by Rj Barker
“Jor-on Twi-ner, Jor-on Twi-ner,” she called, and as she danced, Black Orris flew around her head, crowing and swearing and swearing and crowing.
“String the bows!” shouted Meas, pointing forward at the second of the two enemy ships before them. “While the Dread licks his wounds we will deal with Tunir’s Claw and Coult and Chiver will do for Mother’s Frown. Then we are away into the bight and safe!” And the bows were strung and Meas stood on the rear of the ship, staring down her deck at her crew and the rapidly approaching two-ribbers. “Wait,” shouted Meas, “we’ve no time for pretty manoeuvres and fighting, but I want Tunir’s Claw out of the way of my fleet. Change of plan! Truss the bows. All my deckchilder, get out of the spines, and get below. I only want those on deck who must be here!” Then she turned to Joron and grinned. “Gullaime,” she shouted, “bring me a gale! Give me ramming speed!”
“Shipwife,” said Joron, “if we ram that ship we may end up tangled up with it, it will save us no time.”
“I am fully aware of the downside of such a tactic, Deckkeeper,” she said, standing taller on the rump. “Barlay, aim for the rear of Tunir’s Claw. Let’s try and take his rudder off, if we can rip the entire rump off him then all the better. Seaguard, get crossbows and wait below in case they board us. Bearna!” she shouted as the topboy jumped from the bottom of the mainspine. “I want a crew ready with boarding axes in case we need to cut ourselves free. You will lead them.”
“Ey, shipwife,” shouted Bearna and ran grinning, to arm herself and pick a crew.
Meas grinned at Joron, and it was a something fierce to see. With her one eye and her scarred face and her sparkling cloak of feathers she had never looked more the pirate. “He’ll be loosing right down our decks as we approach, my girls and boys,” she shouted, “so it’ll be rough for us, but you mark my words, we’ll bite back far harder than he ever could, so be ready. Gullaime!” she added. “Come to me, Gullaime!” The windtalker came, still dancing and pirouetting around the deck.
“What ship woman want?”
“That ship,” she pointed forward, “it’ll be loosing something fierce at us as we approach, take you and yours below.” The Gullaime yarked and danced.
“Yes yes yes,” she said and danced away. As she did, Meas raised her voice.
“Gullaime!” she said.
“Yes yes?”
“Your child, she is safe?” The Gullaime cried out and danced in a circle.
“Safe safe. With hag in hagbower. Safe.”
“Good,” said Meas, “and Gullaime?”
“What what? Busy busy.”
“Thank you for staying.” The windtalker nodded, then seemed to deflate a little.
“Must be here,” she said, and then danced away, but this time the dance was slower and more stately, somehow sad. Meas stared after her, as if confused, then looked to Joron.
“I will never understand that bird,” she said, “but now we must concentrate on the job at hand.” She raised her voice. “Out of the rigging anyone left in it, my girls and my boys, get below if you have no place on deck. We’ll take some punishment before this is over!”
“Are you sure about this, Shipwife?” said Joron as they stood on the rump. “Tide Child has been through much, can he survive ramming another ship?” She stared at him, then turned to look behind them at the gathered fleets of two nations bearing down on them.
“I am touched, Joron,” she said in a brittle whisper, “that you think it matters.” He did not know how to reply, did not understand for a moment what she was saying and then he grabbed her in anger, his face near hers, his hands on her upper arms in a way that a deckkeeper should never touch their shipwife. The words came into his mouth, at a volume only for her.
“You have given up?” and he hissed the words, his fury and his fear coming through gritted teeth. She stared back, and in that one good eye he saw desolation, tiredness, disappointment, pain – a world of loss. Then it was gone, back was the shipwife, the hardness.
“Take your hands off me, Deckkeeper,” she said. “Or I’ll forget all I said and have you corded in front of the whole crew like a common deckchild.” He kept her gaze a moment longer, simply to ensure that she was back, his shipwife.
“Of course,” he said, and let go, stepped back.
“Now,” she straightened her jacket, “eyes on the prize, my girls and boys. Eyes on the prize.” She stared forward, at the rapidly approaching ship. “Barlay,” shouted Meas, “keep us on course,” and she was full of life once more, grinning at the world. “Brace yourself, Joron!”
55
The Bight
A moment of extreme violence.
Joron had seen Tide Child’s ram used before, but only on much smaller ships such as flukeboats, he had never thought to use it against another boneship. Never considered the risk to his own ship worth it. But here, now, in this second, Meas did and he followed her orders. To seaward of them, Sharp Sither and Last Light engaged Mother’s Frown, shot flying back and forth as the gallowbows worked and a quick glance told Joron it would be a short battle; the black ships had surrounded the Hundred Isles one, and were loosing almost twice as fast. Blood already streaked its hull.
He turned back to their quarry, Tunir’s Claw. He was big for a two-ribber, not as big as Adrantchi’s Beakwyrm’s Glee had been, but big enough that Joron knew he was an older ship, and the blinking corpselights above told of one not in the greatest condition. He hated this moment, this final speeding into battle, only moments from when the first shots would be loosed by Tunir’s Claw, and Tide Child, coming head-on at him, would be unable to answer. They would have to weather the storm. Then would come the collision and he could barely imagine what that would be like, barely think why Meas chose this course of action. He knew what she would say, that she feared losing time, or feared that Tunir’s Claw would ignore any attack with gallowbows and get through to the brownbones. They were valid concerns, but they did not ring true, not that it mattered. She had set the course and her word was law.
And something in him relished the idea too. The violence of it, the immense physicality of the attack, their ship against the enemy, the might of Tide Child’s ram against the hard hull of Tunir’s Claw. He glanced at Meas, watched, all her concentration on the approaching ship. Knowing that timing was all.
“A touch to landward, Barlay,” she said, “then tie the steering oar off.” The big woman followed her shipwife’s order, leaned into the oar and set it with knot. Meas raised her nearglass, watched the other ship. Time ticked by until she shouted “Down! Everyone flat on the deck!” Joron threw himself to the slate, knowing how close Meas liked to cut it. A moment later the whistle of shot, the crash of bolts hitting the hull, the rip of wingcloth being torn and a scream from somewhere on the ship. When the shot had passed Joron jumped up, not as fast as Meas, never as fast as Meas, and though he could blame his missing leg he knew it was not so.
“Someone get that man to Garriya,” she shouted, pointing at a deckchild writhing on the deck, a shard of bone sticking out of his leg. “The heart is pumping now, ey, Joron?” she said, pushing the two-tail harder onto her head. “They’ll hit us twice more before we hit them.” Joron stared at the rapidly growing ship, saw it was slowing. “They think we will slow to turn and deliver a broadside,” said Meas. “So they slow to loose better down our body, thinking to hit us hard. Well,” she took a step forward, “we will see who is hardest hit.”
“We’ll make them regret every shot,” said Joron.
“Ey, that we will. Barlay, cut that knot, another point to landward and tie it off again,” said Meas and he felt Tide Child turn a little. Watched as the figures on the deck of Tunir’s Claw crowded around the gallowbows, stepped back to avoid the loosing arms.
“Down!” shouted Meas and again, the repetition: the whistle of shot, the crash of bolts hitting the hull, the rip of wingcloth being torn and a scream from somewhere further down the deck. When the shot had passed Joron jumped
up, not as fast as Meas, never as fast as Meas.
“Not long,” said Meas. And Joron saw the moment the shipwife of Tunir’s Claw realised they had made an error, that they had misjudged their enemy’s tactics. The shipwife was shouting, pointing at the wings, telling the crew to get up and loose more cloth. A mistake, Joron thought, the collision was inevitable now, the ship could not move far enough or quickly enough, the man should have concentrated on putting bolts into Tide Child. Instead he simply muddied his message, divided his women and men, and the third round of shot never came. Tide Child sped on, if anything increasing in speed in the final moments. Skidding over the waves, smashing through the water. “Brace!” shouted Meas. “Brace!” and they wrapped their arms around the rumpspine. In every place above and belowdeck crew were finding something to hang on to.
Then the impact.
A moment of extreme violence.
The ship under stress, making a noise like some massive, wounded animal, like nothing he’d heard from Tide Child before. The air full of the sound of rending bone. Joron’s arms almost torn from their sockets by the sudden cessation of movement. The crashing of rigging coming down. The screaming of the hurt below and above deck. Dust, grey-white bone dust everywhere, great rising clouds of it. Choking him, making him cough. Meas coughing too, he saw her spit. Wipe at the dust that made her face pale as any boneship.
“Seaguard for’ard!” she shouted, then she was doubled over by another fit of coughing.
“Seaguard to for’ard,” shouted Joron, “they’ll be sure to try and board us.” The ship gave another titanic groan and shuddered, Joron staggering as he tried to stand. To seaward their fleet was passing, the black ships escorting the two unwieldy brownbones. Further out he saw Coult’s Sharp Sither turning to come back. The Hundred Isles ship Mother’s Frown a wreck, and behind it Chiver’s ship, Last Light, was ablaze. Joron could see flukeboats leaving Last Light, rowing for Sharp Sither.
His gaze pulled for’ard as seaguard and crew ran past him toward Tide Child’s beak. Then he was running toward the front of the ship, coughing on the settling bone dust. As he ran his eye was drawn by a tangled web of rigging and wingcloth – the tops of Tide Child’s for’ard and mainspine had come down.
“Someone get aloft and cut loose those spines!” he shouted. Women and men started to come over the beak of Tide Child, some bloodied, some not, all furious, all knowing their own ship was fatally wounded and eager to avenge it; all knowing that taking the black four-ribber was the only way to escape their own sinking vessel.
“Seaguard!” shouted Meas as she ran down the deck, sword aloft. “To your bows!” The seaguard knelt on the deck and sent a volley of crossbow bolts into the boarders, but as quickly as they fell more came. Another volley of bolts and then the short space between the two crews was crossed and the fighting was joined. Women and men, screaming, swearing, shouting. Joron running down the deck to join them, something in him singing, glad to be in in the fray and the fury. The sweat, the anger, the panic. Blade from seaward, block and dodge. Thrust at a body, feel the hit. Keep moving, trust to the crew to protect you. Trust to Cwell, behind him with her quick knives, to protect him. All around screaming, crying, begging, blood on the deck. Blood on his face. Hot bodies. Arm tiring. Can’t stop. Mustn’t stop. He saw Meas, face contorted as she beat at a man with her sword, all fury, no skill. Saw Barlay, swinging a boarding axe, protecting the shipwife. Saw Cwell forcing a knife into a woman’s throat. Even Aelerin fought, face distorted with fury as they crashed a gaff down on a woman’s head. Each of these people he knew, frozen for a moment in their anger and hatred and desperation.
And it was desperate.
Kill or be killed.
It was also freeing, to not think about the future. Not worry about where to go, when to go, how to command.
Kill or be killed.
Be killed or kill.
Only existing in the now.
And then it was over. Breathing hard, leaning over. Exhausted. Bodies all around. The ship creaking alarmingly, leaning at a strange angle.
“Get these corpses off my deck!” Meas, still full of energy. “Bring up wyrmpikes, get Tide Child free of their ship!” Joron, breathing hard, looked at Tunir’s Claw. The smaller ship was listing heavily, the spars holding the wings had been broken by the impact and the for’ard of its two spines had collapsed completely, the ropes between it and the rumpspine stretched so taut they sang in the wind. With a groan Tunir’s Claw leaned over further. “We need to get loose or we’ll tangle their spines with ours!” shouted Meas. Joron looked over the rail. Tide Child’s beak had ruptured the hull of Tunir’s Claw at the rear, punching into it and creating the hole that was causing it to list.
“He’s sinking!” shouted Joron. “Barlay, take a crew and get on his pumps!” All was action, deckchilder pouring over the side and onto the smaller ship.
“Cut us loose!” shouted Meas. “Cut us loose or he’ll take us down with him!”
While all was action and desperation on Tide Child the rest of their fleet passed serenely by, wings filled with wind. Deckchilder lined the rail of Tide Child, using heavy wyrmpikes to push against the hull of Tunir’s Claw in an effort to free their ship.
“Hurry,” shouted Meas, “put your backs into it or we’ll have two whole fleets on us!” Joron glanced over his shoulder and saw the sea thick with enemy boneships, wings full of wind. It looked like they were pushing their gullaime hard. He grabbed a wyrmpike, added his weight to all of those straining at the rail. With another groan Tunir’s Claw’s rump sank further into the sea, dragging the beak of Tide Child under the water, making the deck slope dangerously. “Hag curse you all,” shouted Meas, “push! Push you slatelayers or we’ll be dragged down to the Hag!” Her words were what was needed, or maybe it was that the movement of Tunir’s Claw had loosened something within the ship, or maybe the Hag smiled on them as at that moment Tide Child came loose, the long, metal-tipped beak pulling out of the stricken ship, ripping away bone and deck as it came. “Barlay! shouted Meas. “Get back on board!” Tide Child started to move, creaking and groaning as his hull scratched along the rump of Tunir’s Claw, the spines and spikes of his side ripping away, sending shards of bone shooting across the deck, one cutting Meas’s cheek. She ignored the blood, was too intent on Barlay and her small crew as they ran along the deck of Tunir’s Claw, jumping from the ship’s rump onto the hull of Tide Child, and then they were away. Flying toward Barcles Bight. Gullaime being called to add wind to their wings and help them catch up with their own fleet while the enemy bore down on them.
“What next?” said Joron as they entered the channel between two islands.
“Next?” said Meas, and she turned to look at the pursuing fleet. Her cheeks red with exertion, a huge smile on her bloodied face. “Well, that will be up to you and the keyshans.”
56
The Broken
They flew on, through Barcles Bight, and it became clear to Joron that Tide Child was a broken ship. The tops of his spines gone, cut away after the collision with Tunir’s Claw, and Joron could tell from the way he rode the waves, the way he creaked and groaned as he moved through the water, that something deep within the ship had cracked, something Joron felt sure was terminal. Something there was no coming back from.
But there was no coming back for any of them. Islands rose around them, two fleets pursued them and his shipwife had no plan of escape, no way out. Yet those around him remained confident – Barlay and Bearna and Gavith and Fogle had no doubt that Meas would see them right, that she had some clever scheme, and all those that flew with her would see themselves safe.
But he knew the truth. He would sing up the keyshans and they would hope that caused chaos for their enemies. They would skirt the Northstorm, and hope that Tide Child, battered and broken and limping Tide Child, would survive it better than those gleaming, fresh-to-the-fight boneships that pursued them.
He let out a deep breath, catching it before i
t turned into a sob.
“When do you sing, D’keeper?” said Barlay from her place at the oar. “When do them keyshans come to help?”
“When the shipwife commands it.”
“Why wait?” said Barlay, a smile across her weathered face, “sooner them Hag-cursed ships there are eaten the better for us.”
“I think Meas wants as much of their fleets drawn into the islands as possible.” The cloud of his breath hung before him for a moment before it was whipped away by the cold wind.
“Joron Twiner.” His name, said so softly he barely heard it. Then it came again, “Joron Twiner.” He turned, found the Gullaime crouching on the deck in her fine robe which puddled around her like a shadow. Within the dark feathers of her shoulders Joron could see a second pair of eyes looking out at him.
“Yes, Gullaime?”
“Need talk,” she said, but she did not orientate her face to him, and he wondered why, when all knew her secret, she was wearing her mask once more. “Need talk,” she said again.
“I am always happy to talk to you,” he said. Then stepped closer. “We should find some way to get you off this ship, you and Shorn,” he said, pointing at the bright eyes nestling in her feathers. “It is not safe here for a child.”
“Is my place,” said the Gullaime, sadly. “Be here. Talk you. Talk ship woman.” Then she looked up. “Keep Shorn safe? You worry?”
“Of course.”
“Must stay,” said the Gullaime, he had to concentrate to hear her. “My place.”
