by Iain Lindsay
“Odestin! What is he doing!?” Tremaine cursed as he climbed faster, seeing the Volt ships just a few hundred feet away, their ugly noses rearing slightly at the sudden appearance of the carrack. In horror, he saw one of the lead Volt ships start to rise into the air above its fellows, it’s lines pulling up its raiders and its ghostly sails snapping to attention as it pointed its offending prow towards them.
“Fly, Odestin! Get us out of here!” Tremaine was snarling, his panic lending his limbs a new strength as he cleared the gunwale and thumped to the deck. Beside him the Quartermaster had deposited the Princess down none too gently and Lura was falling over the side in exhaustion, but Tremaine was already racing towards the aft-castle and the wheel.
“Give me the wheel, First Mate!” Tremaine barked, bounding up the stairs to find Odestin not so much flying, as hanging on.
“Cap!” the blackbeard’s face was confused and scared as his arms were suddenly wrenched to one side and the boat turned. Above them, Tremaine heard the sudden creak and snap of ropes as the sails turned, seemingly of their own accord, and the fans fluttered, expanded and swiveled as expertly as a hunting birds.
Hang on a minute… Tremaine halted in shock. That was when he felt it too, the cold radiance spreading from the Captain’s Seal of his signet ring. The hum of nervous anxiety that run through every plank, nail, and line of the boat.
“Ship?” He said in half-awe. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know Cap!” Odestin wailed. “She started lifting off not a couple hours ago. Her anchor lines pulling up, her sails filling… It was all we could do to give the boat her head!” He spoke like she was a racehorse, the Captain thought. Like she was live.
Because she is, Tremaine knew. Ask questions later, he nodded Odestin away from the wheel.
“She wants to go down there, Captain,” Odestin’s eyes were wide as he staggered back. The boat wobbled, pilotless for a moment. “You can feel it through the wheel.”
“I know,” Tremaine said, punching his arms forward to seize the wheel of his father’s boat, and feeling that sense of connection that he had always felt aboard her.
Completeness. This was where he should be, as Captain. The ship was singing to his hands through the wooden spokes, telling him that it was easier to turn this way, to lower just a little…
“Sacred Root! Captain, coming up below us – it’s them!” Lura was hanging onto the gunwale, pointing at the rocky slopes below that the Storm was already skimming towards. Tremaine couldn’t see from where he piloted, but he followed the ship’s suggestions as the fans flared and slowed, and Lura was throwing the other side’s rope ladders down.
Once again, the Storm didn’t stop, but kept on moving as Tremaine felt the tug of new weight on the ropes, and saw that Odestin and Lura were hauling on the rungs to help whomever it was coming up. He had a feeling that he already knew who it was before their faces crested the railings.
“Hell’s bells!” Odestin was laughing (slightly manically, the Captain noted) as he hauled first the Father Kef (groaning, wounded), several Nhkari guides, and Talin, near unconscious, onto the top deck.
Complete. The sensation of relief once again spread through the Captain for just the briefest of moments, before it was replaced with the urgency of their situation. The Storm’s unnatural skill was ebbing and subsiding, and the wheel was once again becoming dull wood as it balked and protested against his muscles. The dawn had arrived, and the light had found them, but the Volt ships were breaking from their murderous shoal, and one of them had already placed itself on a course to intercept.
“No time for well-wishing, you swobs!” Tremaine hollered. “Rigger – up the sails. I want full power to the mainsail. Odestin? Get to the air fans. Quartermaster? I want Big Bertha loaded and firing at whatever’s behind us. All the rest of you – if you can stand, I want you taking orders!”
Despite the terror of their situation, the Captain of the Storm felt a fierce sense of exhilaration as he forced his boat into an escape velocity. They headed north. Away from the Burnt Lands, and away from the pursuing Volt.
The Northern Gate
37. Deadman’s Drop
The Storm flew. To say that is an understatement perhaps, of what Tremaine felt as he clutched at the wheel, bellowed orders, and keeping an eye on the approaching terror behind them. Even though the rightness of the connection he had felt when he had first returned to her decks was gone, when the ship had been nigh-on flying herself – still there was an echo of that feeling humming in the palms of his hands where they clutched the smooth wood of the wheel. The boat leapt to respond to his commands, as if it – or perhaps the Captain himself – anticipated each other.
“More power to the front lateens!” He shouted, feeling the airship settle in a northward-heading breeze. Tremaine intended to milk that current of errant air for all that it was worth, and the rising heat of the new day was only aiding him as the warm thermals rose to meet them.
The golden sands had changed, first becoming broken with rocky uplands, and then scrubby lands. Vegetation appeared: cactus and knotty, hard little trees, and then – grasses.
“Come on, girl – we’re getting there,” Tremaine whispered to the boat underneath him. He wondered if he was once again tricking himself when he felt a glimmer of agreement from the wheel.
But despite this furious flight, the glare of the Quartermaster from his high seat on the arbalest reminded him that they weren’t clear of danger yet.
The Volt still pursued them.
In the forecastle of the Storm, Chef Sevesti was worried. The ship trembled and shook underfoot as its Captain asked it to surge ever faster, but he was used to such desperate flight. If he didn’t have the injured to take care of then he, too, would be out there manning one of the fans or working on the ropes, after all. Instead though, as the ship’s resident cook, surgeon, and all-round physic; he had his forecastle room occupied with the severely injured Father Kef, the Princess Eliset, two Nhkari guides, and a shivering Talin. He moved from one patient to the other, wanting to return to the incoherent and barely-conscious Talin, but repeatedly stopping himself from doing so.
I have a Princess to keep alive, he grumbled, allowing himself a small, wry grin. Chef Sevesti Challa-Marseione had spent a large period of his young and impressionable life running around after Izant royalty, and even though the Princess was quiet and unassuming next to their loud and assumed ways, she was still royalty, he considered glumly as he returned to her side.
Her face pinched with pain, for a start. Her eyes were as green as the sea, and they regarded their newest Hand with alarm.
“What is wrong with him?” The Princess Eliset said. On the bench under the window, Talin Nhkari, dirt-smeared and battle-grazed, still covered in sand was wrapped in rough ship’s blankets, shivering and mumbling, his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“I do not know, your highness,” Sevesti said just as seriously. “It could be shock. Some men, when they see battle for the first time, become sick in hidden ways…”
The Princess nodded, but did not say anything. She was sitting with one of her legs up on the benches, trying not to move it. Sevesti had removed her ridiculous court slippers and washed the pale skin underneath, but the foot still looked terribly swollen, and sat at an angle to the rest of her ankle.
“It is broken, isn’t it?” Eliset said through clenched teeth. Every now and again, Sevesti saw her cheeks pale and her hands clutch at the table leg. She must be in agony, he thought.
“I believe so,” He said. But even despite the Princess’s grotesque injury, the Chef had a far worse patient. Father Kef lay flat on one of the tables, breathing shallowly. He had a deep cut across a shoulder leading onto his chest, and another puncture wound just below his ribs. Sevesti kept on returning to measure the man’s pulse and temperature, before changing bandages.
“And him – the Nhka?” Princess Eliset said, using the epithet that most of the northerners u
sed for the southern nomads.
“The Father Kef will live, if we can keep his wounds clean and his body strong – and call them the Nhkari, if you please Princess.” Sevesti couldn’t keep the slight rebuke from his voice. He gestured to the other two wounded guides – one with a deep gash across the back of his hand – he’d be lucky to keep the hand – and the other with a lump the size of a goose egg on one temple. They were quiet and reserved in their own private pains. “The plains nomads prefer their own term for their name. Nhka is…” Sevesti grimaced. “A name that northerners use for slaves.”
“You mean that they’re not slaves?” Eliset said, earning a sharp look from the guide with the injured hand.
Dear Gold of the Gods, Sevesti breathed through his nose. “You will find that there is still a lot of world outside of the Protectorate, Princess,” he tried to say kindly. “The Nhkari, like the heimr, are not slaves – although many view them as such.”
“Oh.” Eliset was silent for a moment as she clutched at the table leg. “I am sorry.” A perfunctory nod.
Well, at least she is a royal who can admit her mistakes… Sevesti turned back to Talin.
The youth was trembling and shivering, as if he had a fever. Spittle sat at the corner of his lip, and his mouth mumbled unintelligible words.
“Hush, Talin, there now.” Sevesti didn’t tell him that he was safe – because they weren’t. They could all hear the crack of ropes and fierce orders of the Captain as they tried to outrun the Volt. The Izantine mopped at Talin’s sweating brow and lips, before pressing a cup of water to his mouth. It had several drops of valerian, lavender, and lemon balm oil in it – that the Izant found calmed anxieties and aided restful sleep. Most of it drippled down Talin’s shirt, but some of it went in.
“What a waste,” Sevesti murmured. Talin had been a good hand, brave, courageous in the face of danger. But you can never tell when a man’s mind will break in battle… He thought sadly, turning back to the girl.
“And now Princess, you have a choice. One that I wouldn’t give to any other in this room, I would just do what I thought was right. But seeing as your mother is the Empress-Protector, I would at least have your agreement beforehand.” Sevesti brought out long linen wraps, and his collection of wooden splints.
“Agreement to do what?” Eliset looked doubtful.
“I can reset the bones in your foot, but it will hurt. A lot. Enough to make a soldier cry and more. Or I could just give you enough herbs to dull the pain and you will have to wait until you reach your mother’s physickers.” The Princess looked happier at the prospect at not being in blood-curdling agony, until Sevesti continued. “But if we leave it until then, there is every likelihood that the foot will be permanently twisted. They will have to break your foot repeatedly to return it to true.”
Eliset paled. “Are you certain?”
Sevesti nodded. “I am, my lady. Even then – you may never walk well on it.”
“I will be…disfigured?” tears sprang into the Princess’s eyes.
“There are worse fates,” Sevesti mumbled, turning to his stove counter to prepare more of the soothing herbs, before shaking his head, and taking out a bottle of Iron Rum instead. “What say you, Princess?”
“Do it.” She surprised him by saying. “If the choice is to have pain now or more pain later, I would rather face it and be done with it. Reset the bones, if you will sir.”
Sir? Not often have I been called that, he nodded, pleased at how brave she was. “I think you are wise. Now drink this. It will burn, and you will want to cough, but drink as much as you can.” He thumped the bottle at her side.
Behind them, Talin continued his mumbling and shaking.
Begone! Holder bellowed in the blue storm.
“Holder! Behind you!” Talin shouted. He was tumbling in the froth of turbulent waters as the massive ship-beast thrashed.
They were not alone here, in this dream-place.
There were shadows that had broken into their private domain, three shapes a fraction of the size of Storm-Holder, but far larger than the small Talin. Like squids (although the Nhkari had no name for them), they had sharp, cone-like bodies ending in barbed tails, but their front ends were a mass of twitching, reaching tentacles. One of them was grappled onto a fin of the ship-beast, and Talin could feel her pain shiver through his own mind as it bit with rows upon rows of tearing teeth.
The creatures were oily-black, with suggestions of nodules and tendons along the length of its body. Talin could see no eyes, but they still darted towards their prey with deadly accuracy.
Leave me, Talin! Storm-Holder boomed again, but he could not as one of the shapes flashed past, climbing up and over the giant hill-side curve of Holder’s head, its tentacles tearing a line of torment across her blue-grey skin. She roared, and Talin screamed.
The Storm shuddered under Tremaine’s hands. She was in trouble, and he knew it. She had already lost a line of ties along her rear lateen sail, which Lura was scrabbling across and retying.
“Fishgut and rot!” The Captain cursed. Their carrack was too big, and the Volt schooners too fast. Only three had broken from their murderous pack to swoop after them, but Tremaine wasn’t so sure that they would need any more than that to bring the Storm down.
The Volt vessels were smaller and narrower, and they surged towards them with an unnatural speed.
“They shouldn’t even be that fast, with their sails in that condition…” Tremaine risked a glance behind them. The Volt’s sails were little more than tattered rags, but the same strange sorcery that kept the airships afloat worked for them as well, it seemed. He could see the prow of the nearest of the three Volt ships, like a collection of splinters gaining on them.
“She’s in our current!” The Captain called. He knew that the Volt pursuer would gain quickly now. The best place to pursue a ship is just behind and to one side, where you can take advantage of the wind that the forward airship pushed out around it.
Tremaine scanned the land ahead. Still arid scrubland. They must have passed into the Susha, surely. But how far was it to the Northern Gate – the outpost of Protectorate power that was the “gateway to the south?” There would be Protectorate naval ships there, and Protectorate gun turrets.
Too far, he thought. “Quartermaster?” He shouted.
“I got her, Captain.” He called at the seat of Big Bertha.
The arbalest was built for a much larger ship, a galleon at least, but the heimr had modified it obsessively over the years. Looking like a large crossbow the size of a cart, it was strung with thick rope and could fire harpoon-sized bolts at their attackers. Tremaine gritted his teeth as his Quartermaster ratchetted the wheel under his seat, which raised the arbalest for a shot back over her bows.
“Ready when you are, Cap!” He called.
“3...2...1…” Tremaine pulled the wheel, forcing the Storm to turn across the northbound-air. The forward lateens swung to catch, and suddenly the Storm leapt, beating across the path of the Volt ship behind. “Broadside!” he bellowed, as, all at once the Quartermaster and Odestin fired, the First Mate on one of the small cannons in the lower decks.
PHOOM! The Storm rocked and smoke plumed out of her side, and there was a whistling noise as the harpoon flew straight towards the deck of the cursed ship.
The bolts of the arbalest were stout oak, but their top third ended in heavy steel and iron heads. Heavy and strong enough to punch through an outer deck, and to sever masts.
Tremaine heard an answering crash and the Volt ship rocked backwards, dipping slightly in the air. The Storm was racing ahead. They had brought themselves some precious moments, before the next two Volt ship flung themselves over their accomplice and quickly replaced it.
Foul things! Holder swung its great tail, jack-knifing in a movement that looked like the convulsion of storm clouds. Talin watched her roll, her own chin tentacles flaring in the upset as she threw off the attacking shadow-beast that had attached itself to her fi
n.
Talin didn’t know what these things were, but they felt like the same angry bruise against his mind as the Volt had during the battle.
The battle, he thought. He had done something then – or the ship had done something through him. Could he do so again?
Ahead of him, Holder was spiraling through the ‘skies’ as two more of the creatures ascended towards her. They tracked her movements, as close as darting storm birds as they started to catch up...
“No…” Talin reached out with his hand towards them. “Back!” He shouted, feeling the blue around him like and ripple. “Back!” He pleaded angrily, and it happened: A wave of force flew from his outstretched hand towards the mighty ship-beast. The youth didn’t know what he had done or what to call it, but it was like skipping a stone across the sand. The force-wave hit the nearest shadow-creature and Storm-Holder both, impacting like a cannon-shot.
“Incoming!” Lura was shouting from atop the mainmast, causing Tremaine to mutter and swear.
“Not more, please not more…” He hissed, looking around to see where the next attack would come from. But the Volt pursuers were still behind them. They weren’t close enough to attack. Tremaine’s gaze swung to the other side of the boat to see the land greening as it descended to the far and distant Gulf of Eig; a long watercourse that sat on the far side of the Burnt Lands and the Susha. At the head of that gulf, still many leagues away, would be the gap of land between the Aratine hills and the Northern Gate. Flying south towards them from that greener land was a heavy cloud of airships.