The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  So deep and blue and true.

  I’ve always loved the sea, my love,

  As much as I loved you.

  The gullaime joined them, calling out a counterpoint, a harmony beyond the ability of any human, singing many notes at a time and changing the song, bending it, twisting it.

  I’ll not deny the Mother love,

  She birthed me into life.

  I’ll not deny the Mother love,

  So to honour her I’ll die.

  I’ve always loved the sea, my love,

  So deep and blue and true.

  I’ve always loved the sea, my love,

  As much as I loved you.

  I’ll not deny the Hag my love,

  Let us fly to her in pride.

  I’ll not deny the Hag my love,

  For duty have I died.

  As the last bars of the song died away, Joron could feel a change. He did not know if anyone felt as he did, but from the way they looked to one another there was definitely some awareness that a difference had come upon them. A sudden energy. As if the ship shivered. And there was some hope, some possibility that they were not completely lost, that they may stand a chance.

  Meas glanced at Joron and spoke quietly.

  “A good choice of song, Joron. It has lifted our spirits.” Then she raised her voice. “Well! What do you stand around for? To the bows! Set the wings! Have the flukeboats put overboard. Bring up the hagspit and we’ll fire the bolts we send at them. Get yourselves moving! I do not allow slate-layers on my deck!” And all was life and action.

  Joron put a hand on the rail. It felt as if the whole ship vibrated, but not from the many feet that ran across the decks and up the spines. This was something else. He turned to find Garriya standing behind him.

  “What just happened?

  She smiled her toothless smile at him.

  “You gave us a chance,” she said. “Now I should get to the hagbower before the hagshand kills anyone.”

  “But there is no one down there yet.”

  “Do not underestimate his incompetence.”

  Behind her the gullaime cackled.

  “Death, Joron Twiner. Death is coming.”

  “Enough of that.” Meas’s voice cut across the deck. “Gullaime, come to me. You too, Joron.”

  As Joron crossed the deck he watched the profile of Hag’s Hunter change as he came around, angling to make a pass at Tide Child, side on side. When he looked back, the gullaime was before Meas in a posture that, had it been human, he would have taken as subservient, but something about the gullaime made it only appear curious. It was crouched down before her, head angled up to look at her as she spoke. “Can you speed us past the Hunter and call up enough wind to throw off their shot at the same time?”

  The windtalker let out a harsh croak. Black Orris came fluttering down from the rigging to land on Meas’s shoulder. The windtalker angled its head towards Hag’s Hunter.

  “Twelve of the nest ride that ship.” Then it called again, opening its beak and making a swallowing motion as the noise rose into the air. “They will fight me. I will fight them. Speed or shot, Meas Gilbryn. Speed or shot. Speed easier.” It let out a throaty croak.”Think less. Keep strength longer.”

  Meas stared at the enemy ship, at the great gallowbows on its maindeck, at the the two decks below, bowpeeks raised to reveal smaller but still fearsome bows. It appeared to Joron that she stared past it and into the future, into the moment the bows loosed and the shot flew and her crew were dying around her. Her landward foot tapped on the slate.

  “Which would you choose, Joron?”

  He tried to imagine twenty-seven gallowbows sending their deadly cargo across the sea. Gullaime guiding them home. The devastation, the maiming, the pain.

  “You know Hunter’s shipwife,” he said. “How fast will they loose their bows?”

  A pause before she answered, and she did so with a touch of pride.

  “Fast enough.”

  “Then speed,” he replied. “She chases us out of pride, to best you. She won’t want to do it with fired wingbolts, not with us so outclassed. So we are safe from burning, I reckon. I imagine she’ll want to be able to feel like it was a fair fight. We just have to hope the spines survive what she sends at us, then we can loose for their tiller and hope to cripple them.”

  Meas nodded.

  “Dinyl?”

  “It is a Hag’s deal,” he muttered. “I would say the opposite of Joron: protect the spines from shot at all costs, even if it leaves the gullaime dried out on the deck. Without spines we have nothing.” She nodded at that too.

  “A Hag’s deal indeed,” she said, “but I think speed, in this instance, is the better choice of two bad ones.”

  “Do we lie flat,” said Dinyl, “and take our punishment?”

  Again Meas stared into the future, seeing the carnage and what she hoped to get from it.

  Joron touched the birdfoot on a string that hung around his neck, the one his father had given him for luck. I shall see you at the bonefire soon, he thought. And I have missed you so much.

  “No, we stand,” she said. “I don’t want Kyrie to guess what we are about, so we must answer them shot for shot. To see their bright blue corpselights dim a little will give the crew some cheer.” She raised her voice. “You hear me? We’ll not simply let him rake us! Spin the bows! Load the shot. Gullaime, fill our wings with wind!”

  Sudden activity, every body on the ship moving. Coughlin’s men climbing up into the rigging with their bows, though Joron doubted the ships would pass near enough for them to be of use.

  And Hag’s Hunter came on. Beautiful and implacable.

  “Load our wingbolts for fire,” shouted Meas. “We’ll gain nothing here from mercy.” Hagspit was measured. Torches passed around.

  Joron’s ears hurt as the gullaime brought the wind to them, and Tide Child leaped forward, a great wave kicking up from the front and a great groan coming from his hull. Joron hurried to stand by the mainspine, Dinyl going on to the forward spine and Meas remaining by the rumpspine.

  And Hag’s Hunter came on. Parallel to them now but passing in the opposite direction, his decks full of women and men.

  “Spin the bows!” shouted Joron.

  And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow spun, D’keeper.” And the calls came from the underdeck: “Bow spun, D’keeper.”

  “Load the bows!” shouted Joron.

  And the biggest, the heaviest of the stone wingbolts were placed on the shafts. And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow loaded, D’keeper.” And the calls came from the underdeck: “Bow loaded, D’keeper.”

  “Put fire to ’em if you have it!” shouted Joron.

  And on the maindeck hagspit oil was carefully poured and torches applied. Flames flickered above the bows. And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow fired, D’keeper.”

  “Aim!” shouted Joron.

  The heads of the bows came round to track the mass of Hag’s Hunter.

  Hunter’s bows came round to track Tide Child.

  And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow aimed, D’keeper.” And the calls came from the underdeck: “Bow aimed, D’keeper.”

  The moan of wind passing over tensioned cord filled the air.

  It felt, to Joron like the whole ship, in unison, breathed in. Held that breath. Enjoyed the moment, the smell of the sea, the wind on their faces. He wished it could last for ever.

  “Loose!” He did not need to shout it, did not need to scream it out as every ear on the ship was turned to him, awaiting that word. And on that word the bows released. And as Tide Child’s bows loosed so did Hag’s Hunter’s, as if the two ships were somehow tied together, and the moment, the second of stillness, was torn apart with such violence as Joron had never known.

  The whole ship felt as though it was punched a length backwards. Spars and rigging torn away; the hull rang with impacts, and the air full of the whistle of flying debris. A half-second of shocked silen
ce. Then the screaming of the wounded and dying, the crash of falling rigging and wings. Joron ducked, covering his head as a mass of ropes and spars fell around him.

  “Spin the bows!” His voice, coming out of his mouth, loud, almost without volition. Wounded being dragged away from the bows. Dead going overboard. Crew filling empty spaces. Blood, dark in the sand.

  “Bow spun, D’keeper.” Was that one answering or all of them? No matter. A body hit the deck by him, an arm ripped away by shot. A face screamed.

  “Load the bows!” Women and men moving. Hauling the great stones up. The wind still blowing. The gullaime standing just down from him. Gavith running past, scattering more sand on the slate. Someone sobbing.

  “Can you control the wind from belowdeck, Gullaime?”

  The mask turned to him.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Then do it. Stay safe. We need the wind.”

  “Bows loaded, D’keeper!”

  How was he thinking?

  How was he thinking when that huge ship was slowly sliding past them, not two hundred spans away, readying to loose again? One round of shot had wreaked such havoc on Tide Child like he could not believe. How was he thinking? And yet he was.

  “Aim the bows!”

  Were they keeping up with Hag’s Hunter? Were his bowteams as fast as those on the fleet ship opposite them?

  “Bows aimed, D’keeper!”

  “Then lo—”

  Bolts incoming. The thruuum, the howling through the air, the smashing of rock into bone. Something plucked at his leg, knocked him to the deck. A massive spar came down. landing on the second gallowbow, flattened the women and men around it, cracked the slate, creating runnels which blood flowed along. Branching streams of red reaching out for him. The air full of dust as a mainwing came down. A shroud of black material covering him.

  Pushing against it, fighting off the sudden darkness.

  “Loose!” Shouting into a void. “Loose the bows for the Mother’s sake!” Could they even hear him? “Loose! Loose!” Light! He saw light! Crawling from under the variskcloth. Oh, Mother’s mercy! Only one bow left working on the deck, the others either smashed or swinging free. But there, standing at its aiming point, was Meas. The bow launched, the underdeck bows launched. Bolts sailed through the air. A corpselight above Hag’s Hunter flickered yellow and vanished as Tide Child’s bolts smashed through sails and spars.

  Trying to stand, his legs betraying him.

  Shouting.

  His voice hoarse.

  Throat burning.

  “Spin! Spin the bows, Hag take you.” And women and men running to do it. But so few. So very few.

  Time. Time trickling by. The grains in the glass. The blood on the sand on the shattered slate deck.

  Before the reply, before the expected shout of, “Bows spun, D’keeper!” Meas screaming.

  “Down! Get down!”

  Then he is on the deck, face in the grit, teeth clenched as the shot comes. No duty to concentrate on. Trying not to scream in terror and horror. The noise of it. The unbelievable noise as bolts tear into Tide Child. Sounds of such violence he can barely believe he lives through them. When it stops he rolls on to his back. Clouds around the ship. Hag’s mercy, are they hidden by mist? No, not clouds, not mist. Dust. Clearing slowly. Drifting away from Tide Child in a light breeze. Showing him the mainspine. Cracks running hither and thither around it.

  A dull groan.

  A sharp, high crack.

  A terrible moan from Tide Child as the mainspine starts to lean. A pause as the rigging holds it. For a moment it is still. Then a hundred whipcracks as the topweave gives way. Ropes like knives snapping through the tops. Cutting through whatever, whoever, they touch.

  The whole lot comes down.

  Mainspine first, dragging the rumpspine with it, and the weight of the two together snaps off the top third of the for’ard spine. The tangle of ropes, spars, tackle and raggedy wings all coming down. A great plume of water as it hits the sea, slewing over Tide Child’s deck, in a wave, washing over Joron, washing back tinged with red. The drag of broken wings in the water brings Tide Child to a halt and pulls the deck over to rest at a giddy angle.

  Meas, shouting.

  “Axes! Cut the spines free before they drag us over!” Joron sees her. Staring round her ruined ship. Watching as crew – one, two, three – try to drag themselves up. Joron tries and his legs give way beneath him. He sees her, sees her look around. Sees the momentary look of utter despair. Then she stands on the remains of the shattered landward rail and pulls her two-tailed hat off. Waving it in the air, her hair flying free in the breeze. “We are done!” she shouts. “We are done!” She throws the hat into the sea so the crew of Hag’s Hunter can see her surrender.

  They wait.

  They wait.

  More women and men appear on the deck. In ones and twos. In threes and fours. Limping, bloodied, dust covered.

  And they wait.

  Wait to see if the Hunter accepts.

  Wait to see if the three decks of bows will loose again.

  Wait as the huge ship slows.

  Have they even touched him? All this death and destruction and have they even really touched him? But then Joron sees the corpselights, only seven now, and four of those faded to lastlight. Sees Hag’s Hunter’s pristine white wings full of holes. Rigging that hangs loose from his spars and blood that runs bright red down the side of the ship, is smeared along his side.

  He tried to get to Meas, and found his right leg worked but his left would barely support him. Not broken though, bruised maybe, painful. He found a piece of spar to lean his weight on and joined her at the rail. It was so quiet. Faces on the other ship staring at them.

  “Why stop, Shipwife?” he said. “We are a ship of the dead, we are here to die.”

  “For a reason, Joron.” Her voice was harsh and he wished he had some water for her. “We die for a reason. The spines are gone and we cannot fight. The underdeck is a wreck. Look over the side if you doubt me.” He did not. “Now we try and buy time for the wakewyrm to get as far away as it can. That is the most we can do.”

  “You fought well, Meas, my sither.” The call from the other ship sounded oddly unreal, distorted by distance and the movement of the waves between the two craft. Hunter’s shipwife stood on her rail, a speaking cone at her mouth to amplify her voice. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You never stood a chance really, not on that wreck. Not against me. It would be good to give Mother your account of my victory. Let all hear how I bested you and I will let your crew live.”

  Meas did not reply. Only stayed there, staring at the other ship.

  “She lies of course,” said Meas quietly. “She always did lie.”

  “Come, Meas,” Kyrie shouted.

  “You are to call me Shipwife!” Meas shouted across the sea. “You have not earned the familiarity of my name. A child could have beaten us with a ship like yours. So you will call me Shipwife. And if you wish to ignore my rank and tell our mother you truly bested me, then bring your blade over here and earn the right to do so.”

  The sound of the sea against the hull. The gurgle of water moving within the stricken ship.

  “Admit you are beaten by a better shipwife, Meas,” Kyrie shouted. “I’ll not let you goad me into some last-ditch fight for glory. I have my bows loaded. I have my bows aimed. I will smash your ship to shards and your story will end here and none will ever know of this brave last stand. I shall tell Mother the great Lucky Meas ran her ship aground on a reef and died.”

  Joron saw Meas take a deep breath. Then she whispered:

  “Get below, Joron. You may yet survive.” She turned from him and shouted, “I’ll give you nothing. So loose your bows, coward!”

  “Very well. I had no wish to . . .” Kyrie’s words died away. The deckchilder arrayed along the rail of Hag’s Hunter were pointing towards Tide Child.

  Why?

  Joron did not understand. Then a shout went up
from Hag’s Hunter. A roar.

  “Keyshan!” The word was drawn out, elongated in a mixture of wonder, elation and terror. “Keyshan rising!”

  Joron turned. A mountain of frothing water rose behind them, taller than Shipshulme Island, and from it came the Keyshan, mouth open – a cave of teeth – white eyes burning, skin undulating with a million colours. It called; the noise so loud it made Tide Child shake. At the moment he thought they must be dashed to pieces by it, the sea-dragon dived and Tide Child was lifted by a massive smooth hill of liquid, which pushed him up and towards the sky. Then Joron was running to the rail, despite the pain in his leg. Staring over the side as the huge body of the wakewyrm passed below them, pale skin blueing as it dived. He saw the shadows of flippers come out, beat twice, and the shape of its body changed.

  Rising.

  Keyshan rising.

  White eyes burning in the depths.

  Hearing the song, the song, the song.

  So loud. Huge mouth opening.

  Ship rising!

  The Hag’s Hunter rising.

  Rising from the sea. Clasped about his middle the mouth of the wakewyrm Tide Child had shepherded across the oceans of the Scattered Archipelago.

  The beast

  Massive.

  Awe in form of flesh.

  Women and men no doubt screamed as the Hag’s Hunter was thrust from the water, the Hunter’s hull below the waterline bright green with weed. Held in jaws longer as the massive ship. The keyshan rose, and rose, its body growing and thickening as more and more of it was propelled from the water by its tail. To Joron it seemed impossible that something so huge could rise so far. He watched deckchilder fall screaming from the ship, and then, at the height of the keyshan’s breach, it closed those huge jaws. Its teeth, each as big as a tall man, grinding through the hull of Hag’s Hunter. Joron imagined the horror and panic in the underdeck of the ship as its bones closed in on them, crushing them. Then the wakewyrm let itself fall sideways into the sea, smashing Hag’s Hunter into the water. Breaking it in two. An immense wave surged out from the site of the keyshan’s impact, swamping Tide Child, and if not for Meas screaming awed deckchilder to the pumps Joron had no doubt they would have sunk under the weight of the freezing liquid. And all was action as the water soaked him to the skin.