Lich for Hire

Lyon had very little experience at sea.

The empire's geography meant it was penned in on all sides, leaving only a narrow stretch of coastline.

What maritime tradition Lyon possessed was essentially limited to river transport. Their vessels were built for inland waterways, not open ocean.

The warship they had commissioned for this expedition was rushed, with far too many untested design choices built into it.

The problems became apparent almost immediately after leaving the coast.

The hull's cross-section was wrong, and the slightest swell set it rocking for minutes afterward. Insufficient ballast had been prepared, which made the motion worse.

Lyon's best soldiers were too hardened to vomit from seasickness, but within three days, their complexion had taken on a grayish cast, and sleep was something they attempted without success.

Navigation was another problem entirely. Even Lyon's most experienced sailors were, by the standards of the open ocean, still in their apprenticeship. A compass could establish a heading, but the open sea was not a road. The ship had drifted off course twice already, and correcting it required wide sweeping arcs because the rudder was too small for the vessel's weight. Everything was wrong in small ways that accumulated into magnified misery. Soldiers who should have arrived ready to fight were instead depleted and irritable.

The priests were doing their part, maintaining morale and cleansing any afflictions, but it could only compensate for so much. Another few days of this and the force would land at half strength before even a single blade was drawn.

Cyril Roland stood at the prow and stared at the horizon.

The ocean had been genuinely impressive the first day. The scale of it, the motion, the way the light changed across the water—all of it was new and striking for someone who had spent his life on land.

By the third day, the unchanging landscape had become its own punishment. Without landmarks, reference points, or any visible destination in sight, the unchanging seascape poisoned the mind in a slow, insidious fashion. It wore at the will in ways that combat couldn't.

Cyril was a paladin, and his will did not bend easily. But he recognized the effect in his men, and he knew it had to be addressed.

Something needed to happen, something thrilling.

Perhaps a sea monster hunt—they could plunge into the ocean, stir something up, and give everyone a change of scenery and something to fight.

The outcome wouldn't matter. He just had to liven up the experience.

He was still thinking about how best to organize it when the lookout called down from the mast, "General Roland, ship ahead, roughly four kilometers distant!"

Cyril's attention sharpened immediately. Any ship, friend or foe, was better than the drudgery of the open ocean.

He ordered for the ship to draw near its neighbor.

The other vessel appeared to have made the same decision. As the gap narrowed, Cyril made out its details: a warship in the style of a fighting vessel, rigged with a skull-and-crossbones flag and carrying over a dozen magitech cannons along her flanks.

Her crew, visible now at the rails, had the expected collection of missing limbs and eyepatches. They were brandishing weapons and evidently very enthusiastic about the prospect ahead of them.

They had mistaken Lyon's warship for a merchant vessel and were preparing to raid it.

"Do they not recognize Lyon's flag?" Cyril exclaimed. "Are pirates always this bold at sea?"

In fairness to the pirates, Lyon's ship was wide and slow, and obviously unsuited for combat. A proper warship didn't look like this. This looked much more like a cargo ship, and cargo meant profit.

At sea, a flag didn't matter the way it did on land. Armies could hardly fight at sea.

The pirate vessel was faster than Lyon's ship by a significant margin and closed into firing range quickly. Lyon's cannons were more powerful and had greater range, but accuracy at sea was a different matter entirely. Three ranging shots from the bow missed the pirate ship completely.

As Lyon's amateur gunnery registered, the pirates grew visibly more excited. They circled Lyon's vessel and began working their broadside cannons.

Several rounds found the hull: the pirates were considerably better shots than Lyon's elite. But the pirate cannons were weak and old. They couldn't punch through anything meaningful, and many of the guns were already showing signs of wear that would cause them to malfunction within a few more shots.

Lyon's response was a single massive magical shield that expanded across the ship's exposed surface and blocked everything without any visible effort.

The pirates reassessed. That kind of protection wasn't something merchant vessels could afford. There were fighters aboard, serious ones.

The pirates turned to flee. Given their advantage in speed, the other ship shouldn't have been able to catch up.

Under ordinary circumstances, that would be the case. But the Lyon soldiers had been at sea for days with nothing to do, nothing to fight, and nowhere to stretch out properly in cramped quarters. How could they let an opportunity to fight escape?

Lyon's spellcasters began to chant in unison. The substantial mana that poured into the working produced a sustained gale that pushed Lyon's warship forward with unsustainable force.

The unwieldy ship surged through the waves as it actually gained on the pirate vessel.

The pirates jumped in shock. Their ship certainly had no such capabilities.

Just as Lyon's warship ws about to catch up, its sails tore.

The magical wind had been too much for the rigging. The canvas failed under the load, and Lyon's warship slowed abruptly. The pirate vessel pulled away again.

The pirates laughed. Many climbed up to the stern and urinated openly as a taunt to their Lyon pursuers.

Cyril stood at his prow and felt his face flush. He hadn't anticipated that sails could fail, nor a lot of things about seafaring besides.

Without magical propulsion, they genuinely couldn't catch up.

Were the pirates really going to get away, just like that?

He turned and looked at his soldiers, who were clearly eager to fight.

Well, there was nothing for it.

Cyril raised his hand above his head. "Prepare for boarding action!"

He grabbed a rope off the rigging and launched himself into the air.

Two other legendary paladins followed his lead simultaneously.

The pirate ship seemed fast, but sail propulsion didn't go beyond twenty to thirty kilometers per hour. Flight could easily sustain forty kilometers per hour. What sailed on the water could not outrun what flew above it.

All three paladins caught up to the pirate ship within minutes. Cyril touched down on the deck first, tied his rope to the base of the mast, and planted himself there.

The rope went taut. The pirate ship lurched against the drag.

The pirate ship was far lighter than Lyon's warship. The math worked out quite simply.

The pirates swarmed him, attempting to cut his rope.

Cyril left his sword in its scabbard and simply hit people with his hands and the flat of the sheath until they stopped coming close. Not one pirate made it within arm's reach of him.

The second and third paladins secured the bow and stern. Every avenue of escape closed.

All three of them could have cleared the ship in moments if they'd chosen to. Instead, they held the ropes and waited, doing nothing more than ensuring the pirate crew couldn't cut loose and run.

The sailors aboard Lyon's warship winched the ropes in steadily. The gap between the two vessels shrank. When they were no farther than a few meters apart, the Lyon soldiers stopped waiting and crossed.

There was no contest at all.

The most dangerous person on the pirate ship was a mediocre warlock whose Eldritch Blast had barely cleared his fingers before Cyril's sword pommel connected with his skull.

Thirty-plus pirates died. Forty-odd were taken alive. The ship itself was claimed as a prize.

Cyril looked at his soldiers—smiling, energized, complaining cheerfully about various minor injuries—and felt that the last few minutes had been genuinely worthwhile.

If the rest of the voyage provided a few more episodes like this, they would arrive in a considerably better state of mind.

He briefly entertained the idea that, by the time they engaged the lich, they might have somehow accumulated enough captured vessels to constitute a small fleet.

What nobody on the ship noticed was the small formation of drones passing high overhead.

Each one carried a memory crystal and a telephoto lens assembly, capable of recording everything on the deck below with clarity. They circled without drawing attention until the engagement was concluded, then broke off and headed back toward another ship anchored several hundred kilometers away.

And in the cabin of that ship, Hastin promptly received the memory crystals, verified their contents, and turned toward the young woman beside him.

With red hair falling to her waist, heavy blue-silver armor, and an iron hammer at her hip that spat occasional sparks, she was none other than Princess Ariel of the Ragetide Kingdom. She was strikingly beautiful in a way that carried a distinct sense of threat.

"Your Highness, for your review." Hastin's mechanical arm offered the crystals with steady precision.

Ariel examined the recorded footage coolly. When she was done, she scoffed. "A group of landlubbers playing at naval warfare. Will they laugh when they encounter Thanos's wrath? I'd like to see their legs turn to jelly when they face their first real storm."

Hastin noted her satisfaction and continued, "Your Highness, I hope you now understand the quality of our products. That brings us to the order we discussed previously—"

Ariel fixed him with a flat look and kept her voice even. "Your price is excessive. Even accounting for your monopoly, this is unreasonable. We were born at sea. We don't need these airships. Your products may be excellent, but they're not necessary to us."

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