“Enemy cruiser dead ahead, sir!” Ensign Talmant reported from the speaking-tube. His earlier fear seemed to have evaporated in the urgency of battle and he spoke in a clear, strident voice.
Hilemore and Trumane went outside to train their spy-glasses on the smoke wreathing the sea beyond the bows, a tall shape soon resolving into view. Like many of the other Corvantine vessels, she had no paddle casements though her lines were markedly less sleek than those of their newly built ships.
“The Regal,” Trumane said. “Heavily modified, but it’s her.” Hilemore followed the captain back to the bridge, watching him stare at the approaching cruiser with an unwavering concentration. After thirty long seconds he barked, “Ten degrees to starboard!” just as a tell-tale flash blossomed on the Regal’s prow. The shell landed just wide of the Viable’s port bow, close enough to send a quaking shudder through the entire ship. Hilemore was sent sprawling along with Talmant and the helmsman, though Trumane somehow managed to remain upright.
Hilemore heard the answering roar of their own forward battery and scrambled to his feet in time to see the shell impact on the Regal’s upper works, scattering shrapnel across her fore-deck and, with any luck, killing some of their gunners. Talmant gave voice to an involuntary shout of triumph, echoed by the helmsman. Trumane, however, saw no reason to celebrate. “She’s turning,” he said, watching the cruiser heave to starboard. As the Regal’s side was revealed Hilemore saw the rows of guns arrayed along her middle and upper decks, counting at least thirty.
“Seems we’re in for an old-fashioned broadside,” the captain observed. “Ensign, signal the engine room to add another flask to the main power plant.”
“Aye, sir.”
Five flasks. Hilemore was unable to recall an instance when such a quantity of product had been burned at once. The results of unleashing so much power in a single burst were unpredictable to say the least, but, given the impending danger, like the captain he couldn’t see an alternative.
Time seemed to stretch as the Regal sought to complete her turn, enough time in fact for Mr. Lemhill to loose another shell from the pivot-gun and score a hit on the cruiser’s mid-section. The effect was difficult to judge but Hilemore assumed, or rather hoped, they had at least disabled a gun or two. The Viable gave a sudden, jerking lurch, Hilemore coming close to losing his footing once more as she leapt forward, the paddles roaring and the needle on the speed indicator swinging past its maximum.
“Five degrees to starboard,” the captain ordered, unable to risk a sharper turn but presumably hoping to present less of a target to the Regal’s gunners. They had cleared two-thirds of her length by the time the first gun fired, the broadside sweeping along the hull in a booming cacophony of flame and smoke. Hilemore switched his gaze to the bridge’s aft window, finding the sea beyond the Viable’s stern roiling with multiple impacts. For a brief moment he entertained the delusion they might have sufficient velocity to emerge unscathed, instantly dispelled when a shell slammed into the port railing just ahead of the rudder. He had time to watch the rearmost battery torn to pieces by the resultant hail of shrapnel before a thick pall of black smoke concealed the grisly sight. Despite the hit, the Viable’s speed seemed unaffected and they cleared the sights of the Regal’s gunners without further injury.
“Bring us to midships,” the captain commanded before turning to Hilemore. “Damage report, if you please, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.”
He slid down the ladder and ran to the stern. Two men were stumbling about in shock, uniforms ripped and flesh scored by numerous cuts though neither appeared to have suffered fatal injury. He shook them both back to sensibility then ordered them to the sick-bay. A brief inspection of the impact site confirmed the loss of the battery and most of its crew, their remains scattered in red and black clumps around the ruined gun. Fortunately, he found no sign of a hull breach and the rudder appeared undamaged.
“Look to your piece!” he shouted to the nearest gun-crew, who stood regarding the scene in wide-mouthed horror. He pointed to the dim shape of a Corvantine frigate four hundred yards to starboard. “Target in range!”
He hurried towards the bridge, gratified by the sound of renewed firing, and had begun to clamber up the ladder when the Viable abruptly veered off course. The deck pitched beneath his feet as she slewed to port, the vibration of the engine suddenly absent from the planking. He turned to the port paddle casement, his guts lurching at the sight of the whirling blades coming to a halt.
“Get to engineering!” Hilemore glanced up to see Trumane staring down at him from the top of the ladder, face flushed with mingled anger and alarm. “There’s no answer from the tube. Find out what in the Travail is happening down there.”
Hilemore went below, shouldering his way past men hauling fresh ammunition from the magazine and navigating the various obstacles that always seemed to accumulate belowdecks when a ship was in action. He found the engine room filled with steam. One of the stokers lay next to the hatch, a jagged blade of shattered iron protruding from his upper chest, face slack and eyes staring vacantly in death. For the first time since Feros the place was possessed of an unnerving quiet, absent of both the harsh clatter of the auxiliary and the steady thrum of the blood-burner. In fact the only sound was the harshly spoken profanity coming from Chief Engineer Bozware’s throat somewhere amidst the vapour.
“Chief!” Hilemore called, making his way forward.
There was no answer, just more cursing, now accompanied by the ringing sound of a hammer. Hilemore climbed the steps to the platform where the main power plant rested, drawing up short at the sight of Tottleborn. The Blood-blessed sat slumped in his chair, one of his beloved periodicals resting in his lap, mouth open as if frozen in the act of speaking, and a large iron rivet skewered through his temple. Sometimes a Blood-blessed will see something in their trance, something dark and formless . . .
Hilemore tore his gaze away, turning to find the plasmothermic engine dead, the fire behind the glass extinguished and a gaping rent in the combustion chamber. It looked as if some feral monster had hatched from the thing, punching its way out in a violent frenzy. A fresh bout of cursing drew his attention to the scene below. The Chief stood astride the gearing of the auxiliary power plant, swinging a hammer with concentrated ferocity at a piece of jagged metal embedded deep in the cogs. Hilemore didn’t need a detailed explanation to gauge their predicament. Both engines were off-line and the Viable was dead in the water.
“It blew almost exactly six minutes after adding the fifth vial,” the Chief said through gritted teeth as he continued to swing the hammer. “In case you want to make a note in the log.”
“We had no choice.” Hilemore returned his gaze to the blood-burner, noting that the rent in the combustion chamber was severe but also narrow. “Can you seal this?” he asked.
“Aye, but what’s the point?”
“How long?”
Bozware ceased his hammering, comprehension dawning as he met Hilemore’s gaze. “Half an hour at least, but it’ll be a bodge.”
“Do it. I’ll be back directly.”
He went to the ward-room first, unlocking the safe to extract all the remaining flasks of Red then ran along the corridor to the bridge. The hatch to the bridge stood open, affording him a clear view as it disintegrated in a blaze of flame and splintered metal. The blast lifted him off his feet and threw him the length of the corridor, a jarring impact with the bulkhead leaving him senseless.
He surfaced to the sound of panicked shouting and the smell of burning fabric. His hands were suffering repeated flares of agony and someone appeared to be punching him in the chest. After a few seconds, enough of his senses had returned to reveal the shouts as his own and the punches in fact blows delivered by his hands as he attempted to beat out the burning patches on his tunic. A large shape loomed out of the smoke and Hilemore found himself hauled upright, staggerin
g a little as broad hands slapped away the flames.
“Are you injured, sir?” Steelfine asked, narrow gaze tracking him from head to foot in appraisal.
Hilemore shook off the Islander’s grip before taking a deep breath of the tainted air, coughing and straightening his back. “I must get to the bridge.”
They found it a shambles, the walls and roof vanished though the wheel remained mostly intact. The only sign of the helmsman was the red stains covering the woodwork. Captain Trumane lay under a pile of fallen debris, blood streaming from his ears and nose. Hilemore checked his pulse and found it faint but present, though from the amount of blood staining his tunic his injuries were evidently severe. Incredibly, Ensign Talmant still stood next to the speaking-tube, his uniform ragged and liberally covered in blood and, whilst he seemed completely unharmed, his eyes were empty of all comprehension.
“Ensign!” Hilemore took hold of the boy’s singed tunic, shaking him until a vestige of life returned to his eyes. He blinked and cast a panicked gaze around at the wrecked bridge.
“The captain . . .”
“Is incapacitated.” Hilemore realised the sound of cannon fire had faded completely and looked towards the bow, taking in the awful sight of the forward pivot-gun. It swung on its mounting, most of the breech shot away, surrounded by the mangled remains of its crew. He could see the bulky but mutilated form of Mr. Lemhill amongst them. “It appears command now falls to me. Take the wheel. The engines will start up again soon.”
“Sir.” Hilemore turned to see Steelfine pointing to something to port. A Corvantine cruiser had come to a stop some three hundred yards off. She was one of their new-builds, sleeker and more compact in design than the Regal, but apparently well-supplied with marines. They stood along the rail in battle-order whilst the cruiser lowered boats over the side.
“Seems they want a prize,” Steelfine observed. His voice held a definite note of good humour, even anticipation.
“They want our engine,” Hilemore said. “The Viable is the fastest ship they’ve faced today. I assume their admiral is keen to find out why.”
He went to the gangway and surveyed the sea. The fog of battle had faded to a thin mist, revealing a long row of burning hulks. Guns could still be heard in the distance but the rate of fire was desultory; the day had been lost. He turned his gaze to the Viable, counting the bodies littering the deck and noting that all her guns were now silent. Further resistance was a hopeless prospect.
“Mr. Steelfine,” he said. “Muster the riflemen and prepare to repel boarders. See if you can’t get the starboard guns loaded and ready, but don’t fire until my order. I’ll be there directly.”
He had expected some hesitation, a desperate entreaty not to throw their lives away perhaps. But instead Steelfine simply snapped off a salute and turned to descend to the deck, his voice casting out a barrage of orders as loud as any siren. Talmant also just continued to stand at the wheel, wordless and unbowed, though he did spare a glance for the captain.
“We’ve no time to deal with him, Ensign,” Hilemore said. “Stay at your station. Once we’re underway steer north-north-east.”
“Aye, sir.”
The guard standing outside the brig greeted Hilemore with a pale face, though was smart enough not to ask any questions as he handed over his keys. “The captain is injured,” Hilemore told him, turning to unlock the door. “Get to the bridge and transfer him to sick-bay. When you’ve done that draw a rifle and join the Master-at-Arms on deck.”
Inside, Zenida Okanas stood at the bars, her daughter at her side, slim arms clutching her mother’s waist and regarding Hilemore with an accusatory frown.
“Our Blood-blessed is dead,” Hilemore told the pirate woman, seeing little point in preamble. “I am now acting captain and hold full authority.”
She angled her head, a single eyebrow raised as she awaited his next words.
“Name your price,” he said.
She pulled her daughter closer for a second then pointed her to the bunk, repeating the gesture with stern insistence when the girl hesitated. “Full pardon,” Zenida Okanas said. “And the return of my sovereigns.”
Hilemore unlocked the cage door and stood back. “Done. I’ll provide a witnessed agreement when matters are less pressing. As for now however . . .” He gestured at the corridor.
The woman turned to her daughter, speaking softly but firmly in Varestian. “Stay here. If this tub starts to sink make your way up top and swim east. The current may take you to the Isles.”
The girl gave a short nod of affirmation and Zenida Okanas briskly walked from the brig, striding ahead of Hilemore as they made their way to engineering. They found the Chief Engineer at the blood-burner, hammering a final rivet in place with a bulky, steam-driven hammer. He had cannibalised the auxiliary engine for iron plates of sufficient dimensions to cover the rent in the combustion chamber, making it resemble a blistered injury to metal skin. Hilemore saw a row of tarpaulin-covered bodies near the door, Tottleborn’s presumably amongst them.
“Another twenty minutes,” Bozware said, groaning as he and the stokers set the steam-hammer down. “Got to reconnect the steam lines.”
Hilemore handed the three flasks to Zenida Okanas. “You know what to do, I assume?”
She gave the engine a brief glance and nodded before addressing a question to Bozware. “Is this thing likely to blow again?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?” the Chief replied, not raising his head as he went about fastening a steam line to the engine’s outflow valve.
“‘Caution favours no-one in battle,’” Hilemore said in Varestian, quoting an old proverb.
“If I die,” she replied, “I will expect you to see my daughter home. The Highwall, in southern Varestia . . .”
“I’ve heard of it.” He turned and made for the hatchway. “Though if you die, I expect we’ll all join you in the Deep shortly after.”
—
“Keep down, you no-balled swine!” Steelfine shouted to the assembled riflemen, all crouched about the fore-deck at Hilemore’s order. He had managed to get three of the remaining guns into action, all loaded with chain-and-canister-shot rather than shells. Such archaic munitions were no longer carried by many Protectorate vessels but, once again, Trumane had proven himself a prescient captain. Hilemore had the guns set back from the rail and concealed behind piled wreckage, the gunners all under strict orders not to fire until his command. He crouched at Steelfine’s side, the three surviving ensigns at his back with swords and revolvers drawn. He had named them his personal bodyguard, hoping a sign of favour might stiffen their spirits somewhat. However, despite some forced smiles, they all shared the bright-eyed and rigid expressions common to youth who witness far too much carnage in a single dose.
All in all, the Viable’s defenders numbered some thirty-three souls, what remained of the original riflemen plus the surviving crew. It wasn’t enough to defeat a full company of Corvantine marines but it may well suffice to delay them whilst Bozware got the blood-burner back on-line. There was the added risk that, once it became evident they intended to fight it out, the captain of the Corvantine cruiser might simply decide to pull back his marines and blast them out of the water. In which case you will have scored a victory, Hilemore reminded himself. In denying them the Viable’s engine.
He moved to the rail and peered through the assembled debris to observe the approach of the Corvantine launches. There were two in front with another six behind, each carrying fifteen marines. Two launches from the rear echelon had separated from the formation and begun to circle around the Viable’s stern, presumably to assault the port side whilst the remainder assailed them from starboard.
“Take ten men and cover the port rail,” Hilemore told Steelfine. “No firing until they’re climbing the ropes.”
He saw the Islander’s hesitation, no doubt pondering the cha
nces of fulfilling his obligation if he didn’t remain at Hilemore’s side. “It’ll all be blades and fury soon enough,” Hilemore told him. “Come find me then.”
Steelfine gave a nod and moved away, keeping low as he picked out the ten men who would accompany him. Hilemore returned his gaze to the approaching launches. The marines rowed with sedate but disciplined dips of their oars, a small cannon perched on the prow of each launch where their officers stood watching the silent and smoking hulk ahead with more vigilance than Hilemore would have liked.
“Make ready,” he told the gunners, sending them scrambling to the pieces, removing the chocks from the wheels in preparation for rolling them forward. Hilemore moved down the line of guns in a crouch, checking the sights and speaking just loud enough for them to hear. “Go for the men, not the boats. There will only be time enough for one shot, so aim true. When it’s done, pick up your weapons and join the fight.”
He was gratified by the general murmur of assent and the determination on every face. He had made a brief speech on ascending to the deck, promising escape if they could stand off the assault for only a few minutes. Fortunately, it seemed they had believed it more than he did.
He returned to his vantage point and held up a hand, watching the nearest launch approach until it was so close he could make out the features of the officer on the prow. He was dismayed to find the man of similar age and height to himself, a veteran too judging by the scar that traced along his jaw-line. The officer peered at the Viable with an intense scrutiny, eyes narrowing farther and Hilemore knew he had detected some sign of warning, a glimpse of one of the guns or a bayonet raised a fraction too high. In either case, the game was up and the fight was on.