The Night of the Swarm

‘Thasha, Thasha! Wait!’

She screamed. A wordless agony. Pazel thought his heart would stop. He flew into the chamber and thrashed towards her cabin, only to collide with her in the doorway as she tried to exit again, still screaming.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m a mucking fool, that’s what’s wrong! The key, the silver key! I can’t get to the Nilstone without it. Do you have it?’

‘Me?’

‘When I was poisoned, did you-’

‘No! I’ve never touched it!’

Thasha tore at her hair. ‘Marila. Oh Pitfire. I gave it to Marila — didn’t I?’

Back to the topdeck, faster than they had descended. The bombardment had stopped. Were they reloading? Heating more tar? Whatever had caused the delay, the Chathrand was still moving, however erratically, towards the gap. But now the Death’s Head had caught the ripping wind along the Storm’s edge, and was coming up behind them with terrible haste.

‘What do you mean you don’t have it? Marila!’

Thasha’s cry was soon echoed by Neeps, who seized his wife by the shoulders.

‘You can’t have mucking lost it!’

‘Lost it! I never had it!’

‘On the table! I saw it on the table by the biscuit tin!’

‘That was days ago, fool!’

What could they do? All four charged back to the stateroom, with Neda and Bolutu and Felthrup in tow. Pazel heard the first cannon-shots as he entered the chambers: the Death’s Head was close enough to try conventional fire, now. The dogs howled, frightened less by the explosions than the onslaught of people (shouting, frustrated, furious) who set about tearing the stateroom apart. Pazel himself did not know where they had all come from: Mr Druffle was here, bug-eyed, reeking of rum; Myett and Ensyl were searching every inch of the floor.

‘It has to be in Thasha’s cabin!’

‘Or the master bedroom. We were all there, she was dying-’

‘Someone fetched towels, where did they come from?’

‘The washroom-’

‘Chadfallow’s medical bag-’

‘If you say biscuit tin one more time-’

Thasha was already holding the bottle of the Agaroth wine. ‘Just calm down and think,’ she shouted. ‘Who does remember holding it, that night?’

CRASH. Horror. A direct hit on the wardroom, just below. Glass, chairs, timbers atomised; Pazel felt the shot burst through the compartment wall and carry on into the lower gun deck, heard the screams of the men on the chaser guns. They had yet to fire a single volley.

Another hit: the rigging, this time. The Chathrand pitched; the room heaved skyward. Thasha stumbled, cradling the bottle to her chest.

‘Gods damn it, people! Where’s that key? You can’t all have never touched it!’

BOOM. A third hit, horribly close, maybe just above the master bedroom. From the latter, Bolutu and Neda cried out. Through the open doorway, Pazel saw part of the ceiling collapse.

‘Neda! Bolutu!’They staggered from the bedroom, choking but unhurt. Dust and smoke billowed from the doorway. It was the chart room that had been hit, and its ruined contents had just collapsed into the master bedchamber.

‘Thank the Gods the chart room was deserted,’ said Ensyl.

‘Oh no,’ said Neeps. ‘Oh no, no, no.’

‘What is it?’ said Pazel. ‘Did you remember something?’

‘Maybe I had the key.’

‘Maybe?’

Neeps looked at them in panic. ‘Yes. I definitely had it.’ He gestured at the smoking doorway. ‘I put it down on the bed, when Thasha was waking up. I didn’t think about it. I was so glad she was alive.’

Marila’s glare could have melted an anchor-plate. ‘Just be glad you are, because when this is done I’m going to kill you.’

She charged into the bedroom. The others followed on her heels.

On the topdeck all was mayhem. Eight sails had been destroyed, and the bow was digging deep after each wave: they were in danger of foundering. The Death’s Head had come within three miles, and dlomic soldiers were already mustering on her deck. Somehow the Chathrand was still weaving towards the gap in the Storm.

Three hits at three miles, thought Captain Fiffengurt. Tree of Heaven, they’ve got fine gunners aboard. But so have we. Drop us a mast, Mr Byrd.

They were firing back at last. The mad pitch of the Chathrand — bow dropping, stern lifting like a pump-handle — had forced the men at the stern chasers to Rin knew what sort of alterations to the gun carriages, and the strange angle would do nothing for their aim. Still, there was hope, and every shot fired was a taste of it. And the gap was drawing near.

If only their mage. . No, it wasn’t right to ask more of Ramachni. He stood abaft the wheelhouse, gazing fixedly at the Death’s Head, with the selk man attending him silently. Not a safe place for either of them, as Fiffengurt had already pointed out. He glanced at the Silver Stair. Where are you, Thasha? Now would be a dandy time.

‘Why haven’t they thrown more tar?’ demanded Lady Oggosk. She had hobbled out in the midst of the carnage and demanded to be helped onto the quarterdeck. She never did like to miss out on a massacre.

‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Maybe they threw all they carried. But there’s a monster gun on that forecastle, and it ain’t fired a shot. I hate the sight of it, I must say.’

‘What does it do?’

‘For the love of Rin, Duchess, do you think I’m keeping it a secret?’

Elkstem actually laughed. Fiffengurt wished he hadn’t; the man’s eyes were a bit unhinged. Then Kirishgan stepped into the wheelhouse. ‘The gun throws fire, Captain,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Liquid fire. I have seen such devices slaughter a whole ship’s company in minutes, from a distance of five or six hundred yards.’

Fiffengurt swallowed. ‘There’s ten or twelve bastards working it right now.’

The selk nodded. ‘They are preparing.’

But meanwhile the Death’s Head kept blasting away with her bow chasers. Fiffengurt watched a ball shatter the crests of two waves, and in the same instant felt the thump as it struck near the keel: heart-sickening, but no death-blow. The waves had slowed the ball, and the cloudcore oak shrugged it off.

What if it had missed those mucking waves?

He gazed at his ship, saw five hundred sailors at a glance. He was fairly certain he knew all their names. Don’t think of them burning. Don’t see it. Of course he saw it with terrible vividness, the scorched and writhing bodies of these boys who had never given up, whom nothing had broken, these lads who trusted him with their lives.

‘Your weapons cannot pierce their armour,’ said Kirishgan.

‘Our carronades might.’

But the big carronades were not stern-mounted, and could not be moved in time. Another error. Fiffengurt bit the knuckle of his thumb. What, then? Smoke shots, to foul their aim? Useless in such a wind. Dump the fresh water, gain some speed? No, it would not be enough.

Turn into the Storm?

He could still do it. One more tack, hard to starboard, straight into that scarlet light. Even if the Death’s Head followed they would be unable to attack. The light was blinding, though it inflicted no damage or pain. And based on what they’d met with on the southward journey, there was no reason to expect rough weather. Only a falling forward, a plunge through time.