Calendar of the Displacement, Year 0001, April, Day 22.

  The Capital of Qua-Toyne. The "Lotus Garden" Residence.

  An oppressive silence reigned in the hall of the High Council, a silence that could not be dispelled by the sunlight filtering through the flowering vines or the quiet burble of water in the pond of turquoise lotuses. The evacuation of Gim was complete, but this was no victory. It was the first step in a long, bloody retreat. Despite the fact that their new Russian allies had wiped the Lourian vanguard from the face of the earth, the city itself was lost.

  "Read the report," Prime Minister Kanata's voice was dry and lifeless.

  The Minister of Military Affairs, an old dwarf with a face like weathered stone, rose to his feet. His hands, which held several sheets of thick white paper purchased from the Russians, were visibly trembling.

  "The border city of Gim has been captured by the enemy," he began, each word a struggle. "Following the annihilation of their vanguard, the main forces of the Lourian Eastern Army, numbering, according to our intelligence, approximately eighty thousand soldiers, have occupied the ruins and begun to erect fortifications. This is only a part of their total army, which we estimate to number four hundred thousand…"

  A heavy sigh went through the hall.

  "Furthermore, our worst fears have been confirmed," the minister continued, his voice growing quieter. "The Parpaldia Empire is providing Louria with its full military support. Our agents in their ports have confirmed that a massive fleet—no fewer than four thousand warships—has put to sea. In addition, five hundred wyverns bearing the imperial brand have been spotted at Lourian airfields. Their fleet has already left port; its current location is unknown."

  The minister finished and sat down. A silence as heavy as a tombstone fell upon the room. Four hundred thousand soldiers. Five hundred wyverns. Four thousand ships. This was not an invasion army. It was a death sentence. Louria did not intend to simply conquer them—it intended to wipe them from the face of the earth.

  The silence was broken by the calm but firm voice of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Rinsui.

  "Elders, colleagues. We must not forget that we are not alone. The Russian Federation has already provided us with invaluable assistance, destroying their vanguard and giving us time to evacuate. Under the terms of our strategic partnership treaty, an act of aggression against us is a threat to their interests as well. We have every right to request their direct intervention."

  Kanata, who had been sitting with his eyes closed, slowly nodded.

  "Moreover," Rinsui continued, "before the start of this session, I received an official communication from the Russian embassy." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the council members. "They are not waiting for our request. They are offering their assistance."

  "What exactly are they offering?" Kanata asked, his voice tense.

  "The government of the Russian Federation is requesting our permission to conduct a full-scale combined arms operation on the territory of our principality. If we give our consent, they are prepared to immediately dispatch their Armed Forces for the complete neutralization of the military threat from the Louria Kingdom," Rinsui said these words slowly, enunciating each one.

  "They… they are willing to send their army here?!" one of the elders breathed, unable to believe his ears.

  "Precisely," Rinsui confirmed.

  Kanata considered this for a moment, weighing the fate of his people on an invisible scale. On one side was certain annihilation at the hands of Louria. On the other was total dependence on a foreign, unknown, and omnipotent power. The choice was obvious.

  "Contact Ambassador Sokolov at once!" his voice filled with renewed strength. "Inform him that the High Council of the Principality of Qua-Toyne accepts their offer and formally requests military assistance. We will provide their army with full provisions and fodder. I grant them the right of free movement through our lands, waters, and skies for the duration of the operation. Send an order to all our garrisons and wyvern squadrons—to provide the Russian military with their full and unconditional cooperation!"

  He finished and took a breath.

  "This council is adjourned. Return to your posts. The war has begun."

  The council members rose silently from their seats. They were leaving this quiet, beautiful garden knowing that the world they had known was over. And not one of them could say what the new world, born in the fire of the coming battle, would be like.

  Calendar of the Displacement, Year 0001, April, Day 25.

  Port Maihark.

  The Second Fleet of Qua-Toyne was preparing for its final battle. All fifty of its seaworthy vessels—from heavy galleys to light picket clippers—stood in the harbor. On their decks, a frenetic yet disciplined activity was underway. Sailors tarred the last of the seams in the hulls, checked the tension of the ropes, and sharpened their boarding cutlasses. Barrels of fresh water and sacks of hardtack—the rations of men on a suicide mission—were loaded aboard. A palisade of pavise shields was erected along the rails, and the ballista crews, with grim determination, stacked iron-tipped bolts beside their weapons. Everyone understood: they were putting to sea to die, but to sell their lives dearly, to delay the enemy fleet for at least a few hours.

  Admiral Pancare, standing on the captain's bridge of his flagship, looked out at his ships with bitterness.

  "Such magnificence…" he breathed. Fifty ships, the best of the best. The flower of his fleet. "And they have four thousand… How many of my boys will I be able to bring home today?" The words escaped his lips in a quiet whisper, and the admiral immediately chided himself for the display of weakness. A commander has no right to despair.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the crisp voice of his first officer, Commander Breweye, as he stepped onto the bridge.

  "Admiral, an urgent message from Naval Command."

  Pancare turned slowly.

  "Read it."

  Breweye unrolled the scroll.

  "'This evening, an operational group from the Navy of the Russian Federation, consisting of six warships, will arrive to reinforce you. They will deliver the first strike against the enemy fleet. The Russian command requests the presence of an observer officer from our fleet aboard their flagship for coordination and to record the results.'"

  Pancare frowned, his brow furrowing.

  "Six? Only six ships? Are you certain that's not an error in the encryption? Perhaps they meant sixty? Or six hundred?"

  "No, Admiral," Breweye replied, his face impassive. "The message clearly states—six units."

  Pancare closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he had heard. Six ships against four thousand. This was not just a mistake. It was madness. A mockery.

  "Send an observer…" he growled. "Are they mocking us?! Am I to send my officer to certain death so he can 'bear witness' as their pathetic handful of ships are crushed like eggshells?! I will not send a single one of my men on this suicide mission!"

  A heavy silence fell on the bridge. The sailors standing nearby tried not to breathe, avoiding the furious gaze of the admiral.

  The silence was broken by Breweye's calm and steady voice.

  "Then send me, Admiral."

  Pancare spun around to face him.

  "I am the best swordsman in the fleet," Breweye continued, looking his commander directly in the eye. "If it comes to a boarding action, I will have a better chance of survival. Besides…

  "These Russians." Breweye paused, choosing his words. "Admiral, I was on the dock in Maihark when Minister Rinsui returned from his delegation visit. He is not a man who exaggerates. He told the council that their capital city — one city — contains more people than our entire continent. That their smallest vehicle can travel faster than our fastest horse. That their weapons work without magic, without mana, without anything our mages can detect or counter." He looked at Pancare. "They wiped thirty thousand soldiers from the earth in one morning. They did it with eight vehicles and twelve aircraft. Six ships against four thousand is not madness on their part, Admiral. It is a statement."

  He picked up his bag.

  "If I am wrong, I will be dead, and you will have lost an observer officer. If I am right, I will come back with information that determines how this war ends."

  Pancare stared intently at Breweye. He saw in his officer's eyes not youthful adventurism, but the cold resolve of a professional. And he realized that Breweye was right. In this new, terrifying world, the old rules no longer applied.

  "Very well, Breweye," he finally said, his voice holding a tone of weary resignation. "I entrust this mission to you. Go. And come back alive. That's an order."

  Breweye gave a crisp salute, ready for the trial that awaited him. For a moment, their gazes met—a silent promise between two warriors, loyal to the end to their people and their fleet, even on the brink of certain doom. Or… an impossible victory.

  After Breweye had departed, Admiral Pancare remained on the bridge of his flagship for a long time.

  Outside, in the roads, the Russian ships sat in the evening light. Even at anchor, there was something about the way they sat in the water — low, purposeful, without the ceremonial flourishes of a battle fleet — that communicated something he couldn't quite name. Not threat. Not reassurance. Something more neutral and more absolute than either.

  He had spent forty years learning naval warfare. He knew wind patterns and tide charts and the hull characteristics of every class of galley on Rodenius. He knew how to read an enemy formation, how to calculate boarding angles, how to use fireships and smoke and the psychology of men who were about to fight for their lives.

  None of it applied to what was anchored in his roads.

  He was not afraid. Fear was a useful emotion, and what he was feeling was not fear. It was the specific disorientation of a man who has just realized that the skill set which defined his professional identity is, in the present situation, irrelevant.

  He watched the Russian ships until it was too dark to see them clearly.

  Then he went below and sat at his desk and wrote, for the first time in his career, a letter to his wife that contained the sentence: *I believe tomorrow's engagement will determine things decisively, though not in the way I had imagined when I woke this morning.*

  He sealed it and addressed it and put it in the outgoing dispatch pouch. Just in case.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Calendar of the Displacement, Year 0001, April, Day 25. Evening.

  Port Maihark.

  Evening descended on the city, painting the sky in crimson hues. The port was humming with an extraordinary level of activity. Townspeople, soldiers, sailors—everyone had poured out onto the piers and walls, their gazes fixed upon the sea. Cries of astonishment and reverent awe mingled with the sound of the waves.

  "What is that?! A mountain?! A floating mountain?!"

  "Unbelievable! Are… are those their ships?!"

  Commander Breweye could not believe his eyes. In the outer roadstead, where that morning there had been nothing, now stood six gigantic gray ships. Even the smallest of them was several times larger than their flagship. And one… one was so enormous that its dimensions defied all laws of perspective; its deck was so wide that a dragon could have indeed landed upon it. There were no sails on their masts, but a soft, low hum emanated from them—the sound of restrained power.

  Breweye swallowed hard. He remembered Captain Midori's report from a year ago about a colossal ship, and the stories from the delegation that had been to Russia; back then, everyone at headquarters had dismissed it as exaggeration and illusory magic. Now, he was seeing that very ship with his own eyes.

  Suddenly, something resembling a giant dragonfly detached itself from the largest vessel and, with a deafening roar, raced toward the port. At the sound and the wind kicked up by the spinning blades above it, the crowd recoiled in panic.

  Breweye, as ordered, was waiting on the main pier. The "dragonfly" hovered above him, then smoothly descended to the ground. A side door slid open, and a man in an unfamiliar green uniform emerged.

  "Commander Breweye?" his voice, amplified by some device, was loud and clear. "Senior Lieutenant Karpov, Naval Aviation. I will be transporting you to the Amphibious Assault Ship Priboy."

  Breweye nodded and, picking up his duffel bag, stepped inside the flying machine they called a "helicopter." The interior was spartan but functional. The seat was surprisingly comfortable.

  The roaring intensified, and Breweye felt his body being pressed into the seat. The ground fell away beneath them. The flight was smooth, without the lurching characteristic of a wyvern. He watched through the porthole as Port Maihark rapidly shrank in size.

  "Astonishing…" he whispered. "What magic propels this?"

  When the helicopter landed on the deck of the Priboy, Breweye was stunned for a second time. The deck was made of ridged metal and was so immense it looked like an airfield.

  "They could fight a battle right here, on this deck…" the thought flashed through his mind. "They could land an entire regiment on an enemy ship without even engaging in a boarding action." He tried to process what he was seeing through the lens of his own naval tactics.

  He was escorted to the captain's bridge—a huge room bathed in the light of dozens of glowing screens, on which incomprehensible symbols and maps flickered. The ship's commander met him there.

  Breweye snapped to attention.

  "Commander Breweye, Second Fleet of the Principality of Qua-Toyne. I have arrived to carry out my duties as an observer."

  "Captain 1st Rank Orlov," the Russian officer introduced himself. "Welcome aboard, Commander. My apologies for the brevity, but we have just received updated intelligence. The enemy fleet is located five hundred kilometers west of here. We will move to intercept at dawn tomorrow. "Our plan is to offer them three opportunities to surrender — standard procedure under our rules of engagement. If all three are refused, we are authorized to proceed with full force. The legal basis is the defense treaty with Qua-Toyne, Article Seven: aggression against a treaty partner constitutes aggression against the Federation. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable."

  "Total… annihilation?" Breweye repeated. He couldn't believe his ears. Six ships against four thousand. "Forgive me, Captain, but are you certain about your intelligence on the enemy's numbers?"

  "Absolutely," Orlov replied calmly. "And yes, Commander. Your fleet will not be participating in this operation. We will handle it ourselves. I guarantee your complete safety."

  Breweye was silent. He looked at the calm, confident faces of the Russian officers and understood that he was a witness not to madness, but to something else entirely. He had boarded a ship of the gods, who were about to teach mortals a lesson in warfare. And that lesson promised to be a bloody one.

  The next morning. In the open sea west of Maihark.

  At dawn, the Russian task force put to sea. Much to Commander Breweye's surprise, the two largest ships—the Amphibious Assault Ship Priboy and another Large Landing Ship—remained in the roadstead.

  "But… why?" he asked Senior Lieutenant Sokolov, who was escorting him to the bridge of the frigate Admiral Makarov.

  "Landing ships are floating bases, Commander, not frontline combat ships," Sokolov explained calmly. "Their purpose is the delivery and support of troops. For naval combat, we have specialized ships. They are the ones that will be seeing action today."

  The four remaining ships—two Project 11356R frigates, the Admiral Makarov and the Admiral Essen, and two Project 20380 Steregushchiy-class corvettes, the Merkury and the Stoiky—formed up in a battle formation and, kicking up bow waves, headed west at a speed of thirty knots. Breweye gripped a handrail, trying to keep his balance. Such speed for a ship seemed like sorcery to him.

  Several hours later, when the sun was high in the sky, they appeared on the horizon. At first, it was just a scattering of dots, but with each passing minute, it grew, transforming into a forest of masts that filled the entire visible horizon. The fleet of Louria.

  At the same time, aboard the Lourian flagship, the heavy galley Indomitable.

  Vice Admiral Sharkun stood on the captain's bridge, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. Surrounding his flagship, as far as the eye could see, was a sea of ships. Four thousand four hundred pennants. This was not just a fleet. This was the might of an entire nation, embodied in wood and steel.

  Vice Admiral Sharkun stood at the rail of his flagship and looked at his fleet with the particular feeling a commander gets only once or twice in a career — the feeling of holding, in his hands, something genuinely sufficient for the task.

  Four thousand four hundred ships. He had spent eleven years assembling this force, training its captains, learning from every naval engagement in the historical record he could find. He was not a vain man by nature. He was a professional, and he knew what four thousand four hundred ships could do to a coastal principality with fifty.

  "Intelligence on the Russian vessels?" he asked his flag captain, without looking up from the water.

  "Six confirmed, Admiral. Two large transport types remaining in port. Four combat vessels moving to intercept. Dimensions suggest approximately two hundred meters for the largest, one hundred thirty for the smallest."

  "Armament?"

  "Unknown. No visible catapults, no ballistae arrays, no fire-lance batteries. Our scouts could not identify a conventional weapons system."

  Sharkun considered this. A ship with no visible weapons was either a transport or a threat he did not yet understand. He had learned, over forty years of naval service, that threats he did not understand deserved more respect than threats he did.

  "Five hundred wyverns to full alert," he said. "And signal the fleet: when those ships open fire, I want every observation post recording what they see. I want to know exactly what we are dealing with before we respond."

  His flag captain looked surprised. "Admiral? Standard doctrine would be—"

  "Standard doctrine was written for standard enemies." Sharkun picked up his spyglass. "Give the order."

  The grandeur of his own fleet momentarily dimmed.

  At that moment, the lookout in the crow's nest gave a desperate cry.

  "Sightings!... Something… flying! In the sky!"

  Sharkun raised his spyglass. A strange object, resembling a giant metal dragonfly and emitting a deafening roar, was approaching them.

  "A wyvern? No… What is this thunderous insect?" he muttered, a cold premonition gripping his heart.

  The "dragonfly"—a Ka-52 "Alligator" attack helicopter—hovered a kilometer from their fleet, remaining beyond the range of arrows and ballistae. And suddenly, from it, a voice boomed, amplified to an inhuman volume that seemed to thunder from the very heavens:

  "Attention, ships of the Louria Kingdom. This is the command of the Russian Federation Armed Forces Operational Group. You have entered the sovereign waters of the Principality of Qua-Toyne, which are under our protection. You are ordered to immediately alter your course and return to your ports. Failure to comply with this order will result in us opening fire with intent to destroy. I repeat, alter your course immediately!"

  One of the archers aboard a Lourian ship could not handle the tension. With a wild cry, he drew his bow and loosed an arrow at the helicopter. The arrow, tracing a futile arc, fell into the water hundreds of meters short of its target. The Ka-52, its task completed, banked and sped away to the east, leaving behind only the hum of its departing rotors and a stunned fleet.

  A few minutes later, the lookouts cried out again. On the horizon, where the helicopter had flown, four gray, angular silhouettes had appeared. They were moving at an unnatural speed, without sails, cutting through the waves like giant steel sharks.

  "Are… are those their ships?!" Vice Admiral Sharkun whispered in disbelief, peering through his spyglass.

  The Russian task force closed to a distance of three kilometers and came to a dead stop, presenting its broadsides. They were enormous, but there were only four of them. Against four thousand four hundred.

  From the flagship, the frigate Admiral Makarov, the amplified voice boomed once more:

  "To the ships of the Louria Kingdom. This is your final warning. Alter your course immediately. Otherwise, we will open fire with intent to destroy!"

  Sharkun lowered the spyglass, a furious smirk on his face. Four ships. They were threatening him, the admiral of the greatest fleet on the continent, with four ships.

  "Insolence! Unheard-of insolence!" he roared. "Right flank! Attack the lead enemy ship! A volley of fire arrows! Suppress their crew and prepare to board!"

  Dozens of Lourian galleys, obeying the command, began to turn, putting out their oars and gathering speed. When the distance had closed to two hundred meters—the maximum range of their bows—a swarm of flaming arrows soared into the sky.

  On the bridge of the frigate Admiral Makarov.

  "Comrade Captain, we are under fire. Multiple arrow impacts, hull and superstructure. No penetration. One sailor on the weather deck took a graze — he was outside the perimeter, should not have been. He's being seen by the medic now."

  Nikitin looked at Belov.

  "Get everyone off the open decks. I don't want casualties from something this avoidable." He turned back to the screen. The arrows were, indeed, bouncing off the composite armor. The damage was cosmetic. But a man caught in the face by a medieval broadhead was just as dead as any other kind of dead, and he had no intention of explaining that to anyone's family.

  "Time to put an end to this circus. Ahead slow, withdraw to a distance of ten kilometers."

  The frigate, with no apparent effort, picked up speed and rapidly pulled away from its pursuers. Elated shouts erupted from the decks of the Lourian ships.

  "Cowards! They're running!"

  "Glory to Louria!"

  Sharkun felt a surge of relief. But it was premature. The Russian ship stopped at a distance from which it seemed like a mere speck and turned broadside.

  "Battle stations. Target is lead vessel, attacking formation. One round, high-explosive, direct fire. Fire." Nikitin commanded.

  The mighty 100mm A-190 artillery mount on the frigate's bow swiveled smoothly and raised its barrel. In the CIC, the fire-control operator entered the adjustments calculated by the fire-control radar.

  Sharkun, who had been observing the maneuvers, noticed something move on the enemy ship. In the next instant, a flame erupted from that point. A few seconds later, which felt like an eternity, a deafening roar reached them.

  The lead Lourian ship, a heavy galley with three hundred warriors aboard, simply ceased to exist. The shell, which had struck the exact center of the deck, pierced it and detonated in the hold. A fountain of fire, water, splinters, and human remains shot up to the height of the mast. When it collapsed, all that was left where the ship had been was a spreading stain of wreckage on the water.

  The shockwave reached the flagship, causing it to shudder. A dead silence fell over the decks.

  On the bridge of the Admiral Makarov, Commander Breweye stood against the rear bulkhead and watched the debris field spread across the water where the galley had been.

  He had served in the Second Fleet for seventeen years. He had been in three sea engagements. He had watched ships burn and men drown and done the things that a naval officer does in those circumstances, which include continuing to function.

  What he was watching now was not a naval engagement. He did not have a word for what it was. One round. One ship. Three hundred men. The interval between the muzzle flash and the impact had been long enough that he had almost believed, for a fraction of a second, that it had missed.

  He looked at Captain Orlov, who was reading data from a screen with the focused attention of a man reviewing routine paperwork.

  Breweye thought of the fifty ships in Port Maihark. He thought of Admiral Pancare's face when he had said *perhaps six of their ships are worth a thousand of ours.*

  He was going to have to revise that estimate significantly upward.

  Sharkun lowered his spyglass slowly.

  The ship had been there. And then it had not been there. The interval between the flash on the Russian hull and the disappearance of the galley had been perhaps three seconds.

  "Range?" he asked, his voice level.

  "Ten kilometers, Admiral. Approximately."

  Ten kilometers. The maximum range of their heaviest shore batteries was eight hundred meters under ideal conditions. He looked at the spreading debris field where three hundred of his men had been.

  "All wyvern squadrons — scramble." His voice was steady. "Target those ships. High altitude approach, come in from the sun. Don't let them track you." He paused. "And signal the fleet: close the formation. If we bunch up they can fire into the mass of us, but if we scatter they'll pick us off one by one. I want—" He stopped himself. He didn't know what he wanted, because he had never prepared for an engagement at ten kilometers against a weapon with no arc of fire, no preparation time, and apparently no miss radius.

  He made a decision with the information he had, which was what commanders did.

  "Attack formation. All ships advance. Overwhelm them with numbers before they can reload. Move."

  He was wrong about the reload time. But it was the correct decision given what he knew.

  On the bridge of the Admiral Makarov, Nikitin watched the screen.

  Nikitin said nothing. He watched the screen as the Lourian fleet began to regroup into what its commanders presumably believed was an attack formation. Then he looked at Breweye, who was standing against the far bulkhead with the expression of a man watching something he will be describing to people for the rest of his life.

  "They're not retreating," Nikitin said to Belov.

  "No, sir."

  "Send up the Ka-52. One more pass. One more warning." He paused. "I want it on the record that we gave them every opportunity."

  But Sharkun, despite his shock, was still not ready to retreat. He ordered his fleet to regroup into an attack formation. All his hope now rested on the wyverns. They had to burn this steel sea devil to the waterline.