Demansk was counting on that, in fact. Even more in the long term than the short one. For his plans to work, he needed a quick victory here-and a relatively bloodless one. Not only for his own troops, but for the Islanders themselves. The last thing in the world he wanted was a holocaust. He needed those Islanders alive and healthy. In the short term, for the expertise which Gellert had given them in the making of the new weapons. In the long term-although this was still hazy in Demansk's mind-because he needed to infuse at least some of that egalitarianism into Vanbert itself.
That last would take decades, of course, and would not be something that Demansk himself would live to see. But, standing in the golden sunlight on the quarterdeck of his flagship, the image of his blond half-breed bastard of a grandson came to mind.
New blood. Mix it up. We've gotten stale, and corrupt, like layers of unstirred sediment.
Thicelt's voice broke into his musings, bringing his thoughts sharply back to the immediate demands of the moment.
"There they are!" the admiral barked, pointing with a rigid finger. "Casull's not going to waste any time."
Demansk followed the finger. At first, all he could see was the screen of war galleys which formed the vanguard of Casull's approaching fleet.
Impressive ships, those. They looked like so many sea serpents basking in the sun on the surface of the waters. Long, narrow, very low in the water; every line of them seemed to shriek speed. They looked deadly enough even without the glaring eyes and snarling teeth painted on their bows, just above the bronze rams.
The rowers on those ships were working easily, at the moment, just enough to keep Casull's ships in line and steady-the galley equivalent of a swimmer treading water. Casull's warships were making no attempt to close the final distance of half a mile which still separated the two fleets.
They were waiting for something. Demansk could guess what that was, even without Thicelt's keen eyes having spotted them already.
Then, he saw the first plume of smoke. And, a moment later, threading its way between two of the galleys, the first of Casull's steam rams. Between the distance and the wind, he still couldn't hear the sound of the engines. But he could remember what that noise was like, from his experiences with Thicelt's own steam ram at the siege of Preble. Like the heavy breathing of a monster, its claws working a treadmill which made the great paddlewheels turn.
It was nothing of the sort, of course, as Demansk had learned after capturing Thicelt's. Just a machine; more complicated than any Demansk had ever seen before, but not different in principle. Both Thicelt and his son Trae understood quite well how the things worked, even if Demansk's own understanding was still a bit hazy beyond the level of what will it do?
"Four of them? Is that still the latest word from your spies?"
The moment he asked the question, Demansk silently cursed himself. That was nervousness speaking, nothing else. Thicelt had given him the latest report just the evening before, and there was no way that any more recent report from the islander's spy network on Chalice could have reached him since.
Sharlz seemed to understand that, for he made no response. Or, perhaps, it was simply that he was so intent on studying the oncoming steamships that he hadn't heard the question. Either way, Demansk was grateful.
The momentary lapse had, at least, one beneficial side effect. It enabled Demansk to suppress, quite easily, his urge to start telling his admiral how to maneuver his ships. Thicelt was the expert here, not Demansk-even more with the matter of the steamships than with the fleet as a whole. Demansk had chosen him to be the admiral of this fleet in the first place-the first Islander in history to command any Vanbert fleet, much less its largest-precisely because he knew that Casull would have chosen his best captain to command the first of his new steam rams.
Nothing which had happened since had led Demansk to regret that decision. Thicelt had handled the greatest fleet in history with the same ease with which, in years past, he had handled every vessel put under his command. The man was, quite simply, a superb seaman and naval officer. Even if his heavy gold earrings and shaved head and beak-nosed dark features still made him seem exotic to Demansk. Not to mention his sometimes outrageous sense of humor.
"Not yet, not yet," Thicelt was murmuring to himself. "Wait a bit, want all of them way out there where they can't retreat…"
That was apparently the Islander's own way of keeping his nerves steady. Probably effective, even if it was far beneath the dignity of a proper Vanbert nobleman to emulate. But Sharlz, like any Islander, didn't give a damn for that kind of "disrepute." In times past, Demansk could remember hearing Thicelt poke fun at the "steady silent calm" which Confederate nobles prized so highly. Probably even fuck that way. Which is okay with me. No wonder I get invited into so many Vanbert beds.
Demansk almost chuckled at the memory. It hadn't just been boasting, either, from what Trae had told him. Thicelt was apparently as skilled at seduction as he was at seamanship.
" Now, " Thicelt hissed. An instant later, he was waving his arm and the little corps of signal drummers on the quarterdeck began beating a new rhythm.
Demansk turned his head, looking over the stern. There, hidden behind the quinquiremes which formed the front line of Demansk's fleet, were the dozen new woodclads which Trae and Thicelt had designed for him. Their captains had obviously heard the signal, since the vessels were beginning to move forward.
Very slowly. Not only were these new ships incredibly heavy and ungainly, with the immense slabs of wood which formed their hulls-in complete contrast to the normally light construction of war galleys-but they were also powered by a relatively small number of oars. Given the nature of what they had been designed for, the woodclads had only a single bank of oars. And, while each huge oar had five men working at it, the angle was awkward also. The first bank of oars in most galleys was situated low, close to the water, giving the rowers the best possible leverage. This bank was high up, with the oars slanting down at a steep angle. The last man on the oar, on the inmost side, was forced to swing his arms over his head.
Slow. Slow, and incredibly awkward. But it shouldn't really matter. The woodclads had been designed for one purpose, and one purpose only-to serve as a counter for Casull's new steam rams. They didn't even have to defeat the rams, just hold them off while Demansk's fleet overwhelmed the rest of Casull's ships.
Demansk had learned enough, from his one prior experience with steam rams, to know that he could have overwhelmed them also, even with normal war galleys. Given, at least, the size of the fleet he commanded. But he would have suffered great casualties in the process, and that was the one thing he could not afford. Not only because he would need those soldiers later, but because he would need their loyalty as well-which, in the days and weeks and months to come, he was going to be stretching to the limit. But he thought he could manage the thing, so long as his men weren't festering with resentment at the loss of too many of their friends and comrades. Not the least of the reasons Marcomann had been so popular with his soldiers was because he gave them light casualties as well as good pay and bonuses.
"We'll find out," he murmured. Then, for a moment, felt a bit chagrined at the untoward lapse into Islander loquacity.
He saw Thicelt smiling out of the corner of his eye. "Good, good," murmured back the ex-pirate. "Why not? You'll be breaking traditions in much bigger ways, soon enough."
It was uncanny, really, the way Thicelt seemed able to read Demansk's mind. Despite the social and cultural distance which separated them-not to mention the racial and religious ones-Demansk had discovered that in many ways he found the Islander closer to him than any of his advisers. Even Prit Sallivar, whom he had known since they were both six-year-old boys.