This Forsaken Earth Read Free Page A

ship’s beakhead made the turn to larboard as another broadside thundered out of the enemy vessel. One second, two, and then the nine-pound balls were whistling about their ears, chopping blocks out of the rigging, ripping through the courses. A loud clang as one clipped the bow anchor and whipped across the fo’c’sle. Someone screamed forward, a hoot more of outrage than of pain.
    “Hold your fire!” Rol bellowed at the gun-crews in the waist. Four broadsides. What to do with them?
    “We could make a run for it. No shame in that—it’s been a bloody morning.” This was Gallico, at Rol’s side once more.
    “No; that’s to leave the job half done. And who’s to say we mauled him badly enough to stop him following? No—we must fight it out, Gallico.”
    “We’ll board, then.”
    Rol caught his first mate’s eye, though he had to crane his neck to do so. He smiled bleakly. “That’s the way of it. Best get the arms chests into the waist. All the pistols we have. And one more crew to help with the swivels.” He paused. “What about our people?”
    “Six dead, or will be before the day is out,” the halftroll said tersely. “Another thirteen taken below.”
    “We must get ourselves a surgeon, one of these days.”
    “Aye. Giffon can take off a leg quick enough, but he’s all thumbs when it comes to the fine work.”
    The two ships were on parallel courses now, their bows pointed toward the open sea. The wind had veered round to east-nor’east and was still freshening, as it did this time of year, pushed out to the ocean by warm masses of clouds forming inland. Rol estimated they were making a good six knots, though he was not going to check for sure; the ship’s company was busy enough. Under Gallico, Creed, and Fell Amertaz, the bosun, they worked to splice and knot the loose-flying rigging, scatter the deck with more sand, replace the match-coils that had burned out, and bring up the last of the powder-cartridges from the powder-room, where Imbro and his mates were scooping and weighing the deadly stuff into the cloth bags which would be thrust down the gaping maws of the guns.
    Four broadsides.
    “He’s packing on more sail, skipper,” Morcam said from the wheel. Rol looked back over the shattered taffrail. Sure enough, their enemy was unfurling topsails, topgallants, even weather studding-sails. They would prove awkward if he had to fire his windward broadside.
    “He’s a bloody-minded bastard, I’ll give him that.”
    “They’re getting rid of their dead,” said one of the swivel-gunners. The men on the quarterdeck went silent, watching. Rol counted twenty-six splashes in the pink wake of the enemy. “Morcam,” he said. “Jig your steering. Put a few nicks in her wake, like we’re having trouble with the rudder.”
    Morcam grinned. “Aye, sir.”
    “Gallico!”
    “What now, damn it?”
    “Make like a winged duck. Spill a little wind. Lose us a few knots. Elias, get the boarders out of sight in the waist. Four broadsides when I give the word, and then we board her in the smoke.” Elias nodded.
    They ran on, less swiftly now. The topmen were loosening the braces, letting the yards jink and swing in the wind. The sails cracked and boomed as the air behind them spilled round their slack leeches and clews.
    Rol felt Fleam stir at his hip; she knew what was coming. He set his palm on the pommel of the scimitar and felt the trembling eagerness that ran right through the blade. As always, something of that bloodlust communicated itself to him, a momentary, dizzying mote of pleasure.
    “She’s coming up hand over fist, skipper,” Morcam said. “Seems she has the same idea as us.”
    “Bionese,” Gallico said, and spat over the bulwark.
    The enemy had cleared away his chasers and now they were firing deliberately, first the larboard, then the starboard. He had altered course two, three points, and was barely two cables away. Rol could see the crowd of Bionese marines packed together