The Heretic Kings

armed, but they carried the bulk of Abeleyn’s men: over a hundred and fifty trained Hebrian soldiers in each. It would take a stubborn enemy to board them with any hope of success. Abeleyn knew that a galleass might have a crew of three hundred, but they were not of the same calibre as his men. And besides, he knew that he was the prize the enemy vessels were after. The corsairs were out king-hunting this bright morning in the Fimbrian Gulf, that was certain. He would have given a lot to know who had hired them.

Another shot ploughed into the sea just short of the carrack, and then another. Then one clipped the waves like a stone sent skimming by a boy at play and crashed into the side of the ship with a rending of timbers. Dietl went purple. He turned to Abeleyn.

“By your leave, sire, I believe it’s time we heated up the guns.”

Abeleyn grinned. “By all means, Captain.”

Dietl leaned over the quarterdeck rail. “Fire as they bear!” he shouted.

The culverins leaped back on their carriages with explosions of smoke and flame erupting from their muzzles. The main-deck almost disappeared in a tower of smoke, but the northerly sent it forward over the forecastle. The crews were already reloading, not waiting to see the fall of shot. Some of the more experienced gunners clambered over the side of the ship to gauge their aim. Abeleyn stared eastwards. The six galleasses appeared unhurt by the broadside. Even as he watched, little globes of smoke appeared on their bows as the chasers fired again. A moment later came the retorts, and the high whine of shot cutting the air overhead. The King saw holes appear in the maincourse and foretopsail. A few fragments of rigging fell to the deck.

“They have us bracketed,” Dietl said grimly. “There’s hot work approaching, sire.”

Abeleyn’s reply was cut off by the roar of the carrack’s second broadside. He glimpsed a storm of pulverized water about the enemy vessels and the flap of white canvas gone mad as the topmast of one galleass went by the board and crashed over her bow. The carrack’s crew cheered hoarsely, but did not pause in their reloading for an instant.

From the maintop the lookout yelled down: “Deck there! The northerly squadron is veering off. They’re going after the nefs!”

Abeleyn bounded to the taffrail. Sure enough, the farther squadron of vessels was turning into the wind. They already had their sails in. Under oar power alone, they changed course to west-nor’-west on an intercept course with the two nefs. At the same time, the remaining three galleasses seemed to put on a spurt of speed and their oars dipped and rose at a fantastic rate. All three of their bows were pointed at the carrack.

Another broadside. The galleasses were half a mile off the larboard bow and closing rapidly. Abeleyn saw an oarbank burst to pieces as some of the carrack’s shots went home. The injured galleass at once went before the wind. There were men struggling like ants on the lateen yards, trying to brace them round.

The whine of shot again, some of it going home. The fight seemed to intensify within minutes. The crew of the carrack laboured at the guns like acolytes serving the needs of brutal gods. Broadside after broadside stabbed out from the hull of the great ship until it seemed that the noise and flame and sour smoke were intrinsic to some alien atmosphere, an unholy storm which they had blundered blindly into. The deck shook and canted below Abeleyn’s feet as the guns leapt inboard and then were loaded and run out again. The regular broadsides disintegrated as the crews found their own rhythms, and the battle became one unending tempest of light and tumult as the vessels of the corsairs closed in to arquebus range and, closer still, to pistol range.

But then a series of enemy rounds struck home in quick succession. There were crashes and screams from the waist of the carrack and in the smoking chaos Abeleyn saw the monster shape of one of the culverins up-ended and hurled away from the ship’s side. It tumbled across the deck and the entire ship shuddered. There was a shriek of overburdened wood, and then a portion of the deck gave way and the metal beast plunged out of sight, dragging several screaming men with it. The deck was a shattered wreck that glistened with blood and was littered with fragments of wood and hemp. But still the gun crews hauled their charges into position and stabbed the glowing match into the touch-holes. A continuous thunder, ear-aching, a hellish flickering light. Some fool had discharged his culverin without hauling it tight up to the bulwark, and the detonation of the gun had set the shrouds on fire. Teams of fire-fighters were instantly at work hauling up wooden tubs of seawater to douse the flames.

The ship’s carpenter staggered to the quarterdeck.

“How does she swim, Burian?” Dietl asked out of a powder-grimed face.

“We’ve plugged two holes below the waterline and we’ve secured that rogue gun, but we’ve four feet in the well and it’s gaining on us. There must be a leak in the hold that I can’t get at. I need men, Captain, to shift the cargo and come at it, otherwise she’ll go down in half a watch.”

Dietl nodded. “You shall have them. Take half the crews from the poop guns—but work fast, Burian; we’ll need those men back on deck soon enough. I’m thinking they’re closing to try and board.”

“You’re sure they won’t try ramming?” Abeleyn asked him, surprised.

Another broadside. They had to howl in one another’s ears to be heard.

“No, sire. If you’re the prize they’re after, they’ll try and take you alive, and a rammed ship can go to the bottom in seconds. And besides, they’re a mite too close to get up the speed for ramming. They’ll board, all right. They have the men for it. There’s damn near a thousand of the bastards in those three galleasses; we can muster maybe a tenth of that. They’ll board, by God.”

“Then I must have my men from your gun crews, Captain.”

“Sire, I—”

“Now, Captain. There’s no time to lose.”

Abeleyn went round the guns in person collecting the soldiers who had taken ship with him. The men dropped their gun tools, picked up their arquebuses and began priming them, ready to repel boarders. Abeleyn glimpsed the enemy vessels over the ship’s side, incredibly close now, their decks black with men, the sails taken in and the chase-guns roaring. Some of the sailors had left their culverins and were also reaching for arquebuses and cutlasses and boarding-pikes. From the tops a heavy fire came from the falconets and swivels, knocking figures off the bows of the galleasses.

A crash from aft which knocked Abeleyn off his feet. One of the galleasses had grappled alongside and corsairs were climbing up the side of the carrack from the lower enemy vessel, scores of them clinging to the wales and waving cutlasses, shrieking as they came. Abeleyn got up and ran to a deserted culverin.

“Here!” he yelled. “To me! Give me a hand here!”

A dozen men ran to help him, some of them canvas-clad mariners, others in the gambesons of his own soldiers.

“Heave her up, depress the muzzle! Quick there! Don’t bother worming her out—load her.”

A crowd of faces at the gunport, one broken open by the thrust of a soldier’s halberd. A press of men wriggling over the ship’s side to be met by a hedge of flailing blades. The carrack’s crew defended her as though they were the garrison of a castle standing siege. There was another shuddering crash as a second galleass grappled with the tall ship. Men on the enemy vessel’s yards cast lines and grappling irons, entangling the rigging of the struggling vessels, binding them together, whilst in the carrack’s top the falconets fired hails of smallshot and fought to cut the connecting lines.

“Lift her—lift her, you bastards!” Abeleyn shouted, and the men with him lifted the rear of the culverin’s barrel whilst he wedged it clear of its carriage with bits of wood and discarded cutlasses.

A wave of enemy boarders overwhelmed the carrack’s defenders in the waist. The men around Abeleyn found themselves in a vicious melee with scarcely room to swing their swords. When men went down they were trampled and stabbed on the deck. A few arquebus shots were fired but most of the fighting was with steel alone. Abeleyn ignored it. He grasped the slow-match that lay smouldering on the deck, was knocked to his knees in the slaughterous scrum, stabbed his rapier into a howling face and had the weapon wrenched out of his hand as the man fell backwards. Then he thumped the slow-match into the culverin’s touch-hole.

A flash, and a frenzied roar as it went off, flying back off its precarious perch. It fell over, crushing half a dozen of the enemy boarders. Abeleyn’s own men surged forward, cheering hoarsely. A hellish cacophony of shouts and screams came from over the ship’s side. Abeleyn struggled to the carrack’s larboard rail and looked down.

The galleass had been directly below and the heavy shot had struck home. The deck was closer to the water already, and men were diving off it into the foam-ripped sea. The vessel was finished; the cannonball must have