“I shall explain your choices in very simple terms,” she said. “You can get up, apologise to my friend for your language and take us to see the Varestian Ruling Council. Or”—she aimed the mini-Growler’s smoking barrels directly at his head—“I’ll kill you and every man here, then go and find them myself.”
CHAPTER 12
Clay
“Battle stations! Riflemen assemble on deck!”
Hilemore’s orders rang out from the bridge as Clay turned and slid down the ladder, making for his position on the prow. The Superior’s forward pivot-gun fired before he could get there, the shot aimed low so that it impacted in the centre of the approaching mass of Greens in a spout of white and red. Clay went to the port rail instead, pistol drawn as he stared down at the water below. Jack!
He could feel the Blue’s distress, an instinctive fear of greater numbers overcoming his loyalty. A brief sharing of minds revealed him to be circling frantically beneath the Superior’s stern, attempting to conceal himself in the silt his coils raised from the sea-bed. Old Jack was never as mighty as Last Look, Clay reminded himself. Nor so crazy.
He heard another shouted command from the bridge and saw Steelfine marshalling his riflemen. The Islander sent a squad of six to the port rail and the remaining seven to starboard. Several more riflemen appeared on the upper works, accompanied by Sigoral and Loriabeth. A glance above revealed Preacher’s tall form scaling the ladder to the crow’s nest, his rifle slung across his back. Clay couldn’t see his uncle or Skaggerhill but knew they would be taking up station somewhere in the aft section.
The forward gun fired again, quickly followed by both the port and starboard cannon, meaning the Greens were all around them now. Clay returned his gaze to the sea, at first seeing nothing but the roiling wake rebounding from the hull, then reeling back as a Green launched itself out of the water, mouth gaping. The heat of the drake’s fire was fierce enough to stun him, sending him sprawling onto the deck, smoke rising from his singed clothing. He scrabbled to extinguish the flames clinging to his sleeves then, realising he had dropped his revolver, reached for the wallet of product in his jacket. He had managed to get it open when a loud hiss dragged his gaze to the rail in time to see the Green clambering onto the deck.
Like most aquatic Greens it was considerably larger and longer of body than its land-based cousins, the head and snout narrow and spear-like, and possessed of a barbed, whip-like tail. Seeing the beast coil its tail for a strike, Clay rolled on the deck an instant before the thorny tip slammed into the boards with splintering force. Clay’s mind filled with feverish curses as he fumbled for his vials, desperately trying to get one to his lips. The Green, however, saw no reason to allow him the luxury of time and lunged, jaws snapping, then fell dead as a bullet tore through its skull.
Clay gaped at the bleeding twitching body of the Green then felt hands grip him beneath the shoulders, trying to drag him upright. “Are you hurt?” Kriz asked once he was on his feet. She had obtained a revolver from somewhere and stood with her back to him, aiming at the multiple Greens now boiling over the Superior’s rails. Rifle fire crackled continually, punctuated by more rapid pistol and carbine-shots and the hissing roar of drake flames. A scream snapped Clay’s gaze to the forward gun-crew. They had abandoned the pivot-gun and were attempting to fend off a trio of Greens with sea-axes and boat-hooks. One gunner was already down, yelping as he beat at the flames consuming his legs.
Clay took three vials from his wallet, Green, Red and Black, put all three to his lips and drank half the contents. “Take all of it,” he said, handing the vials to Kriz before crouching to retrieve his pistol and starting forward. “I’ll do the killing. Keep them off me.”
He froze one Green in place as it darted towards the burning crewman, shooting it in the head, then stunned the other two with a mixed blast of Red and Black. They skittered back, hissing in distress and rage. He used his Green-enhanced reflexes to shoot one through the eye, but the other was too quick, swiftly dodging to the side then lashing out with its tail to spear one of the gunners through the chest. Kriz shouted an enraged expletive in her own language, casting out an inexpert but effective wave of Black that pinned the Green to the side-rail long enough for Clay to put a bullet through its head.
The burnt man lay writhing in agony as the two remaining gunners used a jacket to quench the last of the flames, but Clay could tell the fellow wouldn’t last long. A quick look around confirmed the fore-deck and the prow free of Greens, but the mid-deck and the upper works were thick with the beasts. Dozens had been killed, and dozens more continued to fall to the crew’s desperate fusillade, but ever more were boiling out of the sea to clamber up the hull.
“You got cannister?” Clay asked one of the gunners, who could only stare at him in shock until Clay grabbed his jacket and shook him. “Cannister! You got any?”
“Just three shells,” the man said, moving to the recessed compartment in the deck where the ammunition was stored. “The Corvies used most of it up at the Strait.”
“Get it loaded,” Clay said. “We’ll keep them back.”
The gunners got to work whilst Clay and Kriz positioned themselves to the rear of the gun, dispatching any Green that detached itself from the main pack to charge them. Kriz seemed to be learning with every use of product, her blasts of Red and Black becoming more accurate. Clay saw her snap the forelegs of one Green then roast its eyes as it stumbled to a halt a few yards away.
“Neat trick,” he said, finishing the Green with a bullet to the skull. His last bullet. “You ready yet?” he demanded, turning back to the gun.
“Ready,” one of the gunners said, snapping the breech closed before he and his comrade began swivelling the gun about. “Better get behind us if you don’t want to be shredded.”
Clay and Kriz moved swiftly to comply as the gunners brought the pivot-gun to bear on the upper works. “Where do we aim?” one asked.
“Starboard side,” Clay said, pointing. “That’s where they’re thickest.”
“Guard your ears,” the other gunner said, reaching for the firing lanyard. Clay clamped his hands over the side of his head, nodding for Kriz to do the same. Even so, the gun’s blast was enough to leave a ringing in his ears and cause an involuntary closing of the eyes. When he looked again the mass of drakes assailing the starboard flank of the upper works had been transformed into a green-and-red morass. Eviscerated and part-dismembered Greens lay about the ladders and walkways, some still twitching. Amongst it all Clay could see the dark uniform of a Protectorate sailor.
“Port side,” he said, forcing his gaze away. “Hurry up.”
They had to fend off another charge before the gun was ready to fire again, Clay feeling his reserves of product diminish with every slaughtered drake. Fortunately, Preacher had evidently seen their plight and chose to lend a hand. Three Greens went down in quick succession, felled by longrifle shots from the crow’s nest. Despite this, the Greens continued to come for them and by the time the gunners called out a warning their product was almost all spent. There was no time to retreat so he and Kriz threw themselves flat, hands covering their ears as the gun blasted out its hail of iron balls.