The Gift of Battle by Morgan Rice

think
quickly.
    “Shall we turn
and fight, my brother?” asked Strom, coming up beside him.
    Alistair looked
back, too, standing calmly beside him.
    “You will
prevail, my love,” she said. “I have seen it.”
    Erec felt
encouraged by her words, as always, and as he stared and studied the landscape,
an idea came to him.
    “Sometimes,” he
said, “we must sacrifice to achieve something greater.”
    Erec turned to
his brother, confident.
    “Board the ship
beside us. Evacuate it, then take up the rear,” he commanded. He then took
Strom’s arm and looked him in the eye.
    “When you’re
done,” he added, “set that ship aflame, and sail it right for their fleet. You
will jump on my ship before the flames overtake it.”
    Strom’s eyes
widened in appreciation for the plan. He jumped into action, running and
leaping from the deck to the ship beside him, executing his brother’s orders.
He began barking orders, and the men fell in all around him, jumping into
action and beginning to abandon ship, jumping onto the deck of Erec’s ship.
Erec could feel the weight of his ship growing heavier.
    “More oars!”
Erec cried, feeling them slowing.
    He doubled the
number of oarsmen on board, and they all pulled, heaving, as Erec’s ship began
to pick up speed.
    “Spread out!”
Erec commanded, realizing his ship was going too slow. “Jump to the other
ships!”
    His men did as
commanded, jumping from his ship to several others in his fleet, distributing
their weight evenly amongst the ships. Finally, Erec’s ship righted and gained
speed.
    Erec turned to
watch the last of the men jump from Strom’s ship. Strom raised a torch and ran
up and down the ship, setting flame to everything, then threw it with all his
might. The torch landed on the mast, lighting it, setting the whole ship in a
huge conflagration, and Strom turned, leapt back onto his brother’s ship, and
stood there, watching, as the ghost ship, aflame, drifted down current—right
for the Empire fleet.
    “Row!” Erec
yelled, wanting to gain more distance from the flaming ship, from the Empire.
    They gained more
and more distance, speeding upriver.
    The Empire fleet
tried to turn out of the way—but there was nowhere to navigate in the tiny
river. The flaming ship caused chaos. They attacked it, not realizing it was
unmanned, wasting precious arrows and spears. The ship was pummeled from all
directions—but nothing could stop the flow of it.
    Within moments,
the ship, a burning wreck, floated right to the center of the Empire fleet,
parting it down the middle. And they had no way to stop it.
    The ship struck
the others, and as men shrieked and jumped out of the way, flames began to
lick, spreading left and right, causing chaos in this Empire fleet. Soon,
several other ships were on fire, with their soldiers scrambling to put them
out.
    “SIR!” Erec
heard someone call out.
    Erec turned to
see one of his men pointing, and as he looked back upriver, he was struck by an
awe-inspiring sight: a majestic city that could be no other than Volusia.
    “Volusia,”
Alistair said, confidence in her voice, and Erec felt it to be so.
    He glanced back,
saw they had gained precious time—perhaps hours—and he knew they had a chance,
albeit slim, to enter the city and get out before the Empire could catch them.
    He turned and
nodded to his men.
    “Full sail
ahead,” he commanded.
    *
    Erec’s fleet,
sailing steadily upriver for most of the day, finally reached a turn in the bend,
the current picking up, and as they did, Erec looked out, in awe at the sight.
Spreading out before them was what could only be Volusia. A magnificent city,
the most luxurious he had ever laid eyes upon, it was built of gold, shining
even from here, its buildings and streets more orderly and meticulous than
anything he had ever seen. Everywhere were statues, shaped as a woman who
appeared to be a goddess, dazzling in the sun, and he could not help but wonder
who she was, and what cult