“I’ve fought worse odds,” replied Gregorvero, although he wasn’t quite sure that was true. “We have the bows if your men can use them.”
Strykar nodded. “They’ll do what they have to.”
Timandra pushed past Acquel and seized Strykar’s forearm. “Cousin, if it comes to the worst, you won’t let them take me.” It was not a plea but an order.
Strykar looked at her. “They won’t take either of us alive—if it comes to the worst.”
From behind, Acquel spoke up, his voice sticking in his dry throat. “Lord Danamis, what can I do?”
Danamis turned, having forgotten the strange young monk who stood there, gormless and awkward. “Brother… Acquel? Good. You can shift the shot and powder charges.”
“As will I,” said Timandra. “Show me.”
Danamis smiled. “Very well, Mistress Pandarus. I’ll not refuse any aid this day.”
The upper decks of the carrack were as chaotic as a fairground. The great red and white striped awning of the sterncastle pulsed in the breeze like some giant jellyfish as it came down, hauled on and stowed for fear of fire arrows. Thick rope netting crept up the sides of the Grace from castle to castle as half a dozen seamen sweated under block and tackle to erect the defences. Talis, the captain of the fo’c’sle, divided the remaining soldiers of the ship, both fore and aft crews, to either man the guns or take to their bows. Ramus, the commander of the Grace’s sterncastle, had not been seen since the afternoon of the mutiny and so there was an answer to the mystery of Tetch’s man with the key to the iron strongbox. Timandra, her long hair tied back in a kerchief and tucked up high like the turban of a silk merchant, lugged cast-iron breech chambers for the swivel guns. Men muttered oaths under their breath as she scuttled past, fearful of the presence of a woman on ship, their current predicament proof enough that her presence was an ill omen.
Acquel bore up as best he could, unused to clambering on a ship at sea, and an utter stranger to hefting hempen bags of grapeshot and stone balls half as big as a man’s head. By the time he had made four trips to the cramped stores below, he was dripping with sweat, eyes stinging. The four great sakers on the main deck, six feet long, were loaded and primed inboard before being manhandled forward again through the cut-outs in the gunwales of the ship. Talis himself checked each breech and then locked in the chamber, first kissing his fingers and then touching the six-pound stone shot that nestled in the wrought-iron barrel. The black guns, pitted with blooms of orange-red rust, were then lashed down, ready for the touch of the smouldering linstock when the fateful time came upon them.
“How many more of these do you need?” Acquel asked Talis as he dropped the shot into its wicker basket with a dull thud.
“Don’t need no more. We’ll be lucky to get two shots off from these here guns before we’re scrapping with the devils in the netting. Fetch more of the small shot for the falconets!”
Acquel blinked and wiped his eyes. Two shots if they were lucky? And all he had was his dagger in his belt. He did not know how much time had gone by. He poked his head through the boarding nets and tried to get a look astern past the bulk of the castle. He could just make out a Southlander corsair, its three blood-red lateen sails billowed out full in the wind—far closer than when he had seen it up on the top of the sterncastle, they were closing faster than he could have believed. Before he dived below again, he heard a cry from the crow’s nest on the mainmast.
“Sail Ho! Master Gregorvero! Broad on the larboard beam!”
Acquel bolted up the ladder to the stern deck, two steps at a time. Danamis and Gregorvero were at the rail, squinting off into the distance towards the low grey line that was the Valdur coast.
“There they are!” said Danamis. “Two of them… and they’re lateen rigged.” His face split into a broad grin. “They’re galleys. The king’s galleys.”
Gregorvero gripped a thick shroud of ratline rigging and focussed on the still distant vessels. “Aye, lateen rigs. But not so sure they are the king’s. Still too far to tell.”
Danamis clapped his sailing master on the back. “I will take that chance. I want you to steer for those vessels now and close up that distance.”
“And if they’re Torinian then we will be caught in the middle.”
“I haven’t met a Torinian yet who would turn down the chance to fight a Southland corsair. Let’s go ahead and even the odds. And break out my battle standard—the big one. I want that to be seen by all parties.”
Gregorvero pursed his thick lips and shook his head. “You’ve got bigger balls than me.” He made for the ladder. “And you better had get your armour on. We will be in their range soon. And you,” he said pointing to Acquel, “you better get below and find a helm and a sword, holy man or not!”
Acquel nodded and followed the master down. Danamis looked over the stern transom to see the red sails bearing down on them, close enough now that he could see the white spray thrown up in front of their bows as the long lean vessels cut the waves; close enough to recognise their flags. They were out of Darfan, the island kingdom a hundred miles to the south. A few moments later he felt the Grace heel over slightly as the turn north was made. He watched as, behind them, the corsairs followed suit, their sails buffeting as the wind now took them from abeam. The Grace gathered more speed now with a beam wind, just as the enemy did. He heard Gregorvero below, ordering sail to be let out more to take advantage of the wind coming over the larboard side. Overhead, one of his men, a canvas bag slung on his back, climbed the rigging to the mainmast crow’s nest. A few minutes later, Danamis saw his standard unfurl and trail out fifteen feet off the mast, snapping like the tail of a serpent, red dolphin and falchion emblazoned on the brilliant white cloth.
He went down into his cabin, strapping into his brigantine coat of plates and cinching up his sword and scabbard. He always foreswore any helm, not out of vanity as was claimed, but so that his men could clearly see him in any fray. When he emerged on the landing and looked down to the main deck, he saw the rondelieri assembled, Strykar in their midst. Many carried strung bows and crossbows, quivers slung over their backs. These men were worth twice their number of Southland corsairs, thought Danamis, and if they did manage to get boarded he knew they would make a good accounting of it to the last man. Yet he was still hoping he knew his Darfan corsairs better than they knew themselves. An equal contest was not usually to their liking if past experience was anything to go by. He called down to Talis who was blowing on the saltpetre match of a linstock.
“Talis, time to have your gunners take their stations on the sterncastle! They will try and overtake us from the larboard side!” He knew full well if they could get close enough they would throw lines and grapnels.
Strykar looked up at Danamis on the rail, finely arrayed in red brigantine and knee boots. “Preening cockerel!” he said to the men around him, “But I’d expect no less of a Palestrian pirate!”
Slowly, but steadily, the space between the Grace and the corsairs shortened. So too, the sails of the ships ahead of them grew larger. Danamis heard Gregorvero’s voice boom from the fo’c’sle.
“They are the royal galleys! By damn, you were right!”
Danamis now prayed that the galley captains would give aid when they saw his flag—and not turn about for port.
Timandra had tucked herself into one of the four corners of the fo’c’sle top, her palm worrying the pommel of her dagger. She too watched as the galleys came on, pennants waving. She heard movement at her side and turned to see Acquel joining her; an Acquel arrayed in a sallet helm and carrying a single-edged cleaving sword. He looked self-conscious and in spite of the fact that they were minutes from battle she allowed herself a smile. He had at least gotten what he had wished for in the encampment a few days before.
“I will stay with you,” he said quietly, the lip of the helm sliding down to his eyebrows.
“And I with you, Brother Acquel.”
The cries of the crew were growing
louder now. Acquel looked over his shoulder to see the red sails of the Southlanders pulling even on the larboard side. The bow of the Grace hit a trough and the ship lurched down and to starboard, throwing Acquel off his feet. Timandra reached down and helped him steady. He grasped her shoulder as they arose together.
“Are you frightened?” he asked, pushing his sallet helm back up on his forehead.
She smiled at him. “Only if we lose. And Strykar isn’t about to let that happen.” She had been on the edge of battle before, in the baggage train, but never this close. And on ship there was nowhere to run when the tide of battle turned against you.
Ahead of them, the foremast mainsail billowed enough that Acquel could see the king’s galleys bearing down but not yet close enough to engage. Two soldiers suddenly clambered up over the top ladder, pushed them aside, and swung the rearmost loaded falconet back towards the enemy. And nearly frozen, Acquel stood and watched as the game began in earnest.
ON THE STERNCASTLE, Danamis stoically observed the Darfan ships drawing nearer. On the closer vessel he could clearly see the crew jostling amidships and on their sterncastle, dressed in their outlandish loose baggy hose tied close at the knee, coloured sashes about their waists. The mouth of a single demi-culverin stuck out from a gap cut in the gunwale and he spied only two smaller swivel guns on their low fo’c’sle. That was some consolation, he thought. But the archers were a different matter. Already they were drawing back their wicked little horn bows on the fo’c’sle deck. A soft whooshing sound carried past his ear and a fletched shaft protruded from his mizzenmast four feet over this head.
“They’re ranging us!” shouted Gregorvero. Danamis looked over the rail, down to his main deck. His two sakers stood primed and ready, the gunners crouched and hugging their iron monsters. A pace behind, twenty-five of Strykar’s men stood ready with bows, waiting for the target to come up alongside them. Danamis turned to gauge the distance again and then shot a look at the fo’c’sle captain standing near the transom with a dozen of his archers. “Talis, give them a volley.”
A moment later a cloud of iron-barbed shafts arced out and down to the Darfan lead ship, which sat lower than they, some finding their mark on the fo’c’sle and others striking men down amidships. This was answered instantly by the Southlanders as a staggered volley hit the sterncastle of the Grace, arrows snapping and biting into the railings. One pinged off a helm, stunning the Palestrian, and then bounced off the brigantine of his comrade. There was less than thirty feet between the vessels now. And as the Darfan ship pulled nearly level on the windward side, the sails of the Grace sagged as their wind was stolen. Gregorvero ordered starboard rudder to pull away and the Grace recovered like a stumbling stag. Before the Darfans could fire their gun, the Grace’s first saker on the main deck thundered, sending its large stone shot crashing into the railings of the enemy; it shattered, the shards ploughing down a score of the tightly packed Darfan boarders. Arrows were now flying between the vessels at will. Danamis felt a shaft strike his brigantine and he instinctively doubled up. But it had been spent and merely deflected off the armour. Others weren’t so lucky and several crew were on the decks either shot dead through the head or writhing with arrows in their thighs or arms.
Danamis felt his ship go into a turn as Gregorvero’s tacking manoeuvre began and Talis fired the two transom-mounted falconets. But the Darfans’ swivel guns answered immediately. There was a sound of splintering wood and a cloud of black and golden splinters as the elaborate painted stern railing exploded. The soldiers scrambled for another loaded breech chamber and swapped out the spent ones. Danamis caught a glimpse of a giant corsair below them perched on the gunwale, hefting an iron grapnel and line. They were minutes from sinking their teeth into him.
STANDING NEARLY FROZEN still in the fo’c’sle, Acquel’s whole body twitched as one of the swivel pieces went off near him, sending out a cloud of acrid white smoke. Timandra stepped back and pressed in close to him. She turned and looked up into his face.
“If we are boarded… I will need to tell you something. In case I die.”
Acquel took her hand. “Do not say such things.” A sound like wasps streaking over their heads made him look up. The sail had just had a hundred small holes torn into it.
She grabbed his doublet and pulled him closer, her eyes drilling into his. “You must needs hear my confession. Swear you will do it.”
Acquel nodded. “I will.”
The smoke cloud blew off the fo’c’sle and Acquel heard a gunner cry out. Looking over the railing he saw a galley ship pass them, the most amazing sight he had ever seen. It was under power of sail only, its many oars raised and locked along the hull. A huge square battle standard mounted on the trailing edge of the lateen sail carried the twin rampant griffons of Valdur, gold upon red. Impossibly long and sleek, to Acquel the galley appeared powerful and delicate at the same time. As it passed less than a hundred feet off their bow, he saw it had a large gun strapped to the fighting platform of its prow. A tongue of fire flashed out, followed a second later by a massive roar. The galley had joined the fight against the Southlanders. Timandra was half leaning out over the fo’c’sle to see the spectacle and Acquel moved to join her, heedless of the occasional whizzing arrow shaft. A second galley followed in the wake of the first and Acquel could see dozens of men crowded onto the broad platform at the bow, their bills and helms flashing in the sunlight.
FROM HIS VANTAGE, Danamis saw the round from the galley cut across the deck of the Southlander, ripping through rigging and sails before slamming into the low sterncastle and destroying ladder and deck. A moment later the vessel turned hard to starboard and fell off, passing into the foaming wake of the Grace. A ragged cry went up from his men as the second Southlander followed the first. Danamis allowed himself a smile. He waved a salute to the commander of the Valdurian galley who was standing tall on the stern platform as it glided past. The captain made a sweeping bow from the railing, his beret in his hand.
Danamis and his men gathered at the railing, watching as the two Darfan ships went close-hauled and beat to the south. He liked to think he knew his Darfan captains; don’t risk a fight unless the odds are with you. Meanwhile, both galleys had tacked into a turn and were lessening sail.
“Two dead, my lord and four wounded,” said Talis as he approached across the deck. “We’re bringing them down to the orlop, but we don’t have no chirugeon anymore.”
Danamis nodded. It was a reckoning that could have been far worse and one he could live with. “Go see if the woman and the monk can attend to them.” He bounded down the ladder to the main deck and found Gregorvero near the helm. The huge man came upon Danamis and seized him by both arms.
“I reckon that monk in the fo’c’sle had a few words!” he laughed as the sweat poured down his jowls.
Danamis clapped him on the shoulder in return. “Aye, Gregor, we deserved a little mercy this day, I think. And now I want to have a goodly conversation with our friends on the galleys.”
“We’ll drop sail and give the lads a drink! You there! Get to it—foremast and main!”
“And what about my bowmen who’ve done you good service this afternoon?” barked Strykar as he approached across the deck, swinging his sallet by the strap. “By Elded’s beard, you’re getting your money’s worth out of us, Danamis.”
Danamis bowed to the mercenary. “And as always, my friend, I am ever grateful.”
“Even if your purse is ever empty.”
THE SEA WAS as glass, barely a ripple though they were nearly twenty miles out. The chase had taken them north by northeast to waters Danamis knew well. In the distance, several miles further south, he could see the hulking form of Nod’s Rock in the sea haze, appearing like some squashed sugarloaf. For an instant the debacle of the last trade with the mermen filled his mind’s eye. But then a cheer went up as the captain of the lead galley was rowed over in a little double-ended boat. As the rowers held the craft steady, the little man cla
mbered up the rope ladder amidships and onto the deck of the Grace.
Danamis and Gregorvero both gave a bow which was returned with a brief flourish by the galley captain, a silver pomander in his hand.
“Captain Alandris,” said Danamis. “It has been some time since last we met but your arrival was heaven sent.”
The commander adjusted his fine emerald-green silken cloak which he wore twisted about his arm and shoulder. And like most galley captains that Danamis knew, Alandris had been wealthy before he took service in the king’s fleet, for galley captains invariably paid the king to get their ship and command. “Admiral Danamis, fortune brings us together it seems. And none too soon for you. Where is the rest of your fleet? Or have you taken to being a lone raider these days?”
Danamis gave him a smile. “I have urgent business with the king and am on way to Perusia.”
Alandris nodded and glanced around at the lean complement of sailors and soldiers, far too small for a carrack of war. His eyes rested briefly on the rondelieri standing across the deck, their commander at the main mast, arms folded across his chest and a look of disdain on his face.
“Recruitment trouble in Palestro these days?”
The smell from the galley upwind of them had now made its way to the decks of the Grace. A hundred rowers on the benches in the summer heat made for a miasma that was a weapon in its own right. Danamis looked down to the pomander briefly, one no doubt filled with lambsmint or something equally potent to ward off the stink. He rubbed his forefinger under his nose and directed his gaze towards the overcrowded galley.
“Recruitment?” said Danamis, grinning. “I think maybe you’ve forgotten just how many men you need for your galleys. But, then again, recruitment isn’t a problem when you have men willing to work off their debts or get their sentences commuted. I imagine you wear them out rather quickly.”
The Guns of Ivrea Page 15
