The whistle came again from overhead.
What’s the signal that these buckets are ready to lift?
Stovepipe stepped over to the dead man and made a quick search, discovering a metal whistle on a chain around the corpse’s severed neck. Although the links were thick with spilled blood, the whistle was untouched. He raised it to his lips and mimicked the whistling from the sky. To his relief, the hook immediately began its ascent, carrying the two buckets aloft with their deadly cargo ticking inside.
He reached down and grabbed the pied cap from the dead man. He pulled it onto his head, hoping it would serve as a sufficient disguise, however briefly, from the eyes of whoever was aboard the airship. Acting quickly, he scampered over to the ironclad and climbed up one of its ladders, pulling himself hand over hand until he arrived at the cabin. Finding the machine unguarded, he scrambled over the scuffed metal ridge and landed with a dull clunk on its upper surface. A quick twist of the pipe organ’s one protruding knob made the instrument falter and then fall silent, immediately breaking its spell on the corralled children.
Stovepipe could see the little ones snapping out of their trances, rubbing their eyes, getting to their feet, clearly baffled as to how they had arrived at this strange destination.
Swiftly he slid down the metal ladder on the opposite side of the ironclad, boot heels hitting hard against the sandy surface below. Staggering upright, he turned and ran toward the gate of the corral.
The first bomb exploded overhead.
The burst itself was not especially loud, but it echoed off the high canyon walls with a sound like a dozen cannons, and the flash of its detonation was like a bolt of lightning ripping through the night sky. The ponies panicked and reared, tugging against the thin rope line that secured them. The Comanche braves abandoned their bonfire and came running, all of them looking up in wonder at the wobbling airship.
Stovepipe threw himself against the tall wooden post at the edge of the corral gate. Unslinging the Henry rifle, he used its butt stock to push the huge latch up and free the gate to swing outward. It trembled, gravity opening it a few feet on its own before Stovepipe’s kick sent it flying the rest of the way. He saw Berta Freiburg, towering above the other children, pushing her way through the mass of them as they came stumbling out.
“Herr Stovepiper!” she shouted excited. “Why are you wearing zat hat?”
Ignoring the question, he asked her sternly, “Can you ride a horse?”
She nodded. “Certainly!”
“Bareback?”
“Yes!”
He pulled his knife from his belt and extended it to her, handle forward. “Take this and cut loose a Comanche pony. Every child who can ride, get ’em aboard a horse. If they can’t ride, they can hang on behind.” He tugged the pied cap from his head and extended it to her. “Here. Now you’re the Pied Piper. Lead ’em out!”
Berta snatched the hat from his hand, turned, and began waving at the children. “Kinder! Kinder!”
The second bomb burst overhead. This time, in addition to the lightning flash and the reverberating echoes, there was a ripping, wet human scream. Stovepipe suspected his explosive had shredded the metal bucket, blasting steel shards into some unfortunate crewman aboard the flying machine.
The Comanche warriors continued to run his way, but so far none of them had spotted him. Stovepipe dropped to his knees and, crouching behind the lowest rail of the corral gate, opened fire. Thick clouds of black powder smoke from his blazing rifle added to the chaos of the scene before him while behind him the children of New Hamelin ran for the row of ponies, following Berta Freiburg’s lead.
With thick goggles protecting his eyes and a green kerchief guarding his face, Cruces Crossley stepped clear of the gun smoke clouds far to Stovepipe’s right and ran for the Steampiper. Crooked Scar emerged a moment later, following fast behind the little man. Stovepipe started to turn and shoot at them, but at this point a fresh wave of Comanche braves, advancing on him with Winchesters and tomahawks, made a more pressing demand for his marksmanship. He laid down another volley with the Henry and then ducked as the braves’ erratic return fire zinged around him, kicking up dirt and chipping at the wooden rails. A stray arrow whisked by overhead and another struck with a loud crack, its chiseled stone tip sticking into a post nearby.
To his left he glimpsed the children swarming over the Indian ponies. Berta had done an impressive job of rallying the little ones and was now hastily putting them atop the horses’ backs, sometimes three or four per pony. So far the Comanches were too distracted to notice their animals being stolen.
The Steampiper’s whistle roared.
Stovepipe saw Crossley at the helm of the ironclad, signaling to the airship above by means of semaphore flags. Stovepipe wondered fleetingly what the Piper’s escape strategy was, and if anyone was still alive aboard the balloon to pilot it.
Behind Crossley stood Crooked Scar, rapidly inserting cartridges into the loading gate of a Winchester carbine. Stovepipe knew it was only a matter of seconds before the warrior would begin shooting at him from behind, trapping him in an inescapable cross fire. Then something astonishing happened.
Crooked Scar’s head shattered.
In one moment the legendary warrior was working the lever on his rifle and bringing it up to his shoulder, and in the next his entire skull flew apart in every direction like an egg struck by a hammer. A second afterward came the distant sound of the rifle that had done the deed.
Stovepipe glanced up to the canyon rim and spotted the telltale puff of white gun smoke, revealing the shooter’s position. As the cloud drifted, he thought he discerned the silhouette of Frau Freiburg perched at its source. There was another burst of white, then a third, and subsequently the entire canyon rim blossomed with cottony tufts. Bullets zinged into the camp, clanging as they bounced off the ironclad, cracking as they split railings, and thudding as they connected with Comanche flesh.
Although splattered with Crooked Scar’s blood, Crossley was uninjured. He immediately set the Steampiper chugging, its iron wheels slowly beginning to turn. The huge machine crept forward, gaining speed as it turned toward the canyon entrance.
Way ahead of it was Berta, astride a pinto pony, leading the mounted children out through the escape route. The few remaining Comanches made no effort to fire upon them, but instead directed their shots at the canyon rim.
Stovepipe fired the Henry twice, taking out a brave with each shot. He drew a bead on a third, but the rifle clicked empty. Setting it aside, he scrambled from cover and ran toward the Steampiper, which was quickly reaching its top speed. Running alongside it, he managed to get hold of a handrail and swing himself aboard. He climbed quickly to the edge of the upper deck and took a tentative peek over the side.
The Piper was fumbling with his belt. From its big leather cartridge loops, he withdrew two of the glass tubes that held sparkling crystals, one blue and one green. He discarded the corks from both of these and, with his right hand, poured their contents into his cupped left hand. Stepping over to open the iron door of the engine’s furnace, he cast the blue-green mixture into the fire and slammed the door closed again, levering it shut. There was a delay of approximately three seconds before a rumbling explosion sounded from inside, after which the great ironclad abruptly lunged forward at nearly double its original speed, dense black clouds spraying straight up from several of its smokestacks.
Stovepipe was shaken loose by the sudden change of speed and he fell to the ground, landing hard. He lay there gasping for a moment and then scrambled back up to his feet, watching with frustration as the Steampiper thundered toward its escape route, in pursuit of the fleeing children.
But Berta and her column of little ones had already ridden safely through, and just as the Steampiper inserted itself into the narrow pass, an avalanche of logs descended from above. They cascaded down the steep walls, some rolling like wheels, while others tumbled and bounced end over end. The logs piled up, blocking of
f the pass amid a colossal cloud of dust.
Under the influence of the magic crystal fire, the Steampiper was moving too fast to stop short of the obstacle. It collided with the makeshift barrier in a massive banging and twisting of metal, spraying of steam, and crunching of split lumber. Its pipe organ emitted one final, sorrowful note before it expired forever.
Stovepipe’s elation at the machine’s demise was short-lived, however, for almost immediately a giant shadow fell over the scene.
The airship was on the move.
Its mooring lines trailing along the ground, the immense craft drifted majestically toward the crash site. The impact of the ironclad’s collision had knocked Crossley flat against the pipe organ, but he was now on his feet, signaling the flying machine with semaphore flags. The ship maneuvered itself in the air, propellers whirring, so that its foremost mooring line reached the upper deck of the wrecked ironclad. The Piper discarded his signal flags and seized this rope, ascending it with the agility of an inchworm.
Stovepipe looked back and observed that the airship’s rear mooring line dangled invitingly just a few yards away. He leaped at it, grabbed the rope, and clung to it as the airship turned and began to rise, hoisting him aloft. Crossley was now almost aboard the ascending craft.
The airship dipped and turned, then picked up speed as it rose above the canyon rim. Stovepipe was swung left and right. He tried desperately to climb the rope, but despite the firm purchase his hands found on its thickly knotted hemp strands, he could not manage to get it gripped between his boots. He dangled helplessly.
Whoever was piloting the airship must have observed his plight, for they began turning the craft erratically in an effort to fling him off. Finally they dangled him level with the canyon rim and proceeded toward it at top speed to smash him against the rocks.
But as the stony rim approached, Stovepipe let loose of the rope and tumbled free, mitigating the impact by dropping downward many yards as the momentum carried him forward. He struck a gravelly patch and came to a stop, winded and exhilarated, bruised but uninjured. Wasting no time, he climbed up and over the canyon rim, noticing as he did that to his left and right were woodcutters, armed with long-range rifles, finishing off the last of Crooked Scar’s raiders. He scrambled down the outer wall of the canyon, making his way to where he could see, even through the starry dark of night, that several horses were tied off and waiting.
Thursday whinnied in greeting as he stumbled toward her. He was climbing into her saddle when a familiar voice cut through the dark.
“Herr Stovepiper!”
He was astonished. “Herr Fooks!”
The old man appeared from behind the other horses. He held up Stovepipe’s beloved Winchester and thrust it toward him. “Zee repairs are completed!”
Grinning, Stovepipe caught it in midair. “Is it loaded?”
Fooks chuckled. “Vut use is a rifle vich is not loaded?”
Stovepipe levered a round into the chamber. He slapped the reins against Thursday’s back and kicked his spurs dully against her flanks, the sparking charge in his boots long depleted. Thursday set off at a brisk trot that transformed quickly into a full gallop.
The airship….
Stovepipe could barely see it now, a black oval against the starlight sky, but there was still a chance.
The horse thundered across the prairie, her rider bouncing hard in the polished leather saddle, struggling to rotate the small pewter crank embedded in his rifle’s wooden stock. Eventually he turned the horse toward the steep upward incline of a hill, but instead of dismounting, he proudly rode Thursday to the peak of the rise. There he swung from the saddle and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. Bringing its telescope up to his eye, he triggered the light beam generator. The side of the distant aircraft lit up in its brilliant ray, providing a perfect target.
Stovepipe took aim and squeezed the trigger.
The hot, steaming water felt delightful against his bare skin, but at the moment his greatest pleasure was the company he kept. The laughter of the Freiburg twins was sweet music as they splashed him playfully and bounced in the deep, hot bathwater.
Stovepipe was still astounded by how quickly Kauffmann had converted the crashed ironclad’s boiler into a source of steam for his long-planned bathhouse. Equally impressive was the speed with which Freiburg, following a tearful reunion with his scalp salvaged from Crooked Scar’s belt, had so efficiently cannibalized the same twisted metal wreckage for the components of a massive new brew kettle.
“Zo, tell us, Herr Stovepiper,” asked one of the girls, “zee Pied Piper vuss killed ven his flying machine was shot down?”
Stovepipe smiled. “No, he got out while it was still burning and ran for a cave in the hills, the cave where he’d entombed all of the rats. It was blocked with a huge stone, but he used magic powders from his belt to move that. I pursued him inside.”
“Zat is where you killed him?” asked the other girl.
“I merely gave him a push…into a pit at the rear of the cave.”
The twins looked at each other and then back at Stovepipe. “He’s still in zee cave?”
“Well, I can’t imagine there’s really anything left of him by now.” Stovepipe smiled and added quietly, “After all, rats must eat.”
One of the girls let out a shrill squeal and nearly leaped out of the water.
Stovepipe grinned. He was now certain she was Gerdie, for in these intimate circumstances he had no difficulty telling the two shapely young women apart. His only problem, in fact, was choosing between them.
The wooden door of the steamy bathing chamber creaked open, letting in a chilly gust. Stovepipe’s breathing stopped and his heartbeat quickened.
Standing in the doorway was the Pied Piper.
Then a sweet laugh broke the spell.
Berta Freiburg stepped inside, still wearing the pied hat Stovepipe had given her, and wrapped in a bulky robe that oddly resembled the Piper’s shiny coat.
Relieved, Stovepipe let loose his breath again. Then his brow furrowed. “Berta, uh, what are you doing here?”
Smiling widely, the youngest Freiburg reached up and unfastened her robe, casting it aside. Beneath it she wore a bathing gown, but this, too, she immediately discarded. She eased down herself into the steaming water to join them, whispering mischievously into Stovepipe’s ear.
“Papa tells me,” she said, “you’re the kind of man who likes to try all three.”
The Mechanical Wings
by Pip Ballantine
(BASED ON “THE WILD SWANS” BY HANS
CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN)
Eleanor stood in the shadow of her father and watched him slip the golden ring on the finger of the wickedest person in any of the floating cities. Her protestations, her scream of outrage lay still on her tongue like a painful stone. One that she would gladly have spat out into the world—but dared not.
Faine Escrew was tall, beautiful, and the richest women in all of the sky. She also had a heart as dark as a moonless, starless night, and not an ounce of pity for any living creature in her blood. As she turned and looked over her shoulder at Eleanor and her brothers standing on the steps of the palace below her, a smile lingered on her lips. It was one that some might have said was beautiful, but that the princess knew was more of a smirk than anything else.
King Ivan had long ago passed into Faine’s iron grip—anything that Eleanor said now would be wasted on him. However, her brothers were not so circumspect. Iain, the youngest of the king’s sons, and of the eleven the closest to his sister in age but furthest in temperament, could not keep his words to himself.
“Snake,” he whispered under his breath, his blue eyes narrowed in hatred. Too late, Eleanor shot him a look to silence him. A slight shift in Faine’s back told that she had heard Iain’s comment.
All unaware, the aristocracy and common folk of the City of Swans watched their monarch marry his second wife. Perhaps they hoped he would not have quite so many children with
this one, but more likely no thoughts at all occupied their minds. Madame Escrew had that effect on people. The dirigible city relied on her trade for its mere existence.
Every ship in this city, tethered one to another, filled the envelopes of their airships with gas mined from her mountain estate. Those ships that could not afford the precious æther from the Escrew Conglomerate would eventually be cut loose from the city as a whole and be allowed to drift downward into the boiling earth beneath the clouds.
It was a fair enough reason not to stand against her, but it didn’t make it any easier for Princess Eleanor.
Farthest down the stairs stood Eric and Merion, the eldest of her brothers. They were whispering to each other, not bothering to even try to be covert. Eleanor had eleven brothers, and all of them were far too rash.
Finally the ceremony was over, and the priest proclaimed them husband and wife. As the crowd cheered—somewhat weakly, Eleanor thought—the couple retired into the bowels of the cathedral ship to begin the arcane rite of crowning Madame Escrew queen.
Eleanor released an angry sigh, spun around, and walked down the steps toward the knot of princes waiting for her.
Eleven brothers. The other cities, particularly Eagle and Owl, were jealous of the surplus of sons the King of Swan City possessed. Eleanor could tell them it was not everything that they imagined, especially for a lone princess. Much as she loved her brothers, sometimes it felt as if she were floating in a sky full of men. At times like this, in fact.
Instead of complaining, she led the way back to the palace with not a comment to her brothers except for a curt look. They fell into step around her, all varying shades of blond and brown hair. Just like that, her feelings toward her brothers changed. Instead of swallowing her, this phalanx of tall men were providing comfort. Now they were her own personal army.
She knew full well that was what Madame Escrew feared.
Clockwork Fairy Tales - A Collection Of Steampunk Fables Page 30