Hilemore’s gaze was drawn by the sound of Clay’s laughter. He stood at the boat’s stern, head shaking and grin wide as he regarded the sight of Jack waiting patiently with the rope lodged firmly in his mouth. “He gets it,” Clay said and laughed again. “He really gets it.”
“Six knots, do you think, Mr. Steelfine?”
“Closer to seven, sir.” The Islander’s voice was muffled by his mask and he was obliged to shout to make himself understood. “Think he might get up to eight when the channel straightens.”
Hilemore cast his gaze over the Dreadfire’s much broader and deeper wake then back at Last Look Jack, or Old Jack as Clay insisted on calling him now. The Blue seemed tireless as it towed the ship northwards, his huge body coiling in a steady unchanging rhythm. Thanks to Jack they had covered more miles in an hour than in the previous two days. Whatever dire results the gas may have inflicted on an unprotected human didn’t seem to affect the beast at all.
“It’s a creature that breathes fire,” Clay explained when Hilemore raised the issue. “Probably got all manner of poison swirling about his lungs already.”
Pleasing as this was, any elation Hilemore might have felt was quelled by the thickening stench which was detectable even through the nostril-stinging barrier of his makeshift mask. So far the masks had worked, none of the crew having succumbed to the miasma, though a couple had displayed signs of confusion and unsteadiness. As an added precaution Hilemore ordered the bulk of the crew belowdecks and all hatches and port-holes sealed. He knew it was scant protection; although the Dreadfire was a remarkably sturdy old bird she had more holes in her than a Corvantine deserter after a court martial. But a crew needed to be kept busy, especially in times of crisis.
More worrying than the gas was the looming sight of Mount Reygnar. They were little over two miles away from the volcano now and what had been a fiery spectacle was fast becoming an ominous danger. The ice surrounding the mountain had disappeared entirely, creating what was in effect a large warm-water lagoon of churning currents which even Old Jack might have trouble navigating. Added to that was the unpredictable violence of the eruptions, Reygnar vomiting forth chunks of molten rock at irregular intervals. They would ascend to a great height before plunging down into the surrounding lagoon, trailing smoke like fire-balls cast by some ancient and massive catapult.
Initially the currents proved more of a danger, Jack swimming headlong into a swirling eddy that sent the Dreadfire heaving to starboard and threatened to rip the cable from the prow. “Look lively at the helm!” Hilemore barked at Scrimshine, who was busily spinning the tiller in an effort to counter the current and maintain the correct angle to the tethered drake.
“The beast needs to slow down, Skipper!” Scrimshine returned, grunting with the strain of hauling the wheel to midships.
“Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore said, moving to where Clay stood at the very apex of the prow. “A tad slower, if you please.”
Clay gave a distracted nod, keeping his gaze fixed on the Blue. A moment later the ship began to slow to about two-thirds her previous speed. Hilemore extended his spy-glass and trained it on the waters ahead, finding just a wall of drifting smoke and steam, no doubt rich in a plethora of lethal gases. “Five points to port, Mr. Torcreek,” he ordered, drawing a bemused glance from the Blood-blessed.
“That way,” Hilemore bellowed through his mask, pointing to the left. “I’ll tell you when to straighten her out. We need to keep close to the edge of this expanse.”
Clay nodded again and Jack soon altered course, hauling clear of the fast-approaching fog. Hilemore turned his gaze to the mountain, now a dark mass in the roiling smoke, glowing lava threading the slopes’ flanks like veins of fire. Even more unnerving than the sight of it was the volcano’s voice, a constant thunderous roar accompanied by the occasional boom as lightning flashed in the billowing black clouds that crowned the summit.
“Sir!” Steelfine gave an urgent cry from the starboard rail, pointing at the mostly black sky. Hilemore saw it immediately, a flaming ball of lava reaching the apex of its flight. He had a fraction of a second to judge its course, but a life aboard warships had left him with an instinct for gauging the trajectory of dangerous projectiles.
“Hard to starboard!” he said, clamping a hand on Clay’s shoulder and pointing to the right. “Fast as he can!” Hilemore whirled away and sprinted towards Scrimshine, joining him at the wheel to help spin it to starboard so the drake’s abrupt change in course wouldn’t rip away the tether.
The fire-ball came streaking down barely a second later, throwing up a great geyser of steam and displaced water as it impacted within pistol range of the Dreadfire’s port side. The old ship hadn’t been built for such violent manoeuvres and Hilemore felt the aged timbers beneath his boots thrum in a groan of collective protest. Keep together, old girl, Hilemore implored her, running a hand along the oaken wheel. Not much longer now. Then you can rest.
As if in response the ship settled, Hilemore tracking Jack’s course as Clay steered a more gentle track back towards the fringes of the lagoon. It was then that Hilemore realised he was alone at the tiller. He began to voice a rebuke at Scrimshine then saw the former smuggler lying prone on the deck, eyes red and bulging above his mask as he convulsed.
“Mr. Steelfine, take the helm!” Hilemore called out, rushing to Scrimshine’s side. The man’s gloved hands scrabbled at Hilemore’s arms, white froth appearing at the edges of his mask as his choking and convulsions intensified. Hilemore hooked his arms around Scrimshine’s chest and dragged him to the hatch leading to the hold, stamping on the planking until Skaggerhill heaved it open. Together he and the harvester dragged Scrimshine to the galley table, laying him out. His spasms were weakening now, though his eyes were still bright and full of pleading as they stared up at Hilemore. Don’t let me die, Skipper.
“The filters must be saturated,” Kriz said, coming forward with a fresh mask. She took hold of Scrimshine’s face and turned his gaze to hers, speaking in firm tones: “Hold your breath, keep still.” She waited for him to master himself, then swiftly undid the ties on his mask, tossing it aside to fix the replacement over his mouth and nose. “Don’t breathe too deep,” she cautioned as Scrimshine heaved, doubling over on his side, eyes shut tight in pain as he issued forth a rich stream of muffled Dalcian profanity.
“Pretty thick out there now, huh?” Skaggerhill asked, casting a worried glance at the open hatch.
“Not much longer,” Hilemore said, speaking with what he hoped was sufficient volume and clarity to reassure the onlooking crew. “Need another hand at the tiller, if you’re willing,” he added, climbing the ladder to the upper deck.
They were obliged to dodge two more fire-balls over the course of the next hour, the second one streaking down close enough to leave a good portion of the upper works ablaze. Hilemore had begun shouting orders to muster a fire-fighting party from below when Old Jack paused in his towing to thrash his tail. The resultant curtain of water was sufficient to both drown the flames and subject all on deck to a thorough soaking.
“The damage could have been worse, sir,” Steelfine reported after ascending the rigging to inspect the masts. “But we’d be lucky to rig more than a few yards of sail after this.” The Islander glanced at the prow where Clay maintained his unerring vigil over Old Jack. “We’d best hope his pet monster doesn’t get tired.”