The wind, as he'd predicted, had continued to rise, but it actually seemed to be tapering off slightly now. It was down to "only" about thirty-four miles per hour, but the rain was even heavier then it had been earlier. Even his artificial eyes couldn't see very far through the almost solid wall of rain and spray.
It was a pity, he thought, that PICAs didn't come equipped with radar. Still, he supposed it would've been a bit much to put radar emitters powerful enough to do him much good under these conditions into PICAs intended to wander around the environs of a high-tech civilization.
"Owl," he subvocalized, climbing back down to the deck and grasping one of the lifelines rigged across it.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander?"
"I need that imagery now."
There was no response, and Merlin grimaced.
"Begin feeding the previously specified imagery," he said, quite a bit more snappishly.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander," the AI replied, totally unperturbed by his tone, and a detailed, see-through schematic blinked into existence across his field of view.
Unlike Merlin's eyes, the SNARC's sensors were perfectly capable of penetrating the stormy darkness, and Merlin felt an undeniable surge of relief as he saw the icons of all thirteen of Cayleb's galleons. Precisely how the merely mortal lookouts aboard any one of those ships had been able to keep sight of the poop lanterns and the additional lanterns suspended from the mizzen peak of the ship in front of them was more than Merlin was prepared to explain. But somehow, they'd done it.
Now it was up to him to get them into the sheltered waters of Crag Reach.
He considered the schematic's terrain imagery. It looked as if Dreadnought was just about on the proper heading, but "just about" wasn't nearly good enough.
"Owl," he subvocalized once more.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."
"Add current wind vector and vector and course projections for Dreadnought to the imagery and update continuously."
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."
The requested arrows and dotted line appeared effectively instantaneously, and Merlin snorted. Then he made his way across the steeply tilted, pitching quarterdeck, moving hand-over-hand along the lifeline, to where Cayleb stood with Captain Manthyr beside the helmsmen. There were two men on the wheel, and a third seaman stood ready to lend his weight, as well, if it should prove necessary.
Manthyr really should have been getting some rest of his own, Merlin thought, but the flag captain hadn't even considered the possibility. Dreadnought was his ship. Everything about her was his responsibility, and now that he'd seen to the immediate needs of his men, he was undoubtedly standing there silently praying that his crown prince wasn't quite as insane as he seemed.
Merlin's mouth quirked at the thought, but perhaps he was doing the captain an injustice. What Cayleb had accomplished already this day (with, of course, Merlin's modest assistance) seemed to have given every man aboard the flagship a near idolatrous faith in the prince's seaman's instinct. If he wanted to sail them straight towards a cliff-girt lee shore in the middle of a midnight gale, they were prepared to do just that . . . although Manthyr obviously intended to stay right here and personally keep an eye on the entire process.
Cayleb himself appeared totally unworried by anyone's possible concerns about his mental stability. The prince's feet were spread wide apart as he clung to another lifeline for balance with his right fist, and he'd draped an oilcloth poncho over his cuirass and mail. The wind whipped the loose fall of the poncho, rain and spray ran from the rim of his morion-like helmet like a waterfall, and the light gleaming up from the binnacle's illuminated compass card lit his face from below. There were lines of fatigue in that face, and his cheekbones were gaunt, etched against the tight skin, yet his mouth was firm and confident, and the glow in his brown eyes did not come solely from the binnacle light.
He might, Merlin realized, be a very young man, but this was the sort of a moment for which he'd been born.
Cayleb looked up at his approach, and Merlin leaned close, half-shouting in his ear.
"We're pointing too high! The wind's backed a little to the east, and we need to come about a point and a half to leeward!"
Cayleb nodded, and Merlin walked over to where Ahrnahld Falkhan stood, half his body illuminated by the glow of the great cabin skylight, watching Cayleb's back even here.
Cayleb waited several minutes, then bent deliberately over the binnacle, squinting at the compass. He straightened and gazed up at the set of the barely visible sails, then stood in obvious thought for a second or two before he turned to Manthyr. No one could possibly have heard what he said to the flag captain, but the conversation lasted only a minute or so. Then Manthyr leaned close to his helmsmen.
"Make your course southwest-by-west!" he bawled through the tumult.
"Aye, aye, Sir!" the senior helmsman shouted back. "Sou'west-by-west, it is!"
He and his companion eased the wheel, spoke by spoke, eyes locked to the compass card. Holding an exact heading under any conditions was impossible for any sailing vessel. In this weather there wasn't any point even trying, but they were highly experienced helmsmen. They'd stick as close to it as anyone could, and Merlin smiled in satisfaction as Dreadnought's projected track extended directly into the deepwater channel north of Opal Island, between Crag Hook and the much smaller Crescent Island.
Or, he reminded himself, into what was a deepwater channel eight hundred years ago, at least.
"He did that well!"
Merlin turned to look at Falkhan as the Marine shouted in his ear. They could see one another's faces clearly in the glow of the skylight, and Merlin raised one eyebrow.
"Who did what well?" he asked.
"Cayleb," Falkhan replied with a grin. He wiped water from his face and shook his head. "Those men will never guess you gave him the course correction!"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Merlin replied as innocently as anyone could under the current conditions of wind and sea.
"Oh, of course not, Seijin Merlin!" Falkhan agreed with an even broader grin, and Merlin laughed. Then he sobered.
"You're right, he did do it well!" he shouted back. "And that's more important than ever!"
"Agreed!" Falkhan nodded vigorously. Then he glanced at the prince, and his smile was deeply approving. "He's growing up, isn't he?" he said to Merlin.
"That he is!" Merlin agreed. "That he is!"
Falkhan was right, he reflected, and in more ways than one. Cayleb had already demonstrated his own tactical and strategic insight, and also his willingness to back his own evaluation of a situation. He wasn't deferring to Merlin's suggestions-not unless he happened to agree with them, at least. He was using Merlin's abilities . . . then making his own decisions.
And the young man was showing an impressive attention to detail, as well. He'd deliberately sailed further east than he had to before turning back towards Armageddon Reef. He'd added at least two more hours to the total transit time, and Captain Manthyr had used that time to get the galley fires relit and feed every man as much hot soup, stew-thick with rice and vegetables, as he could eat.
It was impossible to estimate how much that hot food was going to mean to men who'd already had an exhausting day and faced an even more exhausting night. But Manthyr had also managed to give each man at least two hours in his hammock, as well. Dreadnought's seamen and Marines would be going back into combat as well fed and rested as they could possibly be, and the captain had even managed to rig canvas scoops to gather rainwater to replenish their water tanks, then ordered the cooks to prepare gallons of hot tea before they doused the galley fires once more.
The men aboard Dreadnought recognized all of that, and word had gotten around that the prince had deliberately given them the time for it. That was the sort of consideration-and preparation-they weren't going to forget.
Those of them who survived the night, at least.
VII
Crag Reach,
Armageddon Reef
"Thank Langhorne we're not out in that," Lieutenant Rozhyr Blaidyn observed, listening to the storm.
It was blacker than the inside of a boot, but the regular, savage pounding of the heavy surf on the far side of Crag Hook and Opal Island could be heard even through the wind and rain. Of course, the wind-like the waves-was far weaker here, inside the sheltered waters of Crag Reach. Not that those waters were precisely what Blaidyn would have called "calm."
The anchorage was deep, with its walls rising sheer-sided out of the water, especially on its eastern side, where deep water ran to the very foot of the hundred-foot cliff which formed Crag Hook's western face. On the western side, the shore was less vertical and the water shoaled much more sharply. There were actually some smallish rocky beaches in pockets scalloped out of the feet of the steep hills on that side. But the shallower water was also rougher, and most of the fleet's captains had opted to anchor further out, in deeper water which gave them more safety room if their ships should happen to drag their anchors.
Blaidyn's ship, the Royal Bédard, had been one of the last galleys to reach safety. Visibility had been worse than bad by the time she arrived, and she'd collided with her consort, Royal Champion, on their way into the reach, losing one of her bow anchors in the process. Given her late arrival and the gathering darkness, she'd been forced to find the best spot to anchor she could, effectively on her own, and her captain had felt his cautious way as far into the reach as he'd dared, then dropped his remaining bow anchor. As a result, she was one of the southernmost of the huddled fleet's ships, and also one of the furthest east, separated from Paladin, the next nearest galley, by about a hundred and twenty yards. She was well into the lee of Crag Hook, but more exposed than many of the other ships, and even now she seemed to jerk nervously, as if frightened by the fury of the weather outside the anchorage, as she snubbed and rolled to her single anchor.
"I didn't realize you were so devout, Rozhyr," Nevyl Mairydyth said in response to his remark.
He and Blaidyn stood sheltering from the wind and rain in the lee of the forecastle, at the foot of the starboard forecastle ladder. Mairydyth was Royal Bédard's first lieutenant, while Blaidyn-who'd just completed a personal check of the anchor watch-was the galley's second lieutenant. The first lieutenant was due to relieve him as officer of the watch in another ten minutes or so. After which Blaidyn would finally be able to stumble below, find something to eat, and get at least a few hours of desperately needed sleep.
"After a day like today?" Blaidyn grimaced at his superior. "Every damned man aboard is a hell of a lot more devout tonight than he was this morning!"
"Summed up like Grand Vicar Erayk himself," Mairydyth said sardonically.
"Well, would you rather be out there, or safe and sound in here?" Blaidyn demanded, waving one arm in the general direction of the seething white surf invisible through the thick, rainy night.
"That wasn't exactly my point," Mairydyth replied. "My point was-"
He never completed the sentence.
* * *
The three-man anchor watch saw it first.
They weren't stationed in Royal Bédard's bows as lookouts. They were there solely to keep an eye on the anchor cable, to be sure the galley wasn't dragging and that the cable wasn't chafing-a point which had assumed more than usual importance, given that it was now the only anchor she had. There was a lookout stationed in the galley's crow's-nest, but not because anyone-including him-really thought there'd be anything for him to spot. He was there solely because Earl Thirsk had ordered every ship to post lookouts, and the unfortunate seaman in Royal Bédard's crow's-nest deeply resented the orders that put him up on that cold, vibrating, rain and wind swept perch for absolutely no good reason.
He was as wet, chilled to the bone, miserable, and exhausted as anyone else, and his body's need for rest was an anguished craving. He huddled in the crow's-nest, his oilskin draped to protect him as much as possible, and concentrated upon simply enduring until he was relieved and could finally collapse into his own hammock.
In fairness, even if he'd been fresh and alert, it was unlikely, given the visibility conditions, that he would have seen anything, despite the low range, more than a handful of seconds before the anchor watch did. But that was because HMS Dreadnought had extinguished all of her lanterns and running lights except for a single shaded poop lantern whose light was directed dead astern.
Unfortunately for Royal Bédard, she-like every other vessel anchored with her, and unlike Cayleb's flagship-was illuminated by anchor lights, poop lanterns, and lanterns at entry ports. More lights burned below deck, spilling illumination out of stern and quarter windows, out of oarports, deck hatches, and opened scuttles. Despite the darkness, and the rain, she wasn't at all hard to see.
One of the anchor watch straightened up suddenly, peering into the night as a shadow seemed to intrude between him and Paladin's stern windows, almost due north of his own ship.
"What's that?" he demanded of his fellows.
"What's what?" one of them retorted irritably. He was no fonder of the weather, or any more rested, then any of them, and his temper was short.
"That!" the first man said sharply as the vague shadow became suddenly much clearer. "It looks like-"
* * *
Captain Gwylym Manthyr stood very still by the quarterdeck bulwark. Not a voice spoke as Dreadnought's entire crew waited, poised statue-still at its action stations. The captain was aware of the crown prince, his Marine guards, and Lieutenant Athrawes standing behind him, but every ounce of his attention was focused on the lanterns, windows, and scuttles gleaming through the rain.
Even now, Manthyr could scarcely believe Prince Cayleb had brought them unerringly into Crag Reach with the flood tide behind them. The combination of tide, current, and wind had created a wicked turbulence, but the channel between Crag Hook and Opal Island was as broad as their charts had indicated. It was a good thing it was, too. The sudden blanketing effect of Crag Hook's towering height had robbed Dreadnought's sails of power for several minutes before the in-rushing tide and her momentum carried her out of its wind shadow.
