Laczlo stood upon the well-built structure serving as his quarters at the stern, called a castle. He had his cloak bundled around him tightly, though it and the robes that fell to his ankles were still whipped about in the brisk winds of the west Kastalec. The sun was hidden behind grey clouds, and the brisk Spring was further soured with a drab chill.

  He turned to his side and looked at Mikha, the only other at the stern castle. “I think there’s a storm coming.”

  “My bones would concur.”

  Laczlo nodded, then went back to peering at the ship in their distant pursuit. It’d been an hour since he’d been alerted to the vessel, and though they began rowing—his men joining in the captain's fast cadence—they’d only lost ground. Their pursuer was a ship made for such business, whereas his was a merchant vessel: broader with fewer oars but also quite heavier and fuller. He imagined the sleek ship chasing them now was filled with mariners experienced in both ship handling and battle. Maybe we should have purchased another ship’s services, he thought. But they had also needed to leave quickly, and so that would have taken time. Laczlo rubbed his face and tired eyes, then peered out again, only to be disappointed when the ship was still there.

  “I think I should arm myself,” he muttered with no small amount of resignation.

  “Voivode?”

  “They’ll catch us. I know it. And if we don’t want to get burned out of the sea, we’ll need to engage with them.” He looked over his shoulder at the rowers where most of his druzhina were hard at work on the oars. Not far away was the captain overseeing the navigator and a handful of men tending to the sail’s ropes. Laczlo took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. “Captain, how do you say we proceed?”

  The man combed his fingers through his thin hair, frowning at the ship behind them, then the distant coastline at their flank. “Wouldn’t risk harboring in Rodezian territory, even if there was a proper town anywhere near here.” He glanced to the druzhina, then back to Laczlo. “And if these bastards are set on killing a voivode… I don’t figure trying to stop is a good idea anyway. Erm, Voivode, if it were to me—”

  “You’re a shipmaster; give me your honest thoughts.”

  He nodded, though still hesitant, as he said, “We take ourselves close to shore just in case they sink us. But I’d be a foolish man to think we can outrun the sea snakes in pursuit.”

  “Sea snakes?”

  “Serpents, Voivode. Raiders.” He put his hands on his hips and spat over the side of the deck. “A ship like that can chase down the wind.”

  Laczlo nodded. “What if we try and board them? They won’t risk burning us if we’re close. Think you can manage that?”

  The captain’s face paled as he looked at his ship, likely thinking about the horror of damaging such an important thing. And then he saw the turned heads of a few druzhina eying him with hard stares. Laczlo silently thanked them for that, wondering how any of them were on his side of things after the mess of the last few days.

  “Some sea raiders?” Isak asked with an audible grin near the bow of the ship. “They don’t know proper Vilsi steel, them.” He earned a round of chuckles and agreements from the other druzhina. Even a few calls for Voiya. The Last Battle.

  For whatever reason, Goroden bought me some favor. If I want the others’ loyalty, I need Isak’s. With a self-deprecating smile, he said to the captain, “I would recompensate you for damages, of course. But if they catch us on their terms…”

  “Yes, Voivode, you are right.” The captain scowled at the sail for a long moment, then nodded himself. “They are fast, but their ship’s not meant for quick turns, nor collisions. We’ve got a fair chance if we meet them.”

  “It’s your ship, Captain.”

  “Then I would advise we turn and make to intercept.”

  “So that’s what we’ll do.” The weight of impending, unavoidable violence settled upon him; his gut tightened and crawled into his throat, making him feel dizzy and sick. Everything swayed just too much, and though he was not inclined towards seasickness, the vessel's motion made him want to bend over the ship’s rail and empty his stomach.

  “Voivode?” Mikha asked.

  “I’m okay.” He climbed down the stairs and paused before the door, turning to his men at the oars. “Let the others take over. Arm yourselves.”

  His order was met with a round of grunted acknowledgments. There was excitement in the air, and it took no reminding to recall that these were all warriors at heart. Unlike he, they were not men of ruling and diplomacy first but dispatchers of death. He imagined that after this journey, some of them might be replaced by younger men as they went to their holdings to pay their labor services in the form of goods and silver rather than as armsmen to him. He hoped Isak would stay, at the very least, but journeys such as this would earn any proven man a chance to retire from personal service if he wished.

  Why am I thinking of such things right now? He shuffled into his room, shaking his head. There’s death to come. Imminent violence. The madness of battle again. Laczlo sat on his bed and squeezed his eyes shut, the memories of war surfacing once more. But he didn’t have to fight in that one—well, not so much, at least—and yet, the scent of rended human flesh and guts never left him, nor the sounds of roars and screams and scraping steel. That paralyzing fear overwhelming any sense of authority he had as he watched it unfold. His druzhina and other boyars had to take command, then, and it was with no small amount of shame that he let them. And so it was not even under his own control that they won that day. His wife played more a role in it than he, managing the subsequent talks and various matters of mitigating diplomacy.

  “Voivode Vilsky,” Mikha said, shutting the door behind him as he entered the room, looking at him with those attentive, uncompromising eyes. “Would you like assistance with your armor?”

  He took a deep breath and stood. “Please.”

  First, Laczlo disrobed, putting his fine cloak and robe away to be replaced with a long tunic of linen, then a thick wool gambeson secured tight with sewn tyings. Over that, Mikha helped him into a long mail hauberk, and Laczlo had to hop to get it to fall over his body. It was snug—more than he remembered, he had to admit—and it felt heavy and foreign upon him, even with a small belt holding some of its weight upon his hips. And finally, a lamellar coat that hung heavy on his shoulders and covered his chest and stomach with overlapping strips of steel was tied down by his sword belt. He adjusted the layers of armor, pumping his arms to adjust to the added heft.

  “I fear if I fall overboard, I’ll sink,” he muttered, tilting as the ship turned, shouts of the captain outside echoing in.

  “Don’t fall then.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t bother with all this. If the ship is caught by firebrands…”

  “We’ll be hunted by them anyways, Voivode. A Kosican’s bowshot from the beach won’t save you from these hired blades, I’m afraid.” Mikha placed his helmet on his head, securing it with a leather strap. It was conical with eye and nose protection and had a mail aventail that shrouded his neck and shoulders like a mantel. “We live if we fight. Everyone on board knows it. They need to see their voivode believe in our victory as well.”

  “And he can’t hide away in his cabin to do so, I assume?” Laczlo asked with a forced smile. “You’re right, of course.”

  “You need not engage in the first clash of shields.”

  He took out a handaxe from his chest and tucked it in his sword belt on the opposite side of his scabbard. “I’d feel much more comfortable on land, Mikha. On my horse with a bow or lance.”

  “You are not alone in that sentiment.”

  “No, I imagine not.” He retrieved his recurved bow, stowed in an oiled skin under a layer of white linen, and strung it. It was a weapon made for horseback on a wide open plain, but it would do during the approach. “Any crew who do not wish to fight can hide here, but they should be ready should we fall. Bring Silene too.”

  “Of course, Voivode.” Mikha bowed, not even the slightest shred of fear or worry upon his stoic face. “You will make your parents proud, Voivode. Your ancestors smile upon you now.”

  His throat went tight, so he just nodded, grabbed a quiver of arrows and his hunting spear meant for riding, as well as his shield, then ducked out of the cabin. The deck was alive with activity. The sail was stowed as oars dug into the water with determined ferocity, their pace set fast and steady by the captain’s booming commands. His druzhina were almost all armored, now. They had hauberks of riveted mail, oiled and well-kept, and some of them—including Isak—an extra layer of lamellar armor like Laczlo, but all with steel helmets. They all had swords in belts at their sides with axes, hammers, or maces as well. A few had bows of their own, while some sported a set of light javelins. And, of course, each man had a round shield either propped up close to grab or tied around his back. They were, in short, a comforting sight to see as his throat was dry and palms sweaty at even the thought of upcoming violence.

  Isak approached, holding a recurved rider’s bow with a comfortable familiarity. “Voivode, we can take the boarding. Don’t endanger yourself in the fighting.”

  Capture would force an immediate surrender, he thought, ashamed that Isak, the leader of his druzhina, clearly thought him more a hindrance than anything. For some reason, he then felt that tightness in his throat turn sour, and his clammy hands squeezed his bow and sword hilt in frustrated anger. “They are traitors to the empire, to Vadoyeski dynasty. I will see their Souls offered to Deus so that He might turn them away from a peaceful afterlife.”

  “Very well, Voivode,” Isak replied hesitantly. Slowly, his expression turned predatory, and his frown shifted into a wolf-like smile. “Let them know the wrath of your god. I shall watch your arrows fly and blade strike true.”

  The next minutes passed in a hazy fashion. The air was burning with warriors’ excitement that made Laczlo’s face burn with a thumping pulse of hot blood. He fingered his arrows and bowstring, constantly checked his sword’s set in its scabbard, and adjusted the fit of his armor. All the while, their ship cut the sea towards the enemy. Their pursuers were trying to turn, seemingly taken aback by the change in events, but their heart was not in the maneuver, for they soon stopped, then continued rowing towards Laczlo’s own merchant ship. The druzhina laughed as they adjusted course, their voices booming over the waves with strong confidence. Laczlo smiled shakily, then licked his lips and eyed the captain. For a man of trade, the captain showed little fear as he scowled at the ship before them all.

  He’s seen violence on the sea before, this one, perhaps in serving the empire in battle. Laczlo nodded to himself. This was a blessed thing, certainly. He sent a prayer to Deus for his good fortune.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Silene hurrying past, guided by Mikha to the safety of the rear castle. She caught his gaze. Does she see my fear? My anticipation? The bluffing bloodlust? He could not tell, but the spy did smile, and he felt buffeted by the expression.

  “They’ve your firebrands, Voivode,” Isak growled from beside him, and Laczlo turned to notice the dots of flame aboard the enemy ship. There were two score men aboard or so, but not all of them in mail. It was still too far to note all details, but Laczlo knew it was time to loose arrows.

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  With his spear and shield beside him, he drew an arrow and knocked it, squinted to judge the distance once more, and then prepared to draw.

  “A moment longer,” Isak muttered.

  Laczlo waited, staring ahead, till Isak nodded and knocked his own arrow. And so, in one quick motion, they loosed their arrows from horse bows and watched them sail through the sky like diving birds. His fell a few paces short of the deck as Isak’s sunk into the mast of the enemy’s ship.

  The druzhina grinned. “Now they can’t sail away when we beat them.”

  Three more arrows came from Laczlo’s ship, all close to the crew, but none hitting their marks. They did succeed in getting some of the men to seize shields, which led to some stuttering in their rowing rhythm.

  “Good!” the captain barked. “Got the fear of death in them. Keep it up, and they’ll float right into us!”

  Laczlo laughed despite his own tight chest and foggy head. The rowers of his ship began stowing the oars as the druzhina released another volley. He was slow to follow, not as practiced as they, but this time, he hit somewhere amongst their deck. It was hard to tell if the arrow struck anyone, but he did not slow to look, drawing and loosing a third arrow along with the others. A scream echoed out over the waves with their volley as at least one arrow struck true. Laczlo hoped it was his. Now, the others with javelins were shrugging their shoulders and getting ready to throw, for the oars were stored, and they were close now. Very close.

  “Give us your voivode and the woman!” someone screamed out from the sleek marauding ship. “Give us them, and the rest may live!”

  Laczlo paused, eyes flicking to the others, but no one seemed to show much hesitation, continuing to pepper the enemy with missiles. The younger Afonas hurled a javelin straight through a man’s mail shirt and sunk him over the ship’s side. Afonas screamed out in celebration, damning their Souls and wishing Svakas to turn their cowards’ fire upon their own ship. Indeed, it seemed hopes of burning Laczlo’s ship were vanquished, for with the wind and rapidly closing proximity, the sea serpents had weapons in hand, and their ship was angling to skid their own flank.

  “Voivode!”

  He turned to see Mikha there, clutching to the stairs’ railing, a free hand extended. “Your bow!”

  Laczlo eyed the other ship and gave his servant the bow and quiver of arrows. Mikha dove back inside the cabin as a small axe cracked into the deck, bouncing off and into the sea. Laczlo raised his shield and faced the other ship, now only a few strides away.

  “Back now!” his captain ordered to the crew. “Let the warriors do their work!” They all had weapons of their own but lacked armor and clearly any professional training. And so, it was ten druzhina, clad in the best armor within reach of the great Kastalec sea, trained and weathered by war, facing a far larger enemy. A fair fight, by many accounts. Still, Laczlo shook with fear.

  “If they board, let them come!” Isak growled out, shifting down the line, clapping shoulders and growling encouragements. “If not, we board them!”

  Oiir banged his hammer across his shield. “We kill them here!”

  “Aye. They die here!”

  The last of the thrown weapons were launched, and then the men formed a shield wall, Laczlo near the end by the stern, his side protected by the railing Mikha had just clutched a second before. Oiir held his right side, Isak next to Oiir. The crew stood a few paces behind and upon the castles, their own axes and long knives ready; a few even held cheap short bows. The sea churned. Men hissed deep, violent breaths, stirring the Spirits of war within themselves. Laczlo tried to do the same. He felt himself staring at the faces of the raiders in disgust, in hate.

  They were coming to kill him, to steal him from his family, his people. These mongrels. These sons of whores! He held his spear in his right hand, regripping it tighter and tighter. Left leg shaking, tremoring.

  Hooks sunk into the ship’s planks, digging in as the lines were pulled taught. A few of the sailors of his ship did the same, hooking the smaller craft and tying off the ropes. Lashed together, their fates were in the sea’s hands. As well as their own. His helmet felt heavy, constraining. His ears rung inside it.

  “To the final battle!” Isak roared. “Death Slaying! To Voiya!”

  “Voiya!” the druzhina echoed, hate burning the promise of a warrior’s death into the weaves of fate. And Laczlo, despite himself, shouted their cry, imagining death, imagining glory.

  And then the ships met. He lurched back, momentarily losing his footing, and the first of the raiders leaped up with a horrid shout. Laczlo raised up his shield and held his breath. Beside him, Oiir grunted and shifted, spearing out at a man trying to climb the railing, thrusting the steel blade through his neck. The sound of torn meat. He gagged and fell back, crashing down onto his lower ship as more poured up behind him. The madness of scraping metal and battered shields rose seemingly all around, blurring his senses, making his head swim.

  A head and shoulders emerged above the railing as a warrior hauled himself up opposite Laczlo. Unlike the one who died before him, he was moving faster, already leaping over when Laczlo got his spear high and ready to thrust. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t think, and quickly thrust his spear forward as one might shove at a biting cur. Reactionary, frightened. But the spear blade was not aimed true. He struck the raider’s collarbone with a loud crack but left only a superficial cut. The man jerked a shield up as Laczlo reared back for another thrust.

  He was not alone on the ship, for other so-called sea serpents were at the raider’s side, attempting to form a shaky shield wall against the druzhina of Vilsi. But Laczlo hardly had the time to look. He brought up his shield, deflecting a short sword’s swipe. The clang reverberated up his shoulder as the iron-edged shield easily turned aside the blade. Deus above, he prayed, eyes wide and mouth open for gasping breaths, protect me!

  “The voivode’s here!” the man yelled, spittle flying a gap-filled, hungry grin.

  Laczlo’s struck and met shield, stabbing into the wood, sinking there before he pulled his weapon back. In this fashion, they exchanged blocked blows. Close to death but too well-protected by shields to kill. And then the ship lurched, and he found himself pressed against this stinking raider, shields grinding together, their weights and strengths at odds. It was a match Laczlo quickly found himself losing as he tipped back. He nearly shouted out, but Oiir beside him shoved forward suddenly, slammed his shield boss into the serpent’s exposed weapon shoulder, then pulled back and continued his own fight. Laczlo, still pressed in close, found his footing, dropped his spear and seized his axe. He chopped down hard upon the man’s helmet—now exposed by his floundering. And since their shield wall was weak, the man was exposed. Unlike all the druzhina, the raider did not have a helmet of steel and mail but one of quilted linen. Laczlo’s axe blade was aimed true, and it bit down with all the force of a Greyskin of Neapoli. The man went limp, eyes staring out and face frozen as he tottered, then toppled over, blood squirting out and spraying Laczlo’s face from shattered bone. He grimaced and spit the foul, metallic tang out. He would have emptied his bowels then and there if Oiir him had not shouted out as a long bearded axe pried down his shield. A second raider stood straddling the railing, aiming a spear thrust over the exposed shield rim.

  Laczlo threw himself forward, half-falling, half-jumping as he caught the axeman’s face with the edge of his shield. It crashed into his chin, eliciting a wet, muffed grunt. Oiir ripped his shield away from the axe’s grip and brought it up in time to stop the spear thrust, then attacked as Laczlo’s wild momentum kept him hurdling toward the railing. His side hit it hard, cracking into his hip bone and stomach. The air in his lungs left him in one violent wheeze. He tried to stand but could hardly move, his chest feeling like a coiled snake held it hostage. Pain festered, dimming his vision.

  Just when he nearly had his bearings about him, something crashed into his side, and he felt his feet go high and the world spin. The sky, the sea, carefully crafted lumber—a ship? He fell upon the deck hard, though the air did not escape him this time. Still, he shoved himself to his feet as his head swam, his body thumping with a deep, unsuppressed ache.

  Men were before him. One was right beside him, bleeding from his neck and fumbling with a sword. Laczlo went to chop the arm off but found no axe in his hand. He blinked, then grasped for his sword, tried to draw it, but his arm was tangled in something. He yanked, wrought his limb away from some grasping strap or rope, and swiped down. He missed the arm but caught the hand, cutting halfway through it and sending the held weapon flinging off the ship into the roiling sea. Before the bastard could attack further, Laczlo retreated a pace and bumped into something. He turned. There was a man there trying to climb Laczlo’s ship. He looked over with a flash of annoyance, then surprise, then anger, his yellow teeth gnashing and eyes alight. He took a deep breath and went to yell, but Laczlo moved first. He stuck his sword into the serpent’s gut, but he wore mail, so it only made it a few inches in before stopping. The man still screamed and reared back, raising a two-handed axe. Laczlo’s breath caught in his throat, and before his eyes, a glimpse of the past, quick and blurry. I’m going to die! But he was not dead yet. So, he lept in once more, but this time not to strike. He got under the raised arms of the raider and buried his shoulder into the man’s stomach, shoving for all he was worth.

  “Agh!” The raider tripped back and toppled over the side of the ship, big axe disappearing with him.

  But Laczlo was no fool, so with a glance around to make sure no one was sneaking up on him, he threw a foot to the ship’s bow and looked over the edge. Indeed, the raider was scrambling, a hand grasping for something to hold onto as his armor pulled him down. With a cry equal parts hatred and light-headed madness, he thrust his sword into the man’s face. It cut off a long track of skin, then jarred down and sliced along the neck. The man screamed, taking in water, and Laczlo stabbed out again, sending him below with another deathly wound.

  When it was done, he turned around, chest heaving and falling, burning sore hands gripping shield and blade. Another man was before him. With wide eyes, he found the ship of his enemy empty of anyone else but the wounded, leaving them alone. The man stepped over the abandoned oars and twitching bodies with ease, holding bloodied handaxes in each fist. His eyes were wide and red and full of battle rage. His face was red, bruised, and cut up, likely from a fall.

  Laczlo wanted to say something to ward the warrior back, but no words came to him. His mouth was dry and limbs shaky. He wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. Slowly, he raised his shield, still somehow in his hand, and pointed his sword forward.

  “Voiya,” he whispered, trying to summon his courage once more.

  The man crept closer. A predator stalking his prey in the night.

  Laczlo swung at him, trying to ward him back. The man caught his blade, knocked it away, and whirled his axes about like a dancer might spin, attacking fiercely. Laczlo’s scream never left his throat as he brought up his shield and retreated, weathering the storm of blows. One caught the edge of his shield, knocking it aside, another screeching off his helmet, battering against his armor. Ears ringing, skull stinging, face alight. Laczlo gasped for air as he swiped out and forced the man to sidestep his blade, but it was a temporary, shallow victory, and the raider quickly resumed the offensive. His left axe smashed away Laczlo’s sword, then the right swung for his arm

  Then he turned quickly and stumbled. Twisted. Tottered.

  Laczlo seized good fortune and lept forward, chopping into his shoulder. The raider barely reacted, still floundering. An arrow was in his face, just below the eye socket. The serpent turned, searched out Laczlo with wide eyes, and tried to chop down upon him. The blow was weak and one he deflected easily. He kicked the man in the chest, knocking him down. Before he could get up and attack again by some miracle, Laczlo lept forward and thrust his sword into his stomach. He twitched and struggled as the blade entered him, but there was no more fighting. He was dead.

  Laczlo swayed where he stood, staring, waiting for the next foe, but the boat simply rocked in the water, quiet as a fisherman’s vessel on a lake. His arms felt heavy, knees weak, shoulders sore as if they’d nearly been wrought from his body, but most of all, he felt tired. Dead tired. As if he could lie down then and there and sleep the rest of the day and night.

  “Voivode!” came a yell.

  He looked up, blinking against the sun. Oiir was leaning over the railing.

  “Is it done?” Laczlo asked.

  The druzhina grinned, his face bloodied but unmarred by pain. “It is. Need help climbing from their little river’s craft?”

  Laczlo laughed. His chest hurt, his face ached, but still, he laughed. It, everything, was just… He shook his head and sheathed his blade, then climbed aboard with the druzhina’s help, still grinning and chuckling like a madman.

  Oiir didn’t cast him an odd look but simply smiled along beside him. “Going to be a good scar, Voivode. A strong one.”

  “Eh?” His laughter died, and his face began to hurt more. Tentatively, Laczlo felt his cheek where the pain radiated. Below his right eye was a bloody wound as long as his pinky finger. The flesh there was cut back, with part of it hanging off slightly. It should hurt more, he thought, stunned and horrified. Deus, I’m scarred forever.

  “It’s not a bad wound. Strong, as I said.”

  “Right,” he muttered. It didn’t hurt. Maybe it wasn’t so bad? A good scar. Right, just a good scar.

  Laczlo looked around the deck, attention pulled away by the blood and guts and severed pieces of flesh. There had to be at least a dozen dead men there. He frantically scanned through his own ranks. Two druzhina were hurt, others tending to their wounds, while one other was down, not moving. He ran over to the man.

  It was Afonas, the young druzhina who’d been at Silene’s apartment. He had a few pieces of broken mail and a bloody wound in his chest, which still rose and fell but in a wheezing, sputtering cadence.

  “Took the spike of a hammer,” Isak said, standing beside him, looking over the young druzhina. “Fought well—Rotaal knows.”

  Laczlo’s mouth was dry, his head hurt; he blinked, vision swimming, and had to turn away, leaning over the railing. The cool sea breeze washed over his face, making the blood splattered there feel cold. Already, it was drying on his skin, making it stiff with red crust.

  “We captured two of them, Voivode. They’ll admit to the scheme. It was a good fight.” When he didn’t reply, Isak stepped up beside him. “And it was a good death. One any druzhina would be proud of.”

  “I…” Laczlo could only think of sour apologies and weak excuses, so he settled on silence.

  “And you whetted your blade with raider blood.”

  “I did… Yes, I did.”

  The druzhina nodded, satisfied with that, then slapped his hand against the railing and leaned back. “It was a good fight. He was a good lad and died with honor and pride. Nothing he’d be ashamed of, so don’t bear that for the man.”

  Laczlo felt like saying that he was dead, and being dead with honor or pride didn’t matter nearly as much as being alive, but his heart wasn’t in it. So he just nodded and let Isak walk away to direct the cleanup efforts. Laczlo watched the sea for a moment, how it turned and roiled and went on without them, then he pushed away and went to help.