* * *
• • •
The Blacks flew overhead for much of the first day, descending to their ship-borne perches come nightfall. There were fifty of them in all, the fleet being incapable of carrying more, not least because several captains had flatly refused to have any drakes aboard their ships, citing protests from mutinous crews. Those vessels that did carry the beasts had their holds loaded with freshly hunted Cerath meat and all the livestock Stockcombe could provide. At Clay’s urging Hilemore issued stern instructions that the sailors make no attempt to communicate with the Blacks. “Just feed ’em and leave ’em be,” Clay said. “And in the name of the Seer’s ass, don’t try and touch ’em.”
The sea proved uncooperative over the next few days. A heavy swell and stiff easterly winds confounded Hilemore’s hopes for a swift voyage to the Green Cape, the point at the southern tip of the Barrier Isles where the Myrdin and Orethic Oceans came together. His careful organisation of the fleet into two columns, the Superior leading one and Captain Okanas in the Endeavour leading the other, was also disrupted by the weather. Consequently, by the time they entered calmer waters the fleet was spread out over several miles and required half a day before the formation could be reassembled.
“I’d wager Grandfather never had this trouble,” he grumbled to himself during the evening watch, spy-glass trained on the line of ships following in the Superior’s wake.
He turned at the sound of boots, finding Lieutenant Talmant approaching. “Crow’s nest reports land in sight, sir,” he said, saluting. “An island. Thirty degrees to port and a dozen miles off.”
“So we’re finally at the Isles,” Hilemore said. He was tempted to press on, but the Green Cape was a notoriously fractious stretch of ocean and attempting to navigate it at night highly inadvisable.
“Signal the Endeavour,” he told Talmant. “Thirty-degree turn to port, then signal the fleet to follow. We’ll anchor in the lee of the island, make for the Cape at first light.”
“Aye, sir.”
* * *
• • •
He was woken from a dream in which a large parrot had taken it upon itself to perch on his shoulder and ask a series of unwelcome questions. Why did Lewella reject you? it demanded amongst other things, each question followed by a loud squawk.
Why do you pretend not to lust after Captain Okanas? Squawk!
Do you think they’ll give you a court martial before they hang you for mutiny? Squawk!
Why did you let all those youngsters die in Stockcombe? Squawk!
It was this last question that woke him, summoning memories that even his slumbering mind couldn’t face. Curiously, however, as his eyes opened on a darkened cabin the parrot kept squawking even louder than before. “Right,” he said, reaching for his revolver intending to shoot the bloody thing, then stopped as he came fully awake and realised the noise wasn’t coming from a parrot, but a drake. One of the sailors from the midnight watch had already begun pounding on his door by the time he opened it.
“Mr. Torcreek, sir,” the sailor said. “He says they’re all in a right state about something.”
“Sound battle stations,” Hilemore ordered, pulling on his tunic. “Fire rockets to alert the fleet.”
“Aye, sir.”
He found Clay on the fore-deck with Lutharon, the huge beast repeatedly calling out, wings spread and tail coiling in alarm. The two other drakes on the aft deck replied with equal volume, as did every other Black in the fleet. A signal rocket streamed into the night sky and exploded, quickly followed by two more, although Hilemore doubted there was a soul aboard any of the surrounding ships not already awake.
“What is it?” he demanded, striding towards Clay.
“He smells something. I’m doubtful it’s good.” Clay stared at the agitated drake in intense concentration then let out a sharp exhalation. “Blues,” he told Hilemore.
“How far?”
“Close, that’s all I can say. They don’t judge distance the way we do. There’s just near and far.”
Hilemore turned towards the bridge, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Battle stations! Weigh anchor and start engines! Signal the fleet to prepare for action!”
He turned back to Clay, intending to ask about the Blues’ direction of attack, but the question died as the Black abruptly sprinted towards the stern and launched itself into the air. From the sudden commotion on the other ships it was clear that the other drakes were following suit. It was a two-moon night so they could see the Blacks forming into a dense flock before flying south.
“They’ll do what they can,” Clay explained. “But there’s a lot heading this way. Gotta reckon on some getting past them.”
“You have product?” Hilemore asked him.
“More’n I need.”
“Then I trust you to choose your own spot and put it to good use.”
He ran to the bridge, finding Steelfine and Talmant present with Scrimshine at the helm. “Riflemen to the upper works, Number One,” he told Steelfine. “Mining party to stand to at the stern and deploy on the turn. Guns to load with cannister and fire at low elevations only. Be best if we avoided hitting our allies, don’t you think?”
“Aye, sir!” Steelfine saluted and swiftly departed the bridge.
“Mr. Talmant, go up top and take charge of the search-light. Keep it moving until you spot a target.”
“Sir!”
Hilemore moved to the speaking-tube. “Engine room.”
“Engine room reporting, sir,” came Chief Bozware’s tinny reply.
“Ahead dead slow, Chief. And have Miss Jillett stand by the blood-burner.” He waited to feel the thrum of the auxiliary engine through the deckboards before nodding at Scrimshine. “Due south, helm.”
“Due south, sir.”
Hilemore stepped out onto the walkway to check on the rest of the fleet. They were slowly arranging themselves into a circular formation in accordance with the plan he set out in the event of being attacked at anchor. The intention was to create an impenetrable defensive ring whilst the Superior conducted a more aggressive defence. He found the response of most of the merchantmen sluggish compared to what he would have expected from a Protectorate ship, but at least they were moving. He turned his gaze to the bow, watching the search-light beam cut through the gloom. Lieutenant Talmant was energetic in swinging the huge light about, playing the circle of bright luminescence over the gentle swell in regular, broad arcs.
Hilemore’s gaze snapped to a point a few degrees to starboard as a plume of flame erupted close to the surface. He caught a brief glimpse of two shapes entwined, one winged, the other long and snake-like, then the flames died and it was gone. The sound of the struggle reached them a second later, harsh shrieks of challenge and distress echoing through the sea air.
“How far away are they?”
Hilemore glanced over his shoulder finding Kriz climbing the ladder to the walkway. She carried a carbine and wore her Contractor’s duster.
“Hard to say,” he replied. “Mr. Torcreek sent you, I assume?”
“He thought you might need added protection.”
“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”
They witnessed another dozen flame-illuminated contests over the course of the next few minutes, each one closer than the other. In one instance the flames continued for some time, Hilemore recognising Lutharon by virtue of his size as the Black dragged a struggling Blue from the water. The two drakes skimmed the waves as they fought, the Blue casting repeated gouts of flame at Lutharon who replied with his own, his claws latched firmly on his opponent’s coils. It finally ended when Lutharon briefly released his opponent to clamp his talons onto its jaws, prising them apart to send a jet of fire directly into its throat. He let out a brief squawk of triumph before releasing the Blue’s body and beating his wings to push himself skyward. Watching the Blue c
orpse roll in the waves, Hilemore realised with dismay it was at most sixty yards away.
“Target ten degrees to port!” Lieutenant Talmant called. Hilemore tracked the search-light beam to the Blue rearing up in the white circle barely thirty yards off the port bow. The pivot-gun fired immediately, the Blue disappearing in a haze of red and white as the cannister-shot lashed the sea.
Hilemore returned to the bridgehouse. “Ahead two-thirds,” he barked into the speaking-tube before turning to Scrimshine. “Helm, hard a-port.”
From outside came the crackle of rifle fire, the marksmen no doubt finding another target illuminated by the search-light. The starboard cannon also opened up, Hilemore hoping they managed to do some damage. He glanced through the rear window of the bridgehouse, taking satisfaction from the sight of the mining party casting their devices from the stern. These were improved versions of the mines that had served them so well in Stockcombe harbour. Each had been fitted with varying amounts of ballast to ensure they lay beneath the surface at different depths. They had also been packed with twice the amount of explosive.
“Five degrees to port,” he told Scrimshine, repeating the order two minutes later to ensure the Superior seeded her mines in a wide arc along the southern flank of the fleet. Once every mine had been deployed he told the engine room to reverse revolutions and had Scrimshine bring the ship hard-about. Even in a gentle swell it was a tricky manoeuvre, taking several minutes and causing the deck to tilt at an acute angle.
The first mine exploded before they completed the turn, one of the deeper ones judging by the height of the waterspout. Hilemore saw some debris churning in the mass of bubbles boiling to the surface and hoped it was drake flesh.
“Ahead one-third,” he told the engine room as Scrimshine brought the tiller to midships and the Superior levelled out. “Port guns look lively!” Hilemore called through the window, the last word being drowned out by the near-simultaneous explosion of three mines. This time there was no ambiguity about the damage inflicted, Hilemore hearing a cheer from the crew at the sight of what may have been as many as five Blue corpses twisting amidst the falling spume and froth.
Hilemore went out onto the walkway to watch the still-twitching bodies pass by, expecting another explosion at any instant. Instead there was silence. The struggle between Blacks and Blues seemed to have ended and the Superior steamed through quiet waters. “Scared the bastards off, eh, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked.
The answer came before Hilemore could reply. A thunderous cacophony of cannon fire from the fleet had Hilemore rushing through the bridge to the starboard walkway. He had expected to find the sea around the circle of ships wreathed in smoke but instead saw a thick pall rising within the formation. He could hear a continuous rattle of small-arms fire as the gun-crews no doubt scrambled to reload their cannon, then saw ships silhouetted against multiple gouts of flame. It appeared as if the drakes had learned to concentrate their fire, Hilemore cursing in dismay at the sight of a freighter being entirely enveloped in flame. The fires soon found the powder stocks and the ship’s upper works disintegrated in a series of rapid explosions. Secondary blasts boomed within her hull a heart-beat later and she broke in two, each section forming a dark V against the flames as they sank below.
“Hard a-starboard!” Hilemore shouted to Scrimshine, returning to the bridge. “There,” Hilemore said, pointing through the window at the gap created by the freighter’s demise. He resisted the urge to order an increase in speed. They were so close to the formation that there wouldn’t be sufficient time to slow their approach. It made for several agonising minutes as the Superior closed with the fleet, Hilemore seeing another huge explosion rise above the masts.
“Reverse revolutions,” he called into the speaking-tube as the Superior’s prow edged into the gap. “Helm, full right rudder. Miss,” he said, nodding at Kriz and drawing his revolver. “If you would care to join me.”
She followed as he went outside, sliding down the ladder to the deck and calling for Steelfine. “Sir!” the Islander said, appearing at his side with the usual alacrity.
“Shift all guns and riflemen to port,” Hilemore instructed. “Have more mines brought up . . .”
He was interrupted by a hard shove that propelled him across the deck, his skin prickling at the suddenly heated air. Scrambling upright he was confronted by the sight of Steelfine beating out flames on his sleeve whilst a few feet beyond him Kriz stared up at the immobile form of a Blue that had reared up over the rail. Its head was frozen in place whilst the rest of its body coiled with a desperate energy, whipping the sea into a froth. It seemed as if every rifle, carbine and pistol on board fired at once, including Hilemore’s though he couldn’t remember aiming. He fired until the hammer clicked, the Blue’s head disappeared into a red cloud as the hail of bullets struck home, tearing most of the flesh away and laying bare the skull beneath. This too was soon blasted into powder and the Blue’s body immediately slackened, the beast hanging limp in Kriz’s grip. She released it, letting the corpse sink below the rail, and moved to help Hilemore to his feet.
“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“You are entirely forgiven, miss,” Hilemore assured her.
He rushed to the rail, looking out on the fleet, which now resembled something from an illustrated folio of the Travail. Three ships were fully alight with fires raging on most of the others. The sea within the confines of the circle roiled with drakes, Blues repeatedly rearing up to belch flame at the surrounding vessels, then slipping below the waves to evade the subsequent mass of rifle fire. The Superior’s starboard cannon commenced fire and Hilemore saw Steelfine urgently organising the relocation of the other guns. It won’t be enough, he knew, watching the cannister lash at the drakes. With most of the heavy ordnance in the fleet now silenced it was clear they didn’t possess sufficient fire-power to prevail. But there were other weapons to call on.
“Miss,” he said, turning to Kriz. “I should be grateful if you would fetch Mr. Torcreek, Lieutenant Sigoral and Miss Jillett.”
He busied himself with organising the mines on the fore-deck, having the crew remove the floats and the ballast before arming the fuses.
“Captain?” Clay asked, running to his side flanked by his fellow Blood-blessed.
“They need to be evenly spread,” Hilemore said, pointing at the mines then the flaming chaos beyond the starboard rail.
Clay understood immediately, drinking down a full flask of Black and nodding at the others to do the same. Hilemore had the fore-deck cleared of crew and retreated to the bridge walkway before shouting out the order for the Blood-blessed to proceed. Clay went first, lifting the closest mine and gently guiding it out and over the starboard side of the ship then propelling it at speed into the seething mass of Blues. By Hilemore’s reckoning the explosion killed at least two drakes, and distracted several more. He saw a cluster of snake-like forms speeding towards the Superior. Fortunately, Lieutenant Sigoral saw it too and dropped the next mine directly in their path.
The mines flew in a steady arcing torrent after that, the sea within the circle of ships becoming a cauldron of waterspouts, tumbling drake flesh and reflected flame. The amount of explosive released so quickly in such a confined space inevitably caused the surrounding cordon to widen, making Hilemore worry the multiple shock waves might buckle the Superior’s hull plating. It continued until every mine had been thrown, the water displaced by the final explosion falling in a brief rain-storm and heralding a prolonged silence.
To Hilemore it seemed as if they must have killed every drake sent against them, the mass of dead and dying Blues bobbing on the surface was so thick he could probably have walked across it. Then he saw the snouts of more Blues pushing their way up through the carnage and knew they weren’t yet done. He prepared to call out an order for Steelfine to ready the cannon, but stopped at the sight of Clay urgently waving his arms ab
ove his head. The reason became clear a heart-beat later when Lutharon swooped out of the sky in company with a half dozen Blacks. Together they plunged their talons into the gory sea, dragging an uninjured Blue clear of the water. Its screams and flames of protest were cut short as the Blacks bore it high and tore it to pieces, the remnants cascading over the Superior in a grisly red rain that had the crew running for cover lest the blood find their skin.
More Blacks followed, diving down in groups to snare a Blue and carry it off to be slaughtered. The screeching and rending spectacle continued for nigh on a half-hour, by which time any triumph Hilemore might have felt had faded into a guilty recognition of the cost incurred by the night’s events. Several ships were still burning and he saw another had capsized, the sea boiling around her flanks as it slowly claimed her. He couldn’t hear the screams of those trapped within her hull, but they still sang in his head, loud and clear.
CHAPTER 41
Lizanne
She had no memory of the flight from the Grand Cut, nor any recollection of the two days that followed. Her exhaustion was so complete that her slumber remained free of dreams, something for which she would always be grateful. On waking to find herself in Tinkerer’s former clinic room, body aching in numerous places, she was confronted with a sight that forced her to conclude she was dreaming after all.
“So,” Arberus said, rising from a chair at the side of her bed. He regarded her with an expression full of concern but also not lacking in judgement. “Still addicted to risk, I see.”
“Go away,” Lizanne groaned, pushing her head deeper into her pillow. “I’ve no tolerance for dreams just now.”
“Lizanne,” he said, tone hardening a little. She looked at him again, blinking in surprise at the fact that he was still there. He wore the same cavalry officer’s uniform he had worn throughout the revolution, though it now lacked any regimental badges or insignia of rank. His face was as blockishly handsome as ever, though he had picked up another scar. It looked to her like a sabre-cut, tracing along the line of his neck to his collar.