Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Behind them, the third ship in the formation followed, then the fourth. One by one the fleet made ingress into the isles, with not a single enemy resisting them. Which was a disappointment. Crown Prince Gwydion’s plan was working, Wintermourn supposed, but why all this dangerous fuss just to avoid a pitched battle? What was the point? Dying in the fray was what men were for. Putting the ships at such risk was almost unconscionable.

  Cries of alarm yanked him from his reverie. Ahead, the Juggernaut shifted alarmingly to port. Her crew assembled with poles, pressing out to prevent the warship from crashing entirely into the cliff wall. Wooden spars scraped and squealed, a few snapped, and the port-side paddlewheel housing skidded along the rock, shedding sparks that were bright even in the light from the Glory above.

  “Hidden current!” yelled Lieutenant Lebam from back at the helm. “Wheels to half speed! Men, to the port-side railing—and take up spars!”

  The steam engine buried in the guts of the ship gave a mighty rumble, and the Colossus’s wheels shifted. White steam blew from the stacks in great gouts as men ran across the deck to prevent the collision the Juggernaut had suffered.

  It was enough, barely. Wintermourn felt his ship shift as a current grabbed ahold of them. Lebam swore to the Goddess as he and the second lieutenant threw their weight against the ship’s wheel to compensate. They veered dangerously close to the rock walls of the port-side cliff but slid past without colliding.

  The vanguard warship recovered, Chesterly proving not entirely incompetent. But just as the way seemed clear, the Juggernaut lurched again with the shifting current. For the next hour, the column fought treacherous waters; the Juggernaut’s warnings were barely enough to protect the Colossus from further damage, with First Lieutenant Lebam yelling almost constant changes in heading. If the Glory of Perinault had not been at hand, this advance would have proven not only impossible but a costly waste.

  Then the current slowed. The way became easier, providing a reprieve. Wintermourn released his grip on the rail ahead of the helm and took a deep breath. It seemed as if the worst was over, for the moment.

  The current faded away almost completely, forcing them to engage the paddlewheels. Ahead, the channel walls widened. Wintermourn shook himself and glanced about. Had they reached the Graveway Lagoon already?

  He called over the navigating lieutenant and consulted. No. According to Crown Prince Gwydion’s reconnaissance—and the traitor pirate Oscar’s maps—there was a smaller, nameless collection of several waterway channels before the Graveway. This had to be it, then.

  Still, the place was ideal for assessing the column. And if we’ve lost a ship to this damned nighttime escapade, I’ll have more than a few choice words for that pup. Wintermourn paused at the seditious thought. Possibly.

  Gentle waters lapped the channel, which was just wide enough for the Juggernaut and the Colossus to fit comfortably abreast. Tawny light illuminated the vessels as the airship above played its lamps across the cliff walls, causing veins of ore to peek back at them through masses of jungle vines draping from above.

  “Lieutenant Lebam,” said Wintermourn, “full stop, if you please. Sergeant Lanters, pass me my telesco—”

  A musket shot echoed out across the water. One of the seamen along the starboard gunwales jerked and fell to the deck. Wintermourn looked to the source, a cloud of expanding gunsmoke along the cliff top fifty yards distant.

  “To arms!” shouted Sergeant Adjutant Lanters, rushing to the rail beside the admiral. “Marines to arms! Enemy fire to port!”

  Crewmen and marines alike leaped into frantic activity as the Glory illuminated the cliff. “Really, Sergeant,” drawled Wintermourn dismissively, “a single sniper is nothing to be overly concerned about. In fact, it’s about time these pirates showed themselves.”

  A staccato ripple of musket fire exploded from the cliff top, and lead shot ripped across the deck of the Colossus, splintering wood and eliciting cries from the men who were hit. One ball whipped past only inches above Wintermourn’s face, tearing through the brim of his hat and flinging it from the powdered curls of his wig. He stared at his fallen hat as the fusillade fell quiet. Then Wintermourn felt a surge of righteous anger.

  “I don’t care who is on that cliff,” he snarled aloud, straightening his wig. “I want them dead! Bring up the new guns! Get those cannons aimed and loaded! Marines, form a damned proper line and fire as you will!”

  Officers, marines, and sailors all moved to carry out his orders. The Bluecoats raked the cliff top with their muskets, dropping down to reload and allow their fellows clean shots. Sailors unlocked the new eighteen-pounders from their moorings and elevated them; the carriages of these guns had been designed specifically to fire at a high angle to counter airship bombings from above. They fired thunderously, shattering the draping foliage and coppery rock of the cliff face with grapeshot.

  Still, it wasn’t good enough. Wintermourn caught sight of disheveled pirates in colorful bandanas recoiling from the attack, but the angle to hit them was too steep, covered by the cliff against the worst of the onslaught. In moments they recovered, returning fire of their own.

  Clattering ripples of gunfire called out from above, raking the top of the cliff. It was the Glory of Perinault, with twenty Brass Paladins standing at attention along its starboard gunwales, firing their heavy pepperbox muskets. They unleashed more shots than should have been possible, reloading quickly and efficiently when they finally had to, not a movement wasted.

  In moments it was over. There seemed to have been only a handful of pirates, with no cover against the airship. Lanters’s Bluecoats continued their useless fusillade a few moments longer while Wintermourn furiously accepted his fallen hat from Lieutenant Lebam.

  “So that is it,” he snarled. “Sneaking, skulking ambush in the night. Well, we’ve seen how well that works out, eh? On both sides.” He stalked back to the signalman while his officers hurried to keep up. “Send a message back up the column. I want the Behemoth and her marines up here just behind the Juggernaut. We’re on full alert. Push through to the Graveway Lagoon, expecting resistance. Keep squads of marines at the ready. I want them ready to scale these wretched cliffs next time if they have to. Prepare those mooring anchors.” He glanced at the Glory above, bright and shining against the rapidly lightening sky. “Send acknowledgement...and thanks...to His Royal Highness. For his timely assistance.”

  His orders were carried out with all the alacrity of men used to both battle and avoiding the admiral’s displeasure. The Behemoth came up the line as directed, her marines thick along the gunwales. Before long the column of ships was underway again, paddlewheels churning the water and smokestacks puffing steam past the reefed sails, their airship hanging from the rosy predawn sky.

  The current returned, pushing them along, though not so fast this time as through the near rapids they had encountered before. Wintermourn paced as his officers and helmsmen ran the ship, with Sergeant Adjutant Lanters at his heels as always. They needed to be moving faster. His blood was up. And the first taste so far of combat had been unsatisfying. He wanted battle on the open seas, not this skulking about.

  The lookout called from the crow’s nest; a wide lagoon lay dead ahead. Wintermourn descended the deck in a hurry and made his way forward to the bow, his entourage following behind.

  There, just past the vanguard ships, he could see it. The waterway channel opened again, this time into a wide lagoon that could have only been the Graveway. A few other minor channels ended here, but the only exit was a single waterway leading farther east. Carved into the cliff wall above it on the southern side was an old Salomcani fort.

  The Graveway was not empty. Three pirate airships drifted overhead, their crew at attention along their gondola gunwales, muskets at the ready. A fourth flew just into view, lowering itself down behind the fort. The pirates of Haventown had not been idle since last night’s attack. They were now ready—and waiting for a fight.

  Admira
l Wintermourn slammed a fist into his palm. “Sergeant Adjutant Lanters? Lieutenant Lebam? Sound the attack.”

  Chapter Six

  Captain Fengel ignored the rising sun.

  There was simply too much to do. He worked with Rastalak, Henry Smalls, Lucian, and the others, hauling away at a pulley to raise a crate from the depths of the Dawnhawk’s cargo bay.

  Damnable Mechanists, he swore to himself as he heaved on the rope. They built trap doors into the bottom of the Windhaunter, but couldn’t they have done the same for the ship I stole?

  His hat was off, and his sleeves were rolled up. Fengel felt the lack of propriety keenly; he had certain standards to maintain, after all. But the sun had risen, and the airship needed to be off, and there was just no damned time.

  “That’s it!” cried Lucian from behind him. “It’s up!”

  Gunney Lome leaped into action, grabbing the netting around the heavy crate and hauling it over to rest on the deck. Fengel and the others released the rope, letting the last of their plundered cargo slam onto the planks of the deck.

  “That’s it,” said Henry Smalls. “Hold’s empty but for that smell.”

  Fengel grimaced as he rubbed one aching shoulder. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been nearly enough time to scrub the interior of his beautiful airship. Errant scraps of Revenant littered the bottom of the hold, making it redolent with the fume of old corpse.

  “Coming through,” called Reaver Jane. She pushed between Henry and Lucian, trailed by Andrea Holt and a panting Ryan Gae. They hauled mesh sacks filled with round iron bombs from a pile Natasha was inspecting a short distance away.

  “We’re running low,” said Natasha, the parrot on her shoulder eyeing the things as if it might make off with one. “Captain Glastos nicked most of the lot already, so these need to count.”

  She cinched up the sack and held it up for Gunney Lome, who threw it over one shoulder and marched after Reaver Jane to the equipment lockers amidships. The huge woman stumbled over a jagged plank but caught her balance by grabbing a bit of torn canvas dangling from the gas bag above.

  Fengel eyed the ragged patch with disdain. No rest for my poor ship. Or myself. He removed his monocle to rub his eye; he’d barely managed to steal two hours sleep last night. He sighed, replaced the eyepiece, walked over to his wife, and offered a hand to help her up.

  “I’d feel better if you were staying,” he said.

  Natasha grimaced. “So would I. I don’t care if we’re not ready for a fight.”

  All around them the Dawnhawk was a messy furor of activity. The pirates tested hawsers, checked rigging, and looked over all the makeshift fixes that had been hurriedly reapplied during the night. Old Euron had wanted his daughter gone hours ago, but some tasks simply could not be ignored, even for a short trip. The airship was still a mess of dangling cordage and half-assembled machinery, though they’d managed to resew the worst of the gaping patches along the envelope and replace the propeller linkages, the Mechanist complaining all the while.

  The rest of Haventown was no different. Euron’s commands had spread through the night. Now the terraces drummed with the bootsteps of experienced retirees, eager young bloods, and anyone else willing and able to carry a cutlass. Mechanists ran about, overseeing the deployment of barricades and seeing to more arcane preparations that they refused to elaborate upon.

  Not everything had come together quickly. There had been confusion, then rumor, and not a little score settling in the chaos. The denizens of Haventown weren’t an organized military. A worryingly large number of folk were seeing only to themselves.

  The skies were clear and blue—a beautiful morning on any other day. The only oddities were three airships floating a mile to the west; the Powderheart, the Sky Serpent, and the Moonchaser. They circled the Graveway Lagoon while Solrun’s Hammer returned at speed for more men and materials.

  Fengel shook his head. “Damn Euron,” he said. “This errand of his is the longest of shots, and there’s every possible chance of catastrophe. Voornish weapons...they never end well. The Governor’s Lantern was just a gemstone, and it was cursed. Then there was the Dray Engine on Almhazlik.”

  Natasha puffed out her cheeks. “Don’t I know it. Explains why the northern islands were forbidden, though. I’d have gone looking long ago if it wasn’t so inconveniently out of the way. But if this ‘Stormhammer’ can fry a whole fleet from a distance, why hasn’t he used it before now?”

  Fengel rubbed his beard. “I don’t know. It may not even be real. He was acting strange last night, more so than usual.”

  “No. He lies all the time, but not about things like that. He’s not creative enough.” She shook her head. “Damn my father’s hide to the Realms Below. I want to stay and fight. It’s not fair—”

  “Captain Blackheart!”

  The call came from past the starboard gunwales. Natasha stalked angrily over, with Fengel following her.

  A pirate glowered up at them from the Skydock pier below. He was old, so grizzled and spare that he seemed wholly made out of hardened leather and knothole wood. His clothes were straight from some bygone era. Nevertheless, his stare was that of a hardened killer. Fengel recognized him as one of Euron’s men.

  Natasha, of course, knew all of her father’s old crewmen. She glared down as if she could turn the old pirate to ash on a whim. “Grant! What in the Realms Below do you want?”

  “Captain Blackheart,” said Grant. “The pirate king wants to know why ye be still in port.”

  “Because I’m not ready to go yet!” she yelled back. “You can’t spend months fighting and flitting about, then expect to be off again after a few hours in port!”

  Grant was unimpressed. “Yer father wants ye after the Stormhammer. So get a move on!”

  Natasha gripped the gunwales with both hands until her knuckles were white. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, you washed up old—”

  Thunder rippled from the west. Everyone quieted, pausing to look towards the Graveway and the airships floating there. Fengel spied a minute fireball burst in midair, a prematurely exploded bomb.

  Can we be at it, then? It’s too soon.

  Grant cursed aloud and ran down the pier. “Get yer scow in the air and get going!” he called back over his shoulder.

  Natasha shook her fist after him with a wordless snarl. Fengel reached out and touched her arm.

  “He’s right. The fight’s begun. Time to go.”

  His wife gripped his wrist. “To the Realms Below with him. You need me. You need every ship you can get. Here and fighting.”

  Fengel looked past her, beyond the unkempt deck of Dawnhawk, the Haventown Lagoon, and the jungles beyond. “That I do...but I’m not sure one more ship will make a difference. The Graveway is a natural chokepoint—it would have been mad of the Perinese to send more than a single ship down it. Two, at most. No, they’re only scouting. Though that still only buys us time. With a whole fleet out there...I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t trust it one bit, but relying on this Stormhammer might be our only hope. You need to go find it. Failing that, we’re going to have to evacuate. Sooner or later.”

  Natasha grimaced, looking away. “Never. But...fine. Fine, damn yer eyes. Let’s risk everything on a bit of Voorn trash that my father has let rot for forty years.”

  “Take Rastalak,” said Fengel. “And Lina Stone; she’s clever in a pinch. Our Mechanist says he’s been ordered to stay, but I talked him into leaving Allen to run the engines. The Hockton lad—I don’t want him here. Reaver Jane. Nate Wiley. Etarin, Jahmal, Farouk. Best keep Ryan Gae out of the fight—he’s not doing well. So Andrea will join you as well. Oh! And young Paine too. I’ll take Henry, Lucian, and Sarah, of course. And both aetherites, along with everyone else.”

  A shadow fell over them: Solrun’s Hammer, maneuvering to dock. Pirates clustered along the piers, cheering as the airship descended, ready for a fight.

  He reached out and took her hand gently. “We’ll
go with Brunehilde, to do what we can.” Fengel smiled sadly. “I want to say that this will turn out, but—”

  Butterbeak screeched. The sound cut across his thoughts and set his ears to ringing painfully. Natasha grabbed her pet and threw it across the deck. The bird caught itself in midair, flying out past the ship before circling back to dive-bomb Lucian. Fengel turned back to Natasha, and she grabbed his face with both hands, silencing what he was about to say with a kiss. Her hands wrapped themselves around the back of his head, an action just as violent and passionate as she herself was. Fengel dealt with it the only way he could: by giving as good as he got.

  When they broke away, both were panting, and Fengel saw little stars flickering across his vision.

  “You talk too much,” said Natasha with a lazy smile. “Now get off my ship.”

  “Try not to get mutinied against,” he said.

  Natasha patted the straining bosom of her puffy white shirt. “I’ve got your little book, don’t I?”

  She turned away with a smile and shouted down the deck. Fengel watched her go with a sudden pang in his chest. He made his way to the boarding ramp and then down onto the Skydock pier beside the Dawnhawk.

  Most of the Skydock piers were empty, but those around the Dawnhawk were still frantic with activity. In the berth below scurried the crew of the Windhaunter, overseeing repairs and loading a hastily acquired collection of spare cannons aboard the airship. A single figure stood out, leaning lazily against the railing. Fengel knew her in passing. She was Shannon MacKinnon, Captain Duvale’s first mate, and possibly the laziest pirate he’d ever met.

  Back along the Skydocks stair climbed a steady stream of people. Unaligned pirates and townie thugs, they tromped to the pier above the Dawnhawk, their bootsteps drumming in counterpoint to their outrageous boasting. Atop the pier they waited, nerving themselves up for the fight as Solrun’s Hammer came ever closer, ready to dock and take them away to the fight at the Graveway. Otherwise, the rest of the Skydocks were empty, dangling scaffolds propped up against the early morning sky.