Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Wintermourn glanced at the ambitious young man. “Your praise is utterly misplaced,” he said, lowering his glass. “For that, the Juggernaut shall deploy to the rearguard.” He felt a small, vindictive amusement as the other captain paled. Such a position in any upcoming fight meant little chance of glory.

  “No,” Wintermourn continued to the table at large. “I meant the Salomcani. Mongrel savages though they are, at least the sheik’s men lasted long enough to give us a few real fights. These island pirates are scarcely more than a nuisance, at best. Though they do need taking care of.” He raised his glass again. “Now, gentlemen. To the glory of the Kingdom!”

  “For the Kingdom!” came the shout in unison.

  Wintermourn drank deep, taking pleasure in the warmth that spread down his throat and through his chest. The liquor was ruinously expensive, as was the magically preserved fruit littering the table. Wartime rationing had left short commons all around, both in the Kingdom and even the rest of the Royal Navy. Command, however, did have its perquisites. The common sailors might have to sup on weevil-infested biscuit, but he’d be damned if his table wouldn’t be sumptuously set. After all, things are done a certain way. Tradition is important.

  The door to the cabin banged open as Crown Prince Gwydion strode in. Wearing his dark raiment, the prince was almost invisible against the night-clad outer deck, his pale skin making him seem a kind of night-gaunt bogeyman. Gwydion seemed jovial, however, with a wide smile on his lips.

  “No toast for me, my good admiral?”

  Wintermourn felt a moment’s panic as he stood, kicking his chair back so hard that it toppled over. “Your Royal Highness—”

  Gwydion waved airily. “Worry not, my good admiral. Worry not. We’re all comrades here, eh? Soldiers at war? No need to stand overmuch upon formality.”

  The assembled captains all shot to their feet as the crown prince turned to close the door. Shock and surprise had frozen them into immobility. That was no excuse, however, and Wintermourn glared death at the rest of the table. At least Lanters possessed the presence of mind to drop to one knee.

  Gwydion ignored them all. He moved straight to the sideboard and examined the fare there arrayed. “Watercress soup, oysters on the half shell with mignonette sauce, braised hare with an apple garnish and almond-cranberry pilaf, along with an assortment of cheeses, jellies, wines, brandy and, ah! Even a pudding.” The crown prince grabbed a plate and began to heap it full. “Magically preserved, no less. Well, there’s certainly no danger of starvation around here.”

  Gasps echoed around the table as the crown prince served himself. Wintermourn flushed in acute embarrassment and shot a glare at Sergeant Adjutant Lanters. “Sir, let my man—”

  “Pish,” said the prince, turning back to face the assembly. “I’ve a pair of hands, and we’re far from the palace now. Soldiers all together, remember?”

  He looked to the table for a place to sit. It was full, of course, the setting carefully designed for those naval men that the admiral had wanted to reward, test, or entrap. Chesterly was the first to respond, with what Wintermourn had to admit was admirable alacrity; the man had an eye for currying favor. The young captain grabbed up his plates in one smooth motion and stood back from the cabin table with them, bowing low.

  “It would be my pleasure to offer my place to Your Royal Highness,” he said.

  Gwydion smiled. “Ah, excellent. My thanks...?”

  “Chesterly, Your Highness. Of the Juggernaut.”

  “Excellent. You’ve just won yourself a place in the vanguard.”

  The crown prince tucked a napkin into his collar as Chesterly beamed. Adjusting the longsword at his hip, he sat. Admiral Wintermourn frowned.

  No. Later for Chesterly. There are more important things here. The admiral felt a moment’s unease; it was rare that he had to be on his guard, socially speaking. He took a calming breath and waited for Lanters to right his chair. Then he adjusted his wig and sat, which was only appropriate now that the crown prince had seated himself. The other captains waited a judicious moment before returning to their seats as well.

  “Sir,” said Wintermourn after a moment. “Let me apologize. If I’d known you were coming, I would have set a—”

  “Mrgh,” replied the Crown Prince, his mouth full. “Not your fault, my good admiral. The action in Haventown took a goodly bit longer than I’d expected. I also took the opportunity to perform some aerial mapping of the waterway channels on the way back.”

  Wintermourn paused, curious in spite of himself. “And how did that...sabotage...fare?” He already knew the answer that he wanted, that had to be given.

  “Oh, miserably,” said Gwydion, spearing another slice of braised rabbit. “The fools took all damned evening to slip into the lagoon of that pirate town. Then they climbed the cliffs and snuck into the airship docks via the jungles. That all went well enough, I suppose, as not a single alarm was tripped, but they’d barely gotten any fires started before they were noticed and promptly slaughtered to a man.” The crown prince paused to shrug. “Was entertaining enough, in its own way.”

  I knew it would fail. Damned cowardly way of doing things. Wintermourn adjusted his neckerchief and cleared his throat. “Well, the cost was low enough,” he said. “Though it must be said that such skulking about has never advanced the cause of Kingdom. Victory is won by glorious battle, at a great cost of sweat and blood.”

  “Yes, yes,” replied the Crown Prince distractedly, raising up an oyster. “You told me so, and whatnot. Worry not, my good admiral. The pirates are certainly stirred into a tizzy over our opening poke. They’ll come looking for a fight tomorrow—if we let them.”

  Vindication mixed with the brandy to leave Wintermourn feeling heady. “Excellent. We will be ready for a proper fight, full of thunder and triumph—the sea at our back, our guns roaring. Our fleet is a hammer, and we shall crush those curs against the anvil of these isles. Let the pirates assemble and meet our lines. Nothing will save them then.”

  The assembled captains shouted their agreement and pounded at the table, setting silver tableware clattering against fine porcelain. That everyone was so quick to agree proved heartening. Not only did it show a fine sense of purpose, it was clear that they knew which side their bread was buttered on.

  His face froze, though, upon seeing the crown prince. Gwydion stared at him, frozen in midchew. Swallowing, he set down an oyster shell.

  Then he laughed—great shuddering belly laughs that shook his slight frame and resounded throughout the cabin. The crown prince laughed until tears came from his eyes.

  “Are you...are you all jesting?” he asked. “I swear, you’re all fossils, the lot of you. Though not quite so bad as my father’s Order Gallant.”

  Wintermourn flushed. As Lord High Admiral of the Sea, he was a member of the Order Gallant. “I do not jest,” he replied after a calming breath. In his lap, his hands were folded tightly into fists.

  “Then I shall be charitable and blame the lack of thought on the hour.” He leaned forward towards Wintermourn, hands steepled together. “Tell me, my good admiral. Do you think that a bunch of flying pirates are going to just line up for you to shoot them? No. They’ll drop from the skies and bombard us with all sorts of incendiaries and suchlike. Most of their airships are unarmed, though I’ve seen designs for things that I know their Mechanists to possess. Once they’re ready for us, they’ll fall on our fleet like a pack of starving wolves upon a lamb.”

  “We’ve the new guns,” snapped Wintermourn, “and ours is the pride of Perinault. I remain confident that we will trounce the pirates.”

  The crown prince sighed. “Your dedication is admirable. But no. Once they’re fully prepared, cleansing these isles is going to be significantly more difficult. Even if we drove the pirates back, what then? A slow, follow-through advance with overwhelming force, the usual tactic, is insufficient. Those damnable waterways thread through everything. Calling this place the Copper Isles is appropriate
—it’s a collection of a hundred little islets. Sending any kind of overland force is going to be nigh impossible. And the path we found? It’s the only real way to Haventown, proceeding through a natural series of bottlenecks which are deathtraps, should any properly prepared defenders hold the high ground.”

  “I assume Your Royal Highness is going somewhere with this,” said Wintermourn flatly.

  “Of course.” Gwydion leaned back with a glass of brandy. “We will treat this action like a duel; we’re not going to let them prepare. We need to keep the pirates off-balance.” He took a drink, savoring it, and then held the admiral with his sharp, wolfish gaze. “I’ve had time to mull over that idea I mentioned earlier. After watching the progress of the earlier sabotage, I am convinced that it is a sound one. Speed is better than stealth, any day. Return to your ships. Send word to the rest of the fleet. I’ve changed my mind about tomorrow. The pirates are certainly distracted at the moment, just as I said they would be. So we begin the invasion in three hours’ time.”

  A flurry of complaints echoed about the walls.

  “What? That’s not nearly enough time—”

  “It’s not quite midnight!”

  “The men are all asleep. Or drunk—”

  “We won’t be able to see a thing—”

  Admiral Wintermourn held up a hand for quiet. The captains quieted.

  “Doctrine dictates that, when possible, any fleet action should be initiated at high noon,” he said, “dawn at the earliest, for visibility and tactical advantage. If nothing else, navigating those waterways you so worry about, in the dark, will be impossible.”

  “Not impossible,” replied the prince calmly. “The Glory will provide lighting from above. The galvanic lanterns are quite powerful enough. Send in twenty of the newest paddlewheel steamships, with the rest of the fleet held in reserve out here. They’ll have the easiest time of it and bring as much force to bear as we can, for the moment. Why send only men when we can have warships? I know for a fact that mooring anchors were built by bright lads back in Darrenway for attaching to these sheer coastal cliffs in order to offload the marines. They’ll be invaluable in those ravines—break them out. As for the men, rotate shifts as we prepare and get them awake after they’ve rested a bit.” He stopped to chew another bite of hare, meeting the admiral’s gaze as he swallowed. “Tell me, my good admiral, how wise would it be to wait for noon when fighting an enemy who flits about the sky?”

  “Nevertheless,” said Wintermourn in tones of iron. “Attacking before dawn—”

  “Will leave the enemy far more vulnerable when we do cross blades. If our boys were to try hopping from islet to islet, or worse, were we to send one ship at a time up those channels, we would get picked off and swarmed, even with the Glory to assist. If they’re ready when we send in a column, the pirates will bomb at their leisure, stopping up our whole advance and turning the waterways into a graveyard. No, we’re not going to give them that kind of chance. I mean to get the drop on them and be in that pirate town when the sun rises, if possible—that or this Graveway Lagoon, at the worst. Oh. A standing order: any Mechanists encountered are not to be harmed. Capture or cripple them, but do not kill them.”

  “I cannot—”

  “I do not care,” hissed the crown prince, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. “Admiral, you seem to forget yourself. I am in command of this fleet action. You are my subordinate. Do not think to test me upon that. Do not think it at all.”

  He dropped his fork and grabbed the hilt of the longsword at his side. It slid an inch from the sheath, shedding soft golden light that illuminated the room.

  Wintermourn stared. “Danlann...” he whispered, recognizing the Blade of the Kingdom itself. The sword wasn’t just Worked, it was a powerful and priceless object, the subject of countless legends through five hundred years of Perinese history.

  The silence that followed was absolute. Wintermourn looked to the crown prince and held his gaze. The assembled captains of the fleet watched on. Wintermourn knew his face was flushed. He felt enraged that someone would dare speak to him so.

  But what was to be done? Higher authority could only come from the king himself. And if Gwydion’s royal father had given him that blade... Wintermourn looked away. He reached up and straightened his wig. “Very well,” he said at last. “We attack in three turns of the glass.”

  “Excellent,” said Crown Prince Gwydion, lifting his glass for another drink. “I will go aloft again shortly to rest and prepare. The rest of you, be about it. Really, though, I must say that you serve quite a table; the food this evening has been excellent.”

  He looked away, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. Wintermourn jerked his head towards the cabin door, and the assembled captains quietly left. Sergeant Adjutant Lanters moved to clean the table. None of them dared to catch the admiral’s eye.

  Wintermourn pushed past them all, storming out onto the deck of the Colossus to give his own orders. He ignored the pair of royal guards bracing the doorway, fully ready to vent his frustrations on the crew.

  You are not king yet, pup. Do not forget that.

  Rousing the crew of the Colossus at such an hour was irksome. Expecting the attack on the morrow, none were in any state of readiness. He snarled at Lebam, his first lieutenant, who transferred orders frantically, and all his other officers moved to chivy the men awake or away from their grog. Once so ordered, all moved with alacrity. Any malcontents had long ago been made examples of. None wished to provoke the admiral’s wrath, from the first lieutenant to the lowest seaman. Wintermourn kept a keen watch from his perch upon the rear deck. The crown prince may have been beyond his reach, but he could damned well punish with impunity any slacking or shirking upon his own ship.

  Other ships came to life as their captains returned. Men raced to and fro along other decks, shouting orders that echoed across the water until the whole fleet seemed alive, like a hive of ants stirred into readiness. The spreading bloom of oil lanterns revealed the might and power of the Perinese Royal Navy, quickly made ready in even the darkest hours.

  The sight was comforting. It was a show of strength, of righteous efficiency. There was no chaos here, no fires blazing out of control. Certainly, there were no murderous corpses tottering about in a hideous, counterfeit version of life.

  Wintermourn shook the memory away. “Sergeant Adjutant Lanters,” he said stiffly.

  “Sir?” The burly sergeant stepped forward, having discreetly replaced his serving jacket with the blue jacket and trousers of marine dress uniform.

  “His Highness’s commands were clear. Let’s give some order to this mess. I want Lebam back up here with the signalman on the double. Send to the Behemoth that she’s to form ranks ahead of us. The Ogre and the Giantess will tail us, along with the rest of the fleet. Oh, and signal the Juggernaut that she is to have the vanguard.” Wintermourn felt darkly pleased. That pup Chesterly might get his wish for glory, but Admiral Wintermourn would make damned sure that he got the danger that went along with it.

  “Aye, sir,” replied the sergeant, who touched his forelock and ran off.

  His lieutenants appeared almost as if by magic, and Wintermourn was surrounded by a clutch of golden braid that issued further commands and gabbled among themselves about wind speed, heading, and other such trifling concerns. He ignored them, watching instead as anchors were raised and great paddlewheels started to turn, shining wetly in the oil-lit night. The mooring anchors—long pikes attached to stout chain—were lifted up from cargo, should the Colossus need to anchor itself to the island cliffs ahead.

  Minutes ticked by as the fleet changed shape. The crown prince returned to the Glory of Perinault, and then the airship ascended aloft. Those vessels Wintermourn had specified churned the water until they were in position, aimed like an arrow at the dark mass of the isles.

  Then came time to wait. The long hours would be rough on some, but Wintermourn had never really slept all that much and did not c
are—his officers had learned long ago to adapt. The rest of the crew were more bluntly animalistic in their needs, so he ordered a skeleton staff to keep his ship in formation while the others took their rest. The Colossus’s company of marines would perform the brunt of the fighting to come, but men were tools, and it was never wise to dull one’s tools without a modicum of reason, even if most of them would be discarded.

  At last Lieutenant Lebam turned the hourglass one final time. As he rang the bell, light bloomed up above. It was the Glory, shining a powerful galvanic lantern down upon the bow of the Colossus. As Wintermourn watched, the single beam split into three, swinging back and forth among the ships in the lead formation. Calls sounded across the water as paddlewheels began to turn. Lieutenant Lebam gave the order, and the Colossus leaped into activity. Ahead, the Juggernaut took the lead as the whole formation followed, crawling through the waves of the Atalian Sea.

  The invasion of Haventown had begun.

  Their destination was difficult to make out in the dark. The Copper Isles were a stark mass that grew with every passing moment. In a handful of minutes, Wintermourn discerned the crash of waves upon the cliffs of her shores, resounding throughout the night. The lanterns of the Glory revealed turbulent waters crowned with shifting foam. Beside the vanguard ship, spires of rock appeared, smoothed and chipped by the passage of so many pirate vessels over the years. Gwydion’s airship shifted a light, illuminating the chosen waterway ahead: a ravine between two rocky cliffs leading into the interior of the isle.

  The walls of the passage yawned wide, swallowing the Juggernaut. Wintermourn felt a moment’s relief—there was more room here than he had allowed, though certainly not enough for comfort. Two ships could not have gone abreast, and the crow’s nest barely poked level with the top of the cliffs.

  Then came their turn. The shadowed waterway held them close, amplifying the cries of the sounding-men as they called status from the bow. Visibility ahead was lower than anyone could like, and Wintermourn felt an unusual moment’s sympathy for the Juggernaut. Fortunately, Lieutenant Lebam was possibly the best sailor in the fleet. The man knew his craft, well enough that Wintermourn had purposely sabotaged the fellow’s chances at advancement, simply to keep him aboard the Colossus.