Firstborn - Brandon Sanderson [14]
“What?” Kern asked.
“He’s coming for me,” Dennison replied. “He’s defeated every commander he’s ever gone up against—and now he has a chance for what he sees as the ultimate battle. He wants to fight himself. He wants to fight me.”
“Nonsense,” Kern said. “How would he know where you are? He doesn’t have our klage interception capability—of that, we’re as certain as we can be.”
“There are other ways to get information,” Dennison said.
He stood quietly for a moment. And then he felt a chill.
“Kern,” he snapped, “we need to retreat.”
“What?” the admiral said with frustration. He obviously didn’t like being distracted.“This whole battle is wrong,” Dennison said. “He’s planning something.”
“He’s always planning something.”
“This time it’s different. Kern, he wouldn’t expose himself to the Stormwind like that. Not even to get to me. We need to—”
A blast—sharp, shockingly loud—sounded in Dennison’s ear. He jumped, crying out.
“Kern!” Dennison yelled.
Chaos. Screaming. And then static. Dennison whipped off his visor, looking at his startled crew. “Raise the admiral!”
“Nobody’s responding,” said the comm officer. “Wait—”
“. . . Lord Canton from the Stormwind reserve bridge,” a voice feed crackled to life. “There has been an explosion on the main bridge. I am assuming command of the ship. Repeat. I am assuming command.”
Kern! Dennison thought. He spun, looking at the holographic projection of the Stormwind. An explosion on the bridge—sabotage? An assassin?
A shot sounded. Several of Dennison’s crew jumped—but this too had come over the comm.
“Lord Canton!” Dennison shouted.
Screams. Weapon fire.
He scanned the battle map. Kern’s forces were in chaos. Even within the careful structure of the imperial fleet, the loss of an admiral was devastating. Varion’s forces pressed on, ships darting, beamships firing. Pressing toward Dennison.
Kern might still be alive. . . . He thought.
No. Varion’s assassin wouldn’t fail. Varion wouldn’t fail.
“This is Lord Haltep of the Farmight,” a voice crackled over the comm. “I am assuming command of this battle. All commanders secure bridges! Squadrons six through seventeen, press toward the Stormwind. Don’t let the flagship fall!”
That’s what Varion wants, Dennison thought. He presses east, creates a disaster on the flagship, then cuts us in two.
This battle could not be won. It was hard to see, still—technically, they still outnumbered Varion’s forces. But Dennison could see the death of Kern’s fleet in the chaos of the battle space. Varion was control. Varion was order. Where there was chaos, he would prevail.
But what could Dennison do about it? Nothing. He was useless.
Except . . .
I can’t let Kern’s fleet be destroyed. These men trusted him.
“Open a channel to the commanders of every capital ship,” Dennison said quietly to his crew.
They complied.
“This is Duke Dennison Crestmar,” Dennison said, feeling a bit surreal as holographic ships burst and died around him. “I am invoking Article 117 and taking command of this fleet.”
Silence.
“What are your orders, my lord?” a stiff voice eventually asked. It was Lord Haltep, the one who had only just assumed command.
These are good soldiers, Dennison thought. How did Kern, who seemed so relaxed about military protocol, command such respect from his men?
Perhaps that was what Dennison should have been studying these last two years. Regardless, he had command. Now, what did he do with it? He stood for a moment, watching the battlefield in its chaos, and felt a twinge of excitement. This was no simulation. That was Varion, the real man, on the other side. This was what Dennison been created to do: To fight Varion, to defend the empire. Why else had he studied all those months?
Why else did I study? So I could know that this battle was unwinnable. Our admiral dead, our forces divided. Varion would easily beat me in a fair battle.
And this one is far from fair.
“All fighter squadrons to the eastern flank,” Dennison said.
“But the flagship!” Haltep said. “Our forces