The next day brought with it a flat calm, the seas a slick mirror of tranquillity filled with the dancing lights of a muted sun, and only Brother Ole’s efforts were the cause of any disturbance, pushing the ship forwards with a divine breath of air. Such things took their toll on their body, as was to be expected from bending natural forces to your will, and he was eventually required to abandon his task and regather his strength. As he did so, he prayed to Hass, and sailors spat into the sea in defiance of that god’s fickle brother. By late afternoon the winds had picked up to a breeze, enough to promise them landfall upon the next morning. Ole sang hymns in thanks to his liege, his voice carrying across the gentle swell of the waves, as a sailor quietly tossed his day’s ration of grog overboard.

*

‘Land ahoy, one point t’ larboard!’

The lookout’s call was a welcome one that had everyone up on deck to see, drinking in the familiar grey smudge as it slowly grew in clarity. Aina had already taken up her position on the rail, as was custom, and was this time joined by Jenta. The girl had taken to sticking by her more, engaging with pastimes, and telling stories of home when the mood arose. Aina could name both her parents, her brother, their moody old heifer, and trace back her skills to the very first rock she had fallen off of as a child. For her part, she only listened, neither being asked nor offering any stories of her own.

This, however, was something else, a manifestation of homesickness that had the girl staring eagerly at the approaching landmass. The rational part of Aina’s mind that was always calculating risk and filing information wondered if there was a chance of desertion, having now seen the ugly face of the world, but a different part knew the young Scavenger would remain true to her duty.

‘Take us in then,’ Ulstea snapped to the helmsman.

The Commander had been on edge since the flat calm and Maxten, usually unflappable with a deck beneath his feet, was wary around the ship’s master. Whispers told that sharp words had been shared between the two, product of a dream the older Navy man had borne witness to. Such things were said to be the goddess Laraca interfering with the mortal world, set apart from the usual course of things by unusual clarity. These were rarely, if ever, good and Ulstea had refused to confide in anyone but his old friend and comrade.

But even his foul mood could not interfere with the holiday atmosphere of Seacrow. They would be putting ashore for the next four months to wait out the snow and dark and storms, over one hundred and sixty days of safety and guaranteed food. Not that the sailors would be idle as they made what repairs to their ship as they could with the materials and tools at hand, or were put to work in the town with whatever would be needed.

The day was a good one for sailing. The sky was clear and blue, the fresh breeze enough to have the ship skipping gaily through the gently undulating water whilst carrying none of the bite expected of a north-easter at this time of the year. Njall and Hass were amicable and cooperative, a factor that always reinforced the morale of those who took to the sea.

Aina watched, mind drifting to the roaring fire in the tavern and a warm jug of mead in her hands, as Havnoy grew larger over the next half dozen minutes. The craggy promontory resolved with its lingering puffins, perpetual seagulls, and shifting hues of rock. With the sky the colour it was, it was almost possible to make out the thin spike of the flagpole against the sky.

‘Something’s wrong.’

Alvard was at the rail with them now, placing himself between Aina and Jenta, noble brow furrowed as he stared uncertainly ahead.

He was right. With growing trepidation, Aina realised a challenge flag was long overdue. An unsettled murmuring began to bubble amongst the crew.

‘Shorten sail! Signal gun, quarter charge!’ the Commander barked.

The ship slowed to a crawl as the topsails and jibs were furled away, spilling air and no longer playing a part in the propulsion of the ship. A moment later, one of the fore carronades let out a dull, flat thump. The shot, fired without ball, was a far cry from the usual throaty roar, but it would definitely get the attention of anyone in the strongpoint.

Tense seconds of inactivity drew on into excruciating minutes.

‘Have you the glass?’ Alvard asked.

Aina nodded, unclipping a cylindrical leather pouch at her waist. Inside was a telescoping spyglass made of now-tarnished brass, smaller and less-powerful than the standard naval issue but nevertheless a useful little tool. She focussed on the flagpole, tracking downwards and along to where she knew the guns to be concealed. It looked different, somehow misshapen. Lowering the device, she looked back to the Commander, noticing he was watching her in turn.

‘Quarters!’ he snapped to Maxten, evidently reading something in her expression. ‘Take us in with a lookout at each quadrant.’

The sailing master repeated the order and sailors scrambled, grim-faced, to their posts at the ropes and the guns. Muskets and pistols were handed out to the spares and the Scavengers gathered amongst those thusly armed, crouched behind the gunnels with hands clutched tightly on their weapons.

They sailed around the promontory and this close to the headland they could see the disguised bulwark was a pulverised mess of rubble. For something to have caused that, especially under fire from the long 18s, spoke of superior range or overwhelming power. A few scattered mutterings broke out amongst the sailors, immediately put down by hissed orders from Maxten and Ulstea.

A break in discipline was unstoppable as the town hove into view, the damage to the seaward buildings readily apparent even across the half-mile of bay, dark holes in roofs and walls, and a haze of old smoke still lingering in the wind shadow of the mountain. Further out the usual specks of livestock on the fields and heaths were conspicuous in their absence.

‘What? Wha... What 'appened?’ Jenta shot up, wide-eyed, rushing to the rail.

‘Back in formation, Miss Atlafee!’ Maxten barked.

The man’s expression retained the façade of stern disciplinarian but his eyes were betraying a sympathy incompatible with duty.

‘Get down, younker!’ Goose hissed, pulling the girl back into position with a firm hand.

When she was down, face taut and panicked, Aina squeezed her shoulder.

As the distance closed scattered lumps, like discarded ragdolls, became visible on the docks and the streets.

‘Where’s Otter?’ Stork breathed from the other side of Goose.

Looking around the other brig-sloop was indeed missing, the usual cloud of sails and ropes, the martial splendour of her painted hull, gone. No, not gone... sunk. In the harbour, just above the waterline, could be seen a scant few feet of shattered mast surrounded by a spreading field of broken flotsam. There were cries of dismay from the sailors now, and even Maxten was too busy swearing violently to rein it in.

‘Scavengers ready to go ashore,’ Ulstea ordered hoarsely. ‘Sweep and report, magi link up.’

Scops, Peacock, and Melor quickly performed the necessary ritual to form the telepathic web strung between them, and the Scavengers formed at the larboard rail, sailors poised to run out the gangplank and tie off the ship as soon as she pulled up at the wharf. Aina breathed in and out, the deep steady motions allowing her to find a centre of calm, drawing up the mask of Sparrow and leaving that other part of her on the ship.