A shudder ran through Joron. It was true. He had been so transfixed by the mess at the gallowbows and the sheer number of boats they faced that he had stopped concentrating, and Tide Child was carrying far too much wing.
“Bring down forewings and mainwings,” he shouted. “Leave only topwings. Steer us seaward, Barlay!” he shouted, then Meas was striding past him.
“Quiet that order, Oarturner. Steer landward so we can bring the bows to bear.”
“But Shipwife—” began Joron.
“No buts, Deckkeeper. I already have topwings furled. What is wrong with you? We steer landward – we are here to fight.” She turned away. “Spin the bows!”
The three remaining bowteams frantically started to wind the pulleys that tensioned the arms that tightened the cord. In the curving harbour many of the smaller boats were heading away, the appearance of a fleet ship enough to ward them off, but the four bigger flukeboats were near land and clearly had no intention of stopping. Tide Child began to turn and Joron opened his mouth. He knew this harbour, had been here with his father: there was a reef on one side, and if the ship did not head seaward before bringing its bows to bear it would not have enough room to turn. He looked for the courser, to ask them what they thought, but the courser would be below during a fight, too precious to risk. He was about to raise his voice, to tell Meas, but the words died in his mouth. She was Meas Gilbryn; who was he to gainsay her word? What if she knew something he didn’t? What a fool he would look then.
“Spin!” shouted Meas, “Spin the bows for the Mother’s wish!” A woman struggled past Joron, holding three long bolts of varisk stalk dried and tied together and tipped with a pointed head of shaped stone. She gave one to each of the bowteams’ loaders. Joron heard the click of each cord coming to rest behind the firing hook. The bolts were placed. Bolts loaded, each team steadied the huge bone crossbow on the greased ball socket that allowed it to turn.
“Sitting targets!” shouted Meas. “Look at those flukeboats. They barely even move, they are too close to the shore. Hurry, before they get their oars out. Loose as we come to bear.” She sounded thrilled, full of triumph.
It was not to be.
The three bows fired at the same time. The first, crewed by Farys, let out a deep thrum but the cord miscaught the bolt, which made it shoot almost straight up into the air, sending the bowteam scurrying away in panic to avoid the falling bolt, which smashed against the side of the ship, cracking the rail and then falling into the sea. The second and third bows fared a little better, at least getting their bolts off. One flew far over the flukeboats in the bay, and the other did little to worry its target. Meas glared at the bowteams, and if the look on a face could have sunk a ship, Tide Child would have been bound for the Hag’s embrace there and then. But it could not and he did not, though Joron half wished he had.
“Hag’s tits,” hissed Meas, then she was striding forward. “What did you people do before I came aboard? Spin!” she shouted. “Spin the bows, Hag take you all. Bring more bolts! Bring them!”
The bowteams obeyed while the rest of the crew stood looking lost, like they did not know what to do with themselves, though some at least had the Maiden’s grace to look ashamed and certainly Joron was one of them. The big fluke-boats had their oars out and were turning their beaks to face Tide Child – a face-on ship was a much smaller target than a side on one, and the shipwives of these boats knew one hit from a great bow would doom them. “Spin! Hag take you!” shouted Meas.
A scream. The cord on the first bow had been overtightened by the panicked team under Hilan and snapped, the cord whipping back and cutting Hilan almost in two. A wave of blood ran across the deck. Meas ignored the death, ran to the next bow as the loader, staring in horror at the dead man, dropped his bolt and backed away from the great weapon. Farys, small and damaged Farys, spattered with her dead friend’s blood, stepped in. She lifted the bolt, grunting as she put all her strength into placing it.
Meas sighted along the bow. “Wait, wait,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, and then she pulled the trigger rope. The bolt scudded out, skipping over the surface of the sea and smashing into the beak of a flukeboat, ripping the hull apart and scattering the crew into the water. A roar went up from Tide Child. Then Meas was back at Hilan’s bow, rethreading it. Shouting for it to be spun and the body to be put over the side, she grabbed Farys, dragged her over and pushed her against the aimer’s lean, loading the bow herself and standing behind the girl. “Watch,” she said. “You watch. See when the boat is in the notch?” Calm, as if Tide Child flew through a fine day, then Meas raised her voice: “Launch!” Another bolt streaked out, cutting through a second flukeboat, and another roar went up from the crew. Meas stood straight. “See!” she said. “That is how it is done. Now we finish the—”
Joron was thrown, bodily, from his feet together with every other member of the crew, including Meas, and a terrible sound came from the ship – a screaming and groaning and cracking of the ship’s bones as they were put under terrible stress. Another crack and, almost in slow motion, the mainspine of the ship toppled, bringing wings and rigging with it, its stately fall only stopped by the ensnaring web of rope, leaving it leaning at a crazy angle over the deck.
Joron’s world swam and tilted, changed, took on strange colours. He tried to stand but could not. He thought of standing, but the thought was becalmed and did not move from his mind to reach his legs or his hands. Then he was being pulled up by a large shape he could hardly make out. Barlay? Then a voice: “Bare your sword, Deckkeeper.” And he was stumbling forward, tangled in rigging, fighting his way out, the ropes and the world becoming clearer, little by little. His face was wet. He touched it, licked his finger. Blood. Had he cracked his head?. A moment of fear. How bad was it? Father’s skull bursting like overripe fruit. Then moving. On the deck before him a woman lay unmoving. Dead. Further on, a man whimpering in pain, his leg shattered, shards of grey-white bone showing through red flesh, like Meas’s hair in reverse. But he was drawn on by a voice demanding his service. Her voice.
“Deckkeeper, to me! All of you! To me!” The ship, how badly damaged was it? Did that even matter at this moment?
No.
His thoughts started to come together. They were stricken. Had hit the shallows just as he had thought they would. What would the raiders do?
Run?
No.
Attack.
Of course they would. A few children to sell to the Gaunt Islanders was nothing compared to the profit to be had in a boneship, even a black one, even a wrecked one. With the arakeesians long gone boneships were a dwindling resource and the fewer of them there were the more their parts were worth. Oh, you could make a ship from gion and varisk, fair enough, but they were brittle and delicate things compared to keyshan bone, no good for war, no good for fighting and easily broken by a strong sea, by a shallow reef. All knew that the Hag favoured ships of bone upon her dark waters.
He made it to the side of the ship, felt the deck sloping away behind him. Meas was shouting. Like him she was bloodied. She held her left arm awkwardly, as though hurt. Behind her the sea was alive. The two largest flukeboats were rowing for Tide Child with all the speed they had and pulling who they could from a sea already red with blood and thrashed to foam by hungry longthresh, feeding on the stricken. The fleeing smaller boats had turned and were making for Tide Child.