by A. C. Cobble
Commander Ostrander frowned. The man’s face was chalk white, but he bore a broad grin. He asked the man, “What is it?”
“Captives, sir,” explained the captain. “They had hostages. Enhoverians. People from the compound. Sir, there are women and children.”
Ostrander dashed to the door, darting inside and feeling his jaw drop open. Forty people were clustered in the center of the open warehouse floor. Bodies of natives were littered around where his men had felled them, but there was no doubt who was local to Imbon and who had come from Enhover. Already, royal marines were kneeling beside the captives, offering them food and blankets. Women and children cried. Men looked on stoically, as if they couldn’t believe it, couldn’t comprehend that over a month after the initial rebellion, they’d been rescued. None of the captives spoke. They merely nodded or opened their hands to accept his men’s offerings. They were scared, still, shocked. He didn’t blame them.
Beaming, Commander Ostrander stepped back outside and called, “Signal the airships. Tell them to drop down for immediate evacuation. Signal victory.”
A sergeant, eyes bulging with the excitement of finding living captives, rushed off to instruct the signalman. The fire from Admiral Brach’s cannons had ceased, and Ostrander knew the men on the airships must have seen the skirmish. Anyone with a spyglass would already know the results. Even without the signals, Brach would be on the way.
Their campaign was not over. Between the initial barrage and the natives his men had just killed, he guessed a thousand had fallen. There would be thousands more hiding somewhere on the island, but they could be rooted out in time. However long that took, whatever other results they found, the mission was now an unabashed success. They’d found women and children who’d survived the uprising! It was unexpected, unprecedented. Admiral Brach, Duke Wellesley, they’d be named in Enhover’s papers as heroes. They and Commander Brendan Ostrander.
“We did good work today, sir,” said his captain, watching as the first group of captives were strapped into harnesses that would be used to lift them to the decks of the airship Franklin’s Luck. “Right good work.”
“What was it Duke Wellesley said?” asked Ostrander. “Some bit about tattoos? That woman over there, she has one?”
The captain glanced at the woman who was clutching two small children in her arms. “I talked to her, sir. Bit of a sad story. She had a rough go back in Enhover and fled with the two children. No father, sir, and she made what life she could for them in the tropics. You ever met a fallen woman without a bit of ink on her, sir? It’s nice to think we’re rescuing the wives and children of proper citizens, but most of these women worked the pleasure houses, and I’d bet my action pay that a few of those men were liberated from the Company’s gaol. People like that, they’re survivors, sir. They aren’t like you and me, but they still deserve rescue. Let’s just hope the papers leave those details out, ey?”
Commander Ostrander smirked at his captain. “You’re sure she’s… Duke Wellesley said…”
“I’m sure, sir. Some of the men, ah, they know the type. They can tell. We ought to have a word with the airship officers, though,” mused the captain. “Fallen women onboard, a long ride ahead and all of the men riding high after combat and thinking of their bonus pay. There’s some opportunity, sir.”
“What are you suggesting, captain?” Ostrander asked, glancing from another batch of captives rising to the airship to frown at the man.
Instead of answering, the captain stared over Commander Ostrander’s shoulder, his eyes wide, his breath coming fast.
“What?” muttered the commander, spinning to see what the man was looking at. “Frozen hell. To arms! To arms!”
From the jungle, in the direction of the spice caves, several hundred spear- and knife-wielding natives were emerging from the vegetation. Behind them loomed four giant lizards.
“S-Sir, if we hurry…” stammered the captain.
“We’ll hold while the women and children evacuate,” declared the commander.
“Sir, they’re fallen—”
“We are royal marines, Captain. Act like it!”
Ostrander began shouting orders, his voice calm and steady, his heart racing like a thoroughbred at the tracks. Around him, his men picked up their weapons, checked their harnesses and kit, and formed into three lines. His captains flanked him, and when the men were assembled, they began a slow march forward.
Above, he could hear shouts of alarm from the airships. He knew they would turn and open fire on the lizards. If the creatures got close enough, they could drop bombs on them. They knew the monsters, whatever their nature, could be killed by such means. But, if the airships were dropping bombs, that meant Ostrander and his men couldn’t stand below. Behind them were the captives and the docks. The only way to go was forward.
Hundreds of natives poured from the jungle like water from a burst dam. Hundreds then thousands. He swallowed uncomfortably. Two thousand of them, he guessed. If he was right or wrong, it didn’t much matter. There were a lot. There were enough.
“We march one hundred yards and then hold for the attack,” Commander Ostrander called to the men around him. “Just like we did on the first engagement. Our training will win the day, lads. Have no fear. These scoundrels have never met the likes of the royal marines. They’ve never faced a fusillade from an airship, ey?”
He gestured overhead, drawing the eyes of his men to the three vessels floating above. Men were scrambling about on the decks. He could hear them. Hells, he hoped they could turn in time. Without the big guns…
At that moment, the pack of lizards cleared the jungle. They were still half-a-league away, but their giant legs were covering ground quickly. They’d started behind the native horde but were outpacing them. Then, a quarter-league away, the largest of the lizards paused and reared on its hind legs. It opened its mouth as if to roar a challenge, but instead of a thundering bellow, a burst of bright orange fire erupted from the thing’s maw, billowing a hundred yards above it.
“Spirits forsake it,” whispered the captain on his flank.
“Hold the line, men!” Ostrander cried. “Hold the line!”
The lizards, moving faster than he would have thought possible for creatures that size, lurched forward, each step covering a dozen yards. The four of them shook the earth as their clawed feet raced over the turf. He thought he saw dark shapes atop their backs — riders? He didn’t have time to ponder it, no time to do anything but hold steady.
“Hold the line!” screamed Ostrander.
Shouting a victorious roar, the natives ran after the four monsters. Thick black smoke trailed from the jaw of the one in the lead, an awful reminder of what it was capable of.
Around him, Commander Ostrander could feel his men panicking. No shots had been fired from above. Nothing was happening to slow the charge. He looked up and saw the airships drifting higher, men on deck scrambling at the guns, but no one was firing yet.
“First rank!” Ostrander shouted, hoping his voice carried above the attackers. “First rank, raise your weapons!”
There was no response, and glancing to his left and right, Commander Brendan Ostrander saw the royal marines break. Slowly, at first, they stepped back, their eyes fixed on the approaching nightmares. Then, backpedaling, they turned to run. The enlisted men, then the sergeants, and finally, his two captains. One of them offered an apologetic shake of his head. The other, terror filling his eyes, simply fled.
Ostrander drew his saber and faced the lizards. He raised the blade to his shoulder, tilting his body and clutching the wooden hilt of the sword with both hands.
A shadow fell across him, the midday sun vanishing.
“For the Crown!” Ostrander screamed then swung at the massive clawed foot that loomed over him. He felt his blade bite into the tough hide of the lizard’s foot, catching on the rough skin. Then, the foot came crashing down on top of him with the weight of a palace.
The Cartographer IX
“It’s not coming faster,” barked Ainsley. “Go get more buckets of water. Hurry!”
The captain glanced behind them, where from Imbon’s peak, thick white smoke was billowing into the clear blue sky, a little faster than when they’d first arrived.
Oliver knew that in the ten years the Company had occupied Imbon, there’d never been a report of volcanic activity, but since they’d arrived, the peak was shrouded in thick smoke that rose straight into the blue sky, scattering fluffy ash on the warm tropical breeze. Could it be a coincidence, or did it have something to do with the breaching of the tomb?
He heard an ominous rumble and jumped, panicked until he realized it wasn’t the mountain threatening to explode. It was cannon fire.
Leaving the rear of the airship, he scrambled ahead to the forecastle, trying to peer around the steep slope of the mountain. Somewhere on the other side, Admiral Brach and his airships were engaging in combat again. The initial barrage was what had sent Oliver and his companions racing back to the airship, but shortly after they boarded, the sounds stopped. What did it mean that it had started again?
They didn’t have to wait long to find out.
As the Cloud Serpent rounded the edge of the mountain, they saw a furious battle taking place down by the spice piers. Swarms of armed natives covered the ground around the warehouses. Through the spyglass, Oliver saw sickening spots of royal blue lying on the dirt beneath them. Commander Branden Ostrander’s company, he guessed, but those fallen soldiers were not what held his gaze. Instead, he looked to the airships, which were furiously firing cannon and lobbing red saltpetre bombs over the sides.
Admiral Brach’s airship was in the thick of it, battling four massive lizards that rose on their hind legs, snapping jaws and thrashing with the claws of their forelegs.
One of the other airships trailed black smoke and was tilting to the side just two hundred yards above the sea. It looked to be trying to escape, but its main sail was quickly becoming engulfed in flame. The side of the airship was scored with black char, and Oliver could see water spilling from where they must have been dumping the tanks, trying to gain elevation.
“Did a bomb go off too early?” wondered Sam.
Then, one of the lizards below Brach’s airship belched a torrent of roaring fire. The flames bathed the already damaged keel of Enhover’s Slayer in baking heat, and from a distance, they could see men scrambling away from the edges of the airship as the fire roared over the gunwales.
“Frozen hell,” hissed Sam.
Oliver was speechless.
“You didn’t say the things breathed fire!” cried Sam.
“They didn’t,” he muttered. “Not that I saw, at least. And these are… they’re bigger. Twice the size of what we faced.”
Enhover’s Slayer lurched upward. Half-a-dozen barrels rolled over the side, dropping down past the hull into the open air.
Two of the lizards were caught in the bombardment, and when the barrels landed and exploded, flinging the lead payload, the creatures staggered away, gaping rents torn in their flesh.
But the other two lizards were not done, and they leapt, twisting in the air as if trying to take flight, screeching an angry retort and blowing fire after the rising airship. Oliver could have sworn he saw tiny figures clinging to the monsters, like riders on a horse, but he decided he must have been mistaken as the lizards turned and leapt again, blowing another gout of flame into the heavy salt air.
The flames licked around the ruined bottom of the airship, and a corner of the rear sail caught fire. Oliver could see sailors scrambling on deck with water-filled buckets, trying to put out the flames. With no pretense of trying to stay low and continue the fight, Enhover’s Slayer climbed out of range of the lizards.
A thunderous crack resonated from behind, and Oliver turned to see a shower of rock exploding from the peak of Imbon’s mountain. It appeared to move slow, like it was happening beneath water, but as he gauged the distance, he realized that hunks of rock the size of houses were flying through the air faster than his airship could fly. Smoke, lit glowing red from below, billowed into the sky, lightning flashing deep within the cloud, the rumble of thunder barely audible beneath the roar of the explosion.
“Hells,” Oliver shouted, “take us higher, Ainsley, higher!”
He grabbed the gunwale as the airship jerked, and he watched in panic as the distant mountain peak vanished in a cloud of dust and debris. The volcano was erupting right before their eyes.
“Duke,” said Sam, gripping his arm and pointing toward the spice piers.
The airship that they’d first seen attempting to flee was listing terribly and dropping quickly. The tanks above the levitating stones must have been breached. It was a fatal position for an airship, as the levitating rocks could be soaked on one side, and rising on the other, making the list worse, and eventually flipping the thing over. Oliver cursed. Two leagues away, out of reach and on the other side of the battle, they could do nothing. The airship crashed down into the sea, water pounding onto the deck, washing over it. It was just a matter of time before that water spilled down into the hold, through the passageways, and into the chambers that held the levitating rocks. Drenched in so much sea water, they would sink like any stone.
The Cloud Serpent sped higher, and Ainsley yelled for the men to put on sail, to take them farther from the exploding mountain behind them, and toward the battle.
Oliver looked on in shock as Brach’s wounded airship rose, the lizards stalking beneath it, seeming to watch for it to come back within their range. Enhover’s Slayer was making it out over water, none of the crew even bothering to fire cannon at the creatures behind them.
The lizards kept hopping into the air and crashing back down onto the ground. They screeched and breathed flame but stayed well back from the water. Scattered around the lizards, the native horde was moving frantically. It seemed they at least saw the exploding volcano and understood the threat it posed.
“Where’s the third airship, Franklin’s Luck?” asked Oliver suddenly, looking for evidence it had gone down, but seeing nothing. “Did it…”
Sam, at his side, could only shake her head.
“There!” cried Mister Samuels, pointing aft.
In the distance, Oliver saw the white sails and brown hull of an airship. It was already three leagues away, headed south.
“I don’t understand,” said Sam.
“The natives,” growled Oliver. “I don’t know how they did it, but they figured a way to take an airship.”
Enhover’s Slayer limped over the horizon, looking as if it was sailing directly into the setting sun. The orange glow from that giant orb cut through the thick smoke and choking dust that suffused the sky around Imbon. The island’s top had blown, scattering the entire landmass with fire and scorching hot, liquid rock. The lizards and the natives had fled, running panicked before the deadly heat, or they were struck down by the shower of loose debris that crashed in a fatal rain.
Grim-faced, Oliver had watched them die or seen them escape where they were likely to die soon enough. Perhaps a few of them might survive. The spice caves could grant some protection, he imagined, though there was a steaming river of molten rock flowing between the pier and the caverns now. There could be some other way they avoided the inexorable flow, but Oliver wasn’t going to go down there and look. If anyone survived the bubbling heat that was still pouring liberally from the peak of the mountain, they would have earned it.
Instead of pursuing those below, the Cloud Serpent sailed close beside Enhover’s Slayer where Oliver could yell across the open space to Admiral Brach. The man’s airship was severely damaged, both from the initial trickery in the Company’s compound and then much worse by the engagement with the lizards. Brach and his crew could sail it, he claimed, but they would make straight for the Vendatts to find a friendly port for repairs. The longer they were aloft, the more they
risked a breach of the hold, exposing the levitating rocks within.
Both Brach and Oliver agreed it was too dangerous for Enhover’s Slayer to proceed, and with Imbon a flaming disaster behind them and the open sea all around, there was nowhere they could settle down to swap crew and supplies.
That left Oliver and the Cloud Serpent to pursue Franklin’s Luck into the unknown. It had been headed directly south at the last sighting, which left little doubt where they were going. There was only one thing on Enhover’s maps in that direction — the Darklands.
For some reason, the natives of Imbon had sacrificed everything, including thousands of their fellows, to abscond with an airship.
Oliver couldn’t help but wonder if they were running home. He grunted, forcing the thought down and turning to duck into the captain’s cabin. On Ainsley’s table, they’d already spread what maps she had, though there was little he could glean from them. Rough outlines of the coastline, a depiction of a wide, slow-looking river, and a capital deep in the interior. There were a few coastal towns, though the scale made them appear to be fishing villages rather than proper ports. There were some known roadways that led to the Southlands, but they had almost no information about what those were like.
Traders from the Darklands would venture to Durban and the Southlands’ markets, but it never went the other way. Most of the bulk commerce was conducted at the border and small depots that functioned as temporary towns, growing and shrinking depending on the season. Oliver had approached Darklanders while he had been stationed in Durban, but they had refused to speak of their homeland. And if anyone from the Southlands had been past the trading depots at the border, none of them had admitted it to the young Company cartographer. None of it offered any clue as to where the refugees from Imbon could be headed.
“Captives and a hostile crew,” muttered Captain Ainsley, leaning beside him to study the maps. “I can’t think they’ll stay far enough ahead of us that we’ll need these, m’lord. Our crew is experienced hands. We’ll chase them down within a day, two at the most.”