The Night of the Swarm

‘Another little sip,’ said Pazel, accusing.

‘The dregs will still be there, damn it all! I’ll drink them when I have to. Don’t worry about that.’

Neeps shook his head, grinning, furious. ‘I love you, nutter girl. But it takes gall to say don’t worry, straight to Pazel’s face.’

Thasha wondered if the tarboys could possibly make things harder. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I’m not trying to-’

‘No,’ said Pazel. ‘I won’t forgive you, if you get sick again.’

He closed the safe and walked out of the cabin. Neeps looked at her a moment, then followed. Thasha sat on her old bed, clutching the ancient bottle, feeling the cold bite her fingers. Dusk was here; the poison had struck at sunrise. She had some twelve hours left.

‘SAIL! ABAFT THE PORTSIDE BEAM! SAIL, SAIL!’

It was the alarm they’d all waited for, and dreaded. When it came Pazel was aloft himself, tightening bolts along the main topsail yard in the weird red glow. He had no telescope, and could see no ship. Above him, the lookout howled: ‘A five-master, she is! Five masts and thirteen miles!’

Those last words nearly made Pazel fall from the yard. Just thirteen miles? Was he sleeping? Rose would skin that man alive!

He raced down the mast. Below, men were pouring onto the deck, and Fegin was striking the ship’s bell as though trying to break it. When Fiffengurt emerged from Rose’s cabin, however, he did not run, but only climbed with swift decorum to the mizzen yard. He was a new captain, performing the role of the unrul ed leader, and everyone knew it and expected no less.

Pazel was running aft when Kirishgan appeared out of the crowd. ‘It is the Death’s Head,’ he said softly. ‘Macadra has found us at last.’

‘But thirteen miles? How did the lookouts miss her?’

Kirishgan gestured at the Red Storm. ‘Our back is to the bonfire, Pazel. She came out of the dark. We were dazzled, though we did not know it.’

Pazel looked at him, stunned. It was such a simple thing, but who aboard had ever sailed alongside a bonfire? ‘And now, credek, they have the wind advantage too — it’s turned in our faces again. Is that Macadra’s doing?’

‘Very likely,’ said Kirishgan. ‘She did as much when she first tried to take the Promise.’

‘But this time she’s flanking us. She’ll close that gap in no time.’

‘Unless we find our gap first,’ said Kirishgan.

They hurried to the quarterdeck, through the multitude of rushing, frightened sailors. Fiffengurt’s orders had gone out: skysails, studding sails, a third jib strung from the spankermast. Pazel knew it could not add much to their speed. Nothing could, save a change of wind or an about-face, or some massive jettison of supplies.

Mr Coote was bent over the tonnage hatch. ‘Gunnery! Fire brigades! Come on, lads! Move like you mean to save this ship!’ Coote looked too old to bear the duties of a bosun. And we’ve no quartermaster, no no second mate. Fiffengurt’s running this ship with half a team.

Pazel’s friends began to congregate around the Silver Stair. Marila was holding Felthrup; Neeps was holding Marila. Ramachni and asha stood a little apart, the mage perched atop a 48-pounder cannon that had just been run out through a gunnery door in the portside rail. The others were handing around Isiq’s fine telescope, examining the Death’s Head and quietly cursing.

Because his mind-fit had struck before the first attack, Pazel had never glimpsed Macadra’s vessel. What he saw when his turn came chilled his blood. e Death’s Head truly was a second Chathrand, but a Chathrand in terrifying disguise. From the water line to her fighting-tops she was armoured: crude, thick skins of cast iron enveloping the hull, which showed through only here and there. Even her figurehead (a great black bird) was made of metal. Huge and mysterious devices cluttered her deck, some throwing off long cattails of orange sparks that scattered on the wind.

‘Are those. . weapons?’

‘They are,’ said Hercol. ‘We saw them in action from the deck of Nolcindar’s vessel. We had good luck then: I doubt her weapons were precise enough to wound the little Promise without dropping her to the sea floor, along with the prize. Today Macadra’s reckoning may be different.’

‘But take heart,’ said Felthrup. ‘However vile, however truly sanguinary those weapons prove, they are nothing compared to the Behemoth. That was like being attacked by a whole city. And yet we survived.’

‘The Behemoth was slow, Felthrup,’ said Marila.

‘And this time we are,’ said Hercol. ‘Fiffengurt will blame himself for our predicament, but what else could he have done? We had nowhere to hide, except in the bay of Stath Balfyr. We could not sail north, and didn’t dare head south again.’

‘So all Macadra had to do was guess whether we’d turn east or west?’ said Marila.

‘Right, and that was simple,’ said Neeps. ‘She can tell that the Storm’s paler to the west, and she must know we mean to pass through. This is an ugly business, mates.’

Pazel crossed the deck to the 48-pounder cannon, where Thasha stood with Ramachni. The mage was still perched atop the gun, looking southwards, and holding exceptionally still. Thasha put a finger to her lips. Ramachni was up to something. They waited, leaning slightly together, as gun crews stormed around them and topmen scrambled in the rigging like nimble cats and battle-netting was stretched overhead.

At last Ramachni turned from his vigil. He looked at them sombrely. ‘We must prepare,’ he said.

‘For a firefight?’ said Pazel. ‘But that’s exactly what we’re doing.’

‘Not just for a firefight. We must prepare for slaughter. Macadra has no plans to capture us. If she offers clemency, it will be a ruse to secure our surrender. She wants us dead.’ He paused. ‘She also thinks the Chathrand will burn much longer than the Promise.’

‘You read her mind?’

‘The surface, Pazel. The outer thoughts and feelings, as Arunis did with many of you before his death. It could be a facade, or some other subtle ploy, but I doubt that. She is not in a subtle mood.’

‘Why does she care how long the Chathrand will burn?’ asked Thasha.

‘Because she is prepared to torch us entirely and then pluck the Nilstone from the flames.’

Pazel had a sense that the world was about to implode. As though they were all trapped in a crate and hearing the approach of some gigantic wheel. Thasha gave him a searching look. He dropped his eyes in shame.

‘Don’t say it. I was wrong. I’m glad you still have some wine.’

‘Can you stop her, Ramachni?’ Thasha asked.

‘Stop her? I would stand some chance, if it came to a duel. But that hardly matters now. I cannot protect us from the Death’s Head, and its terrible weapons. Still, we have gained one advantage: this close to the Storm, Macadra will not likely be able to harness the winds, for the Storm itself is one great weather-spell, and mightier than any she could cast.’

A sudden cry from above made Pazel flinch with apprehension. This time, however, the news was better than he or anyone had dared to hope. The gap had been sighted, some twenty miles dead ahead.

The men cheered, though the terror of the enemy was great in them. Pazel took Thasha’s hand and drew it quickly to his lips. He caught Neeps’ eye from across the deck, and saw a new light there, an almost unbearable hope.

Fiffengurt descended from the mast and made straight for the quarter deck, shouting as he went: ‘To the braces with your teams, gentle men! We shall come about, full to starboard! Mr Elkstem, lean on that wheel!’

There was a new explosion of activity; five hundred men attacked the ropes. Thasha looked at Pazel, bewildered. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Tacking closer to the Storm, but damned if I know why.’

‘We’ll go faster downwind.’

‘Of course, but how far? We have to break east or west eventually.’

Fiffengurt climbed the ladder and helped Elkstem at the wheel. For many hours they had been obliged to