Chapter 2
Chapter two
Ashes and Allies
“Where were you when the Iron Fleet started bombing the port?” thundered Colonel Thomas Ashby.
His chest heaved, and his voice shook, a look of frustrated betrayal on his umber face, darkened further by soot marks.
A gash still bled from his forehead, and his uniform coat hung in tatters, silver eagles clutching tightly to his shoulder boards.
A jagged hole gaped in the roof of his office, a pile of rubble in the corner, dust and splinters everywhere.
He stopped pacing the marred wooden floor of the room, which offered an unfettered view of the ruined harbor, to glare at the queen.
Azaleen, Captain Moreau beside her, planted her fists on her hips and lifted her chin.
Ashby, who was not yet fifty, with an average height and build, still stood taller than she did.
He had risen through the ranks, proving himself at the wheel of a ship, on horseback, and with pen and sword.
However, the queen knew that his drive came from his grandfather’s legacy and that of a distant relative—a groundbreaking Tuskegee Airman from the twentieth century.
While he was entitled to his anger, Azaleen wouldn’t allow him to turn it on her.
“Bringing the AlgonCree Navy to save you,” she retorted with equal bite. “Would you rather I had been in Nelanta? And if I had been here, what good would that have been?”
“We had no warning,” Ashby growled. He yanked off his gloves and slammed them onto his desk, sending up a cloud of ash and sawdust. “Isn’t that why you employ scouts and spies?
For years, the capital has neglected New Charleston, always favoring Marchland and Stonevale—even Fort Hammond and Clearwater—while Fort Stilwell is our primary post on the Atlantic, guarding our most prestigious port.
Who is called upon when the hurricane winds blow?
Who attracts trade from across the ocean?
Yet we are expected to patrol the entire coastline with a handful of trawlers and two hot air balloons. And now defend against an invasion?”
Luke stepped between them, taller, younger, sturdier than the colonel. “That is no way to address your monarch.”
He sidestepped Luke, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t interfere, boy. That is no way to address a superior officer.”
Azaleen touched Luke’s arm, signaling him to step aside.
“Colonel Ashby, more than anyone, I can relate to your dilemma. Do you truly believe the nation’s treasury overflows?
Or that weapons and ammunition are as plentiful as rations?
I have plans for tall ships on my desk, along with an accountant’s notes on the necessary materials and the cost of hiring shipbuilders.
I have ambitious visions for Verdancia, Colonel, and I certainly don’t want to ignore New Charleston, but we are severely limited in supplies, funds, and manpower.
It’s my duty to allocate those scarce resources where they can benefit the entire kingdom the most. I did not start this war, nor did I provoke President Irons to action, but now we all must make sacrifices.
I did not expect such bellyaching from Shakeel Ashby’s grandson. ”
The colonel sighed, a grimace crossing his lips, and turned to stare out the large window.
Azaleen had arrived an hour ago and, with her security detail, walked through the streets, saw the destruction, and stopped to console those who grieved.
Irons’ Navy had focused its attack on Fort Stilwell and the harbor, but shells—whether stray or not—had flattened homes and businesses in town as well.
The hardest was when she spoke with a young mother sitting on a pile of smashed bricks, singing a lullaby as she rocked a dead child in her arms.
My boys are safe, she thought with a mixture of guilt and relief—for now.
“I apologize if, in my zeal, I spoke disrespectfully, Your Excellency. Such was not my intent.” Ashby motioned to the window, and Azaleen stepped beside him to peer out, Luke close on her heels.
“I have command of Fort Stilwell, the teeth of New Charleston. Readiness is my responsibility. We ran drills, so the Marines knew their stations. But we’re used to dealing with pirates, not boats capable of leveling a fort.
I am glad of the AlgonCree Navy’s arrival, as surely as I live and breathe.
Truly, your efforts abroad proved invaluable. How long will they remain here?”
Azaleen looked out at the beleaguered port, smoke still drifting up from debris piles, the long line of bodies, now covered with sheets, two crippled Republic vessels, and six gleaming AlgonCree warships.
“I’ve yet to confer with Fleetmaster Dawnriver, but I imagine at least one ship will remain to guard your harbor until ours are repaired or replaced. Have a medic see to that cut. You know our supply of antibiotics is slim, and you can’t afford an infection.”
Ashby turned to her, a sheepish look on his face, hands clasped behind his back. “We received your recent shipment, and I thank you. The malaria pills and various vaccines have gone to good use. It’s not that I don’t appreciate—”
“I know.” Azaleen cut him off briskly and met his gaze.
Mud-brown irises ringed a black center in oval-shaped, bloodshot eyes that no longer burned with fury.
“If the capital had more, you would have more. That is the truth of the matter. We must work with what we have. I want boats repaired, walls rebuilt, and fresh recruits trained, and it must be done in a fortnight. Do not worry the cost. This war will put the crown in debt, regardless. The AlgonCree and Caribbean islanders will buy our cotton, and I’ve learned of another potential trading partner—Iceland. ”
“Iceland?” His brows lifted, and his jaw slackened.
“Yes. It seems they were ignored in the War of Ruin, which begs the question, who else?”
“Who else, indeed?”
Azaleen shook her head. They could set off across the ocean in pursuit of allies and trading partners when they had ships that could make the voyage. For now, there was a war to win and a nation to save.
“See to your injuries, Marines, fortress, and city, Colonel Ashby. I wish a casualty report and to attend a joint memorial for the fallen. Then I must hasten to Nelanta to confer with General Stark. Verdancia and the freedoms we hold dear depend on you as much as they do on me.” She laid a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.
His chin dipped as he wiped a trembling hand down his bloody, soot-smeared face. Tears welled in his eyes when he met her gaze. “I’ll see it done.”
Azaleen, with bodyguard Luke at her side, found Camille downstairs in a less damaged part of the command building. The rest of the team was helping with rescues and recoveries. Azaleen dreaded the casualty report.
“Oh, Queen Frost,” the diplomat said upon catching sight of her approach.
Azaleen couldn’t help but admire how well the woman—so at home at court—held up under such strenuous circumstances. She supposed others might think the same of her, though Azaleen never considered herself the dainty type.
“I secured our lodging at a local hotel—completely undamaged. They’re readying our rooms and swear by the cook at their restaurant. I tasked Rory with getting our things from the Halcyon to our hotel rooms.”
“Thank you,” she answered. “You always think of things I overlook. Now, where might we find Fleetmaster Dawnriver?”
“I believe he’s still aboard his flagship, Madam Queen. Harlan delivered the message and said he was meeting with his captains.”
Upon closer inspection, Azaleen adjusted her assessment of Camille: unscathed, but not unshaken.
She rubbed her hands together fretfully, and her eyes darted about the room.
Men and women in uniform strode in and out, working feverishly through the daunting cleanup.
Some barked orders while others muttered unintelligibly.
She pictured Lark out there, clearing rubble to extract civilians and get them to safety.
If her life were simpler, her responsibilities not so lofty, she could be getting her hands dirty, performing lifesaving labor, feeling the rush of joy when she pulled a child from the wreckage.
At times, she thought her endless hours of meetings and decision-making thankless, if not meaningless.
In that moment, she envied Lark, the everyday hero.
“I could go with you to talk to him,” Camille volunteered.
Azaleen supposed her diplomatic secretary would do anything to escape the chaos.
She shook her head. “We’ll be talking strategy.
It’s a military mind—Captain Moreau—I need at my side.
Why don’t you jot down the name and address of our hotel and make sure our luggage arrives?
Reserve dinner tables as well. Everyone will want to wash up and eat before dark. What was done with the prisoners?”
“I’m not sure about that. I know there were a lot of them. Maybe a stadium or gymnasium?” An apologetic expression wrinkled her brow as her lips pulled back in a grimace.
“I’ll ask the fleetmaster. He should know.
” Seeing Camille’s unease, Azaleen smiled and patted her arm.
“You’re doing a fine job. We’ll be back in Nelanta in no time, where we can set everything right.
None of us expected this. You’re a strong woman, Camille Navarro. I see Skye comes by it honestly.”
Camille stood a little straighter, shoulders squared, chin up, and beamed.
“Thank you, my queen. I opposed Skye’s career choice—thought it was beneath her and too dangerous.
Now I understand why she joined the military and am proud of her.
” She pulled a notepad from the personal bag over her shoulder, scrawled down the details, and handed it to Azaleen.
“I’ll go see to our arrangements. And, though you don’t need me to tell you, whenever I think about a strong woman, your face comes to mind.
” Pivoting on her heel, Camille hurried out.
“She’s right, you know,” affirmed Luke, who’d been silently shadowing Azaleen.
It was reaffirming to hear it said every once in a while. Still, Azaleen laughed off the compliment. “Let’s go find Dawnriver.”
Azaleen maneuvered along the clangy metal gangplank with Luke behind her, passing sailors and Marines heading off the ship.
The destroyer was even more massive up close than from a distance, with the blue and white wolf flag flapping overhead.
Smoke mingled with salt in the humid air, the sun now on its downward slide.
A few hours of daylight left, she surmised.
She stepped onto the deck amid a bustle of activity. Luke hailed a sailor. “Can you tell us where to find Fleetmaster Dawnriver?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Queen Frost and her aide, Captain Moreau,” he answered with authority, gesturing toward his rank with his chin.
“Oh.” The seaman snapped to attention, his face flushed with embarrassment.
His voice had a Québécois accent to Azaleen’s ear.
“The fleetmaster’s in the CIC—uh, the ops room—two decks down, under the bridge.
” The young man snapped a salute to Luke, then raked his hand to his waist for a bow before the queen.
“Your High … Queenliness,” he stammered.
Azaleen bit her lip to hold in an inappropriate laugh. “Thank you,” she replied. “Madam Queen will suffice. We appreciate your skill in your post.” She turned toward the bridge, positioned forward of the mainmast. “Captain, do you think you can find the stairs?”
He offered his arm; she took it. “I shall do my best.”
Deep in the bowels of the steel sea-beast, Luke had to duck to keep from hitting his head when passing through watertight doors.
Azaleen felt as if she’d been swallowed walking the lower deck, dark walls pressing into the narrow corridors, and not a sliver of natural light.
Although she had been in buildings with electric lights, these unfiltered bulbs hurt her eyes.
The setting was so unnerving she wondered how the seamen and Marines had grown used to it. Give me a cutter or trawler any day.
A woman in uniform and a tight bun pointed them toward a closed door with “CIC” stenciled on it in blaring white letters. Composing herself, she nodded at Luke to knock. A fellow with a bristling beard and short red hair under a captain’s cap opened it.
“Queen Frost,” he acknowledged, removing his hat. With a sweep of his arm, he stepped aside to allow them entry. “Fleetmaster Dawnriver was going to come to you when our meeting adjourned, but we’re wrapping up now.”
The five other men and one woman seated around the table all rose as etiquette required.
“Welcome, Madam Queen,” said the distinguished man in the middle as he inclined his head.
“Captains, see to the needs of your ships. We’ll meet again in the morning, 0900.
By then, we should have an accurate report and, I presume, our new assignments. Dismissed.”
The captains shuffled around the room, offering Azaleen polite greetings, and filed out, the last one closing the door. “Please have a seat. May I offer you refreshments?” Dawnriver extended a hand toward two chairs opposite him.
“No, thank you, Fleetmaster Dawnriver,” Azaleen replied. “We will be dining soon enough, and we’ve much to discuss. May I introduce Captain Luke Moreau, leader of my elite reconnaissance team. They traveled with me to Aurora.”
“Yes, yes,” he said with a pleasant nod. “I recall their valiant efforts to save you from assassins. But please. In my people’s tradition, allies address one another by name. Call me Niska.”