The Hammer was Fengel’s destination as well. Turning to the Dawnhawk, he waited for the rest of the crew, now being ejected by Natasha. Henry Smalls, Lucian Thorne, and Sarah Lome moved to attend to him first.
“We’re ready, sir,” said Henry, shoulders slumped. He glanced sadly at the worn airship beside them.
“Why so glum, Mr. Smalls?”
Henry shrugged. “Dunno, sir. I just feel like we might not see her again.”
The rumbling thunder of cannon fire echoed in the distance.
Fengel frowned. He looked to the Dawnhawk, her hull scuffed and her envelope roughly patched. The last year had not been kind to the vessel. Wait. Does he mean the ship or my wife? Fengel decided that he didn’t like thinking about either.
“Rubbish,” he snorted. “You know exactly how tough Natasha is. None of you need worry—nothing is going to keep her from coming back to us.”
His officers shared a look.
“Of course, Captain,” said Lucian. “That’s exactly what we meant.” He jerked his head towards the great shadow of Solrun’s Hammer, docking now in the pier above them. “Shall we go see what Brunehilde is up to?”
Fengel gazed at the trio suspiciously for a moment before nodding. Then he faced the rest of his assembled crew.
“Listen up!” he called. “Our lovely ship is going elsewhere, but we’ve still got a job ahead. The fighting’s begun at the old fort—we’re going to go lend our arms and see what can be done. So get your pig stickers ready! We might be riding Solrun’s Hammer over to the fray, but let’s show those Perinese bastards what the men and women of the Dawnhawk can do!”
His crew all cheered. Fengel drew his saber, and they tromped off with righteous bravado, though more than a few glanced back at the airship they were leaving behind.
Movement in the wrong direction caught Fengel’s eye. It was Omari, slipping out of the crowd and back up the Dawnhawk’s boarding ramp to disappear from sight. He scratched his beard, considering. Natasha wouldn’t take kindly to stowaways, and she especially disliked the Yulani woman. No. Best place for her, most likely. The last thing Haventown needed was the chaos brought on by a horde of Revenants. And there’re going to be a lot of corpses soon. He shrugged, sheathing his blade before following after his crew.
Solrun’s Hammer was an older ship, neither as new as the Dawnhawk nor as old as his lost Flittergrasp. The hull bowed down towards its keel, reminiscent of the sailing ships that had so obviously inspired it. Old, weatherworn rigging connected the gas-bag envelope, a great semirigid egg of leather and canvas.
Fengel pushed his way to the front of his crew, holding them back with an upraised hand until all others had gone. Then he straightened his jacket and led the way onto Solrun’s Hammer with measured dignity.
The captain of Solrun’s Hammer stood just past the ramp, waiting for Fengel. Brunehilde was as tall as he was but looked tougher by far. Torques of gold encircled her bare, well-muscled arms, and her ice-blue eyes shined within a face brought to life by the scars and laugh lines around her lips. One hand rested on the pommel of a heavy broadsword at her side. The other rested on her hip, her thumb hooking her sword belt. A thick golden braid trailed down past her shoulders.
Beside her stood her husband Khalid, a hulking slab of muscle towering above both his wife and Fengel. He was Salomcani, with coffee-colored skin and golden eyes. Fengel had never quite gotten along with the man. On occasion, they had clashed blades.
“There you are, Fengel,” said Brunehilde. “Thought you were going to have to swim to the fight.”
“What?” he asked, imperious. “And miss the chance to inspect this old hulk of yours? Perish the thought.”
She laughed and leaned forward to punch him in the upper arm, hard. Fengel grunted, though he managed to refrain from rubbing at the spot. Brunehilde knew how to hit.
“You supercilious bastard. I heard what happened to you and your crew a few months ago.”
Fengel frowned, glaring back at his officers, who had the decency to look away in embarrassment. “Yes,” he said. “It worked out all right in the end.”
“Good.” Brunehilde nodded. “We need as many swords as you’ve got.”
Cannon fire rumbled in the distance. Everyone looked back out the stern of the airship, towards the jungle and the Graveway. The fighting there sounded worse than a single enemy warship would warrant.
“How bad is it?” asked Fengel.
“Bad,” muttered Brunehilde distractedly. She turned away to yell at her crew. “Cast off! Let’s get in the air!”
She stalked back to the helm at the rear of the ship, and Khalid followed without glancing back. Fengel thought to follow but walked instead to the front of the airship. No. I have to see. Lucian, Henry, and all the others trailed behind him.
Anxiety filled Fengel as Solrun’s Hammer took flight once more. He ignored the shouts of the crew and the bravado of the locals, his eyes alighting one last time on the top of the Dawnhawk, where the White Ape was yanking at the canvas skin of the envelope. He was struck then by Henry’s fear: that he might not see the airship again.
The trip to the Graveway went quickly as they flew out from Haventown and followed the waterway straight to the old Salomcani fort. Cannon fire and bomb blasts, growing in strength with every passing moment, heralded their coming. Before long, the green jungle canopy fell away to reveal a gun-smoke-shrouded struggle being fought.
It was pandemonium. Sheer cliff walls surrounded the roughly circular lagoon, broken by waterway ravines. Two were large enough to allow a ship to pass. The closest was empty, passing just beneath the fort built into the southeastern cliff wall, where pirates fired muskets from behind crumbling Salomcani crenellations. The farthest was directly opposite, to the west, and was clogged by a procession of steam-powered warships, with the foreign airship hovering protectively above. Perinese Bluecoat Marines were disembarking as well, scaling ropes up the cliffs like a militarized collection of spiders in blue jackets and round black caps. Some had already made the trip and looked to be setting up heavy equipment, with two even raising a great pole; the flag hanging from it bore the golden sunburst of Perinault on a field of blue.
Fengel stared in amazed despair. He had been wrong earlier. They didn’t send a scout—they brought the whole damned fleet inside the isles! But how?
The enemy was too quick by far. Too strong.
Two warships sailed about in the lagoon: the Juggernaut and the Behemoth. They maneuvered skillfully in the tight space, paddlewheels churning and smokestacks puffing as they tried to bring their broadsides to bear upon the fort. Above, the three pirate airships here—the Powderheart, Sky Serpent, and Moonchaser—foiled the effort. His comrades bombarded the warships with hand-thrown bombs and musket fire.
Brunehilde brought her airship down at the rear of the fort, where a patch of jungle had been cleared down to bare earth. As soon as the airship was low enough, Brunehilde’s men ran out the boarding ramp, disgorging eager, bloodthirsty passengers.
“We’re here,” called the pirate captain, coming up to the gunwales from back near the stern. “Get yerselves off my ship so I can make another run back to town.”
Fengel led his own crew off onto the sunbaked earth. The ramp was immediately hauled back, the airship’s rear propellers spinning up again as it rose.
“I’ll be back anon,” said Brunehilde from along the gunwales to no one in particular. Behind her and unseen, Khalid roared commands up and down the deck.
“Wait!” called Fengel back at her. “Who’s running things here? Euron’s still back in town, and the others are in the air!”
Brunehilde smirked down at him. “I guess you are, Fengel!”
And then they were aloft, the airship turning away at speed.
Fengel’s retort died on his lips. That’s as good an answer as any, I suppose. He looked to his crew. Gunney Lome was glaring after the retreating Hammer, while Lucian watched the other airships, frowning. Henry Sma
lls waited, patient as always. Without Omari distracting them, Konrad and Maxim stood together like brothers, cracking knuckles and looking about for enemies to hex. Cumbers, Simon, and all the rest stood warily, weapons in hand as they waited for direction.
Past them stood those who had charged so riotously off the ship. They milled about uncertainly. It seemed that Fengel wasn’t the only one who’d been confused.
Fengel adjusted his monocle. “Well,” he said. “If I’m in charge, let’s get this fight run properly, then.”
“Aye, sir,” said Henry. The steward jerked his head towards the arch leading inside the old brick wall of the fort. “Probably best start there.”
“The Perinese are here, all right,” added Lucian. He turned back to frown at Fengel. “But they’re in a bad spot. Captain, how did they even get so many damned ships here in the first place? And so fast? That little conga line of theirs should have been dashed to pieces in the waterway channels.”
I dearly want to know that myself. But anything less than confidence would not do at the moment. “It doesn’t matter. We’re hideously outclassed, but we’ve no choice now but to fight. Come, let’s—” He quieted at the faces of Cumbers and Simon, his newest crewmen, both staring out past the fort. “Something amiss, lads?”
The ex-sergeant started. “Nay, Captain. Nothing. It’s just...those are our countrymen out there. I never signed up to fight them.”
Fengel nodded in sympathy, something he didn’t entirely feel. “The Goddess makes fools of us all at times,” he quoted. “Best keep it in mind that those fellows would hang us all, given the chance.”
Cumbers and Simon shared an unhappy look. “I know, sir,” said the ex-sergeant. “I know.”
“Good!” Fengel clapped him on the back. “This way, then.”
The others fell in behind him as he marched into the rear of the fort. Within was a simple room of four walls, the side facing the lagoon open through a series of arches, like an arcade. Beyond stretched a short paved walk, protected by a crenellated wall holding emplacements for fifteen cannons, all empty at the moment. Back inside, a single wide stair descended to the lower levels. Beside it lay a pyramid of old cannonballs stacked four high.
Pirates, brawlers, and hunters all packed the fort. They stood in cliques, glaring at their rivals, hefting cutlasses and muskets thoughtfully, or otherwise just milling about. A few fired their weapons from the crenellations at the ships in the water below.
Fengel frowned. No. This won’t do at all.
Order was needed, and fast. Fengel stepped aside and jerked his head towards the walk; Gunney Lome moved into action, bulling forward and plowing a path through the crowd. He followed in her wake, stepping outside into the sun before turning back to face those assembled.
“All right, you lot! I want everyone with a musket to assemble on the left and those with pistols and blades on the right. Anyone who knows how to work a cannon, in the middle—I don’t see any here, but the Windhaunter should be arriving with a load of spares any minute now.”
A conflicting chorus answered him.
“What? Who’s that?”
“My left or yours?”
“I’ve got a pistol and a musket!”
“That’s Fengel, that is. Where’s his nasty wife?”
“Shouldn’t he be on the Dawnhawk?”
“Why should we listen to you?”
“Lookit that fop! I bet he’s working with the damned Perinese—”
“Enough,” roared Gunney Lome, and her voice seemed to shake the fort more than the bombs exploding beyond it. Lucian, Henry, and all the rest spread out beside Fengel, facing the crowd in a show of strength.
“You’ll listen to me,” said Fengel, “because out there are a bunch of greedy bastards who want you dead. Now, form up so we can properly draw a bit of Perinese blood!”
The crowd didn’t cheer, but they at least shuffled about as directed. As Gunney Lome and Lucian moved to take control, two bloodied, bedraggled figures stumbled out of the press: the Haventown tracker Phred, leaning heavily on the arm of Geoffrey Lords, the Dawnhawk’s own terrifying cook.
Phred was covered head to toe in makeshift bandages, all crusty with blood. Geoffrey Lords didn’t look much better. He sagged with exhaustion, not even offering a greeting.
“Hullo, Captain,” said Phred. “Was hoping you’d show up.”
Fengel moved to assist them, and crewman Cumbers helped set the men down against one side of an arch.
“Good Goddess above,” said Fengel. “Whatever happened to you two?”
Henry passed a waterskin, which both men took up eagerly. After finishing, Phred leaned back with a weary sigh. “Thanks,” he said before looking again to Fengel. “Captain, you were right to send us out last night. Most of my lads thought you were crazy—until we saw all those warships racing down the waterways in the middle of the night. Tried to needle them a bit, slow ’em before they got to the Graveway. They gave a bit better than they got, though.”
“How did they get all those—”
“It’s that airship of theirs,” replied Phred. “It knew the right path somehow, and it’s got these big galvanic lamps like the Mechanists make. Might as well have been noon. And each one of those warships is that new kind, armored, with steam-powered paddlewheelers. They got knocked about something fierce—thought a few might even sink and ruin their whole advance, but in the end they didn’t even have the kind of trouble old Cadmus has getting that whale of his into port.”
Fengel leaned back, thinking furiously. So that’s how they did it. “Still,” he muttered. “Damned reckless of them. Doctrine should have kept them at anchor until daybreak. What could have made them move so early?”
Shaking his head, he reached out to clasp Phred on the shoulder. “Take it easy, man. You risked quite a bit, on just my asking. You too, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey Lords gave a weak smile, then reached for his waterskin again.
Phred reached up to clasp Fengel’s hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Captain. I was happy to do it.” He frowned. “Rest of the lads probably have a bit of regret, though, seeing as they’re dead.”
The old tracker leaned back against the arch to rest. Fengel stood, turning to see Henry and the others watching him expectedly. “All right,” he said. “Lucian, get everyone with longarms to watch the Haventown waterway; they won’t hit anything where they are now, and I don’t want anything slipping past unscathed. Gunney Lome? Assemble and assign teams for each emplacement—Duvale should be here soon with cannons. Maxim, Konrad, neither of you have anything that’ll make a difference at this range, so hold your spells in case we need to fall back. If there are any other aetherites in the lot, get them to do the same. Henry, I want anyone with a blade out into the bush; Bluecoats are climbing up the far cliffs. They might try to flank overland. The rest of you, split up and help out.”
A shadow passed over the fort. It was Duvale’s airship, the Windhaunter, lowering itself down behind the fort.
Finally. Cannons would give the old fort some teeth—and might make all the difference.
Fengel crossed through the fort and ran back outside, where the Windhaunter was just running out its boarding ramp. “About time, Duvale!” he called. “I’ve got teams sorted and waiting to run those guns you’ve brought.”
“Of course ye’d be up here, arranging such nonsense!”
Euron Blackheart stepped into view against the gunwales, strangely small and hunched in the daylight. He glared down at Fengel, his bushy grey eyebrows coming together in disapproval. “If’n ye were any kind o’ man at all, ye’d be down there fightin’!”
Fengel stumbled, his surprise transmuting into anger as if by magic. Damnable relic! Contrarian old fool! A hundred and one retorts came to mind, and he opened his mouth to give voice to them, but Euron wasn’t even looking at him anymore, gesturing instead to someone just out of sight.
“Get it all off-loaded! Can’t be goin’ into battle weighed down like a
pregnant sow.”
Three of his old crew appeared atop the ramp. They were dressed for a fight but looked older than ever. Grunting, swearing, and creaking, they manhandled a light six-pound cannon complete with carriage, rolling it down to the ground before heading back aboard. Three more appeared, their task the same. Fengel watched as cannon after cannon was hastily unloaded and left in a pile at the bottom of the ramp. A pair of powder kegs were dropped in a hurry, followed by a man with an armload of swabs, wadding, and fuses. Fengel cursed under his breath and gestured sharply to Gunney Lome, who rushed over with a number of Haventowners. “You could at least move these things inside!”
“Whyfor?” replied Euron. “Going to be damned useless until Brunehilde arrives with the rest o’ the powder and shot.”
Fengel stared at the lone pair of kegs. “What? This is all you brought?”
“Aye!” said Euron, watching the work eagerly. “This be the last of it? Good!” He turned to face the stern of the airship. “Let’s be off, damn the Goddess’s eyes fer making me wait!”
Wait, what? Fengel took a step towards the ramp, but Duvale’s crewmen pulled it back aboard. “Hold on now! Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Euron glared back down at Fengel like he were a yapping puppy. “Because there’s fightin’ to be had! Hairy armpits of the Goddess above, are ye senseless as well as cowardly?” He looked out past Fengel and the fort to the lagoon beyond. “Oh, I’m going to teach them a lesson, these Perinese bastards. Personally! Enough o’ this bombing and sniping with muskets that can’t hit a damned thing. Waste of powder! No, we’ll do it th’ old way, with sword an’ fire an’ blood.” He drew his cutlass, raised it high on a shaking, unsteady arm. “It’ll be glorious! Just like the time I vanquished Red Margaret Cray!” He glared down at Fengel. “So cower up here while I show ye how things be done.”
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 10