A loud bang sounded across the water. Guyen whipped round. A glowing red projectile whistled through the sky towards them, perfectly tracing the fading red arc.
“Shit!” He dived for the deck, taking Yemelyan with him. They fell on the hatch, slamming it down on top of a bearded face. The munition tore through a sail and crashed through the starboard rail in a shower of splinters. Another wall of freezing brine crashed down. The wind roared.
“Who are they?” Yemelyan yelled.
What did you just see? Are you going mad?
“Why are they firing on us?” Yemelyan demanded.
Guyen stared into his brother’s frightened face. Would they survive tonight? He snapped himself from his thoughts. “Why do you think? Sendalis are arseholes.” He jumped back up, pulling open the hatch. The bearded man reappeared—Ruthris, one of the more interesting refugees. A magician, he’d entertained them with tricks these last few days, not that he’d been able to outsmart Guyen—the lucky silver coin tucked in his boot was testament to that.
“Praise be to Norgod,” the magician rasped, accepting a steadying hand.
“Get out,” Guyen urged. “Come on.”
Ruthris pulled himself up onto the deck. “Where is everyone?” His shout was hardly audible over the storm’s roar.
“Gone. Come on. Move!” Guyen pushed him away and turned back to the hatch, pulling up a small child. Frightened refugees swarmed out. Mother and Father appeared.
“Oh, Guyen,” Mother shrieked. Then she was gone into the darkness too.
Soon the deck was full of refugees slipping and sliding on the greasy planks. Water crashed down, and the ship lurched this way and that as men rushed to the wheelhouse and ropes to see if they could gain control. Another red lightning fork lit towering white cliffs pink in the distance. They looked less than a mile away.
A hand grabbed Guyen’s arm, spinning him around. “Are you insane?” It was Father. “They might have killed you.”
“There’s no one left to kill me, Father.” The sky lit up, an aurora of red, blue and yellow lights dancing in the blackness. It was like something from a dream. “What’s happening with the weather? Can you see that?”
Father ignored the question. “Where’s your mother?”
Yemelyan pointed. “There!”
She stood at the rail, looking out to sea. Her blonde hair shimmered in the oil light, a damp beacon amidst a crowd of dark Krellens. The ship rocked again. Brine sprayed the deck.
Father cursed. “What is she doing?” He stormed over.
Guyen and Yemelyan followed, their simulacra trailing. Mother looked out over the churn, such a slight, vulnerable figure now. She pointed over the rail as another wave hit, smashing down more stinging salt water. A flash of lightning illuminated dozens of men struggling in the water next to an upturned lifeboat.
“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Father bellowed. “We have to get to another boat.”
“There aren’t any more boats,” Guyen growled. The ship had only carried the one when they set sail. That was the kind of thing you noticed if you did a lot of noticing, which he did. Unfortunately, another noticed thing had been the boson’s manifest, a stolen glance over the man’s shoulder on the day of departure suggesting over two hundred souls aboard. They were dead. They were all dead.
“I’m sorry, Liv,” Father cried. “I should have listened.”
“You weren’t to know, Olvar.”
He should have. Only a fool trusts a Sendali.
An out-of-place sensation vied for attention—warmth. Toulesh spun in place, looking wildly about for the source. A scalding droplet pinged the scalp between Guyen’s matted hair. Hot rain? Steam hissed on the deck. This was crazy. Then the heat was suddenly over and ice fell, peppering them like shrapnel. The refugees wailed prayers and pleas for deliverance over the crashing roar.
The unnatural aurora lit the sky afresh, the ringing in Guyen’s ears a horrific whine. Toulesh flitted wildly, mirroring the mounting panic. Another red arc raced over from the navy ship, piercing the blackness. This time it passed close to one of the masts.
The warship fired, the boom of the cannon punching through the storm’s roar. The glowing munition streaked through the sky, tracing the predicted path.
“Get down!” Guyen screamed. The words disappeared in a crash of thunder.
Rigging exploded in a shower of wood chips. A rope elasticated across the deck, the mount it was attached to shooting through the air, smashing a man in the back of the head. He fell into a huddle of screaming women and children. Guyen rushed to help. A lightning flash illuminated what remained of the man’s face. Globes! Ruthris, the magician. He’d lost part of his skull on one side. You didn’t get much deader. Toulesh exchanged a horrified look. Another thunderclap. More lightning. Toulesh flickered in place. That was odd. More water sprayed. The ship rocked and roiled and creaked as unseen voices pleaded for salvation. Guyen rubbed at his ears in a futile attempt to block out the ringing. This was worse than hell.
Another arc of red light appeared in the sky, a fiery thread tracing a line from the Sendali warship to the schooner’s aft deck. Toulesh ran. The cannon fired.
The munition shot across the water, tracing the painted line through a mist of salt spray. Guyen flinched.
The aft deck exploded, splintered wood and flaming tar filling the air. Another fork of red lightning eviscerated the black sky.
The schooner emitted a loud crack.
Something gave way. The giant boom carrying the mainsail, slave to the storm force gale, rocketed forwards. The clamour multiplied, the ringing taking on the complex harmonics of a song. Guyen threw up his hands, bracing for impact.
The boom slowed.
In fact, everything slowed—the rain, the waves, the spray in the air, the motion of the boat. The oak beam, just inches away, jumped several feet to the left.
Like a coiled spring, time came fast again.
The boom swung past. The ship groaned. And hell exploded up through the deck, timber shredding, nails popping, people running, and falling. With a grinding, groaning crunch, the ship broke in two, and the black sea rose up.
3
Dead Weight
Guyen collapsed on his back, panting on the wet sand. Silvera shone bright overhead, the spring moon piercing fast-moving storm clouds. The red lightning was no more, but the heavens were still awry. Mother and Father coughed and spluttered, alive, but Yemelyan was nowhere to be seen. How had he not clung onto the upturned lifeboat? Tearing despair kicked in. Toulesh disappeared off into the night. Maybe he’d sense something.
Father called out amid the disturbing melancholy of the sobbing survivors. Everyone had lost someone. It was too much to bear.
Mother’s voice cracked. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Father’s tone was darker than ever.
A woman wailed, beating her chest over an unmoving body. The washed-up survivors were in a bad way—cut up, broken-limbed and broken-hearted. It was a waking nightmare.
“No fire,” a man snapped. “The authorities will see it.” He took his wife by the arm. “We’re leaving. I suggest you all do the same.”
Mother sobbed. It was a good sign, an improvement from her catatonia. “I don’t want to be alive anymore,” she moaned.