One ram did manage, early in the battle, to get off a broadside at a passing trireme which wreaked havoc on the ship. But that was the worst blow that any of the rams managed to land in the course of the whole affair.
Most of the battle was decided the old-fashioned way-maneuverable and expertly-guided Islander galleys against much clumsier and heavier Confederate triremes. Had the odds been even close to even, the Islanders might well have triumphed. But against the numbers they actually faced, it was hopeless. The best captain in the world, commanding the best galley, simply can't maneuver when hundreds of enemy warships are covering every part of his ocean. And whenever, as was inevitable, a Confederate warship did manage to grapple with an Islander galley, it was all over within minutes. The claws came down, and the world's most ferocious close-quarter fighters stormed across. Most Islander crews surrendered immediately.
The surrenders were accepted. On that subject, Demansk had given the clearest orders possible-and had representatives of Forent Nappur's "Special Squads" aboard every Vanbert warship to see to it that the captains followed orders. He was determined to avoid a bloodbath, if at all possible.
Whether or not it would prove possible, of course, would depend in the end on his enemy. No soldiers in the world, not even Confederate ones-not even Demansk's soldiers-could be kept under discipline if their tempers rose too high. Which, given a bitter enough battle, they inevitably would.
But there, too, whatever gods there might be seemed to be partial to Demansk that day. After an hour of relatively bloodless conflict, the islander fleet suddenly began to break. Within minutes, all the surviving enemy galleys-and there were still well over a hundred of them-were pouring back toward the safety of the harbor. The two surviving steam rams, whose captains must have been superb, covered their retreat.
Doing so, in truth, was not difficult. As soon as Thicelt saw the rout, and without waiting for orders from Demansk, he gave the signal to the fleet to break off the action. In most battles, of course-certainly with a general as good as Demansk in command-the pursuit would have been undertaken with ferocity. But Demansk's strategy was political as much as military, and for his purposes here, a simple defeat was sufficient.
More than sufficient, in fact. It was ideal.
Demansk turned to Thicelt and clapped his shoulder. "My congratulations, Sharlz. You've just won the greatest sea battle ever-and I'll see to it that the historians so record the thing. And now, you're fired."
Thicelt grinned. "Such is fleeting fame." Then, sighed histrionically. "Back to that inglorious 'special attendant' business again."
Demansk nodded, matching smile to grin. " 'Fraid so. You're a diplomat now. And you know the settlement I want."
"Settlement," snorted Thicelt. "Almost as bad as Emeralds, with their 'acumen.' " He clucked his tongue, somehow managing to do it as histrionically as the sigh. "Speak plainly, august Triumvir, just as that grandfather of yours you've told me about would have done." He jerked a thumb toward Chalice. "What you want is that pig skinned. Skinned, gutted, and the meat hung up to dry."
"Just the meat, Sharlz. You can leave them the skin and the entrails." He matched Thicelt's grin with one that was almost as wide. "You watch. Within a generation, your Islanders will be calling me Verice the Merciful."
He left the quarterdeck then, heading for his cabin where others would be waiting for new orders. So he never heard Thicelt's response. The Islander, after watching Demansk's departure, turned and stared at the still-invisible city where he had been born. The "jewel in a cup," as his people called it, the beautiful-and often vicious-city which had been the center of the archipelago's culture for centuries. And which, with one of its own sons as the midwife, was about to give birth to a new world.
"No, lord," he murmured. "In a generation, they will be calling you the same thing as everyone else. Verice Demansk, the Great."
Chapter 19
Demansk's soldiers brought him Casull's corpse before the day was over. The King of the Isles had been aboard one of the galleys stormed by the Confederate soldiers. The crew of that galley, no doubt because the King was there himself to stiffen their spine, had not surrendered. All of them had been killed, either in the fighting or in the massacre of the wounded afterward. Casull's body had been found under a pile of corpses. The soldiers hadn't been entirely sure of his identity-none of them had ever seen Casull in person-but his garments and the accouterments of his office made it clear that, whoever he was, he was someone important. So they brought the body to Demansk.
Thicelt identified him. "That's Casull, all right." He inspected the wounds on the corpse. "Say whatever else you will, he was no coward."
Forent Nappur didn't seem impressed. "I can say the same for every man in my squad-almost every man in the army, for that matter. So why does a fucking king get special credit for doing something any peasant takes for granted?"
There was no particular heat in the words. But the anger simmering beneath them reminded Demansk, if he needed a reminder, how much bitterness and animosity the selfish and ruthless conduct of the Confederation's ruling class had stored up in the hearts of its own citizenry.
Sharlz shrugged. "A peasant doesn't have much choice, Forent. A king does. I guess that's the difference." He straightened up from the kneeling posture from which he'd been examining the corpse, and held up a hand in a little placating gesture. "But I'm not trying to start an argument. I can't say I was all that fond of Casull myself."
He glanced at Demansk and made a chucking gesture with his thumb. "Over the side?"
Demansk shook his head. "No. We'll give him an honorable burial-that's how you do it here in the islands, if I recall? Not cremation?"
Thicelt nodded. But Demansk was really watching Nappur, whose sour expression made clear that he'd personally have been inclined to toss the former king to the sharks.
Demansk understood, and sympathized, with the ex-sergeant's feelings. Still, this was something which had to be settled. In the substance of his policies, Demansk had every intention of setting old wrongs to right. He would favor the poor and downtrodden at the expense of the rich and powerful. But doing so would require, more often than not, maintaining a least a facade of respect for the established order. As long as he could harness the energy and anger of such men as Nappur, they would be of great service. Let that anger break loose unfettered, and unmuzzled…
He decided this was not the time and place to raise the matter. But he made a note to have a private conversation with Nappur as soon as possible. As head of the army's "internal police," Forent's attitudes-his real ones, not simply his formal agreement-would be critical.
At Thicelt's gesture, the soldiers who had brought the body picked up Casull's corpse and took it away. They'd overheard Demansk, and would bring the body to the ship's chirurgeon, who would do what was necessary to keep the body preserved until it could be buried. Most Vanberts preferred cremation to burial. But there were enough auxiliary nations and vassal states which practiced burial for a naval chirurgeon to be familiar with the basic methods of embalming. Sharlz could be relied upon to let him know if there were any special rites required by Islander customs.