CHAPTER 4
Hilemore
“Who is she?”
“Told you who she is, Captain.” Clay gave Hilemore one of his signature, punch-inviting grins. Hilemore wasn’t sure whether to take some comfort from the fact that this young man had retained an effortless ability to annoy him despite his recent travails.
“Her name doesn’t tell me a great deal,” he replied, striving to control his burgeoning ire. “And, given our circumstances, I find my patience in short supply. So I will ask you again.” He put both fists on the desk and leaned closer to Clay, meeting his gaze with unmistakable intent. “Who is she?”
They were in the captain’s cabin aboard the Dreadfire, Clay nursing a cup of something hot Lieutenant Steelfine had managed to concoct in the galley. Lieutenant Sigoral was being tended to by the youngest Torcreek, though Loriabeth herself seemed close to collapse from exposure. Despite that she continued to nurse the Corvantine Marine and proved deaf to her father’s stern and repeated order to rest.
Then there was the woman. The woman named Kriz, who had not been a member of their party when they entered the Spire, and yet had now somehow been retrieved from the depths. She had nodded a greeting when Clay introduced her but seemed reluctant to utter more than a few words, her Mandinorian spoken in an uncannily perfect Carvenport accent. She sounded like someone raised in the Blinds, the notorious slum where Clay had spent his childhood years, but Hilemore knew instinctively that couldn’t be the case.
He felt an overriding sense of strangeness when he looked at her. Judging by her colouring he would have taken her for a South Mandinorian, but there was an angularity to her features that made him doubt it. Added to that was her manner, the way she stared at every fixture on the ship, eyes wary but also hungry for detail. Then there was the hour or more she had spent on deck staring at the sky and the surrounding ice-floes, her face occasionally breaking into a smile of unalloyed joy. The smile disappeared, however, the instant Hilemore attempted to talk to her, at which point she pulled her blanket tight about her shoulders and disappeared belowdecks. Hilemore couldn’t help the feeling that, although he had witnessed something unbelievable in Clay’s taming of Last Look Jack, this woman represented something far more incredible.
“Her full name is Krizelle,” Clay said, hesitating before gulping down some of Steelfine’s beverage and continuing in a tone of forced matter-of-factness. “Last survivor of the Philos Caste. She’s about ten thousand years old and was the first Blood-blessed born on this planet.” He sipped from the mug again, smacking his lips in appreciation. “This is really good, whatever it is.” The humour faded from his face as he glanced up at Hilemore’s silent, glowering visage.
“Alright,” Clay said with a sigh, setting the mug down on the desk. “But you better take a seat, Captain. This is a long story.”
“It’s true,” Loriabeth said. “Every word of it.” She jerked her head at Sigoral’s slumbering form on the bunk behind her. “You can ask him when he wakes.”
She had curtained off a section of the hold to use as a sick bay and hadn’t strayed from the lieutenant’s side since. Sigoral had been dosed with a small amount of their remaining stock of Green, Loriabeth also applying a diluted tincture of the product to his wound with a compress. Judging by the state of the damage, Hilemore entertained serious doubts the Marine would ever recover his sight in that eye. The pain had clearly left a deep mark for the man fidgeted in his sleep, hands jerking repeatedly as if he were clutching his carbine.
“An entire enclosed world down below.” Hilemore shook his head in a mixture of awe and incredulity. “It’s a hard tale to swallow, miss. And not one the Board will easily believe.”
“They can believe what they like.” She gave a pointed glance at where Kriz sat conversing with Clay at the galley table. “Besides, it ain’t like we got no proof.”
Hilemore nodded his thanks and moved away, pausing to regard the ancient woman who appeared only a few years his junior. She and Clay spoke in a language Hilemore didn’t know, an oddly inflected tongue of elongated vowels and soft consonants. The language of the past, he assumed. Learned by Torcreek in the trance along with many secrets he no doubt chose to keep back. Lengthy as the young Blood-blessed’s story had been, Hilemore’s experienced eye picked out several instances of slight hesitation accompanied by the fractional aversion of the eyes that told of a lie or deliberate omission. It won’t do, he decided, starting forward with a purposeful stride. I must know all of it to decide our course.
His purpose, however, was soon interrupted as the Dreadfire’s deck suddenly heaved beneath his feet, coming close to pitching him flat on his face. Hilemore grabbed a beam to steady himself, holding on as the deck lurched again. Cutlery and plates cascaded from the galley table as the ship seemed to revolve, swaying as if borne up by a heavy sea. But the weather’s calm, Hilemore thought, peering through the nearest port-hole.
“Blues again, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked, eyes wide and bright in his cadaverous face.
“Not with Jack so close by,” Clay said, making an unsteady progress to Hilemore’s side with Kriz following close behind. “Reckon we got some fresh trouble, Captain.”
The ship settled and Hilemore rushed for the steps to the upper deck, emerging to see Steelfine and a pair of crewmen leaning over the rail to stare at the water below. Moving to the Islander’s side, Hilemore followed his gaze to see that the sea was churning, large bubbles rising to the surface and bursting all around.
“Seer’s balls, what a stink!” one of the crew exclaimed, wafting the air from his nose at the miasma rising from the roiling sea. It was a potent stench to be sure, sulphurous and thick enough to clog the nostrils with an acrid sting.
“The fault in the sea-floor,” Hilemore realised as more bubbles rose, once again causing the Dreadfire to sway. “It must still be coughing out a great deal of lava. An annoyance but hardly an obstacle. Mr. Scrimshine!” he called to the former smuggler. “Take over the helm if you please, keep her heading north.”
“Aye, Skipper!” Scrimshine gave one of his less-than-regulation salutes and ran to the tiller, pushing the previous helmsman aside with an urgent shove.
“Stop!”
Hilemore turned as a hand tugged at his sleeve, finding himself confronted by Kriz. “We need to stop,” she said in her clipped, street-level Mandinorian.
“You may have noticed, miss, but time is against us.” Hilemore politely disentangled himself. “Our food stocks being what they are . . .”
“Gas!” she interrupted, pointing towards the ship’s prow. Hilemore followed her finger, frowning at the haze ahead. It was thin but definitely there, a soft grey vapour drifting amongst the bergs.
Kriz said something in her own language, raising her finger to point at the distant fiery bulk of Mount Reygnar. When Hilemore blinked at her in incomprehension she gave what he assumed was a highly simplified translation. “Poison gas. The fault extends all the way to that volcano. If we sail towards it everyone on board will be dead within the hour.”
Hilemore went to the prow, training his spy-glass on Reygnar’s slopes. The eruption that had begun days ago continued unabated, huge chunks of molten rock spouted from the mountain’s gaping summit in a plentiful torrent. The lava-stream made a sluggish but irresistible progress to the sea where great billows of steam occluded what he assumed to be a rapidly growing new island. Although his education in geology had been confined to a few classes at the Protectorate Maritime Academy, he knew another side-effect of so much of the earth’s innards being released into the sea would be the production of various gases, none of which were conducive to longevity.
“Trim sails!” Hilemore ordered, sending the sailors scurrying. “Mr. Steelfine, see if you can get the anchor lowered. Boiling some oil to melt the ice on the chains might do it.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“We can’t wait this out,” Kriz said, moving closer to Hilemore and speaking in a low voice. “The eruption could go on for days. As you said, we don’t have the food.”
“There is but one navigable channel through this ice,” Hilemore said, pointing to the winding course ahead. He felt a resurgence of his earlier anger, the sensation of having no good options was never a comfortable one for a captain. We sail on we die, we stay we die, he thought biting down on a sigh of frustration.
“There is a way,” Kriz said. “But I’ll need a particular substance in as much quantity as you can provide.”
“What substance?”
Kriz gave a doubtful frown, as if unsure the word she was about to speak was the right one. “Piss,” she said with a bland smile. “I need a great deal of piss.”
Scrimshine proved the most productive of the crewmen, filling two large pickle-jars to Hilemore’s one. “Reckon I can squeeze out a few drops more, Skipper,” he offered, britches still undone as he hovered splay-footed over a steaming jar. Hilemore wasn’t sure what smelled worse, the gas or the product of Scrimshine’s bladder.
“I think that’ll do for now,” he said, averting his eyes as the helmsman buttoned himself up. There were some sights even a seasoned sailor couldn’t abide.
In addition to the urine, Kriz had Steelfine roast as much coal as could be crammed into the galley stove. The scorched bricks were then pounded into a fine powder. “Two layers will provide better protection,” she explained laying out a strip of their thinnest fabric on the table. In addition to the Dreadfire’s meagre sails her hold had yielded a number of flags, all dating back to the pre-Corporate age. Hilemore assumed they were souvenirs of the long-dead Captain Bledthorne’s brief pirating career. He had thought they might be worth something to an antiquities dealer should they ever return to civilisation, but was happy to surrender any potential profit in the circumstances.
Under Kriz’s instruction the flags had all been sliced into strips six inches wide and twelve long. “Carbon absorbs most gases,” she said, spooning about a quarter-pound of the powdered coal onto the fabric. “But not all. Hopefully,” she continued, laying another strip on top of the layer of coal dust, this one having been dipped into one of the steaming buckets, “urine will filter out the rest. Stitch them together and you have a basic respirator.”
“Hopefully?” Hilemore asked, receiving a helpless shrug in response. He resisted the urge to ask more questions. There were no other choices and this had to be risked. “Let’s be about it, lads,” he said instead, sending the crew into motion. “Two masks each. Just like she showed you. Stitch them tight and be quick.”
He drew Kriz aside as the crew got to work, speaking softly. “How long will they last?”
“It depends on the thickness of the gas. If we run into a dense concentration they’ll become saturated fairly quickly.”
“At our current speed it will take at least a day to reach the mountain and another to get clear of it.”
“Then we need to sail faster.”
“We’ve barely enough sheets to keep her moving as it is.”
“Pardon me, Captain,” Clay said, appearing at Kriz’s side. “But we don’t need the wind to get this old tub moving. Just a lotta strong rope.”
They used the Dreadfire’s only boat to string the rope out in front of the prow. Hilemore, Steelfine, Clay and the elder Torcreek took on the task, the crew displaying a marked reluctance to place themselves in proximity to the monster whose spines were frequently glimpsed cutting through the surrounding waters. Hilemore knew the sailors were unlikely to disobey a direct order but thought it best not to fray their already thread-like nerves further. Steelfine, of course, appeared to have no nerves whilst Braddon assumed a mantle of steady surety, though Hilemore caught the wariness in his gaze whenever it alighted on Jack’s spines. By contrast Clay exuded only a cheerful calm as they rowed away from the ship’s hull, playing the rope out behind. It was really three ropes in one, the thickest hawsers they could find braided into a single cable thicker than a man’s arm. It had been fashioned into a loop some thirty yards long, both ends fixed to the anchor mountings on either side of the rotted figure-head on the Dreadfire’s prow.
“Reckon this is far enough,” Clay said and the boat slowed to a gentle drift as Steelfine shipped oars.
“What now?” Hilemore enquired as Clay focused his gaze on Jack. The Blue loitered only a stone’s throw away, one great eye poking above the surface to regard them either with curiosity or hunger. Hilemore couldn’t tell.
Clay’s response was soft and cryptic, his expression now one of studied concentration as he stared at Jack. “Now I get to see if I could’ve made Miss Ethelynne proud,” he murmured.
For a full minute nothing happened, Hilemore and the others looking at Clay in frigid expectation. The Blood-blessed’s brows creased and uncreased several times, his lips twitching all the while, and Hilemore knew he was witnessing direct communication between a human and a drake. Finally, the great eye blinked and disappeared below the surface, the beast’s tall spines frothing the water as it twisted its body and dived.
“Let it go, Uncle,” Clay told Braddon and they released the rope in unison. It subsided below the surface with a soft splash that soon transformed into a white explosion as Jack’s head erupted from the water barely a second later, huge jaws clamping down on the cable. The resultant swell sent their boat into a spin, Hilemore coming close to tipping over the side before Steelfine used his oars to steady the craft.
Hilemore’s gaze was drawn by the sound of Clay’s laughter. He stood at the boat’s stern, head shaking and grin wide as he regarded the sight of Jack waiting patiently with the rope lodged firmly in his mouth. “He gets it,” Clay said and laughed again. “He really gets it.”
“Six knots, do you think, Mr. Steelfine?”
“Closer to seven, sir.” The Islander’s voice was muffled by his mask and he was obliged to shout to make himself understood. “Think he might get up to eight when the channel straightens.”
Hilemore cast his gaze over the Dreadfire’s much broader and deeper wake then back at Last Look Jack, or Old Jack as Clay insisted on calling him now. The Blue seemed tireless as it towed the ship northwards, his huge body coiling in a steady unchanging rhythm. Thanks to Jack they had covered more miles in an hour than in the previous two days. Whatever dire results the gas may have inflicted on an unprotected human didn’t seem to affect the beast at all.
“It’s a creature that breathes fire,” Clay explained when Hilemore raised the issue. “Probably got all manner of poison swirling about his lungs already.”
Pleasing as this was, any elation Hilemore might have felt was quelled by the thickening stench which was detectable even through the nostril-stinging barrier of his makeshift mask. So far the masks had worked, none of the crew having succumbed to the miasma, though a couple had displayed signs of confusion and unsteadiness. As an added precaution Hilemore ordered the bulk of the crew belowdecks and all hatches and port-holes sealed. He knew it was scant protection; although the Dreadfire was a remarkably sturdy old bird she had more holes in her than a Corvantine deserter after a court martial. But a crew needed to be kept busy, especially in times of crisis.
More worrying than the gas was the looming sight of Mount Reygnar. They were little over two miles away from the volcano now and what had been a fiery spectacle was fast becoming an ominous danger. The ice surrounding the mountain had disappeared entirely, creating what was in effect a large warm-water lagoon of churning currents which even Old Jack might have trouble navigating. Added to that was the unpredictable violence of the eruptions, Reygnar vomiting forth chunks of molten rock at irregular intervals. They would ascend to a great height before plunging down into the surrounding lagoon, trailing smoke like fire-balls cast by some ancient and massive catapult.
Initially the currents proved more of a danger, Jack swimming headlong into a swirling eddy that sent the Dreadfire heaving to starboard and threatened to rip the cable from the prow. “Look lively at the helm!” Hilemore barked at Scrimshine, who was busily spinning the tiller in an effort to counter the current and maintain the correct angle to the tethered drake.
“The beast needs to slow down, Skipper!” Scrimshine returned, grunting with the strain of hauling the wheel to midships.
“Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore said, moving to where Clay stood at the very apex of the prow. “A tad slower, if you please.”
Clay gave a distracted nod, keeping his gaze fixed on the Blue. A moment later the ship began to slow to about two-thirds her previous speed. Hilemore extended his spy-glass and trained it on the waters ahead, finding just a wall of drifting smoke and steam, no doubt rich in a plethora of lethal gases. “Five points to port, Mr. Torcreek,” he ordered, drawing a bemused glance from the Blood-blessed.
“That way,” Hilemore bellowed through his mask, pointing to the left. “I’ll tell you when to straighten her out. We need to keep close to the edge of this expanse.”
Clay nodded again and Jack soon altered course, hauling clear of the fast-approaching fog. Hilemore turned his gaze to the mountain, now a dark mass in the roiling smoke, glowing lava threading the slopes’ flanks like veins of fire. Even more unnerving than the sight of it was the volcano’s voice, a constant thunderous roar accompanied by the occasional boom as lightning flashed in the billowing black clouds that crowned the summit.
“Sir!” Steelfine gave an urgent cry from the starboard rail, pointing at the mostly black sky. Hilemore saw it immediately, a flaming ball of lava reaching the apex of its flight. He had a fraction of a second to judge its course, but a life aboard warships had left him with an instinct for gauging the trajectory of dangerous projectiles.
“Hard to starboard!” he said, clamping a hand on Clay’s shoulder and pointing to the right. “Fast as he can!” Hilemore whirled away and sprinted towards Scrimshine, joining him at the wheel to help spin it to starboard so the drake’s abrupt change in course wouldn’t rip away the tether.
The fire-ball came streaking down barely a second later, throwing up a great geyser of steam and displaced water as it impacted within pistol range of the Dreadfire’s port side. The old ship hadn’t been built for such violent manoeuvres and Hilemore felt the aged timbers beneath his boots thrum in a groan of collective protest. Keep together, old girl, Hilemore implored her, running a hand along the oaken wheel. Not much longer now. Then you can rest.
As if in response the ship settled, Hilemore tracking Jack’s course as Clay steered a more gentle track back towards the fringes of the lagoon. It was then that Hilemore realised he was alone at the tiller. He began to voice a rebuke at Scrimshine then saw the former smuggler lying prone on the deck, eyes red and bulging above his mask as he convulsed.
“Mr. Steelfine, take the helm!” Hilemore called out, rushing to Scrimshine’s side. The man’s gloved hands scrabbled at Hilemore’s arms, white froth appearing at the edges of his mask as his choking and convulsions intensified. Hilemore hooked his arms around Scrimshine’s chest and dragged him to the hatch leading to the hold, stamping on the planking until Skaggerhill heaved it open. Together he and the harvester dragged Scrimshine to the galley table, laying him out. His spasms were weakening now, though his eyes were still bright and full of pleading as they stared up at Hilemore. Don’t let me die, Skipper.
“The filters must be saturated,” Kriz said, coming forward with a fresh mask. She took hold of Scrimshine’s face and turned his gaze to hers, speaking in firm tones: “Hold your breath, keep still.” She waited for him to master himself, then swiftly undid the ties on his mask, tossing it aside to fix the replacement over his mouth and nose. “Don’t breathe too deep,” she cautioned as Scrimshine heaved, doubling over on his side, eyes shut tight in pain as he issued forth a rich stream of muffled Dalcian profanity.
“Pretty thick out there now, huh?” Skaggerhill asked, casting a worried glance at the open hatch.
“Not much longer,” Hilemore said, speaking with what he hoped was sufficient volume and clarity to reassure the onlooking crew. “Need another hand at the tiller, if you’re willing,” he added, climbing the ladder to the upper deck.
They were obliged to dodge two more fire-balls over the course of the next hour, the second one streaking down close enough to leave a good portion of the upper works ablaze. Hilemore had begun shouting orders to muster a fire-fighting party from below when Old Jack paused in his towing to thrash his tail. The resultant curtain of water was sufficient to both drown the flames and subject all on deck to a thorough soaking.
“The damage could have been worse, sir,” Steelfine reported after ascending the rigging to inspect the masts. “But we’d be lucky to rig more than a few yards of sail after this.” The Islander glanced at the prow where Clay maintained his unerring vigil over Old Jack. “We’d best hope his pet monster doesn’t get tired.”
Another crewman came close to succumbing to the gas as the journey wore on, Braddon managing to get a fresh mask on the man before he suffered lasting damage. After that Hilemore ordered everyone to replace their masks. He could tell from the increasingly fetid air leaking through his own mask that it was close to saturation. Finally, as the day slipped into evening the miasma began to thin. Mount Reygnar became a dim, thunderous bulk at their rear as Jack dragged the Dreadfire clear of its deadly atmosphere. It wasn’t until the last vestiges of smoke had cleared and they were once again amongst the bergs that Hilemore saw fit to remove his mask, taking a short experimental breath that he thought might be the sweetest air he had ever tasted.
“Take them off, lads,” he told the crew, heralding an outpouring of relief.
“Thank the Seer for that,” Skaggerhill said, drawing in several deep luxurious breaths as he tossed his mask over the side. “One more whiff of piss and I think I might’ve preferred the poison. No offence, miss,” he added, nodding in Kriz’s direction as she emerged on deck.
She replied with a placid nod before turning to Hilemore, speaking with a hesitancy that reminded him she was very much a stranger to this company. “Your man,” she began. “The helmsman.”
“Scrimshine,” Hilemore said. “What about him?”
She gave an apologetic sigh. “He’s dying.”
“This is all of it, sir,” Steelfine said, placing the last flask on the table. “Every drop of Green on board. Some of the lads had private stocks secreted about their person.”
“Had to shake it loose of them, I suppose,” Hilemore said.
“Actually no.” Steelfine inclined his head at where Scrimshine lay on his bunk, normally sallow features now rendered pale as candle wax as he convulsed with another bout of coughing. “Scoundrel he may be, but the lads know we’d all have perished long since but for his hands on the tiller.”
“Will it be enough?” Hilemore asked Kriz.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “I suspect my people knew less about the medicinal properties of drake blood than yours.”
“He’d need at least three full vials by my reckoning,” Skaggerhill put in. As harvester and ad hoc healer to the Longrifles he was the closest thing to a medic on board. “We’ve got”—he played a stubby-fingered hand over the assembled product—“maybe two, at most.”
“And no knowledge of what lies ahead,” Braddon added, meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “It’s a long way back to civilisation, Captain, and odds are there’ll be plenty of dangers betwixt here and there.”
Hilemore concealed a wince as Scrimshine coughed again, a deep, wet retch full of pain. The man’s a rogue, he reminded himself. Smuggler and pirate both, no doubt with a good deal of blood to account for, not to mention cannibalism. The decision was obvious and swiftly reached.
“Give it to him,” he told Skaggerhill. “All of it. Mr. Torcreek, Miss”—he went on nodding at Clay then Kriz—“please join me in my cabin. I believe it’s time we had a serious and honest discussion.”