“Slipped me grip, Skipper,” the smuggler said with a weak smile. Some of the crew were vociferous in calling for Hilemore to “tip that bilge-scum over the side,” to which he replied, “We’re short-handed. Draw your rifles and stand ready. I suspect we’re in for some hot work today.”
By the time one of the deck crew called out a sighting the Dreadfire sat surrounded by a floating ring of mines. Hilemore craned his neck and called up to the crow’s nest. “At your discretion, gentlemen!” Braddon replied with a wave whilst Preacher simply crouched and put his rifle to his shoulder.
“Leave the mines to the Contractors,” Hilemore repeated to the crew in a soft murmur as he paced along the deck. “Aim at any drake that shows itself above water and then not unless they’re at pistol-range. Aim for the eyes. Anything else is a waste of ammunition.”
He completed his tour and moved to where Steelfine and Skaggerhill crouched at their only cannon. They had crafted a raised platform from the few bits of furniture that hadn’t been tossed overboard. The twelve-pounder sat atop it, the barrel at full elevation and packed with both ball and chain-shot. Steelfine touched a match to a taper as Skaggerhill packed a wad of gun-cotton into the touch-hole.
“Hardly a rifled pivot-gun,” Steelfine commented as Hilemore came to his side. “Hauling her about won’t be easy. But she’ll do.”
She’ll have to, Hilemore said inwardly, turning his gaze to the water. The surface remained placid but for the occasional swirling eddy and the ripples caused by the bobbing barrels. A hush settled over the ship, the stillness made more ominous by the realisation that the Blue beneath their hull had stopped its call. The pack is gathered, Hilemore thought. Now all that remains is the kill.
The first attack was so swift it almost proved disastrous, a Blue rearing up twenty yards off the port bow, mouth gaping to deliver its fire. The flames had already lanced out towards the hull when Preacher fired his longrifle, detonating the barrel just to the left of the beast. The resultant explosion dispelled any doubts as to the efficacy of their invention, and also made Hilemore wonder if they hadn’t overdone it with the gun-cotton. The ship shook from end to end, heaving on the swell birthed by the blast. Fortunately the anchor cables held and she stayed in position. Hilemore staggered across the swaying deck to the rail to gauge the effect on the Blue, seeing it coiling in a spreading red mist. The explosion had almost cut it in two, its mouth opening to deliver a pathetic final stream of fire before it slipped into the depths.
Another shot sounded from above and an explosion erupted thirty yards to starboard. Again the Dreadfire shuddered, shifting to port as the blast wave caused her to drag her anchors. “Got the bastard!” Scrimshine yelled, pointing to a large slick of gore on the rippling surface.
Preacher and Braddon detonated two more mines in quick succession, one blasting a drake into several large pieces a short distance from the prow, the other without obvious result though it did appear to herald a lull.
“Scared them away good and proper, sir,” a crewman commented to Hilemore, face flushed with relief and triumph.
“Look to your front!” Hilemore snapped. “This isn’t over yet.”
For a time it appeared the Blues intended to prove him wrong, launching no more attacks for a full quarter hour. “Any thoughts, Mr. Skaggerhill?” Hilemore asked the harvester quietly as the calm dragged on.
“Not my speciality, Captain,” Skaggerhill replied. “Could write volumes about land drakes, Blues’re something else.” His craggy features bunched in consternation as he scanned the water. “Were they Greens I’d hazard they’re waiting for nightfall.”
Hilemore looked up, seeing the first glimmer of stars in the darkening sky. Night came early and fast in polar climes, something the Blues were certain to know. “Light the lanterns!” he called out. “And rig torches, all you can make!”
By the time the sun began to dip the Dreadfire was brightly lit from bow to stern, making Hilemore grateful for the fact that he hadn’t tipped any oil over the side. The mines had begun to drift farther away as the minutes dragged by, coming close to the edge of the glow cast by the lights. Hilemore ordered two small rafts fashioned from the planks they had ripped from the walls of the captain’s cabin. Empty barrels were lashed in place for buoyancy before the small craft were piled with oil-soaked rope and set adrift to port and starboard. Torches were thrown to set the rafts alight and the mines flickered back into view, along with something else.
The spines cut the water just beyond the ring of mines, wakes bright in the glow of the burning rafts. Hilemore’s gaze swept around, seeing spines knifing through the surface on all sides. The Blues were circling the Dreadfire.
“Shoot them!” Skaggerhill shouted, casting his voice up at the crow’s nest. “They’re gonna rush us all at once! Shoot the mines!”
As if in response a set of spines immediately turned and slipped below the surface, an action mimicked by the drakes on either side. “Open fire!” Hilemore ordered, calling out to every crewman on deck. “Aim for the mines!”
Water spouted all around the ship as the crew obeyed, the crackle of rifle fire joined by the deeper blast of Preacher’s longrifle. Three mines exploded in quick succession, two to starboard and one to port. Realising there was scant cover at the stern, Hilemore retrieved the spare rifle he had slung over the wheel and rushed aft. He could see a mine bobbing on the surface thirty yards off, raised high by the swell as something very large passed beneath it. He put the rifle to his shoulder and fired, missing by several inches. Hilemore cursed, reloaded, took a shallow breath, held it and fired again. The mine blew, transforming the surrounding water into a cascade of white, shot through with red. He caught a glimpse of the Blue’s snout, snorting blood into the air before it sank.
Three more explosions shook the ship, causing her to heave to and fro at alarming angles. Hilemore was pitched from his feet, his head connecting painfully with the deck. He lay there dazed for several seconds, vision clouded and ears filled with a high-pitched buzzing, a buzzing that transformed into screams as the confusion faded. He scrambled upright and turned to the bow, finding much of the forward rigging in flames. A Blue was in the process of hauling itself aboard, huge coils bunching and thrashing as it forced its bulk out of the water, fire spewing from its gaping maw all the while. One man writhed on the deck, covered all over in flames. Hilemore saw another leap over the side, hands scrabbling at the blaze engulfing his head and shoulders.
The Blue’s flames died as it shifted its bulk, shattering timber and rigging in an effort to gain purchase on the ship. A flurry of rifle-shots cracked out and the beast reared, screaming as blood spouts erupted around its eyes. Hilemore cast his rifle aside and drew his revolver, charging across the deck and firing, a bestial roar erupting from his throat. As if recognising a challenge the Blue focused on him, one eye narrowing whilst blood and viscous fluid leaked from the other. It hissed, its crest flaring as it reared up, mouth gaping as the heat-haze formed around its maw.
Hilemore suddenly found himself in the air, propelled off his feet by a fresh explosion on the fore-deck. Time seemed to slow as he flew backwards, enabling him to enjoy the sight of the upper half of the drake’s body disintegrating into red-and-blue pulp. Its severed head turned end over end, casting out a crimson spiral before disappearing over the side.