The bugler stood apart.

He had kept the brass warm by blowing through it, quietly, as the service wore on. Twice he drained water from inside, letting it splash to the ground at his feet: he wondered if he stood on a grave, or to one side, and put that thought out of his mind as he read the program once more. The pastor and speakers were named, each beside their moment at the microphone.

The bugler was not.

He brought the horn to his lips and made to play, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart tracing, his hands shaking as they nearly always did. It was a simple melody, nearly flawed in the ease with which its notes fell, too easy to rush through or to cut short. He had played it a hundred times, perfectly. A thousand, perhaps.

But only in practice.

At the graveside it was different: a mountain, an Everest, an unassailable fortress. No mortal lung could carry such a tune the way it had to be carried. Inevitably, a note cracked. The song, now marred, floated across the grass to the gathered well-wishers and onlookers. Women cried. Men pretended not to or, standing face to face with their own future—or their past—gave in without shame.

The bugler left.

He had to walk a long way to his car, parked apart from the rest so that he could leave without disturbing those in mourning. He put away the horn, wiping its shining silver clean and taking it apart quickly to hide it in the trunk, but not before a man caught sight of him. The funeral director, or an assistant. He came over to say a word.

"That was good."

Kodiak bucked at her berth, buffeted by the last vestiges of the heavy storm that had raked the area. Lashed with rain and pummeled by a ferocious gale, she and the other ships of the squadron had tested the limits of their mooring ropes for hours at the mercy of the typhoon. This was just one of the reasons Aria had never liked low altitude harbors. Not only did the pitching motion of the ship leave her stomach heaving, but she had to bear in mind the reality that any attack on the harbor would catch her squadron at a severe disadvantage.

Now, as the storm died down at last, she tried to push both concerns from her mind. She tugged at the cool, wet cloth on her forehead, pulling it down to cover her eyes as well so that she could nap. It was not to be.

“Yes?” she barked in answer to a knock at her door, but the response was too soft to hear. She sighed, pushing herself upright in bed. Doubting her ability to stand and dress without vomiting, she wiped her face and neck with the rag and covered her bare legs with the sheets. With a final glance at her side to see that no blood had seeped through the bandage to stain her undershirt, she ordered, “Enter.”

The door slid open and a petty officer stepped inside, a wireless dispatch clutched tight in his hand. He opened his mouth to deliver the message but then, catching sight of her, averted his eyes and turned away. Aria breathed a silent sigh out of sheer annoyance as his face turned red.

“What is it, Ensign Patrick?”

His clean-shaven jaw, wavy red hair, and the frightened look on his face were all unmistakable: this was the junior officer she’d appointed flag captain during the battle a week ago. That she had placed such an awesome responsibility on such an inexperienced officer had become something of a joke in the time since. Not that anyone dared to laugh.

“The Admiralty has asked you to meet with their representative here in port,” he said quickly, still staring steadfastly at the wall instead of looking at her. “An Ambassador Leery. He sent ahead to inform you that he would try to be here by three o’clock this afternoon.”

She closed her eyes, her head pounding now. What the hell do they want? No. She wouldn’t let him see the ship—or her—in this state. “Send him a reply,” she said, keeping her weariness out of her voice. “Tell him we won’t be meeting on board Kodiak.”

“Where, then, sir?” he asked, keeping carefully to Navy regulations regarding the proper address of an officer.

Aria reached for her watch on the chest beside her bed and grimaced as she saw the time. Then she smiled.

“On second thought, don’t send him a reply. Have him stopped at the gate of the pier and inform him there that we’ll be meeting at the Tarleton Hotel, in the city—at six o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ensign Patrick immediately. Then he hesitated. Some of the fear had left his face as he turned to look on her at last, his embarrassment fading. “Why me?”

The admiral glared at him for a moment, her gaze darkening. But she relented. “If you weren’t certain you already knew the answer to that,” she said softly, “you would never have dared to ask.” Aria lay down once more, settling back against the pillow. “Now, I don’t care what that bastard tells you. Don’t let him anywhere near this ship. You’re dismissed.”

Some three hours later, Aria waited in a rented suite at the Tarleton. Her hair brushed and shining, braided and plaited with care, and a new dress—a sheath of brilliant black silk—shimmered, caressing her form as she moved. The room, brightly lit by chandeliers laden with flaring bulbs, was home to several masterpieces, unrivalled works of art collected over the course of the last two centuries, and she turned her appraising eye on these as she swayed to the soothing tones of a string quartet assembled in one corner. Softly, the bells of a clock tolled six times.

The musicians retreated hastily as the ambassador was led in. Aria paid no attention to his arrival; her eyes, instead, were on a painting of Glorious—one of the Imperial fleet’s great flagships—painted black across the sun as she emerged from a storm on a grassy plain. “Mr. Leery,” she greeted him with her back still turned. “I think the artist here was close, but there’s something missing. Can you see what it might be?”

Already insulted by her failure to take notice of him, Leery’s words stumbled out of his mouth as he tried not to show offense at her failure to refer to him by his proper title. “Lady Aria,” he said, starting over when he had got better control of his tongue. She raised one gloved finger to cut him off.

“It’s fear, Ambassador,” she said, turning away from the painting at last to look upon her visitor. “This painting inspires many feelings. Awe, hope, relief… But not fear. One who beheld such a sight could not help being filled with primal dread—the sort of thing that turns blood to ice and strong men to cowards. There is none of that in the painting.”

Leery looked doubtful, but hid that behind an offer: “Perhaps milady would care to sit down? I was informed that a meal had been prepared for us.”

At that moment, servants bearing the first courses entered and the ambassador rushed to pull out her chair and help her to be seated. She smiled politely, thanking him and noting with satisfaction the grimace he had to conceal at her smile. The two passed the meal in silence and at last, as a bottle of old wine was brought out, Aria spoke once more.

“How were you coached, Mr. Leery, when you were informed that you would have to meet with the Countess of Fire?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lady Aria.”

She smiled and he blinked furiously for a moment. “Oh, but you do. You were told, first of all, to deny all my requests for proper repairs and for rearmament. You were told not to answer any questions nor reveal any of what you know. And you were told—at all costs—to somehow stay in my good graces.” She paused for effect, and to watch him sweat. “Most importantly, you were told to be on your guard if I smiled.”

The ambassador’s voice was unsteady as he made a reply at last. “I had held out some hope that you came to be called the Countess of Fire for your holdings in Iceland, but I see now that is not the case.”

“It is not. Aria Cantion—the Lady of Havoc, the Blood Maiden, Goddess of Thunder… The things you’ve heard at court and the names my opponents give me in whispers are all quite accurate.”

Leery let his eyes slip from hers to his wine glass. Aria guessed, because he did not take a drink, that he feared his hands were too unsteady. “How did you know,” he asked, “that you would be denied repairs?”

“To take my entire squadron in to be refitted after what should have been a minor battle would look terrible in the press,” she answered. “Besides, if the Admiralty were planning to have my ships properly repaired, I would have been en route already. Moreover, Kodiak’s guns are well beyond their useful lifespan. She should be en route to Columbia already, to have them replaced. She isn’t. Why not, Ambassador?”

He closed his eyes and scratched at his white mustache, a visible tremble in his hand. His tone was soft, almost pleading. “You understand, Lady Aria, that I can no more have your ships repaired than I can dry the sea. Having spoken with you, I am only certain that you know far more than I about the matter. I was instructed to ask you to return to Appalachia at your best speed and make contact with the Admiralty there. That is all I can offer, milady.”

Aria’s eyes flashed, partly in anger and, in part, because the ache in her side grew more intense as she wearied. At first, she had marveled at how deep the surgeon’s knife had cut without killing her; of late, she had begun to wonder if he may have killed her after all. “I believe you,” she muttered. “But I also believe you’ve been asked to lead me to my own betrayal.”

The ambassador’s face hardened at this accusation. He chose his next words carefully. “Why,” he asked suddenly, “was I warned to fear your smile, Lady?”

The Countess of Fire grinned at this. A soft laugh broke through—and with that, the feeling of a spike piercing her side bore her up on the euphoria of pain and she threw her head back and laughed, loud and long, her voice filling the room with its macabre dance. At last, eyes wet with tears of laughter, she asked, “Have you not heard of my father?”

The man looked visibly shaken. “There was one last thing. The Admiralty asks you to remember the Bulwark Fields. They would not say what that meant.”

Aria kept laughing as he beat his retreat, even as she felt blood wetting her side once more.

Once again, by the time I finished writing this scene, I felt I was pretty in touch with Abe’s character. (Ah-bay, I think, would be the proper way to pronounce that.) It was all I could do to keep the insipid grin off my face as I wrote the last paragraph.

Yoshiro Abe sipped water from a tin cup outside the meal tent as the workers and archaeologists there passed around a tattered rag of newsprint. It was their latest edition of the Mail—dated 9^th September, some four days ago—arrived just that morning. Glen Wells, one of the senior archaeologists on the dig, passed it to Abe once he had finished.

“See if you can make heads or tails of it, Sensei,” he said in his amicable colonial drawl. “It’s a nice little story, but it never comes out and says who took command of the fleet.”

Abe nodded, setting his cup aside.

The print was smudged, but clear, and the headline was obnoxiously large: IMPERIAL FLEET WINS BATTLE OF KYOTO ATOLL. In smaller print, at the head of the first column on the left, the story went on to claim that the Mail had an exclusive tale to tell, revealed to one of their foreign correspondents by an officer of the fleet who spoke only on condition of anonymity.

Abe realized only as he put on his glasses that his hands were shaking.

On 6^th September, heavy units of the Empire’s Fast Battle Squadron met and defeated a force of fifteen ships of the Australasian Fleet, including six battleships, in honorable combat over Kyoto Atoll. While both Empires have kept details of the battle largely secret, this reporter was able to get a special scoop at a pub somewhere in South Africa.

For obvious reasons, I cannot say where precisely, but there I spoke with a lovely young lady, a lieutenant serving aboard Kodiak who was injured in the battle. She revealed to me that Kodiak had been the second ship in the battle line that day over Kyoto and that, by some tragic happenstance, the flagship Parapet had been destroyed before the battle began.

She further testified that, following Parapet’s loss, some of Kodiak’s bridge officers had been killed in action and that she was uncertain who took command through the rest of the battle…

The old teacher felt his breath catch in his throat, swallowing painfully at this news. “Wells,” he rasped, turning to his friend for help. “You’re certain it does not give the name of the commander?”

The archaeologist shrugged. “I couldn’t find anything in it. I thought maybe you could do better than me is all.”

Abe tried to wet his lips, finding his mouth again parched. “Yes, I see…” He forced himself to continue.

The entire battle line was forced to turn hard to starboard to avoid Parapet’s careening wreckage—forced to turn directly into oncoming enemy fire. Into this hell-storm they steamed, returning fire as they could. The lieutenant smiled as she told the story, proud of the courage of her fellow fighting men and women. Over the course of the next two hours, she said, the two squadrons exchanged nearly 3,000 heavy caliber shells. In the end, all units of the Australasian squadron were destroyed or forced to retreat…

He steeled himself, setting the paper down in front of him and weighting it with his cup so that he could hide his hands beneath the table. The account of the battle was uninteresting to him, not to mention obviously sanitized; the officer being interviewed knew enough to keep certain facts out of the public eye, and to keep certain questions from being asked.

…Following the battle, the fleet made for friendly skies to refuel and refit, to have their wounds healed and spirits lifted. I asked the lieutenant how she was injured in the action that day. At first, she declined to answer my question, but as she stood to leave she gave me this answer:

“Instead of interviewing me, why don’t you tell the story of the officers and crew of Parapet—of Lord Westland’s final battle and how, even in death, he lead his fleet to victory? This little scratch doesn’t rate a mention in your paper; I had all but forgotten it until you pointed it out again.

“Every person in the battle fleet makes some sacrifice. We set aside our hopes and our fears. We put our lives in the hands of our comrades. When I’m on board that ship, I feel a personal responsibility to each and every person under my command. Next to that, what’s a bit of shrapnel?”

With her words in mind, I have asked the Mail to print this list of the officers and crew lost when Parapet exploded…

All at once, he left the paper there on the table and walked away from the others, gasping in relief. To think of that little girl—his student—his Aria, fighting aboard one of those steel leviathans… He blinked until his eyes were dry again. Could he be sure it was her? But it had to be! That fool of a reporter had interviewed the Imperial Princess and not known it.

But then, what man would dare reveal a secret Aria Cantion had charged him to keep?

He felt Wells’ hand on his shoulder. “So it was her after all, then? She’s blooded now. A real admiral.”

Abe nodded.

“Stop worrying about it. She’s invincible. It’s that Cantion mystique.”

The old teacher sighed, looking out over the dig as the rising sun repainted shadows and holes with a brighter brush. “She would have been a great scholar,” he muttered, leaving all else unsaid.

“Forget about that. We’ve made a discovery at grid number 20, and I’d like you to take a look this morning, before the workers get in the way.”

Surprised, Abe peered into his friend’s eyes for a moment. “What kind of discovery?”

Wells gave his eyebrows a quick lift. The kind that meant a big one—in the softest, quietest way possible.

Abe took his canteen as they passed by the meal tent before heading down into the dig, passing through the outer gate and into the site proper. He kept his head down as they walked between the Teeth—the jagged, obsidian towers that marked the entryway to the site. Months of working in their shadow had not inured him to the feeling of dread that gripped him when he caught sight of them, silhouetted against the red desert sky.

Stepping carefully over the twine grid squares staked out everywhere over the dig, he and Wells made their way to the far end of the structure, a place they had come to call the South Wall. It seemed that the entire structure, sometimes jokingly called the Temple, was surrounded by giant walls of the same black stone that formed the teeth; they were only just uncovering what seemed to be the base of the outer walls.

What kind of god could they have worshipped in a temple like this? Abe felt a chill at the thought, even in the desert heat, as he imagined what the entire Temple complex must have looked like when it was first constructed thousands of years ago: walls of gleaming black glass, towers like jagged knives stabbing into the sky. There was even evidence of a ditch and moat structure, surrounding the outer wall. Preliminary evidence suggested that it had been filled with human skulls.

“Can you imagine the people who built this place?” asked Wells. Whenever he felt awed by something, his voice took on a breathless, childlike quality. Abe would normally have found that endearing.

Abe pushed away the bloody screams that entered his imagination and shook his head.

“They cut and worked with stones we can’t even identify—stones that our most powerful tools can hardly scratch. They built this place more than five millennia ago, at a time when a campfire must have seemed like magic. How many hundreds of years must it have taken? To think that ancient man could have accomplished anything like this…”

At last, they reached grid 20. A sheet of dirty canvas covered a small section of wall there. Wells jerked it aside and, his voice a scraping whisper, asked, “Can you translate it?”

There, chiseled into the blank wall by some impossible force, was a message. Writing like this had been found throughout the dig site, in dozens of nameless, forgotten languages, none of which had any meaning at all. Abe’s heart thundered as he realized this language was not yet completely forgotten. Hands trembling, he reached out toward the wall. His fingers traced the dusty characters, cut millennia ago by some ancient craftsman.

He swallowed, his tongue feeling swollen in his dry mouth. “Yes,” he rasped. “You brought rubbing paper?”

Wells passed him a large sheet of fine paper and a grubby hunk of charcoal, beaming a smile from ear to ear. “We’re going to change the world with this, you know!”

Arax Thorne held onto one small bit of hope, though, as the duke approached: He’s the Iron Duke. He’s made a career of the unthinkable.

The duke tapped the tip of his cane against the stone with a quick rhythm to match his light step as he came near. A true gentleman, he was never seen without his cane and his cape, ever ready to meet any challenge to his honor with treacherous steel. Thorne had been told the duke had been an accomplished swordsman once, but he could not imagine anyone with the courage or the stupidity to insult the man now. Even as he approached the century mark, the duke looked to be a man of only fifty or sixty years, well kept even for a nobleman.

“Ah, Commander!” the duke exclaimed, giving his customary greeting despite knowing full well that Thorne had been stripped of that rank, among other things, nearly seven years ago. “I see the villagers in Risi are still feeding you well. You haven’t died of boredom there yet?”

Thorne smiled in spite of himself. “The colonies are not quite as boring as those at court would like to believe, nor as interesting as the tales all claim. Life goes on.” He bowed low, ever mindful of his place and of the debt he owed the duke. “But the hour is late, milord. Why have you called me here tonight?”

The duke turned, gesturing for Thorne to follow him as he walked easily in the direction of his summer home. “Some words are best spoken without an audience. You are aware, of course, that Cardinal Belloc has been… disappointed in you?”

Their shadows danced across the paving stones of the walk in the pale, greenish light of the lampposts along the way and Thorne gave his answer a moment’s thought before he responded. “I have heard about plans to have me tried before the church, milord, though I have received no summons.”

“He sent for you last week. I called you here so that you could avoid the embarrassment of arrest. There is a chance we may still avoid a trial in this; he’s agreed to meet with us here tonight, in my home.”

Thorne felt his blood run cold.

“Is something wrong, Commander?”

“Nothing.”

But are you about to sell me out?

“I think a bit of brandy will help things go more smoothly, don’t you? There’s a bottle in the cellar I thought perhaps you could bring up.”

“Of course, sir.” The old man’s demeanor was absolutely inscrutable, but there was no way to simply ask without inviting his wrath. “You owe me no debt, you know. I did only what duty required.”

“Perhaps, Commander. But times change, yes?”

The duke mounted the steps to his cottage and a servant showed him inside. The same servant pointed Thorne in the direction of the cellar and helped him to select just the right bottle; having never developed a taste for the more civilized liquors of the empire, he had no way to know which the duke had intended. Or what, he added to himself.

A trial was inevitable, at this point. The only questions that remained were who would be invited to testify and with what crimes he would be charged. In fact, he was surprised that nearly the full seven years had passed before someone deigned to officially accuse him. He rapped upon the chamber door and waited to be admitted, noting with some shame that his nerves and the waiting threatened to get the best of him. He rolled his head about his neck and set his eyes and mouth in a line, hardening his countenance in case the cardinal happened to open the door.

Instead, a voice from within invited him to simply open the door. Pushing the oak door aside, he was greeted by the sight of both men comfortably seated at a humble, round table. There was no third chair to be seen, but there were three glasses. Thorne filled all three and, taking one for himself, waited for the others to drink.

They didn’t.

“Usually, Duke Caffrey—usually,” said the cardinal, apparently correcting an earlier statement. “I normally take no issue with the practice of lay investiture, but in this case I must protest. At the time, I thought I could take your word that the former baron had experienced a change of heart and could serve the church faithfully, but that seems not to be the case.”

The duke nodded gravely and, finally, lifted his glass to his lips. “I see,” he said after a sip. “But I still fail to understand what specific complaints you have against the commander—”

“…Bishop, milord,” the cardinal corrected him.

The Iron Duke smiled. “Yes, bishop. Anyway, what exactly seems to be the trouble?”

Cardinal Belloc seemed scandalized. “The problem, sir, is your choice of so insincere a person to care for one of the church’s youngest and most vulnerable missions. The people of Risi are little more than monkeys with a penchant for superstition!” He took a breath, calmed himself, and managed to keep his voice to only a softer shout after that outburst: “To pretend that a null could serve as a man of the cloth is insult enough, but to imagine that he could lead these people to enlightenment? It is a crime against the faith!”

Thorne couldn’t hide the smirk that spread over his face at the cardinal’s outburst. Did anyone really care if the colonies ever became enlightened?

“Understand, Cardinal, I would not hesitate to remove Commander—excuse me; Bishop Thorne from his post were it made clear to me that he lacks any of the faith and zeal I have come to expect of the clergy. However, I require that you air specific complaints.”

The duke’s backhanded insult was lost on the cardinal.

“Very well!” growled Belloc. “This cretin has set himself up as some sort of magician! Allow me to list a few of his specific exploits… He promised God’s protection to a group of natives if they would remove themselves to the church with all haste, as if he could somehow cast a spell on them and make it so. He then later delivered to them the corpse of a ‘demon,’ claiming that he had lifted the curse on their village as if by divine power! As if that were not enough, the fools then brought burnt offerings to the church—laid them on the very altar!—for months afterward while this null did nothing to prevent them.”

Belloc stopped their, a smug look on his face; he felt certain he had made his case. “There are even rumors that the ‘bishop’ sired a bastard with one of the local colonists. Of course, these are only the latest of his crimes against God and his country and by far not the worst.”

Thorne bristled, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the glass in his hand. You’ll die for those words, Cardinal.

The duke played his part. Turning to Thorne, he asked, “Is any of this true?”

Of course it was. “Yes, Duke,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with venom, his eyes closed to slits as he glared at the cardinal.

“Then I agree with Cardinal Belloc that something must be done.”

So the old bastard was going to sell him out after all?

“Having realized, of course, that your accusations could prove true, I took the liberty of having my chaplain draft a letter of dismissal before this meeting.” The duke took a one-page document on hefty parchment from the folio beside his chair, laying it on the table between himself and the cardinal. “It needs only your signature.”

The cardinal’s cold, satisfied smile was like a knife in his back.

“So then the Iron Duke can be reasonable after all?” mused the cardinal, preparing to set pen to paper. But he stopped, ink dripping from the nib of his fountain pen as he glared at what was writ before him. “What is this?” he demanded, snatching the document from the table. “How dare you! I will—”

“—you’ll do nothing, Cardinal,” bellowed the duke, “and if you ever dare question me again, I’ll personally see that every one of your bastards is there to watch when you are beside you on the day you’re excommunicated.”

The only sound in the chamber was that of the clock against the wall.

“You’ll both burn in hell,” the cardinal muttered. A servant met him at the chamber door and escorted him out.

Duke Caffrey smiled, taking on the look of a fox that had just won a fine meal by craft and wit. “Now, about that drink…” He topped off his own glass and offered Thorne the bottle before waving his hand toward the empty chair. “Sit down, Commander. Have you considered that your seven years are nearly up? You’ll soon be Baron Thorne once more. What then?”

Thorne drained his glass at once, and then shrugged. “I have no idea.”

This is not some short half-assed scene. This is 1500 words long, and I think it works well from start to finish. I hope it does. Sometimes I think I can tell how well I’m doing by how acutely I feel what my characters feel. By the time I finished writing this, I was nauseous. Hopefully that’s a good sign.

Bridge of Kodiak – 1425 hours – Kyoto Atoll – 12000 feet

In line battle, each ship shall engage its opposite number and press the engagement to its conclusion, whatever the outcome.

Aria Cantion, Imperial heir and an admiral of the fleet, scowled as a junior officer relayed Admiral Lord Westland’s final instructions for the coming battle: “Hold the line.” He gave her a weak smile and hurried through a salute before disappearing, abandoning the bridge for the armored citadel beneath to escape her inevitable wrath. The Cantion line had a famous temper.

“It’s his last battle, Aria,” said the tall, thin figure beside her on the bridge—Master Sergeant David Cross, her mentor and guardian. “Tomorrow he’ll be just another flag officer who retired too old to see his grandchildren grow up. Today, because of you, he has one last chance at glory.”

“And I have one less,” she muttered. She sighed, gazing wistfully at Parapet, steaming at the head of the battle line under Lord Westland’s command. She shook her head, looking away toward the horizon—toward the enemy force. Yes, the old man deserves one last chance to hear the cannon thunder his name. And yet…

“What they’re doing is madness,” she said. As she spoke, ten cruisers and a handful of outmoded battleships laid down sometime in the last century climbed—struggled to climb—to meet her vastly superior force. Comprised of five modern battleships and four of the best heavy cruisers in the Imperial Fleet, her squadron outgunned and outclassed the enemy in every conceivable way. Such odds made Lord Westland’s admittedly uncreative tactics easily justifiable. “Has there been no word from our advance screens? It must be a trap.”

“I think it’s time you learned the parable of the dragon then, young mistress,” said another of the higher ranking officers on the bridge. Her flag captain, Lucien Chambray, laid a too-fatherly hand on her shoulder, squeezing in a way that might have been intended as comforting. She shivered, her lip curling in disgust.

Aria turned to face him, pulling her shoulder out of his grasp and crossing her arms over the platinum-engraved cuirass she wore on top of her battle uniform. “And what parable might that be?”

“You really don’t know it?” he asked. “Well, then…” Chambray warmed to his story, letting its words bubble in his mouth like champagne—the man was intoxicated by the sound of his own voice. “There was once a dragon who—”

Cross cut him off, finishing the story hurriedly. “The dragon does not fear an army and so destroys it in a single burst of flame—but, afterward, when a shepherd boy approaches his cave, he fears some sorcery and does not come out to fight. In the end, the villagers seal the dragon in his cave with a stone and it turns out the boy was nothing special. One of those insipid fables, like the boy who cried wolf and all the rest…”

Aria turned back toward the enemy, shaking her head. “I am no dragon,” she muttered, catching just a glimpse of her own reflection in the thick, armored glass as she watched, just off the starboard beam. She looked past the tarnished bronze tresses and narrowed eyes to glare at the ragged enemy battle line, still struggling to make the agreed 12,000 foot battle altitude. Her target, number two in the enemy line, soared lazily above an island mountain thousands of feet below. She felt breathless, forced to wait too long for the inevitable. “What is the range to our target, Mr. Sampson?” she demanded, distracting herself with details.

“Looks like… 260 clicks?” The gunnery officer corrected himself immediately: “264, Admiral.”

The number was only approximate. Hypothetically, each click of the rangefinder’s dial represented ten yards. Realistically, Kodiak’s battle-worn fire control would need several salvos of bracketing fire before they found the target’s true range, but an estimate of 26,000 yards was close enough for now—particularly since Kodiak’s main battery had a maximum range of only 18,000 yards.

Behind her the ship’s captain and her master gunner, an officer named James, pointed at something. “They’ve opened fire.”

Chambray was taken aback. “What? Why?” His tone was not one of fear, but of disbelief.

Aria snatched a pair of binoculars from a hook beside her. Black smoke billowed from the enemy flagship’s main battery: they had opened fire. She looked for the telltale arc of shellfire, scanning the distance between the two battle lines, but saw nothing. A dummy charge, perhaps?

Then there was a sickening, wrenching feeling in the pit of her stomach as she caught sight of a distinctive white flash out of the corner of her eye. It had looked disturbingly like the explosion of a Type III cordite charge of the sort used in the main weapons of battleships.

Get down.

“Get down!” she tried to scream, but she heard nothing at all as she tumbled to the deck, throwing herself down onto the hard steel plates. There was a crushing wave of force and the armored glass protecting the bridge seemed to vaporize, instantly broken into a shower of shards and sand. When she realized she could hear once more, there was only the sound of cold wind roaring overhead, and a numbing cold swept over her. Blood dripped from her chin to the deck as she rose unsteadily to her feet.

Captain James and two others—pieces of two others—lay on the deck in a spreading pool of crimson. She clutched an air mask to her mouth, forced a deep breath into her lungs, and ordered, “Get down. We’re in range. Get down!”

She pushed Chambray toward the hatch that led from the bridge down into the citadel. He went, taking others with him. She stood there, lost, tearing her eyes from the blood to the horizon once more. More flashes—gunfire—burst along the enemy line. Ahead, Parapet’s bow swung wildly to port as her shattered stern burned. Two of her turrets were gone and burning wreckage from Westland’s ship was now scattered across Kodiak’s bow.

It isn’t possible.

She felt she would throw up.

“Admiral, you have to get to safety!”

Was the damn mask not working? She couldn’t breathe.

At last a strong hand took her, forcing her toward the hatch. She descended, her body leaden, and someone slammed the hatch shut above her. She slumped against a bulkhead as the battle room dancing around her like a torture chamber in hell, lights and smoke and dark faces everywhere. Thick, gray smoke and the sound of screeching metal poured from one of the three fire control computers while a midshipman screamed “Turn it off!” repeatedly, finally kicking the machine until it fell silent.

A voice cut through the chaos and she heard, “Return fire immediately!” It was Chambray.

“We can’t—we’re still at 25,000 yards, sir!” protested a midshipman manning one of the working fire control stations. His voice sounded ready to break. “It’s impossible. To have struck Parapet at that range, they’d…”

“Damn it, do it now!”

The young officer, stricken, stared at her. At his admiral.

Aria felt a cold sweat running down her spine. Admiral Lord Westland, the vice admiral, the captain… Each was counted among the dead—Parapet was destroyed—and battle had not even been joined yet! Even with the air mask, she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes, fearful, sought the hard countenance of the Master Sergeant. He only nodded to her, holding his tongue. She drew a long, shaking breath. A voice spoke, higher, smoother than the others around her.

“Signal battle turn to starboard, 60 degrees, immediately. 15 degrees up-angle. Do not return fire.”

There was silence for a moment, until Chambray spoke up. She was too exhausted to feel angry, even when as he said with contempt, “Milady, I hardly—”

With a roar, the master sergeant struck out, leaving the man’s nose a bloody wreck and sending him straight to the deck. The venerable commander lay there bleeding in a heap and moaned in pain, unable to rise. All eyes were on David Cross.

“I am a man of mercy,” muttered the sergeant. “The proper punishment for insurrection in the face of the enemy is death. Your commander’s orders were clear! Do your duty.”

Aria moved stiffly to the map table, clasping the knurled wooden edge so that the others couldn’t see her hands shaking. “We open fire at 18,000 yards and not before,” she said. “Have my captains hold this course until instructed otherwise, unless I am killed.” She nodded to the young officer who had dared hesitate when Chambray had given the order to fire. “You—you’re my new flag captain. Signal my orders.”

At last she glanced at the floor at her feet. “And someone clear this refuse from my bridge.”

Unfortunately, this version is only partly complete.

Bridge of Kodiak – 1425 hours – Kyoto Atoll – 12000 feet

In line battle, each ship shall engage its opposite number and press the engagement to its conclusion, whatever the circumstances.

Admiral Lord Westland had sent one more message – probably his last before action would be joined that day. It had arrived over the wireless only moments ago and read simply, “Hold the line.”

Aria, an admiral in her own right, an Imperial heir, and the official commander of this force, bristled. Already, she found herself regretting her decision to allow the venerable Lord Westland to command in this, his final battle as a flag officer of the fleet. It was simply a gesture of respect and, certainly, he had earned this honor by his long years of service. But to push aside her plans for the battle for this?

The enemy force, comprised of ten cruisers and a handful of outmoded battleships laid down in the last century, was hopelessly outclassed. Her squadron was comprised of five modern battleships and four heavy cruisers, with a screen of lighter ships constantly on patrol ahead and above to watch for any secret assault that could threaten her heavy units. The mere fact that the enemy had come up to fight at all made her doubtful—made some small voice inside her cry out a warning.

For all the honor of the Australasian Fleet, I would never have expected them to stand and fight… Why?

But to dissent would do her no great honor, and would be a severe insult Lord Westland. She busied herself with details she should probably have left to junior officers.

“Range?” she called out her eyes fixed squarely on the second ship in the enemy line as it soared lazily above the island mountain range below. The enemy approached from the starboard, steaming a near parallel course at a slightly lower altitude: an inferior position, but not so much so as to make a difference. By the time they were within gunnery range, the two lines would be at the same altitude.

“Closing to 26000 now, Admiral,” came the quick reply. “Looks like 264 clicks.”

Hypothetically, each click of the rangefinder’s dial represented ten yards. Realistically, the battle-worn rangefinders on board Kodiak would require several salvos of bracketing gunfire before they found the target’s true range, but an estimate of 26000 was close enough. At the very outside, Kodiak’s 380mm, 45 caliber main battery could not reach a target beyond 18,000 yards. Aria always found herself most unnerved by this. Too poetically, it was the calm before the storm…

She was breathless, forced to wait too long for the inevitable.

This is the descendant of the last Eos scene I posted. It refers to some of the events in the previous scene. Makes a good deal more sense and, I think, is more interesting, too.

“These people are little more than monkeys with a capacity for superstition!” bellowed the cardinal from his seat the far end of the table. “To pretend that a null could be a man of the cloth is insult enough, but to then place him as the head of a mission in one of the most backward corners of the earth… This is an atrocity! I want your man clapped in irons and dropped into a prison with no doors or windows, but I’ll settle – for now – for having him stripped of his office.”

Thorne couldn’t hide the smirk that spread over his lips at the cardinal’s outburst. Or perhaps he just didn’t bother trying. His lack of respect left the cardinal fuming in livid silence as the Iron Duke responded:

“Perhaps, Cardinal Bellic, you could air a few specific concerns regarding Bishop Thorne?” he asked drily, resting his elbows on the heavy oak in order to hide what Thorne guessed was a bemused smile behind clasped hands. “Certainly, I would not hesitate to remove the baron from his position if it were made clear to me that he lacks any of the faith and zeal I have come to expect of the officers of the church.”

Duke Caffrey’s backhanded insult was lost on the cardinal, but Thorne nearly guffawed. Perhaps the cardinal had come prepared. Either way, he certainly was ready to air his grievances.

“This cretin,” he began with a contemptuous glance toward Thorne, “promised God’s protection to a group of natives if they would remove themselves to the church with all haste, as if he could somehow cast a spell on them and make it so. He then delivered unto them the corpse of a ‘demon,’ claiming that he had lifted the curse on their village by divine power! As if that were not bad enough, the fools then brought sacrifices – burnt offerings! – to the church for months after, and he did nothing to stop them.”

Cardinal Bellic stopped to smile here, a smug, certain look on his face; he felt sure he had made his case. “And if that were not enough, there are even rumors that Baron Thorne has sired a bastard with one of the local colonists. And these are only the latest of his crimes against God and his country; by far not the worst.”

Thorne’s amusement was immediately displaced by wrath at these words and it was only by a supreme effort that he managed to keep his place, standing beside the table, as he observed the proceedings. I’ll kill you one day, Cardinal, he promised, his eyes narrowing to slits. A long, cool breath vented some of his anger and he kept silent.

The duke, for his part, seemed to take all this in stride. He gave the matter a moment’s thought, but then, at last, bowed his head in defeat. “You’re right, of course, Cardinal,” he confessed, taking a piece of heavy parchment from the folio at his side. “I knew this might happen, actually, and I took the liberty, before this meeting, of having my chaplain draft a letter of dismissal for the offending clergyman. All it needs is your signature. I leave this matter in your capable hands.”

Duke Caffrey left Thorne and the cardinal alone in the chamber, a small fire their only company. Torn between feelings of betrayal and rage vying for supremacy inside him. Had the duke really just thrown him to the wolves? And, if so, why not simply slaughter the cardinal now and be done with it? …such thoughts were madness, but such thoughts he entertained for a moment as the cardinal, smiling at him, bent over the parchment left at the duke’s place and prepared to sign.

It was then that the cardinal gave a strangled cry of horror and his face turned blood red. He snatched up the paper and made for the crackling fire and Thorne realized that he had not, in fact, been betrayed. Acting quickly, he slipped a short knife from his robes and intercepted the man before he could cast the document into the flames.

“Leave this with me,” he said, taking the parchment from the cardinal’s quaking hand as he pressed the point of the knife into the man’s throat, “and I’ll let you live another day.”

“Why should I trust the word of a null?” the cardinal manage to spit, his voice achingly thin, caught between rage and cowardice.

Thorne hid both the document and the knife in the robes of his office and answered, “I would not, in your place. Perhaps you should leave quickly?”

Cardinal Bellic nearly fell over himself on his way out of the chamber.

This scene has already been discarded and doesn’t merit a lot of comment. I’ll be posting its descendant later, for comparison.

Mud and drizzle and the scent of wet leaves threatened to drown the old village, down the washed-out road from the church. Cries of Badu-Badu! rippled through the huts on either side of the road. Children and well-wishers watched nervously through cracked-open doors; only the village elder stepped out onto the path to meet him. The wizened man bowed almost comically low upon greeting the young bishop – the one they called Badu. A translator relayed his words to the two foreigners, both of whom towered like giants beside the elder.

The one they called Badu smiled politely – despite knowing that the natives thought this made a man look ferocious – and dipped his head in reply. He already knew what the elder would ask of him. He had brought the translator so that he could give his reply. “Take your people up the road to the church,” he instructed. “If you go all at once and make haste to the house of God, He will protect you.”

As the translator repeated his words dutifully, the man at his right muttered, “They’ve taken a shine to you, Mr. Thorne. Better than the church officials, at least.” The way his lip curled beneath his mustache made it clear he was biting back a laugh at the way Thorne had invoked a higher power in his comment to the elder.

Thorne – Badu – could only shrug. “They believe they are plagued by a demon. It’s only sensible to promise them the protection of some higher power, even if I myself am hard-pressed to believe.”

Major Peters made a show of his horror at hearing such words from a bishop of the church. “And you, the keeper of your flock! What’s this world coming to? A swift and violent end, I shan’t wonder, hurled into a fiery lake of damnation…” His nose-bristles shivered, the way they always did when he chuckled under his breath. “You’ll want the .403 double, I suppose?”

The bishop glanced up at the clouds overhead as a drop landed on his nose and the sounds of life around him were soon overwhelmed by the racked of water striking leaves. “I think the .455 would be a better choice tonight,” he said, listening past the racket. “The beast is quite large I’m told, and voracious. I’ll only get one shot anyway.”

The major gave a grim nod. “Keep it close,” he advised, gesturing to the hefty weapon now slung over Thorne’s shoulder. “You sure you won’t want any help?”

“Just be sure no one is left behind in the village.”

“Very well, then,” said the major. “But you will take this, with my thanks.” The major pressed a long, slender bundle into his hands. “I think you’ll find it quite reliable, even in the wet of the jungle – and a damn bit more accurate than any rifle.”

Thorne said nothing. He knew the package by its heft, but to carry such an item was forbidden for a man of his class. He nodded at last and made a note to return the bundle as soon as possible.

Major Peters saluted him, something the major could never have done in polite company. Thorne did not insult him by returning the salute. He simply nodded and continued down the road, toward the slow spot in the river where the villagers filled their water jars, and where the beast had taken its last three meals.

The natives called him Blood Horse, for his sheer size – or perhaps for the way he cried at night, often in reply to horses neighing in the field. Sean guessed he was a mountain cat, driven south by drought, driven mad by hunger and loneliness. He’d seen the beast’s pugmarks not a week ago; they were truly gigantic, the largest he’d seen yet in a time when big, hungry cats had become all too commonplace in the Vale. The cat would not stray far from water, he knew; the jungle heat was oppressive, constantly sapping the strength of such a large creature.

At last, when he could be sure he was out of sight of anyone else, he unfastened his collar and shoved it into his pocket. He would put his faith in steel tonight.

Far from the shore the enemy was arrayed, standing shield to shield across the beach, spears clasped in cold, fingers. Parulf, the old waysmith’s youngest son, went forth with a shout and flung his javelin against their line. Its flight true, the fine, slender shaft shivered against a strong shield and, raising his buckler high, the stripling warrior shouted his challenge to all.

Boar-helmed, a worn, crag of a man threw his head back and laughed at the assault, and Parulf became enraged at the insult. “Your spear was too weak!” the man cried, his smile flashing like all the blades of a shield wall, and out from the wall he came, his ash haft held high. “Try a better!”

Parulf was struck in the throat, silenced and slain. He fell there where he was struck, and the thirsty shore swallowed up his blood.

Eagerly the boar-helmed man went forth to gather up Parulf’s father’s old armor, and his old axe, and the shield that had failed his son. The men near him pressed forward, and the line moved closer to the sea. They let their spears rap against their shields, clamoring for blood now that they had its scent.

“Saxon!” one cried to his fellow: “Who these do not cut down will drown in the sea, if we are not quick with our work.”

That fellow strode ashore, shrugging off the black maiden’s chill grasp. “I’ll not be chosen today,” he promised, and went to his ring-giver’s side to form the line.

Then did the ring-giver charge that one with making good the attack, and with breaking and routing the enemy, and revealing them for the cowards they were. He took up his slender spear and, forsaking the strong shields of his fellows, he went forward. Ten steps he charged, and then flew his bright spear with a cry to send the point deep into its mark. Its haft was strong, seasoned and well-kept from his father’s time, and its point split the shield of one man, breaking through and drinking his blood to slake its thirst.

“I have brought a better!” he cried, and when a man with his javelin replied that javelin fell short, thrust into the ground at his feet. “Farmers, all of you—not warriors. See how your tools seek the earth? Go back to the earth and leave war for men! This spear is not worthy of war. I will send all of you back to the earth!” With his boast he grasped the javelin and, driving his foot down against its haft, shivered it there and cast its splinters aside.

“Now,” he called, taking his heavy axe from his belt. “Which of you would stand between me and my father’s spear?”

Now both sides, thirsty, pushed closer and men on each side let javelins fly and the one called Saxon returned to his ring-breaker’s side. The wizened king nodded to his thane and swore, “We’ll feed the blood-swan soon enough.” But the old man gave no hint of his meaning.

Battle was joined.

Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

Aria threw herself to the floor a heartbeat before an explosion pulverized the armored glass of Kodiak’s bridge. Momentarily deafened, she felt—rather than heard—the bodies of two other senior officers fall, their blood soon flowing across the deck plating. Aria shivered in the sudden cold, her hand going to her belt for the air mask there. Clutching it to her face, she took a deep breath and got to her feet, surveying the damage.

“Down!” she cried, waving toward the hatch that led from the bridge into the ship’s citadel. “Grab them. Move! We are in range!”

Stunned, the other officers and crew on the bridge moved slowly at first, but soon with urgency as the moans of the wounded and dying filled their ears. Aria turned her eyes forward to behold the smoldering silhouette of Parapet as the older ship swung rear-first to the left; as her middle came into view, Aria beheld the horrendous damage done by the explosion of her magazines.

How was it possible?

A strong hand on her shoulder pulled her toward the hatch and she descended, her body leaden, unable to tear her eyes away.

The Battle Room was chaos. Smoke and the sound of screeching metal poured from one of the three fire control computers while a midshipman screamed “Turn it off!” repeatedly, finally kicking the machine until it came to a stop. Another man closed the hatch above and a third demanded that they return fire immediately—at a range of almost 25,000 yards, well beyond the reach of Kodiak’s main caliber weapons.

A younger officer stared, transfixed, at one of the working fire control computers, a set of wild figures spinning atop the machine’s readout. “This is impossible! To have struck Parapet at that range, they’d have to have a 20 degree list to starboard—they’d have to have fired at nearly 60 degrees!”

Aria felt cold sweat running down her spine. Admiral Lord Westland, the Vice Admiral, the captain… Each was already counted among the dead, and battle had not properly been joined. Even with the air mask, she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes, fearful, sought the hard countenance of the Master Sergeant, David Cross—her mentor and guardian. He only nodded to her, holding his tongue. She drew another long breath. A voice spoke, higher, smoother than the others around her. Was it hers?

“Signal battle turn to starboard, 60 degrees, immediately. 15 degrees up-angle. Do not return fire.”

The other officers fell silent. A senior man, the ship’s flag captain, glared at her with contempt—how dare she order them to cast aside their carefully-laid plans before battle was even joined?

The flag-captain shook his head, stepping toward her. “Milady, I hardly—”

With a roar, the Master Sergeant struck out, leaving the man’s nose a bloody wreck and sending him straight to the deck. The venerable commander lay there bleeding in a heap and moaned in pain, unable to rise. All eyes were on David Cross.

“I’m a man of mercy,” uttered the Master Sergeant, “but the proper punishment for insurrection in the face of the enemy is death. Your commander’s orders were clear. Do your duty!”

Aria moved stiffly to the map table, clasping the knurled wooden edge so that the others present couldn’t see her hands shaking. “We open fire at 18,000 yards and not before,” she said. “Have my captains hold this course until instructed otherwise unless I am killed.” She nodded to the young officer who had been so entranced by the computer. “You—you’re my new flag captain. Signal my orders.” She glanced to the floor at her feet, where the other man lay, choking on his own blood. “Someone clear this refuse from my bridge.”