Farlander

'But we don't have time for this!'

The old man sighed.

'Nico, there is no better time for you to learn than when I am in the field and going about my work. This' – and he tossed a hand about, while a gust of wind tried to snatch it from him – 'is my work.'

Nico had no response to that. With a frown he took up the same kneeling position as the old man, setting the meat cleaver to one side.

'Now, remember, focus on your breathing. Follow it as it moves through you.'

This is absurd, said Nico's mind. For a moment he tried to focus as instructed, but through the struts supporting the rail he could see the second enemy ship growing steadily nearer. It was no longer just a dot but a bead of white.

'Relax,' the old man said.

It was odd, but as Nico inhaled and his heart began to slow from its previous breakneck pace, the activity on the decks began to quieten too.

A hush descended upon the creaking ship. All ears listened to the drive tubes pushing them forwards.

There was nothing left for the men to do now but wait.

Nico closed his eyes and found that it helped. Within moments a vague sense of detachment came over him, so that he could tolerate the increasing pain in his legs and back. He observed himself inhaling cool air, then exhaling. A moment of emptiness; then the pain worsened and brought with it a return of his thoughts. Through his eyelashes he peered at the bird-of-war. It was closer still.

The ship's bell rang out the hour, sounding as though it was simply another routine day aboard ship. Save that there was none of the customary coarse laughter, and very little talk.

Ash exhaled a long breath. 'We must make ready now,' he said, unfolding himself from the deck.

Nico rose with him, wincing at the stiffness in his legs. He followed Ash to the rail.

The birds-of-war were close enough for Nico to make out the curving hulls hanging from beneath their envelopes. The approaching ships were twice as big as the Falcon, each hull lined with a double row of gun ports. The first was directly behind now, trailing them. The other was still ahead, angling on its intercept course, so that a great red palm could soon be seen stamped against the side of its envelope.

'Why aren't we turning away?' Nico exclaimed. He could see the imperial marines lining the rails of the approaching ship. 'We should turn west with the wind and make a run for it.'

'The captain is an astute man. Most likely there is another bird-o'-war lying to the west of us. They act in threes, in general. These two are trying to drive us towards the third.'

'So we're just going to let them run across us?'

'We lose speed every time we turn. The ship behind might gain range. Better to offer this one a parting shot, then race past as it makes its own turn.'

'It sounds like no plan at all.'

'It is the best plan available. It is what I would do, given the circumstances. The captain has speed on his side, for the Falcon is a fast ship. He will try to cut a path straight through.'

It was then that Trench finally broke the silence of the decks. 'Make ready,' he roared, as the leading bird-of- war flew across their course. Men squatted, seeking cover.

The imperial guns opened up, shattering the day with roiling eruptions of smoke along the ship's side.

'Down,' Ash growled, and the old man pulled him to the deck just as a nearby section of rail exploded into splinters. Something dark and spinning hurtled over their heads.

Nico gasped, deafened by the noise of the guns. Everything inside of him had turned to water. He covered his head with his arms. Shouts carried through the din, no obvious sense to them. There was a crash overhead, then a screech of wood and a muffled thump. He found himself buried by a heavy weight.

'Boy!'

Hands yanked at his clothing. He looked up to see Ash dragging him out from underneath the fallen rigging. Nico kicked his feet until he was clear of it.

The old man shouted something. 'My sword,' he was saying. 'Fetch my sword from the cabin. Quickly, now.'

Ash hauled him to his feet, and propelled Nico headlong towards the stairs. Nico slithered down them on his back. As he slipped at the bottom, he saw it was blood that slicked the hard deck. Right next to his right hand lay a dead sailor, his head mashed flat. Nico reeled away, but kept staring at the hideous sight. Matted hair and bone fragments smeared red amid tatters of skin. Grey matter that must be… Sweet Ers, that must be brains. Nico's legs took over. He ran at a crouch along the deck, jumping over men who were lying prone for cover, dodging others who were rushing forwards to the fallen rigging. He glanced over his shoulder. The bird-of-war was turning to come along their port side.

'You filthy bastards!' Trench hollered from the quarterdeck, his hands clamped to the rails as he glared at the ship sweeping around them.

The Falcon bucked beneath Nico's feet. Smoke poured over the gunwales as she fired her own guns, pitifully few it seemed now, sending chains and debris hurling into the enemy envelope and rigging. He coughed, wiping his eyes clear. Gunfire crackled through the confusion. A sailor lurched in front of him, a look of wonder on his deathly white face as he pitched over the rail and into space. Another, a skinny youth, wept uncontrollably where he stood.

The top of the stairs came into view. Something hot brushed past his head. More chips of wood flew from the rail. He made a dive for the steps, rolled on his shoulder, fell and tumbled all the way down into the common room below.

He gasped at a sudden pain in his side. Fumes of blackpowder rolled through the cramped space, making him choke. This room was where he had earlier sat and eaten his breakfast in a quiet atmosphere of pipe smoke, but now men manhandled steaming guns and stepped without pause over their fallen comrades, ignoring their calls for aid. Nico was frozen where he lay: for a time he thought of nothing at all, entirely empty inside himself. It was easy when he did not try. He watched as though through a narrow tunnel, his own self far removed from what he was seeing. He glimpsed the bird-of-war sailing past the gun ports. It fired again, blackening the space between the ships. The room darkened. Trails of debris cut through the foul air – cannon shots, punching through the hull and filling the room with bright spinning shards of wood that clattered against beams and guns before finding purchase in men's flesh.

It was no safer here than above decks. Nico rolled over, panting. On all fours he crawled towards his cabin, muttering nonsense.

Berl passed him on the way. The boy was helping a wounded man to stagger clear. He glanced down at Nico, on all fours, but didn't stop.

In the cabin Nico swung the door shut, took a moment with his back against it to regain his wits. He was shaking all over.

Sweet Ers, he thought as he gripped his stomach. His bowels were about to empty themselves.

He staggered to the privy hole at the back of the room and threw open its lid, revealing a chute stained with previous use and leading to a drop and the sea all that way below. He unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants, planted himself on the hole. Nico moaned with sudden relief.

He hadn't realized it would be like this. The rattle of gunfire against the hull made him want to crawl under the bunk and hide, as though he had become a young boy again. His father had told him once of how battle could turn a man's insides to liquid, or freeze him so badly he could not act at all. Somehow, at the time, Nico had assumed that his father was talking about the fainthearted, about men ill suited for war.

Perhaps he was, Nico thought now, and did not like the taste of it, a tangible bitterness in his mouth. Perhaps he really was a coward, and I too am a coward, and we are both cowards, father and son.

Nico spat, wiped his lips with the back of a trembling hand. Hastily, he cleaned himself with a graf leaf and fastened his pants.

Ash's sword hung above the old man's bunk. Nico would have forgotten why he had come here if he had not spotted it there. He took it with him as he stepped out into the fury of the common room, and then pounded up the stairs.

The second bird-of-war had passed them, and now was nosing across their tail. The first was still following. He joined Ash where he found him on the quarterdeck, keeping low as though the thin struts supporting the rail might