CHAPTER 47

Hilemore

The Viable Opportunity came free of the reef with only a few additional scrapes to her hull, aided by a stiff easterly wind that whipped up waves of sufficient height to lift the keel from the coral. Hilemore ordered the paddles to full ahead and they rode the swell into open water, Zenida immediately steering a southern course. Like most of the crew she remained largely silent, her eyes constantly roving the waves for any sign of the drakes’ return. It had been two full days since they witnessed the sinking of the Corvantine ship and the great Blue migration into northern waters. The crew had been left in a decidedly jittery state ever since and Hilemore found he couldn’t blame them, although he had been quick to quash any suggestion they prolong their stay on the reef.

“They’re cold-water beasts,” Zenida said in Varestian, more to herself than him he suspected. “Live by hunting whales and walrus amidst the ice. Never seen in northern climes. Never.”

“Well now they are,” was all he could think to say. He found himself cursing Mr. Tottleborn for having such fatally bad luck. A trance communication with the Sea Board, or anyone else for that matter, would be very welcome just now. Before the migration the war had dominated his thoughts, but now a suspicion had begun to build that it might not be the most important event to transpire in this region after all. There were so many of them, he recalled, picturing the mass of snake-like forms cutting through the waves.

He had briefly considered following in their wake, debating whether duty required he make some effort to discover their ultimate destination. However, his ingrained adherence to the service did not include suicidal urges, and he had serious doubts the men would have stood for it in any case. Habitually superstitious, many amongst the crew had taken on a decidedly haunted aspect, given to muttering archaic warding words or singing ominous shanties as they went about their duties; “Beneath the Spectral Sea” being a particular favourite.

So, lacking any other course, he had opted to stick with his original plan. The Viable would make for Hadlock where they would reprovision and, with any luck, the Ironship concession would have a Blood-blessed who could explain just what in the Travail was going on.

—

Another storm blew up two days later, forcing a diversion to the south-west which would add well over a week to their sailing time to Hadlock. Hilemore maintained a close observance of routine throughout the voyage, keeping up the gun drills and making sure the men didn’t slacken in the myriad tasks that kept a ship from transforming into an unseemly hulk. The mood lightened a little as the days passed and the sea remained free of Blues, the crew regaining a modicum of sprightliness as it became apparent that their doom was not in fact imminent. That all changed when they found the life-boat.

The crow’s nest spied it five days after they had freed the Viable from the reef. They had resumed course for Hadlock by now, keeping due west through a sea thankfully becalmed after the storm. In response to the call from the tube Hilemore trained his glass on the distant speck below the horizon. A boat, covered over with tarp, but no sail. Also, no sign of any crew.

“Dead slow,” he ordered Talmant before turning to Steelfine. “See to the recovery of that boat, if you would, Number One.”

“Aye, sir.”

Unwilling to take any chances, Hilemore had the full complement of riflemen arrayed along the rail and all guns loaded and manned. He signalled all stop as the boat came within twenty yards of the stern and Zenida altered the angle of the Viable’s bows to bring the craft alongside. Steelfine, stripped to the waist and shoeless, fastened a line on the boat by the simple expedient of diving over the side and swimming to it. Upon tying the rope to the boat’s rudder Steelfine’s face bunched in an expression of profound disgust. Hilemore discovered the reason a second later as the stench wafted up over the rail. A murmur of unease ran through the crew for it was a smell they all knew well by now.

Steelfine climbed onto the boat and took hold of the tarp before glancing up at Hilemore with a questioning glance. He replied with a nod and the Islander pulled the tarp aside, unleashing yet more stench and the sight of six bodies. They were all burnt to some degree, one so badly half his face was a mask of charcoal. They had been dead for several days and the rictus had contorted their faces into smiles.

“Eastern Conglomerate sailors, Captain,” Steelfine called to him, holding up an empty sack with stencilled lettering. “The ECT Endeavour, looks like.”

“I know her, sir,” one of the men piped up. “Works the route twixt Hadlock and Carvenport.”

“Not any more she don’t,” another man said in a grim mutter. “State they’re in, couldn’t have lasted more’n a day once they took to the boat.”

“Alright!” Hilemore barked, snapping them all to attention. “Riflemen dismissed. Return to your allotted duties.” He moved to the rail and called down to Steelfine. “See them on their way, Number One. The King of the Deep will expect his due.”

—

The approach to Hadlock was guarded by a lighthouse of ingenious construction, the base curved so as to deflect the steep seas which were common in this region. It transpired that they were fortunate to come upon it in daylight, as Hilemore doubted it would ever shine out a warning again. The iron-and-glass housing which should have sat atop the great column was gone, the stonework beneath blackened and scorched over much of its surface. Whatever had befallen the light-keepers was probably best left to the imagination. The channel beyond the lighthouse proved even more foreboding, the crow’s nest reporting no less than four wrecked vessels. The tide was high so all they could see of them were the masts, sticking out of the waves like leafless trees after a flood.

“Doesn’t bode well for Hadlock,” Zenida commented.

Hilemore ordered the engines slowed as they neared the port, using his glass to scan the buildings and finding Zenida’s prediction all too accurate. There didn’t appear to be a single building still standing, the streets transformed into irregular lines of blackened brick with not a living soul in sight. Lowering the angle of the glass he found the harbour choked with sunk vessels, and also a not-inconsiderable number of bloated corpses littering the wreckage.

“All stop,” he ordered, annoyed at the grating choke of his voice. He took a moment to clear his throat before continuing, thankful that those present gave no sign of having registered his moment of frailty. “Number One, assemble a squad of riflemen and prepare a launch. We’re going ashore. Mr. Talmant, you have the ship.”

—

“Is this altogether wise?” Zenida murmured at his shoulder as the launch made its way into the harbour, those men not at the oars keeping watch on the ruins with rifles at the ready.

“We need supplies,” Hilemore muttered in response. “Food, ammunition and product if there’s any to be had.”

“There’s only death to be had here.” She took a firmer grip on her Corvantine revolver, keen eyes scanning the surrounding wreckage.

They were obliged to row their way through several bodies before reaching the quay, the cadavers becoming so densely packed at one point that Steelfine was obliged to push them aside with an oar, unleashing a miasma of foul gasses as some burst under the prodding. Several men had heaved their breakfasts over the side by the time they tied up to the wharf. Hilemore left two men with the launch and led the others into what remained of Hadlock. He had called here a few times in the course of his career and grown to appreciate the mostly trouble-free port, especially for the hearty if unrefined quality of the local cuisine. His men, however, had clearly pursued other interests.

“That was Old Brass Belle’s whore-house,” said one, voice thick with emotion as he pointed his rifle at a pile of bricks. “Generous sort, she was. Let y’have a handy if you were a scrip short for a tumble.”

“Captain,” Steelfine said in a soft voice. Hilemore saw that he had sunk into a crouch, rifle pointing up at the sky. Following the Islander’s gaze Hilemore saw a dark, winged shape glide through the clouds barely a hundred feet up. He had never seen one in the flesh before, but knew without any doubt that he now looked upon a Black drake.

“Rifles up!” he barked, and every weapon was immediately trained on the dark silhouette above.

“That’s what did this!” one of the men hissed, his voice betraying the onset of panic. “We should kill the fucker and get gone from here.”

“Shut your yap,” Steelfine warned in a low growl, rifle tracking the drake across the sky. It banked and wheeled about, long neck coiling and Hilemore knew it had seen them.

“Can you get it from here?” he asked Steelfine.

“I’ll hit it sure enough,” the Islander replied. “Can’t say if I’ll kill it.”

“You won’t,” said a new voice.

Hilemore whirled, levelling his revolver at a figure standing only a few yards away; a young man in a green-leather duster. The young man stared at him for a moment, head angled slightly, Hilemore seeing him to be of South Mandinorian heritage and, if his accent was anything to go by, Carvenport birth. The shirt beneath his duster was ripped and Hilemore could see a stained bandage beneath it. He appeared to be weaponless but for a knife on his belt. Something that couldn’t be said for the people who quickly appeared at his side. Four men and a young woman, all bearing fire-arms.

“You won’t kill him,” the young man said, coming closer. “Not with that popgun. And he’ll be sure to take exception to the attempt.”

The young man stopped as Hilemore drew back the hammer on his revolver. He was struck by the expression on the young man’s face, both weary and sad, but with a faintly amused twist to his lips.

“Who are you?” Hilemore demanded.

“Claydon Torcreek, Captain,” the young man replied, raising his hands. He laughed a little, eyes roving over Hilemore’s face in obvious recognition. “And you really don’t want to shoot me. Not if we’re going to save the world.”