And Hag’s Hunter came on. Parallel to them now but passing in the opposite direction, his decks full of women and men.
“Spin the bows!” shouted Joron.
And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow spun, D’keeper.” And the calls came from the underdeck: “Bow spun, D’keeper.”
“Load the bows!” shouted Joron.
And the biggest, the heaviest of the stone wingbolts were placed on the shafts. And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow loaded, D’keeper.” And the calls came from the underdeck: “Bow loaded, D’keeper.”
“Put fire to ’em if you have it!” shouted Joron.
And on the maindeck hagspit oil was carefully poured and torches applied. Flames flickered above the bows. And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow fired, D’keeper.”
“Aim!” shouted Joron.
The heads of the bows came round to track the mass of Hag’s Hunter.
Hunter’s bows came round to track Tide Child.
And the calls came down the maindeck: “Bow aimed, D’keeper.” And the calls came from the underdeck: “Bow aimed, D’keeper.”
The moan of wind passing over tensioned cord filled the air.
It felt, to Joron like the whole ship, in unison, breathed in. Held that breath. Enjoyed the moment, the smell of the sea, the wind on their faces. He wished it could last for ever.
“Loose!” He did not need to shout it, did not need to scream it out as every ear on the ship was turned to him, awaiting that word. And on that word the bows released. And as Tide Child’s bows loosed so did Hag’s Hunter’s, as if the two ships were somehow tied together, and the moment, the second of stillness, was torn apart with such violence as Joron had never known.
The whole ship felt as though it was punched a length backwards. Spars and rigging torn away; the hull rang with impacts, and the air full of the whistle of flying debris. A half-second of shocked silence. Then the screaming of the wounded and dying, the crash of falling rigging and wings. Joron ducked, covering his head as a mass of ropes and spars fell around him.
“Spin the bows!” His voice, coming out of his mouth, loud, almost without volition. Wounded being dragged away from the bows. Dead going overboard. Crew filling empty spaces. Blood, dark in the sand.
“Bow spun, D’keeper.” Was that one answering or all of them? No matter. A body hit the deck by him, an arm ripped away by shot. A face screamed.
“Load the bows!” Women and men moving. Hauling the great stones up. The wind still blowing. The gullaime standing just down from him. Gavith running past, scattering more sand on the slate. Someone sobbing.
“Can you control the wind from belowdeck, Gullaime?”
The mask turned to him.
“Yes, yes.”
“Then do it. Stay safe. We need the wind.”
“Bows loaded, D’keeper!”
How was he thinking?
How was he thinking when that huge ship was slowly sliding past them, not two hundred spans away, readying to loose again? One round of shot had wreaked such havoc on Tide Child like he could not believe. How was he thinking? And yet he was.
“Aim the bows!”
Were they keeping up with Hag’s Hunter? Were his bowteams as fast as those on the fleet ship opposite them?
“Bows aimed, D’keeper!”
“Then lo—”
Bolts incoming. The thruuum, the howling through the air, the smashing of rock into bone. Something plucked at his leg, knocked him to the deck. A massive spar came down. landing on the second gallowbow, flattened the women and men around it, cracked the slate, creating runnels which blood flowed along. Branching streams of red reaching out for him. The air full of dust as a mainwing came down. A shroud of black material covering him.
Pushing against it, fighting off the sudden darkness.
“Loose!” Shouting into a void. “Loose the bows for the Mother’s sake!” Could they even hear him? “Loose! Loose!” Light! He saw light! Crawling from under the variskcloth. Oh, Mother’s mercy! Only one bow left working on the deck, the others either smashed or swinging free. But there, standing at its aiming point, was Meas. The bow launched, the underdeck bows launched. Bolts sailed through the air. A corpselight above Hag’s Hunter flickered yellow and vanished as Tide Child’s bolts smashed through sails and spars.
Trying to stand, his legs betraying him.
Shouting.
His voice hoarse.
Throat burning.
“Spin! Spin the bows, Hag take you.” And women and men running to do it. But so few. So very few.
Time. Time trickling by. The grains in the glass. The blood on the sand on the shattered slate deck.
Before the reply, before the expected shout of, “Bows spun, D’keeper!” Meas screaming.
“Down! Get down!”
Then he is on the deck, face in the grit, teeth clenched as the shot comes. No duty to concentrate on. Trying not to scream in terror and horror. The noise of it. The unbelievable noise as bolts tear into Tide Child. Sounds of such violence he can barely believe he lives through them. When it stops he rolls on to his back. Clouds around the ship. Hag’s mercy, are they hidden by mist? No, not clouds, not mist. Dust. Clearing slowly. Drifting away from Tide Child in a light breeze. Showing him the mainspine. Cracks running hither and thither around it.
A dull groan.
A sharp, high crack.
A terrible moan from Tide Child as the mainspine starts to lean. A pause as the rigging holds it. For a moment it is still. Then a hundred whipcracks as the topweave gives way. Ropes like knives snapping through the tops. Cutting through whatever, whoever, they touch.
The whole lot comes down.
Mainspine first, dragging the rumpspine with it, and the weight of the two together snaps off the top third of the for’ard spine. The tangle of ropes, spars, tackle and raggedy wings all coming down. A great plume of water as it hits the sea, slewing over Tide Child’s deck, in a wave, washing over Joron, washing back tinged with red. The drag of broken wings in the water brings Tide Child to a halt and pulls the deck over to rest at a giddy angle.
Meas, shouting.
“Axes! Cut the spines free before they drag us over!” Joron sees her. Staring round her ruined ship. Watching as crew – one, two, three – try to drag themselves up. Joron tries and his legs give way beneath him. He sees her, sees her look around. Sees the momentary look of utter despair. Then she stands on the remains of the shattered landward rail and pulls her two-tailed hat off. Waving it in the air, her hair flying free in the breeze. “We are done!” she shouts. “We are done!” She throws the hat into the sea so the crew of Hag’s Hunter can see her surrender.
They wait.
They wait.
More women and men appear on the deck. In ones and twos. In threes and fours. Limping, bloodied, dust covered.
And they wait.
Wait to see if the Hunter accepts.
Wait to see if the three decks of bows will loose again.
Wait as the huge ship slows.
Have they even touched him? All this death and destruction and have they even really touched him? But then Joron sees the corpselights, only seven now, and four of those faded to lastlight. Sees Hag’s Hunter’s pristine white wings full of holes. Rigging that hangs loose from his spars and blood that runs bright red down the side of the ship, is smeared along his side.