The Battle of

Jetsom Island

by Scott Rennie

The spider scuttled quickly across the stone floor of the dark, cold room. With the sharp bang of a worn boot's heel it scuttled no more.
Rayudd Yolt, now reaching almost sixty-four years, reached eagerly over and lifted the squashed creature from the floor. He held it up, squinting his eyes to better see it in the dimness of his prison cell.
"You and I are very alike, my little companion," he said to the spider. With a move speeded by the gnawing hunger in his belly, he popped it into his mouth and crushed it with his molars before eagerly swallowing the only thing he had eaten in eight days.
"Except, at least I will have a decent burial," he added, before laughing himself into exhaustion, a manic, uncontrollable laughter that his jailors had been hearing more and more often over the past few weeks...

"They'll slap yer arse with a wooden paddle, Foldvar!" the old dwarf said.
His taller companion smiled. Always frank, always blunt, Dervall Kand was the only dwarf he knew that enjoyed the ocean life - and the only one who still insisted on calling him by his birth name. The dwarf was a good ship's captain, and a leader of men, but he was no tactician - that he left to his King.
"I've made my decision, Dervall," he said with a finalistic tone. "The Prince of Ulek supports us, and we are more than a match for their jaded minds."
King Tavish, as he was known to all others, the fourth in his line to bear that name, smiled as he watched the Keoish fleet assembled out in Gradsul bay. He placed his hand on the dwarf's shoulder.
"Besides," he added, a mishievous hint creeping into his confident tones, "I know something that you, and they, do not!"

The shadow moved swiftly, then, sensing danger, it pressed against the cold, hard rock of the battlements.
He held his breath, fearful that even the rasping sound of the air on his throat would alert their enemy to his presence. He cursed mentally as a drop of water from his dark, sodden clothes dropped to the ground - in his heightened state of alert it was like a drum beating out his location to the oncoming guard.
Bang, bang, bang, the guards footsteps pounded towards him.
"Complacency," the shadow thought as the guard walked past. "Not even seeing his fate, his destiny lurking beside him."
In an instant, the shadow had wrapped itself about the guard, smothering his cry with one hand, thrusting its blackened blade into his ribcage repeatedly with the other until he ceased to struggle. Carefully, delicately, the shadow lowered the corpse to the ground with less noise than the drop of water had made. He looked back ten feet or so, then waved a dark arm towards the wall.
In an instant, eight other shadows had seeped from the wall, flowing towards the first shadow as he continued on his way.

"Your spy has served us well, Darbra Dass," Admiral Yolt declared as he surveyed the wreckage about him.
The small, weasel-faced man grinned, an evil grin that sent shivers down the Admiral's spine. This man was good at what he did, but Yolt would be sure never to turn his back on the wretch, for many who did found that back quickly grew a dagger.
They both grabbed onto the railing in front of them and braced as their galley ploughed into one of the half-sunk Ulek ships that were strewn about Lookout Strait.
"No prisoners!" the Admiral shouted to his men as they began to haul one survivor from the water. He screamed as they dropped him again into the shark-infested waters.
"Captain - about turn, we return to Monmurg to deal with the Keoish scum," he ordered. "Fast as ye can go now!"
Darbra Dass pawed at the Admiral's richly embroidered sleeve.
"Were we not to finish the Ulek's fleet, milord," he stuttered. "They lost but five vessels, and retired in good order."
"When I tell you how to murder and spy, Darbra Dass," he replied with confidence, "then you may tell me how to fight a naval war. The Ulek have their tail between their legs - they will not return for more of the same."
Darbra Dass wandered over to the side of the galley, looking over to the screaming survivors as they were hauled down to a bloody and watery grave by unseen predators, the dorsal fins slowly patrolling about them in droves. He turned and grinned again at the Admiral, who quickly looked away.
He did not need to say anything - Yolt knew what Dass was thinking. If he was wrong, he would be better off joining the Ulek sailors.

Yolt could not believe what he saw.
The full Keoish fleet was laid out afore him, on the other side of Monmurg Bay. To its left, the coastal defences of Jetsom, to its right, those of Monmurg. And in the centre of the Monmurg Strait, where their defences could not reach, was the island of Nerull's Point, a battery of catapults and ballistae patiently awaiting the Royal Fleet.
After months of preparation to thwart Tavish's 'secret' plan, the Admiral could hardly believe that everything was proceeding so well. Tavish would not yet know of his ally's rout, and would be expecting the Ulek fleet to attack Yolt from the rear, forcing him through Monmurg Bay and beyond to do their battle. But he would not move - and for hours, they sat there, miles apart, facing down each other.
Until, that was, the rest of the Sea Princes' ships had rounded Jetsom Island, coming at the Royal Fleet from their aft and port sides. It was like a tidal wave, pushing the Keoish ships forward as soon as they were sighted - they had no option but to venture forward, into the bottleneck of Monmurg Straits, into the fire of their catapults.
Predictably, Tavish's fleet narrowed, keeping to the safer central belt, where only the fire of Nerull's Point would reach them. This would, Yolt knew, prolong their lives, but he also knew how deceptive the small battery on the island was. By concentrating on one or two ships at a time, they would slowly but surely cause the following ships to sail wider and wider, into the reach of the Jetsom and Monmurg batteries, which were not so small.
And then both sides of the Sea Princes' flotilla would strike - Admiral Hochonn from the north, and Yolt leading from the south.
Mentally, Admiral Yolt grinned like the despicable worm Dass.

Two groups of Keoish ships had detatched to engage the northern fleet, but the rest lay in front of Nerull's Point, bombarded by its catacpults and ballistae, many of the ships aflame from the pitch that hurled screaming through the air towards them.
Still, they had not entered the range of the land batteries. And time was pressing on - before it was dark, Yolt was eager to have them scattered to all points, or sunk at the bottom of the sea. He grew impatient.
"Captain," he screamed as he looked to the midday sun. "Full ahead, all groups. Signal Nerull's Point to prepare to desist, and other batteries to hold fire."
With a beatless din the multitude of galley's drums boomed out, their rhythms overlapping each other. Slowly at first, they moved off, building momentum until they skimmed elegantly across the sparkling water.
Perhaps, were he the battery master, Yolt would not have ceased fire so soon, but it mattered not. A few more minutes and they would be upon the Royal Fleet, which seemed to be vainly attempting to gain speed to escape their impending fate.
Something troubled Yolt as they colsed to but a few miles from the isle - there was a fair amount of smoke from the Royal Fleet, but far too many ships still had their masts, and he counted almost their entire fleet within that ever-widening huddle.
As the first barrel of flaming pitch screamed skywards towards his ships, quickly followed by an entire barrage, Yolt realised it was he who had been deceived!
The enemy had taken Nerull's Point!

A cheer went up from the Royal Fleet as the first shots from Nerull's Point were fired.
For an hour now, Tavish and his men had relied on their best artillerymen's aim as missiles rained about them, between the ships. Of course, some landed off-target, and there were casualties, but that was to be expected in an effort so dangerous as this.
Even with the Ulek, who should now be fast approaching the southern flotilla's rear, the Sea Princes outnumbered and outmanned them almost three to two. Already underway, his men also put out the smoky fires they had lit in large iron cauldrons, to give the effect of their ships being on fire.
A further group of his fleet now set off to help keep the Sea Princes' northern flotilla at bay whilst the rest concentrated fire on the southern one. After, that was, his men on Nerull's Point had softened them up. Once that bettle was under control, they would regroup south of Nerull's Point, and the Sea Princes' northern flotilla would feel the brunt of those batteries.
By his plan, he had negated the batteries of Monmurg and Jetsom, fooling the enemy to believe they had the most advantageous battlesite they could ever hope for. But the day was not over yet - not by far!

Yolt could taste blood in his mouth as he picked himself up from the deck of the flagship. As he rose to his feet, something was not quite right - the ship was listing slightly to starboard.
The Keoish galley had emerged from the magical fog at full ramming speed, and only the Captain's quick responses had saved them taking a fatal blow. Peering over the edge, Yolt saw the breech - it was small, but seriously slowed them down and made maneouvering difficult.
Somewhere in that fog, undoubtedly, the Keoish galley was turning for a second pass.
Suddenly another ship appeared, to the port, passing by them on a parallel course. Again Admiral Yolt was being hurled to the deck, this time by his bodyguards, as a burning ball of fire flew towards them from the Keoish ship. The heat was intense, but brief, and with the weight of his guard on top of him he could feel no damage.
Pushing them off, he looked about - Captain Tressig, his bodyguards, half the crew lay dead and smouldering.
It had been some time since he had directly in command of a vessel, but there was no other way.
"First mate!" he yelled to the half-singed man now running up the steps towards the wheel. He did not know his name, but he did not need to. "Plot a course for port, we must berth this wreck before she sinks."
He looked to the frazzled mast, blackened by the blast and bare of all but a few remnants of burning sail cloth. As they pulled away he caught sight of the battle in between the clouds of fog, now dispersing.

"Ye can have all the mages ye like, m'boy!" Tavish declared triumphantly to the cabin-boy who stood beside him. "Druids, boy - that's the answer - wood and weather, what else would ye fight with on the high seas."
As he peered through his spyglass at the battle to the north, Tavish's smile drooped, and his face took on a look of dire concern. He scanned left to right with the glass as though he had lost something. As he lowered the glass, folding it down, his eyes were closed.
"The Jarrian's been sunk." he announced glumly. "Her group is routed - we've not long before they turn their heads to Nerull's point, and to us."
Turning to the south, staring past the battle there, King Tavish leaned on the rail.
Suddenly he smashed the spyglass down with all his might, screaming, "Damn Prince Corond - where in Gehenna are those ships!"

The storm had gathered and set loose its ill-tidings with the same swiftness as the fog, and Master Chief Gulleyn knew without a doubt that it had been summoned by the King's druids to buy them time. The battle to the north was over, and in the morning he and his men expected their attentions to turn to them, nestled on Nerull's Point.
He looked to his men - killers one and all, not oblivious to their likely fate, but accepting. They sat and drank and smoked and laughed, and an outsider would think, sheltered from the ravages of the tempest by their foxhole, that they were rakes on a stag night, not warriors waiting to die.
The artillerists were another matter - engineers to a man, they were barely skilled in close battle, and knew nothing of preparing for death.
The artillery sergeant ran over and into their foxhole, sheltering beside Gulleyn just inside.
"All counted I reckon we've enough ammunition to last an hour, maybe hour and a half tops," he said. "We'll take maybe two or three ships out before they are within our catapults' range. Then..."
The man shrugged.
"Then," Gulleyn said, "you will take your men back to their ships by boat, before their marines land. Leave the fighting to the fighters, Sergeant."
The sergeant nodded, a slow, resolute, meaningful nod, before running back out to tell his men their good news.
Brushing the rain from his black outfit, Master Chief Gulleyn took a thoughtful look at his eight men, made even more fearsome with the lightning flashes that lashed out every few seconds. He moved further into the hole, picking up a bottle of brandy as he joined in with the celebrations.

Admiral Yolt watched nervously as the day dawned.
He stood on the promontory, ten miles south of Monmurg, a few miles south of Nerull's Point, and scanned the seas with intense concentration. Before he returned to the affray he wanted the clearest picture he could get, and this was it.
The southern flotilla had withdrawn further south, outnumbered by the Keoish fleet and relying on their local knowledge and superior manouevrability to stay alive. They had lost perhaps half of their ships, and only a small number had, like his own, managed to limp back to safety.
Nerull's Point was still held by the enemy, but not for long - they seemed to have reduced their firing, as though short of ammunition and stalling for time. Once the Keoish flag was down, he would be rowed out to join the fleet and vowed to personally make sure that every Keoish ship was sunk and every man put to the sharks. And that included the unexpected prize that Darbra Dass's messenger had just informed him of - King Tavish!
Yolt knew why Dass did not bring the news personally. His spy's 'omission' in telling them of the plan to take Nerull's Point could lead him to expect to lay his grave amongst the fishes - his only hope was to redeem himself with a prize such as Tavish.
As the morning wore on, the missiles thrown from the island grew less and less, until they finally stopped. Yolt saw the boats leave the south side of the island, undoubtedly returning the artillerists to their ships. By the time he was aboard his boat, the Keoish flag was down from Nerull's Point.

Through his spyglass Tavish watched his flag torn down as the artillerists' boats approached his ship. His group had disengaged to recover the men from the island and glean what they could of the rest of the Sea Princes' fleet.
He had seen no hand-to-hand battle on the island, and could only wonder that half the artillerists had not returned, and there was no sign of the assassins he had sent in to clear the poorly-guarded island.
The first man to board was quickly brought to the Captain's chambers to be quizzed by the King, Admiral O'Vayle and the other advisors that surrounded him. After a quarter of an hour, the King emerged with the artillerist at his side, and scoured the island with his spyglass.
The Sea Princes were unloading barrels of pitch and ballista missiles to trap them there like ducks on a pond.

Yolt had barely set foot on the ship when an aide of Admiral Hochonn hurried him to the fore.
They were barely clear of the Monmurg Straits, and regrouping before the final attack on the Royal Fleet. He quickly walked up to Hochonn's side.
"What do you make of that, Rayudd?" Hochonn said, not taking his eyes from the mage and his crystal ball laid out on a table before him.
From a birdseye view, he was watching the Royal Fleet, recently faced off against his own flotilla, now turning and regrouping, facing in their direction.
"But they're..." Yolt said in disbelief, his voice traiing off as he watched them do the unthinkable.
Hochonn nodded, then smiled.
"It seems that Tavish indeed fancies his chances better against us and Nerull's Point than breaking south," he said. "Perhaps he is not so great a strategist as they say!"
Yolt continued to watch, saying nothing more. There was no way in the Nine Hells that the remnants of the Royal Fleet could break through to the north, but for some reason there was a clawing sensation of dread in his stomach at what was about to come.

They sat in silence, in darkness - not a sound apart from the artillerists' breathing and the men working fast above, trying to ready the war machines for the Royal Fleet's approach.
It had come to Gulleyn in a drunken stupor- best give the Sea Princes what they wanted, and let them make best use of it! Or at least, let them think they could. They had snatched only a few hours sleep, but somehow managed to have the covered trench built by daylight, perfectly shielded from scrying eyes.
So they lay in wait, listening for the silence that showed their enemy had restocked their weapons and were thinking of the advancing ships and how to sink them.
Suddenly the noise above dulled to a faint throbbing. Smoothly Gulleyn drew his blackened shortsword, tapping it twice to the scabbard. Even the sound of the artillerists' breathing halted at that sound. Pulling the makeshift hatch back and down, Gulleyn peered at the ships to the south. As expected, Tavish had agreed to his plan and at that very moment had the fleet facing on to the northern flotilla.
The Sea Princes artillerists were also watching this, their backs turned to Master Chief Gulleyn and his trained killers. Without a further word they slipped out of the trench and, crawling on their bellies, made their way towards their unsuspecting quarry.

The Keoish Fleet drew closer, and both Admirals seemed to grow agitated.
"Where is that artillery fire? Xabbast, show me the island!" Hochonn demanded.
The mage waved his spindly fingers over the crystal ball and began to mutter arcane words. Yolt grimaced in disgrace - he had never felt mages had a place on the seas - they had no understanding of its ways, no feel or respect for its power and beauty - just contempt.
The magical ball cleared, and they saw a disheartening scene on the island - their artillerists were fighting, against Keoish soldiery, and sinister men dressed in black who were having an unsettling level of success in killing their troops.
A screaming noise brought his attention sharply back to the battle at hand, as the Keoish flagship, bearing the King's own naval ensign, released its first missile from its lead catapult. With a splash and a hiss the burning pitch barrel landed harmlessly a good distance off their port side.
Yolt looked back at Nerull's Point, and his jaw dropped agape. On either side, passing through the channels and bearing down on them from the rear, was the Ulek Fleet! For the first time in his life, Rayudd Yolt felt shear terror as he saw his fate unroll before him.

The drums battered a slow, rumbling beat as Rayudd Yolt was marched through the streets of Monmurg towards Gallahill. He was quite glad - he liked drums.
The stocks weighed heavy on his frame, but he grinned inanely for the whole journey, winking at many of the people who lined the streets on this cold winter's morn to see his fall from grace. By the time he had been 'tried' he hadn't spoken to a soul for over three months. Any other man would have been sent to an asylum if he gibbered and drooled in the dock at his trial as Yolt had done, but he was no ordinary man.
But at least he would not have the ordinary man's fate, doing the deadly jig on the Gallahill like most of its other residents had. One privilege of nobility was still afforded him, to die like a man under the executioner's axe.
Darbra Dass watched him mount the platform on which his life would end, and gave his thanks to Hextor in prayer that it was not his fate also. Yolt had taken the full blame, and as he had been driven insane before the trial had been unable to implicate any others, as he should, in the disaster of the Battle of Jetsom Island.
The Princes were still raging about the losses they had taken - fortunately for them Admiral Hochonn's naval skill had ensured, by dealing such damage to the Keoish and Ulek Fleets, that they could not capitalise on their success and further ravage the Sea Princes' strength. Unfortunately, for Hochonn, he too was killed when his ship was rammed.
So Yolt was the surviving villain, Hochonn the dead hero. The Sea Princes' fleet was nominal at best, and their ire at the Keoish never waned for a second. Darbra Dass had many things to do for his masters, but he waited to see Yolt's end as a motivator for his future endeavours.
The drums stopped - Rayudd Yolt let out a long, squealing laugh that somehow did not befit a man of his station.
With the bang of an axe on the executioner's block, then the Admiral's head on the platform, the truth of the battle passed into history.