The waves glowed pearl-blue under a blazing sky. Ashnak lifted his binoculars, spotting the wheeling pegasi of the valkyrie marines some klicks to the north and the vast shadow of the stealth dragon on the waves to the east. Twelve more galleys and sixteen sailing ships kept a parallel course to the Gibbet and Spigot. There was no sign of land.
Ashnak loped up onto the poop deck. “Steady as she goes, pilot!”
Lieutenant-Colonel Dakashnit (a battlefield promotion) leaned on the vast spoked wheel of the galley, swinging it with one muscular black arm. She grinned and touched her GI pot. “You got it, m’man!”
Major-General Barashkukor also saluted his commanding orc. “Sir, flagship of the Graagryk Navy proceeding as you ordered, sir. We are entering deep waters now, sir…”
The small orc’s features paled. He fixed Ashnak with bulging eyes, abruptly about-faced, and leaned over the back of the poop deck. Ashnak regarded his heaving shoulders. Ignoring the retching sounds, he slapped Barashkukor on the back. “Well done, son!”
The patter of small but heavy feet warned him. Ashnak turned in time to catch a half-orc halfling as it hurled itself at his leg. He scooped the child up, threw it up into the air, and (after a split second’s hesitation) caught it again. With its tiny taloned hand in his, Supreme Commander Ashnak crossed the poop deck.
“Pepin, sweetheart, don’t annoy your father while he’s working.” Honorary Colonel-in-Chief Magdelene of Graagryk absently patted the curly-footed tot’s head, avoiding its milk-fangs with practised ease. “Go and play with your brothers and sisters.”
Magda Brandiman reclined at her ease in a long, cushion-padded chair resting on the deck. An orc stood behind her with a parasol, shading the honorary colonel from the sun, and Magda leaned back, the wind whipping her hair, and sipped from a tall glass full of alcohol and fruit. Her infants sat at her feet, playing “Hang-orc.” Her mirrored Ray·Bans reflected Ashnak as she turned her head.
Ashnak gallantly kissed her free hand. “We’ve been at sea for five hours, my love…”
“Trust me.” Magda hitched down her mirrorshades and gazed at her orc over the rims. “Would I lie to you? Just keep on this course.”
The quinquireme wheeled again. Dozens of orc marines swarmed up the rigging, letting out the meagre sails to assist the rowers. Ashnak watched them swinging one-handed from ropes, rifles still slung across their backs. It became apparent that the port-side orc sailors were setting up an assault course through the lines and sheets.
“Splice the mainbrace!” Ashnak bellowed happily. “Ship ahoy! Yo ho ho!”
The spate of orders had little or no effect on the ship’s crew. The colour of the water under the Gibbet and Spigot changed to royal blue, and white foam flecked the waves. A line of orc marine rowers, their oars abandoned, leaned over the ship’s side, vomiting. Ashnak noted those who threw up over the windward side for possible demotion.
“Sssupreme Commander…”
Ashnak turned at the hissed sibilants. The midday sun gleamed from the blue-black carapace and black metal harness of the Jassik Hive Commander. The Bug had wedged its long body and exoskeletal hind legs into the corner of the poop deck, claw-hands gripping the rails.
“When…” Kah-Sissh lowered his shining head. “When will this ssstorm abate, Commander?”
“That’s ‘Admiral of the Fleet’ to you, Kah-Sissh,” Ashnak said, cheerfully slapping the Bug on the back. He winced and blew on his palm. “Storm? What storm? This is good sailing weather, this is!”
The Bug’s faceted eyes dulled. Kah-Sissh’s head slumped onto the rail, dribbling a thin trail of slime from extensible jaws.
“Our guest isn’t well,” the big orc observed. “Probably time for another meal. Barashkukor! Send down to the cook for some fat pork and poached eggs—and the remains of the jellyfish, if there’s any left.”
“You’re a cruel orc, my love,” Magda Brandiman observed.
“Nothing of the sort.” Ashnak held Major-General Barashkukor over the side by one leg to avoid having the vomiting orc spray him, and grinned toothily. “Can I help it if I’m a good sailor? I’m a marine!”
Ashnak dropped Barashkukor back on the deck and drew a deep, satisfying breath. Under the smell of orc sweat and vomit, his hairy nostrils caught the scent of sun-hot wood and rope, of spices from the Gibbet and Spigot’s last commercial voyage, and the alien tang of the Jassik’s bodily fluids. A whiff of pipe-weed made him look round.
“Man, you better come up with something soon, sir.” Pilot Dakashnit, now smoking a cigar, lazily spun the wheel. “Them Bugs don’t do at all well on water, but we still got six divisions of them sitting out there in the neutral zone, and patience is something they ain’t got, sir.”
Ashnak donned his cocked hat, planted his bowed legs widely apart, and put his hands behind his back, gazing forward. “Trust me, soldier, I’m an orc.”
“Stealth dragon to flagship, stealth dragon to flagship, over.”
Admiral Ashnak stuck one hand into his naval topcoat. He removed it, holding a radio handset. “Flagship receiving.”
“I say, sir, wonderful view of you from up here! Life on the ocean wave, eh, what?”
Ashnak stared up at the empty sky. “Are you sure you’re happy in your work, marine?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Tophole! Well, you know what they say, sir. Life’s a bitch, and then you fly…”
Ashnak growled.
“We may have just what you need,” Wing Commander Chahkamnit’s voice crackled hurriedly. “Bearing zero nine three relative, sir. Distance five miles.”
“Course change to zero nine three degrees!” Ashnak whooped.
The three grunts manning the tiller put their heads together, muttering. The largest counted on his fingers, pointed decisively, and declared, “That way!”
The quinquireme wallowed, orc marines scurrying, no more than half a dozen falling overboard. The galley’s bow bit deep into the waves. The oars rose and dipped furiously. A marine with flags semaphored wildly to the rest of the fleet, and the other ships began to wheel about and follow the S.S. Gibbet and Spigot’s wake.
“Man the guns!” Ashnak bellowed. Crews scurried towards the galley’s ballistas, rail-mounted crossbows, and six-inch naval artillery.
Magda Brandiman put down her empty glass. The halfling rose from her chair, smoothing her white sun-dress, and walked elegantly across the deck to stand beside Ashnak, her head level with his belt-buckle. She put one hand to her sun-hat in the stiff breeze.
“I’m going forward,” she announced.
Ashnak strode down the central walkway behind the female halfling. A number of the orc marine rowers whistled and cheered, which the Colonel-Duchess of Graagryk acknowledged with a wave, never missing her footing. Ashnak loped up behind her into the bow.
“THAR SHE BLOWS!”
Ashnak fingered his ringing ear. He then wiped his talon down his naval jacket and glared at Tech-Colonel Ugarit. The skinny green orc hung over the rail, bow-wave intermittently soaking his white lab coat, pointing and yelling.
“Thar she—”
Ashnak seized one of the skinny orc’s legs and lifted. Ugarit vanished over the ship’s side.