Free The Fall of Tartarus by Eric Brown Page A

and swarming up the timber
crucifixes. The ship yawed, spray soaked us in a cool shower. ‘Faster next
time. The coral nearly bit us deep! Faster!’ Gastarian called. ‘Now central,
boys, and be ready for the next command.’
    I
chanced a glance astern. Only a dark discoloration in the blue of the river, an
elongated smudge, showed the position of the deadly coral.
    As
the minutes passed, so our speed increased as the river narrowed and the water
surged ever faster. Our passage became turbulent, so that we had to grip the
handholds to remain in position. We were flashing past cultivated farmland,
with the occasional small figure of a farmer cheering us on. Perhaps twenty-odd
ships straggled in our wake. Two maintained positions alongside us, and another
two were out in front.
    ‘Remember
this: relax and we’re dead. This is the easy part. Another hour and you begin
to earn your money! Steady, now. We’re doing well.’ Gastarian manhandled the
wheel, and in the rigging tiny figures adjusted the snapping sails.
    My
thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the sailor behind me. To port, the ship
in fourth place surged towards us, the intentions of its master clear: three
great beams projected from its foredeck, a crude and ugly method by which to
scupper an opposition boat.
    Alerted
by the cry, Gastarian turned. ‘Evasive action! Man your port frames!’ As one we
surged in response, and only as I flung myself upon the crucifix, legs wrapped
around the timber, hands desperately gripping the cross-beam, did I realise the
danger we were in. The bellicose boat was barely five metres from us, and
bearing down remorselessly. The projecting beams raced towards us like
battering rams, threatening to tear the very timbers upon which we twelve
clung. A second after diving on our crucifixes, the manoeuvre had the desired
effect. The Golden Swan yawed tremendously and we brave souls flew
beneath the rams of the neighbouring ship. The Swan cut across its bows
- our wide stern timbers ripping a great rent in the aggressor’s flank. As we
swept on triumphant, the other ship limped to shore, its Messenger and Blackman
circling despondently. We cheered as we returned to our handholds.
    Ever
the vigilant shipmaster, Gastarian warned us against complacency. ‘Minds on the
job!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘There’s corals ahead! Ready, now ... To
starboard!’ Like trained monkeys we leapt as one to the frames, feeling the
ship tip as the port side left the water, hopefully clearing the corals spotted
by the signalling Blackman. The boat tipped, and I was doused with a cool slap
of water. I gripped the cross-beam with all my strength, my ribs grating
against the timbers. ‘And back! Well done. We’re doing fine.’
    The
ship in fourth position, however, was not so lucky. From upriver came the
terrible, rending screech of torn timbers, and I glanced back to see the ship
founder upon a projecting reef of rock. As we watched, horrified, the deck of
the ship parted company with its hull and sheered off into the river where it
sank in seconds. Those crewmen able to leap free did so, but the unfortunate
hands buckled into the harnesses were not so lucky. I stared and stared at
where they had gone down, willing them to surface, but to no avail. I was
reminded of our own precarious safety, the danger should we go down: how nimble
would our fingers be at unfastening our buckles then, with our lungs full of
water and the dangers of carnivorous fish ever present? Then, miraculously, I
saw two or three heads bob to the surface, and a Messenger and a Blackman swoop
down and with difficulty drag the sodden bundles through the river, deposit
them without ceremony on the shore, and return in a bid to save more lives.
    We
passed through a narrow stretch of water between two forested glades, a scene
that might have been idyllic but for the speed of the river and the knowledge
of what lay ahead. Behind me, a sailor muttered, ‘Ready yourselves,