Kriz grimaced in frustration then tore her gaze from the White. “Very well,” she said, and the memory vanished, leaving them in a pale grey void. Clay looked around, seeing white flecks in the void that bespoke an imminent loss to the trance connection.
“One of Zembi’s better notions,” Kriz said, staring straight ahead and frowning in concentration, “was to bond drake blood with the crystals at a molecular level. When Blue was used it enabled a meeting of minds, even between those who don’t have our gifts.”
Clay watched a misty white form shimmer into being just in front of Kriz. It flickered and expanded for several seconds before settling into a vaguely human shape. “So you can trance with Zembi?” he asked. “Even though he’s not Blood-blessed?”
“The connection is limited, but enough for basic communication.” Kriz continued to focus on the shimmering form. “I just need to—”
She choked off into silence, sagging in his grasp, a dark jet of blood erupting from her mouth. Clay gaped as she collapsed, still choking, his gaze finding the knife buried to the hilt in the back of her neck.
“Were you under the impression,” Silverpin asked as she strode towards them across the grey void, “that I wasn’t the jealous type?”
CHAPTER 47
Hilemore
“Don’t look like near enough,” Scrimshine said, peering at the contents of the barrel sitting open on the mid-deck. A fist-sized bundle of gun cotton sat in the barrel surrounded by a mixture of loose chain and nails.
“A submerged explosion carries far more force than one in the open air,” Hilemore replied. “And I’d rather not handle this material in any larger quantities than we have to.”
Scrimshine gave a wry shake of his head and seemed about to speak again but fell silent as an irksomely familiar vibration thrummed the deck. “Will that bastard ever shut up?” he wondered in a soft but shrill mutter.
They had continued to sail north since encountering the Blue, covering another eight miles throughout the succeeding day and night. All the while the beast prowled the waters beneath the hull, casting out its gathering call. So far, however, none of its brethren had seen fit to answer. The tension evident in the crew ratcheted up with every passing hour and none had slept except in short, shallow naps brought on by sheer exhaustion. The two dozen modified barrels on the mid-deck had been conceived by Hilemore as much to occupy the men’s fear-wracked minds as to provide some meaningful defence against the inevitable Blue assault.
Each barrel was stocked with a dense ball of gun-cotton, packed with whatever scrap metal they could find and the top covered by a circle of waxed canvas. In addition, a string of stoppered, empty grog bottles had been tied around the waist of each barrel. Manufacturing it all had taken several hours of labour that served to distract the men from doom-laden notions, but no amount of work could completely banish their fears.
With the barrels completed, and in need of something more to occupy the crew, Hilemore followed Scrimshine’s suggestion and had them begin throwing all excess weight overboard. Half the cannonballs went first, followed by all the guns save the one Steelfine had managed to get into working operation. After that he ordered every spare stick of furniture over the side and instructed Steelfine to identify any further fittings not essential to sailing the ship. He wasn’t sure if any of this actually increased their speed, but he fancied the wake left by the Dreadfire in the otherwise placid waters had begun to broaden a fraction, which at least was something.
The alarm call finally came two hours past noon, just as Hilemore had begun ordering the wall planks stripped from the captain’s cabin. He rushed onto the deck, looking up to see Braddon Torcreek standing alongside Preacher in the crow’s nest. The Contractor captain pointed east and opened his hand, spreading the fingers wide. Five of them. “A mile off!” Braddon added, shouting through cupped hands.
Hilemore kept the dismay from his features, striding forward and casting out a string of orders, sending the crew rushing to follow a pre-rehearsed drill. “Furl sails! Drop anchor fore and aft! Mr. Steelfine, to your gun, if you please! Deck crew stand by to deploy mines!”
The deck crew consisted of Scrimshine and Skaggerhill at the starboard rail and Hilemore and another crewman on the port. They waited until the anchors bit the sea-bed, bringing the Dreadfire to a dead stop, then began hauling rope through block and tackle.
“Gently man,” Hilemore cautioned as the first mine was lifted off the deck. They hauled it a good few inches clear of the rail then slowly swung it out over the side before lowering it into the water. The temptation to rush the task was strong but Hilemore was wary of how the gun-cotton would react to any sudden movements. The barrel sank into the water two-thirds of its length before floating free of its enclosing mesh of ropes. Hilemore took an oar and gave it a soft shove, provoking the crewman at his side to take a deep breath and hold it until the device bobbed its way out to a safe distance.
“Only another twelve left,” Hilemore told the man, clapping him on the shoulder and moving to the stern.
It took fully ten minutes of nerve-stretching labour to float off the mines, during which time Scrimshine contrived to jerk his rope a little too fast, causing the device to tumble free of its ropes. The entire crew froze and stared at the tottering barrel spinning on its base until coming to a juddering stop.
“Slipped me grip, Skipper,” the smuggler said with a weak smile. Some of the crew were vociferous in calling for Hilemore to “tip that bilge-scum over the side,” to which he replied, “We’re short-handed. Draw your rifles and stand ready. I suspect we’re in for some hot work today.”
By the time one of the deck crew called out a sighting the Dreadfire sat surrounded by a floating ring of mines. Hilemore craned his neck and called up to the crow’s nest. “At your discretion, gentlemen!” Braddon replied with a wave whilst Preacher simply crouched and put his rifle to his shoulder.
“Leave the mines to the Contractors,” Hilemore repeated to the crew in a soft murmur as he paced along the deck. “Aim at any drake that shows itself above water and then not unless they’re at pistol-range. Aim for the eyes. Anything else is a waste of ammunition.”
He completed his tour and moved to where Steelfine and Skaggerhill crouched at their only cannon. They had crafted a raised platform from the few bits of furniture that hadn’t been tossed overboard. The twelve-pounder sat atop it, the barrel at full elevation and packed with both ball and chain-shot. Steelfine touched a match to a taper as Skaggerhill packed a wad of gun-cotton into the touch-hole.