The sea proved uncooperative over the next few days. A heavy swell and stiff easterly winds confounded Hilemore’s hopes for a swift voyage to the Green Cape, the point at the southern tip of the Barrier Isles where the Myrdin and Orethic Oceans came together. His careful organisation of the fleet into two columns, the Superior leading one and Captain Okanas in the Endeavour leading the other, was also disrupted by the weather. Consequently, by the time they entered calmer waters the fleet was spread out over several miles and required half a day before the formation could be reassembled.
“I’d wager Grandfather never had this trouble,” he grumbled to himself during the evening watch, spy-glass trained on the line of ships following in the Superior’s wake.
He turned at the sound of boots, finding Lieutenant Talmant approaching. “Crow’s nest reports land in sight, sir,” he said, saluting. “An island. Thirty degrees to port and a dozen miles off.”
“So we’re finally at the Isles,” Hilemore said. He was tempted to press on, but the Green Cape was a notoriously fractious stretch of ocean and attempting to navigate it at night highly inadvisable.
“Signal the Endeavour,” he told Talmant. “Thirty-degree turn to port, then signal the fleet to follow. We’ll anchor in the lee of the island, make for the Cape at first light.”
“Aye, sir.”
He was woken from a dream in which a large parrot had taken it upon itself to perch on his shoulder and ask a series of unwelcome questions. Why did Lewella reject you? it demanded amongst other things, each question followed by a loud squawk.
Why do you pretend not to lust after Captain Okanas? Squawk!
Do you think they’ll give you a court martial before they hang you for mutiny? Squawk!
Why did you let all those youngsters die in Stockcombe? Squawk!
It was this last question that woke him, summoning memories that even his slumbering mind couldn’t face. Curiously, however, as his eyes opened on a darkened cabin the parrot kept squawking even louder than before. “Right,” he said, reaching for his revolver intending to shoot the bloody thing, then stopped as he came fully awake and realised the noise wasn’t coming from a parrot, but a drake. One of the sailors from the midnight watch had already begun pounding on his door by the time he opened it.
“Mr. Torcreek, sir,” the sailor said. “He says they’re all in a right state about something.”
“Sound battle stations,” Hilemore ordered, pulling on his tunic. “Fire rockets to alert the fleet.”
“Aye, sir.”
He found Clay on the fore-deck with Lutharon, the huge beast repeatedly calling out, wings spread and tail coiling in alarm. The two other drakes on the aft deck replied with equal volume, as did every other Black in the fleet. A signal rocket streamed into the night sky and exploded, quickly followed by two more, although Hilemore doubted there was a soul aboard any of the surrounding ships not already awake.
“What is it?” he demanded, striding towards Clay.
“He smells something. I’m doubtful it’s good.” Clay stared at the agitated drake in intense concentration then let out a sharp exhalation. “Blues,” he told Hilemore.
“How far?”
“Close, that’s all I can say. They don’t judge distance the way we do. There’s just near and far.”
Hilemore turned towards the bridge, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Battle stations! Weigh anchor and start engines! Signal the fleet to prepare for action!”
He turned back to Clay, intending to ask about the Blues’ direction of attack, but the question died as the Black abruptly sprinted towards the stern and launched itself into the air. From the sudden commotion on the other ships it was clear that the other drakes were following suit. It was a two-moon night so they could see the Blacks forming into a dense flock before flying south.
“They’ll do what they can,” Clay explained. “But there’s a lot heading this way. Gotta reckon on some getting past them.”
“You have product?” Hilemore asked him.
“More’n I need.”
“Then I trust you to choose your own spot and put it to good use.”
He ran to the bridge, finding Steelfine and Talmant present with Scrimshine at the helm. “Riflemen to the upper works, Number One,” he told Steelfine. “Mining party to stand to at the stern and deploy on the turn. Guns to load with cannister and fire at low elevations only. Be best if we avoided hitting our allies, don’t you think?”
“Aye, sir!” Steelfine saluted and swiftly departed the bridge.
“Mr. Talmant, go up top and take charge of the search-light. Keep it moving until you spot a target.”
“Sir!”
Hilemore moved to the speaking-tube. “Engine room.”
“Engine room reporting, sir,” came Chief Bozware’s tinny reply.
“Ahead dead slow, Chief. And have Miss Jillett stand by the blood-burner.” He waited to feel the thrum of the auxiliary engine through the deckboards before nodding at Scrimshine. “Due south, helm.”
“Due south, sir.”
Hilemore stepped out onto the walkway to check on the rest of the fleet. They were slowly arranging themselves into a circular formation in accordance with the plan he set out in the event of being attacked at anchor. The intention was to create an impenetrable defensive ring whilst the Superior conducted a more aggressive defence. He found the response of most of the merchantmen sluggish compared to what he would have expected from a Protectorate ship, but at least they were moving. He turned his gaze to the bow, watching the search-light beam cut through the gloom. Lieutenant Talmant was energetic in swinging the huge light about, playing the circle of bright luminescence over the gentle swell in regular, broad arcs.
Hilemore’s gaze snapped to a point a few degrees to starboard as a plume of flame erupted close to the surface. He caught a brief glimpse of two shapes entwined, one winged, the other long and snake-like, then the flames died and it was gone. The sound of the struggle reached them a second later, harsh shrieks of challenge and distress echoing through the sea air.
“How far away are they?”
Hilemore glanced over his shoulder finding Kriz climbing the ladder to the walkway. She carried a carbine and wore her Contractor’s duster.
“Hard to say,” he replied. “Mr. Torcreek sent you, I assume?”
“He thought you might need added protection.”
“Let’s hope he’s wrong.”
They witnessed another dozen flame-illuminated contests over the course of the next few minutes, each one closer than the other. In one instance the flames continued for some time, Hilemore recognising Lutharon by virtue of his size as the Black dragged a struggling Blue from the water. The two drakes skimmed the waves as they fought, the Blue casting repeated gouts of flame at Lutharon who replied with his own, his claws latched firmly on his opponent’s coils. It finally ended when Lutharon briefly released his opponent to clamp his talons onto its jaws, prising them apart to send a jet of fire directly into its throat. He let out a brief squawk of triumph before releasing the Blue’s body and beating his wings to push himself skyward. Watching the Blue corpse roll in the waves, Hilemore realised with dismay it was at most sixty yards away.