The Waking Fire Read online

  “How is the great captain?” the man asked, laying his elbow on the bar and turning to face Clay. As he moved his coat parted to reveal a necklace, a leather string adorned with what appeared to be greenish-yellow pegs, all sharpened to a point. He also wore a short-barrelled revolver at his right hip and a long-bladed knife at the other.

  “You know my uncle?” Clay asked him, edging back from the bar a little, so as to unhinder the holstered Stinger.

  “Met him once,” the man said. “Though I dare say he wouldn’t remember. Can’t expect a great mucky-muck Contractor like him to spare a glance or a word for scum like me.”

  “Headhunter, huh?” Clay’s eyes flicked around, seeking the man’s companions. Apart from his accoutrements everything about this man’s bearing was familiar, and his type never picked a fight without allies.

  “That’s right.” The man rattled his necklace. “Gotta hand in the heads or y’don’t get the bounty. Teeth’s the only way to keep a true score.” He gave a shallow bow. “Tadeus Ellforth, at your service. Although,” he paused to chuckle, “in all truth, young fella, tonight I’m engaged to be very much the opposite.”

  Clay needed no further encouragement and began to reach for the Stinger. Put this one down and hop over the bar before his friends start shooting . . . His arm didn’t move. He knew what was happening in a single, dreadful instant. He had never been on the receiving end before but had dished this treatment out enough times to know it for what it was: muscles bulging with the strain as he fought the invisible grip, sweat breaking out all over his skin as every part of him throbbed under the pressure. Black. He met Ellforth’s eyes as the headhunter chuckled again. Bastard’s a Blood-blessed.

  “Had me a right interesting Blue-trance recently,” Ellforth went on, stepping closer, his tone and posture convivial, like they were two old friends sharing a story. “With a fella I know in Morsvale. Offered me fifty thousand in exchange notes to come here and wait for you to show up.” The headhunter gave an apologetic grimace. “Guessing you know what he wants me to do next, and we’ll get to that. But, it occurs to me there’s additional value to be had here. I mean to say, fifty thousand just for your sorry hide. Raises some pressing questions in a man’s mind.”

  Ellforth leaned closer still and Clay felt his gorge rise at the stench of the man’s breath, rich in smoke and recently chewed meat, worse even than the jungle. “So, how’s about you tell me what your famous uncle is looking for, and maybe I’ll make it quick. Snap your neck and you’re gone before you know what’s happening. Or, I could crush your liver and you’d linger for days, screaming all the while whilst your skin turns yellow and you shit your insides out.”

  Clay felt a single bead of sweat trace down his face as the headhunter stared into his eyes. He knew now the truth of Skaggerhill’s words, Everything out here, including the people, is worse than anything you ever seen before. Whatever lived behind Ellforth’s gaze was beyond madness or cruelty, an implacable mis-shapen thing of pure will and greed. It couldn’t be bargained with, bought or persuaded. He was going to die here in this shitty bar in this shitty town. The only thing that remained was to decide the manner of his passing.

  “So?” Ellforth asked in a gentle whisper. “What y’got to tell me, Mr. Torcreek the younger?”

  Clay felt the Black’s grip loosen a little, just enough to free his mouth. “Came looking for your mother,” he told Ellforth in a spittle-rich rasp, “didn’t fuck her enough last time.”

  Ellforth blinked and moved back. He stared at Clay for a long while, long enough to stir the faint hope that the Black might burn out. But something told him Ellforth had the skill to string this out for a few minutes more, certainly long enough to make good on his threat. “Well now,” he said, a grin forming on his lips. “Ain’t you just the perfect nephew. Think he’ll weep over your grave, boy?”

  Clay started to reply with another insult but his mouth clamped shut, teeth snapping together so fast he nearly bit off the tip of his tongue. Ellforth took a slow deliberate step backwards and began to laugh, lips drawn back over the yellowed spikes of his teeth as he gave voice to rich and genuine hilarity.

  He was still laughing when his head exploded.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hilemore

  “Signal from the crow’s nest, sir.” Ensign Talmant straightened from the speaking-tube to address the captain. “Mast sighted due west. Five points off the port bow.”

  “Bang on time,” Trumane observed with an anticipatory smile that forced Hilemore to the relieved conclusion that cowardice, like navigational incompetence, was not amongst his captain’s vices. “Considerate of these scum to be so punctual. Helm, five points to port. Number One, signal the engine room to engage the main power plant. Two flasks, if you please, and tell Mr. Bozware to stand by to add another at my order.”

  “Aye, sir!” Lemhill relayed the order via the communicator before adding further instruction via the speaking-tube. Within a minute the paddles had begun to churn with blurring rapidity, doubling the Viable Opportunity’s speed to eighteen knots. They were in deeper waters now, well clear of shore and the sea mostly becalmed under a light breeze, meaning the cruiser’s unique abilities could be exploited to the full, much to the captain’s evident delight.

  “I find it’s a little like flying, don’t you, Lieutenant?” He raised an eyebrow at Hilemore, gesturing at the onrushing sea beyond the bridge window.

  Hilemore had to admit there was a certain intoxication to the experience of traversing the ocean faster than a man could run. “An invigorating sensation, sir,” he agreed.

  “Indeed.” The captain turned back, clasping his hands behind his back, fists clenching and unclenching. From the absence of a tremble Hilemore judged the gesture as more a signal of eagerness than fear. “But I suspect we are about to experience something even more stirring.”

  “Crow’s nest has her fully in sight now, sir,” Talmant reported. “A one-stack side wheeler of narrow beam, Corvantine lines. Grey-and-black paint scheme.” The boy paused, ear glued to the tube as he listened further. “She’s flying Briteshore Minerals colours.”

  “Just as Intelligence promised,” Trumane observed with a satisfied chuckle. “Number One, sound battle stations, if you please. Signal Guns to load fragmentation shell and aim for her paddles and upper workings. All guns to fire as she bears until ordered to cease.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Hilemore could see the gun-crews running to their pieces as Lemhill pulled three long blasts from the steam-whistle’s lanyard, the signal for imminent action. The First Officer then moved to the speaking-tube at the rear of the bridge to relay orders to Lieutenant Bilforth, the gunnery officer stationed on the lower deck. Although he carried a bullhorn, Bilforth, like most experienced gunnery officers, preferred to relay messages in person. Hilemore could see his blocky form running from one gun to another on the fore-deck, crouching to deliver orders to the senior hand in charge of each piece.

  The Viable was equipped with four twenty-four-pounders on each side, arranged in pairs fore and aft of the paddles, with another half-dozen twelve-pounders on the upper decks. They were all relatively modern weapons, smooth-bore muzzle loaders with long barrels and reinforced breeches that gave them a bottle-like appearance. A well-drilled crew could fire perhaps one round every hundred seconds to a range of three miles, though this would inevitably reduce in battle due to fouling of the barrels. However, the Viable’s most impressive piece of ordnance was the brand-new rifled pivot-gun on the fore-deck. Officially it was known as a Falcontile Mark One, in honour of its inventor, but Protectorate sailors had been quick to dub it the Irondrake for the impressive gout of flame its muzzle produced with every shot. It was slower to load than its smaller forebears, taking two full minutes to heave the sixty-pound shells into the barrel, but it outranged any smooth-bore gun by at least a mile and, at sufficiently close range, could punch a ho
le clean through six-inch armour-plate. Added to this was the novel pivot mechanism on which it sat, enabling the crew to swiftly bring the Irondrake to bear on any target within a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree radius of the fore-deck.

  “Smoke on the horizon, sir,” Talmant reported, pointing dead ahead.

  “I see it,” Trumane replied in a murmur, training his glass on the plume of grey-black smoke. “I believe our prey has made note of our approach.”

  Hilemore raised his own glass for a better view, frowning at the odd pattern described by the smoke. It should have been streaming either north or south according to the wind or the direction of the vessel that produced it. Instead it appeared to be rising and falling in a chaotic, back-and-forth motion. Also, the plume was thicker than it should be, even for a vessel moving at top speed. “She’s putting up a screen,” he said. “Seems they intend to make a chase of it.”

  “Quite so,” Trumane agreed. “Helm, another five points to port if you please.”

  “No sure way to tell which way she’ll turn, sir,” Lemhill cautioned. “Could strike out to the north.”

  “She’ll be low on coal and product,” Trumane replied without lowering his glass. “So it’s of little matter which course she chooses. If she makes for open water we’ll catch her in a day rather than an hour.”

  Hilemore watched the smoke-screen grow thicker as they approached. It soon broadened to a good three hundred yards in length, swirling this way and that as the Windqueen moved about inside it, her course rendered unknowable and the gunners deprived of a target.

  “A clever opponent,” Trumane observed, a small smile on his lips as he lowered his glass. “I do appreciate an interesting engagement. Number One, slow to one-third. Helm, take us directly towards the smoke.”

  A hush descended as the Viable reduced speed, the roar of the paddles diminished to a regular swishing thrum as the smoke roiled ever thicker. They had drawn to within a half-mile of it when two quick flashes lit the swirling fog like lightning in a heavy storm.

  “Incoming fire!” Hilemore barked, his words soon drowned out by the whining groan of approaching shot. The first fell wide by several yards, raising a towering spout off the starboard paddle that gave the gun-crews a liberal dousing. The second, however, slammed into the Viable’s starboard bow just above the anchor mounting. The iron-clad hull rang like a bell, loud enough to make Hilemore wince as the ship shook from bow to stern. Despite the power of the impact, the shot had no chance of penetrating the hull. However, it had more than enough force to shatter the thinner armour that covered the rail to the right of the Irondrake, scattering it across the fore-deck in a cloud of steel splinters. Hilemore saw all but one of the Irondrake’s gun-crew fall, limbs and torsos shredded by the deadly cloud, Mr. Bilforth amongst them.

  “Seer-dammit all.” Trumane sighed before raising his voice to address Lemhill. “Number One, gather men from the port guns and take charge of the Falcontile.”

  “Aye, sir!” The First Officer saluted and ran for the gangway.

  “Maintain course,” the captain told the now-ashen-faced helmsman staring fixedly at a fresh spider-web crack in the glass directly in front of his station. He was scarcely older than Talmant and evidently shared his lack of experience. Nevertheless he duly straightened up and took a firmer hold on the wheel, though Hilemore saw the sweat he left on the handles. Talmant seemed only marginally less perturbed, face bleached and eyes wide, though he did manage to offer Hilemore a weak smile in response to his glance, mouthing something as he did so. “No safe place.”

  “Sir!” Hilemore turned at the helmsman’s shout, seeing a sleek shape emerging from the smoke.

  “Impudent swine,” Trumane observed, though his tone remained cheerful. “I do believe she intends to ram us.”

  The Windqueen came on at full speed, her blood-burner status confirmed by the white foam billowing beneath her churning paddles. Hilemore could see figures moving about on her fore-deck and made out the bulky shapes of two cannon positioned on either side of the prow. “Bow chasers, sir,” he reported to Trumane. “Looks like Corvantine thirty-two-pounders.”

  “Noted, Mr. Hilemore,” the captain said. “Ensign Talmant, signal the engine room to increase to full ahead. Helm hard-a-port. Lieutenant, please remind the starboard crews of their orders.”

  Hilemore made for the hatchway, stumbling as the helmsman spun the wheel and the Viable listed. He hauled himself outside as two more shots came from the Windqueen, their gunners’ aim spoilt by the captain’s manoeuvre and the two balls passing harmlessly over the aft deck, albeit low enough to make the crews duck. Cupping his hands around his mouth Hilemore yelled the order at the gun-crews below. “Stand to, lads! Let’s give her a broadside!”

  He fancied there may have been a ragged cheer in response, though it was difficult to tell above the resurgent roar of the paddles. The Viable’s shift to port placed her at a right angle to the on-coming pirate, whilst her speed easily rendered any ramming attempt a fruitless enterprise. The Windqueen’s narrow profile would have made aiming a difficult task if she had been at a decent range, but her abortive attack had put her at less than three hundred yards distance; any Protectorate gunner contriving to miss at that range would deserve a flogging. The two guns fore of the Viable’s starboard paddle fired in unison, one shell impacting on the pirate’s hull to little obvious effect. Luckily the other was aimed with more care and exploded just behind her bows in a cloud of flame and shattered decking, Hilemore discerning the mangled shapes of several crewmen amidst the descending wreckage. He gave a grunt of satisfaction at the sudden absence of the pirate’s bow chasers through the fading smoke.

  The Viable’s two aft guns fired one after the other, one shell wrecking a life-boat and the other shredding the casement of the Windqueen’s starboard paddle. Hilemore quickly trained his glass to gauge the damage. He could see that one of the blades had been split in two and several others badly damaged. However, the wheel was still turning, though at a slower rate, and the Windqueen had begun to sheer to port due to the paddle’s reduced grip on the water.

  “Good work, lads!” he called to the gun-crews below. “Keep at it!”

  He returned to the bridge and saluted Trumane before making his report. “She’s badly winged, sir. Damage to the starboard paddle, though she’s still able to make headway.”

  “For a short time only,” Trumane replied, turning to the helm. “Hard-a-starboard. Mr. Talmant, slow to one-third.”

  “Slow to one-third. Aye, sir.”

  “Now then.” The captain’s gaze shifted from the Windqueen, now pouring on what speed she could with a thicker plume of black smoke streaming from her stack, to the Irondrake, fully loaded and ready under Lemhill’s supervision. “Let us see what our new toy can do.”

  Mr. Lemhill was clearly no stranger to the arts of gunnery or the workings of the novel weapon he now commanded. His ad hoc gun-crew had loaded the piece with powder and shell and now knelt to the rear of the gun, hands clapped over their ears as the First Officer peered down her sights, hand-working the wheel that altered the angle of the pivot. After a few seconds, as the smoke from the Windqueen’s stack began to drift over the fore-deck, he pulled the gun’s firing lever. The blast of noise and flame that issued from the Irondrake banished the gathering smoke in an instant, the gun recoiling on its spring mounting like a rearing horse. Hilemore turned his gaze to the Windqueen in expectation and, after a second long interval, was rewarded with the sight of her upper works disintegrating in a ball of fire: the bridge, stack and crew quarters all blasted apart in one fiery instant.

  “Seer’s balls,” the helmsman breathed, eyes wide as he took in the sight of the near-ruined vessel heaving to port as her starboard paddle finally stalled and she began a slow circle. Hilemore’s glass picked out the sight of burning men on the deck, some crawling, others casting themselves over the side in desperation.<
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  The captain ordered an increase to two-thirds speed and the Viable’s starboard guns soon found the range for the pirate’s port paddle. Two volleys proved sufficient to put it out of action and see the Windqueen adrift and burning.

  “Ever the way with pirates,” Trumane commented as another flaming man threw himself from the Windqueen’s stern, thrashing briefly before going under and leaving a smoking patch on the water. “Can’t stand up to a real enemy.”

  He turned to Hilemore. “I’ll lay us alongside to port, Lieutenant. Muster your party and take her in hand. She may still be worth salvaging and prize money should never be sniffed at. And there’s bound to be some loot in her hold.”

  “Very good, sir.” Hilemore saluted and made for the exit, sliding down the ladder for a rapid descent to the deck. “Master-at-Arms!”

  “Sir!” Steelfine materialised out of the thinning smoke no more than three feet away, standing at rigid attention. “Boarding party mustered and awaiting orders!” Hilemore made note of the barely suppressed eagerness in the Islander’s voice.

  “Stand to at the aft port rail,” Hilemore ordered. “Ladders and ropes at the ready, bayonets fixed. Sharpshooters to lie prone atop the life-boats.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Hilemore took the opportunity to check his revolver as the Viable manoeuvred into position, turning the cylinder and thumbing back the hammer to blow grit from the mechanism. The smoke grew thicker as they drew near to the Windqueen. Whatever vitals Mr. Lemhill’s shot had found continued to blaze and Hilemore knew it may have been wiser to simply let her burn down to the water-line then witness her sinking in the log. However, like Trumane, he wasn’t immune to the lure of a prize. In addition to a welcome share in the spoils, one-twentieth of the vessel’s total value for a second lieutenant, it added considerable lustre to an officer’s record.