The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [202]
As agreed, their ship and two others assigned as escorts lowered their altitude. Only minutes later a twelve-masted brigantine appeared in the air ahead of them, on a near collision course with the ship to their landward side. It fired its forward cannon even before it had begun to tail off its original course, but when it did, it began to veer across the Adnon’s path.
“Fire!” Nikandr shouted, “And dive, men! Dive!”
After an adjustment to the fore cannon’s aim, the gunner holding the firing brand lowered the glowing red tip to the touch hole. A tail of white blasted forth from the mouth. Nikandr could feel it in his feet as the shot tore into the seaward foresail of the oncoming ship.
“Dive!” Nikandr repeated.
Their dhoshaqiram was a man no older than Nikandr. He was very gifted, the Duke of Mirkotsk had said, and so had been assigned to Nikandr’s ship, but he was not working fast enough. The oncoming ship’s hull would sail past—barely—but the ships’ rigging was going to tear both ships apart.
Nikandr pulled hard on the levers of the helm, causing the Adnon to tilt counterclockwise. The ship responded, but slowly. It wasn’t going to turn in time.
Nikandr pulled harder than was wise—too often the workings of the keel would bend or snap outright if the steersman pulled too hard—and at the last moment the two forward masts passed one another. The two seaward mainmasts, however—longer than the foremasts—caught one another, and the Adnon’s—a single length of windwood—snapped a third of the way down. The other ship lost a spar and dozens of yards of sail and rope as it was ripped away by the Adnon’s wounded mast.
Rigging and sails were ripped away as the ships cleared one another. A sailor was slipping along a rope, hoping to avoid the debris, but he was caught by a large wooden block across his back. He fell to the deck with a meaty thump.
“Fire aft!” Nikandr shouted.
The other ship’s kapitan called out the same command. The two cannons fired nearly simultaneously. Several of the Adnon’s crew, less than ten paces from where Nikandr stood at the helm, were ripped apart by the incoming grape shot. All three men fell to the deck, little more than bloody masses of flesh and lead.
The chained shot his own men had fired a scant moment before they had died whipped outward, the two balls twirling before catching the starward mizzenmast halfway along its length. A huge crack rent the air, and the mast tilted forward noticeably, the three white sails flapping like sheets. The mast tilted to one side as the ship’s nose tipped higher than its rear.
The Adnon continued on, Nikandr righting its heading and adjusting for the wounded mast. The other ship was soon lost from sight, swallowed whole by the howling storm.
Nikandr released his breath slowly. At the very least there was no need to worry about that ship. With yards and yards of canvas gone or ineffective, the entire characteristics of the ship would be thrown off. In this wind, in the low visibility, it would not rejoin the battle. It would in fact be just as likely to crash into land or sea as regain the eyrie.
Before they had gone another quarter-league, a crewman shouted, “Ship, aft!”
Behind them, in the blowing snow, a small, eight-masted caravel resolved against the background of the dark gray clouds. Moments later, another came clear—a huge, sixteen-masted clipper.
“Sound the bell,” Nikandr called.
Nearby, the boatswain rang a brass bell three times, just loudly enough for the ship on either side of them to hear. Moments later, the two ships began tailing away as Nikandr ordered the ship to climb. He felt himself grow heavy as the ship obeyed. The landward ship dropped and trailed away. The other ship began slipping windward, maintaining altitude.
Two shots came from the clipper, but they had been directed toward the starward ship. The other trailing ship, however, was ascending, hungry on the tail of the Adnon.
Now that it was closer and the ship