He started forward, intending to order the pivot-gun to rake the Viable’s deck with cannister, but forced himself to a halt. Not my mission, he told himself, teeth gritted as he tore his gaze away, turning it to the shore. The Superior fired three more broadsides as they passed by the Redoubt, each one seeming to cut down more drakes and Spoiled than the one before. They lay in mounds beneath the walls and the gates, which Hilemore noted in relief were now firmly shut. Only when satisfied that the attack had been stemmed did he turn his attention back to the Viable.
She was listing badly now, one paddle turning feebly whilst the other churned the sea white. Fires raged across her decks and Hilemore was treated to the dreadful sight of a crewman being torn apart by Reds, three of the beasts rending the screaming figure into pieces which they then cast into the sea, squawking in triumph. Above the screeching drakes and roaring flames he could hear the crackle of rifle fire and the growl of at least one repeating gun. They’re still fighting, he realised.
His mission was clear. He should turn the Superior about and conduct another barrage of the shore-line to prevent the enemy massing at the gates. But they’re still fighting!
For one of the very few instances in his life Hilemore was seized by an unwelcome and very palpable sense of indecision. The Viable Opportunity, the ship he had commanded from the Battle of the Strait through all the many travails that led them to Lossermark, was dying before his eyes, and he found he simply couldn’t allow it.
“Mr. Steelfine!” he called out. “Ask Lieutenant Sigoral to join us on the fore-deck and be sure to bring his grenades. Tell all guns to load cannister, and prepare a boarding party.”
“Aye, sir!”
The Islander turned and began to shout out the requisite orders, then fell silent when Hilemore, seeing a new shape resolving through the smoke a quarter-mile off the port bow, said, “Belay that, Number One.”
“Sir?”
The Endeavour emerged from the haze on full blood-burner power, her prow knifing through the sea as she steamed towards the Viable. The two guns on the Endeavour’s bows blasted out cannister as she closed the distance, Hilemore seeing several Reds fall from the stricken ship as the metal hail struck home. When she was less than a hundred yards off, the Endeavour halted then reversed her paddles, the sea seeming to boil about her hull as she slowed. It was a manoeuvre that no sane captain would usually contemplate, but this day was far from usual. Shattered and splintered wood emerged in a cloud from the Endeavour’s paddle casements as the force of the water fought the power of the blood-burner. In seconds the paddles were in tatters, capable of making only about a third of their normal purchase on the sea, but that was more than enough for her captain to perform a rapid turn, presenting her port-side guns to the Viable. They fired in quick succession, raking the other ship’s upper works with cannister and sweeping away at least half the Reds still tormenting her. The surviving drakes on the far side of the Viable rose as one to meet the new threat, wings blurring as they sought the sky.
Hilemore barked out a rapid series of orders to the pivot-gun crew. Within seconds they had loaded cannister and trained the gun on the space between the Viable and the Endeavour. “Fire!” Hilemore ordered as the first Reds began to sweep towards the smaller ship, blasting several out of the air. By then the Endeavour had completed another full turn, bringing to bear the as yet unfired guns on her starboard side. Water rose in tall spouts as drakes careened into the sea, cut down by the broadside, but a dozen or more remained to press home the attack on the Endeavour.
“Twenty degrees to port!” Hilemore shouted towards the bridge, pointing frantically towards the Endeavour. Scrimshine had apparently anticipated the order given the speed with which the Superior altered course. A pall of smoke had already blossomed around the Endeavour, though Hilemore could hear a cacophony of small-arms fire and drake cries. Kriz ran towards the prow, her satchel of grenades over her shoulder. At Hilemore’s call Sigoral soon joined her and the two Blood-blessed waited, grenades in hand.
The smoke cleared as the Superior closed on the Endeavour’s position, revealing a ship bathed in fire from stern to bow. Reds were still hovering over her, casting their flames down to add to the inferno. Kriz and Sigoral let fly with their grenades, launching them with Black so fast that they blurred. Within moments the Reds had been blasted out of the air, leaving the Endeavour a flaming wreck.
“Hoses to the port rail!” Hilemore ordered, though he could see it was pointless. The fires had begun to merge, forming one great conflagration that completely covered the Endeavour above the water-line. Within seconds the inevitable happened and her ammunition exploded, tearing her in two. Steam rose as the divided hull capsized, the two sections slipping beneath the roiling sea before the Superior’s prow cut through the scene of her demise.
Sea-sister . . . He stared at the flotsam passing by the hull, flames still licking at some of it, hearing a distant voice call to him but suddenly finding himself too weary to respond.
“Captain!” Steelfine’s large hand gripped his shoulder, the Islander pointing to something off the port beam. Assuming they were about to face another onslaught of Reds, Hilemore straightened his back and raised his gaze. A cluster of figures were struggling in the water twenty yards away, Zenida easily recognisable in the midst of them by virtue of her voice, loud enough to reach his ears, “Are you just going to let us drown?”
Unwilling to stop the ship unless in absolute necessity, Hilemore had Kriz and Sigoral haul the survivors aboard, plucking them from the sea with Black and depositing them on the fore-deck.
“Clever,” he said as Zenida shook the salt water from her hair. “Abandoning ship the moment they pressed home their attack. Lost your ship but saved your crew.”
“Not all,” she said, face grim. “Left ten behind to burn.”
“Victory demands a blood price,” he told her in Varestian. It was an old saying, one he knew to be beloved of pirates, and was gratified to see it bring a faint smile to her lips.
“I would like to make a statement,” she said.
“And that is?”
She moved close, pressing a kiss to his lips, brief but far from chaste. “I need to find some product,” she said, moving away. “I trust you have some left.”
Hilemore cast a brief glance around the deck, but it seemed the crew were too preoccupied with hosing away the copious amounts of drake blood from the boards to have noticed. He proceeded swiftly to the bridge, ordering the engines to dead slow and instructing Scrimshine to bring them about. He had the deck-hands play their hoses over the Viable as they passed by, although a good portion of the fires seemed to have already been extinguished. Despite this it was evident the ship was out of this fight, smoke leaking in a dense black cloud from her stacks and her paddles idled in the water. Seeing a signal lamp blinking atop her bridge Hilemore recognised the rigid form of Captain Trumane, working the lamp with one hand whilst pointing to the shore with the other. “See to your duty,” the message read.