“Close to three hundred yards,” Count Marven said with a laugh, bowing to Alornis. “Well done, my lady. A remarkable feat.”
“Thank you, my lord. But I am not yet done. The original Volarian design was slow to load, taking over a minute to loose two bolts. However, I recalled seeing a grain seeder, which gave me an odd notion.” She reached for the windlass again and began to work it, the arms drawing back as the gears rattled anew. “It’s all a matter of aligning the cogs,” she explained, grunting a little with the effort. “The gears draw the string back to a certain point whereupon the box on the top releases a new bolt.” A faint clatter came from the engine as she continued to work the windlass. “And the next gear releases the string.”
The bow arms snapped again, scoring another hit on the farthest target. “All one need do is continue to turn the windlass,” Alornis went on, adjusting the engine’s aim so the next bolt flew towards a different target. “Until the bolts are exhausted, whereupon a new box can be hauled up to replace it.”
She continued to work the engine, loosing bolts at varying trajectories until all targets had sustained a hit. When the last bolt had flown she stood back, perspiring a little despite the cold. “Still some details to work out,” she said, chest heaving a little. “It tends to seize up if it’s not oiled frequently, and I think I can improve on the design of the bolt-heads.”
“Give me a hundred of those, Highness,” Count Marven said, his tone now entirely serious. “And I’ll match us against any army the Volarians can field.”
Lyrna went forward to favour Alornis with a soft embrace, planting a kiss on her forehead. “What else can you show me, my lady?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Frentis
Illian ducked under the arc of his wooden blade and countered with a jab at his eyes, easily turned before stepping close to trap her arm under his shoulder, pulling her close. “Now what will you do, sister?” he asked in a light tone.
He saw her bite back a retort, features red with frustration, detecting the decision in her eyes a fraction of a second too late. Her forehead connected painfully with his nose, leaving him stunned for the brief moment it took her to wrestle free, her ash sword coming round in a clumsy but fast swipe at his midriff. His wooden blade connected with hers an inch from his chest, deflecting it with a loud crack, then sweeping it aside to thrust into her belly. She grunted from the blow and lowered her sword, chest heaving and eyes dark with resentment.
“Anger is your enemy,” he reminded her, wiping blood from his nose. “A little better this time, but still not fast enough. Practice your scales until midday then feed the dogs.”
She took a deep calming breath before nodding, her tone carefully modulated. “Yes, brother.”
He left her to it and strode across the deck where his company were engaged in their own practice, Draker teaching a trio of their younger members the basics of cutting a man’s throat. “Gotta get it done in one stroke,” he advised, a beefy arm around the chest of a lanky youth named Dallin, a Renfaelin farmhand rescued from slavers shortly before their time in the Urlish reached its disastrous conclusion. “Forget about finding the veins.” Draker demonstrated the technique with a sheathed dagger. “Just cut deep and draw it all the way around. Then get hold of his hair and pull the head back to open the cut as wide as you can.”
Frentis passed Weaver on the way to the stern, Slasher and Blacktooth at his side as they often were these days, seemingly fascinated by his work. Halfway through the voyage he had abruptly stopped plaiting rope and begun working strips of leather into a tight arrangement fixed onto a circular frame, replying with only a vague smile when asked what he was about. The creation had initially resembled a shallow basket but its purpose had gradually become clear as Weaver fixed straps to the concave side and borrowed pitch from the crew to cover the curving outer surface.
“A fine shield, sir,” Frentis offered, pausing at his side and raising a hand for Slasher to lick.
“A Lonak design,” Weaver replied, an oddly familiar cadence to his voice as he used a large bone needle to thread twine along the edge of the shield. “Though rarely used, since their martial culture is essentially aggressive in nature.”
He continued to work, not looking up as Frentis moved on. Captain Belorath was at the stern, standing as still as the shifting deck would allow, his sextant trained on the horizon. Frentis had no notion of how the device worked or the meaning of the numbers the captain paused to scribble on parchment, but knew it was how he fixed their position on this ocean.