‘That’s why he fell apart on us yesterday, why he-’ Markus pointed numbly at the empty cot, still a dishevelled jumble of blankets.
‘Well, he’s not dead yet,’ Sharr said. ‘You two, look sharp. I’ll get us in close. See if he comes over the side.’
‘He looks like them,’ Markus said. ‘How will we know it’s him?’
‘If only one gets tossed overboard,’ Brand said, ‘that’ll be our boy.’
With a following sea and southerly wind, the Missing Daughter was nearly beneath the carrack’s jib boom before Markus smelled the flames. A massive plume of smoke rose from the burning rigging and crested in fire; the great ship was a floating torch now, rising over Sharr’s trawler like a second sun. While the rigging blazed out of control, the crew fought to save the masts, spars and yards, anything from which they might hang a spare sheet once the fire was out, but all the cutting, dragging, shouting, running and climbing were for naught as a burning spar broke free and crashed through the main deck into the hold.
Markus hoped the fiery missile had come to rest atop the milled bark and roots being shipped to Pellia.
The mizzenmast toppled backwards with the wind, shattering the helm and clearing the quarterdeck of her officers. The sails, ablaze, lay across the bridge like a burning blanket.
‘See that?’ Sharr said, ‘she’s just lost her helm. It’s over.’
Markus shook his head. ‘Not yet it isn’t – look!’
Along the rail, the Malakasians who had been scurrying about like madmen regained a measure of discipline as the order was given to abandon the ship. Working together, teams lowered longboats and cast rope ladders over the side. Those with level heads climbed down; others, overcome with panic, leapt into the frigid seawater. Some never resurfaced; others thrashed about for a moment or two before bobbing passively south with the tide. The screams of those still alive were an unnerving counterpoint to the orders and warnings shouted from above.
‘We should pick them up,’ Markus said.
‘Forget them,’ Brand muttered, ‘we’re watching for Stalwick.’
‘We can’t just leave them to die.’
‘Of course we can – and anyway, it’s too dangerous for us to be sculling about beneath that thing. If one of those masts falls on us, we’ll be on tonight’s menu as well.’
With her masts razed to the decks, the carrack was dead in the water and drifting south. Her hull turned lazily, pushing several longboats out of reach. Sailors still clinging to ratlines jumped for it, hoping to come up within arm’s length of someone they knew, someone with a hint of compassion. Markus watched as two officers, their absurd black and gold plumage setting them apart from the others, deliberately kept two seamen from climbing aboard their launch. It wasn’t difficult: a few slaps, cold fingers prised away, and the sailors sank silently into the deeps.
‘Rutting motherhumpers!’ Sharr rooted around in the cabin until he found his longbow. ‘Drown the commoners, will you?’ He nocked an arrow. ‘Bloody cowards, the both of them – Brand! Keep us steady; this won’t take but a moment.’
Grinning, Brand said, ‘Certainly, Captain. Send them to the Northern Forest early. They can keep a seat warm for the rest of us.’
With two quick shots, Sharr dispatched both officers. ‘There,’ he said as their bodies slumped into the longboat.
‘Feel better?’ Markus found the murders a bit ironic given the devastation.
‘Yes, actually,’ Sharr said. ‘There are worse things than war, Markus. Now, if you would, please, strike the bowsprit and the spinnaker. I want to make another pass, see if we can find him.’
Markus clung to the guide rope Sharr had affixed to the bulkhead. With only a toehold on either side of the cabin, moving forward on the Missing Daughter was a challenge for an untrained farmer from the Central Plains. With his heels dangling unnervingly over open water, Markus slithered into the bow and unlashed both sails.
As soon as the rig lines were free, Sharr shouted, ‘Coming about, boys, keep your heads down.’ The main boom swung overhead and the trawler slowed to a crawl. ‘Leave those sheets, Markus; just tie them off loose for now. We’ll need them when we turn tail and run.’
A dead sailor floated past. Markus could smell the smoke and burning bodies. He made a silent vow to abandon the Resistance, sneak home and focus on the spring planting.
‘There!’ Brand shouted, pointing up at the great ship’s stern rail, ‘is that him?’
‘Hard to tell.’ Sharr coughed on a lungful of smoke. ‘Markus, can you see him?’
It was Stalwick: he waved frantically with one arm. When he turned, Markus could see the hilt of a knife embedded in his back; it was difficult to see from this distance, but he thought the wound might still be bleeding. Stalwick clumsily cast one leg over the rail, looking as though he was about to jump.
‘No!’ Sharr screamed, ‘not yet! Stalwick, wait. We’re too far out!’
Markus jumped up and down, motioning for Stalwick to wait, but the injured sorcerer, his frail form wracked with sobs, ignored him and dived for the Missing Daughter, slamming into the water on his side.
‘Demonshit,’ Brand said, ‘we can’t get in that far. That tub’s turning on her heels. We might reach him, but we’ll lose the wind beneath that bloated arse of hers.’
‘Markus?’ Sharr said.
As if reading his mind, Markus was already stripped to the waist and kicking off his boots. He hugged the bowsprit with both arms as he crawled along the tapered beam. ‘A bit further, Sharr!’ he called, ‘I see him!’
Sharr poked the Missing Daughter’s extended bowsprit as close to the burning carrack as he dared. Overhead, the fiery beast rolled gently, her massive stern turning slowly to windward. ‘Now, Markus!’ he cried, ‘and be quick about it – we’ll be off the wind in two shakes of your sister’s backside!’
Markus dived in. They could hear him screaming before he surfaced as the freezing water bit with a thousand needle-sharp teeth. He saw one of the Malakasians sinking, feet first, about fifty paces down; the sailor’s face was frozen in a macabre cry. It wouldn’t take long to die out here.
Stalwick paddled gamely with one arm, still weeping like a child, but kicking hard nonetheless. When Markus reached him, he threw himself on his friend, grasping at anything to stay afloat.
‘Come on, you mad bastard.’ Markus ground his teeth together. ‘Calm down and let me get you home, otherwise you’ll drown us both.’
‘I’m too c-c-c-c-cold,’ Stalwick’s own teeth chattered, ‘and m-m-m-my leg won’t w-w-w-work any more and I can’t f-f-f-feel m-m-m-my arm!’
‘The bleeding arm?’ Markus tried to keep him talking as he towed him towards the trawler. ‘That’s probably good, you blazing fool; with that knife stuck in you, I bet it hurts like the blazes.’
‘I d-d-d-d-don’t know.’ Stalwick’s voice died to a whisper.
‘Brand! ‘ Markus shouted, surprised at how his own voice had begun to falter, ‘throw us a line. Throw-’
Stalwick was a dead weight now. Markus held him up with one hand and clawed at the icy water with the other. This is it, he thought, we’re going down.
The rope struck him in the face. ‘Grab it, Markus!’ Brand shouted, standing astride the transom. ‘Grab it and hold on!’
With weakening fingers, Markus found the line, wrapped it a few times around his wrist and waited for the North Sea to swallow them whole. Just as he imagined them sliding into the vast emptiness below, he heard the Missing Daughter’s sails snap with the wind: the carrack had drifted far enough east. Markus took a breath, held it, then sank, dragging Stalwick with him. They drifted for a few agonising moments in the clear northern seas. The silence was infinite, overwhelming… then Markus felt a tug on his wrist as Brand reeled them in with the trawler’s winch.
His head broke the surface. Stalwick was still with him, his stringy hair matted over his pallid face. His Malakasian uniform, too large, dragged in the current like a shedding skin. Markus held him fast around his chest, listening as Sharr and Brand’s voices grew closer. He could feel nothing from the waist down. He wondered if he would be able to let Stalwick go once they had been dragged back on board.