Free The Fall of Tartarus by Eric Brown

rest of us buckled ourselves into the harnesses which were roped to
wooden eyes in the centre of the deck. The length of the ropes allowed us to
reach the timber frames projecting from the gunwales. Once I was secure in my
harness, I glanced up and down the river: the other ships were almost under
way, their masters shouting their readiness to the officials on the shore. Other
Blackmen, though none in sable leathers, patrolled above their boats, together
with the Messengers. Sails and spinnakers bloomed as the ships, the Golden
Swan among them, cast off and sailed down the river to starting point
proper.
    As
soon as we had set off, a transformation overcame the quiet Gastarian. He shed
his reserved persona and took control.
    ‘Central,
boys!’ he called to us over his shoulder. We crouched amidships, grasping
purpose-made handholds on the deck. Above us, silhouetted against the cerulean
sky, Loi and Blackman flew side by side.
    Soon
all thirty ships were proceeding at a leisurely pace downriver, a colourful
armada with airborne attendants. I noticed perhaps twenty Messengers, the tiny,
faerie creatures flying above each boat which could afford their services.
Along every inch of the riverbank crowds waved and cheered; bunting and
pennants lined the way. A ridiculous pride swelled within me, replacing for
seconds at a time the bowel-wrenching fear at the thought of what I had embarked
upon.
    We
approached the broad Laurent river, its half-kilometre width deceptively calm
at this point. One by one we left the tributary behind, sailed onto the Laurent
and passed beneath a high arching footbridge. From this bridge hung thirty
thick ropes, and as each boat passed under the bridge a member of the crew
assigned the task grasped the rope and made it fast to the ship. Our man made
no mistake, and tied it securely to a beam of timber traversing the stern. We
were tugged to a gentle halt along with the other ships. I looked along the
starting line, at the ships waiting to be released, their eager crews, their
hovering Messengers and Blackmen.
    I
glanced into the sky; Loi hovered low, her wings a blur of gossamer. Blackman
flew fifty metres ahead of the Golden Swan, ready to scan the river and
call back instructions to Gastarian.
    I
exchanged glances with the rest of the crew; on each face was an identical
expression: the grim determination to succeed, belying the fear that each of us
felt.
    A
profound silence settled over the phalanx of ships. My heart pounding, I looked
up at Loi, who saw me and waved. The official starter counted down from twenty.
At zero, the ropes were released from the bridge and the thirty-odd ships
surged forwards. It must have been a stirring sight - so many sailing ships
abreast and hurtling downriver in search of an early advantage. I was aware
only of our increasing speed, the sun hot on my back, and Gastarian’s shouted
instructions. ‘Okay, and here we go. Stay central, boys! Move only when I give
the word. We’ve started well!’
    After
five minutes my hands were sore from gripping the holds, my knees abraded by
the wood of the deck. The muscles of my back ached already from holding so
hunched a posture. I tried to relax; we had three or four hours of this to
endure.
    We
had little to do for the next fifteen minutes. Gastarian adjusted our course
with minimal turns of the wheel, and the crew in the rigging trimmed the sails
from time to time, but we were not called upon to effect a swerve away from
projecting coral. As the other crewmen relaxed and looked about them at how the
other ships were faring, I did the same. I was surprised by how many vessels
had fallen behind. I roughly estimated that we had outpaced twenty ships; another
five or six were alongside us, and the three or four which had outstripped the Swan were no more than a boat’s length in front.
    ‘Hard
to port!’ The command was so sudden and unexpected that several of us delayed,
before throwing ourselves frantically at the gunwale