“We need to get every vessel we have out of the cove,” she said, watching the ships move closer. “They may try to damage the entrance, but at the very least, they’ll take shots at anything that comes out.”
Aren jerked his chin at two of his soldiers who waited to relayorders. “You heard her. Make sure they are well crewed and armed with all the explosives they need. Fire is going to be our best weapon.”
“No,” Ahnna murmured. “Fear will be our greatest weapon.” Her eyes flicked sideways, meeting his. “You have chum barrels?”
Aren gave a nod. They’d been sitting far from camp, their stench enough to make hardened soldiers gag.
“Then let’s ring the dinner bell.”
Ahnna retrieved one of the clay pots they’d prepared days ago—pitch sealed and primed to burst when it hit the sea. With the smooth motion of long practice, she hurled it far out over the cliffs.
Boom!
The sound rolled back toward them, muffled but ominous. She threw another.
Boom!
All of Lara’s sisters had joined them and were watching with interest. Ahnna said, “The sharks know that sound means a battle. They know it means bodies falling into the seas. They’ll come, and the Harendellian captains will find their crews far less willing to risk a sinking ship when they see gray fins circling the water.”
But fear would only serve them if first they rattled the fleet’s confidence.
“Lara and I will hold the north,” he said to Ahnna. “You and James take the south. Jor, the east. Taryn, the west.”
Everyone departed without argument, Sarhina quietly splitting her sisters into pairs and sending them in various directions.
Aren returned to Lara, behind one of the vine screens hiding a shipbreaker. Her face was streaked with sweat, her eyes narrowed behind her spyglass.
“They’re moving in slowly,” she muttered. “Waiting for us to deploy so they know our range.”
“They’ll discover our range when they’re inside it.”
Below, the Ithicanian ships were exiting the cove and moving like a swarm of angry bees readying to attack.
Aren knelt beside his wife, peering through the screen of vines and leaves. One of the ships in the first row of the Harendellian fleet had soldiers scrambling around a catapult. The rope tightened. The load lifted.
He gritted his teeth. “First volley’s coming.”
The catapult fired.
A large block of stone shot into the sky. Aren’s stomach clenched as he tracked its arc. Time slowed.
It fell short—hitting the sea with a thunderous splash, just missing one of the Ithicanian ships.
Next to him, Lara let out a loud breath.
Another shot came. Higher. Closer.
Still short.
“Everyone hold!” Aren shouted. “We know we have better range. Once they have their first strike, we’ll know they’re inside it. Then we send death down on their heads.”
He felt the tension building in the jungle, in the cliffs, in his spine. His hands flexed on his machete hilt, the wait always worse than the fight.
“The next one will hit.” Lara’s voice was tight. “They know it. That’s why the other ships are making ready.”
It was why they were using fire.
The third projectile, this one covered in burning pitch, arced through the air. Like a star falling from the sky.
