Chapter Nineteen. Gin #2
The dozen or so soldiers who think they can access the city from the dock are taken out effortlessly.
Yet that doesn’t dissuade the rest from still coming.
Three ships are almost close enough for their cannons to do some damage.
Six more are close behind those. More rafts arrive at the dock.
The Blackcoats hesitate this time, having seen what happened to their comrades.
One comes charging in anyway, and receives an arrow to the chest for his efforts.
After that the rest wait for the bigger ships to back them up.
The boats drop their anchors. Rope ladders roll down the sides of the ships. Blackcoats climb to the docks. On the ship decks, soldiers load the cannons.
I hear Eban again; his strong, confident voice carries across the docks. I fight the urge to look in that direction, keeping my eyes on the Blackcoat ships, but in my periphery, I catch glimpses of Ophir boats and Blackcoats clashing near the water, and Blackcoats falling into the sea.
A cannon fires. The boom is so loud this time, it startles me. The ball reaches the edge of the city raft, clipping off a piece of it as it hits the water. Dozens of soldiers run up the dock. Arrows fly from the Lashing again. Some of the soldiers stop and return the favor.
Another round of cannon fire strikes the docks.
Two cannons at once. No. Three. A whole volley erupts from one ship, followed by a second round from another.
The cannon fire throws broken wood and rent cloth into the air.
Smoke follows, a dark cloud rising upward in the distance.
Screams fill the air, and panic takes hold.
I see it in their eyes. This isn’t the first time the Blackcoats have raided the Lashing.
For a moment, their fear infects me. What can we do against an armada of ships? What can arrows do against cannons?
I watch as a whole section of the Lashing, three or four rafts, floats away, severed from the rest of the colony by the first cannon strike. Flames quickly engulf the severed portion of our floating city as the attackers shoot flaming arrows at the rafts.
It’s a warning. That’s my best guess. They’re telling us to lay down our arms or they’ll burn us all.
I don’t doubt that they could do it. These rafts are made of wood and the tents are woven from seaweed.
There isn’t anything here that isn’t flammable.
A few dozen arrows tipped with fire could doom all of us, and I see thirty or forty archers gathering on the ships and dozens more cannons ready for yet another volley.
Something in my stomach drops, and for the span of a heartbeat, I share in the hopeless fear that’s washed across the faces of these people.
I sense their despair roiling my stomach. It would be easy to give in to it.
Instead, I stifle my emotions.
I’m not helpless.
I have power.
I find a place where I’m concealed from view, hidden amid a warren of tents tucked along the edge of the Lashing, and I wait.
Come closer. I only have one chance. The moment I reveal myself, their archers will send arrows hurtling toward me and cannon fire will surely follow, so I wait until they are close.
I wait until I make a single strike that’ll hit every person and every ship.
Wait all you want. That won’t help you.
I put my hand in my pocket.
It’s almost time. Any second.
Another round of cannon fire strikes the lashing. It cleaves a whole section of rafts, breaking them apart before they sink into the sea. I hope no one was inside. I pray that my hesitation hasn’t cost anyone their life. Because I have the power to end it all.
I take the relic from my pocket.
An arrow flies over my head, thwacking into a tent behind me.
My heart races, and my hands shake. There are four large ships in the armada and they’ve each taken up position, two in front, two behind.
They are packed in close because they know we don’t have cannons.
Soon, we’ll run out of arrows. We’ve made a valiant stand.
We’ve taken lives, but they still do not fear us.
Their captains shout orders. Above the cries of the dying and the twang of the bows, I hear them marshaling their soldiers, readying them for the final push.
More soldiers are coming. More cannons are loaded. To my left, an Ophir grunts, then falls. Slain by an Ophir arrow. Chaos. Confusion. We’re shooting our own people.
We’re going to lose, overrun by the Blackcoats. I see them drop boats into the water, and the soldiers leap from the ships, filling the rafts.
In a moment they’ll make their push and they’ll take the city.
I stand up and hold out the relic. “Tadhana! Now!”
The relic shakes in my hand. I feel it glow warmly.
I hear a scream—another arrow met its mark.
“Tadhana!” I shout, but nothing happens.
My heart skips a beat.
“Tahana?” I cry as the soldiers row toward the city.
Again, I see the captains calling their targets, and the men position the cannons. A boy holding a candle stands ready to light the fuses, and behind him the archers loose yet another volley.
Arrows rain down from the sky, and the smoke from the distant fire swirls about me, filing my throat and eyes as the cries of the dying echo in all directions. A part of me wants to run, to shield myself from the chaos, but I cannot.
“Tadhana!” I cry once more, and this time, the voice comes from somewhere deep inside me.
My voice echoes with the voices of my ancestors.
The bottle vibrates in my hand, growing warm at first, then so hot I can barely hold it.
The hair on my arms stands on end and my whole body shakes.
I feel alive and full of power. Every ounce of me is suffused with it.
For a moment, I feel as if I am a wineskin filled to the point of breaking, every stitch pulling apart, slowly unraveling until it breaks …
Then it happens.
In a single stroke, all of the power flows out of me, escaping like some great and powerful exhalation.
Where once the air was dark and threaded with smoke, an intense and overwhelming light illuminates the scene of battle.
I close my eyes against the brightness, but even with my eyes shut, I still see its glow.
It is as bright as the sun or maybe brighter.
I dare not look at it. A shower of lightning flows out of me and strikes the tiny armada, bifurcating, splitting into smaller and smaller arcs, striking the ships, the rafts, and the soldiers they ferried.
It shatters wood, and what it does not break, it sets aflame.
In the span of a heartbeat, the ships are engulfed in white-hot flame and the rafts are shattered, the water filled with broken shards.
With their rafts destroyed, the Blackcoats plunge overboard, their heavy armor carrying them down to the watery depths.
Our archers pick off the rest. Soon, the waters run red and the sky is black with smoke, but the air is quiet.
The battle has ended.