“Won’t make it!” Scrimshine shouted, eyes wide and pleading as he turned to Hilemore.
“You have to,” Hilemore told him, his own gaze focused on where the promontory met the water, noting how it was thinner at the base than the top. He checked the situation at the stern, seeing how the Blue had shortened the distance between them to little over twenty yards; too close for the cannon to depress sufficiently for a shot. Steelfine was busily engaged in getting the gun-crews to move their pieces to the edge of the deck, so their muzzles could be lowered. The drake’s head was clearly visible through the swell now, eyes seeming to glow even brighter.
“I’m going forward,” Hilemore told Talmant, inclining his head at Scrimshine. “If he removes his hands from the wheel, shoot him and take over.”
“Aye, sir!”
Hilemore slid down the ladder and sprinted for the pivot-gun on the fore-deck. “Solid shot loaded?” he asked the lead gunner.
“Loaded and ready, sir.” The man was somewhat pale of face but kept a commendably straight posture as he glanced over Hilemore’s shoulder at the stern. “Need a change of heading if we’re going to get the bugger though.”
“You have a different target.” Hilemore pointed at the base of the promontory looming ahead. “Just above the water-line where it joins the Shelf, if you please.”
“Sir?” the gunner asked with a frown.
“Just do it, man!” Hilemore snapped.
The gunner nodded and barked out a series of orders to his three-man crew, who swiftly brought the piece on target. The shot impacted on the Shelf a few feet above the waves, sending a cascade of shattered ice into the sea. Hilemore took out his spy-glass and trained it on the promontory, seeing a small fissure where the shell had struck home. Not enough, he mused. Like firing a pistol at a mountain. “Again,” he ordered the gunner. “Same spot. As many as you can whilst she still bears. I’ll be back directly.”
He ran for the starboard batteries, ordering each gun primed and lowered to the correct elevation. “Fire on my order,” he told the crews. The pivot-gun managed another two rounds before the Superior slipped into the gap between the promontory and the closest islet. The ugly, high-pitched groan of iron on rock sounded from the port side, indicating Scrimshine had slightly misjudged the course. The ship shuddered from bow to stern but kept on, the promontory looming overhead like a poised axe. Let’s hope it’s sharp enough, Hilemore thought before barking out his command to the starboard guns. “Fire!”
The four cannon fired at once, the range was less than fifteen yards meaning they were obliged to shrink from a hail of shattered ice as the shells slammed home. Hilemore stared up at the great frozen wedge, hoping Scrimshine’s ancestors might hear his prayers for he had no reason to expect this to work. After several seconds of fervent hoping, it had become clear that the scoundrel’s ancestors were indeed deaf today.
“Hit it again!” Hilemore called to the pivot-gun before switching his gaze to the stern as the chasers fired again. He saw the resultant waterspouts deluge Steelfine and the others, hoping to see the flash of red that would indicate a hit, but it appeared Last Look Jack was either too skilled a pursuer or just too lucky. A vast, ear-piercing screech sounded as the beast finally revealed itself, the great, red-eyed head surging from the waves a few yards short of the stern. It slowed a little as it reared up, falling behind but still staying close enough to cast a jet of flame at its prey. The men at the stern scattered as the flames swept down. Hilemore was unable to contain a shout of frustration at the sight of two men tumbling over the side, both wreathed in flame. A flat crump erupted as an ammunition stack caught light, the explosion sending one of the cannon high in the air.
“Mr. Torcreek!” Hilemore called, sprinting towards the carnage. He found the Blood-blessed on his knees, coughing in the smoke, and dragged him upright. “I said to keep it back!”
“He’s too strong,” Clay replied, staring at the beast as it slipped below the waves once more. “Only one chance now.” Clay raised the jar of heart-blood and removed the stopper. “If I die, Captain,” he said, raising it to his lips, “be sure to speak well of me.”
His words were drowned by the vast, booming crack that filled the air above their heads. Hilemore’s gaze snapped to the promontory, following the line of a fissure that had suddenly appeared in its flank. “That may not be necessary,” he said, putting a restraining hand on Clay’s forearm.
Last Look Jack had begun to raise himself once more, Hilemore gaining a true impression of the beast’s size for the first time. It towered over them to a height of twenty feet with most of its body still beneath the surface, jaws widening to cavernous dimensions and its red eyes alive with what was unmistakably a deep, unquenchable hatred.
The promontory detached from the Shelf with another booming crack, the immense blade of ice plunging down so that its edge caught the monster just behind the head. Last Look Jack disappeared in an explosion of spume as the promontory met the water. The Superior rose high as the resultant wave swept along the channel, Hilemore fancying he heard a scream from the bridge as Scrimshine performed miracles to keep them on a true course. Beyond the stern the new-born iceberg sank to two-thirds of its length before grinding to a halt, wedged between the Chokes and the Shelf, firmly blocking the passage for years to come.
? ? ?
Casualties: three dead, four wounded. Hilemore dipped his pen in the inkpot and added a final few lines to the log. The Blue known as Last Look Jack assumed dead, though not confirmed. Expect to clear the Chokes by morning.
He added his initials to the entry and leaned back from the desk. Surveying the log, two-thirds of which was written in Eutherian and the remainder in Mandinorian, it occurred to him that this ship’s story would provide ample evidence to future historians of the dramatic changes wrought on the world in a short space of time. He was sure the rest of the log would have made for interesting reading if his Eutherian hadn’t been so poor. Half of the entries had been set down in the spidery script of the Superior’s original captain, later replaced by the less accomplished, and often barely legible, penmanship of the ship’s first mate following the Battle of the Strait. A few weeks on and this hand was in turn supplanted by Lieutenant Sigoral’s smooth-flowing calligraphy. Although the commentary was lost on him, the casualty lists were unmistakable. It appeared the Superior had lost over a third of her crew at the Strait and then even more at Carvenport. Sigoral’s description of these calamitous events, set down several days later, was surprisingly brief but Hilemore was able to translate the phrase “entire fleet destroyed.”