Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  The first mate gave a weary nod while Reaver Jane stared in despair.

  Fengel clapped. “So! That’s that, then. Off you go.”

  Lina frowned as the others went to their tasks. “Wait, captains? What did you call me up for?” Runt wriggled along her shoulders, and she put a hand up to quiet him.

  Natasha looked at her. “We’ve got to give our obeisance to Father,” she said. “Fengel insists you come along.”

  “Indeed,” continued her husband. “I’ve come to see you as a bit of good fortune, Miss Stone. Also, like me, you’re clever in a pinch.”

  “Even if you’re a mutinous little traitor,” said Natasha flatly.

  They separated just after that, with Lina trailing sullenly along after Fengel and Natasha. The pirate king, Euron Blackheart, held court at the Bleeding Teeth, a Nob Terrace tavern just a short distance away from the Skydocks. The trip proved quick enough, and before long she followed the captains into a wide taproom.

  Lina hated the Bleeding Teeth. It was always sweltering, the heat coming from a plethora of lit lanterns and sconces that covered every available space. Souvenirs, it was said, from every place that Euron Blackheart had ever raided. Combined, they bathed the room in daylight brilliance.

  It was also surprisingly busy. Lina stared at the collection of pirates milling around the room, like so many brilliantly colored birds.

  Wait. There are captains here.Is something going on? She spied Khalid Al-Murdawzi and Brunehilde of the Solrun’s Hammer. There was James Glastos of the Powderheart as well.

  Euron Blackheart himself, the pirate king, sat in a great high-backed chair before the crackling fireplace. Beneath his outdated and faded finery, he was bent and gnarled, like an old tree grown in on itself. Eyes like hard glass peered out from above a hawk-like nose and a bushy grey beard shot through with black. A full tankard of foamy ale sat on an armrest beside him, but the pirate king was intently studying an older wooden mug, cracked and punctured as if someone had shot it with a pistol.

  Beside Lina, Fengel stiffened. Natasha changed as well, her carefree nonchalance turning into something tight and brittle. They looked to one another, then strode forth as one across the taproom to stand in front of the pirate king. Lina followed, but she tried to do so inconspicuously.

  Old Euron looked up from the wooden mug, his eyes widening at the sight of Natasha. “Avast!” he called out. “Why, it be my darling girl, returned home!” He glared at Fengel. “And her primping popinjay of a husband.”

  Natasha actually blushed, looking embarrassedly around at the assembled captains. Fengel, on the other hand, set his jaw. He bent in a low bow. “The crew of the Dawnhawk has returned to port,” he said loudly, “and thus, I have come to give our obeisance to the rule of Blackheart.”

  “And it be my damned poor fortune that I have to take it,” replied Euron sourly. He leaned back, still clutching the broken mug in his hoary old hands. “Ye know, back in my day a proper pirate captain wouldn’t have been bowin’ and scrapin’ like so before me. He would have damned well stood straight and told me to go off to the Realms Below!”

  “Yes,” said Fengel tightly. “And you killed them all because of it.” Lina actually heard his teeth grinding.

  “So I did,” said Euron. The pirate king sounded tired. “So I did. Reddon was the last of them. Glorious bastard he was. Arr! Remember when we came to it, down on th’ Waterdocks? Said he didn’t know what I be talkin’ about, said he be perfectly loyal. But I saw the gleam in his eye, oh aye. I’d just caught him off guard, was all. What a fight we had!” He shook his head. “Glorious, glorious. Those days be gone, though. An’ with ’em, all the real pirates.” He glared at Fengel. “The only thing that be left is fools like ye.”

  Fengel returned the glare so hard that his monocle popped free to dangle on its chain.

  Euron sighed, turning to face Natasha. “But arr, me daughter! Ye give me hope. How goes the pillagin’? Brought back a fat hold full o’ bloody loot? I know ye haven’t had a decent man to run things since Mordecai died, but even this overdressed popinjay should know how to keep order aboard a ship. And look, ye’ve even found a parrot, like I used to have!” The old pirate eyed it critically. “It do be a bit funny lookin’, though.”

  Natasha flushed crimson. “I’ve been doing fine,” she said, voice flat. On her shoulder, Butterbeak hunched down and puffed out his feathers, seemingly embarrassed.

  Her father laughed aloud, slapping his thigh. “Of course ye have, of course.”

  “She has,” said Fengel, voice flat and cutting, stepping forward to squarely meet the pirate king. “Natasha’s brought the Dawnhawk back to port with a full hold. She’s been in command just as much as I. She’s the one who took our prizes. There have been a few...disruptions of late, but she doesn’t need anyone to run a tight ship. Both our names are feared by those crossing the Atalian Sea—far more than Euron Blackheart.”

  Euron dropped his mug in surprise. “Ye pup! How dare ye? Why, back in my day—”

  “Yes,” said Fengel, “back in your day. But your day is over, you old fart. This is our era”—he gestured at the pirates around the room—“and while we offer you the respect due, it’s we who make Haventown great.”

  Captain Fengel turned on his heel and strode away for the door. Natasha, looking torn, glanced back once at the old pirate on his throne. Then she followed Fengel.

  Lina took one look at Euron’s face and slunk away after them.

  Chapter Two

  Admiral Wintermourn considered disowning his son.

  It wasn’t really a question of if he would. More a question of how. Official notice of the cessation of hostilities had been delivered this morning by courier ship, ending the long struggle between the Kingdom of Perinault and the Sheikdom of Salomca. The final conflict had occurred in Arquam Bay, ending any chance of enemy naval dominance and birthing a glorious new era for the Kingdom. A grand victory, to be certain, yet his worthless offspring had somehow managed to lose both his command and his life in the process. While he had taken two enemy vessels with him, that was no less than expected of a Wintermourn scion.

  The admiral stood upon the quarterdeck of the Colossus, arms folded behind him as he inspected his vessel for any imperfection. The dreadnought flagship of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, the Colossus had been built for the war and was still almost fresh from the yards at Darrenway. She carried a modern steam engine, paddlewheels, and a full complement of the most advanced guns available. The crew worked under the fading glow of twilight, checking rigging, lighting lanterns, and tying up the sails. His officers moved about calling orders, immaculate in their dress blues and whites. Along the deck rails stood the ship’s company of Bluecoat marines, ranked at attention in their cerulean jackets and round black caps, waiting for any sign of trouble.

  Beyond the Colossus stretched the Atalian Sea, calm, her horizon broken only by the cliffs of the Copper Isles directly to the east, which shone in the light of the setting sun. Dozens of other warships floated nearby, similarly at anchor. A more poetic man might make allusion to the formation of some aquatic city, moving with the ebb and flow of the waves.

  Admiral Wintermourn was not a poetic man. He did appreciate the sight, though; the numbers meant strength. Almost the entirety of the Perinese Royal Navy had been directed to this action, save those ships necessary at Arquam. Victory against the Salomcani had been a foregone conclusion for over a year now, so much so that the fleet could be sent to pacify a lackluster rebellion in the Breachtown colony. That done, the only question had been what to target next. When Wintermourn received his new orders, he approved the choice. Now the strongest naval force in the world was in position just outside of the Copper Isles. The setting sun seemed particularly appropriate when he considered their foe.

  “Almost ready now, sir.”

  Wintermourn glanced at Sergeant Adjutant Lanters, standing deferentially aside. The man was a side of beef in uniform, with little intellect, and
worse, no patronage. But it wouldn’t be said that Admiral Wintermourn didn’t reward dedication; when trapped in a burning building three months ago, with unholy undead abominations clawing at their feet, the man had stood fast where all Wintermourn’s other subordinates had fled. For that, he made Lanters his adjutant for this fleet action, commanding all the Colossus’s Bluecoats. The man also made a good valet, he’d found. While giving a mere marine the same authority as a navy field officer had generated resentment among his own lieutenants, they were all canny enough to keep their complaints to themselves.

  “I should hope so, Sergeant,” replied the admiral, glancing past the man. “Any more time spent on this task is unacceptable. Subterfuge of this sort is quite unbecoming.”

  A dozen men worked at the port-side gunwales. They loaded weapons into a longboat launch along with casks of whale oil. Disgraced volunteers one and all, the men followed the direction of Able Seaman Hayes, who directed the preparations stiffly, his back only barely recovered from the bite of the nine-tailed-cat. The ex-pirate Oscar Pleasant sulked within the launch itself. Before long they would venture alone into the island chain to the east, hunting for the pirate port called Haventown and the airship Skydocks there.

  “Aye, sir,” replied Lanters. “No one’s going to miss these sacks o’ skin, though. And if they do succeed, the Goddess-damned sky pirates will be crippled. Assumin’ that Pleasant fellow proves trustworthy.”

  Admiral Wintermourn sighed. “They won’t succeed, Sergeant. The only thing they’ll do is prod the bear awake. Which is the only reason I am allowing this dishonorable course of action. We’ve been at anchor all day, yet these damnable sky pirates haven’t even noticed us!” He shook his head. Cutthroats and rogues they may have been, but he couldn’t imagine that the pirates were so miserably oblivious to the threat waiting on their doorstep.

  “I would love to hang Mr. Pleasant,” Wintermourn continued, “but it seems he can be useful in this instance. So yes, let him lead the way into that warrens. He will be trustworthy enough for that. The fellow has no home now but ours.”

  Still, this preemptive skulking rankled him. Things were done a certain way in the navy. Great battles full of sound and fury, the spent lives of common men wicking out like burned-down candles—that was the way to victory. If he had to goad the enemy to play their part, so be it.

  Wintermourn watched as Able Seaman Hayes loaded a cask of oil into the longboat. So be it. He could almost see it now: wooden buildings afire, pirates and saboteurs both burning. Tottering blindly about, reaching up with fingers like claws as they died and rose again...

  The false sun of a galvanic lantern bloomed above the crow’s nest of the Colossus, cutting through the memory.

  Ah. There he is. One last presence was required before the invasion could truly begin. Though it...complicated matters. The newcomer had taken a different route than that of the fleet. However, now here he was, right on schedule. The admiral cast one last look about the deck, then straightened his wig, adjusted his hat, and gestured to Sergeant Adjutant Lanters. Everything had to be perfect now.

  The sergeant gave a nod. "Atten-shun!" he bellowed, both hands cupped about his mouth. Every man on the deck froze in his task, from able seamen all the way to First Lieutenant Lebam, and turned to face the admiral.

  “Present arms!” continued Lanters. The marines along the rails stepped forward and raised their muskets to the sky. “Fire!”

  The rippling thunder of a hundred shots echoed out across the deck and over the water. There were enough ships clustered nearby that the salute might prove dangerous. It didn’t matter. Some things were just done, especially for a member of the royal family. And maybe the pirates would notice that.

  The lantern above winked out, replaced by the silent, oblong hulk of an airship. Smaller than the ridiculous contraptions built by the Haventown Mechanists, this vessel was made for war. Its gas bag and gondola both were armored, and smaller propeller assemblies along either side of the hull helped the two in the rear to provide speed. Golden lettering up near the bow declared its name, and the sunburst sigil emblazed across the gas bag declared its allegiance. Still, to Admiral Wintermourn’s eye, the Glory of Perinault was an ungainly vessel. It lacked the imposing grandeur of a proper oceangoing warship.

  He could hear the whir of propellers as the Glory shifted in its position above their topsails. The airship floated to starboard, then lowered, coming down until its gondola deck sat just above the Colossus’s own. Bluecoats ran out a boarding ramp, then lowered it down with a mechanical winch. One of Wintermourn’s lieutenants barked an order, sending deckhands to secure it.

  The time has come, then. Admiral Wintermourn jerked his head, then descended to the deck and the base of the boarding ramp. Sergeant Adjutant Lanters followed, and First Lieutenant Lebam gathered with the other officers. For all of his confidence and rank, a sense of trepidation lingered in Admiral Wintermourn’s heart. He had never met the crown prince before, and what he had heard from correspondence back home did not reassure him.

  The deckhands scurried away as he moved amidships to face the ramp, sufficiently far away to allow an honor guard to appear. He was not disappointed, as four men descended to the deck, ornate in uniforms of red, blue, and gold. They held long-bladed halberds etched with the sunburst sigil of Perinault and carried at their hips a far more practical saber, as well as a brace of flintlock pistols. The royal guard descended, splitting off to stand at either side of the ramp, glaring about the Colossus before turning worried gazes back up to the airship.

  No one appeared. For a moment stillness reigned, disrupted only by a loose bit of sail flapping above in the tropical breeze.

  Then Wintermourn heard it. A heavy tromp, as of many booted feet all taking a step at once. The clank of metal followed, both sounds repeating, quickly building into a monotonous rhythm that grew louder with every passing moment. The ramp to the Glory began shaking with some unseen force.

  A figure in a brazen suit of heavy platemail armor appeared atop the ramp. It moved mechanically, flywheels spinning and pistons hammering away in the spaces between its plates. Steam puffed out from a small exhaust pipe behind the right pauldron next to the slung barrels of a complicated firearm, which was something like a heavy pepperbox musket.

  The armored knight descended as another appeared behind it. And then another. In moments a whole platoon of the things had tromped down onto the Colossus, bending and bowing the boarding ramp until it looked like the thing would crack into flinders. Wintermourn’s officers fell back at their approach, but the machines ignored them, splitting off to stand two to a side, forming two columns leading away from the airship. In all, Admiral Wintermourn counted twenty of the mechanical, inhuman things.

  A man appeared atop the ramp, hands folded behind him. He was young and handsome in a richly cut uniform of red, black, and gold. The boots he wore were so well polished that they gleamed in the light of the shipboard lanterns. A blade was sheathed at his hip, a longsword in the old style. Admiral Wintermourn had never met the youth but recognized him immediately: Crown Prince Gwydion, whose image was pressed into every silver sovereign minted in the Kingdom.

  The prince descended to the deck, followed by three others. Two were servants, who split away to join the guards, while the third was a bearded fellow in something almost like proper naval uniform. He followed the Crown Prince Gwydion as the prince strode down between the mechanical knights, his cold grey eyes focused intently upon Wintermourn’s own. He stopped before the admiral, just far away enough for propriety’s sake.

  Admiral Wintermourn felt suddenly wary. Wolf’s eyes, cold and grey. Such a thing was rare in the Kingdom. He bent down to one knee. All about the deck came the rustle of uniforms as his officers and crew followed suit. “My liege,” he said.

  The prince abruptly laughed. His voice was rich and mellifluous, clearly used to easy jesting. “A hundred-gun salute? That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it? Though the pirates are
apparently deaf and blind both not to notice us so far.” He reached down and grabbed Wintermourn’s hand, yanking him up. The admiral spluttered; such contact was entirely improper.

  “On your feet, on your feet. Enough groveling like some damned peasant who thinks the sun shines out my arse. So! You must be Wintermourn. Lord High Admiral of the Sea, commanding this fine fleet of my royal father’s, yes?”

  Wintermourn stood, feeling moderately affronted at the contact. The youth lacked a sense of propriety, that was readily apparent. Who does this young pup—he checked himself. This young pup would be his king one day. “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “The assembled entirety of the navy is here, every ship capable of fighting and not needed at Arquam Bay. Force enough to smash whatever defense the pirates can muster and burn them out of these islands entire. We’ve been ready and waiting for battle all day.”

  “Excellent!” said Gwydion. He clapped his hands together. “My royal father will be pleased. And this will be a perfect test for the Glory, commanded by Captain Broadlow here, the first officer in our new aerial corps.”

  Gwydion gestured to the man behind him, who gave a polite nod. “Admiral,” said Broadlow.

  Wintermourn only narrowed his eyes at the man. He felt the instant disdain all navy personnel possessed for other branches of service.

  “And,” continued the crown prince, “this will be an excellent opportunity to try out these Brass Paladins.”

  The admiral paused. His dispatches had mentioned the prince’s arrival in an experimental airship. But nothing had been said of the armored machines. “Pray you, sir, what are these...devices?”