The Defense of Glory

Against Great Odds

Abram paced restlessly behind the Admiral's tent. Though soldiers and sailors scattered the cliff around him, calling in patrol boats and helping to dock them, he had nothing to do. His knife was well-sharpened and polished to such a high shine that he could see the recklessly swirling thunderclouds in its surface. He had scraped most of the sea dung and sand from his boots so they looked as new as old boots could look. Waiting with nothing to do for Crianne to be let from the Admiral's tent, he had cleaned under his nails and inspected his leather belt for any weakened spots that could snap in battle. He had little else to do as he waited, paced, waited.

Though he didn't know it yet, it was the night before the last battle he would ever see and Abram was bored.

When the captains finally emerged from the tent, looking weather-worn with drawn faces and thin mouths, Crianne was not among them. He stomped his feet, he eyed the tent flap. He wondered if he dared enter. 

A minute passed which seemed an hour and he decided that he did dare, after all.

Inside, the tent was dark. Torches stuck into the dirt-sand ground had all but one spluttered out. The blue canvas walls, which sailors said were made from the sails of the first enemy ship to be captured, let in no light. The only furniture was an old wood desk, a low stool, and a standing shelf which held motionless Ironwings, pots of ink, rolls of maps, and several thick ledgers. Fascinated, he stepped forward, ran a light finger on the razor-sharp edge of an Ironwing feather. It was lighter than paper yet he knew it could slice through flesh like a dolphin fin through water.

One glassy eye clicked opened, sensing his touch. It regarded him for a moment, waiting for the tap on its wing that would tell it to prepare a tape to catch his voice. Boy and mechanic's toy, both creatures turned to battle, stared eye to eye.

"It's broken. Do not touch it."

He spun around, clutching his black cap in one hand and closing his right in a fist as though to protect the offending appendages. "Sorry, sir, I didn't know."

Ridge frowned at him. "Why are you here?"

"I'm lookin' for Crianne, sir. That's Crianne, Captain Raystrong's daughter," He added, realizing the admiral was too important to know who simply "Crianne" was.

"Over here, Abram." She was sitting cross-legged in a corner of the tent, a wooden board across her knees and a quill in her hand. "Come. Help me write this report. We need to remember everything."

Ridge left the children in the tent and strode down the cliff-steps cut into the solid rock. The dock below was busy, patrol boats pulling up. He had called them in with a Ironwing sent up in a wide spiral, the signal to return. He would need every boat in and around the port of New Glory if he was to have any chance of winning this battle.

Every boat. He would have to send an Ironwing to the city to order the use of their merchant's ships, that was perhaps another eight ships-- fat, with cargo-heavy bellies, but ships none the less-- to add to his fleet. It was not enough.

Five warships, two of them old.

Fifteen regular battle ships.

Eight Wave Runners.

Twenty patrol boats.

Eight merchant ships.

Against an enemy fleet of fifty.

Pacing the creaking dock, he had to think to himself that he did not like his odds.

A sharp crack, the smack of cannon fire. A war salute from the city-- they had gotten the Ironwing with news of the impending attack. Sailors rushed about with renewed frenzy. The sun was truly gone now, the sea a turmoil of sloshing waves. A storm was brewing over their heads, one that would hit the coast hard-- but the open ocean harder. The enemy had no safe harbour to dock in.

The last few streaks of sizzling-red were hot and burning among the grey clouds, shining like a bloody brand on the scaly sky-skin. A bad omen; a horrendous battle.

He may not like his odds, but it was certain that the enemy did not like theirs.