The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  “I reckon about five loosings per three-quarter-turn of the glass, Joron,” said Dinyl. “Passable, if not extraordinary. Is that how you count it?

  “How do you stay so calm?” said Joron quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just letting them loose at us, having to wait?”

  Dinyl gave him a small smile.

  “I have no other choice, and neither do you. Nor them.” He nodded at the crew. “Experience helps. Knowledge too – the reality is there’s little chance of a bolt killing you, not at this range. Sweeping the deck bow to stern? A bolt is a fearsome thing then, but right now we have little to fear.” More bolts hit, and Dinyl glanced over at the enemy ships. “Three more volleys, Joron,” he said, and there was a waver in his voice that spoke of suppressed fear. “Three more rounds of bolts, and we will be near enough for them to load wingshot and cutters. That’s when it really starts, that’s when you know you’re in a fight, that’s when you find out if you will break.” He laughed quietly. “So don’t break now, Joron. If you must break then at least wait until they really mean it.” He clapped Joron on the shoulder and leaned in close. “When she tells the crew to lie down, stay on your feet but stand behind the spine as it will provide some cover. We do our duty, ey?”

  Joron nodded, and Dinyl walked on down the deck, sand crunching beneath his feet as he made his way to the beak, exchanging words with deckchilder as he passed.

  Another round of bolts.

  Tension building like a wound bow arm.

  Another round of bolts.

  The sea sliding by, the air filled with the spume of Tide Child’s passing.

  Another round of bolts.

  The wind plucking at Joron’s coat.

  “Lie down!” The shout came from the rump, and all around Joron crew hit the slate. He took a step back, so the mainspine, as thick as any two women and men, hid the enemy ships from him. He heard the wingshot come in, making a very different sound to bolts, a hollow howl, and the noise when they hit was deafening. Rocks smashed through rigging and spars, crashed into the hull. A rain of broken varisk fell from above.

  When Joron looked up he expected the whole spine to have been shattered, but it still stood. Ropes fluttered in the wind; the corner of one wing had been torn loose, and the end of a spar smashed, but deckchilder were already lashing on varisk, retying ropes, hanging as if weightless from Tide Child’s rigging. He heard sobbing and turned. A wingshot had hit the landward rail and smashed it into splinters. Two of the team for bow six lay dead, the third sobbing and holding his gut, from which a splinter of bone protruded.

  “Get him to the hagbower,” shouted Meas. One of the crew Joron had thought dead picked himself up and shook his head. “They did not kill you, Vedin?” shouted the shipwife.

  “Nay, Shipwife,” he said, “though Cassit is done for.” As he finished speaking two deckchilder joined him at the bow. The dead woman was thrown overboard and the wounded man taken below for the hagshand to ease him into death, for his was a wound there was no recovery from.

  “Hold, my boys and girls, hold,” said Meas. As she walked up the deck, another round of wingshot came ululating in. Joron felt his insides clench as the projectiles crashed through the rigging. There was a scream and a body fell from above, smashing into the deck along with a spar. “One more round,” shouted Meas. “One more round from them, my lovelies, and then we shall untruss our bows and avenge ourselves. We’ll show them what a real ship of war can do. We’ll pay them back a thousandfold for this.”

  But it was not one more round, it was three, and each time Meas had them hold fast. Strode the decks past the screaming wounded. Shouted orders as if she were invulnerable while crew died around her. Then – and Joron did not know how she judged it, how she knew they could take no more, what made her decide – the time came. She sprinted up to the rump of the ship, shouted, “Up! Up, you slatelayers! ‘Ware the heavy boom. Barlay, Solemn Muffaz, put your backs into the steering oar. The rest of you to the landward rail.” She stood proud on the rump while Joron and Dinyl ran to throw themselves against the landward rail of Tide Child with the rest. “Now!” shouted Meas, “now!”

  And Tide Child came about.

  The huge boom attached to the central wing came over as the beak of the ship turned towards the three Gaunt Islander boneships. The deck started to tilt, the rail Joron stood against rising into the air so he had to push his legs out to keep his feet. The sand on the deck slid, sticking where blood moistened the slate. Joron was forced to peddle his legs to find grip and stay in position as the turn became steeper and steeper. His arms hurt where they were locked about the rail and he knew now why Meas had been worried about the keel. As Tide Child turned, the stress on the keel would be immense. Further along, deck crew attached to ropes tied to the spines were standing on the rail and leaning over the side to stop Tide Child capsizing as he came about. If the keel went now, Joron knew it was over, that they were food for the longthresh that dogged Tide Child’s wake.

  All this and the ship was only a third through its turn.

  “To the rail!” shouted Meas, somehow, miraculously, still standing in the centre of the rump, one hand braced against the rearspine, one leg bent to keep her body upright. “More deckchilder to the rail!” she screamed, and more crew boiled up from the underdeck. Joron had never before understood why, when they cleared for action, ropes were laid across the deck, but now he did. The crew had to climb up the deck to get to the rail. The slope of the ship was so extreme he found himself almost looking down on Wavebreaker and his consorts. He could see the Gaunt Islander officers pointing, unbelieving at Meas’s manoeuvre, and Wavebreaker’s great bows being loaded with wingshot.

  “Brace,” shouted Meas. “Any deckchild leaves the rail, and I will feed them to the longthresh myself. This will hurt, my girls and boys, but we will exact a heavy price in return, I promise you that.” And Joron understood why their bows remained tied, imagined the untrussed bow’s great shafts, swinging from side to side, adding to the danger.

  Only two of Wavebreaker’s bows could be brought to bear on Tide Child, but their teams did not intend to waste an opportunity like this. Tide Child was almost deck on to them and an unmissable target. The deck officer opposite Joron was shouting, arm raised. It fell. The wingbolts smashed into the centre and beak of Tide Child’s deck, and the sound was like being in the centre of a thundercloud. The shot splintered on impact, sending shards of stone flying. Spidery cracks appeared in the deck; pieces of slate sheered away and fell, smashing through the seaward rail. Wingshot splintered on impact, sending shards of stone as well as the slate of the deck flying. Screams, bodies falling from the landward rail as stone shards pierced them. Women and men bouncing off spines and spars before they hit the sea. Something buzzed past Joron, and he felt a sharp pain in his cheek. Warm blood flowing.

  Then they were round.

  Tide Child righting himself. Shot still incoming, but the big ship was moving fast and the shot was poorly aimed. For some reason – surprise, inexperience, Joron could not know – Wavebreaker’s bows were targeting the black ship’s hull when they should have continued trying to take down his rigging. Joron glanced behind him and spotted Deckkeeper Oswire on the beak of Cruel Water. Tide Child had done his job and attracted most of the Gaunt Islanders’ shot; the two-ribber behind them had hardly been touched.

  “To your bows!” screamed Meas. Bowteams ran to their stations. “Knot!” Ropes were loosed from bows. “Now lift!” Shafts were pulled up, locking over gimbals. “And string!” Cords were run through bows and cinched tight.

  “Ready, Shipwife!” ran up and down the deck from the bowsells.

  “Then spin!” she shouted. “For’ard Bows, get me some shot on those ships. I’ll not have them loose at me without answer. I’ll not have Tide Child unavenged!” Meas sounded furious, but each and every woman and man on the bows was grinning at her words. Another volley of wingshot came in, making Tide Chil
d shudder in the water as the for’ard bowteams spun their bows. “Cutters, load cutters! Bring his rigging down!”

  Dinyl stopped a woman and man bringing up wingbolts.

  “Hag’s piss, do you have gills for ears? She wants cutters, not wingbolts. No, stack ’em at the rail. Go on, run!”

  “Load!” called the for’ard bowsells, and the loaders went to work.

  “Dinyl,” Joron grabbed him. “Why do they not fire cutters at our rigging?”

  “Joron,” said Dinyl, “I would suggest questioning the enemy’s tactical mistakes is a discussion for after the battle. Should you not be with your teams?”

  “Ey, I should.” He was breathing fast, exulting at being alive, at the sheer audaciousness of the move Meas had pulled off and that he had been part of it. Joron ran forward. The teams on bow one, Poisonous Hostir and bow two, Maiden’s Trick, had already loaded cutters – two sharpened stones joined with chain made of hardened varisk. They would spin through the air, cutting rope and flesh, smashing spar and bone and rigging.

  Tide Child raced at the enemy, aiming for the gap between Wavebreaker and the two-ribber immediately following him. Not much of a gap. Joron turned away. Concentrate on your bowteams. Hitting the gap is Meas’s job. He thought he could loose a round, maybe two, from each pair of bows. No longer did he stand behind the bows, now he commanded the bowdeck while Meas steered Tide Child towards the swiftly moving ships.

  “Bowsells! Aim!” The shout that came from his mouth did not sound like his own voice; it was harsher, louder. “Loose when you have a target. Bring down their rigging!”

  “Loose!” shouted Anzir from bow one.

  “Loose!” shouted Old Briaret from bow two.

  And the sound, the terrible sound, the warmoan of taut cords, the crack of launching bows.

  “Spin!” shouted Joron. “Spin the bow like your life depends on it, for it surely does.”

  “Ready!” shouted the bowsells of bows three and four at almost exactly the same time.

  “Loose as we come by!” shouted Joron.

  Shot was still coming at Tide Child, but with the bows to command – the frantic loading, spinning and aiming – Joron barely noticed the bolts flying through the air, the ring of stone on bone, the crash of rigging being torn away, the screams of the maimed. He glanced behind him at Cruel Water. Arrin had not loosed yet. The Gaunt Islands ships were in range, but he must be waiting to make sure of his target. Joron turned back to see the effect of his bowteams’ first shots just as one and two launched again. He shouted to his third pair to make ready. No change in Wavebreaker’s corpselights yet, though Joron saw spars and rigging fall. He knew from Tide Child that big boneships could take a pounding – keyshan bone was tough. But the two-ribber to seaward – he could see his name now, Sunfish Rising – was a wreck. His rigging had been cut by their first shot and that had brought down the entire top half of the ship’s mainspine. This in turn had dragged down the other spines, and the deck was awash with wings and rigging. Only one light remained, that a sickly yellow. Crew worked frantically with axes to cut away the wreckage. The ship had almost stopped, forcing the final ship in the enemy line to alter course.

  Nearer and nearer and nearer came the gap. And already it felt like they had scored a major victory.

  We can win this, thought Joron. We will win this.

  “Not long now!” shouted Meas. “Oh we’ll cause some pretty chaos when we’re between them.” She ran to the top of the underdeck stairs and shouted down, “Drop the bowpeeks!” then turned. “Dinyl, get down there with Farys and get those bows ready!” Something in Joron quailed at the thought of the damage about to come to Sunfish Rising. The underdeck bows were not as big but were far more numerous. Ten to each side. Meas turned from the stairs. Glanced behind Tide Child.

  Joron saw a look cross her face that he did not understand. It was not panic, not quite.

  Not fear, not quite.

  It was hate, and fury.

  He turned.

  On Cruel Water something was being pulled up into the rigging, something that fought and struggled as it rose. For a moment, Joron could not fathom what was happening. Everything in motion: Tide Child, Wavebreaker, Sunfish Rising, Cruel Water and Snarltooth. All coming together in anger and violence.

  Arrin, he thought. It is Arrin. And it was a strange thought. As if all action ceased around him while he considered this odd occurence.

  That is Shipwife Arrin being hung from his own rigging.

  He could not for the life of him understand why that would be happening.

  Then on the deck of Cruel Water he saw Arrin’s deckkeeper pointing at Tide Child. Oswire. Screaming at the crew. Wearing a two-tailed hat. And Cruel Water came about, her gallowbows armed and ready and aimed at Tide Child.

  “We are betrayed,” he said, more to himself than to those about him. He nearly shouted it, but managed to hold the words in. Meas had not said a word, and she did little for no reason.

  So close and broadside on to Tide Child, Cruel Water’s eight gallowbows may not be great bows like Tide Child’s, but they would cause carnage. The stern of a boneship was his weakest point with the thinnest bone and the fragile glass of the state rooms at the rump. And Joron knew why Meas said nothing. Because there was nothing to be said. To shout betrayal would only distract her bowteams, and she would rather keep them loosing, keep them working, keep them unaware that they had already lost. But she did not turn away from what was coming. Death. She knew it. Joron knew it. Cruel Water would deliver a crippling blow. And here, with three Gaunt Islands ships to fight, that was the same as death.

  Time slowed. Oswire raised her hand, a smile on her face. Strangely, Joron found he did not hate her. Maybe she saw this as her way back to the deck of a boneship. Maybe she believed it was her duty.

  And it was too late for hate.

  He fancied that bow four on Cruel Water was the one that would do for him. He could see it, Focus on it. Then he saw nothing else, heard nothing else, just focused on that team of women and men as they finalised the aim of the bow. He got ready for his body to be smashed by the projectile.

  But he had reckoned without Snarltooth.

  He took for granted that the two ships would work together. Had Meas? Had she simply presumed, like him, that what was true for one was true for all? So had she also not watched Snarltooth as Oswire betrayed both Meas and her own shipwife. Had she simply thought her mistrust for Shipwife Brekir was playing out, and that she would come about and turn Snarltooth to landward as Cruel Water turned to seaward, ready to add its weight of stone and finish Tide Child.

  But Brekir did no such thing.

  Did not turn Snarltooth.

  Did not slow her ship.

  She drove it into Cruel Water.

  The impact of Snarltooth’s spiked beak threw Oswire to the deck, threw gallowbow teams over the side and heeled Cruel Water over at an angle that rained women and men from the rigging into the sea. It filled the air with screeching and grinding almost as loud as the arakeesian’s call.

  Sense and sensation came back to Joron. His first thought was that Brekir had been taken by surprise by Cruel Water’s abrupt manoeuvre; she had not struck him as a particularly competent shipwife.

  He was soon disabused of that idea.

  Snarltooth’s crew, led by the furiously snarling Brekir and Deckkeeper Mozzan, were streaming from the beak of their ship on to the decks of Cruel Water, showing no quarter and cutting down all they came across.

  Meas ran back up to the rump of Tide Child.

  “Ignore the traitors! Brekir will deal with them. Load the gallowbows with wingshot. Get the gullaime up here!”

  But it had already emerged from the underdeck and was in its place at the centre of the deck as if it had anticipated Meas’s order. Its wings were wrapped around its body, masked head darting from side to side as it took in the carnage.

  “Death, Joron Twiner!” it squawked. “It is all death!”

&
nbsp; Then Tide Child was behind Wavebreaker almost in a position where his bows could be brought to bear on the fragile rump of the Gaunt Islands four-ribber. Sunfish Rising was stricken and starting to come round so it was side on to Tide Child, its gallowbows still tangled in rigging.

  Meas smiled.

  “Gullaime,” she shouted, “slow our progress!”

  This a mighty roar, almost a scream, and for that second she had everyone’s attention. Joron’s ears hurt as the wind changed direction, blew back. Tide Child shuddered as he was slowed in the water.

  Lucky Meas Gilbryn, shipwife of Tide Child, smiled as her bows came to bear.

  “Those ships.” She pointed to either side with her drawn blade. “Kill them.”

  The great bows spoke, and above the low moan of their cords loosing could be heard the higher-pitched sound of the underdeck bows loosing. No longer was Meas concentrating on the rigging of the enemy. The first broadside was all wingshot. Tide Child’s shot swept the decks of Wavebreaker and Sunfish Rising, doing so much damage that with one volley the remaining corpselights on both ships flickered and went out.

  Arrows started to pepper the decks of Tide Child, loosed by archers in the spines of Wavebreaker. One hit Meas in the shoulder but was almost spent, and she pulled it from the fishskin of her coat and threw it aside without breaking stride. “Coughlin!” she shouted and pointed at Wavebreaker’s spines. “Deal with those archers!” He nodded and sent some men with bows up into the rigging.

  Behind them the fighting on Cruel Water was furious, and Wavebreaker, unable to launch at Tide Child, was loosing its fury on the two tangled ships, though under the constant bombardment of Tide Child’s bows the loosing was sporadic. But despite its tattered and smashed rigging, Wavebreaker was starting to pull away.