Natasha glared at the scene. Her frustration and anger grew by the moment, all the little insults and failures stacking until she could barely see through her rage. Natasha sputtered and choked, trying to find the words to express everything she felt.
She took a breath and yelled out at the beach, “You scurvy-ridden, donkey-loving, scryn-sucking arseholes! When I get out of here, you’ll pay! You’ll all pay! I’m going to gut you and wear your intestines for a belt! I’m going to burn your homes and loved ones alive and then dance in the ashes! You’re all going to pay! You’re all going to pay for what you’ve done to me!”
Natasha screamed at them until her breath gave out, and then a little more. She screamed until she collapsed, panting, against the bulkhead. It smelled of oiled wood and sulfur from the guns. The tropical sun warmed her hair through the opening of the gun port.
They’re going to pay, she vowed for the hundredth time. Natasha caught her breath. She pulled herself up again, hands on the lip of the port. Screaming at everyone felt good, but it didn’t get her any closer to her freedom. No, she needed to get back to examining her surroundings. As she stood, however, Natasha noticed something odd out on the beach.
A small ridge of rock jutted out from the jungle, just west of the camp. No more than ten feet high, it didn’t even stretch all the way down to the shore. She’d noted it before; the Goliath’s marines simply avoided it when the their patrols took them down the beach in that direction. Now, however, Natasha spied a figure laying low across the top of the ridge; someone furtive was watching the camp.
They were too far away to make out clearly, but she thought she spied a fringe of red beard below a dusky face. He wore a brown leather vest and clutched an unsheathed scimitar in one hand. Whatever he was, he certainly wasn’t Perinese.
“Hello,” Natasha muttered aloud. “What’s this now?”
Two more figures appeared atop the rise, heads bobbing as they crawled up into view. One was large, with long dark hair, while the other was short and stout. They appeared much the same as their fellow. It came to her then: these were the Salomcani that the Goliath’s crew were so concerned about.
Natasha tapped her chin. Was this just a scouting party? Or a raid? And how could she use it to her best advantage? A distraction would give her time to work at her fetters, maybe slip free. But without any tools she wasn’t going to break her chains.
She scrabbled to her feet and looked down at the other end of the deck. Her guard sat on the stairwell there, half dozing. If she could get him to come over she might have a chance. But she had to hurry. If an attack was imminent, he’d leave the gun deck as soon as the noise started.
“Hey!” she hollered. “Hey, you blue-breasted arsehole! Get over here!”
The man started awake, looked around until he identified her as the source of the noise, then shuffled slightly out of sight.
Damn you to the Realms Below, she cursed. She could swear at him some more, try and taunt him over. That would take time, though, a luxury she did not have. Seduction was out of the question, too.
Natasha looked up above the nearest cannon. The tools used by the cannon crew hung from a rack attached to the ceiling for easy reach: a swab on a long pole, a staff-like rammer, and the linstock. The last was the her best option, a short polearm with a long blade at the end and a complex jaw arrangement along the crosspiece for holding a match. If she could get her hands on that, maybe she could pry up the ring in the floor, or break the links on her chain. The idea had crossed her mind before, but she’d thought herself too far away from the tools to reach them. Maybe she simply hadn’t tried hard enough.
The chain rattled as she pulled it to its length. Natasha reached, stretching herself toward the wooden pole of the linstock. Her fingers almost brushed it, tantalizingly close. She put one hand on the iron cannon to brace herself and tried again. Then she fell against the weapon with a clatter.
Natasha cursed and flung herself upward. The wooden pole brushed against her fingertips. Why didn’t I keep one of those bowls of gruel? she wondered. Or a spoon? That might have given her the reach to get the linstock down. Instead, she had wasted them, using them as ammunition against the young midshipman assigned to feed her.
Her chains rattled as she struggled. When she fell again, her elbow struck the side of the cannon painfully before she collided with the deck. “Hogspit!” she cried in anger and frustration. Natasha slammed a fist on the deck and kicked out, sending her chains rattling. “Poxied gut-leavings of a diseased whore!”
Heavy boots tromped up the deck. Her guard rounded the rear of the cannon into view. He held his musket up, armed and ready. This one, at least, took her seriously.
“Here now! What are you on about this time?”
Oh sure, now you show up, she thought. “Oh sure,” she said aloud. “Now you show up.”
The man glared at her. He was shaped roughly like a potato, and sweated in the tropical heat. “What? Get away from that cannon. Hayes has had them all kept loaded and primed. I’m not to let you muck about with them.”
Natasha stared at him. Then she looked at the cannon. Loaded? What kind of ass keeps a whole gun deck primed? What were they even going to fire upon? The tilt of the ship aimed the broadside at the beach.
She pushed that detail away. Her fish had been hooked. She just needed to pull him alongside. Carefully now, carefully. This is going to take subtlety. I can’t threaten him. Got to convince him to come close. Demure. I’ve got to be demure. Wait. What does that mean?
“Oh,” she said. “I just need—”
A great battle cry from outside the ship interrupted her. Shouts of alarm and surprise echoed from the Perinese in reply, accompanied by a great clatter of swords and the crack of musket and pistol shots. Her guard started.
“What in the Realms Above is that?” he cried. The Bluecoat stepped over Natasha to peer out her gun port. “Goddess above! The Salomcani are attacking!”
All right, thought Natasha. Or he could just step over here on his own. She didn’t stop to consider her luck. Instead she coiled her legs and prepared to trip him. He was too close to use the musket. That meant he was hers.
A thunderous explosion roared on the island outside. Natasha instinctively ducked, covering her head. Half a second later, the bulkhead wall of the ship resounded with dozens of sharp thumps as a scattering of debris rapped it from outside. She peered up, hoping the marine hadn’t fallen back.
The man stood still before the gun port. Then he toppled back to the deck in a slow arc, dead. A half-repaired hatchet stood embedded in his face.
What in the world? Natasha peered outside. Battle raged up and down the Perinese encampment. The armory, however, was a blackened crater. Someone had knocked a powder barrel against the ill-placed forge.
Natasha didn’t stop to question her luck. She crawled over to the Bluecoat and grabbed the haft of the hatchet. The man twitched distressingly; it seemed that he wasn’t quite dead yet. Tugging and pulling, she eased the tool out an inch at a time, eventually coming free with a spray of blood that drenched her face and shirt. Natasha spat, but the coppery taste still remained.
She ignored the corpse and focused again on her freedom. Sitting, she stretched both legs until the chain between them was taut. Then she hacked down with the hatchet as close as she dared on either side. The blood on the blade ran down the haft, making it slick against her palms. Natasha held tight: this wasn’t the first time she’d had to perform tricky work covered in someone else’s ichors.
The chain bent and jumped with each blow. Sparks and slivers of iron flew across the deck. At last it broke, only a few links away from her right ankle. She did the same to her other leg, impatiently hacking until her fetter there separated as well. Then Natasha stood and threw the hatchet at the rear bulkhead, sinking it deep into the wood as she howled a wordless cry.
I’m free!
A cascade of all the vows and promises she’d made flooded back through her min
d. But not yet, not yet. First she had to make good her escape.
Natasha crawled over to her dead guard. She took his musket and swordbelt, strapping the latter around her own waist. He carried a smallsword, much lighter than her preferred cutlass, but it would do. His boots she took as well. Pleasingly, they were just the right size.
Now prepared, she glanced back outside. The Salomcani still pressed their attack even after the explosion. Many looked injured on both sides. She couldn’t have asked for a better distraction. Now was the time to get away.
She left her prison and strode up the deck toward the stair at the bow. As she went she slapped the rear of each of the fat iron cannons, feeling almost jovial. Halfway up the deck, she stopped and paused to look at the heavy weapons. One had to keep one’s promises, after all.
A quick inspection of the cannons confirmed that what the dead guard had said was true. Madly, each was primed, powdered, and ready to fire. All that was needed was for the guncocks to be pulled back and then triggered.
She worked quickly. Leaving her musket up by the stair, she moved to each cannon and pulled back the tiny hammer-arm positioned above the touch-hole. They locked into place with a click, thundering devastation held at bay by a bit of clockwork. Dangling from the back of each mechanism was a long leather lanyard. A quick jerk and the guncock would hammer a piece of flint down at a steel striking pan, inciting the weapon to fire. When the last of the heavy guns was ready, Natasha took up the leather lanyard and peered out beyond the ship.
Both crews had recovered a bit from the explosion moments ago. Burning bits of wood peppered the beach, and some of the tents in their row were on fire. Bodies lay scattered about, more dead from the forge explosion than from the fighting. The Perinese struggled to regroup into a formation, but the Salomcani were fast and skilled. She spotted Commander Coppertree at one edge of the fighting, up near the jungle’s edge, protected by Hayes and his pet aetherite. Whenever one of the raiders moved too close, the ship’s magician sprayed caustic light their way. Hayes waved his sword, but failed to attack anyone.
Natasha glowered. She stepped back clear of the gun port and took a firm grip on the lanyard. “Retribution is at hand!” she yelled. Then she pulled the lanyard.
The clockwork mechanism leapt forward. Sparks erupted and the cannon fired, sending a great deafening gout of flame and smoke belching out beyond the ship. The weapon recoiled, checked only by the heavy tackles that bound it to the bulkhead wall on either side of the gun port. The sound of its thunder echoed throughout the deck.
Natasha didn’t wait to check the results. She cackled and moved to the next cannon, taking up the lanyard there. It fired with a similar thunderous eruption. Then she moved down the line, laughing as she fired upon the beach and the bloody struggle taking place upon the sands.
Her ears rang by the time she reached the stairwell and her new musket. The whole deck stank of sulphur and was filled with smoke. Though her lungs burned for clean air, she felt almost light, buoyed up by joy. Unfortunately, she couldn’t wait to see the results. Freedom still beckoned. Cocking the hammer back on her musket, she carefully climbed the stair.
Natasha ignored the other decks she passed through. They were unoccupied. It seemed that everyone aboard the ship had joined in to fight off the raid, at least so far. No one appeared to bar her ascent. The dank gloom of the stairwell lightened as she climbed, until at last she stepped out from the hatch and onto the main deck of the ship.
The sun was bright overhead. Too bright, after three days belowdecks. It joined with the ringing in her ears to obscure her senses. Natasha held up her musket while the world slowly slipped into focus.
She was not alone on the deck, she saw. The carpenter and two assistants stood at the gunwales with their backs to her, exclaiming in horror at the beach encampment below. None of them seemed to have noticed her yet.
Even with the cannon smoke rising up past the hull she could see the devastation she had wrought. All fighting was ended. Bodies littered the sandy beach, scattered and stark against the black scorches left by her cannons. The Salomcani were in full retreat. Those who could grabbed sacks, tools, and whatever spoils they found as they fled. The Perinese were simply trying to regroup. Even through the ringing in her ears she heard the shrillness of confused orders, the cries of the wounded and desperate yelling. Nothing had ever been sweeter.
“You!” cried a voice. “You did this!”
Natasha looked back. The carpenter had seen her. He was old and grizzled, with muscles on his arms like thick cords of jerky. The man ran at her, a hammer raised in his hands.
Reflexively, she took aim with the musket and fired. The weapon gave a sharp crack and ejected a plume of smoke. She tossed it aside and drew the smallsword, taking up a stance.
She felt, more than heard, his hammer hit the deck. As the smoke cleared, she watched him crumple to his knees. The ball had taken him square in the chest. He shook and gave a long gasp as blood pooled on the planks around him. Natasha grinned up at the remaining two men. She recognized them. One was the commander’s boy, Paine. The other had been aboard when she’d first been captured, two days ago.
“All right, then,” she said. “Who’s next?”
They fled up the deck, hollering wordless warnings at the top of their lungs. Natasha moved to where they’d stood, calmly stepping over the dying carpenter, and surveyed the battle again. She tried to pick out Coppertree, Hayes, or anyone else who had personally wronged her, but there was too much smoke and devastation. One thing did stand out, though: a large group of the Perinese were pointing at the ship, and her in particular.
Hmm, she mused. Time to go.
Natasha sheathed her blade and stalked up the deck toward the port-side bow. It occurred to her that she hadn’t given thought to what to do next for her escape. Her father would have chided her for that. Fortunately, no one else on the ship was opposing her. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a ready longboat or launch anywhere in sight.
She reached the quarterdeck and peered over the side of the Goliath. Beyond, the surf rolled in toward the isle, a soft blue-green, clear enough that she could see sand a few fathoms below the surface. There wasn’t any ready boat over here, either. She was going to have to swim.
Nothing for it, then. Natasha kicked off her new boots, made sure her sword was sheathed, and dove overboard.
The water was a cool shock after the smoke and stinking air of the ship. Her momentum from the dive carried her down and through it until she touched the sandy floor of the ocean. It was deep enough, just barely. Natasha kicked off from it and swam.
She swam underwater as long as she could, until her lungs burned and her limbs ached. When she surfaced for air, she was pleased to see the Goliath a goodly distance behind her. Natasha corrected her course and swam away with broad over-arm strokes in parallel with the beach, heading west around the island. East would take her back to the isolated part of the isle the treacherous Dawnhawk had dropped her upon, and there was little point in that.
Natasha swam until the steamship disappeared around the corner of the isle. The surf pushed her constantly inland. She fought it only a little. When her limbs felt like wood and she couldn’t swim any farther, she floated, letting the tide deliver her back onto a short, rocky shore just beneath the jungle canopy. She lay there, panting, getting her strength back and enjoying the shade.
A figure appeared overhead. Natasha blinked up at a rough, dusky face with a heavy red beard and twin mustachios set below golden eyes. His clothing was finely made, if tattered. A scimitar hung from his hip. Other raiders appeared around him, carrying weapons, stolen goods, and a fair share of fresh wounds.
“Well,” said the man in perfect Salomcan. “What have we here?”
Oh, by the Goddess’s teats, Natasha swore silently. I just did this!
Chapter Ten
Fengel shifted in his crouch. He tried for a better angle through the bars of his cell at the padlock holding it close
d. The hot metal gaff-hook slipped in his hand. He fumbled for a tighter grip on the makeshift lock pick, ignoring the stink of smoldering cloth and the growing pain in his fingertips. The bent piece of metal was his best chance of escape right now. Dropping it didn’t bear thinking upon.
Slowly, carefully, Fengel adjusted his grip. He teased again at the padlock. From outside the ship came the cries of the wounded and dying, punctuated occasionally by the pop of musket fire. Both the Salomcani and the Perinese sounded as if they were reeling after the mad firing of the ship’s broadside at the beach. Fengel pushed the noise out of his mind to focus on his freedom.
His hook found the inner latch. Fengel took a breath. The Perinese navy had far harsher methods of discipline available aboard a ship, and so rarely spent excessively on security. This padlock was a simple thing. But it had been a long time since he’d had to tease open a chest or slip past a door without the key.
If I can just....He twisted the hook to the right and a loud click sounded. The padlock snapped open. Fengel dropped his makeshift pick and removed the lock. Retrieving his hat, he swung the door open wide, rose from his crouch, and stepped out of the brig cell to freedom.
The berth deck was still empty. At the first cries of battle, both of his guards, Sergeant Cumbers and Private Simon, had run off to join the fighting. Aside from Commander Coppertree and the ship’s carpenter, he was likely alone aboard the Goliath. And Cumbers had let slip that the Commander was well enough to inspect the camp today. Fengel knew he needed to move quickly. This chance wouldn’t last. Especially with the recent action of the ship’s guns.
On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy) Page 12