‘Ware th’ fore,’ Goose hissed.

A dull thump of wood on wood, the clatter of the plank being lowered, and the patter of boots as the Scavengers ran across and into the town. This was no longer Havnoy. The chaos of the old world had reached out to grasp this place, creating yet another scape of ruined buildings and scattered rubble, and so the ten of them reacted accordingly, splitting into the two teams and taking in every little bit of information.

The buildings had been hit from above rather than aside, caving in roofs and the high corners of walls, or were burned to the ground in their entirety.

‘Looks like mortars, possibly wi' carcass shot,’ Goose snapped back at Peacock between breaths, the mage relaying it back to his colleagues. A big ship mortar could range at two and a half miles if the conditions were right, just over double that of the long-18s, giving them the opportunity to drop either monster 200lb balls of iron or hollow incendiary shells right on top of the impotent defenders. Both would be devastating to anything made of wood, whether they float or not. The only saving grace was inaccuracy against moving targets, but trapped in the calm bay Otter would have been unable to work up the speed to escape, if she had managed to cast off at all.

Bodies had been left where they had fallen, sodden by rain and picked at by seabirds, mostly men and women with faded naval uniforms marking them out as the orphaned company of Cursed or the children of Otter on shore leave. Not far from death-stiffened hands lay the few weapons that could be mustered between them, including a myriad of farming implements. For their efforts, the sailors showed every sign of having been cut down with blade or shot, their spilled blood having been long washed from the streets by the rains of the previous days.

This was not just a bombardment but a full-scale invasion with a quantity of fighters enough to be overwhelming. Over one hundred must be dead in the streets.

The team came to an abrupt halt at Goose’s example before the burned husk of a large building, the acrid scent of old smoke still enveloping It like a death-shroud. Njall’s Head had been utterly destroyed, the quantity of fire-twisted corpses within showing this had been where a number of sailors and townsfolk had fought their last stand. Before the front door, little more than a collapsed lintel and charred stubs of a frame, was a familiar form, his sling still in hand. Scabbs had been shot twice and ran through with a bayonet, then curled up in the street clutching futilely at his escaping vitae.

‘There en’t enough of ‘em.’

Puffin’s voice was quiet, but delivered with a sharpness that cut through the air, unmolested by the mocking laughter of gulls wheeling overhead.

‘What’s that?’ Grouse asked, her normally-pale face an unhealthy pallor.

‘En’t enough of ‘em,’ the girl repeated, eyes hard.

A moment later and Sparrow understood. Despite the bodies, in not an insignificant quantity, there were still over two thirds of the population unaccounted for. No mass graves, no terrified survivors peeking out from behind shattered windows, and not enough razed houses to account for the discrepancy.

‘They’ve been taken,’ Goose suggested, his tone a strange flatness that spoke of a desire for great violence barely held in check.

Grouse looked about helplessly as if she would suddenly spot the missing. ‘But where?’

‘Find out soon,’ Peacock interrupted. ‘Recall.’

In an instant the team was running back to the ship, past the shattered haven they had once known. As the bay came back into view, they saw what had prompted their urgent return. Another vessel was sailing round the headland to drop anchor across the entrance to the bay. With a start, Sparrow recognised it as the Hiksem. Even with the unpredictable weather the battered merchantman should have made it to port a week ahead of them.

Disbelieving her own eyes, she saw a cloud of gunsmoke burst out from the heavy ship’s forecastle, followed a heartbeat later by twin thunderclaps.

‘Fuckin’ mortars!’ Goose yelled.

A dull whistle and a whoosh preceded the monstrous shots landing in the town, the impacts a heavy crump-crack-crash as they hit the streets, one close enough to make the team flinch, showed with pulverised rock, dirt, and wood.

‘Ranging shots.’ the ex-marine panted. The gunners on Hiksem were only getting their bearings, confident they could get a second kill trapped helplessly in the harbour. Before they could reload, both teams of Scavengers were already back on Seacrow. Scops’ team was displaying anger and confusion in equal measure, likely a mirror of them all.

‘Cast off! Clews down and all sail!’ Ulstea barked, ‘Bring us about seven points to starboard and get us in range!’

The topmen had the sails unfurled in seconds, but the limp winds of the sheltered bay had them turning at a glacial pace. Far too soon the twin claps returned.

‘Brace!’ bawled Maxten.

Everyone hunkered down and hoped to every god they could name that it would not be them knocked on the crown by the heavy shot. A whistle and a splash barely two yards to larboard as the first landed in the harbour, spraying the crew with frigid water. The next demolished the wharf with a resounding crack of shattered wood. The next volley likely would not miss.

Sparrow looked back to the quarterdeck and saw Ulstea share a few curt words with Brother Ole. They separated and the priest took up position at the aft rail, head bowed. With a small rush of hope she realised what was to come.

‘Magi to barriers!’ the Commander ordered. ‘Saltwick fore-starboard! Farid fore-larboard! Melor tops!’

With a crack like a musket shot, the ship’s mage disappeared from his spot on deck, reappearing up in the fore top, the small platform between the main and topsails on the fore mast. From what little she understood of thaumaturgy, Sparrow knew teleportation to be one of the more difficult arcane mysteries to master. The mage was required to mentally calculate distance, velocity, angle, and the likelihood of obstacles in the split second before translation, and even Scops could only manage it on the flat. It was likely that Melor had served aboard Seacrow for so long that he intimately knew all of the variables.

Scops and Peacock took their positions on the forecastle, arms extended, hands forming curt gestures, and barriers of faintly-shimmering light flickered into being just ahead of the ship.

‘Brother Ole, if you please sir!’ Ulstea ordered.