Four stories of the Lucentia’s final day at sea.
This short story was originally posted on Substack on January 30th 2024.
Tandem
The Besol sea was calm. The clouds hung low, pale and sparse. Through the scratched lens of a tired spyglass, Rithio watched the ship crest paltry waves that broke upon its bow. From up here, the sea seemed to stretch infinitely, reaching out boldly to embrace the horizon, both a pure, bright summer’s cerulean. He crouched low among the arms of the wild grass. Hopefully, any sailor aboard the ship with a spyglass of their own would be too distracted by the splendour of the Sky Cliffs to notice the tiny figure lurking atop them.
Rithio tapped fingers on the metal casing of the spyglass, bit his lip. Waited. The ship looked to be charting a course toward the cliffs, avoiding the smattering of sand shoals that punctuated the journey northwards from here to Shakelbrook. Not long now until the vessel would enter the shadow of the cliffs. It was nearly here, within diving distance.
Rithio snapped the spyglass closed, hung it on his belt, strode backwards toward the encampment, a gently buzzing nest of subdued activity. Karthoo sat upon a wooden crate, sharpening her weapon. Rithio straightened his back whilst addressing her, gaze directed an inch or two over her head; he still struggled to look her straight in the eye. “It’s a carrack, mid size. One flag of the Vale, one of the Free Traders. Certain it’s not Volunteer Fleet, but can’t guarantee it’s the ship you’re looking for.”
Karthoo stood. She towered over Rithio, her cool shadow providing surprising respite from the sun’s relentless heat. She turned her head to one side, inspecting him with only her left eye. He couldn’t help but stifle a shiver. “It is the ship,” she replied, her beak snapping around the human sounds. Her head spun to look over a shoulder, passing the translated news to her superior, an even taller, broader pinnairan with slate grey feathers. Rithio had never been given the divemaster’s lipname, the monikers the birdfolk used when referring to themselves in the languages of the beak-less. Take the lipname Karthoo – only a rough approximation of the kaw and whistle that composed her real name, made easier for human tongues.
The divemaster and Karthoo traded a handful of clipped exchanges. Were they arguing? Pinnairan’s used next to no gestures, their body language as impenetrable as it was forbidding. Despite this lack of clues, Rithio sensed he was witnessing a last minute disagreement. He doesn’t want to blow the whistle. The last few dives had been less than successful, the hauls meagre, the losses dear. The drop itself made up only a fraction of their outfit’s work. Days, sometimes weeks, of reconnaissance and research came before the assault; sending scouts, plying contacts, prowling harbours, all to achieve an accurate picture of a given ship and its cargo before the operation proper. Ships of the Volunteer Fleet were best avoided. Fortunately, these proved no challenge to spot; their flags clear, gundecks heaving. But flying the colours of a merchant guild did not always indicate a lack of defences, nor valuable cargo. Exports were rarely worth the trouble pilfering; worth far more in their destination than on the coasts of the Moorvale, and on a very rare occasion a ship might have offloaded all cargo entirely, and it’d be an unlucky team that sacrificed divers and tandems alike to reach an empty hold.
Karthoo seemed convinced this wasn’t the case with the ship currently drifting beneath them. Tandems were famously kept uninformed by their pinnairan superiors, but on this occasion, Karthoo had divulged to her partner that this particular ship carried some especially worthwhile cargo from the shores of Arnak. Rithio had sensed a certainty in her. The way she’d spoken to him bared the calmness in her assurance. Regardless, the job hadn’t been as finely researched as some before, perhaps that was the case the divemaster was making to Karthoo now. She didn’t seem the superstitious type, for all Ritho knew her, but she had talked of the bounty as if she knew what was aboard, as if she sensed it. But then again, she seemed eminently self-assured in all she did.
The pair had stopped talking. The divemaster held Karhtoo’s gaze in silence. Rithio watched, waited. Letting out a rough growl, a noise more akin to a hound than a hawk, the divemaster nodded. He turned his back to Karthoo, and squawked a string of deafening commands to the waiting camp. The Pinnairan language still sounded no different to any commonplace birdcall to Rithio, but judging by the flurry of activity that suddenly engulfed the camp, the order had inspired some impetus. Karthoo snapped her head back to the side, still glaring at Rithio with just one eye. “Help prepare the chains. Get ready to dive.”
Elbowing through a maze of frantic feathers, Rithio made for the chains. Affixed just beyond the edge of the cliff, a huge wooden rack had been constructed, looking akin to some strange siege weapon. Upon a line of hefty axles, each easily the width of a tun barrel, were wound an unending array of thick chains. The equipment featured cranks at the side to wind the chain in, and the entire apparatus was kept in place by stone feet, totalling an unimaginable weight. Rithio couldn’t fathom quite how they’d been lifted up here into place, but what he knew for certain was that the huge contraption wasn’t going to be lifted anywhere any time soon. A handful of other humans scrambled around the contraption, performing last-minute checks on the chain, looking decidedly diminutive next to the machine built for pinnairan hands. A droning, high pitched whistle sliced the bubbling air. Secure chains. The ship must be drawing near. Time for the first jump.
A line of pinnairans stood proudly near the cliff’s margin, keeping a sensible distance, maintaining their carefully curated element of surprise until the final moment. Each of them was busy inspecting their weapons; the entire operation hinged on the effectiveness of these tools. Half-blade, half-hook, the pinnairan cliffdiver’s weapon of choice was an unusual construction. The entire weapon was forged from some gleaming brass-toned alloy, curved into two opposing prongs, not unlike a grappling hook, except the outward facing sides were ground scathinly sharp. The blades reminded Rithio of giant, barbed fish-hooks, not least for the fact each was finished with a large ring on the pommel, like that through which an angler would tie their line, except the ring on these weapons was far thicker. Each of the humans darted the short distance from the wooden rack toward their waiting divers. They scurried through the grass, each trailing a length of the thick chain behind them, the huge links steadily reeling off from the contraption. Finding Karthoo within the line, Rithio waited for her to present one of her blades; he’d learned never to reach for it without being invited. Through the ring upon the pommel he hooked his length of chain, fastening the bolt that held the link in place. She gave the weapon a sharp tug. The chain rattled. “Seem’s secure.” Her serenity was unfathomable. All the birdfolk seemed so unflappable before the descent, somehow. A second whistle rang out. Begin first dive. Karthoo nodded at her tandem. Rithio nodded back.
With a jolt, she broke into a sprint toward the cliff’s edge, white feathers fluttering rapidly, wings gently lifting from her back in preparation. Each pinnairan bounded through the grass toward the lip, weapons grasped firmly, chains trailing behind them all the way back to the rack. The first few had reached the edge now, and leapt into the grip of the warm air. They seemed to hang in the sky for a moment, frozen, brilliant sun beaming from beyond them, casting them in foreboding silhouettes, wings wide and weapons raised. Then they dived. Lost behind the cliff’s sheer drop. Rithio stood mesmerised for a moment, staring out at empty air. There was something angelic about them. Something fiendish too.
The easy part was over. The divers would be back soon. He scarcely heard the third whistle over the sound of his heart pounding in his temples. Hooks secure. Haul. The chains that lay through the grass began to rattle, suddenly leaping a foot from the ground, pulled taught, as a small band of men began to wind the cranks at the side of the machine. The haulers were always the burlier of the ensemble, either pinnairans, the odd yova, maybe a particularly large human. Rithio wasn’t far from a weak man, but he was light. That’s why they had him dive. At that moment, it seemed to him he’d landed with the poor end of the deal. At least tandems made the best coin, second to their divers, of course.
A loud thud snapped him from his daze. Karthoo had landed by his side, now unarmed, glaring at Rithio from the side as she always did. He snapped from his daze, tied his hair back under a bandana, patted the daggers on his chest, checked the cutlass on his belt. His final cursory preparations.
Karthoo lowered herself to one knee, hands held behind her back, presenting her torso, along with the straps and buckles of the harness that clad it. Shuffling backwards towards her, Rithio slipped his right arm through a strap of the harness, then his left through another, before buckling the two straps together across his chest, so that he now wore the harness, and therefore Karthoo, as if it and she were a giant, living pilgrim’s pack strapped to his back. Karthoo stood, lifting Rithio with her, his feet dangling a foot or so off the ground. His first jump, he’d found this whole procedure quite humiliating, but that emotion was now nowhere to be seen under the rising tide of fear welling within him.
He checked the shoulder straps. Designed to be able to release a tandem from their diver quickly, these two thin strips of leather were, in effect, the only thing holding the humans to their pinnairan companions. If these were accidentally released mid-flight, there’d be nothing to stop Rithio plummeting to the sea below. He heard the fourth whistle clearly now, as if it were the only sound that existed, slicing clear into his ear and humming through him. Dive.
The gaggle of divers bounded toward the cliff edge more awkwardly this time, each carrying the weight of a passenger, yet as they reached the lip they still managed to propel themselves into the air with a remarkable grace. She was airborne now. The moment of stillness had come, that brief instant before the dive. Rithio found himself trying to enjoy it, to cling to it. He closed his eyes. The others had said it all got easier after the third dive. Today’s made Rithio’s fifth, and ease was far from what he was feeling. The wind grew cold. He opened his eyes to see the crystal sea rushing toward him. Karthoo was in a freefall, descending vertically, wings tucked flat against her back. The ship was drifting toward the cliff face, its portside littered with hooks, chains trailing up the cliff to its peak, ensnaring the ship within diving distance. Its deck was awash with chaos, through squinted eyes Rithio could just make out the tiny specks scurrying across the wood like frantic insects, desperately preparing for the incoming assault. The rich blue of the sea was whipping closer, rattling toward them with each passing instant. Surely she’d pick up soon. She wasn’t slowing. Rithio turned his head, a number of other divers had spread their wings, beginning a diagonal approach toward the ship. Many twisted and wound through the air to avoid the barrage of arrows and bolts spat from the vessel. A few failed, peppered with projectiles, plummeting lifelessly into the sea, tandems lashed to their tumbling bodies. Karthoo kept diving, nose facing clear down. Any moment now. The sound of air rushing past Rithio’s ears was deafening. Had she ever dived this fast before?
Rithio felt a yank against his sternum. Karthoo had altered her pitch, mere yards from the water, spreading her wings and picking up her nose. The sudden change in direction had pulled the harness against his chest with such force that Rithio felt as if all the air had been punched right from out his lungs. They were skimming, gliding just above the sparkling sea, so close Rithio could feel the spray lifting off the waves to kiss his skin. It was a dangerous ploy. Approaching this close to the surface provided a modicum of defence against any bowmen on the deck, but if she couldn’t lift in time then Rithio would be flattened against the portside. The pair hurtled toward the ship. He grabbed the straps at his chest, preparing to release. He gritted his teeth, pulled his knees up to his stomach. Why’d she always have to come in so fast? She picked up, rising for just a second. He tensed. The timing was everything. They were close enough now for Rithio to make out the individual expressions of the men fighting on the deck. They didn’t look like insects any more.
He yanked at the straps. The bulwark passed under him like a flash, his feet only scarcely avoiding clipping against it. He clattered onto the damp deck with a thud, attempting to carry his momentum into a roll. He skidded across the wood, clattering against the opposite bulwark, legs first. He rose slowly, shins screaming in pain. Glancing upward, he watched as Karthoo continued her ascent without him, free of her human cargo. The sky was filled with divers circling the ship like vultures round carrion, each having deposited their tandem on the deck. They weaved between the sails, circling the masts, soaring upwards. They’d be back, carrying more tandems if needed, picking off any outlying sailors where they could. But of course, they wouldn’t be retrieving their human cargo until the boarding was as good as finished, the ship ready to be picked clean. Evacuation of tandems in the case of a failed boarding were seldom attempted, and even rarer successful. If Rithio and the other tandems were hoping to be picked up, they’d have to get fighting. He drew his cutlass, eyes darting around the deck, searching for a target. A sailor stood ahead, glaring at Rithio with a burning intensity. His clothes weren’t of the same worn leathers and weathered cottons as the other crew vying for control of the deck, and he held a thin, straight blade pointing forward in a fencer’s stance. Clearly a man of rank. Rithio tightened the grip on his blade. He’ll have to do.
Captain
Captain Clayne’s boots drummed against the wood of the berth deck. He strolled through the crowded passage between the bunks, hands clasped behind his back, keen eyes prowling through the dark hull of the Lucentia. The familiar scent of sweat and rum assailed his nostrils. The thick air clung to his skin like syrup. Lounging sailors nodded as he passed. Only a small handful rose, typically the greener staff still keen to impress, or the older hands, used to a bygone time of a lost rigour. Clayne didn’t expect a salute of course, this wasn’t the Volunteer Fleet.
Clayne stopped by a gently swaying bunk. Under it, a handful of seahands crouched round a low table littered with dice and small tin flagons. He hadn’t an issue with the drink, providing his crew kept their heads whilst working, but the gambling was usually strictly off limits. Not today. The Lucentia had just completed an arduous journey from the far southern ports of Hvcalia; hardly a distant realm, but still a journey totaling a number of weeks. Having offloaded their cargo and a handful of men in Amuria yesterday, the remaining members of the crew now lazily drifted northwards to Shakelbrook, whittling away at their payment with their games of chance. Let them throw their dice. They’ve earned it.
Clayne hovered behind a broad yova who was idly swirling the dregs of his drink round his flagon, eyes watching the dice. The tips of his ears were pierced with a litter of gold rings. He kept his gaze on the game as he spoke. “Everything in order, Captain?”
“Aye, Bomec, just about.” Bomec had been an exceptional sailor, and was proving to be an even better bosun. Clayne knew practically nothing about the man beyond his name, which itself proved to be something of an enigma. Bomec Svojta. There likely wasn’t another yova in the entirety of Garrieal that bore afrontierfolk name.What Clayne did know was that Bomec did his job, and he outclassed the rest of the crew by leagues. Precisely why he’d been catapulted to his lofty rank in such a short time aboard. Then again, given the humans of the frontiers were famed for their stout resolve, it was no surprise that a yova inexplicably raised in their midsts was such an indomitable force.
“Lads on the weather deck are jumping the halyard like a pack of clods. You’d think they’ve got crab claws for hands.”
Bomec looked over his shoulder. “Ah… don’t reckon you’d let a man finish his drink first, Captain?” The frontierfolk accent was thick, but it bore the rolling cadence of the Moorvale coast too.
“Job ain’t over till we’re anchored, and I’m wanting my dinner by a tavern’s hearth tonight, son. Come on, your drink ain’t likely to fly away.”
Bomec rose with a grunt. His muscular, grey fleshed arms poked out from under a leather vest. He looked down at his captain, mandibular canines poking out his bottom lips as he forced a wry grin. “Aye Captain.”
With the bosun’s stool free, Clayne lowered himself down, trying to enjoy the merry atmosphere within the berth. Of course he had the privacy of the great cabin, but he wasn’t averse to coming down and attempting to be collegial with his crew, as far as they’d let him. He took a deep breath of the sweaty air, leaned against the wall to his side, resting his head against the wood, eyes drifting closed. He felt he could sleep for weeks.
A chorus of deep claps pounded in the distance, like the sound of rugs being beaten. What was that?
A muffled roar echoed from the top deck, only just reaching his ears through the wood. “Incoming! Portside!”
His eyes shot open. Heavy thuds buffeted the hull. He felt the wood shudder with the impact. Cannons? It couldn’t be. The portside was facing the cliffs. The greatest helmsman on the seas couldn’t manoeuvre between the narrow gap left between this ship and the shallows before the cliffs. Clayne looked to his side. A large metal prong had pierced the hull, hooking through the woodwork mere inches from where his head had been resting. Ten depths… Isran be thanked. Shouts filled the berth. The length of the hull had been gored by these hooks, each the width of a forearm. Tiny beams of light struck into the dank interior from the gaps. It can’t be. “All hands on deck! To arms!” he bellowed throughout the hull, rushing to his feet. “Prepare to be boarded!”
Sailors poured out the hatches onto the weatherdeck, stumbling over one another as they ran up the ladders. A narrow path emerged for the captain, who elbowed his way toward the mizzen mast, sword in hand, prepared to find the Lucentia awash with conflict. Yet the deck was almost silent. Swarms of incredulous deckhands jostled to peer over the bulwark, whilst others gazed up at the Sky Cliffs. Among them stood Bomec, hand shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. Stopping by his side, Clayne followed his gaze. Thick chains trailed up from ships portside all the way to the peak, disappearing over the lip. “Feathered men,” muttered Bomec to his captain.
“Isran’s spear… You saw them?”
“Aye. Dropped. Planted their hooks. Shot right back up.”
Clayne stared at the cliff’s lip, frozen. What was the plan for this? The ports had been awash with rumours of raids off the cliffs, of course, but… When weren’t they? Any sailor worth their salt dismissed them as tall tales and shipman’s yarns. But stories or not… they all ended the same. Clearly some of the deckhands had heard the rumours too. Stifled, panicked whispers rippled through the crowd.
“Stupid bastards… The hold’s empty. They’re going to spill our blood for naught.” His own caught in his mind. Shit. The ship wasn’t completely without its share of treasures. “Gorden! Samwell!” Two young men snapped their heads round, rushing to their captain. He looked upon them both with grave eyes. “Lock the door to my quarters. I need you standing guard outside. Do not leave the post until my order. Am I making myself clear?”
“Aye Captain!” They were practically already reaching for their blades. I’ve picked the right men here.
A deep, grating rattling filled the air. The ship lurched, listing, crew thrown off balance, stumbling across the sodden deck. The chains had been pulled taught. The ship was drifting toward the cliff.
“Right!” yelled Clayne, finding his feet. “Eyes up! If you’ve a bow, fetch it. We face them on the deck.”
Within moments, the silhouettes of the pinnairans peppered the sky. They screeched toward the deck, those few sailors armed with bows attempting to fire up at the descending marauders. A number of men clattered to the deck from above, deposited by the swooping birdfolk. These first to land were the unlucky ones, surrounded and outnumbered by a waiting defence. But soon the deck was overwhelmed, a whole sortie of bandits dropping upon the length of the ship from bow to stern.
Clayne jabbed through the fray, slicing a path to his cabin at the stern. Just as he approached the quarterdeck, a blurred shape rolled across the wood in front of him with a thud, slamming clear against the side of the ship. The shape, a man, rose awkwardly, shifting weight between clearly injured legs. His wild, determined eyes probed the chaos until they met Clayne’s. Wet locks of dark hair poked out from under a black bandana.
The man lunged first, swinging his cutlass in wild arcs. Clayne kept his rapier before him, parrying with snaps of the wrist. He plumbed what little experience he’d had with the blade, searching for something to shore his footing. He was a sailor before a swordsman, and he’d trained in the Hvcalian style, well suited to the narrow corridors of a ship. The young man before him brandished his cutlass like it was a longsword. An usual technique, and all the more challenging to face. The cutlass flew at Clayne in frantic, vicious, slashes. Unconsidered, but nonetheless menacing. The man battered at Clayne’s rapier, threatening to almost knock it free of his grip. An upward arc caught the captain’s forearm, blood firing from the shallow gash.
The marauder’s eyes widened as he glimpsed his opportunity. He raised his weapon above his head. Clayne leaned forward, weight on his front leg, slanting into the attack. The cutlass whipped down, he sprung back. The blade whistled past his face, its wielder stumbling forward, side exposed. Clayne saw his opening. Three forward jabs, twisting the blade, weaving it around the man’s arm. The bandit stumbled back, sword clattering to the deck. Crimson patches spread from the three pinhole wounds that dotted his torso. Every lunge a hit. Clayne launched the man across the deck with a heel to the chest.
The clash of steel carved the air. Officers bellowed commands. Bomec’s rumbling orders echoed over the din, the bosun steering deckhands across the ship. “Get above the quarter deck, protect our helmsman! I need five teams to the gun deck, prepare the portside cannons!”
Lunging through the crowd, Clayne grabbed the bosun’s vest. He pulled him by the leather within an inch of his face, tilting his neck up to glare in his eyes. “They’ve no ship you thick bastard!” Spittle sprayed from his lips as he roared. “We’re being boarded from above! What are we going to do with fucking cannons? Blow the bloody cliff apart?”
Bomec flashed an impish grin. Clayne’s eyes widened. He released his grip slightly. “You’re going to blow the bloody cliff apart…” he muttered. He chewed his lips into a thin line. Could it work? The chains were still pulling. The ship’s list was growing more severe, its portside tilting ever skyward. Maybe, if the cannons were angled up, barrels way out the gunports, they might be able to hit close enough to disturb whatever these chains were fastened to. Maybe. That, or they’d cause mayhem trying. “Get below deck. Tell them to prime the fuses.”
The raiders had launched another dive, strewing more thieves upon the deck. The wood was slick with blood, and the ever tilting angle of the ship was causing men to slip haphazardly over the slowly piling bodies. An array of sailors kept bows facing skyward, attempting to connect their bolts with the diving birdfolk. Clayne stood atop the quarterdeck, surrounded by sailors who had secured a position at the helm, directing projectiles and swatting any pinnairans who dived toward them talons beared. The vessel rocked with each of the cannon’s refrains. Maintaining the fight aboard the deck was becoming untenable, but the raiders’ ranks seemed to be dwindling. A salvo of cannonfire launched the ship in a violent reel, mast oscillating violently. The sound of glass shattering rang through the air. Glass? Crew and marauders alike were sent flying across the weatherdeck, some flying clear over the ship’s side, flailing into the sea below. Jagged obelisks of white stone tumbled from the cliff above, raining down upon the ship. An immense length of chain followed, dislodged, sending splinters flying as it shattered through a portion of the bulwark. The jolt sent Clayne reeling, tumbling over the railing of the quarterdeck onto the main deck below, landing just ahead the door to his quarters. He pressed himself up, steadying his weight on hands and knees, ears ringing, vision dull. Upon the deck, a pair of lifeless eyes stared up at him out of a bloodied, youthful face, strands of blonde hair plastered to the forehead with crusted gore. Gorden. A dagger sat lodged within the neck. The captain lifted his head, bleary eyes looking up at his cabin’s door. His cabin’s open door. No… He rose, lurching as the ship continued its dance. Gripping the doorway he staggered in. A number of personal effects, once fastened to their shelves by straps and buckles, now littered the floor. The window that spanned the width of the stern had been shattered entirely. Glass. He blundered through the great cabin, round his desk. One drawer lay open, the rest untouched. Empty space within glared at him. It’s not possible… Atop the desk, almost buried among the tangle of charts that still continued their clumsy rolling, sat a small, copper coloured key. The drawer’s only key. How could they know? Clayne turned slowly, straining in his effort to focus his vision, bloodshot eyes gazing through the colossal hole left in the window. A tiny black shadow floated above the horizon, wings flapping, soaring away from both the ship and the cliffs. Feathered bastards.
Diver
The summer air felt surprisingly cool as it coursed under her feathers. Karthoo rose, winding through the breeze, her upward glide broken by the occasional powerful clap of her wings. Far below, her quarry was silent. The first dive had been a success, all but two of the divers’ hooks finding their mark, burying their claws within the ship’s hull. Now the element of surprise had evaporated, they’d have to be quick to launch the successive dives, depositing the tandems aboard the fettered boat. They’d be sounding the third whistle now, hauling the ship toward the rocks. She curved over the lip of the cliff, lowering herself through the air on wide-spread wings.
Karthoo landed behind her tandem, Rithio, not as soundlessly as she’d hoped. She cocked her head to the side to observe him. Given their wide set eyes, pinnairans found it far easier to hold a human’s gaze with just one, closing the other. She could sense he was distracted. Distracted tandems don’t make good dives. And why must he always have to stare at me with such fear? She watched him prepare; tie his bandana, check his weapons. Did landbound always breathe this ragged? There was no time to wait for him to calm down. Lowering to one knee, Karthoo presented her harness, standing only after her tandem had buckled himself in place, lashed to her chest. The fourth whistle sounded. It always felt the clearest. The herald of the fulcrum. From this point on, dives went one of two ways.
She sprinted toward the cliff’s edge, legs straining under the burden of her new cargo. Pinnairan flight was greatly aided by their incredibly light bones; the additional weight made anything but a nosedive incredibly challenging. Of course they never told the tandems this. Belief in the pinnairan’s skill was vital. They’d never dare strap themselves to a diver if they really knew how close each dive was, what immense effort it took to level out before reaching their target, to not plummet clear into the sea together.
She spread her wings, let the air carry her, then tipped. Eyes fixed in sheer focus. Her keen vision had no challenge picking out details from such a height, even at this speed. Archers were gathering on the deck. She tensed, compacting her wings further, accelerating the dive as best she could. The less time they were above the ship, the less opportunity the arrows had to find them. Soon. She watched as some of her companions picked up their noses, approaching diagonally, preparing for their drop. Projectiles whipped past them. Other divers tumbled, knocked from the sky. If she levelled out now, she might meet the same fate. But if she waited, could she change her pitch fast enough to avoid the water, or the ship’s hull? She waited. Squinted. The water blurred toward them.
Every muscle in her back screeched as she fired her wings open, she felt as if they could be ripped clear from her spine. She strained to bring her nose up, almost skimming across the water. Completing an unbelievably tight arc, she began to crest upwards. She lurched as Rithio released his straps. She heard him tumble to the deck below, as she narrowly cleared the bulwark, soaring over the ship and skyward past its masts.
Karthoo kept an eye trained on the deck as she completed a wide circle around the ship. The vessel had begun discharging its cannons, causing nothing short of utter chaos. The bombardment had launched the ship into further swaying, which combined with the constant pull of the chains, was threatening to tip the ship onto its starboard size. It was a miracle the thing was yet to capsize entirely. She twitched her wings, rolling to avoid the arrows skipping past her. The projectiles soared haphazardly through the sky, the ship’s archers struggling against the violent rocking. Atop the weatherdeck, desperate sailors launched at their assailants, fighting not only one another, but also the thrashing of the ship itself. The men that lay dead upon the wood seemed to outnumber those still standing. Now. She twisted, beginning a dive, plunging down toward the reeling ship. Her wings spread behind her, bringing her gently aboard the deck. She’d been prepared to fight off assailants the second her taloned feet hit the wood, but in the upheaval she’d landed almost unnoticed among the countless feral sword fights sparking across the ship.
Quick steps carried her to the ship’s stern, toward the door of the cabin that sat under the quarterdeck. Atop, a group of sailors doggedly defended a ring theyd cut out around the helm, viciously knocking back any tandems brave enough to lunge ahead. A rough-faced man stood among them, rapier bared, growling orders to the crew across the deck. The ship’s captain, no doubt. Karthoo slunk ahead, attempting to maintain whatever stealth she could. She darted forward, head down, skipping to the side of the stairs that lead atop the quarter deck, skulking around to the cabin’s door. Here we are. She froze. A ragged looking youth stood before the door, weapon ahead of him, a litter of bodies near his feet, some sailors, some clearly tandems. The young man’s clothes were soaked dark red, a gash on his head spurting blood through a mop of blonde hair that framed his almost childlike face. A wild, vicious look burned under his eyes. He’d clearly given no quarter in defending the door to the cabin. Karthoo reached for her daggers. Suddenly, the man’s tortured grimace began to twist into a vindictive smile. His gaze wasn’t fixed on Karthoo anymore, but behind her. She dared turn her head ever so, peering over her shoulder with one eye, keeping the young man in the field of vision of the other. A lumbering, grey-skinned yova stood behind her, weapon raised in her direction. She froze, her grip tightening on her weapons. She kept one eye on each of the sailors, and steeled herself.
Bosun
Soot and smoke shrouded the gundeck. Sailors crowded round each cannon, working with a rhythmic fluidity, hauling the weapons back, reloading them, wheeling them forward, each barrel surrounded by a flurry of activity. Bomec trotted behind the line of weapons, pushing through the fumes as if they were curtains. His order had been followed to the letter. The cliffs were being utterly blown apart. The gun teams have this one under control. He quickened his pace as he approached the steps, springing up them two at a time.
Summer’s brilliant sun assaulted his eyes, its almost pure white a far cry from the shadows and warm flashes of the gundeck. He steadied himself against a mast as the ship tossed from side to side, thrashing in the water. The deck was a slaughter, bodies flying across the rolling deck. Gods forgive me. This better be worth it. He drew his weapon, stumbling over corpses, leaning against masts and bulwark when possible, ducking errant weapons, pushing through the fray. He could hear his captain’s voice straining through the uproar, orchestrating what was left of the crew as best he could. Bomec forged on in Clayne’s direction, tirelessly shouldering through, sword parrying any steel that launched his way, off-hand clutching a dagger, doggedly fighting through the carnage.
The mass of writhing, fighting, tumbling limbs spat him out near the end of the stern, not far from his captain, who stood high atop the quarterdeck. Bomec glanced at the stairs, then turned, moving around their opposite side. The fighting felt silent now, distant, as if the world was tightening around him, even though he’d moved mere yards. There was no fighting here, just two figures facing one another, their breathing heavy, their weapons raised, their gazes locked. Furthest from Bomec, with his back to the cabin’s door, stood Gorden. A grin spread across his lips as he spied his bosun approaching. Between the pair stood a white-feathered pinnairan. They were stooped slightly, belying their natural height, their head that of an eagle, one beady eye trained on Bomec. Sharp-toothed daggers sat in each hand. Gorden spat blood at the birdfolk’s feet. “Things aren’t looking too great for you now, hey you beaked bastard?” His grin was near maniacal. He nodded to Bomec. Gritting his teeth, Bomec took a deep inhale. Fuck. Gorden hadn’t been with the ship long. He’d proven himself to be more than adroit with a blade though, quickly becoming the captain’s first choice swordsman for tight situations, which was surprisingly common for ships that sailed the Besol Sea, even those of the Free Traders. Bloody idiot. He couldn’t have gone and stood anywhere else? Bomec kept his blade pointed at the birdfolk, raising his dagger above his head. He released, whipping his off-hand down, dagger launching through the air. It bolted past the birdfolk’s shoulder, clear past her head, and found its target, burying itself within Gorden’s neck. His weapon clattered to the ground, hands rushing up to grasp at his throat, blood gushing from the gurgling wound. He fell to his knees, panicked, bewildered eyes staring up at Bomec. “He was a good kid,” he muttered, stepping past Karthoo and over the still writhing body of his crewmate. A sturdy boot launched the cabin door open. He glanced back at the pinnairan.“Come. We haven’t long before someone notices it’s open.” Karthoo strode in behind him, rushing over to the desk at the far end.
“You think you are suspected?” she asked Bomec, as he frantically rifled through a cabinet that stretched the height of the cabin’s starboard wall, rummaging through maps, charts, and books before tossing them over his shoulder onto the floor.
“No. Doubt it. They trusted me.” He stifled a grimace at the thought. “And your crew? They won’t be expecting you back up?”
“We’ve lost many divers. They’ll assume an arrow found me. My tandem is dead too, I think. They won’t look for me. Success so far, I feel”
“Success indeed…” He turned, holding a small key between his fingers, failing to hide a smirk. He darted round behind the desk beside his companion, sliding the key in the hole of the uppermost drawer. The pair looked down at the prize that lay within. A cube of polished metal, just small enough to be held in one hand. Each of its sides bore intricate carvings; symbols and glyphs of a script unfamiliar to both Karthoo and Bomec. “This is it?” he asked, gingerly lifting the item from its hiding place.
“That’s it.”
“Well,” he sighed, securing the cube within a pack hung across his chest, “It better make us rich.”
Karthoo placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, turned her head to glare at him with a single eye. “It will make us much more than rich.”
Turning his back to her, Bomec slid his arms through the straps that hung from Karthoo’s harness. “You might want to cover your face,” she instructed, strolling back away from the window, almost as far as the door at the cabin’s opposite end. She launched into a sprint, darting the short distance across the cabin, Bomec lashed to her front. She leapt, diving through the glass. She spread her wings. The sun had passed its apex, and was beginning to slip down the sky. With a few strained claps of her pinions, they were gliding. Away from the creaking corpse of the ship. Away from the shadow of the cliffs. Neither she nor Bomec looked back.
Telling Time 
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