Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Locke had left Jabril, Mumchance and Mumchance's mate — along with the death-lanterns, he supposed — to guard the stern. He and Jean hurried forward, through the strangeness of air suddenly free from arrows, past the mounds of dead and wounded. Scholar Treganne stumped past, her false leg loud against the desk, single-handedly dragging Rask behind her. At the waist, Utgar stood, using a hook to pull up the main-deck cargo-hatch grating. A leather satchel was at his feet; Locke presumed he was on some business for the captain and ignored him.

They found Drakasha and Delmastro at the bow, with about twenty surviving Orchids staring at twice their number of Sovereigns across the way. Ezri hugged Jean fiercely; she looked as though she'd been through a great deal of blood but not yet lost any of her own. Up here the Orchid seemed to have no deck; only a surface layer of dead and nearly dead. Blood drained off the sides in streams. "Not me," shouted Rodanov. "Here," yelled Utgar at the Orchid's waist. "Here, Drakasha!"

Locke turned to see Utgar holding a grey sphere, perhaps eight inches in diameter, with a curiously greasy surface. He cradled it in his left hand, holding it over the open cargo hatch, and his right hand clutched something sticking out of the top of the sphere. "Utgar," said Drakasha, "what the hell do you think you're—"

"Don't make a fucking move, right? Or you know what I'll do with this thing." "Gods above," whispered Ezri, "I don't believe this." "What the hell is that?" Locke asked. "Bad news," she said. "Fucking awful news. That's a shipbane sphere." Jean listened as she explained quickly.

"Alchemy, black alchemy, expensive as hell. You have to be fucking crazy to bring one to sea, same reason most captains shy away from fire-oil. But worse. Whole thing goes white-hot. You can't touch it; can't get close. Leave it on deck and it burns right through, down into the innards, and it sets anything on fire. Hell, it can probably set water on fire. Sure doesn't go out when you douse it." "Utgar," said Drakasha, "you motherfucker, you traitor, how could—"

"Traitor? No. I'm Rodanov's man; am and have been since before I joined. His idea, hey? If I" ve done you good service, Drakasha, I" ve just been doing my job." "Have him shot," said Jean. "That thing he's holding is the twist-match fuse," said Ezri. "He moves his right hand, or we kill him and make that thing drop, it comes right out and ignites. This is what those damned things are for, get it? One man can hold a hundred prisoner if he just stands in the right spot." "Utgar," Drakasha said, "Utgar, we're winning this fight." "You might" ve been. Why do you think I stepped in?"

"Utgar, please. This ship is heaped with wounded. My children are down there!"

"Yeah. I know. So you" d best lay down your arms, hey? Back up against the starboard rail. Archers down from the masts. Everybody calm — and I'm sure for everyone but you, Drakasha, there's a happy arrangement waiting."

"Throats cut and over the side," shouted Treganne, who appeared at the top of the companionway with a crossbow in her hands. "That's the happy arrangement, isn't it, Utgar?" She stumped to the quarterdeck rail and put the crossbow to her shoulder. "This ship is heaped with wounded, and they're my responsibility, you bastard!" "Treganne, noV Drakasha screamed.

But the scholar's deed was already done; Utgar jumped and shuddered as the bolt sank into the small of his back. The grey sphere tipped forward and fell from his left hand; his right hand pulled away, trailing a thin, white cord. He toppled to the deck, and his device vanished from sight into the hold below. "Oh, hell," said Jean. "No, no, no," Ezri whispered. "Children,"Jean found himself saying, "I can get them—"

Ezri stared at the cargo hatch, aghast. She looked at him, then back to the hatch. "Not just them," she said. "Whole ship." "I'll go," said Jean.

She grabbed him, wrapped her arms around him so tightly he could barely breathe and whispered in his ear, "Gods damn you, Jean Tannen. You make this… you make it so hard."

And then she hit him in the stomach, harder than even he had thought possible. He fell backward, doubled in agony, realizing her intentions as she released him. He screamed in wordless rage and denial, reaching for her. But she was already running across the deck toward the hatch.

Locke knows what Ezri means to do the instant he sees her make a fist, but Jean, his reflexes dulled by love or fatigue or both, plainly doesn't. And before Locke can do anything, she's hit Jean, and given him a shove backward so that Locke tumbles over him. Locke looks up just in time to see Ezri jump into the cargo hold, where an unnatural orange glare rises from the darkness a second later.

"Oh, Crooked Warden, damn it all to hell," he whispers, and he sees everything as time slows like cooling syrup-

Treganne at the quarterdeck rail, dumbfounded; clearly ignorant of what her erstwhile good deed has done.

Drakasha stumbling forward, sabres still in her hands, moving too slowly to stop Ezri or join her.

Jean crawling, barely able to move but willing himself after her with any muscle that will lend him force, one hand reaching uselessly after a woman already gone.

The crew of both ships staring, leaning on their weapons and on one another, the fight for a moment forgotten.

Utgar reaching for the bolt in his back, flailing feebly. It has been five seconds since Ezri leapt down into the cargo hold. Five seconds is when the screaming, the new screaming, starts.

She emerged from the main-deck stairs, holding it in her hands. No, more than that, Locke realized with horror — she must have known her hands wouldn't last. She must have cradled it close for that very reason.

The sphere was incandescent, a miniature sun, burning with the vivid colours of molten silver and gold. Locke felt the heat against his skin from thirty feet away, recoiled from the light, smelled the strange tang of scorched metal instantly. She ran, as best she could run; as she made her way toward the rail it became a jog, and then a desperate hop. She was on fire all the way, screaming all the way, unstoppable all the way.

She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane sphere across the gap to the Dread Sovereign. It grew in.1 brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov's crew-folk recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.

You couldn't touch such a thing, she'd said — well, clearly you could. But Locke knew you couldn't touch it and live. The arrow that took her in the stomach an eyeblink later was too late to beat her throw, and too late to do any real work. She fell to the deck, trailing smoke, and then all hell broke loose for the last time that day. "Rodanov," yelled Drakasha, "Rodanov!"

There was an eruption of light and fire at the waist of the Dread Sovereign; the incandescent globe, rolling to and fro, had at last burst. White-hot alchemy rained down hatches, caught sails, engulfed crew-folk and nearly bisected the ship in seconds.

"If they would burn the Sovereign" shouted Rodanov, "all hands take the OrchidV

"Fend off," cried Drakasha, "fend off and repel boarders! Helm hard a-larboard, Mum! Hard a-larboard!"

Locke could feel a growing new heat against his right cheek; the Sovereign was already doomed, and if the Orchid didn't disentangle from her shrouds and bowsprit and assorted debris, the fire would take both ships for a meal. Jean crawled slowly toward Ezri's body. Locke heard the sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself. Or deserve forgiveness. "Dear gods," he whispered when he saw her, "please, no. Oh, gods."