“Less wind, Gullaime,” screamed Meas into a gale that turned hair into whips, lashed faces, forced eyes closed against the ferocity.
“No. Save arakeesian,” screamed the gullaime back.
“It’s too much for the ship,” shouted Meas. “You’ll rip the wings from the spine, or break the keel, and we will sink.” For a moment there was a strange tension, the windtalker staring at Meas with painted eyes as if it thought she lied, then it sank down slightly, its wings, open beneath the enveloping robe, closing a little. The wind lessened.
“This?” And though the wind still whistled through the rigging, it no longer howled and whipped the crew with their own hair.
“Ey,” said Meas. “This is good. But drop this wind by half when the topboy tells us we are spotted.”
“Get there quick,” hissed the gullaime.
“Too quick and we are likely to overshoot.” Meas was still shouting as if into a gale. “I shall not tell you how to conjure wind if you do not tell me how to command a ship.”
The gullaime hissed at her, then shook as if ridding itself of water and let out a short chirrup.
Joron felt this was acquiescence. Meas joined him on the rump, watching the gullaime in the centre of the ship.
“Well done, Joron, it works with us now.”
“Does it?” said Joron, for he was not so sure.
It did not take long for Tide Child, carried on the strange magic of the windtalker, which cooed to itself as it worked, for the ship’s lookouts to get a clearer look at the flukeboats.
“Eight flukeboats, Shipwife,” came from above. “Single sail. Some carry small gallowbows. They are shooting into the water. We are seen! Four turning to us.”
“Anything else, Topboy?” shouted Meas.
“Not that I can . . .” The voice died away.
“What is it? Topboy!”
“A,” – a disbelieving stutter from Farys – “a shape in the water, Shipwife, but one so vast I thought it a submerged reef.”
“But?”
“It moves, Shipwife!” Then Farys shouted out an old and storied call, one not heard for generations. She shouted it so loud it seemed to rip the air, elongating the vowels and the words seemed to pull the ear and the eye upwards to hear what was screamed: “Keyshan rising!”
All aboard the ship stopped.
Farys called again: “Keyshan rising to the north-west!”
Joron could barely believe it, found himself babbling.
“It is the arakeesian, Shipwife! It is the wakewyrm! They hunt it!”
Joron did not know what he had expected to feel. Joy? Fear? Avarice? But he and every woman and man on board Tide Child knew they were now no longer simply the crew of a black ship; by the presence of this fabled creature, they had become part of the Scattered Archipelago’s history. The name of this ship would live for ever.
“Don’t just stand around,” shouted Meas. “Scatter the paint! Gullaime, cut the wind but stay on deck – I may need to manoeuvre. Maindeck bowsells, crews to your bows. And be ready, Hag curse you, did you forget all we learned? Underdeck bowsells at the ready too! Coughlin, arm your men. Solemn Muffaz, break out the curnows.” She clasped her hands behind her back, and Joron heard her say to herself, “Let us hunt the hunters.” And for the first time since she had taken his hat on a lonely beach, he saw Meas Gilbryn’s true smile.
From his place on the deck Joron saw four flukeboats, sails painted in bright yellows and greens with designs of eyefish, sawteeth and beakwyrms, coming towards Tide Child, oars extended and beating the sea. Behind them were four more, twins to those attacking, chasing something that could not truly be seen. Something that slid through the depths creating a moving shallow that only hinted at shape and size, something so vast that Joron’s mind baulked at the the thought of it.
“Mevans, get crew in the rigging ready to put arrows on the boats when they close,” shouted Meas. “Joron, ready my gallowbows!”
“Bowteams!” shouted Joron.
“Both sides, D’keeper?” said Solemn Muffaz.
“Ey, we’ll crew them all,” said Meas. “We’ll be fighting both sides.”
Joron glanced at the approaching boats; each held at least thirty well armed women and men. This felt like a repeat of Corfynhulme, and he felt panic rise like acid in his gullet. No, he would not allow himself to think that. He strode to the first bow. POISONOUS HOSTIR had been very carefully painted on it. The crew now consisted of Anzir and a man called Soffle on the winders; Gavith on the trigger – he had shown himself to have a keen eye – while Joron was bowsell for Hostir and the whole deck.
“Knot!” shouted Joron. Fingers were dipped in red paint, paint spattered on the deck. Ropes brought free. The heavy shafts of the gallowbows held and controlled.
Four boats rowed towards them with their cargos of screaming raiders.
“Lift!” shouted Joron, and the crews brought the bows over in a single, smooth motion, opening out the bow arms and locking the mechanisms on to the gimbals.
A gust of wind filled the sails of the flukeboats, boosting the efforts of the rowers. The jeers and screams increased.
“String!” shouted Joron, and as he watched his team thread the cord he knew the same was happening up and down the ship. He heard the shout go up behind him for the gullaime.
The approaching boats gathered speed.
When his bow was set, Joron turned to the rump of the ship. Meas stood, watching the sea before them and the second set of flukeboats in the distance as they rowed against the wind in an attempt to catch the arakeesian. She saw him watching her and gave a nod.
“Spin the bows, Joron.”
“Spin!”
Shout? No, he roared the word. The call was echoed all the way down the ship by the other bowsells and followed by grunts of effort and the whirr of the wheels pulling back the firing cords and tensioning the bow arms. Filling each bow with the potential to cause havoc and death and pain.
As the click of the cords being caught by the retaining triggers sounded, the next command went up.
“Load!”
The bows were loaded with viciously barbed bolts.
“Aim!”
Anzir and Soffle looked to Joron to guide them. As if in reaction, Meas shouted from the rump:
“The hulls! Aim for their hulls! Sink them before they reach us.”
And Joron took up his position, lifting landward arm, the bow slowly swinging until the flukeboat was in his bow’s sights.
“Aim low, Gavith. Hit it at the waterline.”
The boy nodded and leaned into the bow the same way Farys had. Now they waited for the final shout. The first order to loose would come from Meas before command passed to the bowsells.
Joron heard her boots on the slate as she ran up the centre of the deck.
“Landward bows, be ready when you’ve loosed to wind again. I’ll be swinging Tide Child round for the seaward bows and then back, and I hope to give you a second shot before they’re on us.”
Joron swallowed at that, the confirmation that they probably could not stop all four flukeboats in the time they had.
“Coughlin, be ready to repel boarders. Remember, my boys and girls, we are here to protect the arakeesian. These boats are not our real target, those are.” She pointed past the approaching boats to the ones in the distance. “Now” – a huge grin crossed her face – “your bowsells have aimed you. So” – she drew her sword and held it aloft – “loose when ready!”