The Imperial Accords:

In Their Master’s Arms

The whine of steam pumps drowned out the rough seas and creaking ship. High pressure hissed through pipes and steel braid hoses, turning gears and cranks. The iron barrels climbed ever higher, twisting in their mounts as they came to bear. Six miles distant, similar guns on similar ships were doing the exact same thing. Men were dashing to their posts, donning protective clothing, and preparing for the coming duel. Never in the history of the world had something like this happened before. Two fleets, thousands of fighting men and women, were facing off between an expanse of rolling ocean miles apart. No longer could one commander hail the other using a simple megaphone. The thunderous roar of cannon has been replaced by the booming voice of rifled guns lobbing half-ton shells miles away. Even this alone would make the engagement revolutionary, but there was much more.

An Alliance of nations had come together from the South. With greed in their hearts and hatred in their eyes, the agents of this dark conglomeration turned the fears of once friendly peoples into prejudice. From the windswept shores of Vanuissan and the deserts of Ruska they came, a dozen different nations banded together in what became known as the Loveless Alliance. With steel and tongue they conquered all those who resisted. Slavery and death were the only things brought to conquered lands and people. Forced to make weapons and grow food for the growing armies of the Alliance at the tip of the sword, the last free nations of the South cried out for help. The Smitintinian Empire answered, but she was a poor nation threatened on all sides herself. Only noble flotillas of warships kept the Smitintinian people from being swallowed up by Follandia and the Krestymann Republic to the North, and the city-states of Gizeki to the West. Still, the Empire sent all the aid they could.

But other countries, seeking to profit from this dark war of conquest answered the call of the Loveless Alliance. Gizeki pirates, Azimuthi cavalry, and Siwathi warriors aided the forces of the Alliance as they snuffed out freedom one town and village at a time. Darkness nearly fell over the Southern Continent, but the overstretched and outnumbered Smitintinian Navy came rushing to the rescue.

In battle after battle, brave Smitintinian men and women threw themselves into danger. Nobody thought they could do anything but die valiantly, but at each clash the outnumbered and outgunned Smitintinian Navy emerged victorious, though bloodied. First they said it was bad luck on the part of Alliance commanders, and then they said that it was a diversionary tactic, and finally they said nothing at all. The records of battle spoke words that none would dare say without facing certain censure. Dozens of Alliance ships lay at the bottom of the ocean and dozens more were captured intact and were taken into battle against their former owners. Appalled at the losses to their fleets and armies on the high seas, Lesser Azimuth withdrew her support for the Loveless Alliance. The Siwathi, who claimed to have been deceived and duped into fighting, followed her only days later. Finally, the Gizeki were cut from the Alliance after the Smitintinian Imperial Navy crushed their fleet in combat. Ten Smitintinian Dreadnoughts, then the entirety of the navy, and their escorts sailed south, to take the fight to the very heart of the Loveless Alliance.

Now the remnants of the Loveless Navy were fighting for survival, abandoned by their Gizeki and Azimuthi allies. The big guns stood ready, waiting for a single word to be uttered before unleashing hell. Gone were the cannonades and cluster shot that dominated warfare since the beginning of recorded history. There would be no swashbuckling heroes, only cold calculating Admirals trying to pound one another into submission.

Then it happened; white hot flash ignited. For an instant the light was blinding. The sound deafened almost everyone, smoke swallowed up the decks of mighty warships with acrid odor.

Less than half a minute later, plumes of water erupted all around enemy ships. Flame and flash sprang from their wooden decks, sending showers of debris, bodies, and everything else all around. Masts were snapped off like toothpicks, turning ropes and stays into executioner’s blades. Blood flowed like wine, making each ship a slippery deathtrap. Once again the big guns boomed and flashed, and again the steel death rained down upon the Loveless Navy. In that small part of the great oceans, nothing could live for long. When it was all over, there were no officers left who could signal surrender. The Smitintinian ships sent into the debris field found few survivors, only mangled remains that turned the stomachs of more than one sailor.

The Loveless Alliance, cut off from its Northern allies, was driven back and destroyed by vengeful tribes. Stories of the siege and capture of Ruska continue to circulate and though they vary from bard to bard, all are gruesome and more than likely true to the smallest detail. No peace treaty was ever signed, for the Elvin nations of Ruska and Vanuissan had been utterly destroyed. Rumors of survivors escaping to the various nations of the world persist, but it is unlikely that such a taint of specism could have survived a bloody end such that the Loveless Alliance suffered. In the wake of victory, the Smitintinian Empire rose in power. Revolution toppled the Gizeki city-states and replaced them with the Gizeki Republic. Lesser Azimuth broke away from its parent nation and slipped into an isolationist policy. Rapidly rivaling the wealth of their Follandian counterparts, Smitintinian colonies sprang up almost overnight. The Imperial Guilds challenged the trade houses of Follandia in every industry. The Imperial Navy doubled, then tripled in size in the decade that followed to become the undisputed ruler of the Inland Sea.

But the cost had been high. Ten thousand Smitintinian Sailors and Soldiers gave their lives in the conflict, many more returned home wounded. The strain on the economy nearly broke the back of the Empire. There was a throbbing opinion of extreme nationalism as the Empire climbed out of a would-be grave and into a seat of regional power. In the capital, new factories brought work and wealth to the people. Slowly things returned to normal, save for an underlying tone of pride rarely seen for so long in any nation. Peace and prosperity returned to the Northern continents, and indeed, to the rest of the known world.

Fairy tales of magic and mysticism died out, even in the south where such things had once been tradition passed down through the ages. The world was changing and things that were old could no longer keep up with the ingenuity of humanity. The Elvin nations, whose leaders foresaw the failure of their much-vaunted magical power, were gone now and in their place something had to rise. It would not be long before the younger species would be at each other’s throats just as the the Elves had been so many centuries before. But like so many other things in war, this prophecy was forgotten…

Present Day

It was winter in the capital city of Smitintinia, and that meant frozen icicles boring down from every roofline and street sign. Snow covered most roofs and many side alleys were little more than wilderness trails between two stone mountains. The haze blue airships that hung over the city’s aerodrome had white backs from a fresh snow and it seemed as if the entire city was dulled to shades of white and gray. The domed capital building rose above all others, immediately adjacent to the black obelisk that marked the exact center of the city. This spire was the only structure that was devoid of snow thanks to its heated metal covering.

Martin van Muller watched his breath dissipate in the cold air like a passing fog, fascinated with the extremes of the Smitintinian Empire. In summer this city would be baked in balmy weather that wilted all but the few who were unaffected by such matters of climate. Now in the dead of winter, the city was an ice chest despite its relative proximity to the equator. The craggy mountains that made up the southern horizon blocked warm tropical weather from reaching this side of the Empire, and Smitintinia was far enough from the ocean that the usually stable air temperature enjoyed by the coastal cities was impossible. It probably didn’t help that the city was at an elevation of nearly 1700 meters above sea level and the air was just too thin to hang on to much thermal energy. The same properties let a greater amount of heat energy reach the city during the summer but that meant little during the month of February.

Martin shivered even under the heavy woolen jacket and long sleeve sweater he wore to protect himself from the cold. The orange light from the giant clock atop Imperial Square’s clock tower read three minutes to four in the afternoon. He was just about on time to the meeting. Certainly three minutes early was far better than three minutes late if one had to choose. A carriage crunched by, tossing up a tiny splash of icy water that Martin stepped back to avoid. As he watched the black coach pass by a hand tapped him on the shoulder and he flinched and turned quickly. Despite his reflexes it was the stranger who spoke first.

“Martin van Muller?”

He nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but she…and she was female, cut him off. It was easy to tell even though she was clad in long linen robes and wore a thick woolen shroud over her head.

“Good. I’m Madame Grundwiez, of the Imperial Ministry of Defense. I have a motorcar waiting for us. If you’ll kindly follow me we can begin our business.”

Martin hesitated for a moment and Madame Grundwiez crossed her robed arms.

“Is there a problem?”

Martin shrugged and shook his head.

“No, not at all, I just didn’t expect to meet a…a…gargoyle…on the street like this. In the open and in broad daylight, I mean. In my country they are forbidden…”

Grundwiez rolled her brown eyes.

“I think you’ll find that not to be the case here. Now let us be off before we are running late for the Ministry?”

Martin fell into step behind the imposing woman, now fully aware that her robes hid more than her true form, they probably kept her quite warm and did not have the problem of being constricting should she choose to unfurl her wings and take to the air. That was something no jacket could possibly claim. The motorcar was sleek and low to the ground. Its angular hood was adorned with the Imperial Eagle; wings outstretched towards the heavens. The engine rumbled slightly and a faint smoke came from the exhaust pipes sitting just behind the rear wheel. Grundwiez opened the back door and motioned for van Muller to enter, which he did. Grundwiez followed a moment later and sat next to him on the riveted leather seat. It was altogether too cozy for a vehicle, but that was perhaps the point. Grundwiez pulled her shawl off and shook down her long, raven colored hair. Her pointed ears immediately stood out, as did the twice-curved horns beginning on her forehead and ending rather gracefully at her temples. Her skin was the complexion of dark cocoa, a lovely shade that complimented her almond eyes and dark hair.

“Your information was not taken seriously when first it was given to us, Martin, though once our own agents were able to confirm much of it we placed a great deal of value on what we could neither confirm nor disaffirm. I wanted you to know that first of all. If we did not believe every word of the document, you would not now be seated in this car and I wanted you to understand that.”

Martin nodded as his eyes wandered around the interior of the motorcar and at times over the form of the female gargoyle seated with him. It was odd, he had never before been in the presence of one and he felt at ease nonetheless. Despite near constant propaganda, he had left his judgment concerning her species to a time when he could give it a fair trial. Now that he could, Martin realized that they might be physically quite different but if this Madame Grundwiez was a typical gargoyle they were just as human as he was. That could be very comforting, or spell out a very grave danger. That, of course, depended on just how much value this ‘Ministry of Defense’ had placed on the document he had provided them nearly a week before.

Imperial Palace

Triumvir Quintas Ophelia Hotspur calmly set her cup of tea, just emptied, back on the silver tray as she continued to read the half page reports of the Consular meetings she had been forced to miss due to certain diplomatic duties. The Duke of Yellow had visited and as the most junior of the Triumvirs it was her duty to meet with him as an agent of the state. Not that Yellow had wanted anything in particular, just the usual chit chat about borders and naval exercises within Follandian waters. She would have preferred to be in session, but many would have taken offense at her shirking such duties, dull as they might be. The only order of business that she was not aware of previously was a bill to authorize the construction of a small coastal fort at the mouth of a river, whose location even Ophelia had to look up, and pay to raise a guard garrison. The measure had passed and it was up to her and the accountants to find a way to pay for it. A task made more difficult by the fact that it was in an especially poor area of the eastern province of Ferrum. While the capital of the province was quite wealthy, much of the land was barren semi-forested alpine desert. It wasn’t particularly warm, though not particularly cold either, but the soil was sandy and practically devoid of organic matter. The only thing that seemed to grow were the twisted evergreen trees and a variety of shrub that was as hearty as it was prickly. Most small towns relied on cottage industry or fishing for their prosperity and since the rise of the industrial age, cottage industry was being increasingly forced out of the market. Consequently Ferrum, once a leader in manufacturing, is now little more than a bedroom province struggling to keep its head above the financial waters.

There was no chance of starting construction for at least two months. This time of year the entire province was covered with frost and muddy roads. The rain fell on Ferrum mostly in November and December, turning the sandy ground into a thick reddish brown paste that didn’t dry out fully until April. Sighing in annoyance, Ophelia tossed her raven black hair and ran a hand through one of her bangs. She was considered small in stature by Smitintinian standards at just over 5’5” tall and anything she lacked in height she made up for with tenacity. Her silvery blue eyes could be hard as granite or soft as a summer’s day depending on her mood. Her skin, a creamy walnut color, flushed dark mahogany when she was really worked up. A gentle knock at the door brought her back from a fort in sandy Ferrum.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open and Ophelia’s aide de camp appeared in all his pasty white glory. He was the spitting image of a bureaucrat with wire glasses and a stringy mop of graying hair.

“Madame, the Minister of Defense just called. He said it was urgent you attend a five thirty meeting with the Duke of Yellow. Shall I have your car brought around?”

Ophelia instinctively rolled her wrist and checked the time on her watch, which told her that it was nearly five already. She nodded.

“Very good. I’ll meet you at the East entrance in five minutes.”

Once her aide de camp was gone, Ophelia grumbled to herself. Damn that Minister Jackson and his infernal defense meetings. Just because she was open to continued expansion of the Empire’s military didn’t mean she wanted to know every damned detail of one plan or another. Still, the military had voted for her in overwhelming numbers and assured her victory in a tight three-way battle last November. It was good politics to stroke his ego, even if it meant a most unwelcome interruption in her daily routine. Plus she could ask more about this new fort rather than deal with the bean counters in the treasury department.

Ministry of Defense

While the Imperial Palace was towering and overwhelming in it’s grandeur, the Ministry of Defense was a sedate building of brick and limestone rising only five stories above the grass of the parade grounds. It had once been a fort, and the central tower still contained arrow slits and pedestals for the ballistae that protected the grounds in antiquity. Since then, of course, the building had been enlarged ten fold and modernized to become the administrative center of the Army and Civil Defense forces. For everything the building lacked in aesthetics, it doubly made up for with prestige. More Consuls and Triumvirs had served within its walls before being elected than at any other post in the whole of the Empire. The public supported winners and often the most public ones came from the ranks of the military. The archway entrance to the Ministry passed overhead, blotting a shadow across the hood of Ophelia’s motorcar. The figures, posed in eternal vigilance, signaled where the civilian territory ended and where the military began.

Ophelia crossed the narrow stretch of groomed grass, still crunchy with frost of course, and strolled through the open door that lead into the Minister’s personal office.

“Madame Triumvir, Minister Jackson and his associates are waiting. Please go right in.”

Ophelia Hotspur moved into the chamber and heard the oak door close gently behind her. Jackson sat at the head of a plain table. On his left was one of his aides, the raven-haired gargoyle she knew as Grundwiez, while a stranger wearing a heavy jacket occupied the position on his right. The only member of the group standing was a uniformed Major of the Civil Defense Force. Jackson was the first to speak in the low, droll grumble of a long serving military man.

“Madame Hotspur, thank you for coming on such short notice. I know how much of an interruption I can be at times.”

There was a chuckle from Grundwiez as Ophelia took her seat.

“Not at all Minister. How may I be of service?”

The Major set a page in front of Ophelia and tapped it twice.

“By taking this to heart very quickly, Madame Triumvir.”

Ophelia’s silver eyes hardened with annoyance but before she could voice it, Jackson cleared his throat and nodded.

“Major Thompson, my advisor on the Civil Defense Force, means no disrespect of course. He is just extremely concerned about your safety, something just about every officer of the CDF thinks of.”

Ophelia felt her rage calming as she read the page with a raised eyebrow. It outlined a history of political subterfuge and plans for violent attacks against her and her staff. Her voice was soft but stern at the same time.

“You can’t be serious Minister Jackson, this is…political garbage. I appreciate CDF’s involvement bit think this hardly merits investigation or a meeting…”

It was Grundwiez’s turn to speak on the Triumvir’s behalf.

“I’m afraid we are serious, due in no small part to the investigations of Martin van Muller,”

The gargoyle gestured one hand towards the man opposite her.

“Admittedly on another matter grant you, but the information he has gained makes our concern very justified. You could be walking in to a trap, not only literally but politically as well. It serves the interests of national defense to see that this does not happen.”

Ophelia rubbed her chin and sighed. She knew better than to argue against a gargoyle in the matters of protection and defense, especially one as stubborn and intelligent as Grundwiez. She held up her hands in defeat.

“Fine, fine! You win. What the hell do you want me to do about it? I can’t just cancel a public tour as well as my meetings with Duke of Yellow over the next week. Not without tipping our hand, so you say.”

Minister Jackson’s reply seemed all to convenient to be anything other than a pre-rehearsed answer to a question he knew would come up.

“For the moment we continue to follow up a few more leads. We make it seem as if we suspect nothing, hopefully luring your attackers into a more open setting. Once we do, we can gain a better understanding of their intent and the scope of their desires. Nothing should effect your day to day routine, other than altering specific routes of travel and other general security measures I’ve already approved.”

Ophelia didn’t like this one bit. Certain parts of the populace hated her and her policies of expansion and federalization of certain industries. Highest among these was the Forestry Guild whose power base evaporated overnight when 80% of their lands were turned into Imperial Wilderness Reserves. But an angry logging company, even one as powerful as the Forestry Guild, had just as much to lose as it had to gain in the assassination of a Triumvir. Something about all this seemed just a bit too convenient, but it also didn’t seem unreasonable. Ophelia’s partner Triumvirs were much older and would likely retire from politics and government after their terms while Ophelia was young enough to remain for years, even decades if she was popular. And she represented an emerging force within the Empire that some in the old guard feared. She nodded in agreement with Jackson and Grundwiez.

“Agreed. I’ll keep my ears open as well. Perhaps someone on my staff has heard something at a rally or speech. I’d also like to know what could be gained by my death in a public setting.”

Ophelia rose slowly to surprised looks on both Minister Jackson’s and Major Thompson’s faces.

“Gentlemen, I will follow your recommendations, but I can’t make them from this office. I’ll need to make arrangements with my own staff, if you’d like I’ll ‘borrow’ Madame Grundwiez to coordinate my staff with yours?”

Jackson nodded.

“Agreed. But do keep it under your hat Madame Triumvir. I’d hate for this to all go away just to come back in a month to bite us on our collective asses.”

Ophelia laughed as she reached the door.

“It may bite you on the ass, Minister Jackson, but it will be my ass in the coffin if it comes to that.”

And with that the Triumvir was gone with Grundwiez at her side. Major Thompson, Minister Jackson, and Martin van Muller breathed a sigh of relief. The Major grunted.

“She took it better than I expected. I’m sure I didn’t help though and I apologize.”

Van Muller squirmed now that he was in the company of two near strangers.

“May I be excused?”

Jackson rubbed his temples.

“Yes, of course, my driver will see that you are returned to Imperial Square. We’ll be calling on you again so in the mean time I want answers. In one week’s time ‘I’ll have to look into it’ will not be acceptable, am I clear on this? The death of a Triumvir will not be because some man from Follandia asked the wrong questions.”

Martin van Muller gulped.

“Perfectly clear, Minister Jackson.”

Ophelia Hotspur raged in the back of her motorcar as it rumbled through the streets. How dare they lecture her on safety! As if she’d never been threatened before. For goodness sake she was a public figure, one who refused to compromise on every issue and that meant that she disagreed with certain people. That meant that, invariably, some poor bastard lost their temper every once in a while and made threats. Ophelia felt the gentle touch of Grundwiez’s hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t let Major Thompson get to you. He’s brave and loyal, but nobody will ever accuse him of being tactful.”

Ophelia sighed and nodded.

“I know, it’s just, well…so damned convenient. The Duke of Yellow shows up to keep me away from the Consular Meetings and now this. I’ll consider myself lucky if I’m back in session this time next week. You know the vote on expansion of the Home Fleet is coming up around then, they won’t be muddled in social reforms forever. The Nationalists are for it as are the Imperialists, but the damned Conservatives are threatening to oppose any increase in spending on the fleet that pulls funds away from subsidizing the merchant fleet.”

Grundwiez shrugged.

“Well all I can say is that the Ministry would like to have more ships on hand with the increasing tensions between Follandia and the Gizeki Republic. We’re stuck in the middle and the Gizeki Republic’s record during prior wars doesn’t give me great confidence in their claim to ignore neutral shipping in wartime.”

This only added to Ophelia’s annoyance.

“By the gods I know that! The bastards want a break on their repair costs now; just imagine what they’ll be screaming the first time a Gizzy cruiser sends one of their precious colliers to the briny deep! As it is now, if the Gizzies and Follies go at it we’ll be hard pressed to cover our own territorial waters without having to pull units in from the colonies!”

The remainder of the trip back to the Imperial Palace passed in silence as the two women, one human and one gargoyle, tried to formulate strategies to deal with a possible assassination attempt at the same time an important vote was coming up in the Consular Meetings.

Triumvirate Hunting Ground

The frosty ground showed signs of many creatures moving about. Rabbits, Deer, Horned Sheep, White Mountain Cats, and even a Wooly Rhino had left their tracks behind in the night and early morning. The breath of a small group was visible, hanging in the air like a wavering fog. Three humans, an Elvinkin, and a Gargoyle were gathered in the cold morning. A fair skinned woman knelt slowly, her long black hair standing out starkly against the wintry landscape. She raised the steel barrel of a long rifle and waited, her breath slowing as her heart seemed to pause for a moment. It was dead silent for a long, long minute before her finger moved ever so slightly. The powder ignited with a sudden burst of white flame and thunder. Thick gray smoke plumed as a large caliber lead slug rocketed across open ground and into a grove of ancient pine trees before burying itself into a piece of painted hardwood in the shape of a large boar.

“Excellent shot Madame Triumvir. A certain kill…”

Ophelia Hotspur stood suddenly, the smoke still thinly escaping the barrel of her discharged rifle. She squinted slightly to see her own shot.

“Yes, but fortunately for him he’ll live to stand another day.”

Major Jackson chuckled and offered a hand to the beautiful Triumvir. The young lady was a surprisingly good shot, something very few knew. Perhaps it was just something she didn’t think about, or perhaps she hid it on purpose but her frail appearance was a perfect cover for her sharp eyes and steady aim. She handed her gun to a dark skinned man whose name was certainly more difficult to say than anything in Smitintinia’s native tongue. His high cheekbones and thin, silky hair gave away his bloodlines. Van Muller tried to shrug off the snow that was on his shoulders, collected from just a few minutes in the freshly falling powder. Grundwiez chuckled watching him try to put his hair back in order after being soaked and half-frozen by the elements. Something about his primping and silent consternation with the weather tickled her to her core, and she had to admit she liked it.

Martin van Muller and Grundwiez, by their own natures, had separated themselves from the other three who were busy talking in quiet tones. Grundwiez tilted her head to the side as she watched them, becoming temporarily lost in the moment. For a while even she didn’t realize she was staring right into van Muller’s eyes but when she did she quickly glanced down at her feet, feeling her cheeks flush.

Triumvir Hotspur, not turning around, reached back for her reloaded weapon only to find that it was not where it should be. As she moved her hand around she turned her head ever so slowly back over her shoulder. The talking ceased and only the soft crunch of a foot on the snow was heard; and then the double click of a rifle being cocked. Time stood still, the snowflakes hung motionless in the air. Ophelia had never looked down the barrel of her own rifle, for she thought it bad luck to do so even when she knew it was not loaded. The grooves of the rifling seemed oddly surreal, the only detail she focused on despite the ornate designs all over the weapon.

Fortunately for the young Triumvir, not everyone was so motionless and focused. The buzz of a tiny silver knife flipping end over end rang like a clock tower in everyone’s ears as the fiery battle shout of a gargoyle boomed more loudly than the biggest summer thunderclap. A sickening slice of metal against flesh rewarded Ophelia with a spatter of deep red, making her blink.

She’d seen blood before of course, it was natural with her background in the Navy, but not like this. It was fresh and warm, slickening the side of the face and neck. The slice was clean through, taking off most of the man’s jugular. That would have been fatal by itself, but Grundwiez was already in mid-leap. Her fangs glinted in the sun as she drew her left arm back before sending it crashing forward with her fingers outstretched. Each one ended in a sharp talon if she wished it to. The force of her muscular body knocked the man to the ground hard and the instantaneous swipe severed his neck even further just as he fell.

Grundwiez tasted the iron on her lips and she licked them, knowing that most of her front would be covered in blood from such a savage surprise attack. She growled at the dying elvinkin angrily, frustrated that she was forced to slay him with such speed.

“You idiot! How could you make me do that!?”

She curled one hand over the torn neck in a vain attempt to slow the blood loss but her skill was far too great to allow for that. The crimson oozed through her fingers and reddened the snow all around as she knelt over him, still asking her frustrated questions.

“Who sent you!? Why did you do this!? Who do you work for?”

It was no use, he was dead. Still, Grundwiez’s temper flared white hot. She banged his head up and down on the icy snow as if to shake him back to life. She slapped the face with the back of her bloody hand.

“Damnit, talk!”

Martin van Muller placed a gentle, but steady, hand on the gargoyle’s shoulder. She didn’t flinch, simply stood slowly and half turned into Martin’s arms. Triumvir Hotspur, still with blood on her face, nodded towards her bodyguard.

“It’s all right, we’ll find out everything in time. You’ve saved my life my friend, a debt which I might never pay back. Thank you.”

ISS Rebecca

The steam frigate Rebecca bobbed on the rolling waves a few kilometers offshore of the province of Ferrum. She was stationed at the main fleet base of Home Fleet and was conducting routine patrols and security checks of shipping passing through the Straights of Iron and into Smitintinian waters. This particular stop was on accord with a large Follandian sailing ship that had wandered too close to shore and grounded itself on the rocky shoals around the Straights of Iron. Rebecca’s shallow draft and powerful steam engines made her the perfect candidate to free the stricken ship and conduct a security inspection at the same time. She had been successful in the first task, but when an officer requested the Follandian skipper open his holds for inspection he had refused and forced the inspection team to return to Rebecca.

That was an hour ago and the steam frigate had shadowed the foreign sailing vessel as it slowly moved towards the Straights of Iron. She had refused to answer Rebecca’s flags to stop and be inspected and now Captain Perkins had little choice but to fire a warning shot. If the ship refused to yield he had to take any measures necessary to prevent the unlawful entry of his territorial waters. Perhaps the thunderous roar of Rebecca’s twin rifled cannons would be enough to take the arrogance out of this Follandian skipper’s actions. Even if he had guns to return fire with, the wooden hull of the Follandian ship would be smashed by the first salvo from Rebecca. It was a losing proposition and for naught on top of it! Captain Perkins could only turn the ship away if it was carrying weapons or live animals, and only an idiot would be trying to bring those in from as far away as Follandia anyway!

“Master at Arms, sharpshooters to the crow’s nest if you please. Perhaps our guest will reconsider his course when he sees we are in no mood for games?”

The burly man nodded and touched his wool cap.

“Very good, sir. Shall I have the whale boat readied?”

Captain Perkins paused a moment.

“Yes, that would not be a bad idea I think. Lieutenant Marshal, load the forward turret guns and train them on the Follandian. Make sure they see you doing it. Smoke rounds only on the first salvo, but have regular shot standing by.”

Marshal saluted crisply.

“Aye sir, at once!”

Captain Perkins marveled at how quickly his ship sprang to life. The two masts of his sleek warship had three black-uniformed sharpshooters in them already and gun crews rushed to make the forward turret ready. Rebecca carried a pair of turrets, one in the fo’csle and one in the stern gallery. Aside from these she was armed with a half dozen short-range cannonades on each broadside as well as a handful of smaller weapons dotted about her deck. Her iron-sheathed hull had a double turn on the prow, ending in a sharp ram that would spell instant death to any wooden hulled ship that tried to be obstinate. At just over 115 meters long, Rebecca wasn’t the largest ship in her weight class but she was fast and well armed for her size. In other navies she would be almost large enough to be classed a cruiser, something that just served to underline the stupidity of the Follandian merchantman’s refusal to cooperate with inspections after Rebecca had towed her off the shoals.

Rebecca heaved as the forward guns fired their warning shots. White smoke trailed from the shells as they passed a hundred meters in front of the Follandian ship and splashed harmlessly into the sea with a hiss of burning phosphorus. Perkins once again ran up the flags ordering the sailing ship to stop for inspections or risk destruction. Precious seconds ticked by, then a minute, and then two. More than long enough for her to strike her colors and dump the wind from her sails, even for a merchantman. Captain Perkins ground his teeth and nodded.

“Fine. Be foolish. Perhaps you’ll be spared the death of your crew, whoever you are, but I will not allow the breaking of laws on my watch. Lieutenant Marshal, aim for their waterline. Make it clean but give the crew ample time to make it to the whaleboat. Have our ladders standing by as well.”

Marshal again saluted and hurried forward to give the new orders to his gun crews. The forward turret swung slightly more to the broadside and the stern turret swiveled with a groan of iron gears turning. Perkins waited, giving the Follandian another minute to reconsider. He had to see the quartet of cannons now trained at his ship. But nothing happened and Perkins yelled into the brass tube, as Marshal was at his station in the forward turret.

“Salvo fire, turret guns!”

Rebecca lurched again as her main armaments fired as one. Six seconds later, all four shells found their mark and reported with a sickening thud of steel smashing wood. Just as the sound of the impact reached the sailors on Rebecca they saw a white-orange sheet of flame engulf the Follandian sailing ship. A roman candle of flame sliced upwards from the hold and through the main deck. Splinters of wood rained down all across the ship’s length. Then a white-hot flash sparked into existence. It was brilliant enough to cause even Captain Perkins to squint and look away for a moment. A thunderous roar followed a few seconds later. When he looked back, he saw the bow of the sailing ship sticking right out of the ocean while the stern had twisted onto it’s back!

“By the dragon, what was in that ship’s hold!?”

Captain Perkins glared at the rapidly sinking ship.

“Helm, come starboard thirty degrees and signal full emergency power! Whaleboat over the side when we get within 100 meters! I want survivors and some of whatever that damned merchant had in its belly.”

Perkins saw what was left of the bow slide under the waves, but the stern was still afloat. Capsized, but still afloat. He’d expected the ship to take at least an hour to sink from four holes on her waterline, not to blow itself up! Scuttling charges perhaps? No, even a paranoid captain wouldn’t have them on a merchant ship. Even if he’d hit her powder magazine, she shouldn’t have broken in half. Fire, yes definitely, but not the blazing explosion he’d just witnessed. The only logical explanation was that the Follandian had been carrying contraband weapons or explosives. That certainly explained the desire not to be inspected, and the extreme nature of the distress signals. Bad things happened to ships laden with explosives that were battered on the rocks. But surely the captain and crew knew that they’d be fired upon if they tried to force the Straights without inspection! Nothing about the previous hour and a half made sense anymore and judging by how quickly the bow of the Follandian had sunk, it was unlikely Rebecca would snag a piece of cargo. Just survivors, and gods willing, they could at least shed SOME light on what would surely become an international incident.

Imperial Palace

His Grace, the Duke of Yellow Sir Richard Wellington, was a commanding figure. He had square, broad shoulders and a muscular torso. His legs seemed almost undersized in comparison to his powerful chest and arms. Despite the sprigs of gray in his long, curly hair the Duke was still youthful and strong. This was not lost on Ophelia Hotspur, seated across the oaken table.

“This is inexcusable! Who do you have commanding your warships, Madame Triumvir, men or power crazed lunatics!? I have half a mind to order the Captain’s arrest should he ever find himself in Follandia!”

Ophelia smoothed some of her long hair behind an ear as she tried again to explain the events and circumstances surrounding the loss of the Follandian sailing ship Bay of Olives. She again forced herself to remain calm and diplomatic.

“The women and men of the Imperial Navy are highly trained and extremely skilled at their jobs. As I’ve said many times, Rebecca requested that your ship stop to allow for safety and contraband inspections. When this did not happen, Captain Perkins had no choice but to fire a warning shot…which he did…and when the ship still refused to stop or signal at least an acknowledgement he was within his legal right and duty to stop the ship from entering our territorial waters. As the ship was at a range that could not be closed before entering the Straights of Iron, he ordered that it be fired on.”

The Duke of Yellow grunted and curled his lip as he sucked his teeth.

“Because a captain refused an invasive search! I think not, this is classic Smitintinian arrogance coming to bite your navy on its ass.”

Ophelia nearly lost it. The Duke was picking a fight with the wrong Triumvir if he thought he could goad her into admitting wrongdoing. Why the hell couldn’t he just accept that some Follandian, probably one of the less than legally sanctioned trade houses, was trying to run some explosives for a quick profit and got caught? The survivors all stated they were under the captain’s orders to refuse searching and stop anyone from going in the hold without a company escort. That was just about the best proof of illegal cargo one could ask for. Still, this Duke of Yellow insisted on screaming bloody murder!

“And was it arrogance that Rebecca picked up nineteen survivors? Wouldn’t it have been easier to simply let them drown if the Navy were trying to hide any wrongdoing? Furthermore, those same men all asked for Asylum in this country to prevent their employer’s retribution in Follandia! Your Grace, this was a case of a rogue captain trying to make a quick profit and getting caught. I do not think that there was any involvement on the part of your government, or even the legitimate trading houses, and you know my government’s policy towards piracy and arms sales on the black market.”

Wellington’s face tightened and he chewed his cheek for a moment.

“Fine, fine, perhaps murder was too strong a term but this act will not be taken lightly. If I have to give any vessels operating in your waters worry, then I may as well keep them in waters known to be safe.”

Ophelia groaned and rolled her eyes, but at least this Duke was finally at his point. Of all the nations near Smitintinia, Follandia annoyed her the most. They were a pompous and arrogant people, terribly vain and uncaring for their citizens who were less than well to do. While their cities glistened with wealth, the countryside was dotted with poverty stricken towns and villages full of subsistence farmers and wage laborers barely getting by on 18-hour days. These people enjoyed nothing from the booming trade empires of the great merchant houses.

“What do you suggest, Your Grace?”

Wellington leaned back in his chair and criss-crossed his fingers.

“Follandian ships should be allowed into your waters without the need for inspections, and certainly without an armed escort. In all the years that our two nations have been friends and allies, no ship sailing under our flag has been a problem. Certainly a port-side inspection should be sufficient to prevent smugglers and stow-aways, yes?”

Ophelia sighed and waived one hand.

“Very well, I am sure that can be arranged. Not overnight of course, but I am confident that restrictions can be loosened slightly. I hope that the same can be said of merchant shipping entering your ports under our flag?”

Wellington coughed. It was more of a grunt really, but Ophelia let herself take it as an innocent sound rather than some sort of response to an insulting notion.

“Under the circumstances I really don’t see how you can ask that sort of thing, but in the interest of continued positive relations, I will certainly request that inspections become more random and a less required practice.”

Ophelia nodded and stood, letting some of her long hair fall down over her shoulders. Her eyes were gentle, but their stern blue warned against any further protest on the part of the Duke.

“Excellent. Then may I assume this matter is concluded?”

His Grace, the Duke of Yellow, Sir Richard Wellington stood as well, nodding slightly after a moment’s pause. He straightened his coat with one hand and idly checked the time on his pocket watch with the other.

“I suppose so, Madame Triumvir. I am still disturbed by the actions of your navy but I understand that accidents happen. I only hope that such was the case here and that it has opened your eyes to the dangers of such…restrictive naval policy.”

Ophelia Hotspur ground her teeth. He couldn’t just let it go, even as things were concluding. Bastard probably planned it this way just to get her riled up just before he left. He’d have a full three days flight back to Follandia while she had to mull over his damned comment and deal with the fallout. She smiled and motioned towards the door where Wellington’s steward was already waiting. Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned with a blue flame.

“As do I Your Grace.”

Ophelia wanted to add something about the backwards policy of his own nation’s navy, or the injustice inherent in his country as a whole. But that wouldn’t have been wise even in the best of times. Follandia was a close trading partner as well as a military ally. This would blow over in a few weeks and nobody would even care. Whichever cartel hired the ship would be out a few thousand Dakar Credits and a loyal captain and that was worth the irritation of one Duke in Ophelia’s eyes. Hell, Rebecca’s crew would get a few extra days of shore leave so even they got something out of the situation. And that made the Triumvir smile, something she hadn’t done nearly enough of in the last day or so.

Clock Tower Café’

Martin Van Muller sipped at his hot tea, enjoying the warmth from his drink even as a flurry of white snow drifted down just outside the frosted window. His plate held a half eaten dinner roll and a smear of butter, both of which he fully intended to finish after he was done enjoying his tea. The entire city was buzzing with Follandia’s saber rattling, led by the Duke of Yellow himself. He had scarcely waited until his airship had cleared the border before issuing insulting statements against Smitintinian Policy as well as its leaders. The people of this nation were many things, including prideful. They viewed the bifurcated nature of their Follandian neighbors to be both disturbing and unjust. Well over half the population would never even be given the chance to be anything but a slave. Perhaps they would have another title, but slave they would be nonetheless. Debtor’s prison was still a prison, even if there were no bars. Even when divided by issues of the state, the Smitintinian people were fiercely proud of their system of government. A peculiar mixture of elected and appointed leaders, there was nothing like it across the globe. When outsiders, much less the Monarchical Follandians, insulted the system it was only natural (and predictable, thought van Muller) for the citizens to become angry.

The attempt on Triumvir Hotspur’s life only fanned the flames. The investigation was going slowly, but it was sure to uncover what was happening. It wasn’t enough for the people of course. They wanted blood and revenge. How could their beloved young leader be so nearly dispatched, and by an elvinkin no less! Rumors about the Follandians hiding old refugees with pointed ears multiplied like rats at harvest time.

The bell attached to the door of the café jingled, and Martin glanced over to see who was coming in. It was a pair of gargoyles, obviously a couple, dressed in different state uniforms. He recognized one as the Citizens Safety Force, the crimson and white was unmistakable. CSF was a quasi-military branch of the Civil Defense Force charged with inspections and duty collection at major ports. Often a cadre of CSF officers worked the airship terminal to conduct random searches for contraband entering the country. Many flights originated in Azimuth or Mederland, both of whom had little concern for security. The female’s shoulder length brown hair was buttoned up under a fabric bonnet-style hat with a red cross on it and he figured she was some kind of medical worker, a nurse or doctor perhaps. She wore a white blouse and knee length skirt that was slitted so that her tail could move about freely. Clearly the cold did not bother either of them. He felt himself staring at the couple and glanced back down at his bread, not wanting to be rude.

It was still odd for him to see such creatures just walking about, let alone as part of a society in general. Most of the other countries he had been to were of one race, sometimes a single ethnicity. Smitintinia was perhaps one of the only places in the world which could be called diverse in the fullest sense of the world. Men from Siwathi sold blacksmith goods and weapons only a few blocks from the center of the Elvish community. In the southern tip of the city, permanently tanned Icebergers traded finely woven shirts and tapestries from their homeland (now a Smitintinian colony) alongside Loveless fishermen with little to barter but stuffed ocean creatures of dubious origin.

There, he’d gone on and rambled mentally again as a lovely woman sat across from him. He’d spent enough time with Grundwiez that he didn’t even see her curving horns, wings, or even the tail anymore. Well to be precise he saw them but they didn’t bother him. To the contrary, he thought they were very fitting to her form. She was reading a paper; tiny silver spectacles perched on the very end of her cute little nose. She must have felt he was looking at her again.

“Yes Martin?”

She didn’t even look up from her reading.

“Nothing…I was just thinking again. I’ll stop doing that.”

Grundwiez chuckled and shook her head, going back to her reading as her cup of tea was balanced delicately in her taloned fingers. Was he attracted to her? Certainly not, but he did appreciate her physical form. Her body was curving and muscular and she had a defined face with a strong bone structure. What wasn’t to like? But that certainly couldn’t be considered attraction. He thought many of the newest generation warships were fine looking, but he would no more consider himself attracted to them, now, would he? Still, he had brushed up against her several times in the back of the car and on the public tram and her skin had felt warm even though it was freezing outside. The same couldn’t be said for any warship, no matter how fine the lines. Both were lethal, something he admired as well. And her voice…

“Thinking about what, if I may ask?”

Martin stumbled, but only for half a second.

“Just how different this place is from Gizeki. You know in most of the cities and towns, they would try and drive you from the streets with a mob. That would be a terrible shame.”

Grundwiez flipped the final page in the paper, written by Martin van Muller, and shook her head.

“Yes it would be mister Muller. A terrible shame indeed. Fortunately things are not so here. The rest of the world may think of us Smitintinians as backwards and brutish, but at least we tolerate one another.”

She set the paper down and twisted in her chair slightly. The rich cocoa skin of her thighs was a lovely match to the black dress she wore. And something about her feet, naturally arched, just set his mind in motion.

“I like this very much indeed. I had no idea that the Duke had such relations, but then again the inner squabbling of the Follandian nobility isn’t all that important to me. I must also say that if you’d like to admire me more fully, you could simply ask me out on a date. It would make things more comfortable, especially for you. I believe the symphony is playing in a few nights time with a guest conductor.”

Martin van Muller gulped and nodded.

“Would you be interested…?”

Grundwiez smiled warmly at him.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I weren’t. But, business before pleasure I’m afraid. That’s how the Ministry of Defense does things, always has and I suspect always will. Tell me more about Consul Britannio’s niece, this Baroness Brittany. It seems she leads a small Barony on the border, I would imagine our side is the district that the Consul represents?”

Van Muller stifled a cough as he tried to focus on the report, not on Grundwiez in something suitable for the symphony, like a long flowing gown. He paused, shaking his head to clear it.

“Actually no, at least not at the moment. About thirty years ago the then Baron-heir lost a land dispute that shrank his holdings. Britannio’s sister was the Baron-heir’s fiancée at the time. Baroness Brittany is of course their daughter, who married a landless noble from the region. He’s rather spineless from what my sources say, but in comparison many would be when you consider the Baroness.”

Grundwiez was intrigued, and it showed on her face.

“Do go on.”

That’s exactly what van Muller did.

“Well she’s very…independent. No doubt the Smitintinian birthing and upbringing has something to do with that. The problem is that female nobles aren’t supposed to upstage their husbands. Unless of course they’re widowed, that is. I think the two are in love to this day, but the word around the council of lords says otherwise. Her close relationship with this government, both through blood and opinion, makes her a target for this latest round of Follandian arrogance. The assassination attempt on Triumvir Hotspur’s life, which I am more than little relieved you foiled incidentally, was possibly meant to be linked to her estate. I suppose someone in the council hoped to put down two birds with one rifle. It would have been a good plan, except for your quick actions.”

Grundwiez laughed.

“You are too modest, mister Muller. It was your information that tipped us off in the first place I was already on guard. Without that… and the fact that it’s true that one should never trust an elf…”

Martin blushed and waived her off He was not being modest, she was a treasure of lethality. He had barely gotten his hand on his pistol by the time her dagger had sliced into the assassin’s neck. And she’s snapped his bones like a twig, twisting in the air like she did. She must be incredibly flexible.

“Now look who’s being modest. My point is, the Baroness has powerful enemies and if the sinking of the Bay of Olives hadn’t come up a convenient five hours after foiling the assassination I’m sure we could have gotten the Duke of Yellow’s help with tracking them down.”

Grundwiez picked up on his choice of words and nodded.

“How long was that ship at sea?”

Martin’s brow furrowed.

“That I do not know, but I do know that it is not standard practice to bring sailing ships through the Straights of Iron this time of year. The squalls make navigation difficult, as seen by the grounding of the Bay of Olives before her loss. It hadn’t occurred to me until just now that the majority of the sailing ships transfer to the Inland Sea around the New Year to avoid the ice flows. Those that don’t are either in dry-docks for repair or are being paid off to a new owner. It’s simply not worth the risk to run without government insurance, so while the sale is pending they usually lay a ship up.”

Grundwiez jotted something down in her notebook and sighed. She seemed so serious at times, and yet when she let her guard down she was downright fun and, dare Martin think, silly. He continued.

“In answer to your next question, I have no idea if she was carrying insurance. If she was then I would say coincidence, no matter how suspicious, is still likely. If not, then whoever owned or hired that ship didn’t want the government to be aware of whatever the ship was carrying. Which brings us back to the convenient crooks messing up, or a deeper layer of subterfuge.”

The cocoa skinned gargoyle nodded, glancing at the huge clock on top of the tower across the square. She sighed and stood.

“Shieze! I was due back to the Ministry three minutes ago! Mister van Muller, it is always a pleasure and as for tonight, I’ll have tickets for eight delivered to your room. It may seem odd for me to be asking you, but would it be alright if I picked you up at six-thirty?”

Martin nodded, standing as well.

“Yes. That would be lovely. May I ask what color I should try and match to?”

Both of them were grinning at this point.

“Black of course, if you need a jacket…?”

Van Muller shook his head.

“No, I came prepared for that. I did not, however, prepare for the winter.”

Grundwiez laughed as she strolled to the door and looked back over her shoulder with a playful smile. She must be enjoying this immensely, van Muller mused.

“I think I can manage to take your mind off the weather for one night.”

She winked and then was gone into the cold with a jingle of the café’s bell. After a long moment, Martin finally got around to what was left of his dinner roll. He could only imagine what the lovely Madame Grundwiez had meant by her final comment. He suddenly realized he was far more terrified of this civilized evening with a lovely gargoyle than he would be facing her in combat. Of course if he made a mistake fighting her, at least the end would be quick. He had a few nights to remember how to be a gentleman, and when Martin can Muller set himself to something he did it.

ISS Consul Lucien

Inland Sea

March 2^ndThe cruiser Consul Lucien was one of the older ships operating in the Inland Sea. She was likely in her last few years of service as larger and more heavily armed warships joined the Inland Sea fleets. Despite her age, the cruiser was remarkably swift and a good sea-boat. She was just less than 150 meters long and carried no masts, relying instead on her powerful steam engines to slice through the water. Her two funnels were raked back, mostly for appearance, and belched wispy smoke as she made headway through gently rolling seas. One of the first ships of her size to discard a broadside armament, all of her main cannon were carried in turrets or casemates. She had a pair of turrets forward, one buried in the fo’csle and one at main deck level. She carried the usual turret in the stern gallery aft, and two casemates amidships. She had a rather graceful appearance, with delicate superstructure dotted around the large cannon and dominated by the flying bridge just aft and several decks above the forward main-deck turret. Her bow lacked the distinctive ram style that was predominate in Smitintinian designs. This was deliberate, giving the Consul Lucien greater speed and a less noticeable wake.

The other ships around the cruiser were fat merchantmen, laid low with ore and manufactured goods on their way to the Azimuth Confederacy or the Krestymann Republic. They were a mix of large, iron-hulled steamers to much smaller coastal tramps, and even one mixed propulsion clipper. Consul Lucien and a pair of small torpedo boats formed the escort for this group of merchantmen. While peace was on it was still typical for Naval units to escort large groups of freighters, both as deterrence to pirates and a show of force to potential future adversaries. The entire convoy was about halfway through it’s ten day crossing, one full of mild weather and no storms. A few icebergs had drifted past harmlessly, reminding everyone that the water was frigid even if it was calm, but the trip had been very sedate and serene.

There was a thud beside Captain Walters, and he turned to face one of his gargoyle spotters. Many ships of the Imperial Smitintinian Navy included gargoyles in their crew to act as observers and scouts, as well as to lead shore and boarding parties. This typically meant that Smitintinian commanders were more acutely aware of the tactical situation than their foreign counterparts.

“Go ahead, mister Pullings.”

The gargoyle, fairly small for a male, was still a bit taller than the captain who was himself on the tall side of humanity. He saluted sharply.

“Sir! Masts on the horizon, about ten degrees off the port bow. Look to be a pair of cutters, or a cutter and small frigate. Definitely Follandian, making full sail in our direction. They’ll be on us before dusk, that’s for sure.”

Captain Walters stretched his white beard with one hand and sighed to himself. Small warships from all of the nations around the Inland Sea often patrolled in search of pirates, or conducted privateering raids, but they rarely operated in groups or even pairs. The escalating tensions between Follandia and the Smitintinian Empire were well known, but he doubted that open war would have broken out in the five days since leaving port. So why would two Follandian warships be approaching the convoy so eagerly? If they did intend to fight, they must realize that Consul Lucien outgunned them three or four times over by herself, let alone the added firepower of the torpedo boats. At this range the smoke from the cruiser and the merchantmen would be visible, but only the large clipper would be showing them any mast, so if they were looking for an easy kill they would soon know they had found otherwise.

“Very good, why don’t you get some food and a warm cup of grog. I believe we should be able to deal with our Follandian…friends…without having to have you up in that frigid air any longer.”

The gargoyle saluted once again, and with the flourish only his species could show, folded his wings about himself and trudged off towards the mess, leaving the Captain and the other officers of the watch shaking their heads in continued admiration. Captain Walters turned to the helmsman and clicked his teeth for moment as he thought.

“Both ahead flank, steer course three-four-zero. Signal the torpedo boats to fall in with us. Let’s go convince our guests to be somewhere else if they’re itching for a slugging match. Oh, and rotate the gun crews on deck for thirty minutes. I want them rested if it should come to a shooting match.”

Consul Lucien and her smaller cohorts broke away from the main group of the convoy, and accelerated away from it gently. The three warships were still only a few knots faster than the merchantmen after all. In less than an hour, the watchman perched on the top of the flying bridge spotted two tiny masts on the horizon. They matched the description the gargoyle scout had given. The two warships continued to close on the three Smitintinian vessels, undaunted by the looming sight of a fully armed Cruiser. These were international waters, so technically neither side could claim anything aside from sea room to pass freely. In an insult to naval tradition, the larger of the two Follandian sailing ships hoisted the ‘Stop and Prepare for Inspection’ signal. The orange and blue flag drew scoff and shouts of annoyance from the bridge of the Consul Lucien.

“Raise our colors, and the ‘Sea Room’ signal. These idiots are getting on my nerves. Oh, and I think it’s about time to beat to quarters.”

The snare drum burst to life as the drummer, a boy of little more than ten, beat as fast as he could. Any crews who were not already at their stations rushed to them in the orderly chaotic fashion of the navy. The gleaming white, gold, and red ensign of the Imperial Smitintinian Navy was hoisted aloft, unmistakable in the evening sun. The crossed swords surrounding the embroidered gargoyle and griffon scene was a theme of many official ensigns in the Empire, and completely unique outside of it. Precious minutes ticked by as the Follandian vessels, one large cutter and one two-masted frigate, closed to within 5,500 meters. If they broke to within 5,000 meters it was considered generally rude, if not a provocative maneuver. Using her signal lamp, Consul Lucien again requested the sailing ships give her and the rest of the merchant ships ample sea room.

“They’re still closing, skipper. Can’t tell if they’ve got gun ports open yet or not. All weapons report firing solutions, it’d be suicide to engage us like this.”

Captain Walters sighed.

“It seems they intend to test my patience. This just will not do. Have the casemate guns fire warning shots three hundred meters in front of each of their bows. That should end this little game.”

The cruiser barely flinched as the two amidships guns barked. Only a few seconds later a pair of huge shell plumes appeared in front of the approaching Follandian vessels, who veered sharply to avoid them. Now everyone could see their gun ports were open. They likely had been open long before the warning shots.

“They’re preparing to broadside Sir!”

Captain Walters grunted. His order was automatic; years of service made it so.

“Turret guns target the larger vessel, salvo fire! Casemate guns fire as she bears on the smaller ship! Set charges to maximum yield High Explosive.”

Hydraulic pumps kicked on as the three turrets swung to bring their rifled cannons to bear on the enemy warships. The casemate guns barked and recoiled again, their much faster firing cycle already evident to the Follandians. The first pair of shells tore into the small cutter, dismasting her foresail. There was a lingering moment of hesitation before all six main guns of the Imperial Smitintinian Cruiser Consul Lucien fired in unison, deafening many who were not prepared. That salvo had three shorts and two overs. At such a close range it was what to be expected from a well-trained crew. One shell slammed into the Follandian frigate’s stern castle, tearing open wooden superstructure before exploding with a terrific fireball.

The Frigate answered back, but her guns were trained on one of the small torpedo boats ahead of Consul Lucien. Follandian gunnery was notoriously ineffective at long range, but with a dozen or so cannon on her gun deck at least one of the rounds was likely to hit the small warship. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was fate, but the opening broadside from the Follandian frigate tore open Torpedo Boat 1132’s hull amidships, the unarmored metal buckling as a medium caliber round slammed into it. Though there was no explosion, the creased hull began to let water in at a prodigious rate. The men inside the engine room were greeting to hissing and popping boiler throwing rivets and pipe fittings about like an angry child.

The casemate guns on Consul Lucien fired once more, this time concentrating fire amidships on the small cutter. Splinters rained down all around the stricken Follandian cutter as two more shells detonated inside her. The mainmast creaked and crackled, finally toppling itself across the deck and into the frozen sea. Her colors were no longer flying, likely blown away, but it was the universally recognized signal of surrender either way. Torpedo Boat 1132 dropped out of formation as her engines froze silent, victims of the damage to her hull. She swerved uncontrollably, nearly colliding with Consul Lucien. Damage horns and claxons were sounding from all over the little ship.

The Follandian Frigate was still reloading her broadside when the Smitintinian Cruiser opened up with her main guns once more. Her fire was deadly effective, blowing a hole through the wooden hull between her mainmast and her fo’csle. Three or four gun crews vanished along with their cannon, never to be heard or seen again. The mainmast was shattered almost at main deck level, tearing itself free of the rigging and whipping the ropes around like deadly jump ropes. Fittings and body parts were flung about as cries of anguish drifted across the distance between the Frigate and the Cruiser. Only a pair of guns returned fire, this time at the large Smitintinian warship that had crippled the Frigate with a handful of hits. The steel balls bounced off Consul Lucien’s armored hull, leaving little but dented iron, and splashed harmlessly into the waters of the Inland Sea.

The remaining Torpedo Boat finally closed the range to fire its swivel cannon and did so, adding fire to the crippled Cutter. Though her single gun was almost pitiful in strength when compared to the rifled cannon of Consul Lucien it was more than enough to punch through the wood of any small Follandian ship. The Frigate reeled from yet another broadside from Consul Lucien, dropping more debris into the chilly waters of the Inland Sea. Now none of her guns were firing; smoke wafted from within her hold, a thin gray cloud growing over the Follandian vessel.

“Whaleboats over the side! Sergeant Iman, take some Marines to search the Frigate, I want to know just what kind of idiot would want to provoke us. You can be damned sure the Follandians are going to scream bloody murder and I want our facts straight. Ensign Rogers, take the other whaleboat and look for survivors from the Cutter. Snap to it!”

 

Imperial Opera House

March 4^th

Gentle music floated out the open stained glass windows of the Opera House into the courtyards that surrounded it. The subtle tones of cellos and violins mixed effortlessly with the chirping of crickets and the occasional hiss of steam from a passing trolley. The grounds had been cleared of snow, their evergreen trees the only white seen. Couples and small groups stood together, some drinking high-stemmed glasses of wine or tumblers of less identifiable liquid. The first act of the show had been, in Martin van Muller’s opinion, the greatest example of musical theatre he had ever seen. Those who claimed the Empire had as much affinity for the arts as they did for subtlety clearly had never seen an opera performed.

“Well what did you think of the first act, Martin?”

Madame Grundwiez slinked her deep cocoa colored arm around van Muller’s waist, drawing her warm body close to him. As much as he had appreciated the music, his company with the lithe and quite attractive gargoyle was even better. That she managed to stay warm in the slinky (and quite revealing) black dress she had chosen for the evening’s activities only added to Martin’s enjoyment.

“It was almost as lovely as you are, my dear. I’m tempted to spend the second admiring you rather than the show.”

Martin gave his female companion a wry smile which was matched by an amused grin on the gargoyle’s face. He felt her press her side a bit more forcefully against him in a less than subtle nudge.

“You shouldn’t make offers you are not prepared to honor, dear mister van Muller.”

Martin quirked his head a moment, but pulled closer to Grundwiez at the same time. He moved to gently run a hand along her side, resting one palm on her hip as he pulled her into a slow kiss on the lips. It wasn’t the first kiss they had shared, that came as they rode in the carriage from Grundwiez’s townhouse to this very show, but this one was certainly the most intimate. Martin felt the cocoa-skinned gargoyle’s arms wrap around his neck loosely as they pressed against one another. The moment felt like it could last all night, but at the same time it was snapped away as the chimes sounded, letting the patrons know that intermission was coming to a close.

“We should head back inside…”

Grundwiez was purring slightly, thoroughly enjoying the night out with a handsome man who seemed to share her wry sense of humor and taste in profession.. Her job forced her to be serious far too often and the chance to let her true personality out and not be chided for it was intoxicating to the gargoyle.

“Yeah, I know. We’ll continue this later. That’s one offer I can assure you will be honored no matter what my dear.”

Grundwiez kissed Martin gently as they began to stroll back towards the Opera House in the brisk winter weather. Arm in arm they made a rather stunning couple, Grundwiez every bit as tall as van Muller thanks to her arched feet. Casual observers no doubt felt as if the pair ‘fit’ well together, which was certainly true. Both were outcasts from their homelands; she for being what she was, and he because of his questioning nature. The dim light hid the fact that as they entered the tall door leading back into the lobby they entwined their hands. Neither would be able to recall the specifics of the second act, and that was just fine in their respective opinions.

The carriage ride between the Opera House and the stone building that housed Grundwiez’s apartment was all too short, if a bit awkward as van Muller tried his best to appear dignified as his lovely gargress companion nuzzled herself against him and took the opportunity to whisper several choice suggestions about the rest of night’s activities into his ear. While the driver no doubt was used to such things, van Muller was not. Though he did admit he could certainly learn to enjoy it. At last arriving at the courtyard to Grundwiez’s building, he tipped the driver and helped the cocoa colored gargoyle from the carriage.

“A lovely place for an even lovelier woman to live, wouldn’t you agree?”

Van Muller’s coy compliment was enough to draw a giggle from Grundwiez, who was busy unlocking the front door of her apartment. Upon doing so, she swept the door open and beckoned her guest inside.

“I’d say you were fishing for me to be humble, but in this case my dear I’ll accept your compliment at face value.”

Martin swatted at the gargress’ behind, drawing yet another giggle from her as he rushed himself inside the lavishly appointed apartment to embrace Grundwiez. The entrance room had an oak chest of drawers against the immediate left wall. A coat rack, half full of long coats of various cuts, was directly above the chest of drawers. It was here that the cocoa colored gargoyle hung her black jacket gently as her keys were splayed out on the floor almost at her feet. This struck Martin as terribly chaotic for Grundwiez, who was usually the definition of organization.

“Very nice…”

Grundwiez giggled again and turned to press herself against van Muller, who was still busy taking in the apartment’s seeming lack of organization. A heap of clothes, mostly simple dresses, covered one of the two leather couches that surrounded a table with a half-finished puzzle and an empty tumbler on it.

“It gets me through the nights.”

There was a sparkle in her almond eyes that gave Martin a smile that would not leave his face, even after he was fast asleep curled up next to (and practically surrounded by) the nude and purring form of his cocoa skinned gargoyle companion.

Imperial Palace

March 5^thThe forest stream babbled and talked to the clearing in soothing tones. The icy water rolled over Ophelia Hotspur’s bare feet, refreshing against the warm summer day. Large trout swam in circles chasing drifting debris for lunch in one of the stream’s pools. Birds chattered in the forest canopy, swaying with a gentle breeze. A pinecone fell into the stream with a splash, scattering the fish and pulling a laugh from Ophelia. There was a heavy bang from something, and she turned her head to look for a source but none could be found. Ophelia’s icy blue eyes narrowed in wonderment as yet another bang thundered through the forest. But something was wrong, the light was much to dim and something was shimmering beside her.

It was then that the Triumvir realized that she was, in fact, curled in a layer of sheets and blankets on her bed. The forest and stream were gone, as were the birds and the fish. All that remained was an incessant banging. After yet another lazy moment she realized that the banging was in actuality someone knocking on her chamber’s oak door. She was about to sit up and welcome the person in when she realized that she was wearing nothing but a rather skimpy pair of panties and a dreadfully comfortable nightshirt that also left little to the imagination. For all she knew it was a foreign dignitary requesting to see her, and it was not a good idea to greet one while nearly naked.

“Just a moment please, I was just finishing up a report and I’m afraid I was rather engrossed in it.”

Ophelia swung herself out of bed and reached for her white bathrobe that often doubled as an overcoat for just these kinds of intrusions. Her eyes rolled lazily past the anchor shaped clock on her desk, which read half past six in the morning. Grumbling to herself she began to tie up the robe and make for the door. She pulled her raven colored hair back and clipped it with a silver comb before unlocking and opening the door.

“Yes?”

It was Major Thompson and Minister Jackson of the Defense Ministry. Both of them looked rather stern, and like they hadn’t yet slept. Jackson’s dress uniform was unbuttoned above the chest and his dress sword was missing, as was his high peaked cap. Major Thompson wore dress pant bottoms, but only a white undershirt and a woolen coat. They’d clearly been somewhere dressy before being pulled away.

“Gentlemen, how can I help you this Saturn’s Day morn?”

She tried not to sound too annoyed, but this was her one and only day off and she had intended to use it to catch up on her sleep and clean her office for the coming workweek.

“Madame Triumvir, I apologize for the early intrusion but the Major and I couldn’t wait any longer to see you. We believe that we’ve discovered a link between your assassination threats and the incident with the Bay of Olives.”

Ophelia couldn’t help yawning. It was, after all, only five hours earlier that she’d even finally fallen asleep. The official dinner and entertaining of the usual host of well to do constituents was tiring but necessary. Covering her mouth she motioned for Minister Jackson to continue.

“It seems one of the survivors, an Elvin fellow from the north, fingered one of our miscreants as his contact. Seems he was going to sell the bastard a crate of rifles and all the blasting powder he could afford. Said the guy mentioned something about blowing up the Imperial Palace. Our guy already confessed to conspiracy to kill you or your staff, so naturally we thought it was an over and done with affair.”

Major Thompson jumped in.

“I’d like to point out that three of the criminals we caught were from the lands of Baroness Brittany. As was, originally, this Elvin fellow with the blasting powder. I know Madame Grundwiez and her…associate, mister van Muller, had discussed the possibility that the Follandian Government was trying to implicate the Baroness.”

Ophelia grunted, wiping the sleep out of her eyes seeing as how it was unlikely that the Major or Minister Jackson were stopping by for a quick information session.

“Gentlemen I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for your services, but quite frankly, I don’t see the critical nature of this information. Had we not already entertained the idea that a splinter cell was trying to make a quick buck and got caught red handed? Not to mention the fact that both of your conspirators are behind iron in the Tower of Justice…”

Major Thompson looked genuinely hurt for a moment, but Minister Jackson just sighed and shook his head.

“Under those circumstances, I would agree with you Madame Triumvir. Unfortunately, the Follandian Government and Baroness Brittany in particular, has requested that some of them be extradited for local trial and incarceration.”

Ophelia simply raised an eyebrow in response.

“Hence our concern…”

Major Thompson finally looked as if he were going to breath once more and nodded. He was a rather touchy fellow, but he must be good at his job for Minister Jackson wasn’t one to suffer emotional hotheads for very long. Ophelia Hotspur tapped the side of her forearm in thought.

“Do we even have an official extradition procedure with Follandia? I know that we do with the Azimuths and Krestymanni, but I can’t recall if something like this has ever come up. Usually the Follies just let us do their work for them.”

Major Thompson shook his head while Minister Jackson simply shrugged.

“That’s really not my area of expertise, Madame Triumvir. I’m more familiar with how to ensure that foreign insurgents are returned in rather small pieces. That, or a document informing their native land that said small pieces are fertilizing our soil.”

Ophelia understood what the men were after.

“Well gentlemen, I suppose it would be up to me to determine the nature of prisoner exchange between our nation and the Follandians. As we are not at war currently, it is my interpretation that prisoner exchanges are at the discretion of the nation holding the prisoner rather than any prisoner’s nation of citizenship. I believe the phrase that best describes my response to the Follies would be ‘get bent.’”

The two men actually turned to leave but Minister Jackson paused and half turned back over his shoulder. Major Thompson stepped ahead just a bit, as if to excuse himself from the coming words.

“There was one more thing. Seems a couple of Follandian hotheads attacked a convoy yester..two days ago, and were rebuked. The ships reached port a few hours ago. We just got the telegram at five this morning. Somehow their high command neglected to tell these two ships that a state of war does not, in fact, exist between our two countries. The survivors of the sunken ships seemed to think that was the case.”

Ophelia felt the color draining from her face.

“The ‘official’ statement from Follandia is…?”

Minister Jackson was calm and cool, the professional mask of a long time military man hiding the roiling anger under the surface.

“Disappointment that we were so quick to use deadly force. They’ve recalled some of their contacts here under protest and stated that they intend to severely crack down on our ‘Imperialist’ practices with the international community.”

Triumvir Hotspur felt herself scoff at the final comment, but it was only a futile outburst against the growing anxiety that Jackson wasn’t quite finished with the bad news.

“And…their Home Fleet went to sea about thirteen hours ago. The dispatch from their consul made sure we understood that. The Admiralty is meeting as we speak to discuss our position, but I’m sure they’ll ready the Inland Sea Fleet to set to sea. I don’t like having two fleets of Dreadnoughts so close together. That’s how mistakes happen, and quite frankly I’m not worried about the outcome of a clash between our two fleets but I am unsure of how events will unfold afterwards.”

Ophelia felt a touch of nausea in her gut. The last major naval battle had resulted in nearly seven thousand casualties, most of them on the other side, but that kind of carnage was hard to forget. She’d seen the battered hulls of the Dreadnoughts returning from the Loveless War and she’d tried to forget the bloodstained decks. A showdown between the two fleets would be far worse. The Smitintinians outnumbered the Follandians and they likely outranged them, but that didn’t mean the fight would be totally one-sided. Unlike their wooden counterparts, the iron-hulled units of the Follandian Navy were relatively modern and crewed by professional sailors.

“They’re trying to sucker us into a fight so they can point the finger. But why now, and what the hell for!? Surely their economy is just as strained as ours is and a blockade on their ports would hurt their trade houses enough to overturn the Royal Court’s desire for continued hostilities. It doesn’t make sense!”

Minister Jackson shook his head.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. All I know is they want a fight, and we’re going to give it to them. I don’t care what they want, or what they think they’ll get. All I know is that we’re going to send a lot of their ships to the briny deep.”

With that Jackson followed Major Thompson and Ophelia was left with her uncomfortably knotted feeling of coming gloom. She’d done nothing, it appeared, to prevent conflict with the Follandians despite working out some political compromise with the Duke of Orange and others. Still, the Follandian Admiralty had to know they were outclassed. They weren’t stupid, and they’d been trying for the last decade to match the numbers of the Smitintinian Fleets and bankrupted a couple of the trading houses to do it. Even with all of that, they only had two Dreadnoughts for every three the Inland Sea Fleet could put into action. So why push for a war that it seemed they couldn’t win? After closing her door and discarding her bathrobe, Ophelia Hotspur stretched and undressed as hot water began to fill her bronze trimmed bathtub. She let the steam fog her bathroom as she tried to unravel the thoughts of the Follandian leadership, both military and civilian.

It all seemed too fast to be actually happening. They’d tried to kill her, they’d supported criminals and pirates, they’d insulted her honor and her nation, and how they were pushing for war! It had to be linked. Nothing is done this neatly, pulling her off guard and out of position so easily. The Navy, the politicians, and even the people were confused and scared. Someone was praying on their fears and it was up to her to stop them or else a great many people would certainly die.

Grundwiez’s Apartment

March 5^thThe smell of frying bacon drifted through Madame Grundwiez’s cozy apartment and stirred the cocoa colored gargoyle from her relaxing slumber. Stretching as she usually did, she knocked one of her pillows onto the floor and as she reached down to snag it, she noticed a pair of men’s shoes neatly stacked next to her nightstand. With a smile and a satisfied sigh she pushed one of the shoes over and let her gaze drift over a shirt, belt, bowtie, jacket, and a pair of socks. Her black dress was somewhere in that collection, but at the moment she really couldn’t have cared less about the expensive garment. The sound of boiling and sizzling meat came from the kitchen and to her pointed ears. Grundwiez slipped out of bed and stretched some more with a slight growl. Using her talons as a comb she untangled her long, black hair pausing only to let herself yawn. She slipped into a silken nightgown of crimson and silver and padded softly down the handful of steps into the sunken section of her apartment, which contained the kitchen and a small eating area.

“Ah, the sleeping beauty finally stirs! Good morning my dear, I trust you are feeling well?”

Grundwiez couldn’t help but giggle, though she hated the sound of her own laughter.

“Yes, Martin you know I am! How could I not be? If anything I should go back upstairs to get the rest of my beauty sleep after last night.”

She swatted at Martin as he stood, shirtless, over a pan of bacon and flatbread cooking on her stovetop. The spices and hot peppers gave the small kitchen a lovely aroma and the sizzling pieces of meat were tantalizing signs that breakfast was nearly ready. The cocoa skinned gargoyle felt a few hunger pangs in her stomach, for she’d gotten quite a working last night. She’d expected some of the energy of Martin’s company, but his seemingly limitless supply of energy was both refreshing and welcome. Still, she was quite hungry now that it was nearly eleven.

“Me!? I’m completely innocent in all of this. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, especially considering all the hard work I’ve done to create this culinary masterpiece. It looks like this kitchen is hardly used, I was surprised the stove even lit.”

The gargoyle felt herself blush slightly. She hadn’t really ever picked up a talent for cooking and even if she had there was often little reason to do so when she could simply bring something home from work or find a small dinner at the café’ down the street. Just as she was about to voice a quick response the chime that hung beside her front door rang crisply.

“Now just who the hell…?”

Grundwiez sighed as she strolled for the door before realizing that she was wearing just a nightgown. Showy as she was to her friends, there was an odd streak of shy in her as well.

“Just a moment, please!”

She reached into the hallway closet and pulled her woolen coat on over the gown and tied the belt around her waist. Better to appear as if about to go out than in something as exciting as a red and silver affair. The door chime jingled once more.

“Coming, coming!”

As Martin van Muller chuckled, Grundwiez shook a fist at him. She hurriedly unlocked the door and swung it open.

“Yes!?”

Her tone was less than polite, but not quite angry. There were three men gathered on her small porch. The first was a smartly dressed Navy Commander with his peaked cap tucked under his arm. Behind him and slightly to his left was an equally smartly dressed Ensign holding a small leather briefcase. The third man was a short and stocky Corporal of the Civil Defense Force. It wasn’t unheard of for military types to summon Madame Grundwiez for she did work at the Ministry of Defense, but it was a Saturday morning and the Ministry should be closed. Further, it was rare for a CDF anything to squeeze into a mess-dress uniform for any occasion other than promotions or state functions.

“Are you Madame Grundwiez?”

The gargoyle shifted slightly and crossed her arms. Her dark eyes rolled just every so slightly. It must be ‘new aide day’ in Minister Jackson’s office.

“Yes, I am. What can I do for you gentlemen on this early Saturday morning?”

Her annoyance surely had to come through in her sarcastic tone, but the men were unaffected from anything Grundwiez could tell.

“Minister Jackson requires you and your associate, a mister van Muller, to report to the Ministry straight away. The matter is urgent.”

Grundwiez heard herself scoff.

“Commander, it’s Saturday. Whatever circle jerk session the Minister wants to hold is fine, but I’m more of a nine to five kind of girl…”

The Navy Commander cut off the rest of the gargoyle’s sentence.

“The Follandian Home Fleet sailed yesterday.”

Grundwiez’s dark eyes dilated slightly in shock. She nodded and her entire tone changed, from the way she stood on her arched feet to the ring of her lovely voice.

“I understand. Give us…I don’t know, twenty minutes? Is there a car waiting?”

The Commander nodded and motioned for the Ensign to hand the gargoyle the briefcase. A set of dress greens, tailored for her physique of course, occupied the bag.

“I hate to be the bearer of further bad news, but you’ve been reactivated. And promoted. Welcome back, Captain Grundwiez.”

All three men saluted crisply and Grundwiez found herself returning the salute with all the ease that she remembered. Her career had been relatively brief, mostly due to the cutbacks in the military budget a few years back. She’d taken her retirement well, finding a place in the administrative side of the Ministry. As an administrative assistant, she’d taken surprisingly few callers. Funny how the Ministry tried its hardest to pretend she wasn’t one of the Triumvir’s bodyguards. She was just as good at her current job as she was as a Lieutenant in the Army, and the pay was better. But when the Army reactivated you, it didn’t expect you to decline the “offer” unless you were missing a limb or already deceased.

“Uh, thank you Commander. I’ll see you in twenty minutes…”

Grundwiez shut the door, already trying to think how she was going to explain things to Martin. She was just starting to find love and now the Army decided to come and take that away. It wasn’t a bitter thought, just frustrating. If she’d been only slightly worse at being an Military woman or slightly better at being an administrative assistant they surely could have found some other dolt to wear her uniform.

“Who was it gorgeous?”

Van Muller’s sweet words melted all that away. She could be honest with him and that was what finally meant she was in love.

Tiger Bay Naval Base

The two hundred or so square kilometers of the Tiger Bay Naval Base were packed with repair and construction facilities, administrative buildings, shore barracks, communications towers, stores, depots, and all sorts of smaller structures whose purposes are less than clear. The crystal blue waters of Tiger Bay, making up nearly all of that two hundred square kilometers, was dotted rather densely with warships. Their grey hulls didn’t reflect any of the mid afternoon sunlight they basked in. The temperatures here were quite moderate, thanks to the warming breeze coming from the eastern plains. thirty-one Dreadnoughts, two-dozen Cruisers, thirty or so Frigates, and scores of Torpedo Boats were arranged in neat rows and gaggles. Some of the smaller ships were nestled around big concrete piers with a wooden building towering over them. The Dreadnoughts were anchored together in pairs; each had a sliver of smoke rising from one of their funnels. Here and there a small craft moved about the steel leviathans, churning the water white and green. A rather large Frigate was making way under sail out of the Bay, rapidly growing smaller on the horizon.

The tele-clicker in the main control tower sprang to life with a furious tapping of keys on paper as a message came through. The clicker, or more properly Telegraph Data Receiver, was a very recent addition to the control tower. The older Telegraphs still surrounded several stations, but there was only so much information to be passed in any given time when each message had to be decoded based upon a series of dots and dashes. The Telegraph Data Receiver simply decoded incoming messages quickly, and if the data was being sent via a matching machine up the line could simply repeat the message as fast as the typist on the other end could send it. There were drawbacks, of course, but the speed at which messages could be sent and decoded more than made up for them. In fact the device was something of a state secret.

“Now what’s all this about?”

A Senior Chief with graying temples frowned as he wheeled his chair over to the merrily clicking device and began to read the first few lines of the transmission. Everything seemed to be in format and had today’s proper codes. It was probably something for the base commander and would find its way onto the top of a small pile of paperwork on the Vice-Admiral’s desk. Chief Devenios didn’t mind taking weekend watches. Perhaps in his younger years he might have preferred to go into town or on country trips but he much preferred the quiet serenity of the control tower on a Saturday afternoon as of late. As he read into the message proper, he furled his brow in concern.

“Case Nelson? What the hell is Case Nelson? Here, what’s this code shit on a weekend? Like I really want to go to the code room and look this crap up.”

The Chief sighed as the clicker stopped and advanced the page, automatically slicing it with perfect accuracy. The bell chimed to signal a less vigilant person that a message had been completely transmitted.

“Yeah, yeah I know. You just hold your horses machine, I don’t have all your perfect bells and buzzers!”

The code room was a floor down and on the other side of the squareish building. It wasn’t too large a structure but it was just annoying to have to get up and go there rather than just having someone bring him up the appropriate codes. Then again, it was Saturday and he had the whole building to himself except for the pair of guards playing Clash in the break room. They were probably supposed to be taking watches at the front gate, but they could see anyone coming through the window and a friendly game of Clash wasn’t a sin. Maybe if they were still on duty when the Ensign Roberts took the night watch he’d throw a few copper pieces in to make it an even three players.

“Ah here we are, Case Nelson. Let’s just give this a little peak.”

Chief Devenios thumbed the colored pages of the little book until he reached the appropriate one and read down the lines. As he finished the brief message he nearly dropped the book. In a mad dash he ran back up to the control tower’s message center and furiously tapped out the pre-coded messages to the various other stations around Tiger Bay. It was easy to get out for the message was simple:

‘All battle squadrons put to sea. A state of conflict exists between Smitintinia and Follandia. Full use of force is authorized against any hostile Follandian vessels within sovereign waters. Formal declaration of war may be imminent.’

Although it would be up to the squadron and battlegroup commanders to dictate how that order was implemented, Chief Devenios imagined history would record him as the man who sent the Inland Sea Fleet into battle. The thought churned his stomach for he’d been at the Battle of the Coral Seas and seen the carnage of modern combat. If war really were declared, it was a sure thing that thousands of sailors were likely never to return to the temperate shores of Tiger Bay.

ISS Great Southern

Inland Sea

March 6^thHaze gray lumps on the blue water stretched out to the horizon, belching black and brown smoke from their funnels. The big Dreadnoughts formed the core of the formation, packed together in groups of four or five to maximize the effectiveness of their massive guns. All around the outside of the formation, Cruisers and Frigates scanned the horizon for any sign of the Follandian fleet. Swarms of torpedo boats, tiny in comparison to the massive steel beasts that were Dreadnoughts, scuttled between their kin and tried to stay out of the way lest they be sliced in half. Great Southern was acting as flagship of the 3^rd Dreadnought Squadron, Inland Seas Fleet. She was one of the numerous Great Wind-class ships serving in the Imperial Smitintinian Navy. A highly successful design, the Great Winds carried ten thirty-two centimeter guns as their primary armament. They lacked the short range punch of broadside cannonades, but their heavy armor would insure that any broadside armed ship would be unable to do damage to the lumbering Dreadnought before being torn apart by her huge turreted weapons.

“Captain Briggs, status report if you please?”

Admiral John Freeman was a short man, even for a plainsman. His scraggly red beard was graying at the tips, as was his curly hair. Captain Briggs regarded him as fairly typical of upper command rank. He’d had the connections to stay in the service long enough to fall into a flag rank and he’d stayed there, out of the way of front line officers.

“Of course Admiral. Still making seven knots, engineering reports that no. 3 boiler will require about a half hour’s worth of de-clinkering before we can re light. It shouldn’t matter, we’re making speed comfortably as it is though I wouldn’t want to strain the engines with combat speeds should we remain down a boiler.”

The Admiral pulled on his beard and grunted, or at least Captain Briggs thought it was a grunt. It might have been a ‘yes’ or something altogether different entirely.

“Tell that half-blood he’s got twenty minutes before I order a re-light. I won’t be steaming around with half my leg hanging out of my trousers.”

The Admiral’s rather rough tone and choice of words surprised Briggs. Although he was prepared for some sort of elitist cowboy, the seemingly ignorant and bigoted attitude he’d had towards the non-human members of Briggs’ crew was something of a shock. Commander Heathlockas especially had attracted Admiral Freeman’s discontent. Heathlockas’ mother was of Elvin descent and he had a rather distinctive point to his ears and jaw line. Other than that, only the pendant he wore around his neck and his fair hair could have identified his heritage. Whatever truth may lie in the accusations against Elves and their role in the war against the Loveless Alliance, Heathlockas was a good officer and an outstanding engineer. Great Southern was nearing twenty years old and some parts of her were starting to show their age. If that wasn’t enough, the Commander wore two gold anchors and one silver anchor on his uniform jacket indicating previous command experience. If the Consuls trusted him with an Imperial warship (three times actually), why couldn’t this uneducated buffoon of a man?

“Of course, Admiral.”

Why does the Admiralty even see fit to keep dinosaurs like Freeman around? He sure as hell couldn’t cut it as a line level commander otherwise he’d have more than one anchor above the pocket of his jacket. One command was laughable to anyone of his rank. Briggs himself was wearing five anchors and would receive a sixth after his tour as Captain of Great Southern was over sometime in the early summer. He’d declined an appointment to Rear Admiral, so likely he’d be moving over to one of the smaller Frigates acting as a torpedo boat flotilla leader. It was not the most glamorous command position, but one that certainly excited Captain Briggs.

That lone anchor on the Admiral’s jacket was even silver, indicating a Frigate or something smaller. Briggs had Captained a torpedo boat, then a Frigate, then two Cruisers in a row, and a first round of Dreadnought command aboard Juliet before going off to the Command and Admiralty College in Ferrum. Now he was here, on the flying bridge of Great Southern as she steamed along the northern coast of the Smitintinian Empire, heading away from the setting sun. In an hour night would be upon the fleet and the glowing embers of signal lamps would stretch out across the waters to mark clumps of ships in the blackness. By morning they’d likely turn to the North, toward the Kingdom of Follandia and a possible showdown. They had steamed this route twice before, each time coming to the point where fuel would be an issue and so they turned back. It would likely be the same this time as well. This war was having surprisingly few casualties, other than the tiresome weariness of almost constant boredom.

Ministry of Defense

March 9^thBurned out cigars and cigarettes littered the brass ashtray like fallen warriors. A small brown cigarette smoked lightly on the end of a glass cigarette holder whose other end was tucked ever so gently between Madame Grundwiez’s lips. The gargoyle didn’t usually smoke, but something about this particular occasion seemed to warrant the flow of nicotine and scented smoke into her lungs. She, along with Minister Jackson, Major Thompson, and a dozen other advisors and ministers had poured over what seemed like a thousand pages of intelligence, information, and papers on the Kingdom of Follandia. So far all they’d seem to accomplish was going around in circles about who was in charge of what and under which circumstances.

The normal avenues of communication between the Smitintinians and Follandians were churning out garbage, and Minister Jackson wanted to know why. The Admiralty had put its major force in the Inland Sea on high alert and sent it to sea time and time again. The best Minister Jackson could do with the Imperial Army was to activate two Legions on the Northern Frontier and move his reserve Legions to their forward bases. But that took time, likely three more days before the additional units reached their bases. The border was closed for the time being, but that didn’t mean Follandian troops were staying put. If those damned Follies were trying to sneak a force into the Empire they had the potential to get away with it for a little while. They’d never be able to occupy territory for a long period of time, but a swift strike into the northern provinces of the Empire would be enough to panic some of the government into going to the peace table.

Maybe that’s what the Follandians wanted and they were just being more bull headed than usual. They’d wanted access to the trade passes for decades, claming ancient borders or some crap like that, but as of yet they’d only gotten polite refusals from the Empire. Maybe they thought they could make a fast grab and the central government currently lacked the backbone to boot them out again. If they thought that, then they’d obviously misread Ophelia Hotspur’s mentality and position. Perhaps those doddering fools she shared the Triumvirate with would roll over, but she certainly would never do such a thing. Grundiwez let out a breath of scented smoke before she took her turn to speak.

“I think we should be open to the possibility that their central government may not be in full control of the Navy. It’s certainly clear that the larger trading houses control far larger shares of the finances than any one of the individual Lords. Perhaps the tenuous balance between the houses and the central government has finally ended?”

Major Thompson shook his head lightly at the cocoa skinned gargoyle.

“No, I don’t think so. Armies and Navies are expensive; they would tend to undercut the bottom line of any legitimate business. If anything I would like to think that the big companies would oppose war, knowing that their product and infrastructure would be damaged.”

Grundwiez sighed in frustration. She understood the Follandian business model much more thoroughly than one might expect.

“That’s how a Smitintinian company would operate, yes. But we’re not dealing with domestic business here. Yes, in the short run it would be costly to essentially rent the military from the Follandian government but in the long run it would open up huge markets and cripple our business interest; if successful, of course. Yes, I agree it’s practically crazy. But what have they got to lose? Their building programs are bankrupting the Houses one by one. Better to strike now and get it over with than slowly starve to death over the next fifty years!”

Just as it seemed that the Major was about to steam his ears off, Jackson stood and held up a hand. All discussion seemed to dull to quiet as the senior military planner in the Empire cleared his throat.

“Madame Grundwiez, that suggestion is completely contrary to any hard evidence we have. It’s insane, devious, and immensely troubling both for our own military position and the disposition of the Kingdom of Follandia. And I think you’re exactly correct. Major Thompson is here because he’s one of the best traditional analysts we have, but I’m afraid this isn’t a traditional situation. Let’s assume you’re at least correct, in concept, Madame Grundwiez. How would you suggest we proceed?”

Grundwiez’s wings fluttered slightly as she sighed in thought. Running a set of talons through her hair she leaned back in her chair and took a long, last pull from her held cigarette and moved to drop the burned out ash into the ashtray.

“We should do everything in our power to re-establish the central government’s control. That Duke of Orange fellow may be a jerk, but he certainly seemed to hold no high regard for the trading houses. Perhaps through Baroness Brittany…”

One of the Civil Defense Force colonels snorted rather loudly. Grundwiez leveled her dark hazel eyes at him squarely. One could practically feel the daggers lashing out to slice the man in two.

“As I was saying. Baroness Brittany may be something of a pariah in Follandia, but at least she can use her personal retainers to gather information. I’m certain she would understand the seriousness of the situation. If nothing else, war would certainly come right to her doorstep and she’s intelligent enough to understand what ‘slash and burn’ means to an agrarian House. I think I should go myself, see to the matter personally.”

Jackson thought a moment, shaking his head.

“No, I think we may need your services here. Send your friend mister van Muller. He has proven to be quite the source of information to you has he not? Let us see just how ‘firsthand’ his knowledge of Follandia is. Plus I hear he can take care of himself in a scrap. Did some time in the Gizeki Foreign Legion if I remember correctly?”

Grundwiez quirked a brow with concern.

“Are you suggesting that Mar…mister van Muller has not been entirely truthful with us?”

Jackson clasped his hands together on the table.

“No. At least, not precisely. I’m only saying that sometimes too much good information is a bad thing. Everybody is wrong some of the time and his sixth sense for danger is uncanny and, dare I say, unnatural. Not even the Elves of our northern provinces can tell the future and yet…”

As the minister trailed off his implications were clear. He didn’t trust van Muller one bit and sending him into danger meant nothing to him. Jackson might be a good planner and leader, but in this case he seemed to be a little too paranoid. But there was little sense arguing with him and so Grundwiez nodded and stood to go inform Martin that he was being sent to a place between two war machines on the verge of a great clash of arms.

Tiger Bay Naval Base

March 10^thWith the vast majority of the Inland Seas Fleet away, the blue green expanse of the bay seemed oddly excessive. The reefs of concrete were vacant, only empty pallets populated the once vibrant military city. Here and there a Frigate bobbed on the waves, mastheads swaying with the roll of the ship. At night the base was blacked out aside from the rotating beacon atop the control tower. The setting sun cast crimson and orange hues on the stone structures of the base and it was a magnificent sight to behold. A lone Frigate was returning with the coming of night, making slow revolutions. The sea barely rippled as the small warship moved silently forward.

She carried but one funnel and one turret, mounted amidships. This marked her as one of the old Sea Sprite class ships. Few remained in service with the Imperial Navy, having been replaced by newer and more capable warships over the years, but a handful soldiered on as escort ships and roving ocean patrollers. Several ships had been reconditioned and sold to foreign allies to bolster support abroad. The master of the watch, one Ensign Wellington, frowned as he lowered his spyglass.

“Chief Devenios, any ships due to report tonight?”

The graying chief checked his clipboard.

“No sir, the Devonshire is expected anytime over the next week though. She’s a little frigate. Could be coming back in early after all the hubbub with the Follies. I know I wouldn’t want to be in one of those old rust buckets with their Home Fleet wandering about.”

Ensign Wellington nodded.

“Very good Chief, I’ll dispatch a pilot boat for her. Issue the challenge flag when she reaches one mile distant.”

The Chief nodded and continued to watch the warship slowly enter the harbor. She was making only a few knots, taking it nice and easy. Must either be a new Captain, or one not very concerned with clearing the seaway. Probably figured this would be the only time in his career to have the whole lane to himself and he’d enjoy it as long as he could. As the frigate came past the two large forts protecting the channel, she lowered a boat over the side. No doubt a shore party to deliver her paperwork to the dock master before the ship arrived. It was uncommon, but not irregular, to come in to port this way.

“Sir, they’re sending a launch our way. Looks to be a Petty Officer and some Marines. Probably want their dock papers signed off, shall I meet them at the landing?”

Ensign Wellington grunted.

“If you want to, I don’t think we’ll be needing two sets of eyes up here any more today. Could you grab me a tin of salted pheasant, I’m getting hungry and the mess isn’t open for an hour.”

The pantry was on the other side of the uppermost floor and it took a few minutes rummaging around the dimly lit room to find a tin of the Ensign’s favorite snack. Why he liked such an offensive and crunchy thing as salted pheasant was beyond the chief. After setting the tin on the desk next to Ensign Wellington, Chief Devenios made his way downstairs.

As Chief Devenios made his way down the twisted staircase he heard the boat crush up against the wooden dock and the harbormaster welcome the first sailor. The thud of a heavy sea bag came next followed by a series of confused questions and answers. Just as the Chief turned the final bend and came to the doorway he saw one of the sailors pull a pistol from under his jacket and level it at the old harbormaster.

“NO!!”

The single-shot pistol belched smoke and flame, cracking so loudly that Chief Devenios heard only ringing in his ears. He yanked for his own pistol, a revolver that was standard Navy issue. Before the old man’s lifeless body had collapsed to the ground he had leveled the steel barrel at the first attacker. Chief Devenios didn’t register that he’d pulled the trigger until the man’s hat tumbled into the sea, stained with blood. Two more rather confused looking individuals were standing in the small launch, unsure of what to do. Then one of them moved his arm downward with a yelp. The Chief’s eyes narrowed as sparks trailed from some kind of rope. Then it dawned at him. Fuse. And where there was a fuse, there was likely some kind of explosive devise. The sea bag at his feet was oddly shaped, and upon closer inspection it had a black rope coming out of it’s top. A black rope that was rapidly burning away. Chief Devenios tugged at the fuse to free it, but it wouldn’t budge. The men in the boat were rowing away now, one took a pot shot at him and missed wildly.

“Come on you bastard!”

He worked to free the fuse again, but it was nearly gone. Realizing he had no time left to do anything else he kicked the entire sea bag into the water and hoped. Bubbles rose from the spot of the sinking bag, telling him the fuse was an underwater burner. The Chief threw himself against the stone ground just in time for a huge geyser of water to erupt, followed by a sheet of flame. The whole earth seemed to shake from the explosion and the sound of cracking stone echoed in his ears before everything went dark and silent.

ISS Great Southern

Coast of Smitintinia, Inland Sea

March 10^thNight had long fallen, its inky embrace swallowing up the ocean itself. Here and there red embers glowed from the tips of cigars, cigarettes, or signal lamps. The stars shone in all their brilliance, lighting the heavens in ways that could not be seen from land. Only the dark ocean let all the silvery points of light out to play, their shapes and positions leading men to safety and disaster from ages untold until the present. The gentle grind of the engines and the wash of parting salt water droned out to endless monotony. Many sailors didn’t even hear the sounds of their ship anymore, so used to them were they. In the wheelhouse, crimson lamps dimly lit the gauges and compass housing. The powerful optics gave lookouts the ability to see the other ships of the fleet in formation and scan the horizon for any sign of the enemy.

“Quiet night, eh?”

One of the Marine sentries was smoking on the fantail, looking down as the frothy water flowed from about the stern of the massive warship. Commander Heathlockas nodded to the young man, almost an oversized boy really.

“Oh, y…yes sir. Was just taking a break from watch, Corporal Hastings…”

Heathlockas raised his hand.

“I’m not telling you to get to work son, just enjoying the silence. If it falls to us to spot the enemy fleet then I’m sure by the time all the Cruiser captains and crews are hogtied they’ll not even worry about a Marine smoking on the fantail.”

The marine relaxed and nodded, offering a cigarette to the Elvin blooded Commander.

“Thank you sir, it was just getting a little cramped on the platform. There was nothing to see but other marines looking at us through binoculars. Seems rather silly if you ask me, us looking around at each other. I know how many ships we have, sir, and I hope the Follies do. Won’t be much of a battle…”

Heathlockas took the cigarette and lit it, inhaling the cheap tobacco.

“No, it won’t. Just enough of one to make a few heroes of course but that’s about it. I hate the idea of it, the carnage.”

The marine appeared confused.

“It all seems so trivial from out here, the ocean all looks the same and the land is just a bunch of rocks and trees. What difference does a line on the map mean, when it comes down to killing other people? I certainly hope that I don’t have to kill someone because a Consul or Triumvir wanted a few extra acres of fields.”

The marine shook his head.

“But they started all of this, attacked us and then complained about our response. They oppress their own people, sir, you must know that.”

Heathlockas sighed.

“I know, and I’ve seen it. Peasants with no shoes working in the fields with hand tools, or chained to a loom weaving bolts of linen cloth. The mines and factories are worse, so I hear, and I suppose I believe that. But they’re working those people to death to keep up with the Azimuthi and us. We have more factories and the Azimuthi have more people to begin with. Not to mention we have five times as many shipyards as they do…”

The ship’s bell sounded twice in the calm, signaling half past three in the morning and the marine tossed his cigarette over the stern.

“Excuse me sir, I’d better get back to the platform. I hope I didn’t upset you…”

Heathlockas shook his head.

“Not at all. You’re right about the oppression. There is not one valid reason to turn people into slaves. I just like playing devil’s advocate.”

The Marine shrugged and was on his way, leaving the Elvin Commander alone with the sounds of the rolling oceans and the gentle rumble of the steam engines turning over. In time he crushed out his cigarette and tossed the remains over the stern of the ship. They would likely sink to the bottom of the ocean and be torn apart by greedy fish and other aquatic life. The fish just under the surface would be the only ones disturbed by the passing of the big iron-hulled beast of war that was Great Southern. Her shimmering prow and sharpened bow parted schools of tiny minnows for a few minutes but that was all. Her passing in the night was not even a disturbance to the life of an ocean.

Follandia/Smitintinia Border

Brittany Province

March 15^thA gentle mist covered the ground just off the well-worn road. A highway of stone and concrete, this ribbon of civilization stretched a thousand kilometers from the sun-drenched shores of Ferrum, through the icy crags of the Switchwind Mountains, and finally to the Northern Plains of Solace. These lands were old country, won from the Follandians over three centuries earlier. The quaint cottages of the Follandian style still dominated the architecture of the region, but here and there clusters of gothic temples and public buildings had sprung up.

The 11^th Home Guards Legion of the Civil Defense Force was marching north to the frontier. Called up at the start of hostilities, this particular Legion was made up of reservists and a few active duty officers. Martin van Muller was their companion and he’d grown to know a few of the officers over the past week on the march. They’d started on the tram, a small network of steam powered carriages locked onto rails, but that had taken them only about a hundred kilometers outside of the capital, Smitintinia. From there, horse drawn carriages brought them further until the roads were too narrow even for them and the Legion had taken to the march. Wagons carried their heavy equipment and teams of pack mules drew their artillery. A half dozen field guns and a few small Ballistae brought up the rear of the formation. Unless, that is, one counted the cloaked figure of Martin van Muller on an underfed horse part of such a professional unit.

The mist was still there, even at high noon when the sun broke the canopies of the clumps of large oaks and eliminated all of the roadside shade. Not that it was warm, for it was still the last few weeks of winter, but the sun could be just as bright now as it would be during summer. They were about 20 kilometers from the border, or at least what used to be the border between Follandia and the Smitintinian Empire. Small skirmishes between a handful of soldiers on patrol had been reported all along the frontier, but so far no large Follandian units had been detected. That was either very good, or very bad.

“And why, mister can Muller, would it be very bad?”

Martin turned to the side, where a rather fat Colonel was riding beside him.

“Because it means that there could be Follandian Dragoons all along this road and we don’t know about them. Because it means that outposts may have been overrun and they’re transmitting garbage. Because it means that our intelligence could be so wrong, we might as well say that little green faeries are attacking!”

The Colonel huffed

“At least faeries don’t flee the battlefield before you can kill them.”

Martin raised en eyebrow, though it was somewhat concealed under his cloak.

“I’m not entirely sure you could catch anything that was fleeing a battlefield, Colonel.”

The comment was half masked by Martin’s normally delicate speech, but it still reached the ears of the fat Colonel. He promptly spurred his horse and strode ahead, drawing next to one of the supply wagons leaving van Muller in peace. Van Muller pulled a small pocketbook from the satchel around his chest and read from a brownish wrinkled page. It was a note from Grundwiez; her swirly handwriting belied her ferocious passion. All it said was when and where to meet her that fateful day at the Clocktower Café. Turning the page, van Muller saw the lipstick impression from her tender kiss of the page. Some kind of gargoyle good luck charm she said when he left for the tram. Truth be told he would rather have had her kiss him right there, but the crowd was already pulling them apart. One final mouthed ‘I love you’ was all he got.

Martin’s gentle reminiscing was interrupted by a clicking sound on his left and the slight glint of metal in the sun. His keen eyes narrowed, almost squinting in the bright midday sun. The rustle of the long grass was unnatural, no animal would move it such even lines. Perhaps the horses had disturbed a pack of wild hunting pigs. They could be dangerous to children, but were little more than a nuisance to a grown man. They didn’t seem to be moving far whatever they were, it was almost as if they were closing a circle around their rear.

“Oh my gods, DOWN!!”

The first bang of a rifle going off was all the warning many in the formation got of trouble. Martin’s shouted words seemed to fall on deaf ears, if they reached them at all. One puff of smoke was followed by another, and another, and then scores of tiny plumes filled the Oak grove. From both sides of the road, bullets whizzed past. Once in a while the sickening thunk of metal crushing bone parted the flurry of screams. Officers tried to get their units into formation, but it was all chaos. A second volley of fire rippled from behind the supply train and more bodies fell. Horses panicked and twisted their loads from the wagons and sent heavy field guns toppling over. Finally the first return fire started, but it was random in ineffective. More shots poured from the think wooded groves, now baked with black and gray smoke. Muzzle flashes burned yellow in the dimming woods, sending more death in an instant. Swords were drawn, their steel clanking against sheaths as bands of soldiers rushed into the smoky darkness in a desperate attempt to end the slaughter.

Martin van Muller was thrown from his horse as soon as the shooting started, the beast fell beside him dead, a bullet through his neck. Crawling on hands and knees, Martin moved to pull his pistol from the bag strapped to the dead horse’s side. Once in his hand, he leveled the weapon at an orange shirted man raising his rifle, a Follandian Guardsman, and fired twice. The first shot no doubt would have been sufficient, but in the excitement of the moment his finger jerked the trigger a second time as if it had a mind of its own. Without further thought, Muller turned to aim at a second Follandian who was reloading. A single shot through the neck dropped him. The cloaked Smitintinian ‘diplomat’ then glanced about the makeshift battlefield. Here and there, small groups of Follandians were being engaged in hand to hand fighting by their Smitintinian counterparts and the heavy swords favored by Civil Defense Legionnaires were making short work of the poorly trained Follandian Guardsmen.

The ambushers had seemed to underestimate the numbers of their victims. As the Smitintinian soldiers recovered from the shock of the initial attack, they quickly turned the tide on the Follandians. With sword and rifle they were cutting huge swaths through the Orange-shirted Follandians. Van Muller found yet another target for his pistol and fired, but this time he missed. A second round didn’t, however, and the older man crumpled into a ball at the side of the road. He had a single shot left, though it seemed that the ambush was turning into disaster for the attackers. Everywhere men were surrendering or fleeing in terror from the accurate Smitintinian fire.

Some orange shirted men reformed into a little regiment and were standing firm beside a thick grove of young oak trees. Their apparent leader was a gray haired man with a long beard, and he waived his small saber wildly in the air. Many who had been fleeing paused, then turned to join this small unit. Each volley sliced into the Smitintinian lines, cutting down a few surprised men and women. With his final shot, van Muller placed a bullet into the leader of these men. The bearded man didn’t jerk or gurgle, he simply slumped to one side and then fell flat on his back. Instantly the resistance crumbled and the battle was over in moments. Van Muller stood up from behind his improvised place of cover and looked around. The cordite smoke drifted through the trees like some kind of acrid fog of war.

“By the Gods, that could have been far worse…”

Van Muller placed his now empty pistol in its leather case as he strolled towards an Officer he recognized in the chaos.

“Captain, Captain!”

The man turned, a bit of dirt on the side of his face.

“How bad?”

He shrugged.

“Probably twenty or so dead, twice that wounded but nothing serious. Seems the bastards either got them or they didn’t. Not exactly what I expected from a Follandian Guards unit. They shot like first day recruits, wouldn’t you say van Muller?”

Van Muller thought about that statement for a moment.

“Yes, they did actually. A few of them were obviously veterans, but most looked green faced and scared. Kids really, maybe conscripts?”

In truth they looked nothing like the supposedly elite fighters of the Follandian Guards that van Muller knew. Each was a supposed crack shot, armed with a very good rifle and short sword. They weren’t supposed to retreat, even in the face of obviously overwhelming odds. These kids looked almost relieved to surrender. Something about the whole situation wasn’t right. If it was supposed to be a crushing ambush, why didn’t they ripple fire along the lines rather than firing a shot here and there?

“Maybe, or maybe the Guards unit these kids got their uniforms from is still out there and we just captured their diversion.”

Ministry of Defense

Smitintinia

March 16^th

Triumvir Ophelia Hotspur nodded for the thousandth time, it seemed, as yet another short report came across her desk. War seemed to generate far more paperwork than it should. No, war wouldn’t, but this state of conflict or whatever was the official term for it was doing many things that no war should either. The bold attack on the Tiger Bay Naval base, for example, shouldn’t have even been possible. Cliff guns and a picket of Frigates should have stopped the lone ship from slipping in and delivering a device of terror that cost the lives of a dozen Smitintinian Sailors. Sure the almost instant destruction of the rogue ship more than made up for this loss in manpower but the very thought of an attack in the heart of the Empire was unnerving. The fact that it was premeditated was also worrisome. Whoever planned it must have done so weeks in advance, as even considering best ravel time it would have taken more than week for a small frigate like that to sail from the closest Follandian port to Tiger Bay. Obviously this would have raised many warning flags, so the ship must have left port before the increase in deployment of forward scouting elements and that was over three weeks earlier just after the Rebecca incident. No, nothing about this “conflict” made sense anymore.

A long lock of her raven black hair tumbled over Ophelia’s shoulder and brought her out of the self-induced trance. Without thinking about it, she pushed her hair back with both hands, running all her fingers though her silky strands. If she was not careful, they’d begin to turn gray if things kept up like they had been. But that was the cost of being a Triumvir during war. Her steward was standing patiently next to her desk.

“Madame Triumvir, Captain Grundwiez is here to see you. She says that it is, how did she put it, pleasure before business?”

Ophelia actually smiled at that. She could almost picture the cocoa skinned gargoyle chuckling in amusement as she spoke to the steward. It was just that kind of simple amusement that made Grundwiez such an interesting individual to be around.

“Yes, send her in I’ll finish these later.”

A moment later, Grundwiez sashayed through the oaken framed door with a grinning smile on her face. Her fangs stood out, oversize for even one of her species, but they weren’t threatening in the least.

“Madame Triumvir, I hope they aren’t keeping you too busy these days!”

Grundwiez offered her hand, but instead Ophelia stood and embraced the gargoyle in a light hug, something of a feet as she was more than a head shorter that Grundwiez.

“Not at all, not at all.”

The cocoa skinned gargoyle hugged Ophelia back, giving her a reassuring squeeze as well. After a much-welcomed moment of connection, the two powerful women sighed and began the task at hand.

“Lay it on me.”

Grundwiez opened her little folder and began setting small maps down on Ophelia’s desk. Each was only a small drawing, little more than a sketch really, but as her delicate talons arranged them a larger picture of the border between Follandia and the Smitintinian Empire took shape. In the center was Brittany Province, surrounded by broken woods and rolling plains. Many of the drawings had symbols for units deployed to those zones. A quick glance showed over a dozen full Legions were now in the area, and many more small units surrounding them.

“Madame Triumvir, we now have fifteen full Legions in the disputed zone, though more than half are Civil Defense Force. Many smaller militia units are also being called up, but it will take more time to get them centrally organized into effective sizes. The 3^rd, 7^th, 11^th CDF, and 99^th Regular Legions have all reported engaging Follandian soldiers well within our territory. So far the battles have been small, but our intelligence can’t pin down the locations of a number of their Guards Regiments. Needless to say, I do not like the idea of a couple thousand Follandian Guards showing up on our doorstep.”

Ophelia Hotspur nodded, feeling her normally quite pale skin flush.

“What about here? I don’t see any large formations for twenty or thirty kilometers along the front next to Brittany Province. Is the information missing?”

Grundwiez nodded.

“Yes Madame Triumvir, we aren’t sure which units are there and how strong they are. We have reports of a few Militia Companies skirmishing on the Follandian side of the border, but as of right now I can not confirm that.”

There was a lingering pause as Ophelia’s silvery blue eyes scanned over the maps.

“Naval High Command reports that they’ve begun to question the prisoners taken in the Tiger Bay attack. Nothing really useful yet, except that the frigate left a small port in western Follandia about six weeks ago, stopped to take on provisions in Krestymann, then again in Azimuth, and finally made for Tiger Bay.”

Ophelia rubbed her chin with a furrowed brow.

“When did that Frigate make Azimuth, and where?”

Grundwiez sorted through a few sheets of paper before finding the one she was looking for. Her almond eyes scanned over the printed words quickly and precisely.

“Uhh, a little place called Ravenclaw on the 7^th. Stayed there until midnight on the 8^th before departing. Took on water, food, and three Follandian Nationals.”

Grundwiez paused; her little spectacles perched rather precariously on the tip of her nose. Ophelia scratched at her chin once more.

“Didn’t the logbooks from those two ships that attacked our convoy in the Inland Sea say they stopped in Ravenclaw as well? The place sounds familiar.”

The gargoyle searched through her papers again.

“Yes, as a matter of fact they did. They were filled full of water and provisions from the looks of the records. Paid in gold coin, not bank notes like the usually do.”

Ophelia Hotspur leaned back in her chair and steepled her hands in her lap, deep in thought from the expression on her face. Grundwiez simply stood hunched over her notes and the little maps watching with curious eyes.

“Why would three Follandian ships, all involved with blatant attacks on Smitintinian ships and facilities all take on supplies and passengers at the same port at almost the same time? If one was trying to conceal their locations it would seem rather silly to place all of one’s ships in one place to be seen together by everyone. About the only thing more conspicuous would have been if the three were all in Ravenclaw at the same time.”

Grundwiez nodded as an idea popped into her head.

“Perhaps that was the entire point. The Frigate was delayed in Krestymann for a couple days because the harbormaster refused to take the ship in until she’d dumped her wastewater overboard so as to not create a potential health hazard. I bet she was the delivery ship for the other two but they had to leave so as to not create too much suspicion.”

Ophelia followed the gargoyle’s logic flawlessly.

“And a couple of days would have put them at Tiger Bay just as our fleet was getting under way. A few of those explosives would have done some serious damage to our Dreadnought squadrons, maybe even taken away our numerical superiority altogether.”

Both women could hardly believe the sheer audacity of such a plan. The level of timing and detail required were staggering, and clearly had been too much to overcome. Yes the attack on Tiger Bay had been unsettling and tragic, but no serious damage had been done. The attack on the convoy only resulted in a written off torpedo boat, hardly a fair trade for a couple of Follandian sloops.

“Surely no sane government would have approved such an action Madame Triumvir, even this one little glitch threw the entire plan off and surely if our fleet meets theirs it will be a massacre! The Follandians have to know that, hell I bet even that Duke of Orange knows it!”

Ophelia waived her hand to calm Grundwiez, who was starting to work herself into a frenzy over their discovery.

“Please my friend, slow down. We don’t know who would have supported such a plan or why. We cannot positively say one way or the other that the Follandian government is involved. As you just stated, it would be insane to stir up a hornet’s nest and as your information on the disputed area shows they weren’t ready for a fight.”

Grundwiez’s nose wrinkled slightly.

“Well if not the government than who? I am aware that many of their Barons and Ministers are on the pay books of one Guild or another but how would any of them have enough money or power to get their fleet underway?”

Ophelia Hotspur sighed loudly, flipping her black colored hair idly.

“I don’t know my friend, I don’t know. That’s why I need your illustrious mister van Muller to get into Follandia and away from the fighting!”

Grundwiez stiffened slightly but didn’t say anything.

“I know you are very…fond of mister van Muller. I promise nothing will happen to him, or there will be hell to pay. Well, more hell than there usually is anyway. Now come on, I’m expected at some reception for recruiting or some such thing. All I know is that if I have to wear one more dress I can’t breath in, I’m going to declare war on fashion!”

The Gargoyle started to lighten up a bit.

“Just because you don’t like them, doesn’t mean others share your view. I happen to think that pants are terribly uncomfortable!”

Ophelia Hotspur actually laughed.

“If I had a tail I might agree with you there, but since I don’t and I’m one of your commanders-in-chief I’m ordering you to not enjoy dressing up tonight.”

Grundwiez’s fanged smile finally showed itself.

“Yes ma’am.”

Follandia/Smitintinia Border

March 17^thThe wagons creaked on as they ground down the road stones. Groups of men marched, many of them talking quietly amongst themselves. The Officers rode, the hooves of their horses clip-clopping on the smooth stones that made up the road. The formations were less orderly now than they had been and they were a bit smaller. At the start of the day’s march a detail had been formed to dig almost twenty graves in a thicket. The bodies of Smitintinian soldiers were laid to rest there. The graves were hastily marked with a ring of stones and a shiny copper coin to pay for the crossing into the afterlife.

A vote had been taken and against van Muller’s wishes the many bodies of the fallen Follandians were gathered up and set ablaze. Thick smoke still hung over the small valley behind the marching men. The hills rolled on for miles, eventually to the sea, and many small creeks and streams crossed the road. If they were small, the water simply trickled through a built in trough cut into the stone. If they were large enough, an arching stone bridge crossed them at a slight rise. At one of these little waterways, the fat Colonel who had been riding next to van Muller turned and grunted some sort of greeting. Martin turned towards him slightly.

“See that stream?”

Van Muller nodded.

“We’re in Follandia now.”

Martin couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He was back in his land of birth at last and there hadn’t been so much as a road sign or tariff notice. Glancing down at the road, he noticed a small carving of the seal for the Follandian National Stonemasons guild. The square and level surrounding the big ‘F’ were hard to miss if one knew where to look for them. Once, many years ago now, the road hadn’t been marked for there was no need of it. Who would care to pass between two nations barely holding on? Walking on different sides of the street in the poor district one was equally likely to step in something unsavory. Now it was different, these to nations were juggernauts in their own ways. Follandia, rich with trade from across the sea, and Smitintinia powerful thanks to her iron-hearted soldiers and steel sea monsters. Together they could be unstoppable and yet they were on the verge of slaying one another.

“There’s a village up ahead, it sounds like a fight…sir?”

Martin half turned in his saddle to answer the trooper.

“Oh, I’m not in the Military so you shouldn’t call me sir. And it does sound like a fight indeed you have some sharp ears. I wonder just who we will find up there.”

The Colonel, who was the highest ranking Officer, was frozen in his seat. His eyes were glued forward towards the clatter of musket fire and the groan of structures bending under the assault of modern warfare. His brow was sweatier than usual and his left eye seemed to twitch. He ran a shaky hand through what was left of his brown hair. A long moment passed as the trooper glanced between van Muller and his would-be commander. Finally he cursed loudly.

“Bastard coward! Mister van Muller, consider yourself drafted. Welcome to the Imperial Army. Now, what the hell are we supposed to do other than rush in with rifles blazing!?”

Van Muller actually smiled as he adjusted the gun belt around his waist.

“Well that’s easy son…we fade into the woods and watch.”

The young man looked almost disappointed but he nodded.

“Oh don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for rash charges and gun smoke. There always is, I would just like to have other options. I mean, the best part of war is going home to tell tall tales with your buddies and getting free drinks. HYAH!!!”

Van Muller spurred his horse on, shouting orders to the confused ranks of the Legion. In moments they had abandoned the road and walked into the misty woods just beyond it. Horses breathed lightly in the cool air, their breath visible. One might have thought there was an army of ghosts pausing to take in the afternoon. Well, an army of ghosts and one very fat and very scared Colonel still sitting on his horse.

Royal Exchange and Commerce House, Visalie

Follandia

March 17^thThe great room that was at the center of Royal Exchange and Commerce House was a large circle ringed with numerous rows of seats. The floor was of hard, light wood cut from trees of a distant land across the sea. The three symbols of Follandia were scorched into the almost white wood: the explorer Giovanni, the sextant, and the coin. The great circle, almost fifty feet across, allowed whomever held the floor to pace and flail and drive home his point with the rest of the members of the court. By Follandian Law one hundred fifty were allowed to be courtesans at any one time but lately, the law had been left undefended and all who sat here were rich men and women, not the representatives of the people who built this great temple to business and equality. There was a calm and awkward silence as a single man paced the circle, stopping with one foot over the scorched coin in the floor.

“My fellow businessmen and women, we are in peril! War has fallen upon our land, war from our once allies to the south. They come with Legion upon Legion of rampaging barbarians. Their ships choke the free oceans with oppression and wrath.”

A man in the middle row stood up and shouted, waiving his arms.

“This we know good Duke, why have you summoned us!? We have our guilds and corporations to defend!”

The Duke of Orange stroked his beard for a moment before he smiled at the frustrated man and nodded.

“This you do my friend, this you do, and that is exactly why I have summoned you. We must drive out these invaders and to do so we must be strong, united! We can sort out business afterwards but now I need your help, all of you. I call upon your sense of honor and dignity to preserve our way of life. If the Smitintinian Empire comes it will change everything. We will not have free reign over that which is ours. Can you imagine, my friends, the cost of doing business with an Imperial taxation bureau looking over our shoulders?”

The din of disapproval was music to the Duke’s ears. He raised his hands and nodded after enjoying the sound of his rabble raising.

“Then you agree?”

A single voice flared in the silence of the room. All eyes turned to see a woman standing defiantly, her arm outstretched towards the Duke in the center of the ring.

“No! I do not agree. You come here with your words and ask of honor Duke and yet you have none of your own. You hold your coin purse too tightly I think to ask your countrymen to risk their own. Where are your guardsmen? How much blood have they spilled in our country’s name?”

The Grand Duke of Orange clapped.

“Very good Baroness, very good indeed. The whore of the Empire speaks out on behalf of her master, and with such a silver tongue!”

Baroness Brittany almost growled in anger.

“If I am the whore of the Empire than you are the bare shadow of this country and all it was built on! You would sell your own name if you thought you could make another hundred gold pieces from it. You turn my stomach.”

The duel of speech was boiling over into an uncomfortable war of wills. The crowd seemed to retreat as the two powerful people advanced towards one another. The Duke kept one foot over the safety of the coin even as Brittany stepped onto the white wood floor with a flowing grace.

“Careful Baroness, I still have the floor. Protocol must be observed even in these dark times. I would hate for you to be stripped of your position over something so minor as a contempt of the court.”

Britanny froze, her foot hovering above the line that denoted the speaker’s floor. She tilted her head to the side and grinned at the Duke as only a woman can.

“Tell me Duke, how much did the pointy-eared ones offer you? A million? Two? Did they even say? How much did you sell our nation for, from a net profit perspective?”

The Duke’s face drained of color and he shook his head.

“You have no proof, you are grasping at straws Baroness.”

Brittany placed her foot inside the speaker’s ring.

“I have proof enough, and I will show it to you and prove to all the fine people in this room how much honor you have.”

The Baroness nodded her head to the double doors leading out of the grand hall. There, bound by the wrists, was an old Elvin man. His face was hard and fast, the sign of bitterness and hatred. The Duke of Orange knew him well and it showed. He could not speak for he knew it would do him no good.

“There you are good sirs and madams, he would have prostituted us to the same people who tried to bring darkness across the whole of this continent just to gain a business edge! What say you to this traitor’s Honor now?”

The din of hatred poured forth and now it was Baroness Brittany’s turn to revel in it. She watched the Duke’s face hang long with satisfaction but she saw something in his eyes that made her hold her breath. He leaned to whisper in her ear.

“My Royal Guardsmen will spill all the blood that is required of them in this country’s name. I’d just rather it started with all of these people’s”

The doors burst open and a neat column of Orange-clad soldiers marched in, their muskets held out in front of them. The rear ranks barred the doors behind them, one man whisked away the bound Elvinkin as the front ranks pointed their guns into the rows of seats surrounding the great circle. Baroness Brittany stared with cold defiance at the Duke. He grabbed her by the wrist and chuckled.

“Sometimes, my dear Baroness, you have to hold all the cards and not just most of them. It was a good effort, but good just isn’t something that Follandians are known for. In time I think you’ll grow to become fond of your new home in my basement.”

The order to fire was given and the deafening roar of muskets firing made Brittany’s ears ring. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched her country die. In the blood of these people, good and evil, the old Follandia she knew was washed away. Her only hope was that somewhere across the border in Smitintinia someone would stop the spread of darkness before it was too late. She hoped as hard as she dared even knowing that the Empire was known for both its fury and its efficiency. Mercy, something that would be called for in the coming days, was one thing rarely accused of the Smitintinian people.

II: Blood by the Bucketful

ISS Great Southern

Tiger Bay Naval Base

March 20^thThe huge links of steel chain groaned and clanked as they slowly rounded the huge capstans on the forward deck of the Dreadnought Great Southern. Fifty strong men worked the gears below, feeding the chain up and onto to the deck as the two anchors descended into the murky coastal waters of Tiger Bay. When it was safe, the locks were set and then released sending the anchors plunging into the depths with a crash of water and spray of white foam. It took only a second or two for the metal hooks to sink into the silty seabed. The Dreadnought’s massive air horn sounded four times, venting steam in a great cloud of white smoke.

Down in the bowels of the ship Commander Heathlockas was overseeing the shutdown of the big steam engines. He was down to the last of the three main engines, but this was the largest and most dangerous if not kept under tight control. Four huge pistons, each weighing over a ton, banged up and down in constant rhythm as long as the steam kept coming through the intake valves. Shut off the steam too quickly and the engine would freeze, sending rivets and bolts ricocheting through the compartment with deadly force. Turn down the pressure too slowly and the engine would sputter out of control and tear itself to bits in a death throw. No, this was a precise instrument despite its size and danger and Heathlockas knew exactly what he was doing.

He had done this very thing five times before in recent weeks, as Great Southern came and went with the Inland Seas fleet on patrol. They always slipped out of Tiger Bay at night and always returned a few days later in the morning. The logs on almost every piece of equipment stated that the ship was due for an overhaul, but the Elvin engineer doubted that the Admiralty would pull a big ship like Great Southern out of the fleet to go to dry-dock. No, Heathlockas knew he would have to find a way to extend the life of every moving thing down here.

“Pressure to one-ten!”

Heathlockas nodded and cupped his hands to his mouth as he shouted over the din of the engineering ratings clamoring on catwalks all around him.

“Close bypass valves! Vent return pressure, prepare for shutdown of intake valves on my mark!”

Some of the rating spun colored wheels quickly, others grasped knobs of their own in mature readiness of what was coming. They knew their jobs well and had confidence in their leader to get it done.

“Close intake valves! Brace, Brace, Brace!”

Steam blasted through the vent lines, scorching its way out of the engine room and back through condensers and mufflers until all the heat and fury was reduced to droplets of lukewarm water settling into pools and falling through yet more pipes into storage tanks. The huge steam engine creaked and groaned and came to a steady and final halt without so much as a sigh of protest.

“Good work! Let’s clean it up and start pulling inspection covers, I want reports ready in one hour. Then, my friends, at least twenty four hours of furlow! What do you say to that!?”

The shout of joy and pride was even louder than the thumping of the steam engine had been and Heathlockas loved it. He loved his job and the people he worked with. They were greasy, sweaty, and usually smelly (often the women worse than the men!), but he loved them all the same. They worked hard but they were a good team. As long as he could draw a breath he’d support them every way he knew how.

But for now he had enough time for a shower and to change into something close to a presentable uniform before addressing the captain on the status of the ship. He already had a few items to bring up, and he was sure the routine inspection that was just getting underway by his engineers would turn up one or two more things as well. If the Admiral was there in all his pig-headed glory it would be a fairly long briefing, so Heathlockas made a mental note to eat something beforehand. He wiped the sweat from his brow one last time and strolled towards the exit hatch with a shake of his head. Things had been much simpler when he was just fixing the engines and not talking to idiots while others had the joy of tinkering with all his toys!

Tiger Bay Naval Base

March 21^st

Admiral John Freeman, the commander of the 3^rd Squadron, Inland Seas Fleet, shook his head for everyone in the conference room to see. He was seated at the head of a small table with the Captains of the ships in his squadron down each side. The Admiral’s chief of staff, one Commander Hotspur, was opposite the Admiral. There were two things that made Hotspur stand out from the rest of the men there: first, he was of no relation to the intelligent and fiery Triumvir Hotspur and second, everyone knew it because he looked nothing like the strong and often harsh woman. He was pale, skinny to the point of being scrawny, and the mop of frail brown hair on his head was always draped to one side in an awkward sort of style more reminiscent of a balding senior than a man in his thirties.

“No, I simply can’t give up a single ship let alone my flagship for some repairs. Engineering will just have to fix the problem before we sail again.”

Admiral Freeman always referred to ships as ‘his’ rather than the customary ‘our’ used by every competent squadron commander since the founding of the Imperial Navy. Of course Freeman wasn’t competent, and that made his speech patterns all the more amusing to the Captains seated around the table.

“If I had to send all my warships to the yard every time something broke or creaked or groaned or appeared worn I wouldn’t have a command! I shall hear no more reports suggesting that Smitintinian ships need overhauls. Commander Hotspur, begin with your brief on the squadron if you please.”

Chairs squeaked as heads turned from one end of the table to the other.

“Of course. As you all know we are the center of the battle line. Second squadron concentrates forward and fourth squadron to our rear. First squadron, such as it is, will be interspersed between our ships as needed. This puts us close to the Fleet Flagship, Imperator Julius. The good news is we’ll get signals before anyone else does. The bad news is we’re also likely to draw more incoming fire than other squadrons. Damage control teams should be prepared to work hard and fast if the shooting gets heavy.”

The talk droned on until after the sun set. Tactics and briefings on reports, then reports on briefings until only the most stalwart of officers was truly giving all of his attention. Just as the meeting seemed to come to its conclusion the door burst open in a clatter of excited shouts.

“Sir we got one, we got one!”

Heads swiveled, for there were many who were used to being called ‘sir’ in the room.

“The Jordan, She just got back, and bagged a Frigate!”

The man shouting was a very young looking and clearly excited Ensign. Nobody was really sure who he was speaking to and Admiral Freeman raised his hand.

“Slowly Ensign, start over. Breath. Begin.”

The young man straightened himself up and took a deep breath.

“Sir, yes sir. The Frigate Jordan, just returned from patrol. She was shot up pretty badly but her captain reports engaging a Follandian Frigate off the coast on their side of the border. He said they traded shot all afternoon until she just turned away, on fire, and blew up like that!”

The young Ensign made his arms go wide to show the size of the blast.

“They spotted the Follandian fleet, steaming right against the shoreline. Even saw them firing but the shells were short. They said it was two nights ago, they made best speed back here.”

Admiral Freeman coughed, his hand clearly indicating thought.

“Thank you Ensign, go spread the news and do try to remember some protocol?”

There was a pause as the young man saluted and sprung out the door loudly, already forgetting the Admiral’s words of caution.

“Build steam, we’re leaving early. If the Follies are at sea I want to crush them before they get any ideas. Taking individual frigates just isn’t going to win the war. We have to move our fleet to support the army and we can’t do that unless their fleet is in ruins. I‘m going to advise the Fleet Admiral, I‘m sure he will agree with me.”

Murmurs washed over the table from nervous mouths.

“I know you have concerns and frankly I don’t care. Solve your problems, you’re officers of the Imperial Navy not nursemaids damn it! Act like it for a change.”

There was silence as each man and woman absorbed the comment, no doubt they all thought it was pompous, arrogant, and pointless. If Freeman wanted to be ready to sail before the fleet was that was his business. Everyone knew he had the ear of the Fleet Admiral and would ‘advise’ him to sail immediately despite the broken ships, tired crews, and lack of supplies.

Follandia/Smitintinian Border

March 22^nd

Martin van Muller sucked on the last bit of a juicy red apple. He, and the ragtag group of under trained and over worked soldiers he’d somehow taken command of, had been camped here for five days. He’d insisted on using local resources as much as possible and they‘d been happy to do so. The fruit orchards were plentiful and absurdly unguarded. Since the din of the battle on the first day they‘d arrived here there had been barely a sign of conflict.

“Sir, uh, are we going to wait today? The men…”

The voice trailed off.

“Until midday, then let’s move into the town. It’s been very odd this morning, a lot of activity. Most of the houses are boarded up, no smoke from the chimneys. It almost looks like they’re evacuating from a storm. They must know something we don’t.”

There was no sounds of stirring from Martin’s side, so he continued.

“It could be a trap, lure us in there to ambush us.”

The other man coughed.

“Sir if it’s a trap, shouldn’t we stay away?”

Martin almost chuckled with enjoyment as he rubbed his chin.

“The best way to find a trap is to spring it, now, isn’t it?”

Van Muller must have been gifted to have such a dark sense of humor. He saw no point in waiting around for this war to come to him. He’d already witnessed the carnage from a surprise attack and he really didn’t care to again. Yet, he knew something was terribly wrong with the whole operation. There’d been no sign of enemy activity, or even the hint of activity. No curriers had come from the Smitintinian side of the border and there wasn’t even a whisper of other Smitintinian units in the area. Surely if things were going terribly elsewhere, someone would have come to try and find an entire Legion, even if they were technically reservists.

ISS Great Southern

Inland Sea

March 22^ndThe steady procession of Imperial warships passed by the shimmering ocean waves as if on parade. Their hulls were gleaming in the midday sun despite the rust and corrosion on their more used surfaces. Plumes of gray black smoke trailed behind each ship leaving the sky hazy for miles around. The thrashing of propeller blades and constant crash of bow waves moved the surface fish aside as the Inland Sea Fleet steamed in tight formation. At it’s core, the Dreadnoughts belched clouds of smoke from their thick funnels. Eighteen of the massive ships dared anything in their sight to challenge their supremacy of the seas. Massive guns, some of the largest afloat, guarded the rest of the fleet.

All eighteen Dreadnoughts steamed in a straight line with the flagship Imperator Julius at the center. Great Southern was just astern of the flagship, following as closely as possible without undue danger. Behind her was Mariah, a half sister to the Great Wind-class to which the Great Southern belonged. The other ships of Great Southern’s squadron were Duke Crommerty and Great Triumvirate, each steaming practically on the stern of the ship in front of it. The fifth ship of the squadron, Sword Infernus, was still at the dockyard after blowing up her starboard engine more than three months ago. The only other Dreadnought missing from the Inland Sea Fleet’s order of battle was Victorious, which had struck a mine during the first patrol of the war.

In comparison, the Follandian Second Fleet which was built to counter the Inland Sea Fleet, had at most two oversized squadrons and a flagship. This meant they had a maximum strength of thirteen ships and it was a well known fact that Follandian engineering was quite a bit less reliable than Smitintinian so they would likely be short a ship or two. By pure numbers, the Inland Sea Fleet should enjoy a 25% superiority. The advantage was made even more dramatic when the number of heavy weapons was counted. All but the two newest Follandian Dreadnoughts were armed with eight 12” guns and a small number of secondary weapons. Their newest class did carry ten of the impressive 14” guns, but only two of them had reached operational status. In contrast, half of the Inland Sea Fleet’s ships were armed with ten 12” guns while the other half had ten 13.5” weapons plus secondaries.

The throw weight of the Follandian Second Fleet’s Dreadnoughts was just over two thirds as heavy as the Inland Sea Fleet’s. To add to the inferiority, Follandian range finding was less accurate and more prone to malfunction than Smitintinian equipment. Despite an almost equal range, Follandian guns couldn’t provide accurate gunfire until after Smitintinian guns were already dropping salvos on target. From every important angle, the coming and expected battle was a mismatch. Commander Heathlockas knew this of course, but he was still quite worried. Dreadnoughts had never fought other Dreadnoughts and who was to say what would happen when huge shells came crashing down on his ship. All it took was one lucky hit and the mighty Great Southern could be reduced to so much smoking debris.

Follandia/Smitintinian Border

March 22^nd

Smitintinian soldiers peered out of the forest, kneeling and standing in the afternoon shadows of green leafy branches. Less than a hundred feet away lay a cobble street and a collection of single story brick houses. The street ran into the small town and branched off into numerous alleys and other streets. The brick houses grew in size, becoming two and three story structures within a block of the town’s beginning. A large white plaster mill towered over the rest of the village, its red brick chimneys seemed to reach halfway to the heavens themselves. A small flock of chickens clucked and scratched around the house nearest the forest edge.

“Move up, take the first house then we’ll move house by house into the town. I’ll lead the first platoon, cover us then move up.”

A young Lieutenants nodded to van Muller’s command.

“Let’s go, move fast and stay low.”

III: The Imperator

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“Imperial Accords: Distant Shores”

The town of Tsuka was a delight with quaint houses and shops lining both major streets, leading right down to the waterfront. A tiny dockyard and breakwater made of hand cut brick and stone sheltered the small harbor and its gaggle of fishing boats. Further out to see, on a jagged outcropping of coral and rock, was a lighthouse with banded blue and red striping. The shining light was on day and night, signaling the presence of a harbor and the safest approaches to it. At the base of the lighthouse three large concrete pier and jetty systems had been built. Two were rather small, able to accommodate the seemingly tiny gunboats and auxiliaries that plied the trading lanes across 6,000 miles of ocean back to the homeland. The pier furthest north was the newest and larger than the others. Tied alongside were two Cruisers, sisters who had shared it for as long as he had been here. Both had the bright ensign of the Imperial Navy flying, its red, grey, and white was unmistakable. These were his ships, twin sisters far from home. Grendel and Seahawk were both the might and the banner of the Empire out here. Back home they would have been just another couple of ships in a giant fleet but here they were the final word.

“The Hughes Files”

Timothy Stallnacker and his entourage were making their way up the Mall to the steps of the United States Capitol building in what was going to become a sensational media event. Stallnacker was emerging as a definite leader in the race for the 1940 party nomination and would more than likely be a significant threat to Roosevelt in the general election. He was waiving to the crowd and smiling as he passed onlookers and well-wishers. Police were out in force and were making it visible. On each block three officers stood ready to counter-act any disturbances the crowd could make. It was far beyond cold enough for breath to be seen and there was still some snow on the ground from a storm the week before. Trees stood barren but defiant against the coming winter. Just as Stallnacker was passing the castle at the Smithsonian one clear shot rang out in the moonlight and echoed off the monuments and government buildings. Before anyone realized what had happened the tall, dark haired man collapsed to his knees clutching the side of his head. In a second blood was running down his neck and dripping onto the frozen ground in pools. He looked up at the sky and heard a dizzying, terrible, long, snarling cry and for a moment he thought he saw a winged shape moving off over him and beyond the Washington Monument. Then, all was dark and only the sound of shouts of terror penetrated the dull grip of life before he passed into oblivion.