by Rj Barker
“Ey, he will, and we’ll take shot from the bow on his front, though we’ll answer it too. But if we can catch him in our net the rope and barrels will create drag and slow him down. He’ll have to stop to cut them off, which will be a Hag of a job, and that should give us time to get away.”
A moment’s silence, but for the creaking of the ship and the barrels and the hammering of the bonewrights and the sound of the waves battering against the hull.
“Well,” shouted Solemn Muffaz, “are you waiting for the rope to measure itself, you useless slatelayers? Get to it!”
Joron smiled to himself once more and left Solemn Muffaz in control, returning to the deck. The light was not noticeably better there, and the storm was noticeably stronger, wind howling, freezing spray washing over the slate. Farys and Aelerin stood on the rump, watching the A-frame lower a great gallowbow into position as Colwulf guided it down to the slate where it would be secured with bonebolts that ran right through the deck. Behind them towered the Beakwyrm’s Rage, Keyshanpike falling further and further behind as the seas became higher. Beakwyrm’s Rage’s greater jointweight gave it an advantage in the high stormy seas, making it a more stable platform, allowing it better passage through the waves. He lifted his nearglass, lowered it, wiped spray from the lens and looked again. There on the rump of Beakwyrm’s Rage was his shipwife. Joron glanced forward; the storm was near now, huge towers of black cloud, shot through with skewers of light. It would not be long before those towers of cloud came crashing down on Tide Child. Water would be the only thing in their world – in the air, beneath them, filling the ship. The pumps would have to work constantly, tiring the crew, and every moment they were in the storm the bigger ship would have the advantage.
Once more he looked at the bigger ship, white and beautiful in the driving rain, corpselights glowing above it. Knew it would fly them down, catch them if his plan with the barrels did not work.
Would it work?
He had never heard of anyone doing such a thing, maybe it would be a wasted effort. But the importance was in the striving. In the knowing that you worked to live, and were not simply standing still and waiting for death to come upon you, for although the Hag revelled in death, she was never glad to see someone at her fire, and she rewarded those who fought to stay away.
The storm fell upon them like a predator on prey.
“All but the top wings down,” shouted Joron into driving rain. The ship crashing through waves, beak raised high then smashing back into furious seas. Figures moving, seen as the Hag must see the women and men above, through a veil of water. Vague and formless shapes running over the slate of the deck, carrying out his orders before he gave them for they knew the ship carried too much wing for such a blow, only the smallest would remain to give the ship steerage and allow Barlay, bent over the steering oar in a thick stinker coat, to control the ship. Waves swelled, great slabs of water coming at them. “Keep him head-on!” Joron shouted; needless, of course, needless. Aelerin dragged themselves over to him.
“How long will it blow, Courser?” shouted Joron, one hand on his hat to hold it to his head, the other around the courser’s shoulders to draw them near.
“All night, D’keeper,” they shouted back, “and well into tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll weather it tonight, Beakwyrm’s Rage won’t come too close in the dark, can’t risk a collision in weather like this. In the morning we’ll see what we can catch in our nets, ey?”
“Ey, D’keeper.”
The night was hard and sleepless, the storm ferocious and the crew unable to rest, always a wing needing adjusting, help needed on the steering oar. Their ballast needing constant adjustment so Tide Child flew true. The ship straining to climb massive waves, racing down the other side barely under control. Gullaime constantly on deck, fighting the winds, trying to soften the hardest blows, but even together, and with their leader, this storm was sapping their strength and Joron had them give up.
“Save your energy, it may be better spent later.”
Behind them Beakwyrm’s Rage, relentless, smashing through the seas, his lights vanishing as Tide Child careened into the troughs between waves, then reappearing as he climbed once more.
Not even Garriya could rest, and she was known to sleep through almost anything. Through the night a steady stream of injured was sent down to her in the hagbower: crushed fingers, turned ankles and a couple of broken arms and legs. To add to this, Joron had reports of at least three bodies gone overboard when the waves smashed over Tide Child, soaking every woman and man to the skin in freezing water that chafed the skin where it was not already chafed, and stung where it was. Icy watery hands pulling the living toward death.
And so, when Skearith’s Eye rose – though it was hard to tell, so dark and thick were the furious clouds of the Weststorm – it was a tired, damp, cold and demoralised crew that stared over the rump of the ship, squinting into driving rain.
“There!” shouted Farys, as there was no other way to be heard above the storm. She pointed to landward and Joron saw Beakwyrm’s Rage. It had dropped back during the night, but not far, and he knew that it would catch them today, its weight would tell and it would plough through the waves in a way Tide Child never could. Already Joron felt it was gathering speed, closing the distance on them.
“Where is the other?” said Joron, staggering a little as a wave hit Tide Child from the side and the boat moved in a sudden, sickening and unfamiliar way. He heard a creak from behind him and saw that their flukeboat, tied between the mainspine and the frontspine, had moved. “Stow that boat better there, you useless slatelayers! If I lose one of you for want of a tight knot then Solemn Muffaz’ll be taking the skins off some backs tonight.” Women and men ran, struggling through sheets of furious water to the boat, tying it down more firmly while Joron stared into the storm. Ropes screamed in the wind as he squinted into the storm.
“Five points off seaward to the rear, D’keeper,” shouted Farys, “I think that’s Keyshanpike?”
Joron raised his nearglass, scanned the shifting horizon, wiped the glass free of water and then lifted it once more, protecting the end as much as he could with his hand.
“Ey, that is him and it seems the Hag smiles a little on us, he’s lost a topspar so he won’t be keeping up.”
“You think Beakwyrm’s Rage will hold off until his consort catches up?”
Joron wiped his nearglass once more, lifted it. Saw Beakwyrm’s Rage, saw its shipwife, sword in hand, pointing at Tide Child.
“No.” Then the ship was lost to him as Tide Child was lifted on a wave, and with it tiredness washed over Joron. He fought it down. No time for it.
“D’keeper,” he turned, Aelerin there once more, soaked through and miserable.
“Ey, Courser?”
“I only thought that when we throw over your barrels and ropes, we will have to let that ship get awful near, or he can steer a little to the side and we waste our work.”
“I know that, Courser.” He bit out the words, started to limp away, annoyed that the courser did not think he had considered such a thing. He stopped. “Sorry, Aelerin,” he shouted over the wind, while trying to make his words gentle as he could, “I snapped and I should not, I am tired.”
“We all are, D’keeper,” said Aelerin, “and you work hard, it is only that I have had an idea.”
“Then speak it, Courser.” He felt his voice cracking, damaged vocal cords complaining. “In my cabin, it is quieter there.” He turned, shouting as loud as he could into the weather. “Farys! Tell me when that great thing behind us approaches loosing range!” She replied but the storm whipped her words away.
Below, in his boarded-up cabin, the only illumination was from wanelights, the glowing eyesockets of the skulls staring out.
“What is this plan, Aelerin?”
“It is a gamble, in truth, but I have watched the waters as they swirl around us, they sing their own song, and it is not that different to the winds. It
seemed to me, that where the enemy may see us putting your barrels over the rear there may be another way. We could put the barrels over the side nearer the beak. If I read the currents right, and we time it well, they may not even see them coming or know what they are. They will think we simply throw over more cargo.” Joron stared at the courser and Aelerin pushed back their hood, rubbed their shaven head, smiled at him. “What do you think, Deckkeeper?” they said.
“How sure are you, that you can read the currents of water?”
“Not entirely,” the smile faltered, “maybe I should not have said…”
“No, you are right to.” He lowered his voice. “One wingbolt gets past the Gullaime in this weather, and it will… Well, if it gets into the rigging and takes a spine or spar we are lost. It is with little hope I set this plan in motion. More to give us something to do when Beakwyrm’s Rage gets near enough to do real damage. But if what you say is true, it may give us enough room to be safe; and you are right, they would think nothing of barrels in the sea until it is too late.” He stood, thinking. “How sure are you? No false modesty, Aelerin.”
“I have been throwing over bits of wood, painted red, during the storm, and where I have been able to follow them – or Gavith has, as I had him help – four out of five times I have predicted where they go.”
“That is enough for me to risk it, Aelerin, better odds than letting Beakwyrm’s Rage come near.” He made to stride past, to go back into the teeth of the storm but the courser put out a hand, a gentle touch on his arm
“D’keeper, I will not lie to you. There were many pieces of wood we simply lost in the churning water.”
“Aelerin,” he said quietly, “I will not lie to you either. Tell no other this. I wake every day surprised we are not lost already. And if that ship gets near enough that the Gullaime cannot shield us, then all that awaits us is the Hag’s fire.” Then he walked away, unable to bear the sudden empathy he saw in the courser’s eyes, the pity. Of all the people on the ship, the courser knew most what it was to be alone. And Joron, as Meas had once said, had found command was the loneliest place of all.
13
A Slow and Stately Terror
“What is? What is?”
The Gullaime was hanging on to the rear rail of Tide Child, squawking, clacking its beak and repeating those words between each soaking, freezing wave, and for the life of him Joron could not decide what the creature meant. It did not mean the gallowbow, untrussed and ready, as the windtalker was more than familiar with the weapons. And it did not mean the ship behind them which towered over Tide Child as it rose and fell on the waves, before vanishing into the troughs, only the topspines showing, for again, ships it knew well.
“What is? What is?”the Gullaime cried, and it was in such a state of excitement, whirling around, so that its colourful robe made a circle in the air, suddenly untouched by the howling wind or the driving, freezing rain and waves. “What is! What is?” it screeched, hopping onto the rail, back down and spinning in a circle again. Black Orris fluttered down, like a black rip in the air, a fractured part of the furious clouds hovering above them, the faint echo of the bird’s voice heard above the wind – “Arse!” – and then the black bird was gone once more to play in the howling air.
“Please, Gullaime!” Always shouting in the screaming wind. “What is what?” And it turned on him, masked face focusing, colourful feathers beaded with rain ruffling in the wind and catching any stray shaft of light from Skearith’s Eye that squeezed through scudding clouds.
“What is what? What is what?” and spinning and spinning and spinning.
“What is this, Gullaime, this mad and unseemly shouting and whirling?”
“Is anger, is fury.”
“With me?”
The Gullaime froze, mouth open and so still it looked like a statue in the pouring rain, a statue against the rising and falling sea, and the threatening white boneship that pursued them.
“Why you?” it said, sharp head tilting, puzzled.
“I see nothing else for you to be angry with.”
“Windshorn.” The word fell from its mouth, somehow quiet and cutting through the howling wind, the whistling rigging and booming wings.
“Madorra? What has it done?”
“Bad windshorn,” said the Gullaime, and it turned away from him as if that put an end to conversation about Madorra. “Blow big ship away?”
“Could you?” The Gullaime hunkered down, shook itself.
“Maybe, hard. Maybe.” It hopped forward two steps, staring blindly at the huge ship as it smashed over the top of a wave in an explosion of white froth. “No,” it said, and it felt strange to Joron, to hear that small admittance from the Gullaime. Had it ever said no before in such a way? Oh, it had blustered and bluffed about its strength, played dead or sick when it did not want to do a thing, but this simple admittance that it was unable to help was, Joron felt sure, new.
“No one can do everything, Gullaime, and there is no shame in admitting it. All I ask is when that ship starts sending wingshot towards us that you are here to blow it off course.”
“Do that,” it said, and before he could speak more to the Gullaime, quiz it on what had made it act so strangely, they were no longer alone: Farys was there, with Gavith the bowsell, Reyan, who he marked as his best aimer, and the rest of Savage Arrin’s team gathered around the bow.
“Won’t be long now, D’keeper,” shouted Farys, almost hidden beneath a massive stinker coat. “Nearly in range.”
“Ey,” said Joron, “that he is. Do you think he’ll aim for us or the rigging?”
“Rigging, for sure,” shouted Gavith.
“No,” shouted Reyan back, “he’ll want the bow gone, no doubt about it.”
“I say rigging too,” said Barlay from the steering oar.
There followed a quick conversation, verging on argument, between the bowcrew on what was tactically best. Joron smiled to himself about how his crew could be so very unconcerned about the danger and lifted a hand. “For my money, I reckon they’ll try both, but those who chose right where the first wingshot is aimed, I’ll give an extra ration of shipwine to.” At that sly smiles were exchanged, for each was sure that they had chosen right, and each looked forward to the warmth an extra ration of shipwine would leave in their throats and bellies, and not a one gave a thought to death, or being smashed and broken under a well-aimed rock.
Though Joron thought of little else.
“Not long now,” he said to himself, raised the nearglass, cursed and lowered it. Wiped the end and covered it with his hand. Did he never learn? Raised once more. There was Beakwyrm’s Rage’s shipwife, staring back at him. Threshing water and howling wind between them. The gallowbow by him loaded and taught. Ship rising, rising, rising. And at the apex of the wave the shipwife shouted something, the trigger was pulled and a wingbolt soared out into the storm. He tried to follow the trajectory of the bolt but it was lost in squalls of rain and water whipped up from the roiling sea before ever getting near Tide Child. Laughter and mocking from those around him. You loosed that one to give your deckchilder a thrill, is all, thought Joron. The next though, the next time you loose a bolt you will be in range.
“Ready yourself, Gullaime,” he shouted through the wind. “Gavith, don’t you string that bow yet, we’ll keep the cord dry as long as we can.” He turned, found his shadow. “Cwell, I doubt you can protect me from a gallowbow bolt, so bring Aelerin if you will.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” she shouted back. A moment later back with the courser, cowl hidden beneath a stinker so they looked like every other deckchilder running along the decks or crouched against the howling wind.
“Where is best for you to be, Aelerin,” shouted Joron, “to read the currents of the sea?”
“Here, at the rump, I reckon, D’keeper.”
“We may take some shot, Courser.”
“It is what we do, ey, D’keeper?” they said and Joron smiled beneath his mask. How far the crew
of this ship had travelled, and maybe him the most among them, but the courser ran him a good race.
“I’ll have the barrels and rope hidden behind the flukeboat,” he yelled. “You tell me seaward or landward and when. Solemn Muffaz here can relay the orders. Mevans can lead the team throwing the traps over the side.”
“A good plan, D’keeper,” they replied, and left unsaid that it was the only plan they had. Joron raised the nearglass. Then swore as he saw nothing but the wetness on the end of the instrument.
Cleaned and raised once more.
There, rising in the storm. Beakwyrm’s Rage, and his shipwife calmly watching him. Waiting, judging the moment the larger ship would be in range of Tide Child.
Waiting in the screaming storm.
Waiting.
“Gullaime,” he said. “Be ready.”
“Ready, ready. Always ready.”
Watching over the tumultuous waves.
Watching.
“Not long now, D’keeper,” said Barlay, “he has the wind.”
“Ey, not even bringing Gullaime up to help him out. He’ll regret that.”
“Regret,” squawked the Gullaime. “Regret!”
The deckchilder spinning the gallowbow, the arms coming back. The loaders struggling against the wind with a wingbolt, the stone shaped to catch air adding to its weight and making the deckchilder stagger as the ship shuddered with the surging water.
“String ours, D’keeper?” shouted Gavith.
“No, he’s taller, gives him range. We’ll need him closer or we just waste what bolts we have.”
The shipwife, watching the crew at his gallowbow. Raising his arm.
“The barrel traps are on deck, D’keeper.” This shouted by a scuttling deckchilder Joron could not recognise under their cold weather clothing.
“Good, we’ll have to weather this first loosing.” He turned, “Aelerin, put yourself behind the spine, I’ll not lose you to a stray boneshard.”
The arm falling.
“Now, Gullaime!”
Did he see it or did he imagine it? The Gullaime screeching and gesturing with its wings and bright robes to landward. The grey, winged bolt of stone, flying so straight and true for the rigging of Tide Child, snatched from the air and thrown, tumbling and twirling through storm-tossed rain and zephyr to splash harmlessly into the sea. Did the other shipwife smile? He definitely nodded, made some remark. Joron lowered the nearglass.