The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  “Shipwife?” he said.

  “I will be in my cabin.” Walked past him, just too quickly, just too fast. Down the stair. He stood, glanced behind at Barlay on the steering oar. Turned to Aelerin, knowing something was wrong but not what.

  “Go to her,” said the courser. He nodded. Made his way down the ship, having to stop and talk to members of the crew. Feeling that beneath their bravado there was worry, for they were not fools. So he was glad-handing, reassuring, complimenting and making a slow way through the ship, down into the underdeck. Then he knocked on her door. Waited until he heard her voice from inside.

  “One moment,” she said. He waited. “Come in.” He did. Found her at her desk, comfortable in its place, worn into the ruts on the floor. Her two-tail on the desk before her, her head bowed over it. “I am not fit to wear this, I should have said something better to the crew,” she said without looking up.

  “It was a good speech,” said Joron. “Better than any I could do.”

  “All I did was prepare them to die,” she said. “There is nowhere for us to go, Joron. I have led us to nothing but death. Flown us straight into the jaws of a trap. Such is the price for dreaming in the Hundred Isles. Our crews are good women and men, the best of them. They deserve more.”

  “I do not regret a moment, and neither do they,” he said and she looked up at him.

  “Well you should,” she said. “Do not believe in the foolishness of heroic sacrifice, what use all the pain and suffering and death if it is for naught, ey?” She looked away. “I have led us on a fool’s errand, and only when it is too late do I see it.”

  “That is not true,” said Joron, shaken by her vehemence, how defeated she seemed.

  “The truth is we are beaten, Joron. The Arakeesian Dread will—”

  “You are not beaten.” They turned at this voice, found the hagshand, Garriya, standing in the doorway.

  “This is not your place, old woman,” said Meas, the shipwife’s mask back on her face.

  “Right enough,” she chuckled to herself and shuffled forward. “Would much rather be on land, warming these old bones in the sun. But this is where Garriya is, this is where Garriya is needed. So I tell you, Tide Child, you are not beaten.”

  “Do not call me that,” said Meas.

  “Why not? It is what you are. You are where you need to be, just as I am. Just as he is,” she nodded her head at Joron, “just as the bird is as well. The people will be joined.”

  “I have joined Hundred and Gaunt Island fleets in the wish for my death, maybe,” said Meas, “that is hardly the peace that I dreamed of.” The old woman chuckled again, shuffled further forward.

  “Speak to the bird,” she said, “it is time for you to speak to the bird.”

  Meas stared at her, and before she could speak a shout went up from above: “Call the shipwife!”

  “No, old woman,” said Meas, and took her hat from the desk, placed it firmly on her head and it was as if she forced herself to shed all the worry and doubt as she stood. “The time for talk is over. It is time for me to go to war.” She walked past the old woman and Joron to the door, calling for her deckkeeper to follow but before he could the old woman grabbed his arm.

  “The Gullaime. The keyshans, you all have a part to play, Caller,” she whispered urgently. “When the time comes, you must make sure she listens.”

  “Joron!” he heard Meas shout. “I am in need of your company!”

  “Listen to what?” he said.

  “When you hear the song. You will know,” said Garriya, “now go, she needs you. And we need her.”

  54

  The Last Battle

  He stood next to Meas on the beak of Tide Child, staring out to sea. Barcles Bight, in the centre of their vision, flanked by two low islands thick with the grey weed that grew this far north. Past the bight the shadows of more islands, and Joron knew that past them was the ice, although the black and rising clouds of the Northstorm were so near this year that Joron thought the ice islands probably engulfed. Even from this distance he could make out the strobing flashes of lightning within the whirling clouds. Meas planned to skirt that monstrous storm if she had to, to use its violence to escape.

  But there were other obstacles to pass first. Chief of them, the ships before Barcles Bight. The two-ribbers, Mother’s Frown and Tunir’s Claw, sat in the entrance to the bight, he was not overly worried about them. Coult in Sharp Sither and Chiver in Last Light should easily be their equal. It was the Arakeesian Dread that worried him, worried them all. The massive ship had come to a full halt, confident in its power, and waited for them to come to it. The shipwife had positioned it just as Meas had said they would, so its full broadside reached right across the bight and any ships wishing to pass must weather its weight of shot. Even Tide Child would be lucky to survive. At close range it would destroy them utterly. At the range they would pass – well, the damage taken by their ships would still be terrible. He looked to their own fleet and it gladdened his heart to see Meas’s ships flying in such good order, nine ships in two neat lines forming a screen between the Dread and the brownbones. Sharp Sither and Last Light on the opposite side. All the fleet’s gullaime had volunteered their services but Meas had divided them into two groups – half stayed safer on the brownbones, half on the ships with both windtalkers and windshorn scattered throughout the fleet.

  “This will be hard,” said Meas. She looked over her shoulder at the pursuing fleets behind, both Hundred and Gaunt Islander. “And we have no time for clever tactics, the Dread only needs to delay us, it need not destroy us.”

  “So we must not be delayed,” said Joron.

  “Ey,” she said. The way she looked forward, he knew she was measuring distance, in her mind running through the time it would take her ships to carry out manoeuvres. “I think we can untruss the bows, Deckkeeper, it may make our crews feel a little better.” She said it so calmly. Then added, “And have the signal flags put up. Maintain speed, do not tarry, and keep formation.” He nodded and gave the order knowing it was their best chance, and at the same time hating that these proud fighting ships would essentially become a soak for the Dread’s shot, and every one of those shipwives must know they would be lucky to escape this still afloat. He did not want to think about the state those boneships would be in that did escape, no doubt some would have to be abandoned and their crews spread among what remained.

  Adrantchi and the Beakwyrm’s Glee came alongside Tide Child, distracting Joron. The Glee was the biggest of the boneships after Tide Child. Behind Adrantchi’s ship came Turrimore in Bloodskeer, behind them three more black ships, each valued, important, full of people who had fought for Meas, just like the three ships that followed Tide Child, just like the two guarding the other side, just like the brownbones – and Joron thought them all doomed. He knew Meas hated such passivity, felt that Tide Child should be on the outside line, ready to take the punishment and protect his fleet, but also knew that it could not be allowed.

  Now others would die in her place, and Meas would weather it, the same way she weathered being under shot, or a storm or any other situation, and he would stand by her like a deckkeeper should, ready whenever he was needed.

  “How long until we are in range of the Dread?” he asked. Meas turned away from the huge ship.

  “As the next bell rings, we will be coming into range.” Joron glanced back at the boneship, three decks of bows, all the bowpeeks open. It was a magnificent thing, so white it hurt to look at him.

  “He can loose a long way then.”

  “Ey,” she said, “we’ll be under shot from him for at least a quarter of a turn.”

  “And no way to loose back.”

  “No,” she said, and she straightened a little, “but we will weather it.”

  “Do you think Karrad is aboard?”

  “Undoubtedly. Come, we should be on the rump,” she said, and started to stride away from him. “Hurry, Joron, when the loosing starts it would not do
for Tide Child’s officers to die anywhere but in their proper place.” She walked down the deck, inspecting the action around her as the ropes were placed across the deck, sand strewn to catch the blood, the nets put up to catch falling spars and rigging. Black Orris fluttered down to land on Meas’s shoulder.

  “Big arse,” said the bird.

  “A fine tactical summation, Orris,” said Meas, and handed the bird some titbit from her pocket to which he set up a happy, noisy racket.

  “Shipwife!” She turned, found Mellin, one of her newest crewmembers, pointing to landward. Turrimore’s Bloodskeer had dropped all his wings and was moving away toward the Arakeesian Dread.

  “What is she doing?” said Meas. Then Adrantchi’s ship, Beakwyrm’s Glee, did the same and Meas stood there, watching, and he heard her saying under her breath, “The fools, the absolute fools.” Then she raised her voice. “They go to distract the Dread, so let us make of that what we can. Signal the other ships, be ready to drop all the wings they can and make best speed when Adrantchi and Turrimore engage.” Meas could not take her eyes from the two ships, even as she gave the orders. They had come into line, heading straight for the Arakeesian Dread, Bloodskeer in front, Beakwyrm’s Glee directly behind.

  “Shipwife,” said Joron, pointing for’ard, “the enemy two-ribbers have dropped their wings and are moving to engage.” She tore her gaze from her own ships and turned to seaward, raised her nearglass.

  “They are indeed, left it later than I would have. Sloppy.”

  “Coult and Chiver are moving to intercept.”

  “Well,” said Meas, “if they consider our flank to be weak then savage old Coult and Chiver will give them a nasty shock.” She scanned her nearglass along the ships. “The furthest of them is Mother’s Frown, he has got enough of a start to make it around the front of our formation.” She took a moment, making all the calculations of wind and speed and weather in her head. “The nearer, Tunir’s Claw, may not. If we can put our fleet in between those two ships it may stop the Dread loosing on us for fear of hitting their own.”

  “May?” said Joron. Meas bit her lip and leaned in close to him.

  “I think that Karrad will sacrifice anything to stop us now, even his own ships. We made him look weak when we killed Gueste and he cannot afford us to escape,” she said, then raised her voice. “Make all speed we can without outpacing the brownbones! Two points to seaward if you will!” More wings fell and Joron heard the familiar crack as they filled with wind, the creak of ropes as they took the strain, and Tide Child groaned as his speed increased. He saw Meas reach out a hand and touch the bones of the ship. Heard her whisper, “Me too, old friend, me too.” Then she turned to landward and raised her nearglass, staring intently as Beakwyrm’s Glee and Bloodskeer cut through the water.

  “When will they be in his range?” said Joron, watching the two ships under a sky that was clear, light blue and beautiful, touched by only a few lines of cloud that hurried northward as if eager to join the ominous black wall of the Northstorm.

  The bell rang.

  “They already are,” said Meas, “we all are.”

  “But he does not loose.”

  “No,” she brought the nearglass down, “I think he wants to make sure of them.”

  “What are they thinking,” said Joron, “to disobey your orders?”

  “Turrimore has no wish to be told what to do, never has had, and Adrantchi…” she let out a sigh, “I think he died the day he lost Black Ani.”

  “And now he throws away our second biggest ship for nothing,” said Joron.

  “Well, let us hope it is not for nothing.” She raised the nearglass. “Let us hope they have some plan.” The ships flew on, nearer and nearer, and Meas’s fleet put space between them and the Arakeesian Dread, coming closer to the enemy two-ribbers. Joron could not take his eyes from the flight of Bloodskeer and Beakwyrm’s Glee. Still, the five-ribber did not loose on them. He began to wonder if the Dread had some problem, if it could not loose its gallowbows, then to hope that its shipwife was undecided on the rightness of their action. Maybe they would change sides, and would not loose at all.

  Then they did.

  Joron had seen many ships loose. Seen the weight of shot leave the bows, heard the warmoan just before the whistle of shot cutting through the air, but he had never seen anything like the moment Arakeesian Dread let loose its weapons. Three decks worth of gallowbows, the top deck’s bows even larger than Tide Child’s. The massive ship punched back in the water and a cloud of dust rose from it as the violence of its action shook the immense hull. A moment later the sound, the deep thrumm of the warbows and the heavy thud of over a hundred cords launching their projectiles reached them. Meas shouting.

  “Down! Everyone down!” From instinct, from the long years of unthinkingly obeying the voice from the rump, everyone hit the deck. Though to Joron it seemed impossible that they should worry. They were so far from the enemy ship. Then he heard the crash of shot hitting bone echo across the water as the Dread’s broadside hit Bloodskeer. Moments later the whistling of incoming wingshot, and though he could barely believe it, something cut through the air over above him, shot splashed down in the sea around them, throwing water over Tide Child and his crew. Almost immediately Joron was standing again, looking around the deck for the wounded, finding none. Looking up into the wings to find a hole ripped in the mainwing.

  “Such power,” and he could not keep the awe from his voice. Meas did not answer, she was staring out over the side of Tide Child. Joron followed her gaze. Turrimore’s Bloodskeer was a wreck – what had once been a black ship, a powerhouse of wing and weapon, was now a sad and broken thing. A cloud of bonedust surrounded the ship and his spines had been entirely ripped away. Bloodskeer still carried a little headway but without wings its speed was falling off and the ship was slewing to seaward. His decks were entirely clear of any life. Only the hull remained of the ship, and that was burning, alight and spewing black smoke into the air. “Hag’s breath,” said Joron, “they never stood a chance.”

  “No,” said Meas, but the action was not yet over. Beakwyrm’s Glee had taken damage, lost some of his topspines but was still carrying plenty of speed. Joron raised his nearglass, saw on the Glee’s deck seven gullaime crouched before the mainspine. He could make out Adrantchi on the rump, sword held aloft as he shouted orders. His crew working feverishly around him. The Glee swerved around the wreck of Bloodskeer, metal-clad beak punching through smoke and bone dust. “She sacrificed herself to get the bigger ship near, in hope Adrantchi could to do some damage,” said Meas, and he noticed she was tapping a finger against her leg as she spoke, mentally counting out the passing of time so she knew how long it took the Dread to reload and loose again.

  “Will he get near enough?” said Joron. Meas stared at the ship as it cut through the water.

  “I doubt it,” she said, “he may get off one broadside, but…” she bunched her fists in frustration. “He is a fool, Joron, he should be steering for the rudder. On a ship that size little else is vulnerable, any other damage he can cause is unlikely to be more than cosmetic.”

  “Unless he takes down a spine; without wings the Dread will be even slower,” said Joron.

  “He will not.”

  “But—”

  “Watch,” she said, pointing at the ship, “and be ready to hit the deck.”

  Beakwyrm’s Glee sped onwards, cutting through the water and sending up a bright bow wave as he smashed through heaving grey sea. Then the Arakeesian Dread shuddered once more as he loosed his bows. Joron heard it, but this time he did not hit the floor when Meas shouted, and neither did she. Instead they remained standing, watching as the full violence of the five-ribber was unleashed upon Adrantchi’s ship. They saw the wings and spines torn away, bodies flying from the deck, bone dust coming up in clouds. Saw filthy blossoms of flame and smoke as wingshot treated with hagspit smashed into the hull. Then more shot whistled overhead, none hitting Tide Child thi
s time, but Beakwyrm’s Glee was finished, little more than a floating wreck.

  “The fool,” said Meas.

  “But brave,” said Joron.

  “No, they achieved nothing,” said Meas, “fools.”

  Beakwyrm’s Glee drifted on even though he was dead, his speed carrying him until the ship was almost against the hull of the Arakeesian Dread. Joron could hear the big ship’s crew shouting and jeering.

  “Do you think Adrantchi meant to ram them?”

  “If so it would have smashed his ships to pieces, and—”

  Her words were torn from her mouth by a roar so loud it drowned all noise out, filled the air, shook the sea and the wings of Tide Child, forced Joron and Meas to grab on to the bonerail to maintain balance. Over the sea Beakwyrm’s Glee was no more, instead a huge tower of black smoke rose into the air, obscuring the Arakeesian Dread. “Hag’s tits,” said Meas, “he blew himself up!”

  “Is it gone?” said Joron. He found he was fighting for breath, his body flooded with the energy that fear brought. Before Meas spoke his question was answered. The wind grabbed the smoke and blew it from the site of the explosion – Beakwyrm’s Glee was gone, nothing of it remained but a slow rain of bone shards and drifting smoke. The Dread was blackened, its whole side no longer white. All its wings had been ripped away by the explosion. Meas raised her nearglass and stared at the bigger ship.

  “He’s wounded but not dead,” she said, “lost most of his bows on this side, plenty of his spars down and many dead. I can see fires but they’re already working on putting them out.” Then she lowered the nearglass. “Joron, I take back what I said of Adrantchi and Turrimore. They gave their lives and have bought us what we need most, time.” Then she raised her voice.

  “Get me the Gullaime up here!” she shouted. “Message flags up. We need all the speed we can muster on every ship, and Hag take all worry of us damaging them.” The Gullaime swiftly appeared, their gullaime, in all her finery, and with five of those who had been Madorra’s acolytes following in their simple white robes. Immediately their Gullaime yarked and called and sounded and the wind came, hurting Joron’s ears, and once she had brought the wind she relaxed and her fellows maintained what she had brought. While they did the Gullaime danced up and down the deck, flinging her wings up into the air and letting the wind whip her robes around her.