Tordral. “Company of the Spiral Briar, lie down, lest you fall. Sergeant, what status?”
“Bombard loaded ready, slow match alight.”
“Yeoman Ward?”
“Six gonners ready, weapons loaded an' slow matches alight. Four archers ready with bows strung.”
“Steam warden?”
“Ready, Master,” called Grace. “Lil and Mag are feeding logs ter furnace.”
“Powder warden?”
“Spare gonnes and two bombard breech chambers loaded ready,” drawled Meg. “Anne an' Mary are ready to load black powder an' shot as needs.”
Ward settled down on the deck with his sword across his lap. He felt strangely confident, even though they were facing the unknown and attempting the unprecedented. La Hachette and Tordral would look after them. Tordral, the twisted stem, and La Hachette, the flower growing out of it.
“Company, attend me,” called Tordral. Everyone turned. “We are about to fight an entire world. I trust all of you absolutely, yet can you trust me thus without knowing my face? I am going to raise my visor, for the first time in seven years.”
“We know your deeds, that's enough,” protested Ward, but the visor was already up.
The face beneath was lean, pale, finely featured... and familiar.
“Upon my word, 'tis Sir Gerald!” exclaimed Grace, squinting in the half-light.
“Sir Gerald was never so pretty,” said Renard. “I am French, I suspected. Only a sister could have played upon his feelings so well.”
For some moments there was no sound, except for La Hachette's heartbeat.
“As Mayliene, I was given nothing better than seven years of sympathy,” declared Tordral. “As Tordral I hid my figure under chainmail and my face with a helmet, I gathered you all behind me, and I built La Hachette. Now I fight back. If any will not fight beside a woman, jump and swim, there is still time.”
“Women, they are fine leaders,” said Renard. “I fought beside Jeanne of Armoises.”
“And probably tupped her, besides,” said Ward. “I'm with you too, ladyship.”
“Alone, you might win against half our world, but against the whole of Faerie you need our help,” said Grace.
For a moment everyone seemed to be glancing to everyone else.
“Nobody's inclined to jump,” said Ward.
“The outflow, I see it!” called Renard.
“Listen one, listen all!” shouted Tordral. “Portals to Faerie are found in boundary places. Where Derwent Water becomes the Derwent River is a boundary place, and this hour of halflight is a boundary time.”
“The river, it looks narrow indeed,” called Renard.
“I've measured it, we fit,” replied Tordral. “Remember, within the portal our strength will desert us. Without elvin magic no mortal is proof against this weakness, but we have something better. La Hachette has iron muscles and an iron heart. She will take us through.”
“To the river, thirty paces!” called Renard.
“Chaining tiller, sitting ready!” said Tordral.
Violet fire blazed out around La Hachette as she left Derwent Water. The air around them screamed with a sound that was all at once outrage and terror. Shapes like monstrous, glowing curtains of spiderwebs stretched and tore all around them, and netting spun from luminescence as thick as hawsers ripped apart amid cascades of bright blue and silver sparks.
“What am I, who hath no eyes yet sees all knowledge?” thundered out of the background of blackness. “Speak the true answer and pass, die if your wits are not equal to my riddle.”
Clank-clang, hiss, chuff was La Hachette's reply, and although a taloned hand the size of a cottage struck the ship, the fingers burst apart like oak timbers infested with the death-watch beetle. A roar of dismay echoed and died somewhere out of sight. Chill air washed over Ward, air so cold that every breath was like needles of ice in his lungs and nose. He counted the twenty-fifth beat of La Hachette's heart, holding onto hope by clinging to the sounds of the steam impeller. Out on the water,
“Bombard loaded ready, slow match alight.”
“Yeoman Ward?”
“Six gonners ready, weapons loaded an' slow matches alight. Four archers ready with bows strung.”
“Steam warden?”
“Ready, Master,” called Grace. “Lil and Mag are feeding logs ter furnace.”
“Powder warden?”
“Spare gonnes and two bombard breech chambers loaded ready,” drawled Meg. “Anne an' Mary are ready to load black powder an' shot as needs.”
Ward settled down on the deck with his sword across his lap. He felt strangely confident, even though they were facing the unknown and attempting the unprecedented. La Hachette and Tordral would look after them. Tordral, the twisted stem, and La Hachette, the flower growing out of it.
“Company, attend me,” called Tordral. Everyone turned. “We are about to fight an entire world. I trust all of you absolutely, yet can you trust me thus without knowing my face? I am going to raise my visor, for the first time in seven years.”
“We know your deeds, that's enough,” protested Ward, but the visor was already up.
The face beneath was lean, pale, finely featured... and familiar.
“Upon my word, 'tis Sir Gerald!” exclaimed Grace, squinting in the half-light.
“Sir Gerald was never so pretty,” said Renard. “I am French, I suspected. Only a sister could have played upon his feelings so well.”
For some moments there was no sound, except for La Hachette's heartbeat.
“As Mayliene, I was given nothing better than seven years of sympathy,” declared Tordral. “As Tordral I hid my figure under chainmail and my face with a helmet, I gathered you all behind me, and I built La Hachette. Now I fight back. If any will not fight beside a woman, jump and swim, there is still time.”
“Women, they are fine leaders,” said Renard. “I fought beside Jeanne of Armoises.”
“And probably tupped her, besides,” said Ward. “I'm with you too, ladyship.”
“Alone, you might win against half our world, but against the whole of Faerie you need our help,” said Grace.
For a moment everyone seemed to be glancing to everyone else.
“Nobody's inclined to jump,” said Ward.
“The outflow, I see it!” called Renard.
“Listen one, listen all!” shouted Tordral. “Portals to Faerie are found in boundary places. Where Derwent Water becomes the Derwent River is a boundary place, and this hour of halflight is a boundary time.”
“The river, it looks narrow indeed,” called Renard.
“I've measured it, we fit,” replied Tordral. “Remember, within the portal our strength will desert us. Without elvin magic no mortal is proof against this weakness, but we have something better. La Hachette has iron muscles and an iron heart. She will take us through.”
“To the river, thirty paces!” called Renard.
“Chaining tiller, sitting ready!” said Tordral.
Violet fire blazed out around La Hachette as she left Derwent Water. The air around them screamed with a sound that was all at once outrage and terror. Shapes like monstrous, glowing curtains of spiderwebs stretched and tore all around them, and netting spun from luminescence as thick as hawsers ripped apart amid cascades of bright blue and silver sparks.
“What am I, who hath no eyes yet sees all knowledge?” thundered out of the background of blackness. “Speak the true answer and pass, die if your wits are not equal to my riddle.”
Clank-clang, hiss, chuff was La Hachette's reply, and although a taloned hand the size of a cottage struck the ship, the fingers burst apart like oak timbers infested with the death-watch beetle. A roar of dismay echoed and died somewhere out of sight. Chill air washed over Ward, air so cold that every breath was like needles of ice in his lungs and nose. He counted the twenty-fifth beat of La Hachette's heart, holding onto hope by clinging to the sounds of the steam impeller. Out on the water,
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