CHAPTER 18
Hilemore
“They’re safely on the plains,” Zenida said. “Mr. Torcreek thinks another three days until they reach the lake.”
“So soon?” Hilemore asked in puzzlement. His examination of the charts relating to southern Arradsia left him with no illusions as to the distances involved.
“Apparently a stampeding Cerath herd can cover a hundred miles a day,” she said. “Seems a hazardous form of travel to me, but there you have it.”
They were in his cabin, Zenida having just emerged from the regularly scheduled trance. Every time she did this Hilemore would sit in tense expectation of her awakening with nothing to report. “He also said to tell you that his uncle’s mood seems to have improved a little,” she added.
“Well that’s something at least.”
Hilemore rose from his desk, pacing to the window to gaze at the placid waters outside. They were anchored off the southern shore of the Upper Torquil. Unwilling to sit idle whilst awaiting the Longrifles’ return, Hilemore had undertaken an ad hoc mapping operation of this inland sea. It was clear that the charts of this region held by both the Maritime Protectorate and the Corvantine Imperial Navy were badly outdated and in sore need of revision. Besides which, he preferred to occupy the crew with something beyond yet more painting of the hull or another scrubbing of the bilge tanks.
“I thought I’d take a launch to shore tomorrow,” Zenida said, joining him at the port-hole. “Akina hasn’t set foot on dry land for months. Even for a Varestian, it’s not good to lose touch with the earth. With your permission of course.”
Hilemore surveyed the shore, which was much more picturesque than the marshlands that surrounded the Quilam. Small rocky islands topped by trees proliferated amongst the many inlets and creeks, though any scenic appreciation was offset by the knowledge of what lay beyond. “If you wish,” he said. “I’ll send Mr. Talmant along with an escort.”
“Why not come yourself? Take a little time away from your charts. I know Akina would like that.”
“All she ever does is make fun of me, when she’s not cursing me in pirate slang.”
“That’s why she would like it. And so would I.”
Hilemore turned towards her, finding a wary but definite smile on her lips. They were conversing half in Varestian and half Mandinorian, as they often did when alone, which reminded him that she hadn’t referred to him as “sea-brother” for several days now. In Varestian culture the absence of such formality between crewmates could have significant implications. The thought immediately summoned Lewella’s face to mind and he looked away.
You have no obligations, he reminded himself. A broken engagement is just that; the absence of obligation.
“I . . .” he began, unsure as he spoke what his answer would be, then stopped as a palpable vibration thrummed through the deck beneath his feet. The sensation was accompanied by a loud keening sound that seemed to be coming from beneath the ship.
He frowned at Zenida. “Is that . . . ?”
“It’s Jack,” she said. “And I believe that’s a warning cry.”
“Twenty points off the starboard bow, sir,” Talmant said, handing Hilemore a spy-glass as he and Zenida rushed onto the bridge. “About two miles out. Another to stern, similar distance. Chief Bozware has the auxiliary engine on-line and the blood-burner is standing by. Anchors are being raised.”
Hilemore settled the spy-glass on a patch of sea two miles beyond the bows, finding a familiar roiling to the Torquil’s surface he had hoped never to see again. A quick check of the stern confirmed it. Greens, and a damn sight more than we faced in the Cut.
“Well done, Mr. Talmant,” he said, lowering the glass and speaking swiftly but calmly. “Signal the Chief to bring us to one-third auxiliary power. Mr. Scrimshine, steer due west, if you please.” He pulled the set of keys from the chain around his neck and handed it to Zenida, lowering his voice. “Take every vial and report to the engine room. Tell the Chief to pack the blood-burner with as much product as he thinks she can take. Wait for my signal before firing it.”
She reached out to take the key, her hand closing over his and lingering for a second. “You owe me a trip to shore,” she said before swiftly exiting the bridge.
“Sound battle stations, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said, drawing his revolver and checking the cylinder. “Riflemen to the rail. All guns to load cannister.”
After the near-fatal confrontation in the Cut he had ordered Steelfine to see to the conversion of half their remaining standard shells to cannister. The armour-piercing warheads had been pried off and replaced with modified food cans filled with rifle bullets and whatever scrap-metal they could find. Such munitions were unlikely to prove as effective as true cannister-shot from an Ironship manufactory, but Hilemore expected them to prove their worth if the range was short enough.
He went out on the walkway tracking his spy-glass between the two approaching Green packs. It seemed to him that perhaps every aquatic Green in the Upper Torquil had been mustered by the White’s unseen but undeniable hand. Perhaps that’s why it took them so long to return, he mused. Gathering forces to make sure of us the next time.
“Take us to full auxiliary power, Mr. Talmant,” he called over his shoulder as the Superior settled to midships, shifting his glass to the western horizon, finding it mercifully clear of enemies. Hilemore returned to the bridge to plot their position on the map table. They were fast approaching the point where the Upper Torquil narrowed north of the Cut, meaning their overall speed would be reduced as they ran headlong into the morning tidal surge. The realisation raised the uncomfortable suspicion that the timing of this attack might not be coincidental.
“Signal the engine room,” he told Talmant. “Fire the blood-burner.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hilemore moved to stand at Scrimshine’s shoulder, peering through the bridge window. The blood-burner came on-line an instant later, the choppier waters of the narrows suddenly seeming to speed towards them as they surged to thirty knots then beyond. “Got some more tight manoeuvring for you, Leading Deck Hand,” Hilemore told Scrimshine. “Though I doubt it’ll be quite as bad as the Shelf. Think you’re up to it?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Scrimshine said. “But there ain’t another hand on this tub I’d trust the job to.”
Hilemore didn’t feel inclined to argue the point, the helmsman was probably right. “You know the course from here,” he said. “On through the narrows to the Cut. Once there don’t wait for orders, take us straight through.”
“It’ll be heavy going, sir,” Scrimshine warned. “Tide’s likely to be fierce at this hour. Even with the blood-burner going.”
“If it’s hard for us it’s hard for the Greens,” Hilemore said, turning away. “Mr. Talmant, you have the bridge. Mr. Scrimshine’s position is to be protected at all costs. I’ll send two riflemen to assist.”
Talmant saluted and drew his revolver. “Very good, sir.”
“Mr. Steelfine!” Hilemore called as he descended the ladder to the deck, drawing up short as the Islander’s bulky form materialised at his shoulder almost immediately. “Muster all spare hands into a working party,” Hilemore ordered. “Shift the port and starboard batteries to the stern, and stack up the cannister for rapid loading.”
“Aye, sir.”
The lieutenant strode off shouting orders as Hilemore went aft, ordering two riflemen to the bridge and the rest to position themselves on the upper works. “No firing until they’re at the rails,” he cautioned as they scrambled up the ladders.
Moving to the stern he trained his glass on the sea beyond the Superior’s frothing wake, seeing the two groups of Greens beginning to converge two miles off. “They’re within range, sir,” the aft battery’s lead gunner pointed out. “Could throw out a salvo of steel-heads, get a few at least.”
Hilemore shook his head. “Waste of powder. Save it for the cannister.”
It took over a quarter hour to man-handle the port and starboard guns to the stern. When it was done they had five muzzle-loading thirteen-pound cannon lined up side by side, each with a stack of twenty cannister shells.
“When the time comes forget about accuracy,” Hilemore told the gunners, all kneeling in readiness. “Rate of fire is more important just now. The Undaunted was my grandfather’s favourite ship, and he was given to boasting that she had the best gunners in Protectorate history. Four shots a minute in close action, he said. I always swore I’d beat that if I ever got the chance. Don’t make me a liar, lads.”
“Aye, sir!” Steelfine barked, the others joining in with the enthusiasm of men facing death and keen for any source of encouragement. The fact that Hilemore’s grandfather, the legendary Commodore Racksmith, had never said any such thing was immaterial at this point.
The Superior lurched as Scrimshine altered the angle of the rudder to centre the bows on the fast-approaching Cut. There was a noticeable drop in forward speed once the ship completed the turn, her wake broadening as the engine laboured against the tide. Hilemore reckoned their speed to have reduced by at least a third. As ever in the moments before combat time became distorted, the agony of anticipation stretching seconds into minutes. Hilemore heard one of the gunners let out a gasp of relief as the roiling waters beyond the wake began to dissipate.
“Bastards are giving up,” the man breathed, sagging a little then straightening as Steelfine barked out a rebuke.
“I’m afraid the bastards are being clever,” Hilemore said after scanning the water with his glass. The Greens had divided, splitting off into two narrow groups, keeping close to the edge of the channel where the current was weakest. They were near enough now for him to see that they were slip-streaming, one Green leading the way, making the going easier for those behind. After several minutes the lead Green would fall back to be immediately replaced by another. Clever bastards indeed, Hilemore thought.
They entered the Cut proper soon after, whereupon the Superior slowed to the equivalent of one-third auxiliary speed. The Greens once again proved their cunning by veering away from the banks and into the ship’s wake. With the frigate acting as a breakwater they were soon able to close on the stern, approaching in a dense pack that stretched away for at least three hundred yards.
“Range fifty yards, sir,” the lead gunner reported, Hilemore noting how the man’s hand shook on his gun’s firing lanyard.
“Wait for the order,” Hilemore instructed, moving without particular haste to stand at the aft rail, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the Greens draw closer still. He waited until he could see the sunlight glinting on their scales and shook his head, possessed by a curious sense of regret for what was about to unfold. Such foolish things the White makes you do, he thought, turning away and nodding at Steelfine. “Sequential order, Number One. Port to starboard. Fire when ready.”
The gun on the far right fired even before Steelfine had finished shouting the command. The other four followed suit in quick succession. Hilemore moved to the left to gauge the effect of the shot as the crews feverishly began to reload. He could see a patch of red amongst the froth of the Superior’s wake, but the Greens were still coming on apace. The next salvo raised five identical waterspouts amongst the heart of the pack, Hilemore taking satisfaction from the sight of tumbling and torn Green bodies raining down in the aftermath.
“Got a dozen at least with that one, lads!” he called to the gunners. “Keep it up!”
He wasn’t sure the gun-crews did in fact manage four shots a minute in the time it took them to expend two-thirds of their cannister, but if not it was certainly close. The Superior left a pinkish stain the length of the Cut. Dead and dying Greens rolled and twisted in the current, some calling out plaintive cries before slipping beneath the water. None came within twenty yards of the ship’s stern and the survivors seemed to have abandoned their pursuit, milling about in the centre of the Cut as the Superior drew away.
The guns fired once more before Hilemore called out a cease-fire order, the cannister launched at too great a range to have any effect but the crews let out a triumphant cheer anyway. “A good day’s work, sir,” Steelfine commented as they surveyed the carnage churning in their wake.
“Actually, no, Number One, it isn’t,” Hilemore replied. “We appear to have been expelled from the Upper Torquil, making our mission markedly more difficult. We’ll have to find another location to retrieve the expedition . . .”
“Sir!” He trailed off as one of the riflemen he had assigned to the bridge approached at a run, coming to a halt and offering a quick salute. “Mr. Talmant’s compliments, sir. He requests your presence on the bridge.” The man’s shoulders slumped a little, face grim as he added, “There are more of them ahead, sir. Hundreds of the buggers sealing the far end of the Cut.”
Chased us right into a trap, and I fell for it.
Hilemore’s hands bunched into fists at the small of his back as he sought to keep the combined anger and self-reproach from his features. He had ordered the Superior to one-half auxiliary power, which, thanks to the inrushing tidal surge, kept them in a stationary position a half mile from the southern mouth of the Cut. He stood at the Superior’s prow along with Steelfine and Zenida, surveying the mass of Greens that filled the exit from the channel. There were so many it seemed as if they formed a solid barrier of drake flesh, far too thick to blast their way through with the ammunition they had left.
“We could wait for the tide to shift,” Zenida suggested. “Fire up the blood-burner when it does and charge them.”
“They’ll swarm the ship,” Hilemore said.
“We can fortify the upper works, sir,” Steelfine said. “Seal all the hatches and shift the cannon to the walkways.” The Islander’s features were rigid, but Hilemore saw the truth in his eyes clearly; a desperate ploy, but better than nothing. One thing was clear: They couldn’t just sit here and wait to run out of fuel.
“Very well,” he said. “Form parties to gather anything we can use as a barricade . . .”
He fell silent as a roar sounded from the mouth of the Cut, turning in time to see a column of flame erupt from the centre of the Green barrier. The drakes let out an immediate, shrill chorus of alarm as a very large blue shape burst through their ranks. Jack continued to belch out fire as he rose amongst them, turning the sea to steam and boiling the Greens who thrashed around him. Then, as the flames died, he arched his massive body and brought his tail up and down in a blow that shook the ship as he whipped it into the mass of flailing drakes.
“Get to the engine room,” Hilemore told Zenida, who was already running for the hatch. “Full power to the blood-burner!” he called after her before turning to Steelfine. “Take charge of the pivot-gun. Fire as she bears.”
Hilemore sprinted for the bridge, hauling himself up the ladder in a rapid scramble. The order he was about to give Scrimshine proved unnecessary as the ship lurched into forward motion and the helmsman spun the wheel to aim her at the opening Jack had torn in the cordon of Greens.
“Thought the bastard was a coward,” he said as Hilemore moved to his side.
“Not today it seems.”
Flames rose again as they sped forward, Jack casting the jet of fire all around him. The death cries of the Greens rose to ear-piercing levels as the Superior charged into the remnants of their barrier. A stream of fire flashed over the fore-deck, blinding Hilemore for a second. He blinked and wiped at his eyes, looking again to see Jack’s head rising to port with a pair of struggling Greens clamped in his jaws. The Blue bit down and shook his head, the Greens coming apart in an explosion of blood and shredded flesh. Jack opened his mouth wide, sword-length teeth gleaming red and white as he dived down in search of fresh prey.
Flames licked at the Superior’s flanks as she exited the mouth of the Cut, a last desperate attempt by the drakes to bar their escape that did little damage. Only one Green appeared on the fore-deck, a burnt, ragged thing that struggled over the rail to stagger about, coughing flame in all directions until a blast of cannister from the pivot-gun tore it to pieces. Then they were through, the smoke and billowing steam clearing to reveal the welcome sight of the Lower Torquil.
“Maintain speed and heading,” Hilemore said before going out onto the walkway and turning to the stern. He could see Jack still assailing the Greens but now they were fighting back, dozens of them leaping clear of the water to belch fire at his head whilst others clamped themselves onto his coils, biting furiously at his scales. The great Blue let out a roar of pain and rage, his flames incinerating a half-dozen Greens as he thrashed his massive body, but there were more boiling out of the sea. Within moments Jack was covered in them, clinging like leeches to his hide. The weight of so much flesh inevitably began to bear him down, though he fought and bit and roasted his enemies to the end. Hilemore closed his eyes as Jack’s head disappeared beneath the surface in a cloud of steam, his last roar swallowed by a sea stained dark with drake blood.
“Report from the crow’s nest, sir,” Talmant called from the bridge. “More Greens to the east.”
Hilemore tore his gaze from the scene of Jack’s demise, training his glass on the eastern horizon. The Green pack was a good way off, four miles or more, even larger than those they had already encountered and approaching fast. Every aquatic Green in the Torquils, he thought, returning to the bridge. Defeat was not a pleasant sensation but to deny it would make him a poor excuse for a captain.
“Mr. Scrimshine,” he said, “steer due south. We’re quitting the Torquils.”