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Hilemore saw the pivot-gun crew run for cover as a Red fanned its wing to hover over the fore-deck, fire jetting from its mouth. It managed to send one crewman over the rail in flames before a dark blur streaked into its chest and exploded. Hilemore saw Kriz crouched amidst the smoking debris, another grenade clutched in her hand should she need it. But the drake was unmistakably dead, its open chest cavity leaking gore as it lay across the prow. Hilemore saw Kriz cast the body away, then look up and dive to the side just before a wall of flame covered the bridgehouse windows. Glass shattered and fire momentarily filled the bridge, leaving Hilemore on the deck coughing smoke. He heard the double blast of Skaggerhill’s shotgun followed by a chorus of pain-filled profanity.

Hilemore wafted smoke and got to his feet, finding Scrimshine frantically beating out the flames on Talmant’s jacket. “Stand aside,” Hilemore ordered, hefting a full water bucket and dousing the lieutenant with the contents. “Get back on the wheel.”

Hilemore turned to find Loriabeth covering Skaggerhill’s broad torso with her duster, smoke seeping from beneath the garment as she pressed it down. Hilemore fought down a rising gorge at the stink of charred flesh. The harvester’s face was mostly untouched but, as Loriabeth drew the duster away, it became clear those parts of his chest not covered by green leather had received a bone-deep burn. It extended in a ghastly line from his collar to his belly, blackened flesh leaking blood amongst the rising smoke.

“Got . . .” he breathed, voice pitched high with suppressed pain, “the fucker.” He made a vague, jerky gesture with the shotgun still clasped in his hands. Hilemore’s gaze went to the head of the Red dangling in the hatchway, leaking copious blood onto the deck, its body lying atop the bridgehouse roof.

“Get that thing over the side,” Hilemore called out, sending the riflemen of the captain’s guard hurrying to comply. He then instructed two of the South Seas Maritime Marines to take Skaggerhill below and administer a full dose of Green. He began to suggest Loriabeth go with him and oversee his care but one glance at her part-stricken, part-furious visage convinced him to still his tongue.

He went out onto the walkway, drawing up short at the sight of a body lying across the railing. Preacher’s tall form was bent like a bow, his upturned face staring up at Hilemore, as blank in death as it had been in life. Hilemore could see no burns on the marksman’s body but the blood seeping in a thick torrent from his torso indicated he had fallen victim to a tail strike.

“Preacher.”

Hilemore turned to see Braddon Torcreek climbing down from the mainmast. Together he and Hilemore lifted Preacher’s body from the railing, laying him down on the walkway. “It was coming for me,” the Contractor captain said, crouching at Preacher’s side and staring into his empty eyes. “He stepped in front of me . . .” He shook his head, touching a hand to Preacher’s bloody chest. “Crazy old bastard. Guess he really wanted it to come true.”

“Wanted what?” Hilemore asked.

“The Seven Penitents,” Braddon said. “The Seer wrote that the most faithful would be the first to die in the Travail.” He shifted his gaze to Preacher’s longrifle, which lay on the walkway close by. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain,” he said, moving to retrieve the weapon and jerking the lever to chamber a round. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, went to the ladder and began to climb. “I got business up top.”

Hilemore gave Preacher’s corpse a final glance then descended to the main deck, calling for reports. All the Reds had been accounted for and the fires they birthed contained, though the attack had cost them another five casualties besides Preacher, three fatal and two wounded along with Skaggerhill. One consolation was that the Superior had now drawn close enough to shore for him to gain an appreciation of the course of the battle. He could see cannon and repeating guns firing all along the length of the Redoubt, providing cover for a large number of defenders retreating through the main gates close to the beach. The trenches appeared to be completely in the hands of the White’s army, Spoiled and Greens continuing to advance in the face of the intense fire from the walls. In places they were only yards from the retreating humans, some of whom were fighting a valiant rear-guard action. Blood-blessed, Hilemore concluded, seeing how the Greens and Spoiled were cast into the air or blasted with heat as they charged at these knots of resistance. Despite their courage it was clear to him they were about to be overrun. Sheer weight of numbers would tell before long.

“Ship approaching off the starboard bow, sir,” Talmant reported.

Hilemore looked to the north, seeing the smoke part to reveal a familiar shape. The Viable Opportunity steamed to their front, paddles churning at full auxiliary power, her signal lamp blinking a message in standard Protectorate code. “Fall in astern,” Hilemore read, quickly recognising the author’s hand in what followed. “All guns fire to shore. Report for court martial at close of hostilities.”

“So time hasn’t improved his temperament,” Hilemore muttered to himself before returning to the bridge. “Signal the engine room, ahead full auxiliary power. Mr. Scrimshine, follow that ship.”

Under Scrimshine’s deft handling the Superior took up position twenty yards to the stern of the Viable. Hilemore descended to the deck and directed the transfer of guns from the port rail to starboard, he and Steelfine man-handling one of the pieces into position before hearing an eruption of repeating gun-fire from the Viable. The Reds had evidently noticed their approach and determined to prevent it, descending in a dense stream straight for the lead ship. Her repeating guns were putting up a hail of fire, concentrated so that the tracer converged on the leading Reds, blasting drake after drake out of the sky.

“Load explosive shells!” Hilemore ordered the gunners, tearing his gaze from the unfolding spectacle in the sky. Their mission was to save the army on shore and the Viable was buying them the time to do it. “Fuses set for air-burst.”

He focused his gaze on the Redoubt, seeing the rear guards breaking in the face of overwhelming odds, the defenders streaming for the gates which were now in the process of closing. “Aim at the base of the ridge,” he told the gunners, glancing left and right to ensure all guns were loaded and lanyards ready to be pulled. “Fire at will!”

The cannons fired almost as one, all eight guns arrayed on the starboard rail and the forward pivot-gun. They were close enough to the shore for Hilemore to judge the fall of shot without use of a glass. Most of the shells were on target, exploding in a line along the steep lower slopes of the ridge to send their deadly rain down on the Spoiled and Greens now charging towards the Redoubt gates. The effect was immediate, the enemy so close-packed that Hilemore estimated a hundred at least had been felled by the first broadside.

“Keep firing!” he called out. “Pour it on, lads!”

A loud screech from the direction of the fore-deck drew his gaze in time to see Kriz send another grenade into the midst of a trio of attacking Reds. Two were killed outright and the third landed on the prow, managing to cough out some flames before Kriz snapped its neck with Black. Hilemore raised his gaze to the Viable, blinking in shock at the sight of her upper works being mobbed by drakes. They latched themselves onto the railing and superstructure, snapping at the crew or spewing flame into the hatchways. Many of the Viable’s fittings were alight and she began to fall out of line as a loud boom sounded within her hull, a tall column of dark smoke shooting from her stacks a second later.