It was a dim, frigid morning and the seas were out of their usual character. Their waters were veiled by a cold, cloying fog, thick like pea soup - the final death throes of the last evening's sudden and furious rain squall. The pastel-blue breaking through the sky was edged by rusty gold, promising a magnificent sunrise within half of an hour. For now, however, the seas sat undisturbed.
An unnatural breath of air broke the wall of sun-cast mist, sending small eddies whirling off in many directions. The disturbance was heralded by the oily glow of a ship's lantern, then followed by a spread of bright white canvas sails. They thundered and billowed as they caught the wind, finally freed of the murky fog that had confined the ship's progress to a crawl. A shout floated across the quiet sea. The shadows of men surged up the rigging and a half-second later the mass of sails fluttered, forcing the ship two points into the wind and silhouetting it against the rising sun.
The vessel was a striking one; a dreadnought built in the grand character of a ship of the line. It sported three gun-decks and a kingly spread of seventy-four cannons. It was newly tarred and painted, with a purple and gold stripe stretching across well-lacquered chestnut beams and its name was painted there in an exotic scrawl. The name translated roughly to "Jubilant" and that was just how Kailu felt.
These were golden hours; they stood a tranquil purgatory between peace and war, and this was the last calm he had before he was thrust into the heady excitement of his first strategic command. He could feel anticipation taking him even now - it was a buzz that sent him skipping from paw to paw, to the amusement of the older sailors tending the decorative Turk's head knots along the side rigging. He'd allow them their snicker. He was in a generous mood.
A midshipman in a smart gray uniform stepped at him across the quarter-deck. "Sir, the officers are ready for you!" Kailu yapped an eager thanks and peeled off towards the captain's stateroom.
This cabin was a grand one, with its imperial red paint and gold leaf curling up the walls. A thick rug - distinctly foreign and richly dyed, likely a battle-prize - tickled his feet. The chandeliers were gilt-ivory borne by silver chains, and on the walls hung mahogany-framed pictures of battles won. So this was what it looked like to be a victorious admiral. Half of this cabin alone cost more than both his familial AND his naval salaries for a full year. He smirked. This ship was not his; he'd seized it as his flagship by a privilege of his noble birth, with his father's blessing, and promised to return it after his first billet. "I won't scratch it," he'd said with a snicker. The Commodore of an armada, after all, needed a fitting flagship.
He sat at a long table with his officers. At the far end was Rakrran with a dusty gray fur and a dark mask around his eyes - his golden epaulets and cocked hat betrayed his position of flag-captain, which he carried with the type of entitlement borne by merit. The flag captain and his pack of a dozen lieutenants eyed Kailu dubiously but he was unconcerned. He would show them. They might have the seafaring experience, but the greater strategy of the armada was all his.
Their quarry was the Red Queen and her escorts - the enemy fleet had been skirmishing with them for weeks, but here, in the Ballast Cove, they would force her into a final, unexpected confrontation. This meeting was just a formality. Kailu's lieutenants leaned in again to pry him with questions and suggestions - the spry young fox feigned interest with an "oo, that's right" to some. To others, who asked their questions with the clear intent of poking at his inexperience, he dismissed with a "uhuh" and a flick of his paw.
After ten minutes of it, his dark lips curl and he clapped his padded hands. "That's enough. Return to stations. Have the Midshipmen lead the last battle-check, and then feed the men." The officers trickled out gradually and his flag-captain spared him a last look. He didn't return it. His reckoning was at hand, and he had more important things to ruminate on.
This was his battle and he was dressed for the part of its conductor. His fur was draped in silks the color of wine, fluttering like a cascade of autumn leaves. He was glittering with gold and jewels, dangling in bangles and chains. Their situation was favorable, but even if he died today, he would die looking like a lord.
His strategy, to his exhilaration, had gone off perfectly. Like a ground spider snapping its funnel closed, the half-dozen ships of his armada sealed the mouth of the Ballast Cove and trapped the enemy as they tried to resupply from a hidden depot. Kailu hadn't yet lost a single frigate and the enemy's fleet had already been whittled from eight vessels to a mere four over the last hour of maneuvers. The battle was mostly obscured by billows of white smoke spat from rolling cannons. The Jubilant orbited the struggle, spared the worst of the battle, and from it, Kailu directed his performance.
He was sprightly in power's grip. At his orders, a signaling crewman slashed a blood-orange semaphore flag. Across the cove, one of his escorts erupted in a rolling crash, cannon fire dashing down its length and shattering another enemy frigate, killing dozens and dozens in one barrage. Frayed ropes and splintered wood toppled, groaning as they fell into the sea and disappeared beneath a swirling cloud of white smoke.
Then, with a sudden and thunderous wail, a wall of hot lead parted the smoke and shredded his escort to bits.
A massive ship, its guns still smoking, swept out from the cloud with a whirl. It was, unequivocally, a hulk. Perhaps it was an erstwhile treasure vessel or some repurposed battleship of the line, but in its pirated state it was impossible to tell. The painted hull was a gunmetal gray and its sails were blood red - it was hurtling at them and on its bow was a gold statue of a screaming lion. Kailu had before only caught it in profile from far, far away, but from this angle he knew - it was the Red Queen.
Kailu hadn't appreciated it as he should have. Here, as it came at then, it was like a toppled siege tower and it dominated the waterline. Tiny little figures sprinted along its bow, their outlines quickly sharpening. His eyes widened. It wasn't turning away - it was going to ram them. He cried out a command. "PORT!"
The crew of his Jubilant thronged to the rigging. He'd drilled them to near-mutiny and now he'd see if they would live or die under pressure. The sailors scrabbled at the ropes, the sails shrilled and caught the wind, and the Jubilant started to turn to bring its guns to bear. This enemy dreadnought was far, far more agile than it looked - a virtue of its construction and often likely a deadly miscalculation for most of their enemies.
Kailu looked out from the quarter-deck. His flag-captain looked stalwart but the crew wasn't looking at the captain; they were looking, desperately, at Kailu. He knew suddenly that HE had to give the order to fire. His heart caught. A drumming started in the Red Queen's belly and the low war-beat carried across the water like a giant's steps. Cold dread started to prickle through him and the drummer beat again.
Thud. The beat shook him. The Red Queen presented all-sail and charged, a behemoth - he could almost see the faces of its seething crew. Its cannons gleamed. If he was too early, the Red Queen would overshoot, then bear down on them and riddle them with shot until they were dead.
Thud. If he was too late, he wouldn't land enough shots to destroy the hulk's momentum before its ram shattered their side. All he could do was wait.
Thud. It rattled his ribs now. He danced on his paws. He could see them and he could smell the enemy on the wind. Their sails were cracking and their guns soon would be too.
THUD. And if he didn't fire NOW they were all going to die but he couldn't yet or the spread would go wide. His crewmen groaned and he felt their nerves fraying.
THUD. NOW. NOW. It had to be NOW but the command wouldn't leave his muzzle. He knew something and thought it just wasn't time yet but...
BOOM. It was too late, they were bearing on them and he could see their cannon bores and...
BOOM. His mind clicked and then he knew.
BOOM.
NOW. "FULL BROADSIDE!"
And with a wooden shriek that echoed his desperate scream, the whole ship tilted, the boards quaked, the railings split and Kailu knew he would die.
He was ALIVE. His heart swelled. The Red Queen's captain had tried to out-time him and failed. HE was the superior captain here. He pulled himself down the quarterdeck stairs, groping for the long, curved knives he knew were somewhere at his side. The air was thick with smoke - from his cannons - and he could hear the enemy moaning from across the water. Hull scraped against hull and there was a crash as the Red Queen's mainmast crumpled into the sea.
He shook his disorientation away and the ringing vanished from his ears. The weight of fear still sat heavy in his belly, but it was tempered by a frantic excitement. A sweeping battle joy had him - an intense cocktail of emotion that strung him tight and sharpened his senses past even his natural Varran aptitudes. The air TASTED of smoke and salt and sweat. His crew was with him at the rails with a chorus of excited yips and barks. For a bare moment, he saw a flicker of sky through the powder-smoke and it was impossibly blue.
Then, through the smoke, over the rail-rigging of his flagship, he saw the enemy deck and it was close - much, much closer than he'd expected. An opportunity. Without thinking, he cannoned across the gap, the sea seething under him, and landed. The rough wood was scratchy on his thick footpads and he danced, light on his toes, between the enemy in a frantic romp. There was a flash of metal at him - strike, riposte, twist, and swing. His knife bit into something and it shouted, then he ripped it back.
A flash of fur and he struck again, spreading a line of vibrant red on the wood. He was battle-charged and the colors were vivid like a sickly dream. He parried and slashed and sometimes he even dispensed with his knives, instead tearing at fur and throats with his teeth. The rest of his crewmen surged in behind him, meeting the enemy with a raucous crash. A soft 'boom' erupted from his ship and scattershot swept the deck, shredding a dozen of the enemy and kicking splinters into his eyes. He struck again and something cried out, then he tugged his knife free and stumbled up a set of stairs to a clearing.
Then, with a fear that squeezed his chest, he saw the biggest Warran he'd ever seen. The two-legged cat had a broad snout, more pitbull than feline, and his pelt was a Stygian black. A cascade of dozens of gold knots dangled from his black mane - he was the captain, clearly. He twirled a two-handed sword like it weighed nothing and, when he swung, he killed a man per strike.
Then the Warran saw Kailu and his noble garb and screamed some wordless rage. He closed the distance in three strides and swung his sword. Kailu yelped and scrambled out of the way as the sword smashed into the floor where he was, pelting him with broken wood. For a spare moment something seized his eye - on the cat's chest sat a pendant dangling on a gold chain; a ring of emeralds, set around a tiny, tiny purple gem. His eyes gleamed and his pulse quickened. As tiny as it was, if that was genuine starris… it was a ransom worth three dreadnoughts.
Before the Warran recovered, he skipped to the side and slashed the cat's calf with a feral snarl. The foe-captain roared and fell to a knee, tearing his sword from the ground and carving an arc at him. Kailu ducked it with ease, splayed his toes and hopped to the Warran's knee, evaded a groping paw, twisted, ducked, leapt and - in an eminent display of acrobatics - landed on the big cat's shoulders. Greed flickered in his eyes and he flipped his knife and drove it into the foe-captain's chest with a dull 'thunk'.
Kailu dismounted as the captain toppled with a wheeze and the gem clattered across the wood. The Rakrran skittered after it and trapped under his padded footpaw before the ocean stole it away. He held it high - a lordly trophy. It caught the light through the powder-smoke, spraying purple light across his snout, and it set his eyes alight.
Then he tucked it away and leapt back into the melee.
The cannon-smoke had dispersed long ago. Behind him, his four remaining escorts tugged the remnants of the Red Queen. It was too broken to refurbish - it would be taken back to their Frisque port and stripped for parts and finery. He estimated that the wreck alone could build two frigates.
He stood at the fore of his dreadnought and the mood was cheery; his men would celebrate well tonight, and he'd allowed the lieutenants to break open the mead reserves.
The weather was bright and happy. There was a little breeze in the air, enough to ruffle the sails but not enough to catch them. It bit playfully at his nose and ruffled his fur. The moisture on it suggested another squall in the future, but not even that could dull his mood.
He looked at the sunset. The colors cresting the horizon, streaming over the clouds, couldn't be captured even in a masterpiece. He breathed deep. The salt tickled his throat.
This was what it was like to conquer. He allowed himself a gleeful smile. In his heart, he cradled an ambition. This would be the first of many victories.
And like a flock of homebound gulls, his small armada hove out to the sea.
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