His hands, hardened by decades at sea, would make for decent hammers, though. He pounds his fist on the rail and shouts, “Larboard!”
Livion pipes the command and pushes the steering oar to starboard. The larboard oars freeze at the end of their pull, the rowers straining, the oar handles locked to their chest, as the starboard oars push forward. The Comber pivots beautifully, and the dragon lifts its wing in alarm. It drifts left to avoid them.
The galley slashes through the dragon’s shadow, and the foredeck slides under its belly like an assassin’s blade. Solet cries, “Fire!” The crossbowmen don’t even have to aim. It’s tough to miss the sky.
Eight bolts twang and thunk home at once. The dragon bucks and roars. Its tail flails down, seeking balance, and its tip, flared like a diamond, nearly flicks Topp off the boat. A thin rain of blood spatters the deck. The dragon flaps so hard that the wind from its wings presses the ship into the sea. Water convulses over the rails and washes the blood into the rowers’ deck. As the dragon passes over the starboard bow, Beale gets down on one knee, aims the cannon as high as it will go, and holds his firing rod over the touch hole.
Beale mutters, “Up, down, up,” and on the next downstroke of the massive wings, when the dragon lifts its tail and he’s just about to lose the angle, he fires. The harpoon sinks deep into its groin. The dragon roars louder, and now it’s the one beating away double-time.
The crossbowmen and sailors cheer. Topp would’ve jumped onto the foredeck to clasp Beale’s hand, but Solet orders, “Reload!”
A furlong off the starboard quarter, the dragon starts to circle the Comber.
4
* * *
As the dragon passes the sun and puts one wing to the southern horizon, Solet admires Livion’s oarwork. He didn’t think the first mate was that skilled. Steering and piping, Livion pivots the galley farther to larboard to point the prow at the dragon, then reverses the pivot to keep it dead ahead. Of course, Solet thinks, it’s in his best interests to keep the length of the Comber between himself and the dragon.
He sees what the beast is doing. A pirate ship plays games like this with traders, wondering whether they’re worth attacking. Usually, they decide yes. Ynessi can’t stand not knowing what’s inside a chest. Unfortunately, dragons also have a reputation for curiosity.
True to form, the dragon veers toward them, twice as high as the mast, its neck stretched out like a harpoon, rigid and determined.
Solet hears Livion pipe, and the drummer beat double-time, and the rowers groan, reaching the outskirts of their endurance. The crossbowmen aim over his head, and he kneels to avoid taking a bolt in the nape of the neck.
We’ve picked the lock, Solet thinks. Time to lift the lid. “No wasted shots,” he calls out.
The rowers’ deck responds with a scream and another. They sound like pirates trying to terrify a prize.
Solet counts off the yards: four hundred, three hundred . . . At two hundred the dragon drops to the height of the stern deck, wingtips skipping off the water. Its eyes slit. Solet avoids its gaze. He hears Livion piping. The galley swings to larboard. At fifty yards the dragon rears its head. It drops its jaw impossibly wide. Its teeth shimmer.
“Fire!” Solet cries.
The cannons boom. Bolts shriek. Beale’s harpoon only pricks the dragon’s thickly scaled right shoulder before spinning away. Solet’s rips through the membrane at its wingtip and keeps on going. All but one of the bolts misses the dragon’s head, glancing off its cheek or neck, but the one pins the dragon’s tongue to the floor of its mouth. The dragon half chokes on a gout of flame. Drops of fire spatter the deck and men as the dragon roars over the foredeck like an avalanche, scrambling for lift.
Jeryon stands at the front of the stern deck as Solet calls out “No wasted shots.” He’s considering whether to put up the sail again to protect the deck from its breath—could they cut away the flaming sail and let the wind blow it overboard before the mast and yard were damaged?—when the dragon drops. Jeryon sees where its line of attack will take it and thinks, The rigging. “Livion!” he yells. “Larboard! Again. Now!”
Livion sees the danger too and pipes insistently. He pushes the oar as far as it will go. The prow slides off the dragon’s line of attack. He watches Solet and Beale swivel their cannons to compensate, intent on their target. The oars don’t respond, then only Tuse is screaming and the Comber turns more sharply.