Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  The old pirate turned away, his strident demands echoing down to where Fengel stood. He realized he was shaking, but whether it was from rage or exasperation he did not know. Cowardly? You old fart, you hide there in your too-hot tavern and live vicariously through the glories your daughter accumulates!

  “You’re going to be the death of us all,” he said as the Windhaunter lifted off, twisting to face the lagoon.

  It hit him then, what the old pirate had been saying. Euron was taking the fight straight to the Perinese. He was going to board one of the warships down in the lagoon.

  “Oh, for the love of the Goddess,” whispered Fengel. A boarding action in such close confines, with experienced soldiers on the defense? Madness. It would be a bloodbath on both sides. And Euron was the only one who commanded enough respect to bind together all the fractious people of Haventown with any kind of speed. If he fell now...

  Fengel twisted violently about. “Sarah! Drop that thing and get more of the men from inside! We need these cannons placed! Grab up all the fuses and swabs! Hurry, damn it, hurry!”

  He knelt and grabbed the barrel of a twelve-pounder still in its original frame. He pushed it towards the fort, growling in effort. On a deck of wooden planks, it would have slid easily. Here, though, each foot it was pushed cut deep furrows into the earth.

  Two pairs of hands appeared to assist: Phred’s and Cumbers’s. Between the three of them they shoved the cannon to the rear of the fort, hauling, grunting, and swearing. Before long they had it set into the midmost port overlooking the lagoon. Others arrived with their own cannons, directed by Sarah.

  “That’s right, lads,” he cried over the sound of musket shot and bomb blast. “Get these things positioned! I want an even spread, to cover the lagoon. Who has that powder? Get it up here!” He glanced at the stack of old cannonballs, each a different size. “Where’re my loaders? Get those balls over here!

  Fengel turned his attention to the lagoon below, ignoring his officers as they executed his wishes. The Windhaunter was already below the lip of the cliff, falling towards its prey. The enemy warship Juggernaut sat squarely in the middle of the lagoon while its sister ship circled about, paddlewheels churning as it tried to bring a broadside to bear on the fort. Captain Duvale, likely under Euron’s strident direction, aimed dead for it. From the far end of the lagoon—where Bluecoats climbed and the Perinese vessel Colossus was anchored in the waterway mouth—came shouts of surprise. Floating serenely above them was the strange Perinese airship, the golden sunburst on her envelope bright and clear.

  The other Haventown captains adjusted to Euron’s mad charge. Their airships frantically turned aside, ceasing bombardment as they moved through a haze of stinking gunsmoke that obscured the blue morning skies above.

  Captain Duvale’s vessel came in low, boarding tethers flung out with expert skill to land in the masts and rigging of the Juggernaut. They snagged ahold and stretched taut, the airship’s inertia pitching the Juggernaut violently and jerking her through the water. The Windhaunter shook with the strain, herself suspended at an odd angle, but ropes were dropped and pirates with them, while those still aboard up above fired muskets to keep pressure on the startled defenders.

  Fengel pressed his lips together. One way or another, the glory-mad old fool was committed now.

  Well. I’ll have to do what I can. Fengel looked to the other cannons. Only five of the nine weapons inside were ready for the fight. They had teams of four men and women at the ready, lighting slow-burning matches and cleaning long-handled swabs.

  “Gunnery crews!” Fengel shouted. “Aim for the Behemoth as she comes into range. We need to keep her from assisting the Juggernaut! Load—and be ready to fire on my mark.”

  Sarah had done just as he’d asked. Pairs of pirates tottered over to each gun, hauling rusty cannonballs from the stack inside. Henry Smalls and Lucian appeared at each with a keg of powder. The cannons seemed to swallow the powder, poured like shining black sand down a bottomless throat. There was going to be barely enough for a handfull of volleys.

  Fengel glanced back at the lagoon. The Behemoth was coming around, moving to help her sister ship. Of Euron’s attack, he could make out nothing; the shadow of the Windhaunter hung too deep. All he could see was the flashing of blades and the flare of pistol-shot.

  The cannon beside him slammed forward into the brick wall. Phred had a long match lit, and Cumbers stood to one side, visage troubled.

  Fengel recalled the first time he’d fired on a Perinese ship. He’ll live. I certainly did.

  A quick look around told him that the other crews were similarly ready, that their timing would never be better. Fengel drew his saber, stepped back, and hacked down through the air.

  “Fire!”

  The pirates obeyed. As matches lit to touch holes, the cannons leaped back, erupting in a blast of staggered thunder. Fengel rushed to the wall and peered out at the warship below.

  Three waterspouts burst from the lagoon near the Behemoth. The last two shots were more on target. Fengel watched the starboard railing explode into splinters as a ball struck it, the foresail stretching taut and tearing away, taking the spars connecting it to the mast. He laughed and rang the pommel of his saber against the low brick wall before turning back.

  “Again!” he cried, sheathing his blade. Fengel grabbed up a long-handled swab and rammed it down the barrel of Phred’s cannon. Gunney Lome appeared with the powder. Cumbers wasn’t far behind, an iron ball in his hands and tears on his cheeks.

  The Behemoth tried to return fire, but its angle was off. Cannon fire dug holes in the cliff below, harmlessly. Twice more the cannons atop the fort sounded in response, wreaking increasingly accurate damage upon the warship.

  Henry Smalls appeared beside Fengel, his fingers in his ears. “We’re dry, sir!” shouted the steward. “Powder’s all gone!”

  Fengel made a fist and slammed it against the crenellations. They’d been doing so well! He gazed down into the lagoon, where the Behemoth was floundering her way towards the far end of the channel. The Moonchaser and the Powderheart were already moving in to bombard her from above. To his surprise, the Windhaunter was already lifting away from the Juggernaut. As her shadow shrank, Fengel saw no movement on the Perinese decks—and much blood.

  “It’s no matter,” he said to those nearby. “We’ve done our job, even with what little we had. And Euron actually won, somehow.”

  An idea occurred to him then. He brightened and turned to his steward. “Henry, get a rough crew together. As soon as Duvale touches back down, let’s get them ferried to the Juggernaut; we can use it as a forward defense of the lagoon. Why Euron hasn’t done it already, I don’t pretend to—”

  A cataclysmic report ripped up from the lagoon below. Fengel ducked reflexively, then turned back to stare over the crenellations. The Perinese warship in the water below had exploded, sending shards of her ruptured hull and rigging across the Graveway. Fengel could only stare as bits of ship rained down about them.

  “That psychopathic old fool!” he howled. “He lit off the powder magazine! We could have used that!”

  The pirates only cheered and applauded the devastation. As the Windhaunter approached the fort, Fengel glared black hatred at it.

  By the time the airship touched down on the landing field, he was waiting, a small crowd of Haventown defenders behind him. Past the airship, over the treetops, Solrun’s Hammer was returning from their home port with more supplies. Fengel realized he didn’t care. Instead, he waited for Euron to appear atop the Windhaunter’s boarding ramp. The pirate king leaned on his sheathed cutlass like a cane as he descended, but in his other hand held a severed head up by the hair. Behind him came a number of his old crew, in far worse shape than the pirate king himself.

  “Ha!” cried Euron at the foot of the ramp. “Let this be a warnin’ to any who dare stand in me—”

  “What did you do down there?” shouted Fengel.

  Euron stopped in surpri
se. A sneer worked its way across his features as he focused on Fengel. “I brought death to our foes, popinjay. Even someone with yer eyesight should see that. Captain fell overboard, but I slew the crew, cut off her lieutenant’s head, an’ fired her magazine!”

  “Exactly!” replied Fengel, gesticulating violently. “You went through all that trouble and fired the powder magazine! We could have used that ship to fend off the rest of the navy! And my eyesight is fine!”

  “Don’t get yer knickers all bunched up. We’ll kill that other ship an’ get close enough to bomb the rest. They’re sittin’ ducks in that channel right, Grant?” He elbowed one of his men in the side. Grant grimaced, then smiled weakly.

  “That’s not the point,” snapped Fengel. “It was something we could have used. We’re so damned outnumbered and outclassed here—”

  The pirate king curled his lip and stepped up to Fengel. Once he’d been tall, but now he barely came to Fengel’s chin. “Glory be everythin,’ popinjay. A real pirate would know that.”

  Euron shoved the bloodied head at him, forcing Fengel to grab it. Then the pirate king pushed past him into the crowd. An unsteady line of his old crewmen trailed along after.

  Fengel threw the head hard at the ground and glared death after the pirate king. If the Perinese don’t kill him, I just might myself. Natasha wouldn’t blame me.

  Someone touched him on the arm. Fengel whirled, ready to chew the fellow’s face off with his teeth. “What?” he snarled before stopping in surprise.

  A Mechanist stood before him. Even stranger, it was a young woman. She was squat and short, with shoulder-length hair, her gender barely noticeable under the leather greatcoat and goggles. Behind her, beside the Windhaunter, sat Brunehilde’s airship, anchored and unloading.

  “Captain Fengel?” she asked in a muffled voice.

  “Aye?” he replied.

  “You are wanted in Haventown. Please return with me aboard Solrun’s Hammer. The Mechanist Cabal would speak with you, and you alone.”

  Fengel frowned, uncertain. Behind him, the battle in the lagoon began again.

  Chapter Seven

  The irregular blast of cannon fire grew louder with every passing moment.

  Lina struggled with the Dawnhawk’s wheel. It had mechanisms to ease steering of the airship, though a certain degree of sheer brawn was still required—something she very much lacked. Runt coiled around her neck, heavy and irritable, which certainly didn’t help.

  The Dawnhawk flew ponderously just above the jungle canopy. Her battered deck felt strangely empty for so late in the morning. Only a handful of the crew had been picked for Natasha’s mission, as the rest had gone with Fengel to fight at the Graveway. Those remaining rushed about, trying to finish all the makeshift repairs that had not been completed before takeoff, like carnival entertainers spinning plates. Reaver Jane moved quickly down the deck, hastily examining each of the hawsers connecting the two halves of the Dawnhawk. Etarin and his big friend Farouk greased the whirring gear trains near the stern propellers with unseemly haste. The ex-twin Nate Wiley worked sullenly at dismantling a piece of the port-side exhaust pipe, damaged in a storm and awaiting proper repair. Rastalak and Ryan Gae clung to the underside of the envelope frame, roughly sewing a canvas patch back into place while lengths of rope dangled down about them like hempen vines.

  Lina had been ordered to stand in as navigator and pilot. She didn’t mind at first. Anything that took her away from the Graveway battle, she’d cheerfully volunteer for. A fight was a fight, but she’d tasted enough real warfare during the Almhazlik incident. Lina had not liked it one bit.

  But when they’d lifted off, with only just the barest preparations finally complete, Natasha had ordered them west, to the Graveway. The brief pops of bomb blasts grew to sharp thumps, filling her with dread. At times she swore she could smell the smoke and sulfur on the wind.

  A gust blew across the airship’s rudder, twisting the wheel. Lina fought it, her feet barely touching the deck as the gondola gave a deep, troubled groan. At the same time, Runt tightened his coils about her neck. Lina gasped, letting go with one hand to slap at him, and the wheel slipped. Damned fat cranky scryn!

  Someone reached roughly past her, seizing the wheel. Lina looked up into the scarred, unsmiling face of Reaver Jane. The pirate woman wasn’t even looking at her, gazing instead at the front of the airship.

  “I’ve got this,” she said, jerking her head towards the bow. “Go find out why we’re heading west. We shouldn’t be going anywhere near that fight.”

  Lina hauled at Runt’s coils with both hands and moved to obey. About time someone else wondered what was going on.

  Though she was sending Lina over to do the asking.

  Natasha stood near the bow, framed by clouds of growing gun smoke against the soft blue sky. She stood with arms crossed, Butterbeak on her shoulder, obviously irritated at the two crewmen squabbling before her. They were Allen and Michael Hockton, and the sight of their feuding cheered Lina.

  “I’m the one that needs Lina’s help!” Michael Hockton all but shouted. The ex-Bluecoat looked even more rugged than usual, covered in grime and sweat. “I hauled all those muskets up to the lookout’s nest, but the ape won’t leave them alone. It always takes two to handle him, and he’s afraid of Runt. Oh, and someone left the gas-bag hatch open earlier, and things looked all shifted around in there.”

  “You can deal with the ape just fine,” said Allen. “I’m the one who needs Lina’s help!” He dropped one end of a heavy brass pipe to clang on the deck, then leaned against it. Allen was covered in soot. “Someone was digging around where they shouldn’t and left the coal stores open belowdecks. There’s a terrible mess down there—you’d think someone crawled inside to hide. We need it cleaned up to feed the engines. But before I can do that, the dented part of the port-side exhaust needs replacement.” The young Mechanist narrowed his eyes. “Besides, I’m sure that Lina wouldn’t want to spend half an hour freezing atop the gas bag while watching you get thrashed by the stinking White Ape.”

  Hockton glared at him. “Why would she be any better off with a little grease monkey like you?”

  “Enough,” roared Natasha, punctuated by a staccato blast of cannonfire. Butterbeak added an ear-shattering screech that made everyone wince, only to fly into the air when Natasha slapped him off of her shoulder. “You,” she said, rounding on Allen. “Get aloft and help Hockton secure those guns against the ape. When you’re done, the both of you go fix that damned pipe. No arguments, or I’ll string you up by your toes.”

  A midair bomb blast flashed off in the distance, cutting short the threat. Both men moved to obey, expressions sour. You could never tell when Natasha would choose to follow through.

  I should say something to Michael. Before Lina could catch his eye, Natasha spoke up again.

  “Wait,” she said thoughtfully. Then she retrieved a small tome from out of her puffy white shirt and flipped it open to a dog-eared page. “Before you two little idiots go, know that I val...value? Damned smudge. I value your efforts aboard this ship.”

  Allen and Michael Hockton stared a long moment, then stammered mumbled replies and fled. Natasha ignored them, turning her attention again to the book.

  Curiosity won out over Lina’s disappointment. She bent low and peered at the cover, where How to Pillage Friends and Intimidate People was printed in heavy gold lettering. What? A self-help book?

  “Fengel got it for me,” said Natasha dryly, finally noticing her. “Figured that it might help with all the mutiny.” She jerked her head back at Allen and Michael, who were climbing to the gas bag. Past them flew another airship, Solrun’s Hammer, heading back to Haventown. “Also, don’t tell me you’re encouraging that stupidity.”

  Lina met Natasha’s cold gaze. The wind changed, though, distracting her with the gunsmoke smell of sulfur. “I...ah—”

  “Never mind.” Her captain shut her book and jammed it back down in her cleavage. “I left yo
u at the helm. What are you doing up here?”

  Lina forced herself to face Natasha squarely. “We’re all wonderin’ at the course, Captain. We were supposed to head north. You’ve got us going for the Graveway.” She glanced past her mad captain to the airships flitting about the sky ahead.

  Butterbeak screeched overhead at her insubordination. Runt, who had finally had enough, rose up and chirred angrily. Lina grabbed him with both hands, fighting with his weight. Now wasn’t the time for such squabbling.

  Natasha turned away, looking towards the bow. “Damned right I am. We should be almost on top of it. ‘Just a scout,’ he says.” She slammed a fist into her palm. “We should be fighting, gutting those witless Perinese for daring to show their powdered wigs on these isles. But my father says that there’s something more important to do, and damn him for it, Fengel agrees.” She turned her gaze to Lina. “But I’m not going to fly off without even seeing if we’re needed.”

  She stalked up to the bow, with Lina hurrying after. They passed the young boy, Paine, looking sour as he helped Andrea Holt sand away at a jagged deck plank. Both of them paused to stare at the commotion off the bow. A cloud of dingy yellow smoke blew across the deck then, enveloping them all in the stink of fired gunpowder. Lina felt her way blindly, running into a hanging rope several times, until she ran into the gunwales beside her captain. Natasha was standing angrily, hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white. “We should be down in that,” she said, gesturing violently as the cloud blew past.

  A slow conflict was being waged below in the Graveway Lagoon. The pirates of Haventown manned the old Salomcani fort, with perimeter lines spread out to either side. Gun-crews manned an assortment of cannons, firing with almost mechanical efficiency at the command of a huge red-haired woman who could only be Sarah Lome. Across the lagoon were the Perinese, their warships snug in the lagoon mouth and beyond, anchored against one cliff of the ravine. Several companies of bluecoated marines clambered about the clifftops, erecting defenses. A battery of heavy guns was already in place, lobbing artillery fire back at the fort and falling just short. Above them floated the strange airship from last night’s attack on the Skydocks, guarding against the pirate vessels. Lina could just make out the golden letters along her bow, which read Glory of Perinault.