Cold Fury: King's Convicts III

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Hear that?” Teodor growled at Mason. “I’m not going to the damned Holes over you, so you’d better move your worthless ass.”

  “I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Piran said with a nod of his head toward where the moon was nearly hidden, breaking Blaine’s train of thought.

  “Doesn’t make much difference—we’re out here until Carson says otherwise,” Blaine muttered. He was trying not to think about how choppy the water had gotten, or how the boat bobbed like a cork out in the middle of a vast, dark expanse.

  Captain Davis, commander of the Petrel, left the wheel to his first mate and walked over to where Carson stood. Blaine and Piran were too far away to catch much of what was said, but Blaine could hear enough to get the gist of the conversation.

  “…don’t like the look of the sky…” Captain Davis argued.

  “…when we reach our quota…” Carson returned.

  “…to Raka with your quota… this is my ship.” Davis’s jaw was set. Carson was unmoved.

  “…orders from Commander Prokief…” A wave lifted the boat and let it drop just then. Blaine didn’t hear more of the argument as he and Piran struggled to hold onto their net and manage not to be thrown overboard. Not hard to figure out the rest, Blaine thought. This might be Captain Davis’s boat, but the colonists are nearly as far under Prokief’s thumb as the convicts. Backed by Prokief, Carson outranks Davis, even here. That’s got to rankle.

  By Blaine’s count, this should be the last day of the ship’s run. The crews worked day and night, taking turns sleeping and working. If it weren’t for the bitter cold wind and the salt spray that chilled him to the marrow, Blaine might have welcomed the change of scenery along with the fresh air. Edgeland’s ruby mines were dank and dark even during the white nights of summer, stifling with the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies. We’re just as dirty and just as sweaty on the boat, Blaine thought, I just can’t smell anything except the damned fish.

  The Petrel rose and fell as waves washed over the decks. Fish flopped and slid across the boards, and the gibbers were thrown from their seats with the violence of the last wave. Blaine and Piran were knocked off their feet and went sliding, though they managed to hold onto their net in the process. The deck pitched one way and the other, requiring Blaine and Piran to crawl back to the railing.

  “We’re not finished yet!” Carson shouted above the wind. He brought his flail down on the back of the nearest fishermen, a convict named Trad who was doing his best to stay on his feet.

  Rain began to fall, gently at first, then harder as the wind picked up. The clouds hid the moon. Gusts of wind snapped the sails and drove the rain sideways. If this gets much worse, being under quota will be the least of our worries, Blaine thought. We’ll be at the bottom of the sea and so will Carson’s precious barrels of herring.

  The ship lurched again as Blaine and Piran cast their net, throwing Piran off balance. He yelped as he started to go over the rail. Blaine grabbed for Piran’s belt and pulled him back. The ship dropped down as the wave fell to a trough, ripping the net from Blaine’s hand and nearly breaking his fingers. Blaine hung on to Piran with one hand and the railing with the other. They teetered on the rail, and for a moment Blaine feared that they would both fall overboard. Strong hands grabbed them from behind, pulling them back to safety as the other fishermen pitched in.

  “Thanks, mate,” Piran shouted. “Thought I was a goner.”

  I thought we both were, Blaine thought. He crawled to one of the masts in order to get to his feet. They had lost their net, and by the look of it, the other fishermen had reached the point where they were more afraid of the sea than of Carson. Carson had gone to argue with Captain Davis, and Blaine realized that despite the overseer’s orders, Captain Davis had turned the boat back toward Skalgerston Bay.

  Carson may be willing to drown to avoid disappointing Prokief, but Davis appears to have other thoughts on the matter, Blaine observed.

  He could barely see the other herring boats, just shadows on the water. The wind was gusting hard, and while the fishing busses were sturdy, Blaine could hear the wood creak and strain as the sails struggled to propel the ship faster than the choppy waters would permit. The sails filled and bore them forward, all the while heaving like a wild bull as the sea rose and fell beneath them. Some of the men retched, but no one dared go to the rail. The hungry, dark water was much too close for comfort.

  “Watch out!” Piran shouted. In the next instant, a wall of water crashed over the deck. It would have hammered them to their knees if they had not lashed themselves to the mast with their belts. Icy water hit them like a body blow, and for a moment, Blaine could not breathe as the water engulfed him.

  The wave hit them hard enough to knock a man from his feet, and pulled back with the force of a giant’s hand, inexorably taking everything with it. Men flailed and screamed as they tried to find something solid to anchor them, or as the wave’s force tore them lose, breaking hands and arms as it dragged them into the sea. When the wave receded, the men on deck climbed to their feet, warily watching for the next wave to hit.

  One of the convicts had been thrown against the mast by the force of the wave. He lay at the base, his neck broken. Several of the prisoners sputtered and choked as others pounded on their backs, trying to clear the seawater from their lungs. I never thought I could drown without leaving the boat, Blaine thought.

  Blaine had no idea where Carson had been when the wave struck, but he looked bedraggled, which fouled his mood even more than usual. He began to stride around the deck, counting the prisoners. Those who were below, lucky enough to have the sleep shift, were spared nearly drowning, though Blaine wondered if the boat was watertight enough to keep them entirely dry. It clearly wasn’t my lucky day.

  “Where’s Mason?” Carson demanded.

  “He was right there when the wave hit,” Trad replied.

  “Mason washed overboard,” Teodor said, shaking the water out of his hair like a spaniel. “We got the worst of the wave when it hit, and we both slammed the deck pretty hard. Then the wave pulled back, and it was all I could do to hold on. I thought I saw him in the water, but if it was Mason, he wasn’t fighting, just sort of let the wave take him.” He glared at Carson. “Don’t completely remember, since I was drowning.”

  “There! I see him!” Jaston pointed to the water near the side of the boat.

  Blaine squinted, barely making out a form on the water, floating face down. If he had not known a man went overboard, he would have thought he was imagining things. The ship rose with another swell, and sailed down into the trough. The man was gone.

  Carson was drenched to the skin, which only served to highlight his sharp, bony build and the hard angles of his face. He stalked toward where Captain Davis fought with the boat’s wheel. “You’ve cost me a prisoner!” Carson shouted above the wind.

  Davis did not look up. “Go to Raka. You insisted we stay out here. It’s on your head.”

  “The Commander can rescind your Ticket,” Carson threatened, shaking his flail as if he meant to beat someone with it.

  Captain Davis wrenched the wheel to the right, trying to steer the herring buss between the worst of the waves. “That’s only a concern if we survive the storm,” Davis snapped.

  “I want one of your men to replace the convict I lost,” Carson demanded.

  “Shut up and get out of my sight,” Davis ordered as he used all his weight to wrest the wheel in the other direction as the sea surged. “I have a ship to steer.”

  The ship shuddered violently, with the sound of wood grating against something hard and solid. Blaine and the others struggled to keep their footing. He exchanged a worried glance with Piran.

  “Icebergs,” they said in unison.

  “Wonderful,” Blaine muttered. He strained to see out over the choppy waters, but it was too dark to make out much of anything. Icebergs were a hazard to ships near Skalgerston Bay. In good weather, the fishing captains had little trou
ble steering around them, and every boat had large poles to help push the bergs away from the hull. Even at night, the spotters on the bow, armed with lanterns, did amazingly well at avoiding the large chunks of ice.

  “This is all Carson’s fault,” Piran growled. Blaine had been thinking the same thing. Carson had insisted the boat stay out longer than Captain Davis advised, and since theirs was the lead ship on this expedition, Carson’s stubbornness had meant none of the other boats made for shore, either. Now they had not only the storm sea and wind to navigate, but dozens of chunks of ice, some as big as wagons, being hurled at them with all the fury of the ocean.

  A cold knot settled in the pit of Blaine’s stomach. For the first time, he realized that they might not make it back to Edgeland alive.

  “Man the poles!” the first mate shouted. Blaine and Piran ran for the forward poles, along with Hort and Jaston. The poles were more like pikes, long and sturdy with a blade at the tip to maneuver chunks of ice or other debris out of the way of the ship.

  “Spread out along the sides and keep an eye out for ice!” It was difficult to walk on the pitching deck, but Blaine went to one side while Piran went to the other. Hort and Jaston took the midship position, while Teodor and Torr went aft. The high waves had extinguished their lanterns.

  “This is like poking boulders with a stick,” Blaine muttered. Pieces of ice were difficult enough to spot in daylight, since most of their bulk was submerged. By night without lanterns, it was an impossible task.

  By the time Blaine could spot one of the small icebergs, it was nearly too late to shove it away. Blaine thrust his pike at one of the chunks that neared the hull, trying to slow its approach if he could not deflect it completely. The pole bowed as if it would break, fighting the resistance of the weight of the ice and the drag of the water.

  Blaine could see the prow lanterns of the other herring boats as they battled the storm to return to port. From their erratic courses, and the frequent changes in direction made by Captain Davis, Blaine guessed they were all dodging floating obstacles. He caught a glimpse of white against the dark sea and jabbed at it with his pole, but the iceberg must have been bigger than it looked because it caught the bladed tip of the pike and nearly took Blaine and the pole with it as the waves shifted.

  Blaine’s heart thudded as he fought to pull the pike free. He wrested it clear, but the effort almost put him over the railing. The rain had turned to sleet, its crystals sharp enough to make tiny cuts as they hit exposed skin. Blaine’s beard and brows were icy, and a thin film of ice on his canvas coat cracked and crunched with every movement. His breath was a white cloud and the sea spray burned his eyes, making it harder to see.

  “If this ship is damaged, I’ll see to it that you all hang!” Carson screamed above the wind. Blaine noted coldly that Carson had not found it necessary to grab one of the poles himself. He’s as scared of dying as we are, Blaine thought as he managed to deflect another chunk of ice. Maybe more so. Guaranteed to make a mean son of a bitch even meaner.

  A deafening crash reverberated through the entire ship as the boat’s forward motion stopped abruptly, throwing everyone off balance. Blaine grabbed for the railing and slid on the sheen of ice, barely managing to stop himself from going over. He had made a make-shift safety line with his belt, but he did not trust it to hold against the full strength of an angry sea. The waves had grown fierce, and as the ship struggled to maneuver around the iceberg that had glanced off its prow, a wall of water bore down on the fishing boat.

  “Hang on and duck!” Blaine shouted. He crouched, waiting for the deluge and the chunks of ice it would carry.

  Boom. A sound like an explosion nearly deafened Blaine in the instant after the wave slammed down on deck. He could hear men’s screams and cries, muted by the water that washed over him and strained against his safety line. Blaine clung to the railing with his full strength. The line felt as if it might tear him in two as it pulled back against the sea.

  When he could finally see and breathe again, Blaine felt cold terror fill him. A huge hole had been torn in the center of the deck where a berg had come crashing down on the Petrel, and the herring buss had started to list.

  “Get the men out of the hold!” the first mate shouted. Half of the convicts aboard the Petrel were below, though whether or not anyone had been able to sleep was questionable given the rough sea.

  Frightened men were already climbing up out of the hold looking as sodden as if they had been on deck. “Hull’s cracked,” one of the men yelled. “We’re taking on water.”

  “Can’t find half a dozen of the men,” someone else shouted.

  “Do something!” Carson shrieked.

  Teodor wheeled and sank the blade end of his pike right through the overseer’s heart. “I’ve had about enough of you,” the big man rumbled. He pulled his pike free from Carson, who was still gasping, and heaved Carson over the rail.

  “If I’m going to die, I’ll die happy,” he muttered. Given the likelihood they were all going to drown, Carson’s death would be one more fatality.

  “Grab anything that floats!” Piran yelled, as the Petrel listed starboard. The first mate had retrieved a lantern from belowdecks and was flashing a desperate signal to the other boats, though Blaine doubted the rest of the fleet would risk turning around to save them, even if the storm made such a maneuver possible.

  I’ve made it this far just to drown? Bitter disappointment warred with primal fear.

  “Come on,” Piran said, grabbing Blaine by the arm. “Climb up the mast. We’ve got to stay out of the water as long as we can.” Piran shinnied up the mast like a born rigger, while Blaine struggled against the icy handholds and slippery footings. They dared not climb too high for fear of capsizing the listing ship, and reached a point of equilibrium, shifting their weight one way and the other to keep the boat where it was while it remained afloat.

  The worst of the rain appeared to be over, and the wind had stopped gusting. Too little, too late, Blaine thought.

  The Petrel was riding lower in the water, and the frightened men shifted toward the highest sections of the deck. The hold was already heavy with casks full of fish, which was likely to hasten their trip to the bottom of the sea. Blaine strained to see the lights of Bay-town. It was still too far to swim, and the icy water would be sure death to anyone foolish enough to try.

  “Never liked the damned water,” Teodor said as he climbed atop the barrels at the base of the mast. More barrels rolled across the deck, and still others remained in the netting that held them ready for the gibbers.

  “We can’t stay up here much longer,” Piran said as the ship shuddered beneath them. “We’re running out of time.”

  “I’ve got an idea.” Blaine dropped down from the mast and sloshed through the shin-deep water on the deck. He grabbed one of the empty herring barrels and a net. “Grab the empty barrels and all the nets you can find. We’re going to make rafts.”

  Blaine’s idea beat waiting to sink, and the convicts seized onto the possibility, gathering up as many of the unused barrels as they could find and dumping fish out of the full barrels when there were no more empty ones to be found. Even the herring boat’s crew pitched in, since it was clear to everyone that the Petrel was beyond saving.

  “Don’t know how long we’ll last in those waves,” one of the sailors said as they used rope to secure a net over a dozen barrels.

  “A damn sight longer than we’d last without the rafts,” Teodor replied. The group managed to put together eight rafts before the doomed Petrel listed sharply.

  “She’s going over!” Captain Davis yelled as he abandoned the wheel. “Grab anything that floats!”

  The barrel rafts were unsteady, so the men lay flat across them to keep from capsizing. There was barely enough space for all the survivors, and a few of the rafts had bodies piled two deep. No one complained, given that the alternative was the ice cold water.

  Unless those ships come back for us, we’ve just pro
longed the suffering, Blaine thought as he clung to the sodden net. His hands were cramped, his skin stung from the salt water, and he was already soaked through. Some of the men around him were shivering uncontrollably, one of the first signs of ice sickness. Blaine had seen men succumb to cold in the prison, and he knew that wet and cold, they had precious little time left.

  “Watch out for ice!” Hort yelled, and kicked at a chunk that banged into their raft. The sea had calmed, so they had less risk of being swept away in the waves, but without paddles or a rudder, there was no way to steer themselves to shore. They were at the mercy of the current.

  “There’s a light!” Josten raised up enough to point. Two bobbing lights seemed closer than before. Blaine could not tell whether the other herring boats had come back for them, or whether it was his imagination, the wishful thinking of a dying man.

  “It’s a ship!” Piran yelled. “Over here!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, nearly deafening Blaine, who was right beside him. The others took up the cry, and the lights grew close enough that Blaine could see the prow lanterns on two ships.

  “Remain on your rafts. We’ll throw you a line and tow you in,” a man’s voice boomed across the dark water.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see a boatload of convicts in my bleedin’ life,” Piran said, rising up to be able to catch the rope thrown by the nearest ship.

  “Let’s just hope that the townsfolk feel the same,” Blaine replied. “Because it looks like that’s where we’re headed.”

  PART TWO: News from Home

  Colonists lined the harbor front in Skalgerston Bay when the herring boats limped back to dock. Bedraggled and shivering, Blaine and the others had to be helped from their makeshift rafts and they stumbled their way ashore like drunken men, their bodies too cold and stiff to move.

  Blaine expected to be packed into wagons and hauled back to Velant, so he was surprised when he and the other survivors—along with the crews of the returning boats—were welcomed into one of the big warehouses on the wharf front. Inside, lanterns lit the cavernous space and fires burned in metal barrels. The light and heat were a godsend after the long hours onboard the boats, and Blaine shuffled his way toward the fire, hoping that his body would function normally again after he was warm.