The Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Mister Bishop,” Seward called. “Disburse weapons to the men, and issue an extra ration of grog.”

  Royce was on his way aloft as the larboard crew came off duty. “How long do you think before they catch us?” he asked Hadrian, looking aft at the tiny armada of red sails chasing their wake.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. What do you think?”

  Royce shrugged, “A few hours maybe.”

  “It’s not looking good, is it?”

  “And you wanted to be a sailor.”

  ***

  Hadrian went about the business of preparing for the evening meal, mindful that it might be the last the men would have. Poe, conspicuously absent, hastily entered the galley.

  “Where you been?”

  Poe looked sheepish. “Talking to Wyatt. Those Dacca ships are gaining fast. They’ll be on us tonight for sure.”

  Hadrian nodded grimly.

  Poe moved to help cut the salted pork, then added. “Wyatt has a plan. It won’t save everyone, only a handful really, and it may not work at all, but it’s something. He wants to know if you’re in.”

  “What about Royce?”

  “Him too.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Sail!” they heard Mister Wesley cry even from the galley, “Two more tartanes dead ahead!”

  Poe and Hadrian, like everyone else aboard, scrambled to the deck to see Mister Wesley pointing off the starboard bow. Two red sails were slipping out from hidden coves along the shore to block their retreat. Sailing nimbly against the wind, they moved to intercept.

  “Clear th deck for action!” Seward shouted from the quarterdeck, wiping the sweat from his head.

  Men scrambled across the ship, once more hauling buckets of sand and water. Archers took their positions on the forecastle, stringing their bows. Oil and hot coals were placed at the ready.

  “We need to steer clear,” the captain said. “Helm bring her—”

  “We need speed, sir,” Wyatt interrupted.

  The captain winced at the interruption. “Be mindful Deminthal or I’ll skip the flogging I owe you and have you hanged!”

  “With all due respect, you abdicated that privilege to the Dacca last night. All the sooner if I alter course now.”

  “By Maribor! Mister Temple take—” The captain stopped as he spotted the tartanes begin to turn.

  “See! They expected us to break,” Wyatt told him.

  Realizing their mistake, the Dacca fought to swing back, but it was too late. A hole had been created.

  Seward grumbled and scowled at Wyatt.

  “Sir?” Temple asked.

  “Never mind. Steady as she goes. Mister Bishop! Order the archers to take aim at the port side ship! Perhaps we can slow them down if we can manage to set one afire.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Hadrian rushed to the forecastle. Having proved himself one of the best archers on the ship, his station was at the center of the port side. He picked a strong, solid bow and tested the string’s strength.

  “The wind will set the arrows off a bit toward the bow,” Poe mentioned, readying a bucket of glowing hot coals. “Might want to lead the target a bit, eh?”

  “You’re my squire now as well?”

  Poe smiled, and shook his head. “I’ve seen you in practice. I figure the safest place on this ship right now is here. I’ll hand the oiled arrows. You just keep firing.”

  The Dacca tartanes slipped through the waves, their red triangular sails billowing out sideways as they struggled on a tight tack to make the best use of the head wind. Dark figures scurried like ants across the decks and rigging of the smaller ships.

  “Ready arrows!” Mister Bishop shouted.

  Hadrian fitted his first shaft in the string.

  As the Dacca closed on the Storm they began to turn. Their yards swept round and their tillers cranked, pivoting much as Wyatt had, the action all the more impressive as both ships moved in perfect unison, like dancers performing simultaneous pirouettes.

  “Light arrows!”

  Hadrian touched the oil-soaked wad at the tip of the shaft to the pot of coals and it burst into flame. A row of men on the port side stood ready, a trail of soot-black smoke wafting aft.

  “Take aim!” Mister Bishop ordered as the Dacca ships came into range. On the deck of the tartanes, a line of flaming arrows mirrored their own. “Fire!”

  Into the blue sky flew a staggered arc of fire trailing black smoke. At the same time, the Dacca launched their volley and the two passed each other in midair. All around him, Hadrian heard the pattering of arrows. The bucket brigade was running to douse the flames and above, Royce dropped along a line to kick free one lodged in the masthead before it could ignite the mainsail.

  Poe had another arrow ready. Hadrian fitted it, lit it with the pot, took aim, and sent it into the lower right yard of their mainsail. To his right he heard the loud thwack of the massive ballista that sent forth a huge flaming missile. It struck the side of the tartane, splintering the hull and lodging there.

  Hadrian heard a hissing fly past his ear. Behind him, the oil bucket splashed and the liquid ignited. Poe jumped backward as his trousers flamed. Grabbing a nearby bucket Hadrian smothered the burning oil with sand.

  Another volley rained, peppering the deck. Boatswain Bristol, in the process of cranking the ballista for a second shot, fell dead with an arrow in his throat, his hair catching fire. Basil, the officers’ cook, took one in the chest, and Seaman Bliden screamed as two arrows hit him, one in the thigh and the other through his hand. Looking up, Hadrian saw this second volley came from the other ship.

  Shaken but not seriously harmed, Poe found another oil bucket and brought it to Hadrian. As the two ships came close, Hadrian found what he was looking for—a bucket at the feet of the archers. Leading his target, he held his breath, took aim, and released. The tartane’s bucket exploded. Hadrian spotted a young Dacca attempt to douse the flames with water. Instantly the fire washed the deck. At that moment, the Storm’s ballista crew, having loaded the weapon with multiple bolts this time, released a cruel hail on the passing Dacca. Screams bridged the gap between the ships as the Storm sailed on, leaving the burning ships in their wake.

  Once more, the crew cheered their victory, but it was hollow. Amid the blackened scorch marks left by scores of arrows, a dozen men lay dead on the deck. They had not slipped through the trap unscathed and the red sails behind them were closer now.

  ***

  When night fell, the captain ordered the off-crew, including Hadrian and Royce, below deck to rest. They went to their quarters and took the opportunity to change into their cloaks and tunics. Hadrian strapped on his swords. It brought a few curious looks, but no one said a word.

  Not a single man slept and few even sat. Most paced with their heads bowed to avoid the short ceiling, but perhaps this time they were also praying. Many of the crew had appeared superstitious, but none religious—until now.

  “Why don’t we put inland?” Seaman Davis asked his fellow sailors. “The coast’s only a few miles off. We could put in and escape into the jungle.”

  “Coral shoals ring the shores of Calis,” Banner said, scraping the surface of the table with a knife. “We’d rip the bottom of the Storm a mile out and the Dacca would have it. Besides, the captain ain’t gonna abandon his ship and run.”

  “Captain Seward is an arse!”

  “Watch yer mouth, lad!”

  “Why? What’s he gonna do that can be worse than the Dacca?”

  To that, Banner had no answer. No one did. Fear spread through the crew, fear of certain death and the poison that comes from waiting idly for it. Hadrian knew from countless battles the folly of leaving men to stagnate with nothing else to occupy their thoughts.

  The hatch opened and everyone looked up. It was Wyatt and Poe.

  “What’s the word?” Davis asked.

  “It won’t be long now men, make ready what you need to. The captai
n will call general quarters soon, I expect.”

  Wyatt paused at the bottom of the ladder and spoke quietly with Grady and Derning. They nodded then went aft. Wyatt motioned with his eyes for Hadrian and Royce to follow him forward. Only empty hammocks filled the cramped space leaving them enough privacy to speak.

  “So, what’s this plan?” Royce whispered.

  “We can’t win a fight,” Wyatt told them. “All we can hope to do is run.”

  “You said the Storm can’t outrun them,” Hadrian reminded him.

  “I wasn’t planning on outrunning them in the Storm.”

  Hadrian and Royce exchanged glances.

  “The Dacca will want her and the cargo. That’s why we made it through the blockade so easily. They were trying to slow us, not stop us. If I had followed Seward’s orders we’d all be dead now. As it is, I only bought us a few hours, but they were needed.”

  “Needed for what exactly?” Royce asked.

  “For darkness. The Dacca can’t see any better at night than we can, and while they take the Storm, we’ll escape. They’ll bring as many of their ships alongside as they can to overwhelm our decks by sheer numbers. When they board us, a party of men I’ve hand-picked will take one of the tartanes. We’ll cut the ship free and with luck get clear of the Storm before they see us. Iarkness and the confusion of battle, it might work.”

  They both nodded.

  Wyatt motioned to Hadrian. “I want you to lead the boarding party. I’ll signal you from the quarterdeck.”

  “What are you going to be doing?” Royce asked.

  “You mean what are we going to be doing? I didn’t come all this way not to find Allie. You and I will use the distraction to break into the captain’s quarters and steal any orders or parchments we find. Just watch me. You’ll know when.”

  “What about the elves below?” Royce asked.

  “Don’t worry about them. They want the ship whole. In all likelihood, the Dacca will treat them better than the New Empire has.”

  “Who’s in this hand-picked team of yours?” Hadrian asked.

  “Poe of course, Banner, Grady—”

  “All hands on deck!” Temple shouted from above, as drums thundered.

  “See you above, gentlemen,” Wyatt said while heading for the hold.

  The sky was black. Invisible clouds covered the stars and shrouded the sliver of moon. Darkness wrapped the sea, a shadowy abyss where only the froth at the bow revealed the presence of water. Behind them, Hadrian saw nothing.

  “Archers to the aft deck!”

  Hadrian joined the others at the railing where they lined up shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the Emerald Storm’s wake.

  “Light arrows!” came the order.

  From across the water they heard a sound, and a moment later men around Hadrian screamed as arrows pelted the stern.

  “Fire!” Mister Bishop ordered.

  They raised their bows and fired as one, launching their burning shafts blindly into the darkness. A stream of flame flew in a long arch, some dying with a hiss as they fell into the sea, others struck wood, their light outlining a ship about three hundred yards behind them.

  “There,” Bishop shouted. “There’s your target men!”

  They exchanged volley after volley. Men fell dead on both ships leaving the ranks of archers thin. Small fires broke out on the tartane illuminating it and its crew. The Dacca were short, stocky, and lean with coarse long beards and wild hair. The firelight cast them with a demonic glow that glistened off their bare, sweat-soaked skin.

  When the tartane lay less than fifty yards astern, its mainmast caught fire and burned like a dead tree. The brilliant light exposed the sea in all directions, and stifled the cheers of the Storm’s crew when it revealed the positions of the rest of the Dacca fleet. Four ships had already slipped alongside them.

  “Stand by to repel boarders!” shouted Seward. He drew his sword and waved it over his head as he ran to the safety of the forecastle walls.

  “Raise the nets!” ordered Bishop. The rigging crew drew up netting on either side of the deck, creating an entangling barrier of rope webbing. Under command of their officers, men took position at the waist deck, cutlasses raised.

  “Cut the tethers!” Mister Wesley’s voice cried as hooks caught the rail.

  The deck shook as the tartanes slammed against the Emerald Storm’s hull. A flood of stocky men wearing only leather armor and red paint stormed over the side. They screamed in fury as swords met.

  “Now!” Hadrian heard Wyatt shout at him.

  He turned and saw the helmsman pointing to the tartane tethered to the Storm’s port side near the stern, the first of the Dacca’s ships to reach them. Most of its crew had already boarded the Storm. Poe, Grady and others in Wyatt’s team held back watching him.

  “Go!” he shouted, and grabbing hold of the mizzen’s port side brace, cut it free, and swung out across the gulf, landing on the stern of the tartane.

  The stunned Dacca helmsman reached for his short blade as Hadrian cut his throat. Two more Dacca rushed him. Hadrian dodged, using the move to hide the thrust. His broadsword drove deep into the first Dacca’s stomach. The second man, seeing his ce, attacked, but Hadrian’s bastard sword was in his left hand. With it he deflected a wild swing and drawing the broadsword from the first Dacca’s stomach brought it across, severing the remaining man’s head.

  With three bodies on the aft deck, Hadrian looked up to see Poe and the rest already in possession of the ship and in the process of cutting the tethers free. With the last one cut, Poe used a pole and pushed away from the Storm.

  “What about Royce and Wyatt?” Hadrian asked climbing down to the waist deck.

  “They’ll swim for it and we’ll pick them up,” Poe explained, as he ran past him heading aft. “But we need to get into the shadows now!”

  Poe climbed the short steps to the tartane’s tiny quarterdeck and took hold of the tiller. “Swing the boom!” he shouted in a whisper. “Trim the sails!”

  “We know our jobs a lot better than you, boy!” Derning hissed at him. He and Grady were already hauling on the mainsail sheet, trying to tame the canvas that snapped above like a serpent, jangling the rigging rings against the mast. “Banner, Davis! Adjust the headsail for a starboard tack.”

  Hadrian never learned the ropes and stood by uselessly while the others raced across the deck. Even if he had picked up anything about rigging, it would not have helped. The Dacca tartane was quite different in design. Besides being smaller, the hull was sloped like a fishing vessel, but with two decks. It had just two sails; a headsail supported on a forward tilting mast and the mainsail. Both were triangular and hung from long curved yards that crossed the masts at angles so that the vessel’s profile appeared like the heads of two axes cleaving through the air. The deck was dark wood and glancing around, Hadrian wondered if the Dacca stained it with the same blood as the sails. It was an easy conclusion to make after seeing the rigging ornamented with human skulls.

  On the Storm, the battle was going badly. At least half the crew lay dead or dying. No canvas was visible as the boarding party made striking the sails a priority. The deck was awash in stocky, half-naked men who circled the forecastle with torches, dodging arrows as they struggled to breech the bulwark.

  Poe pushed the tartane’s tiller over, pointing the bow away from the Storm. The wind caught the canvas and the little ship glided gently away. With the sails on the Emerald Storm struck, she was dead in the water and it was easy for them to circle her. Equally small crews remained to operate the other Dacca boarding ships, but that hardly mattered as all eyes were on the Storm. As far as Hadrian could tell, no one noticed them.

  “I’m bringing her ’round,” Poe said. “Hadrian, stand by with that rope there and everyone watch the water for Wyatt and Royce.”

  “Royce?” Derning questioned with distaste. “Why are we picking up the murderer? I can handle the rigging just fine.”

  “Because
Wyatt said so,” Poe replied.

  “What if we can’t find them? What if they die before they can get off the ship?” Davis asked.

  “I’ll decide that when it happens,” Poe replied.

  “You? You’re barmy, boy. I’ll be buggered if I’ll take orders from a little sod like you! Bloody Davis here’s got more years at sea than you and he’s a git if there ever was one. If we don’t find Deminthal after the first pass, you’ll be taking orders from me.”

  “Like I said,” Poe repeated, “I’ll decide that when it happens.”

  Derning grinned menacingly, but Hadrian did not think Poe, being at the stern, could have seen it in the darkness.

  ***

  Royce wasted no time hitting the deck at the signal.

  “We haven’t got long,” Wyatt told him. “The captain’s quarters will be a priority.”

  He kicked the door open, shattering the frame.

  Fully carpeted, the whole rear of the ship was one luxurious suite. Silk patterns in hues of gold and brown covered the walls, with matching upholstered furniture and a silk bedcover. A painting hung on one wall, showing a man bathed in sunlight, his face filled with rapture as a single white feather floated into his upraised hands. Vast stern windows banked the far wall above which silver lanterns swayed. The bed was to one side while a large desk was across from it.

  Wyatt scanned the room quickly then moved to the desk. He rifled the drawers. “He’ll have put the orders in a safe place.”

  “Like a safe?” Royce asked, pulling a window drape aside revealing a small porthole size compartment with a lock. “They always put them behind the drapes.”

  “Can you open it?”

  Royce smirked. He pulled a tool from his belt and within seconds it was open. Wyatt reached inside, grabbing the entire stack of parchments and stuffing them into a bag.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, making for the door. “Jump off the starboard side. Poe will pick us up.”

  They came out of the cabin into a world of chaos. Stocky men painted in red poured over the sides of the vessel. Each wielded short broad blades or axes, that cut down everything before them. Only a handful of men stood on the waist deck, the rest had fallen back to the perceived safety of the forecastle. Those that tried to hold their ground died. Royce stepped out on the deck just in time to see Dime, his topsail captain, nearly cut in half by a cleaving blow from a Dacca axe.