by Chris Ward
‘Where’s the captain? What does he say? We’re not fighting men! Let’s get after them!... Scion let them speak for a moment then took command.
‘Silence men!’ They stopped and listened. ‘Captain Tyne has...’ and at that moment Lethyne Tyne sprang up the gangplank with a ferocity which belied his age. In a trice he was standing beside Scion.
‘This is my ship and my command. You will do as I tell you and do it now. We will chase that evil ship and all upon her and we will rescue the Lady Serenna. Now to your posts and listen for my commands. Scion to the mid-deck immediately, your usual role. Obey me now man and we will talk of this later. The Lady needs us.’ Scion nodded in relief.
‘Yes Captain. I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Go now,’ Tyne roared at Scion with a scowl, and so the Scoira came alive. As the Ocean Rose began to slowly gather speed with the wind almost over her stern, and with more sails being unfurled each moment, Tyne was faced with the incredibly difficult job of getting his ship off the jetty, a far tricky job than simply lifting the anchor, for there were vessels moored both ahead and astern of the Scoira; but he was committed now and knew that his men would look to him to lead.
Checking the wind, he ordered the port rear line held fast and all other lines brought aboard. He sent men to the rigging and out the booms; all sails were to be unfurled as soon as possible regardless of the ship’s position. As the wind pushed the bow away from the jetty he had the port rear line slackened so the ship moved sideways for two dozen cubits, enough to clear the ship moored astern, and then ordered it held fast. The ship pivoted on this single line bringing the wind astern as the sails dropped from their furlings and filled. As the Scoira swung to be perpendicular to the jetty, with its stern just clear of the ship moored behind it, Tyne gave the order for the stern line to be let go. The Scoria was free, and with wind in her sails surged off in pursuit of the Ocean Rose, already at speed and heading for the harbour mouth and the open ocean beyond. Tyne and Scion worked together, trying to get more speed from the Scoria, but it was clear that they would not catch the other boat within the harbour, and once out in the ocean there would be little chance of running her down and boarding her, for they both knew that the Ocean Rose was a larger and faster ship than the Scoria, however well sailed she might be.
Tyne knew immediately that it was hopeless, but was determined to show that he had done all he could, and prayed to the gods that Commander Bjorkman was as good as his boasting, for without his much vaunted machine, high up on the battlements, there was no hope.
Rema Bowman appeared without a sound beside Captain Tyne. He was carrying his bow and his quiver holding all his arrows was strapped to his back. Tyne almost made a cynical comment about the uselessness of such paltry weapons against such a ship as the Ocean Rose and a crew most likely armed to the teeth and spoiling for a fight, but he didn’t.
Whatever I say will make no difference. What will be will be, he thought bitterly.
Although not a sailor, Rema was as good a judge of speed and distance as any man, and he too could see the impossibility of their task, for the Ocean Rose seemed to be drawing away from them, despite the best efforts of Tyne and Scion and the rest of the crew who were all focused upon the chase.
Rema fought his rising frustration which was tinged with panic for Serenna, for what might become of her did not bear thinking on. He spoke quietly to Tyne. ‘Just get me within a hundred cubits captain and I will see that Abhor pays for this. You think perhaps that this weapon is a mere toy. Do not dismiss it for we both have our skills you and I, and this is mine.’ The quiet conviction in his voice impressed the old captain.
‘I will do all I can, for I want to see her free from that evil man as much as you, but I hold grave fears for our success Rema Bowman, grave fears indeed.’ At that moment Scion cried out from where he stood on the top of mid-deck steps which led to the fore deck.
‘Captain they are slowing, they’ve let the main boom on the mizzen swing free, we are gaining!’ Tyne swore.
‘It’s true, but by the gods Abhor is playing with us, for he’s letting us catch him. What the devil for?’ As they watched, the Scoira slowly crept up astern of the larger ship until they could clearly see Abhor and his helmsman standing stark and proud on his wheel deck. ‘Damn him,’ Tyne swore loudly suddenly realising what was going on, ‘he wants to show us his prize, he’s going to put her on display... I’ve heard it done; what arrogance!’ And sure enough the pale figure of the red headed Serenna could be seen held firmly between two sailors being marched to the stern rail. As they watched and as the distance between the two vessels lessened gradually, the view became clearer. Those on the Scoria watched, appalled as the evil Jehru Abhor made a spectacle of his prey. Serenna’s hands were tied above her head and with a rope attached to her wrists was hauled upwards from a pulley high up on the rear mast. She was lifted up like a puppet until she was made to stand on the stern rail, balanced precariously above the water and supported only by the rope above, Abhor on one side holding her leg and another sailor on her other side doing the same.
‘He can put on speed anytime he wants and we are powerless to stop him. He aims to sail away with her and let us see her last, like that, his prize. His revenge. He is an animal. No, he’s less than that.’ Captain Lethyne Tyne sounded defeated but Rema saw the weakness in Abhor’s plan, for his arrogant pride had presented an opportunity, and hope surged within his heart.
‘All is not lost Captain, just get me within a hundred cubits, I will do the rest. Trust me, we can save her. Sail your ship captain like she was surfing, make her live as only you can do, and you will see.’ And with that Rema leapt nimbly down the steps to the mid deck and moved quickly to the forepeak and stood alone where the bowsprit met the deck, as far forward as he could go and still find a place to balance and shoot. He knew Serenna could see him, for he could see her plainly now.
‘I am coming for you Serenna’, he whispered, ‘just watch me...just keep your eyes on me.’
The harbour mouth was quite close now and the swells from the open ocean beyond began to lift the ships, gently at first, but with a noticeable increase as the moments passed. Rema knew that to use his weapon on a pitching deck outside the harbour would be near impossible; even now it was going to test his skills to the limit. He stood like a statue, his eyes fixed on Serenna, and she too stood bravely, and waited for what would be.
Commander Bjorkman reached the defence battlements of Lavas high above the town not long after the two vessels in the harbour below had all their sails set and were running in line hard toward the ocean. He was a cunning man, and what he lacked in humour he made up for in brilliance and guile. He would have gladly offered three shots from his machine to Tyne without cost, for he hated Jehru Abhor with a passion matched by few others, but the offer of gold could not be refused, and so he had happily accepted. The bag of nuggets sat quite comfortably in his tunic pocket.
The soldiers on duty saluted smartly and he gave the necessary orders. He was proud of the machine, for it was his own design and he had supervised its construction and in twenty years had not left the mountain, for he guarded it jealously. Sadly it had not been used in anger, but today at last he would see his dream fulfilled.
Cut into the side of the mountain which was Lavas, was a huge levelled area of smooth stone which matched the shape of the harbour below. On the outer edge, where the cliff fell down to the water, in its very centre, was an enormous catapult, constructed from the timber of the huge oak trees hewn from the slopes of the Plenty Mountains. The enormous power from the machine came from two huge cords of plaited rubber which had been brought to Revelyn from lands far to the south over vast oceans where the climate was so hot that the trees wept a sap which had magical properties, for rubber could be deformed and stretched and upon release would spring back to the position from whence it started with great power. The two thick rubber plaits were attached to a leather hammock made from the hides of seven co
ws, doubled over and stitched together endlessly so that it would bear the missile constructed to fit it. These were perfectly rounded and chipped from the cooled lava deep within the mountain, and each missile weighed exactly the same and would balance a workhorse on a set of scales, for they were massive indeed. The catapult itself was pivoted in a deep hole set in the rock on the cliff’s edge, so that the whole machine could be set to fire in any direction across the harbour.
But the genius behind the commander’s machine lay in the flat levelled stone area which mirrored the harbour below. For set into its polished surface were concentric circular channels centred on the pivot point of the catapult. These channels were used to locate the huge pulley system which winched the enormous rubber plaits back to whatever extension was determined necessary. And superimposed on all of this was the key to the accuracy of the machine, for carved into the stone surface, over all its area, in letters and numbers was a grid system which enabled the leather hammock bearing its missile to be positioned in the exact length of stretch, and direction, so that its missile would land exactly where the controller wanted it to land; and this had been determined over many months of testing using target ships anchored all over the harbour. After all the testing and construction was complete the controller used a simple wire grid to look down into the harbour, and on locating his target, the machine was winched back to the correct position and the missile launched.
Commander Bjorkman no longer aimed and fired his machine, but he had trained a handpicked team who vied continually for the accolade of being the first amongst them all.
Controller Jervis was the youngest, but the best by quite some margin. He now sat just below the catapult in a seat which attached to the main catapult pivot and which would rotate with the machine so that the controller was always in line with the target. Controllers learnt early in their training to keep their head down, for the huge missile roared out into space less than a broomstick length above their heads, and if you were foolish enough to stand up at the wrong time; well no one had.
A team of soldiers had loaded the first missile and readied two others. Jervis, sitting in the controller’s seat hanging out above the drop off, and viewing the harbour below through his sighting grid, could see the Ocean Rose quite clearly. His problem was to judge speed and distance, for it was one thing to hit a stationary target, but a moving ship made it all so much more difficult. But he was good at it and he knew it, and the confidence steadied his nerves. He called out numbers and letters and in response the team on the flat stone surface behind him made adjustments to the direction and the length of stretch of the huge rubber plaits. Jervis had calculated the time it would take for the big ship to reach a particular grid reference and since it was sailing steadily the machine was set, for he knew the exact time the missile would take to travel to that point of the harbour. He had a small but highly accurate glass-sand timer. He turned it upside down at the right moment and the sand started to flow. All he had to do was give the word. He watched the ships moving like tiny snails far below him. This is for real he thought, and then it hit him that he was probably going to kill someone. He felt suddenly sick.
Jheru Abhor caught sight of Rema standing like a statue in the bow of the Scoria and laughed out loud, for he knew that no bow made, or arrow fashioned could travel so far and with such force to threaten him. He had won, and Captain Lethyne Tyne would rue the day he had spurned and cut him. The Scoria was gaining on his ship but that was the plan. Let them see the wench for it was the last they would ever see her. She would be well trained by her new husband and he another bag of gold richer.
‘You fool Tyne,’ he screamed into the salt laden air. ‘You fool! I told you I would have my revenge. Here it is you fool. And reaching up he whacked Serenna soundly on her backside. She flinched but did not make a sound, for she kept he eyes on Rema, knowing that his skill was beyond anything the two fool sailors holding her legs could imagine. He was her only chance.
Suddenly Abhor realised that the gap between the two ships was closing fast, too fast. He turned and gave an order, and the sheets were pulled in hard on several of the sails he had ordered slackened off, and immediately the ship started to pull away from the Scoria.
‘Say your farewells wench for this is as close as it will get.’ He laughed cruelly, enjoying the moment immensely.
Rema was willing the Scoria on; he was almost close enough now. Up ahead he could see the fishing fleet working the harbour mouth. Perhaps that will slow the Ocean Rose he thought, anything, anything at all. He felt the panic rising in his gut, but forced it back down. Suddenly the ship ahead started to pull away, and he almost screamed in frustration. It was perhaps a hundred and fifty cubits, maybe less, but now it was getting further. It was still too far. He saw Abhor laugh and reach up and strike Serenna again.
The perfectly round missile passed over the Scoria with a whoosh about two hundred cubits above the sea, it was travelling faster than a horse could gallop for gravity had it in its grip and the fall from high on the mountain side since Jervis had called ‘release’ had seen it accelerate to a fearsome speed. It passed clear through the upper topsail of the Ocean Rose and hit the lookout platform on the forward mast, decapitating the lookout and taking away the top of the mast and all its rigging which crashed in an almighty tangle of splinters and ropes to the deck below, where another unlucky sailor was impaled, dying instantly, with a splinter the thickness of an oar handle passing right through his chest. Immediately the Ocean Rose lost speed. Captain Jehru Abhor was so focused on his pursuers that he did not immediately realise what had happened, and still stood holding Serenna’s leg to the stern rail, parading his prize, enjoying his victory, and jeering loud and long at Rema and Tyne and the Scoira and all aboard her.
Captain Lethyne Tyne saw the sudden change and the rapid closing between the two ships. He watched as Rema changed into a hunter, for all of a sudden he stood with bow full drawn on legs which moved easily with the motion of the sea, stabilising and steadying himself for his shot.
When it happened it was almost too quick for Tyne to follow. Three arrows in quick succession. Certainly Jehru Abhor knew nothing about it, for the arrow passed through his chest and heart and exited neatly before going on to embed itself deeply in the rear mast trunk. In a blink of an eye a second arrow dispatched the unfortunate sailor who held Serenna’s other leg. This time the arrow must have hit a rib for it skidded along the bone cut a major artery and stayed buried deep within the body. Both men were dead before they hit the deck. Serena was free from their clutches but remained where she was, holding the rope above her, keeping it taught, for she knew what Rema must do next. A sailor behind by the wheel gave a cry for he had suddenly realised that his captain was dead. He sprang to reach the ship’s captive, but was too late. Rema’s third arrow came scything in above her head and neatly severed the rope holding her aloft. Suddenly unsupported, she tumbled head first over the stern rail and somersaulted into the ocean, with both hands still firmly tied above her head.
On board the Scoria, Rema saw her fall, they all did, and Tyne realised that they were also about to sail through the fishing fleet as he closed on the slowing Ocean Rose.
On board the Ocean Rose, panic had set in, as competing voices demanded different actions. High up on the main mast lookout platform sat a miserable Wormwood, for it was he who had betrayed his ship after a terrible beating at the hands of Lethyne Tyne the day before. In anger he had offered his services to Jehru Abhor and assisted in the kidnapping of Serenna, for she had not suspected him, and he had followed her through the township with a band of Abhor’s men well back and waiting his signal. He wanted Tyne and Rema Bowman to pay. He too wanted revenge. Abhor had set him high above the ship as lookout, a job for which he had already proved well suited.
Wormwood was the only one who saw the second missile coming, for he was watching the Scoria bear down on them, and looking up for a moment saw high above on the battlements of Lavas, the might r
ubber plaits fly forward as if reaching into the sky, and from their centre a tiny black dot emerged. It flew fast like a falcon falling on its prey. He was fascinated by its journey until suddenly he realised what it was, and what had caused such destruction to the foremast just moments before. His mouth went dry, for it seemed that this thing which tore through the sky towards the crippled ship was aimed at him. In paralysed fascination he watched it pass over the Scoira by the barest margin and cut the main mast off the Ocean Rose at the height of a man above the deck. That’s the mast I’m on, he thought in terror. The mast went over the side with a terrible crash and tangle of ropes and booms and sails, one of which had wrapped itself around the terrified Wormwood like a shroud, and it took him remorselessly down into the cold waters where he breathed his last, and where no one ever knew what became of him.
Rema cried out once to Scion, ‘Stop the ship!’ but Tyne had already given the orders, knowing that it would take some time to bring her about, and not wanting to run into the mess ahead which was once the Ocean Rose, for a third missile had taken off her stern and she was listing dangerously to starboard, her one remaining mast projecting sadly from the ruin of her deck.
Rema leaped nimbly to the starboard rail, his eyes never leaving the red hair of Serenna as she surfaced and fought against the deadly pull of her clothing and the rope which held her wrists fast. He saw her flail, trying to take a breath, as she swallowed water, and coughed it out. In one movement he was on the rail, holding the rigging; with one hand he threw off his quiver onto the deck, his bow as well, and then he dived headlong into the ocean to save her. His precious bow bounced once and by the worst of fates sprang after its owner, it clipped the rail, jumped high in the air and arced out, falling without a splash in the water where it sank in an instant. Rema did not know nor would he have cared in that moment for his lungs were struggling to suck in air and it felt as though his heart would stop for the water was so very cold. He struck out for Serenna, catching sight of her now and then, her red hair the best beacon that nature could have ever provided. She sank finally just before he reached her. For a moment he calmed himself, forcing his lung to accept the air he knew he needed, and then using all his power and skills, dived deep after the shadowy figure below him.
