Red Seas Under Red Skies: The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book Two (Gentleman Bastards 2)

The sphere was incandescent, a miniature sun, burning with the vivid colours of molten silver and gold. Locke felt the heat against his skin from thirty feet away, recoiled from the light, smelled the strange tang of scorched metal instantly. She ran, as best she could run; as she made her way toward the rail it became a jog, and then a desperate hop. She was on fire all the way, screaming all the way, unstoppable all the way.

She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane sphere across the gap to the Dread Sovereign. It grew in brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov’s crewfolk recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.

You couldn’t touch such a thing, she’d said - well, clearly you could. But Locke knew you couldn’t touch it and live. The arrow that took her in the stomach an eyeblink later was too late to beat her throw, and too late to do any real work. She fell to the deck, trailing smoke, and then all hell broke loose for the last time that day.

‘Rodanov,’ yelled Drakasha, ‘Rodanov!’

There was an eruption of light and fire at the waist of the Dread Sovereign; the incandescent globe, rolling to and fro, had at last burst. White-hot alchemy rained down hatches, caught sails, engulfed crewfolk and nearly bisected the ship in seconds.

‘If they would burn the Sovereign,’ shouted Rodanov, ‘all hands take the Orchid!’

‘Fend off,’ cried Drakasha, ‘fend off and repel boarders! Helm hard a-larboard, Mum! Hard a-larboard!’

Locke could feel a growing new heat against his right cheek; the Sovereign was already doomed, and if the Orchid didn’t disentangle from her shrouds and bowsprit and assorted debris, the fire would take both ships for a meal. Jean crawled slowly toward Ezri’s body. Locke heard the sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself. Or deserve forgiveness.

‘Dear gods,’ he whispered when he saw her, ‘please, no. Oh, gods.’

Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn’t know where he would have touched her, either. There was so little her left - skin and clothing and hair burned into one awful texture. And still she moved, trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath.

‘Valora,’ said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them, ‘Valora don’t, don’t touch—’

Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.

‘Valora,’ she said, ‘take this. She’s dead already. She needs you, for the gods’ sakes.’

‘No,’ sobbed Jean. ‘No, no, no—’

‘Valora, look at her, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is praying for this knife.’

Jean snatched the knife from Treganne’s hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his eyes.

Then it was over.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Treganne. ‘Forgive me, Valora, I didn’t know - I didn’t know what that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me.’

Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again and saw Jean rising as though in a trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved, as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward Utgar.