summaries.

“My dear,” Greystrode told her, “you have been a useful nuisance to me. But as things stand, you have become less than useful and rather just a nuisance. So it is time you left my ship.”

“What are you talking about?” Yuliana asked, but received no better answers.

Two of Greystrode’s men came in and bound her hands with rope, then to drag her out of the cabin. They emerged on the devastated deck, which resembled the aftermath of a hurricane. On the left was the gaping, charred hole, like an overboiling cauldron. Dead were being dragged away and unceremoniously dumped into the sea. There were injured lying here and there among cut ropes and broken pieces of wood, and there was thick smoke everywhere. Yuliana looked overboard and saw to her dismay a long line of wrecked ships, smaller ones completely obliterated, some in the process of sinking, and some barely struggling to keep above the water. From near and far could be heard men crying, either lamenting their injuries, begging to be saved, or calling the names of their lost comrades.

Yuliana turned her eyes to the southern distance, where—as well as could be seen from the ashen veil—tattered pirate ships were blended among the vessels of the Royal Navy, like so many cats running in a pack of dogs. High above the ships, Erynmir darted back and forth, like a great hummingbird in search of nectar, dancing around bright rays of light that kept lancing at her in constantly changing patterns. What lay spread on the waves was every bit the kind of an apocalyptic view that was prophesied to mark the end of the mortal age by the ancient northerners in their fjord villages.

“How…?” Yuliana spoke in dismay, watching the chaos. “How could the Prince let this happen?”

“Well, I did lend him a hand,” Greystrode modestly replied.

She turned back to glare at the old man and said,

“You will never live to see the future you seek, if you keep up like this!”

“Oh, whoever said I meant to?” the old man retorted. “You see, I’m not doing this only for myself, but for the good of all mankind. I am content with simply starting the fire and letting my descendants reap the fruits. I’m sure someone else will pick up after me.”

“No one else in the world could possibly find what you want worth it,” she told him.

“Maybe. But they’ll have all the time in the world to get used to the idea. ’Cos I’m not leaving them a choice.” With a wave of his hand, he gestured at the men to take the prisoner. “Sadly, you will not be there to see our brave new world. Fare thee well and bon voyage! Hang her majesty somewhere suitably high, where her loving subjects can easily see her.”

The men left to drag Yuliana across the deck towards the foremast. But barely had they reached the level of the main mast on the way, when her majesty abruptly stopped, leaned deep left, and seized the handle of the cutlass on her captor’s belt. Springing forward, she drew the blade out with a swish, spun back, and cut the face of the rogue, and the shoulder of the other, forcing them back. Before the onlooker’s stunned faces, she shook off the binds on her hands, previously cut and loosened.

“What…?” Greystrode twisted his face at this unexpected magic trick.

Sorceries played no part in the wonder, however. Quite as helpless was not their prisoner as they had originally assumed. In Yuliana’s right hand was the cutlass she had stolen from the pirate, and in the left the short, curved dagger she had hidden in her sash and used to free herself. The old captain could recognize the weapon well enough and his face fell.

“No living soul is fully evil,” Yuliana told him. “The mercy of your slave has become your undoing, Greystrode!”

The old man’s expression darkened, his thick brows sank, and for a moment he stood quietly gnashing his teeth, looking like a kettle about to explode with rage. But, with great exertions of patience, an art cultivated through high age, he mastered himself and formed a crooked smile.

“You think the witch’s whims have won you the war?” he asked. “The way I see it, the battle itself remains yet to be fought. And trust me when I tell you, these odds don’t look so good for you.”

Even as busy as the crew was with putting out the fires, plumping the hold, replacing the rigging, and keeping the ship afloat in general, there were still more than enough opponents to contend with on such a large vessel.

At the Captain’s signal, a solid dozen of the nearby hands now drew their cutlasses and came forward to confront Yuliana.

“Get her!” Greystrode roared.

Wisened by experience, Yuliana made her move while she still had room to maneuver. She quickly moved to the bulwark before anyone could get behind her and made sure all the opponents were well within view. She then raised her sword high up towards the sky and dropped the tip to the deck with a bang. The pirates paused, staring on in confusion, trying to guess what was the point of that dramatic gesture. But the motions themselves were never meant to have any meaning. It was only to make sure they were closely looking.

“Iota!” Yuliana called out.

A small orb of light detached from the point of her cutlass and shot up in the air. It quickly grew to blinding intensity, exploding with a low sound effect that made everyone’s ears ring. The pirates staggered back, blinking their eyes, unable to see or hear a thing.

Only Yuliana herself was unaffected and made quick use of the distraction. Operating her stolen weapon with a deft hand, she charged forward and cut the foes left and right, one by one. Killing none, she slashed their arms, hands, legs, leaving them with the option to keep their lives by withdrawing from the fight, but made sure their chances were a good deal worse if they chose to continue.

In a moment, only bloodied, swearing, limping men surrounded her. A few attempted to pursue their orders despite their wounds, but no mortal could be fully immune to pain, and Yuliana wasn’t poor enough a fighter to be outdone by someone not on top of their game. She shortly disarmed the remaining foes, adding to their injuries. As the adversaries backed away and the floor cleared, she turned to face Captain Greystrode once again.

“Please give up and turn yourself in!” she told him. “Do so, and I will speak for you and your crew in court, so that your life may be spared.”

“Your majesty,” Greystrode answered her in a low tone, inhaling deep. “You may not believe me, but I’ve never wanted to kill someone this bad in my life.”

The old man drew his sword.

2

One who knows battle might argue that all of the sort are a chaos, to varying extent. The moment masses of people take up arms and start hacking each other apart, there is no more rhyme or reason to be found, least of all in the infantryman’s point of view. That being said, the battle of the Edrian Bay could surely be described as chaotic even by the common standards of warfare.

Sailing ships weren’t like horses, never mind more advanced vehicles. They went where the winds and sea currents took them, and man could only try his darnedest to harness the elements to his advantage, supplementing with muscle and oars where canvas fell short.

Nature was no one’s ally but equal to all; and yet, ironically enough, it was the equality of nature that made those employing her services not so. Some among the seafarers knew how to bend the unbiased gales in their favor in ways that seemed like nothing short of witchcraft to a standard sailor, and their talent was not always simply a matter of age and experience.

In this naval game of tag, as expected, the more nimble corsair crafts were running circles around their rivals. They kept harassing the larger ships, showering them with flaming arrows, harpoons, and jars of oil, luring the less competent and more arrogant army captains astray. The Confederates kept their distance and wouldn’t submit to a contest of force, save where the enemy was distinctly weaker and outnumbered. Those buccaneers who knew their ships already lost turned their blazing vessels to ram the enemy, and there was generally very little a larger, slow-moving target could do to avoid the heated crash, save only slightly delay the inevitable. Making effective use of the disorder, the pirates pulled the naval forces wider apart and kept them from regrouping by any means.

In a while, the sea became filled with broken wood, shredded canvas, floating barrels, and other miscellaneous, buoyant objects, as well as corpses. Mountainous columns of black smoke hung low over the waves, shrouding the previously sunny view, and making the overall situation even harder to grasp. Unable to keep accurate track of the course of the conflict, commanders had a hard time passing relevant orders to subordinate ships, leaving them to depend on their own judgment; a situation intolerably vague to a soldier accustomed to order, but only daily life to a marauder.

Most participants would have likely agreed that the battle was every bit overwhelming enough as it was, even without the inclusion of the supernatural elements.

There was the grand beast flying about, turning the wind around with her anomalous powers, mixing the sea with her movements, her roars striking terror and despair in the hearts of the less stern soldiers. No less terrible an effect was conveyed for the other side by the threads of light randomly flaying the smoke, holding the great beast at bay, and driving this mixer of boats and people on without rest.

Neither of the supernatural combatants seemed to have a clear advantage. Erynmir kept evading the fire, or repelling it with her breath, escaping unharmed time after time again, but neither could she get close enough to the royal galleon to eliminate her persistent hunter. The racket was terrible.

“Variation B-15 found inadequate. Moving on to pattern B-16,” Aurlemeyr continued to mumble incomprehensible things in the middle of the Crucifico's quarterdeck, her attention entirely taken by the effort to trap the great wyrm. As such, there was little she could do to help the navy against the pirates.

“Uleison,” Miragrave called the Major, smoke stinging her eyes. “What is the fleet’s status? Talk to me, I can’t see a damned thing!”

“I—I can’t tell,” the mage answered, leaning heavily on his staff with one hand, holding his temple with the other, a grimace on his face. “There is too much interference. Magical fallout everywhere…I think the Thessalan is either down or captured. I cannot feel Lieutenant Glennad’s presence anymore. But it might be that they’re simply out of the range of my senses, or she’s incapacitated. I don’t know. I feel sick. I need to rest for a moment…”

“If you want to trade places with Aury to take on the dragon, go right ahead,” Miragrave replied with little sympathy. “Then I can have a real radar and you can relax your mind all you like.”

“I had only three years left until retirement….” the man lamented.

“Marshal, we have to do something!” Admiral Wittingam interjected. “At this rate, we're losing the fleet!”

He was being rather unnecessarily dramatic with his assessment. The strength of the navy's ships was still undoubtedly superior. But Miragrave had to admit their advantage at the moment was anything but set in stone.

“If you have any brilliant ideas, I'm all ears,” she told him. “Arrows and harpoons alone won't bring a quick end to this circus. We need magic. But very few mortals can generate enough mana internally to blast a ship out of the water. Most must draw the additional power from the elements. Unfortunately, the Bow operates under the same limitation. So long as the dragon is about, fending it off takes all available resources. If we start pulling our punches now, it'll wipe us out in a heartbeat. But if you wish to become a dragonslayer and try it the old-fashioned way with sword and courage, by all means, give it your best, Admiral. No need to hold back on my account.”

“That is impossible!” Wittingam exclaimed, stupefied.

“No shit,” Miragrave grunted, glaring at the winged shadow circling above them.

From there, she turned her gaze forward. In the distance between the curtains of smoke, she saw a set of green square sails. Like a sparrow playing with eagles, the Jade Tempest kept making a fool of the heavy frigates, remaining just barely outside the range of their arrows, yet frustratingly close, luring them further and further away from the Crucifico, to be waylaid by other ships.

Even under the extreme conditions, the Captain of that brig kept his head and continued to sail on with casual ease and purpose, as if all the ocean were laid plain open before him. The mere sight of that ship's sails served to embolden the corsairs, causing them to break into loud cheers whenever they saw it, while the Navy could only powerlessly shake fist at them. Most people didn’t know the brig was spared only to protect the Empress presumably aboard, but assumed her enchanted and invincible, her Captain nothing short of a Divine.

That ship was the key to victory.

If only they could cripple the Tempest and prove her mortality, the situation could still be turned around. Capturing the Prince and rescuing her majesty would make for a blow the Confederacy would never recover from.

But how to best achieve this?

The Crucifico had no way to catch such a light vessel. Not without disabling its sails or rudder. Only the Gilded Bow could achieve this reliably from a distance. But even if Aurlemeyr could spare a moment—no, the risk was simply too great. A poorly placed hit could obliterate such a small craft completely.

Losses in battle were always expected.

There had ever been the chance that Yuliana wouldn’t make it, despite their best efforts. Miragrave thought she was sufficiently prepared for the worst. If it happened, she could only carry on with her duty and seek to bring what they had started to its rightful conclusion.

But if the girl lost her life not because of the pirates, not because of a natural accident, an unavoidable twist of fate, but because of her own order, a miscalculated decision....Miragrave couldn’t live with it.

At that moment, her reflections became interrupted by strange commotion carrying from the main deck. A group of knights came up the stairs to the quarterdeck, escorting a solitary prisoner wrapped in chains. The Marshal frowned. When had they taken prisoners? When had there even been fighting on the ship?

However, as they came closer and the smoke slightly cleared, she recognized the captive and her eyes rounded in surprise.

“——Waramoti!?”

True enough, the young man in shackles was the bard himself.

“Greetings, Marshal,” Waramoti said with a bit of a pained grin as they stopped before her. “Good to see you again. How have you been?”

“What in the seven Hels are you doing here?” Miragrave questioned him.

“Now that is an unusually long story. You see, it all began when I hitched a ride with her majesty to the sanctuary of the pirates, where I then spent merry days honing my skills and performing to loving audiences. Good food, good drink, sun, music, what more could a man ask for? Honestly, it was a blast. The finest days of my life, no doubt. I wouldn’t have minded staying there till the end of time, but then I heard the call of the Art once again, the summons of a greater Destiny, and—”

“—Sergeant, throw this man overboard.” Miragrave didn’t feel like listening any longer.

“Wait-wait-wait!” Waramoti pleaded. “Fine, I’ll give you the abridged version! This is rather important, I should say!”

“So? You mean to tell me you didn’t sell your sword to the Conferedacy and sail off to war against law and order in defense of your wonderful new home, and attempt to sneak aboard to sabotage our ship, before they caught you?”

“By all that is holy, is that how little faith you have in me!?” he cried. “At the end of the day, I still consider myself as an exemplary Imperial citizen!”

“Are you then suggesting you swam all the way here from their island?”

“No, not at all,” the bard answered, shaking his head. “I got a ride aboard the Tempest, of course, no commitments to piracy involved. I jumped overboard and clung to Greystrode’s boat, which delivered me to your meeting place. There, I dived under your boat and you actually brought me to the ship yourself. Or, close enough. I lost my grip half a mile out there and had to swim the rest of the trip. Then, as I thought about how to best make my entrance without being confused for a pirate, I got hungry and took a detour through the ship canteen. Where I was unfortunately detected and confused for a pirate. In the following chaos, I experienced great difficulty in locating officers willing to accept my peaceful surrender. That is, until I ran into the good Sergeant there, who very generously lent me his ear, and dared to defy punishment by granting me an audience with yourself. Does this man not have a heart of gold or what? Most deserving of a promotion, I believe. And that is the gist of things.”

“Wonderful,” Miragrave replied with a shrug. “Can I now have you thrown overboard?”

“Marshal! I have to wonder if you don’t just hate me for personal reasons?” Waramoti lamented.

“I most certainly do,” she replied.

“Come on! I have yet to even get to the main point!”

As reluctant as Miragrave was to admit it, there was one part in the tale that she was forced to question further. Facing forward again, forcing her mind cool and aloof, she bitterly asked,

“You said you came aboard the Tempest? How was Yuliana? Have they done anything to her yet?”

“Hm?” Waramoti frowned. “Yuliana? But she’s not there.”

“What—?” Miragrave gasped, nearly losing her balance.

“We left her on the island,” he continued. “That's part of what I came here to tell you. She’s quite safe! I think the little vacation did wonders to her, if I may be so presumptuous…”

Miragrave wasn’t listening anymore.

“Aurlemeyr!” she howled. “Change of targets—DESTROY THAT GREEN SHIP, IMMEDIATELY!”

“Understood,” Aurlemeyr answered, dropping her aim, pointing her fingers at the light green sails far up ahead. “Target acquired.”

Anticipating the eruption of heat, everyone nearby ducked to cover themselves. The star-like mass of light amassed before the young woman's glittering fingertips again, the force necessary to eliminate one ship fast gathered. And then, the dazzling ray of death was on its way.

The bolt of magically accelerated ions flashed past the masts, between the frigates ahead, straight at the stern of the escaping brig. From barely half a mile away, there was no need to account for gravity. Even at minimal output, the ship’s end was guaranteed.

At the same time, as though guided by some loftier instinct, the Prince happened to remove his hand from the steering wheel and look back, to see the remorseless shine stare back at him. Locking gazes with that cyclopean star of death, a wave of dread passed over him, and he knew his end had found him.

But whereas destiny would have abandoned the man, there was another who wouldn’t.

Sensing the shifting in the hostile energy’s direction, realizing its target, Erynmir dived down from the sky without hesitation and cast herself between the bolt and the Tempest. She received the hit with her back, where her natural armoring was its thickest, deflecting the beam into the sea.

Great was dragons’ resistance to magic—but this was a weapon made for the explicit purpose of killing their kind.

Though an indirect hit, the Gilded Bow’s fire seeped through Erynmir’s scales, searing the steely muscles, turning blood to ash, and likely for the first time in her life, the young wyrm felt genuine pain. It was not a deadly injury by itself, but the scar of it she was going to carry forever, even were she to survive past this day.

The dragon plunged through the water’s surface, steaming and groaning, and for a brief moment, the spectators staring after her wondered if the wyrm hadn’t been claimed by the abysses.

Not yet.

In a short while, the dragon burst back to the surface again amid great noise and splashing.

“Amisén cóhr sáreeeeeeeee——!” Erynmir roared in rage, struggling to climb higher, and her voice rang across the skies with the force of thunder. With labored wings, she soared higher and higher in the air, while continuing to call out the words of the Old Tongue. “Horusé! Moré ascis horh sú héntheleí!”

The previously clear skies began to darken.

It was not the effect of smoke. Clouds began to form out of nothing at an unnaturally quick rate, growing visibly thicker and darker, veiling the heavens above the beast. That magical curtain spread quickly out towards all the corners of the sea in rapidly revolving layers, much like a descending hurricane.

“Oh boy,” Waramoti remarked aboard the Crucifico. “I think you made her mad.”

“Faithful as a dog!” Miragrave remarked. “Keep it up! We have them now.”

3

“Eryn! Eryn!” The Prince shouted after the dragon, while spinning the steering wheel. “Come back! That’s enough! Come back to me!”

In vain. Though there was no question that her inhuman ears could hear him, Erynmir wasn’t listening anymore. Anger had overtaken her mind.

“Damn it!” he groaned. “It shouldn’t have come to this!”

He had hoped to apply pressure on the navy, only enough to force them to give up on their absurd terms and accept the Confederates’ surrender. But, encouraged by the small crumbs of success, confident their King would bring them victory regardless of the odds, the other Captains showed no intention of letting up the heat. The thought of giving up after coming this far was on no one’s mind. They would fight to the bitter end.

Meanwhile, the Navy’s side had gone from thinking they had complete control over the situation to fighting for their survival in all seriousness. In such a state, they would hear no word of truce.

If nothing was done, it really wouldn’t end until one side was completely obliterated.

Or perhaps both of them.

Erynmir considered their ship as her home and the crew her family. Dragons had a slightly more intense view on familial bonds than people did, and wouldn’t hesitate to die for the good of their kindred—after giving their everything to ruin to the enemy on the way. Now that the Navy had figured out the ship’s connection to the wyrm, they could exploit this bond to bring her down. Or, just further provoke her.

There was only one way left to stop the impending wipeout.

“Give me sail!” the Prince called out. “Get every scrap of tack on the wind!”

He had to bring the Tempest around to the navy, and surrender himself, even if it meant being hacked apart in revenge. Perhaps Erynmir could then recognize the fight ended and cease her struggle for a mistaken cause.

The effort was easier said than done. The dragon’s magic had turned the winds erratic. All the crew had their hands full controlling the sails and keeping them from tearing off the masts. The Prince used the frigates in his pursuit to break the line of fire, while looking for a way to get past. At the same time, Erynmir conducted fierce dives at the enemy galleon, drawing their fire. She was getting too reckless, forgoing caution, and endured more lesser hits, further spurring her rage and depleting her strength.

“Come on! Don’t die on me, girl…!” the Prince pleaded, gripping the wheel.

“Captain, there’s something fishy going on,” Smith suddenly said, peering into the smoke with his spyglass.

“The understatement of the century, man!” the Prince retorted.

“Pardon me, it’s the Hammer, sir.” Smith elaborated. “She hasn’t budged an inch from where she lays this whole time. It doesn’t seem Greystrode means to join the fight at all.”

“What…?” the Prince called for Eliah to take the wheel and went to the Quartermaster, who passed over his telescope.

It was as Smith had said. The Heat Hammer hadn’t opened sails, sitting quietly behind all the mayhem. Was the ship that badly damaged? It was slightly tilted to the larboard side and smoking, but looked otherwise intact. There was some commotion going on on the deck.

“—Fiends take that devil of a man!” the Prince suddenly cried, turning pale. In a hurry, he threw the scope back to Smith, and rushed to take over the wheel, beginning to spin it around with all his vigor. “Starboard watch, reef the mains! Larboard watch, studs out! Turn! Turn, damn it, turn!”

“Captain? What’s gotten into ye?” Smith followed his effective full reversal of orders in confusion.

“Where’ve you put your eyes, mate!” the Prince shouted back at him.

“Greystrode—he’s got Yuliana!”