After conceiving his plan and communicating it to the White, the Reds had kept a constant watch on the northern coast-lines of those islands held by the Spoiled army. At Sirus’s instruction numerous camp-fires were lit along the coast, giving the impression of greater numbers and hopefully providing a tempting target for the Maritime Protectorate’s raiders. The frigate below had been the first to take the bait, steaming in close to shore at sunset to pound one of their decoy camps with a brief but intense barrage. The ship had then turned about and steamed due north, using her blood-burner for close on an hour as her captain no doubt assumed such speed would deliver her from any pursuing Blues.
Spying the ship, Katarias drew in his wings and descended at a dizzying velocity. The air-stream became so intense Sirus found himself clutching ever tighter to the Red’s neck spines. At little under thirty feet from the waves Katarias flared his wings and they levelled out, gliding towards the frigate’s stern at a shallow angle. The Red reared up as they came within a few feet of the stern, dipping his head so Sirus could jump clear. He performed a slow somersault as he descended towards the frigate’s deck, pulling the weapons from his belt, a broad-bladed knife in one hand and an Islander’s war club in the other. He also had a pistol holstered under his shoulder but, if all went as planned, he wouldn’t need it. There were two sailors stationed on the stern, both standing in open-mouthed shock at the sight of a Spoiled landing on the deck of their ship barely a few feet away.
Sirus moved in a blur, making full use of the capabilities of his remade body. The war-club shattered the skull of the sailor on the right and the knife opened the throat of his companion, the warning he had begun to shout choking into a wet gargle as he slid to the boards. Sirus whirled in time to see Katarias open his claws to deposit his additional cargo on the frigate’s upper works before lashing out with his tail to skewer the look-out in the crow’s nest. With that, the huge Red angled his wings and glided off into the gloom.
Sirus crouched and waited, eyes fixed on the ship’s bridge. The screams were not long in coming, short, piercing shrieks as blasts of flame lit the windows. He looked up at the sound of rushing air, seeing Forest Spear leap from the back of a Red to land at Sirus’s side. The Red swept on, releasing the Greens in its clutches over the prow of the ship. More Reds followed in quick succession, tribal Spoiled landing on the stern and Greens on the works and the fore-deck.
Sirus could sense the tribals’ lust for combat, the legacy of a life lived as warriors. Nevertheless, he held them in check until the screams emanating from the rest of the ship rose to a crescendo of panic and fear, punctuated by the occasional gun-shot.
Take the bridge, he told Forest Spear and three others, who immediately sprinted off. He led the remainder towards the hatch he knew led to the engine room. Amongst the army were several former Protectorate sailors possessing valuable knowledge. Down the ladder, follow the corridor to midships, take the ladder on the right to the lower deck. They encountered little resistance, save for a clumsy lunge with a fire-axe from a teenage ensign who scarcely seemed strong enough to lift it. Sirus side-stepped the axe and tapped the war-club against the lad’s temple, knocking him unconscious. The White would be expecting new recruits from this endeavour.
He found the engine room in chaos. One stoker lay on his back shrieking as a Green savaged his legs. The Chief Engineer and a clutch of others were backed up against the far bulkhead, trying to fend off another Green with their coal-shovels. We need the engineer, Sirus told the tribals as they charged into the fray. Spare the others if you can.
It was over in seconds, the engineer clubbed down and bound along with two of his men. The remaining three proved overly aggressive and were left to the attentions of the Greens.
The captain died, Forest Spear’s thought came from the bridge. We have the First Officer.
Sirus went to the bulky mass of the ship’s auxiliary power plant, shutting it down with a few deft shoves to the requisite levers. There were several engineers in the army in addition to sailors. Secure all captives on the fore-deck, he instructed Forest Spear. Then search the ship for survivors. No more killing.
Sirus turned to the Chief Engineer, who stared up at him with a mixture of revulsion and defiance. The man’s craggy, oil-streaked features spasmed in impotent rage at the diminishing screams of his men as the Greens feasted on the fruits of victory.
“What is the name of this ship?” Sirus asked the engineer as the last of the screams faded.
The man blinked in surprise at the sound of a Spoiled speaking his own language, then clenched his jaws tight and shook his head in refusal. One of the tribals stepped closer and dragged the engineer’s head back by the hair, pressing a knife to his throat. Still the man refused to speak, instead casting a thick glob of spit in Sirus’s direction, his steady gaze conveying a clear invitation for Sirus to do his worst.
“The Ultimate Sanction!” one of the stokers rasped out, voice pitched high in terror. “She’s called the Ultimate Sanction!”
“No, that won’t do.” Sirus paused for a moment’s reflection. “She is hereby renamed the Harbinger.”
? ? ?
They sailed back to the Isles where the surviving crew were duly converted. The ship’s Blood-blessed had managed to emerge unscathed from the battle but, as was becoming gruesomely routine whenever they discovered one of his kind, was not so fortunate when he met the White. Once again the great beast undertook a close inspection of the captive, a corpulent fellow who displayed an admirable resolve in the face of what he must have known to be imminent death.
“When our full fleet sails,” he growled at the White as it leaned closer, nostrils flaring, “your pestilent horde will be rent to nothing.”
The White betrayed no obvious reaction to the words, continuing its inspection for several seconds before issuing the customary huff of annoyance. Despite his courage, even this resolute fellow couldn’t help but scream upon being tossed to the ever-hungry clutch of juvenile Whites.
Sirus seized another three ships in less than a week. With the renamed Harbinger under their control it proved a relatively simple matter to approach a Protectorate warship once its location had been revealed by patrolling Reds or Blues. Once the vessel hove into view signal flags requesting urgent assistance were raised and the ship’s speed reduced to a crawl. Only one paddle was left turning and the engine room ordered to make smoke to convey the impression of a damaged vessel. The smoke had the additional advantage of concealing the features of the Harbinger’s crew until her well-intentioned comrade had drawn alongside, by which time their fate was sealed.