The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  • • •

  Hilemore spent the rest of the day going about his duties with typical efficiency and ignoring the nervous winks or grins offered by Steelfine’s chosen co-conspirators. He left the surreptitious gathering of arms and provisions to the Islander and, aware of Trumane’s continually watchful eye, confined his first act of outright mutiny to retrieving two-thirds of the ship’s product from the safe. Luckily, the captain’s distrust hadn’t extended to relieving him of the keys. He briefly considered taking all of the Red but decided there was a possibility, however faint, that Trumane might find a Blood-blessed at another port. Once you’ve decided your course you can never falter. Another of his grandfather’s lessons popping into his head as he regarded the contents of the safe, wondering what the old man would have made of this. Mutineer and now thief. Hanging will be too good for me.

  He found the Chief waiting at the port rail with Zenida and her daughter. Akina seemed unusually cheerful, her usual scowl replaced by a bright-eyed excitement and she fairly bounced on tip-toe as the first boat was lowered over the side. Steelfine had ensured the night watch consisted entirely of his trusted crewmen, numbering sixteen men in total, mostly riflemen and stokers. They were further aided by Dr. Weygrand, who, despite refusing to join them, had contrived to add a soporific to the captain’s nightly dose of medicine.

  “Doc says he’ll be dead to the world for at least eight hours,” Bozware reported. “Even if there’s another who raises the alarm, I doubt there’s a man aboard with the heart to fire on us, sir.”

  Hilemore nodded and glanced over the rail to confirm the first boat was now in the water. “Captain,” he said, handing Zenida a small draw-string oilskin bag containing a good supply of their stolen product. “I would prefer no fatalities, if possible.”

  She nodded and paused to kneel and embrace her daughter, speaking in soft Varestian. “Stay with the grease-rat.”

  Hilemore swung himself over the rail and began to climb down, making the boat without undue difficulty and taking up the oars. Zenida joined him a moment later, taking the tiller whilst he began to propel them towards the dark bulk of the Superior. Behind them came the clinking of chains through the davits as Steelfine’s party lowered three more boats over the side. Hilemore concentrated on rowing the boat, working oars with a smooth, even rhythm to avoid tell-tale splashes, the squeal of the rowlocks muffled by a liberal application of grease and canvas. Zenida kept mostly to the shadows cast by the other ships at harbour, steering through the curving cliff-like hulls for several long minutes. Finally, she nodded for Hilemore to halt alongside an Alebond Commodities freighter some fifty yards from the Superior’s anchorage.

  “We could get closer,” Hilemore whispered, judging the remaining distance too great for his liking.

  “Too risky.” Zenida stood up and began to strip. Hilemore expected her to stop at her underthings and found himself instinctively averting his gaze when instead she removed every scrap of clothing. “It’ll just slow me down,” she said, crouching to retrieve the bag of product. “Besides, I’ve noticed men are often reluctant to shoot a naked woman.”

  “I wouldn’t be,” he muttered. “If my ship were under threat.”

  “But you are a very singular fellow, Mr. Hilemore.” It was too dark to see her face but he could hear the smile in her voice. She extracted three vials from the oilskin bag, presumably Red, Green and Black, and drank them all in quick succession. Drawing the bag’s string tight, she hooked it over her head and slipped over the side into the water. “If I die . . .” she began, the dark silhouette of her head just visible in the gloom.

  “I’ll see her safe,” Hilemore promised.

  A short pause and she was gone, her disappearance betrayed only by the softest slap of water against the boat’s hull. Hilemore turned his full attention to the Superior and waited. The mist that seemed to greet every morning in this port was beginning to gather as night faded towards day, a thin veil of vapour lingering over the still waters. It took perhaps two full minutes before he saw her pale form appear at the base of the frigate’s forward anchor chain. She ascended to the deck in seconds, moving with the strength and swiftness of a Blood-blessed fully dosed with Green. On reaching the deck she disappeared from sight, though he caught a brief glimpse of her through the upper gun-ports as she sprinted for the ship’s command deck, a white blur in the gloom almost too fast to follow. Hilemore counted ten seconds before the first shout of alarm sounded, followed by two rapid pistol-shots. He took up the oars and began to row as fast as he could, glancing back to ensure Steelfine’s party were following suit.

  Two minutes of strenuous effort later the prow of the boat butted against the Superior’s hull and Hilemore shipped oars before reaching for the coil of rope at his feet. He swung the attached grapple with practised precision, the iron-barbed hook looping over the rail and snaring a firm purchase at the first attempt. Some skills were beyond the ability of his body to forget. Like most warships the Superior sat lower in the water than a merchant vessel and the climb was short, though made somewhat agonising by a fresh salvo of pistol-shots from above.

  Grunting in frustration, he hauled himself up the last few yards and clambered onto the deck. The first sight to greet him was the body of an unconscious Corvantine sailor. He lay on his side near one of the starboard guns, his faint groans indicating that Zenida had so far managed to avoid any killing. Hilemore drew his revolver and ran for the ladder leading to the upper works. He passed another Corvantine on his way to the bridge, a stocky middle-aged man bent double and retching whilst a steady stream of blood flowed from his nose. He raised his head to gaze blearily at Hilemore, but returned to his retching when it became apparent he wasn’t about to be shot.

  Hilemore found another Corvantine on the bridge, little more than a boy and presumably equivalent to an ensign in rank. He glared at Hilemore in helpless outrage, both his wrists firmly knotted to the helm by a length of rope. Hilemore’s Corvantine was poor but he detected more than a few choice obscenities in the invective flowing from the boy’s mouth. Hilemore gave the boy a quick salute and moved on, drawn towards the stern by the sound of a fresh commotion.

  Lieutenant Sigoral stood amidst a section of poorly repaired superstructure, sword in one hand and revolver in the other, as something pale and very fast moved around him in a wide circle. He tracked the pale thing with his revolver and pulled the trigger, cursing when the hammer clicked on a spent cartridge. Sigoral then performed some impressively timed and well-practised strokes of his sword, each failing to connect with his tormentor, causing him to swear with increasing volume. This time Hilemore picked out the word “bitch” amongst the tirade. He tapped the barrel of his revolver against an iron railing, calling out, “Captain!” When Sigoral failed to respond, still swinging away with his sword, though with an increasing lack of finesse, Hilemore sighted the revolver an inch or two from the Corvantine’s foot and fired a single round. It proved sufficient to capture his attention.

  “Captain,” Hilemore repeated, raising his sights to aim at the man’s forehead. “Look to starboard, if you would.”

  Sigoral glared up at him, eyes blazing beneath a sweaty brow, then did as he was bid. He cursed again at the sight of Steelfine’s party now within ten yards of the ship, the Islander standing tall at the prow of his boat with grapple in hand.

  “You raised the flag!” Sigoral hissed through gritted teeth, once more glaring up at Hilemore.

  “Yes,” he said. “I did. But I am a mutineer who has forsaken all honour.”

  He glanced over to where Zenida had come to a halt, shuddering as the product faded from her veins. He experienced a moment of pride at the fact that he managed not to allow his gaze to linger on her moistened and heaving breasts before returning his gaze to Sigoral. “Are your colours struck, sir?”

  • • •

  “What a lump of shit.” Bozware’s lip curled
as he regarded the monstrous collection of boiler plate and piping that comprised the Superior’s blood-burning engine. Even to Hilemore’s inexpert eye it appeared a stark contrast to the compact wonder that drove the Viable. The Corvantine vessel’s engineering compartment was cramped compared to the Viable’s, her coal-burning auxiliary engine taking up even more space than the blood-burner. It was also markedly less clean and well-ordered than Bozware’s domain, with the beginnings of rust showing on several fittings.

  “Will it work?” Hilemore asked.

  “Can’t see any damage,” Bozware mused, circling the engine with a critical eye. “Stupidly over-engineered though. Also looks like she’s been cold for a good few weeks. Needs a proper clean too.”

  “Lost your Blood-blessed, did you?” Hilemore asked a stiff-backed and white-faced Sigoral. He had surrendered his sword and pistol but refused to be paroled, obliging Hilemore to allot two riflemen to guard him. “So did we,” he went on when Sigoral refused to answer. “At the Strait. Were you there perchance?”

  Sigoral met his gaze squarely, a humourless smile coming to his lips. “Yes. What a great and glorious day it was.”

  “A remarkable victory,” Hilemore agreed. “If, as I’m given to understand, somewhat short-lived. And, as you saw, we found another Blood-blessed. Do you have any product on board?”

  Sigoral’s only response was a weary glare.

  “Give us a few minutes, sir,” one of the riflemen said, moving closer to the Corvantine. “We’ll get him singing soon enough.”

  “No,” Hilemore said. “Take him aloft and put him with the others. Tell Mr. Steelfine to prepare a boat to put them ashore when we’re ready to sail.”

  He saw surprise flicker across Sigoral’s face for a moment. It seemed plain he had expected either execution or a lengthy tenure in the ship’s brig. “And give him his sword back when you cast them off,” Hilemore added as the marine was led to the engine room’s exit.

  He moved to where Zenida sat, dressed in liberated Corvantine overalls and sipping a restorative mixture of rum and warmed milk. “Are you alright?” he asked.

  She gave a tired nod and turned her gaze to Akina, who had joined the Chief in his examination of the Corvantine engine. In contrast to the engineer her small face betrayed fascination rather than professional distaste. “My daughter has always loved mechanicals,” Zenida said. “Could never get her out of the Windqueen’s engine room.”

  “Good,” Hilemore said. “I have a sense we’ll need every hand during the voyage ahead, and the Chief could do with an apprentice.”

  “Mr. Steelfine’s compliments, sir,” a rifleman called from the hatch. “The Contractors’ boat just came alongside.”

  “I’ll be there directly.” Hilemore handed Zenida the leather satchel containing the rest of the stolen product. “We raise anchor as soon as the Chief gets the engines on-line. Are you . . . ?”

  “More than capable, thank you, Captain.” She took the satchel and got to her feet. “The Corvantine,” she added as he started for the hatch, making him pause. “He called me some very unfortunate names. I let him live as a favour to you.”

  This wasn’t a trivial matter, he knew. Varestians, particularly the women, were renowned for their violent intolerance of insult. “Your restraint is appreciated, sea-sister,” he told her in his coarse Varestian.

  She smiled and turned back to the engine. “A small matter.”

  • • •

  The mist was lit by the faint but growing rays of the morning sun, a thick concealing blanket covering the harbour and obscuring the top of the wall from view. “Your nephew seems a little tardy, Captain Torcreek,” Hilemore observed. He stood with the Contractor at the Superior’s narrow prow, gaze fixed on the wall and ears straining for the sound of a lifting engine springing to life. The Longrifles had come aboard a quarter hour ago, having collected Scrimshine from the Lossermark gaol. The smuggler regarded the unfolding preparations with a nervous suspicion, causing Hilemore to ask the young gunhand to keep a close watch on him.

  “If he tries to jump over the side, shoot him in the leg,” he told Loriabeth. “We need him alive.”

  “Clay’ll be along,” Braddon said, his voice absent of doubt, though Hilemore noted his gaze was as keen as his own. He checked his watch, finding them a full five minutes behind schedule. Much longer and the tide will be against us. “I’ll get the prisoners away,” he said, hurrying towards the stern.

  He found Sigoral and his nine crewmen under guard amidst the section of wrecked superstructure. Hilemore’s attention was immediately drawn to one of the guards, a young man in an ill-fitting seaman’s uniform who seemed at pains to keep his face shaded by his cap. “Mr. Talmant!” Hilemore barked.

  The youngster froze then snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  Hilemore bit down on a tirade and stepped closer. “What are you doing here?”

  Talmant’s response was immediate and clearly rehearsed. “Following my captain, sir. As per my oath. I left a letter on Captain Trumane’s desk resigning my commission and providing a full explanation of my actions.”

  Hilemore was not overly fond of corporal punishment, except where demanded by necessity, but now experienced a near-irresistible desire to beat the naïvety from this boy in full view of prisoners and crew alike. However, Talmant’s statement gave him pause. “You left him a letter?”

  “Indeed, sir. Honour required no less.”

  At that moment the shrill pealing of a ship’s steam-whistle cut through the mist. The Viable was concealed by the fog but Hilemore knew the sound like the voice of an old friend.

  “Dr. Weygrand said he’d sleep for hours yet,” Talmant said in a thin voice.

  “Captain Trumane always had a love of confounding expectations,” Hilemore muttered before turning to meet Talmant’s eye. “Get to the bridge and take the helm. Signal Chief Bozware to start whichever engine he can make work.”

  “Aye, sir.” Talmant saluted and sprinted off.

  “Lieutenant Sigoral.” Hilemore strode towards the marine. “Please muster your men. Time for you to take your leave.”

  One of the Corvantine sailors growled something at that, the tone of stern refusal requiring little translation. The rest of them all quickly echoed the sentiment, bunching together in a tight defensive knot. “This is our ship,” Sigoral stated. “Thanks to the townsfolk, my men are fully aware of recent events. They do not wish to stay here, and I find I cannot argue with their reasoning.”

  “They’ll find berths on other ships,” Hilemore said.

  “Not warships. And I doubt your captain will make room for us.”

  Hilemore looked in the direction of the Viable’s mooring as the faint chug of her auxiliary engine drifted through the mist. “The voyage we are about to undertake,” he began, turning back to Sigoral, “will bring more danger than anything you’ll face aboard a Blue-hunter in northern waters.”

  “This is our ship,” Sigoral repeated. “The Imperial Navy is not the Protectorate, Captain. These men are bonded to their ship by sacred oath. Would you give up your home so easily?”

  The Viable’s whistle sounded again, three long blasts accompanied by the swish of her paddles stirring into motion. “I require your parole,” Hilemore told Sigoral. “And you’ll be accountable for these men. I cannot tolerate even the slightest suggestion of trouble.”

  The Corvantine glanced at his remaining crew, jaw bunching as he fought long-instilled instinct. Finally he gave a strained rasp, “My parole is given.”

  Hilemore looked up at the Superior’s single stack, noting the absence of smoke. “You have engineers in your party?” he asked.

  “Shopak! Zerun!” Sigoral barked and two Corvantines stepped forward, both clad in the besmirched overalls typical of those who toiled amidst mechanicals.

  “Take them to the engine room,” Hilemore or
dered. “They are to help my Chief Engineer get this ship underway. You will translate. The rest of your men will raise the anchor.”

  Sigoral nodded but didn’t move immediately, instead extending his hand to the rifleman who had hold of his sword. Hilemore nodded and the man handed it over. Sigoral buckled his sword about his waist then turned to his men and barked out a series of orders that sent all but the two engineers scurrying to the forward anchor mounting.

  “I look forward to learning our destination,” the Corvantine told Hilemore as he led the engineers towards a hatch and disappeared below.

  “The lads won’t like this, sir,” said the rifleman who had offered to torture Sigoral for information. “Lotta bad feeling after the Strait.”

  Hilemore began to snarl out a command for the man to shut his mouth but hesitated. He had already asked a great deal of these men and clinging to normal proprieties seemed foolish in the circumstances. “We don’t have enough hands to work the ship properly,” he said instead, adding, “Any who don’t want to serve with them can take a boat and get gone, but they’d best be quick about it.”

  He made his way forward, covering half the distance to the bow before the deck began to thrum beneath his feet. A glance at the stack confirmed that Bozware had at least managed to get the auxiliary engine on-line. He paused to watch the Corvantines haul the anchor clear of the water then went to stand alongside Braddon, still maintaining his vigil of the wall.

  “I should’ve just bribed the harbour-master,” Hilemore muttered, picking out the hazy bulk of the lifting engines atop the wall.

  Braddon stiffened then grinned as a shout of alarm rose from the Corvantines. All eyes snapped upwards at the panicked shout, “DRAKE! DRAKE!”

  “Apologies for the delay, Captain,” Braddon said as a large shadow cut through the thinning mist above. “My nephew was obliged to climb the highest spire in the port. And his pet gets less obedient by the day.”