“I cannot believe those fools would wait for an order to defend themselves,” scowled the premer. “Do they think that conquering the Sakova will be a picnic? If anything, this attack on us shows their resourcefulness. We must never underestimate them.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” commiserated the general. “They have been treated as royalty by Vand, and they have let it go to their heads. Still, you must fully understand their motivations. They would kill Motangan soldiers just as quickly as Sakovan soldiers. They are a society unto themselves. They will not mourn the thousand soldiers that go down with the ship. They will mourn the dozen mages that were on it. They will conspire to see you dead for daring to strike one of their own.”
“My rage was not wise,” nodded the premer, “but I will not concede that it was uncalled for. Gather the rest of the mages on this ship. Call a meeting of them below in my cabin. I will be down as soon as possible.”
“As you wish,” nodded General Valatosa.
After the general left, Premer Doralin walked over to the mage he had hit. He leaned against the rail alongside the man.
“I apologize,” stated the premer. “My actions were uncalled for.”
The mage glared at the premer but did not speak. Doralin watched as the flotilla of small ships fled from the battle. He was glad to see that less than half of them survived.
“Have all of the ships been notified with my orders?” asked Doralin.
“They are all aware of the new instructions,” scowled the mage.
“You are not making this apology easy for me,” frowned the premer. “How can I make this up to you?”
“Striking a mage is forbidden,” spat the mage. “You are not fit to live.”
Doralin smiled tautly and shrugged as he drove the knife into the mage’s back. The mage cried out in alarm, and several sailors turned to see what was happening. The premer hoisted the mage’s body over the rail and tossed it into the sea. He turned to stare at the sailors who had observed the murderous act. One of the sailors ran straight for the premer, and Doralin braced for a confrontation.
The sailor smiled broadly as he approached. He stopped short and bent down to wipe the blood off the deck that had been spilled by the knifing.
“Sorry, Premer,” grinned the sailor. “I guess some of the men must have missed a spot cleaning the deck this morning.”
Premer Doralin grinned and placed his hand on the sailor’s shoulder.
“Hardly possible, sailor,” chuckled the premer. “You men at least are very efficient. You make me proud.”
The other sailors laughed and nodded at the premer as he walked aft. Doralin made his way to his cabin where General Valatosa had the other mages waiting for the meeting.
“Today’s attack on us has demonstrated a deficiency in our planning,” Premer Doralin began without preamble. “The mage corps must be prepared to take independent action when necessary to protect the lives of the soldiers. Absent official orders from me, mages will be allowed to do whatever is necessary to respond to attacks. Are there any questions?”
There were no questions and the premer dismissed the mages. General Valatosa remained after they had left.
“That was hardly a meeting,” frowned the general. “Was that necessary in the heat of battle?”
“It was necessary if they were to be down here when the other mage fell into the ocean,” shrugged Doralin. “In any event, the battle is over. The Sakovans will not try that tactic again.”
“They managed to sink a few of our ships,” frowned the general. “Sounds like it was a win for them.”
“It was,” shrugged the premer, “up until the mages began obliterating the Sakovans. The next time that tactic is tried, not a single one of our ships will be hurt. I want you to get an assessment of our losses, General. Let me know how many men and ships we have lost.”
* * *
Forty-seven skimmer boats floated upon the sea like a field of corks all tied to one another. Their sails were lowered, and the sailors were sad and disheartened.
“We lost a lot of good men today,” grumbled one of the sailors. “The catapults were easy to avoid, but many a friend went down with an arrow in him.”
“The mages were the worst,” griped another. “There is no way we can be useful against those mages. They can blast us out of the water before we get close enough to use the harpoons. We might as well go home.”
“Home?” questioned Formone, a young fisherman from a village north of Alamar. “And just where do you think home is? Yes, we lost fifty-three ships today, but they lost eighteen. Do you know what that means? We killed eighteen thousand of the enemy today. That is eighteen thousand Motangans that will not be available to rape and murder our wives and children. Yes, like you, I mourn the loss of my friends, but I am not about to give up this fight. At least not while I have a boat and weapons.”
“Are you serious, Formone?” asked one of the sailors. “We can’t go back there. Not a single one of us will get close enough to even scratch one of those behemoths. It would be suicide.”
“Maybe not suicide,” countered another sailor. “We could jump overboard if our boat is hit with one of those flaming balls.”
“Into what?” scoffed a sailor. “I am not sure what you were doing on the voyage from there to here, but I saw hundreds of sharks heading for the scene of the battle. No one overboard is going to survive out there. You might as well stay in the boat and burn to death.”
“If you aren’t willing to do what we came out here to do,” declared Formone, “you should give your boat to someone else. I plan to sink as many Motangan ships as I can before I die.”
“You’re nuts,” growled a sailor. “Show me a way to get close to those ships, and I will go with you, but I am not going back just to turn into a clova on a spit.”
“We just have to take them by surprise,” shrugged Formone.
“The last time, they saw us coming from a long ways off,” stated a sailor. “They didn’t understand what we were up to, and that is the only reason we got close enough to do any damage. We can’t do that again.”
“We can at night,” retorted Formone. “We know the direction that they are heading, and now we know their speed. It is simple to plot their location at any given time. We are small enough to sneak in between them without them noticing.”
“That might work,” mused one of the sailors, “but as soon as the first fireball goes off, it will be all over. We will be lucky to get two or three more ships.”
“Not necessarily,” countered Formone. “I suggest that we don’t strike right away. Pass by the closest ships and move further into the armada. As soon as someone notices us, we all fire our harpoons at the closest ships.”
“That might work,” conceded a sailor, “but you do realize what you are asking? We will get quite a few ships that way, but not a single one of us will be returning. We will be in the middle of three hundred ships with mages on every single one of them. We will be trapped.”
“What you say is true,” Formone acknowledged. “It is a one way trip. Because of that, I think each crew should decide this for themselves. Anyone who does not wish to be involved can cut his line to the rest of us right now. Float free and hoist your sails for the journey back to the mainland.”
“What mainland?” shrugged a sailor. “You were right before when you said that we have no homes. None of us are likely to survive this war, yet our actions tonight could save thousands of our friends and relatives. Count me in, Formone.”
Shouts of agreement rippled through the small group of patriots. Not a single man cut himself free from the line tying them all together.
“Alright,” explained Formone, “this is what I see us doing. We will want to strike in the middle of the night when most of their crews will be sleeping. Make sure that both your fore and aft harpoons are loaded and ready to fire. We will sail in groups of ten. The first group will have to penetrate the furthest into the armada. That is going to mean a lot of bobbing and weaving to get there without being seen. The second group will stay back about a thousand paces, and each group will do the same for the one in front of them.”