I do not like him, mused Fengel as he leaped about the fray, feeling the heat on his face from the flames. Once, a man named Hockton had tried to kill him. Young Michael wasn’t the same fellow, but Fengel didn’t really care.
The last of the Perinese assailants fell, but there was no time to relish the victory. Fires raged about the deck now, almost out of control. Fengel sheathed his saber and organized a bucket brigade from the sand bins, half blinded by the thick smoke, while Glastos screamed at his men to try to control the spread of the blaze.
Fengel grabbed a bucket of sand from Reaver Jane and heaved it out at a blaze along the port-side deck. The flames danced and curled as the grit rained down on them but did not go out. Frowning, he passed the bucket back and reached out for the next one.
Someone shoved him roughly out of the way. Fengel turned with a curse on his lips and froze. It was a Mechanist, leather greatcoat shut tight, goggles down, and wearing a respirator mask. The man carried a cannon-shaped mechanism of brass and steel in both hands, attached by a hose to a tank on his back. Wasting no time, the Brother of the Cog pointed his device at the flames before Fengel and fired. A torrent of white mist erupted at the flames, which seemed to resist for a moment before guttering and dying.
Other Mechanists pushed past, similarly equipped. With quick, almost ant-like focus, they spread out in a pattern across the wounded Powderheart, neatly extinguishing the fires. More arrived on deck, these with tethers and axes. One stopped in front of Fengel.
“We have the situation under control,” he said in a muffled voice. “Please exit the airship.”
Fengel wanted to complain; they had just spent their own blood, after all. But the Mechanist moved away, leaving a pair of Brothers to escort him clear. Captain Glastos loudly protested but went all the same. No one was better equipped than the Mechanists to repair the airships they had built.
He left the Powderheart, descending down the ramp to the pier. A glance up past the pirates, now milling about aimlessly, told him that the assault upon the Windhaunter must have gone similarly well—Mechanists were moving about the deck, spreading their strange white mist, which fell over the sides of the injured airship.
Natasha stepped up beside him, covered in blood. “S’not mine,” she said, answering his unspoken question with a wicked grin.
“Of course not,” he replied, pulling her close for a kiss.
Someone coughed beside them.
Fengel looked up to see Lucian Thorne and Sarah Lome. His officers wore a few new cuts and bruises, but nothing seemed serious. The rest of the Dawnhawk’s crew were gathering as well.
“Captains,” Lucian said somberly. “Windhaunter is going to be all right. But I’ve got a spot o’ news for you.”
“Yes,” replied Natasha, sounding mildly irked. “Those were Bluecoats. We saw.”
Their first mate shook his head. “It’s not just that. There was a smaller contingent aboard the other airship, and Oscar Pleasant was among them.”
A murmur of surprise went out among the assembled crew. Fengel raised an eyebrow in surprise. Oscar had never been his favorite pirate, but the man had been with him for a long time. Though come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the fellow in a while.
“Lucian,” he said. “How could that be?”
His first mate looked away embarrassedly. “Well...we sort of lost track of him, during your recent...holiday...on Almhazlik Isle. And then...uh...never really went looking for him.”
“It wasn’t a holiday,” said Natasha flatly, glaring at Lucian. Butterbeak mimicked the motion from her shoulder. Fengel noticed, disconcertingly, that its beak was covered in blood.
“I’m surprised at you, Lucian,” said Fengel, emphasizing the disappointment in his voice. “We’ve never left anyone behind before, no matter how obnoxious their personal odor.”
“I know, sir,” replied his first mate with a wince. “We’d always meant to go back. There were always just more important things going on. He’s not dead, though—fellow slipped away in the fight. So he’s somewhere in Haventown.”
“But what was he doing with the Perinese in the first place?” asked Lina Stone.
Sarah Lome stepped forward, halting all discussion. “Look. There. What’s that?”
The huge gunnery mistress pointed out beyond the pier. There, in the night sky above the distant jungles beyond Haventown, floated an airship.
It was like none Fengel had seen. Armored plates covered both the gondola and the gasbag itself. Great propeller assemblies were spaced evenly along the gondola hull, not just at the rear. A sigil was painted on the gas bag, and though he couldn’t see it completely in the dark, Fengel knew it would be in black, blue, and gold: the suburst insignia of Perinault. The strange airship lifted away from Haventown, turning with far more grace than Fengel would have thought possible.
“Get a message down to the Bleeding Teeth,” he said. “Raise the alarm throughout the town.”
Everyone looked to him. “Sir?” asked Henry Smalls.
“This wasn’t a lone band of saboteurs,” he said. “Haventown is under attack.”
From the lights on the deck of the retreating vessel, Fengel thought he spied a single figure standing against the stern gunwales, watching.
Chapter Four
Lina eyed the outhouse warily.
It sat at the end of the alley, between a barber and a fortified distillery, with the night-clad jungles beyond Haventown at its back. Misshapen walls sagged under a sloping roof; the whole outhouse had been weakened by wood rot and neglect. No one had used it in quite some time—old planks boarded up the door.
“All right,” Lina said, gesturing at the other end of the alley with her dagger. “We’ve searched every other crevice and hidey-hole in Nob Terrace. Oscar Pleasant has got to be here.”
“It’s an outhouse,” replied Michael Hockton, his voice tired, a cutlass slack in his hand. “Why would anyone hide there? I mean, how would he even get in? The door’s all boarded—”
Lina rounded on him, one hand up to keep a squirming, unhappy Runt in place. Hockton appeared adorably confused, and even the corpse-stink from his earlier task had faded. Without a word, he’d joined her search for Oscar Pleasant. Her little game with him was working. But that wasn’t important. She was going to find that traitor Oscar and string him up by his toes. Bastard. Thinks he can attack the captain? Thinks he can burn us out of here? They’d been enemies, but to throw in with the Perinese? Unthinkable.
Behind the captivating ex-soldier stood Allen, hefting a boarding hatchet in both hands, his shoulders likewise drooping. Rastalak crouched behind them, peering at the outhouse. Fengel had sent them to scout the Skydocks for any sign of their wayward crewman. So far they’d found none. This alley was the last place Oscar could have hidden before the manhunt started. Lina was certain that he was here.
“Well, if you want to go back and tell the captains that we almost finished the search, go right ahead.”
Allen stepped forward, boarding hatchet in hand. “Of course not,” he said with quavering conviction, apparently glad to one-up Michael. “Show yourself, coward! Or we’re coming in after you!”
Michael glared at him. “Damned straight we are!” he added. Cutlass in hand, he pushed past Allen to pound on the outhouse door with his fist. “Open up, you rogue! I don’t care how you even got in there.”
Allen glared at Michael and hefted his hatchet. Behind them, Rastalak sighed. Lina grinned. It probably wasn’t fair to keep doing this to the young Mechanist, especially now, of all times, but Allen’s crush just made Hockton jump so eagerly, where she was involved. And if it drove them to find that bastard Oscar, so much the better.
The young Mechanist strode up to the door and took a swing with his hatchet. The awkward blow sent a shiver through the ramshackle structure. “Enough waiting!” said Allen. “That bastard tried to help burn down the Skydocks! He’s had his chance to cooperate.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. He
pushed up beside Allen and hacked with his sword. Egging each other on, both young men raced to rip apart the outhouse door.
The popping chop of steel against wood echoed back down the alleyway. Runt raised his head from her shoulder to hiss in irritation at the noise. Lina comforted him. In a way, tonight’s excitement had been a good thing; the fighting had allowed her pet to vent his aggression. The little scryn had been growing more and more irritable of late, and she did not know why. Probably just all the damned Revenants walking around. Goddess knows they’ve got everyone on edge.
“Lina,” hissed Rastalak. Her crewmate poked his reptilian head forward, twisting it in a curious, inquisitive way. “Mr. Hockton makes a fair point. Why should Oscar come here? There is a whole jungle beyond the town.”
Lina raised an eyebrow at him. “So? Why would anyone ever go out there? It’s full of awful things, like spiders and whatnot.” Rastalak had been with the crew almost a year now. He’d spent most of it in a state of befuddlement but had otherwise adapted well. Obviously, there were still things for him to learn.
The outhouse door collapsed with a crash of rotting wood, sending up a cloud of dust and spores. Hockton shielded his face, then raised his cutlass and peered into the gloom of the interior. “All right, Oscar! We’re coming in there for you!”
Allen finished coughing and looked at his competitor in alarm. “Yeah!” he cried.
Both men glared at each other. Then they leaped forward, hands outstretched as they forced themselves into the darkened shack with bloodthirsty shouts.
The shouts turned to cries of alarm. Lina saw a confusion of flailing limbs from both men, now stuck half inside the outhouse. The structure shook and the roof fell in, and then the walls buckled and shuddered. Michael was yelling at the top of his voice, and Allen screamed like a little girl.
They forced themselves free as the outhouse finally collapsed, weapons gone, dancing, hopping, and skipping about as they slapped at themselves.
Both men were covered in spiders.
Thick, hairy, and black, some as large as a man’s hand, there were hundreds of them, skittering about frantically across the meters of webbing that now clung to Michael and Allen like the sheets of someone playacting a ghost.
“Get them off, get them off!” yelled Michael. Allen just screamed.
Lina stared. Revulsion and horror roiled in her stomach. She raised a hand and then pulled it back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rastalak recoil.
Allen looked to Lina, one eye visible through a shifting mess of hairy, chitinous bodies. He raised his arms and tottered her way. “Help me!” he cried in a high-pitched wail.
Lina turned and ran. She was down the alley and back out onto lantern-lit Nob Terrace in a heartbeat, crossing it to slam into the boardwalk rail. Haventown fell away before her, its lanterns and lamps glimmering like a thousand lazy fireflies, all reflecting from the network of brass pipes spreading out from the great bundled chimney of the Gasworks. Lina ignored the sheer drop and twisted back about, dagger at the ready, her skin shuddering with the crawling of a thousand phantom legs. Rastalak appeared out of the mouth of the alley only moments ahead of Allen.
“There!” Lina said, pointing frantically with her dagger at an open rain barrel just beside the mouth of the alley. “In the water, in the water—put him in the water!”
Rastalak stepped forward gingerly, then grabbed up the moaning, flailing, web-covered Mechanist in two hands. A quick shove, and Allen was dunked upside down into the barrel, sinking up to the waist. Rastalak leaped back, flicking arachnids away from his arms as Allen flailed madly and the barrel toppled over. It landed with a crash and shattered into flinders, sending out a great gush of water and spiders that left a moaning, sodden apprentice Mechanist behind.
Lina stared at him, heart in her chest as her tongue tried to crawl down her throat. Wait. Where’s Michael?
The tromp of many boots against the boardwalk interrupted her. Lina turned to see an assorted gaggle of pirates and townsfolk approaching. Most held lanterns high and weapons bared, as if they expected imminent attack. A few of her crewmates from the Dawnhawk walked with the crowd.
Fengel moved at the head of the pack, quelling concerns and giving orders. Her captain always had a commanding presence, but it struck Lina then that she’d never seen him so positively in control as he was now. Though the eye-patch-shaped monocle was still ridiculous.
“Ah,” he said, focusing on Lina. “Miss Stone. There you are.” He held up a hand, forcing the group to a stop. “Have you completed your sweep around the Skydocks?”
A long, singular groan echoed up from where Allen lay across the alley mouth. Lina managed a nod. “Y-yes, sir,” she replied, taking a step back as a huge, hairy spider crawled across the boardwalk between them. “From the top of the Skydocks to the bottom, around the Sindicato manor and through this area.”
Fengel rubbed his beard. “Oscar can’t have gotten too far. Oh.” He snapped his fingers and gestured to the alley. “Back behind the distillery here, have you looked? There’s an old outhouse. He may have taken up inside.”
Lina blinked at him.
“No one uses it anymore,” continued Fengel. “We had to have it boarded up.”
Lina opened her mouth, then shut it.
“A nest of Black Wrigglers settled in it. Nasty, vicious sort of local spider. Ah, there’s one now.”
Lina hung her head with a sigh.
A figure appeared in the alley mouth. It was Michael Hockton. He was very pale, except for the bright inflammation of hundreds of spider bites covering his skin. His shirt was gone, and one trouser leg was torn up the side.
Lina made to run to him, but Fengel’s voice checked her short.
“Crewman Hockton!” barked Fengel. “What are you doing in such disarray?”
Michael Hockton turned his gaze at Fengel but seemed not to see him. The ex-soldier’s pupils were very wide.
Lina turned to try and deflect some of the hostility. “We, ah, checked inside the outhouse, sir,” she said. “Found the spiders.” Allen punctuated the statement with a groan.
“Nevertheless,” replied Fengel, not really speaking to her. “Other ships may allow such disarray, but so long as you remain with the Dawnhawk, you’ll comport yourself to a higher standard. Am I clear?”
Michael Hockton frowned in venom-induced confusion. Then he spoke in a hollow, distant voice. “Yes?”
“Good.” Fengel nodded in satisfaction, then turned back to face the mob at his back. “Now, everyone, listen up. We need eyes down at the Graveway Lagoon and the old fort there. If one of our own was helping these bastards, he’ll know that’s the only safe waterway into Haventown—and the closest route, even by airship. Phred! Did I see you lurking around? I know you’re not on my crew, but you and your friends know the jungle pathways better than most. If you could get moving, I’ll see if I can find someone to give you a lift once we finish rousing the other captains.”
Phred was suntanned and shockingly hairy, an ex-pirate and local hunter who looked as hard as old oak. “Sure thing, Fengel,” he replied, pausing to run his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “And can I say that you’re looking wonderfully rakish this evening?”
“Why, thank you, Phred.” Lina’s captain peered at the group. “Geoffrey Lords? Go with him. I need Lucian here, but you’re a stealthy sort of fellow as well.”
The red-haired, terrifying Dawnhawk’s cook appeared. He nodded sharply, then grinned to reveal teeth filed down to a point.
“Good. We’ve got until the morning to prepare. The Perinese are traditional to a fault, and naval doctrine holds that all engagements happen at dawn at the very earliest. So we’ve that much time. Now send word to the other captains; we’ll need people and materials carried to the Graveway fort, but to be honest, lads, I think we need to consider a back-up plan. Maybe even evac—”
“Belay all that, Captain.” Lucian Thorne pushed his way through the crowd. The Dawn
hawk’s first mate looked disheveled, both from the fight as well as the errands he’d been dispatched upon. “Word’s gone out. Pirate King Blackheart is calling a town meeting. Everyone’s required to attend, captains especially. At the Bleeding Teeth, as usual. Natasha’s already there.”
Everyone froze. They turned to Fengel, who paused to consider. “Well, then. We’d best make our way.”
The group disbanded, moving in ones and twos towards Euron’s court. Captain Fengel held back, though, making a small gesture for Phred and his crewmen to remain. Lina gingerly rounded up a sopping Allen and a stiff, venom-shocked Michael, pressing them in tight with the others.
“All right,” said Fengel, “to the Bleeding Teeth it is. But time is of the essence. Phred? I’d like you, if you would, to ignore what Lucian said and get on to the Graveway; that’s more important. Geoffrey, you too. Hockton? You’re not coming. Get you back up to the Skydocks. I had some of the lads round up all those Perinese corpses. With that woman Omari still walking around, you need to get them down to that Waterdock warehouse that Gunney Lome picked out before they start walking again. I suggest finding a wheelbarrow.”
This seemed to penetrate the venom-induced stupor affecting the ex-soldier. Michael Hockton stared at the captain, mouth opening in protest. Fengel cut him short.
“Come now, Mr. Hockton. No one likes a whiner. You’ve been given your orders—now get to them. The rest of you, come along. We’ve got places to be.”
Lina winced. She tried to cast one last glance over her shoulder at Michael as they walked down the boardwalk, but Lucian got in her way. Oh, Michael. She closed her eyes. Lina really hadn’t meant to get him into such a mess.
Still, she would have to do what she could for him later. At the moment she had her own skin to worry about. Watching Fengel and Natasha’s earlier meeting with Euron had been downright painful. Putting them all together again so soon would be a spark for a powderkeg. And I don’t fancy getting caught in the blast.
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 6