ETHEL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is it not beautiful, Sister?”

A fire of hatred burned in her belly commensurate with the mass of flames before her. Spine straight and muscles taut, Ethel stood beside her half-brother. The nearest blaze cast a flickering light on Stephon’s face in the evening twilight. “That fool Veront calls them dragons,” he scoffed. “The man has no flair for words, but what would one expect from a man with Rivervalian blood.”

To the left of Stephon was an old man in loose cottons. He might have been tall, if not for his stoop, and he might have been handsome, before the decades had put bags under his eyes and stripped the color from his hair. How can such an unremarkable man create such weapons of destruction? Ethel wondered.

The three of them were atop a small turret overlooking the waters to the south of Eastport. Along the shore, Stephon had two dozen menacing structures facing the water, each armed with a flaming arrow near two men in length. A pivoting arm on either side of the structures had been rotated back under tension, and held in the hand of each arm was a rope that would no doubt propel the arrow, although how far Ethel could not guess.

“My spies…well they are mine now…discovered he was constructing similar weapons over a month ago, and my engineers have seen their simplistic design improved upon—greatly. Dysar here calls them ballistae, a name I am inclined to allow persist. Would you like to see them fire, my sister?”

He was so adamant now about calling her sister. For half a day she had been locked in the room behind the throne, unable to hear a sliver of what went on outside. For hours she’d alternated between pounding the doors and searching for a means of prying them open herself, fearing for the lives of Annora and Eaira and eventually her own as the notion that she had been left there to rot seemed more possible. Stephon had already proven he was capable of worse.

Stephon himself had come to free her from the prison, and in a gracious attempt to smooth matters over, decreed her his full-blooded sister. “Our mother is a whore and our fathers no doubt different men, but that does not mean we should not be brother and sister,” he’d said.

The bandage on his right hand had worried her and, glancing at it now, it still did. If Annora was the one responsible for his injury, she would be suffering if not dead. Ethel had demanded to know what he’d done with her two friends to which he responded, “I set them free before Sture could harm either one. I did it for you, my sister.” She did not believe him in the slightest, but she feared he might be keeping them imprisoned with the intent of worse, should Ethel cause him trouble. She did not care to guess why Stephon had come to want her friendship—if that even was the case, but she would humor him as best she could until she found a means to free Annora and Eaira, assuming they were still alive. The days that had passed since then felt like an eternity, and with eyes upon her at all times, Ethel was no closer to learning of either of their whereabouts.

Ethel nodded her consent, pleasing Stephon as his brow jumped.

“All of them,” Stephon shouted down to the men. “You will fire all of them on my command.” Stephon raised an upward pointing finger atop an outstretched arm.

Lightning strike him where he stands, Ethel prayed, willing it to actually occur. Let it take me as well if it must—I do not care. She closed her eyes and pictured a bolt leaping from the dark clouds above, making contact with the tip of that well-kept finger. The hair of her neck and arms stood on end as the moist air surrounding her seemed to brim with energy.

A violent crack sounded followed immediately by screams of agony.

“Peace’s mercy. Silence his cries,” shouted Stephon.

Upon opening her eyes Ethel saw a man below impaled through the shoulder by a massive shard of wood. An arm had snapped off one of the closer ballistae, finding a new body in which to embed itself.

“I told them, only use heartwood for the arms. That wood is clearly of two tones.” Dysar’s somber disappointment was evident in his voice.

“Should we kill him, Your Grace?” came a distraught voice from below.

“No, you damn fool. Put a hand on his mouth and send him to a mender. We will be under siege in a day or less,” said Stephon. Then with a lowered voice, “There is no need to be killing our own.”

“Under siege?” Ethel asked, wondering what game Stephon might be playing.

Stephon shook his head and snubbed her. “Consider that preparation for war, men. Some of us will be maimed and die, but the others must continue the defense. Adeltia will not fall into the hands of foreigners. Not under my rule. Now fire!”

An uncoordinated volley of flame leapt from the structures, streaking through the air with unimaginable speed. The fiery trails traveled so far Ethel thought she may lose sight of them, and when she did, it was difficult to tell if it was due to distance or the water having snuffed their flames.

Stephon wore a satisfied scowl as Ethel turned to look at him.

“You have done the kingdom a great service, Dysar. If I come to need a First, you will be atop the list.”

Dysar appeared deep in thought, stroking the shaved skin of his chin. “I had expected more range… The arrows were over fletched. Must remedy that.”

“Well do so quickly,” said Stephon. “We do not know when or where these attacks will come from, and we must see the machines spread along the coast.”

“What attacks?” Ethel placed her hand upon Stephon’s arm to prevent the possibility of him ignoring her, but the contact with him reminded her of whom she touched. Though he’d assured her otherwise, this boy-turned-man was the one responsible for seeing their father, her father, tortured and killed. The guards and servants she’d overheard speaking of its brutality—hushed to silence upon their noticing her—recounted details almost too gruesome to be believed.

“It may come as a surprise to girls who sit within their provided comforts, sipping tea and oblivious to what goes on beyond the walls, but there are those who would wish to harm us. Those who would like to see our kingdom destroyed.”

You needn’t look outside the walls, she thought. One such person stands before you. “What do you mean? Speak plainly so my woman’s ears can make sense of it. If we are in danger, why are you playing with these…things…on the water? Shouldn’t we be guarding the walls?”

Stephon exhaled a mighty breath. “Oh, my sweet sister, these are the walls…” Stephon swept his hand in front of himself toward the ballistae. “And the shoreline is the battlefield. We are to be attacked by sea. By whom, I do not know, only that their fleet is massive.”

Dysar was making his way off the tower, but turned for a final word. “The ballistae are deadly accurate. We should be able to set ship to fire at near five hundred paces…provided the winds comply.” A strong breeze seemed to answer in defiance, pulling at his dark brown cottons as he disappeared down the stairway.

“I only learned about it the moment after you threw your tantrum in the throne room,” continued Stephon. “You would not have waited for so long in there if not for my urgent need to make preparations to save the kingdom.”

Perhaps he did not have time to torture Annora and Eaira in earnest, then. The thought gave her some hope.

“And where is our army?” she asked.

Stephon ran his left hand over his face and spoke with stifled anger. “Master Warin, it seems, has taken it upon himself to march north on Rivervale without my consent. I have made arrangements for his disposal, but there is no need to rush. I would as soon let him take Rivervale first. I always wanted some land in the North.”

He is without sense. “You expect a handful of your wooden archers to repel a fleet without an army to defend them? What if they land ashore elsewhere and march upon us?”

She saw a flash of uncertainty upon his face. “My dear sister, I think it is time for you to return to your sanctuary in the Throne. I cannot discuss every detail of our preparations only to have them fall upon a woman’s stone ears. You need only know that I will protect you from harm.”

Stephon called down to the guards to come escort Ethel. She had no desire to remain in his company, but she also felt inclined to stay and watch the horizon for danger. She knew the southern border was vast and could not be guarded by these few ballistae even if Stephon spread them in time. Ethel scanned the edge of the sea, unsure of whether she truly wished to see something—unsure of whether she actually wanted to see this kingdom destroyed as she’d so recently wished.

“There,” she said faintly, unsure if she’d even spoken audibly.

Stephon ignored her, yelling something to Dysar who had reached the bottom of the turret.

“Look there,” Ethel said at Stephon, now with urgency, pointing toward the sea.

A dark square could be seen in the distance against a sky lit yellow by the setting Dawnstar.

“Is that one of ours?” she asked.

“They come,” yelled Stephon. “Dysar, get your men ready to fire. You there, guard, run and fetch the boy Sture and his cousin or sister—that girl that looks just like him.”

The guard ran to obey.

“We only have a hundred bolts constructed,” Dysar said from below, his frail voice almost lost to the wind. “I warned against loosing a whole voll—”

“Then make more,” Stephon screamed at him. Dysar bowed and shuffled off at a hurried pace.

Stephon regained his composure and turned to Ethel with a king’s self-assurance. “It seems you will bear witness to my making of history after all.”

An hour had passed, and the Dawnstar touched the western shore. Shadowing the southern skyline was a fleet the likes of which Ethel had never believed existed. There were hundreds—too many to count without losing track, but at least two hundred ships each as large as any she’d seen formed a single row, pushing hard on their shores.

“How long until we can send our first volley?” Stephon had no fear in his voice. He was a child anticipating the greatest prize one of his ilk could hope for: unfettered glory.

Dysar was a different matter. The man had become pale and sweaty once the ship count rose above fifty and he had declined in appearance ever since. “By my estimate we have another five minutes before they are within range, and then only another five at most before they begin to land the shores. It takes us twenty seconds to load and another ten to properly aim. Given we have twenty three machines—”

“Spare me the arithmetic. Just see that your men load with the haste that is required. We fire in five minutes when they are in range.”

“That is the other issue, Your Grace,” continued Dysar. “They span a mile or more in breadth, and we only managed to push the ballistae a mile in kind. If they spread farther apart we will not have the ability to hit them.”

“They will only spread as they are fleeing in fright. When their crews see the ships to either side go up in flame they will retreat.” Stephon gave Dysar a reassuring smile. “Do not fear, old man. We have Peace on our side.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Dysar. “With you is Peace.”

Stephon seemed satisfied with the man’s response, but Ethel did not see the sincerity in it, only desperation.

“Sture, how long until you and your sister can set ships ablaze?” Stephon addressed the two young ones he’d summoned. Ethel made no effort to conceal her hatred for Sture as she glowered at him, but he was transfixed on the ships.

“We have never attempted at such a distance,” said Sture. “It will be difficult without seeing in detail the thing we are to burn.”

“It will not be so hard, Your Grace.” Signy turned red as she spoke, but her words were confident. “Not if we picture and focus on the tiniest of threads upon their sails. Knowing they are there will be enough. The Dawnstar is still in full view. I have lit a candle at over a hundred paces under similar conditions.”

“A stationary candle that you had studied beforehand,” said Sture, clearly not pleased to have been contradicted. “We do not even know what these sails are made of.”

“I was hoping you could ignite the wood of the bow,” said Stephon.

Sture looked to Signy as if to let her dig her own grave. “Wood does not catch so quickly, nor does damp wood tend to remain lit,” she admitted.

“Very well. Light their sails then, but be quick.”

The young pair went quiet and stared off, Sture to the east and Signy to the west.

Ethel focused on the ships herself. They looked enormous now that they were within a mile, and her brother’s confidence seemed more misplaced by the moment. Stephon at least had the sense to have a horse for each of them at the bottom of the tower, should things go sour. Where will I ride it though? She could follow Stephon and hope he had another plan, but that seemed naïve. This was like to be a disaster, and her muscles already twitched, begging her to run. I will ride to the Throne, enter the dungeons, bribe the gaolers with gold—if they even remain—and see my friends and mother freed, Ethel decided. From there we will ride north to Rivervale. It was a plan so audacious it was a wonder Stephon himself had not concocted it, but Ethel was committed and determined.

Flames engulfed one of the ships far to the east.

“Well done, Sture. Another,” said Stephon.

“It was not him,” said Dysar. “A ballista fired early and with luck. We should commence firing only after another minute.”

“Another minute be damned. Fire at will!”

Stephon’s order to fire was repeated down the ballista line in both directions, and a volley went forth. A flock of burning arrows the shape of flying geese soared through the sky. Flames sprung from the foremost sails of a ship to the west, leaping quickly with the wind from one sail to another, but the fiery birds had not yet reached the vessel.

“Cotton canvas,” cried Signy, much louder than needed. “The sails are simple cotton canvas!” Then much quieter and abashed, “…It helps to know.”

The arrows began to land. More than half struck water and disappeared, but the others tore into sails and prows, spreading fire quickly around the perimeter of the ships.

“They use tar on their hulls. I was counting on that.” Dysar had passion in his voice, but his face still spoke of doom.

Sails continued to ignite on ships east and west that had not been struck by flaming arrows. Sture and Signy were silent as they focused on one ship then the next, turning the dark silhouettes of their sails to vivid infernos.

“Reload, damn you. Quickly!” Stephon turned to Ethel with a satisfied grin. “Do you see what happens to my enemies? What king has ever put the power of magic to such brilliant use? And to save a kingdom, at that. None shall dare offend us after this display, and Peace will triumph over the realm.”

“Are those oars? My old eyes…” Dysar’s voice now matched his unchanged expression.

Ethel became flushed with waves of hot panic. The boats had slowed, but the vast majority continued forward. The fire on those whose sails burned did not spread to the rest of the ship.

“Should we perhaps mount up and leave, Your Grace…my brother?” Ethel could not mask the alarm in her voice. “We are not of much use… Just to be safe…”

“Ha. It is no wonder our kingdom fell the last time a woman led. Your kind lacks resolution.” Stephon no longer looked at her. He was focused instead on the sight before him. “Why have we not fired a second volley?”

As the words left his mouth the machines began to fire their second round of attack, although only one or two at a time.

“Faster, damn you,” yelled Stephon.

The first few shots all hit their marks, but a gust of wind came from the north as the rest were fired, causing most to drift past their targets and land harmlessly in the water behind.

Ethel pressed her damp hands into the cool stone of the parapet. If I flee to my horse, Stephon will have me stopped, and then his pride will never allow him to leave. I must convince him to retreat—after the next failed volley.

“Peace, see this wind settled,” said Stephon in frustration. “Did you not teach your men how to account for a bit of breeze?”

Dysar need not respond as the wind howled to the point of all of them having to brace themselves against it.

“All the sails are afire, Your Grace,” yelled Sture over the wind. “May we go?”

Stephon looked at the boy as if Sture had just kicked him in the shin. “Go where?” he demanded. “You may go home to speak of victory after every last invader has been burned. Set their tar-laden hulls aflame. Now!”

Signy was already staring hard at the closest ship that had not yet been struck in the prow by ballista, but she did not appear to be having success. Sture gazed forward toward the ships. Seeming neither confident nor concentrated, he appeared to be attempting to incinerate his fears more than their enemies’ hulls.

“This gale may cause some misfires, Your Grace, but it is fanning their fires and slowing their approach.” Dysar’s voice was difficult to hear now over the keening wind.

“The North keep its abominable storms. We have no need of them,” responded Stephon.

The ships were so close now that Ethel could somewhat make out what was happening upon them. On those with hulls engulfed in flames, men poured overboard, on others, oars stroked in tandem, and on all she saw smaller vessels being shoved over the railings. The men in the water fought to right those small boats in the sea and clamored into them by the dozen.

“They are launching skiffs, Your Grace. We should get you to safety,” shouted Dysar.

Perhaps Dysar’s words of reason will have more effect than my own.

“Then shoot their skiffs!” Stephon cupped his hands around his mouth, repeating, “Shoot their skiffs,” to the men below, none of who appeared to hear him.

He will not leave. He is mad. In spite of the cold ripping wind, Ethel felt nothing but heat. Every other sensation had become numbed, yet something frozen and painful lanced her repeatedly in the back.

She turned to look behind her, but there was nothing—nothing but the same lancing pain upon her face. Rain, she realized. A fitting end for us both, to be slain in a frigid rainstorm.

The sea was littered now with bodies and small boats, spewing from the ships like a disturbed colony of insects. Signy’s face was impossible to see as it was covered by her flapping hair, but Sture wept. His tears fell forward rather than downward, carried by the wind along with the growing number of other droplets to extinguish the flames that had been their only hope of victory.

As Ethel’s chance of escape diminished, so did her missteps seem evermore distinct. Stephon’s failings were her own. Her retreat into her books and her music, her inability to face her peers, to force them to respect her, it was all somehow to blame for the man her brother had become. I have become the worst of both my parents, she thought, and in no way was I a sister. I could have shown him another path, yet I only scorned him as our mother did our father.

The fluttering noise of thick fabric ceased as the large banner atop their turret pulled free. It tumbled through the air, the sigil clearly visible: the proud Adeltian Throne jutting through the clouds.

Ethel heard cries from below and looked to see if attackers had flanked them upon land. But the men had their arms raised and were cheering. The surf now moved away from shore rather than toward it, splashing waves over the bows of skiffs so close Ethel thought she could see the anger on the attackers’ faces. Anger or fear? The waves battered the small boats so relentlessly that many began to capsize. A massive ship in the distance had turned to the east, listing so severely it threatened to tip, and others followed suit.

“The storm is preventing their landfall,” yelled Dysar. “It is too strong.”

The squall intensified as if incited by Dysar’s words, and Ethel bent at the knees to ensure a strong gust would not blow her over the stone wall. Stephon’s vindictive laughter cut through the roar of the wind, interrupted only by the crack of firing ballistae.