The effect of this shot was even more deadly than the first, sweeping most of the attacking Greens away in an instant, leaving behind a dozen or so thrashing wounded. Clay scanned the midships seeing no sign of any more Greens clambering out of the sea. A cacophony of shots and shouts could be heard from the stern, indicating this fight wasn’t over yet.
“Come on,” he told Kriz, running for a ladder. “I expect the captain’s got some more product.”
“Your pet is a coward.” Steelfine glared at Clay, tattooed features hard with accusation beneath a mask of blood. A drake claw had left a trio of parallel cuts on the crown of his shaven head, though any pain he might have felt seemed to have been subsumed by anger. “Eight good men dead and six grievously burned or gashed, whilst that monster skulks below.”
They were on the aft deck where Lieutenant Talmant had charge of the clean-up crew. They were all clad in oilskins to protect against the effects of so much drake blood and used brooms to push the Green bodies, most of them in pieces, over the side. The more intact ones had been piled near the hold for harvesting later.
The fighting had been fiercest here. Having been forced back from the rails, Steelfine’s riflemen had taken up a defensive position near the stern, consequently suffering the brunt of the casualties. Once the pivot-gun’s cannister had cleared the upper works Hilemore and Lieutenant Sigoral, fortified by product from the ship’s safe, had led the counter-attack to clear the rear of the ship. But not before the majority of the Islander’s squad had been killed or wounded.
“He ain’t a pet,” Clay replied, keeping his voice as passive as he could. This wasn’t a time to surrender to provocation. “He’s a creature from another age trapped in a body that ain’t his. And he don’t even understand what a coward is. He’s just trying to survive.”
“So he survives whilst my men die.” Steelfine took a step closer, a murderous glint in his eye. “That doesn’t seem a fair exchange to me . . .”
“Number One,” Hilemore said. His voice was soft but commanding enough to bring Steelfine to immediate attention.
“Sir!”
“You’re wounded. Report to sick bay for treatment.”
Steelfine didn’t move for a moment, continuing to stare at Clay with jaw clenched until he snapped off a salute, grated, “Aye, sir!” between clenched teeth and marched away.
“At least now our Green stocks should hold out for a while,” Hilemore commented, clasping his arms behind his back as he surveyed the blood-drenched deck. “I’ll set Mr. Skaggerhill to it when he’s finished in the sick bay.”
He paused to regard one particular corpse, a drake that had been caught by cannister-shot. Its lower body had been disintegrated whilst its upper half hung from a walkway, the creature’s jaw fixed on an overhead beam with such force none of the crewmen had yet managed to dislodge it.
“It was well done, Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore said. “The cannister. An excellent notion.”
Clay forced a half grin. “Just trying to survive too, Captain.”
“You might have made a fine Protectorate officer, had things been different.”
“That don’t seem likely. But thank you anyways.”
“Those were your uncle’s doing.” Hilemore gestured at a cluster of Green corpses arranged in a rough semicircle around the starboard-gun emplacement. “I saw him step up onto the gun just as it all started. Just kept loading and firing throughout the whole engagement. I don’t think he missed once.”
“Uncle Braddon’s always been one of the finest marksmen on the continent.”
“It’s not his marksmanship that concerns me. It’s his demeanour. Or rather his lack of it. He killed all of these and didn’t once change his expression. Nor did he show any sign of seeking a safer vantage point.”
“He’s . . . not quite himself just now. You know why.”
“Grief can lead a man to madness, if it’s stoked by vengeance. I’m wondering if instead of leaving one captain behind on your expedition, it might be better to leave two.”
“No.” Clay gave an adamant shake of his head. “Mad with grief or not, we wouldn’t last more than a few days in the Interior without him.”
“We have all suffered much on this strange voyage of ours,” Hilemore replied. “Lost many lives, men who trusted my judgement enough to follow me to the end of the world and back. I would not have that sacrifice be in vain, see this mission imperilled . . .”
“Captain!”
Hilemore turned at Lieutenant Talmant’s urgent call. The young officer stood at the stern, pointing at the Farlight, which had previously been anchored some hundred yards off but was now making steam and drawing away. The Blue-hunter had been completely unscathed by the Green assault, seemingly ignored by the drakes, who focused their fury entirely on the Superior. However, it appeared her crew had finally seen enough.
“‘Getting too hot around here,’” Talmant translated the flickering signal lamp on the Farlight’s bridgehouse. “‘Crew won’t stand it. Making for Stockcombe. Best of luck, and apologies. Tidelow.’”
“Seems your Islander’s got more cowards to rant about,” Clay observed.
“Yes,” Hilemore agreed. “Captain Tidelow would do well to avoid him in future.” He gave Clay a critical glance. “Are you sure about your uncle?”
“The one man in this world I’ll always be sure of is my uncle.”
“Very well. But make no mistake, Mr. Torcreek. Whether you know it or not, or like it or not, the expedition to Krystaline Lake will be under your command. Your uncle Braddon has forsaken such duty; I see it if you do not.”
They cleared Terror’s Cut the following morning, Hilemore having ordered the blood-burner brought on-line to ensure a swift passage. They were aided by the tide which raised the waters of the Cut into a fast-moving swell, propelling them clear of the channel without the risk of running aground on an uncharted sand-bank. Fortunately, no more Greens appeared come daylight and they made an unmolested progress into the Upper Torquil, covering much of the distance to the mouth of the Quilam River before nightfall. The Superior spent a nervous night at full alert, riflemen and look-outs posted in double shifts and all guns manned and loaded. For now at least it seemed the aquatic Greens were content to leave them be.
“You sure this thing will work?” Clay asked Kriz the next morning as he helped her carry her bulky breathing apparatus to the steam-launch.
“I think so, and so does Chief Bozware,” she replied. “I would have liked to conduct a proper test, but . . .” She glanced around at the becalmed, misty waters surrounding their anchorage. The Upper Torquil had so far proven to be less fractious than the Lower. In slight winds the surface took on an almost glass-like aspect, which somehow made it more ominous as it betrayed no sign of what might lie beneath.
“Yeah,” Clay agreed, grunting as they heaved the apparatus into the launch. “Best to wait till we get to the lake.”
He left her to check the device’s various valves and tubes, joining Loriabeth and Sigoral at the rail where they were engaged in a typically acerbic discussion.
“Just take it off,” his cousin told the Corvantine, reaching out to pluck at his eye-patch. “Can’t keep it on forever.”
“Still hurts,” he said in a sullen mutter, snatching his head away. There was a tension to his bearing that told Clay his reluctance to remove the patch had little to do with any pain it might cause.