Above the Graveway floated the pirate airships. The Powderheart, Windhaunter, and Moonchaser were all bombarding a single warship in the waters below. She was a battered thing, barely held together as she dodged her impending doom. To her captain’s credit, the ship maneuvered with skill and grace, minimizing what the defenders could do. The only thing truly saving her, however, was the Perinese gun battery. Lighter cannons not aimed at the fort lobbed shots high into the air—they’d been specially built, it seemed, for shooting down airships. The pirates were forced back above the fort, attacking only when opportunity presented itself.
“Feh,” Natasha sighed. “Fengel was wrong; they’re here in force somehow. But things aren’t a complete catastrophe—more’s the pity.” She yelled over her shoulder back to the helm. “Bring us about three points north! Skirt the lagoon, and let’s get to work. I guess.”
Relief washed over Lina. Getting mixed in with the struggle below was the last thing she wanted to do. The Dawnhawk had taken cannon fire during the Almhazlik affair after stumbling onto parts of this very fleet. It had been a surprise, though, and they’d run away from it as far and fast as they could. Now it would be different. Staying to fight would be something else entirely.
Lina knew she was not a soldier.
Natasha turned away from the bow. “Stone, stay up here. I want you—what are you doing here?”
Lina blinked in confusion, then followed her captain’s gaze. Natasha was staring at the foreward entry hatch to the lower decks. There a dark face smudged by coal peeked up from over the edge.
It was Omari.
She started at Natasha’s cry and tried to duck down belowdecks. The Dawnhawk’s captain proved quicker. Natasha was there in a heartbeat, hauling Omari up by her blond hair.
“Ow!” yelped Omari. “Let go, you madwoman!”
She slapped at Natasha’s arm, trying to keep her balance as the airship changed direction. Her clothes were a disheveled mishmash of several different outfits, an obvious attempt at the impromptu dress of Haventown. She was filthy all over, streaked with coal dust.
“Chapter two of my little book says it’s rude to throw stowaways over the side,” said Natasha idly. “So I’m going to simply ask you again—though I’ll be louder this time, of course.” She paused for a breath. “What are you doing here, you twisted corpse-puppeteer?!”
She dropped Omari to the deck, who glared back up at Natasha angrily. “It’s not my fault, what happens to the dead. And I was trying to get away from the fighting, so that I wouldn’t be a problem!”
Natasha planted her hands on her hips. Butterbeak mimicked the action, hunching low to peer down at the woman. “Really. By somehow stowing away back aboard my ship?”
“Well, yes.” Omari looked embarrassed. “It was either that or run off into the jungle.”
Lina felt a rumbling vibration through the deck—the engines kicking into higher gear. Hot steam shot from the partially dismantled port-side exhaust, causing a passing Nate Wiley to dive away with a yell. At the stern, the great propellers spun back up to a steady buzz. Reaver Jane was wasting no time in getting them away, which Lina approved of. No one wanted to come out here but you, Natasha. She rubbed at Runt’s slightly oily scales. He chirred unhappily but squeezed her tighter.
“I heard that the Dawnhawk was not going to the battle,” said Omari. “So I came back aboard and hid in the coal stores. It was only when I heard the sounds of fighting growing closer that I came out to see.” She climbed back to her feet. “The Perinese will conquer Haventown. Even you have to see that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lina saw Michael Hockton appear, descending the port-side rigging. She started to smile at him, but stopped at the look of utter panic on his face.
“That’s not going to happen,” replied Natasha flatly.
“They will.” Omari shook her head. “You were not there for the pacification of Breachtown. You did not see. It is not possible for you to win. Not with a handful of airships crewed by swarthy miscreants.”
Michael Hockton cut off any reply. “Captain!” he cried. “We’re being pursued!”
Natasha frowned and turned about. “Hockton? What do you mean?”
The ex-Bluecoat clambered farther down. “It’s that Perinese airship! The White Ape was dangling me over the side of the gas bag when we noticed. She’s broken off from the Graveway to follow after us!”
Natasha pushed past the stowaway. Lina followed her back down the deck to the stern, past dangling cables, past Reaver Jane at the helm, to where the propellers spun and the exhaust stacks spit steam out behind the airship.
Hairy arms of the Goddess. Michael was right. The enemy airship had broken away from the fight, leaving its position above the Perinese to chase directly after them. On her gas bag, the golden sunburst sigil of Perinault gleamed in the sunlight.
The Windhaunter moved to intercept her, but she was too slow to react; the only path quick enough to match the Glory of Perinault took her straight into the fire from the cliff top battery opposite, and the cannon blasts drove her back. The Glory continued on unopposed. Natasha had thought to play tourist with battle, but now the battle was coming to them.
“Damn the luck,” whispered Natasha. But she smiled as she said it, and her eyes were fixed like a raptor upon their pursuer.
She turned back to the deck at large. “Break out the guns and sharpen your blades! Anyone not at the helm, stand by and prepare to repel boarders!”
Lina met Omari’s eyes. The Yulani woman was downright frightened. Lina forced herself to composure, though the same uneasiness wormed its way through her guts, like a scryn through the corpse of a cow. She’d been in plenty of scrapes before, but as she glanced at the empty deck and the bedraggled appearance of her airship, she couldn’t help but feel apprehension. This time feels different.
It didn’t take long for the crew to prepare. Lina lined up along the port-side exhaust with the others; Reaver Jane, Farouk, Rastalak, Jahmal, Andrea Holt, Ryan Gae, Nate Wiley, and Natasha, of course, standing fiercely. Michael Hockton and Allen clustered near Lina, while Paine hung back, uncertain. Everyone had cutlasses and fresh muskets. Etarin was at the helm. Butterbeak chirped in excitement at the impending violence, while Runt chirred irritably.
The Glory of Perinault still closed the distance between them, coming up along the port side. It was smaller than the Dawnhawk, more trim. Thick, armored plates covered the gondola, as well as the gasbag itself. Along the hull were an array of propellers, three to a side, smaller than the two great spinning blades whirling at the stern of the vessel. The sigil painted on the gas bag was even more gaudy, up close.
Lina was aghast. How could such an ugly thing move so quickly? She glanced back around her own deck for reassurance. The Dawnhawk was the latest of the Mechanist’s airships, fast and strong. Surely they’d pull ahead.
Though when Lina took in the well-patched gas bag, the splintered deck, and the cracked exhaust stack hissing steam, she felt no confidence. The airship was bedraggled and worn down. She needed repairs and refitting. A haphazard curtain of rope dangling down from the top of the gas bag to starboard seemed particularly out of place.
The enemy airship closed in. A thousand meters, then five hundred, then a hundred. Lina lifted a musket, but Natasha hissed at her, at them all; they’d never hit a thing at that range. It would still feel good, though, to fire. She glanced to Michael standing beside her, confidently gripping a musket. My soldier. He noticed her watching, smiled bravely, and stood a little straighter. Lina felt butterflies in her stomach, but then she winced. She shouldn’t have been toying with him. Her little test seemed foolish right now.
The airships were parallel now, close enough to see the enemy standing behind the armored sides of the airship gondola. Lina blinked in confusion. The Bluecoat marines she had expected, but spaced evenly along the gunwales were a score of tall men in heavy brazen armor, holding massive, pepperbox muskets. Who are they? Are those knights
? That’s...that’s ridiculous. Who wears plate armor in this day and—
Someone yelled a command over on the other ship. The brass knights raised their weapons in unison, took aim, and fired. Flames blossomed and thunder roared out from the barrels of their overlarge guns, sounding more like cannons than muskets.
Death flew past Lina with a cracking whip-hiss that sent her ducking frantically. Other shots proved more lethal. The gunwales in front of the assembled pirates exploded into jagged shards at the impact of heavy musket balls, clearing the path for their brethren to hammer into the exhaust pipe. Lina watched dimples appear in the skin of the pipe from those shots that pierced it, which then rung about inside as the whole piece ruptured and cracked in front of her eyes. Scalding heat washed over her as steam shot out in great hissing gouts that added a teakettle whistle to the cacophony of the bombardment.
Her ears were ringing, and blood spilled down her face. Something made her cheek stiff. Lina ignored it, praying that whatever wound she’d taken wasn’t too serious. Adrenaline numbed the pain for now. But when had she fallen to her back? Got to get up. Get up and draw my knives—there isn’t any time—
A branching metal hook flew through the steam and landed on the deck just beside her. An attached rope pulled taut, yanking back to catch on the ruin of the exhaust pipe. Others followed just behind it, running down the length of the ship in front of the beleaguered pirates. The boarding hooks all pulled tight, and Lina shouted a wordless warning as she realized what was coming next.
Light from above dimmed as the Glory of Perinault pulled tight against the Dawnhawk. The brass knights held the boarding grapnels, and Bluecoat marines stood between them now in odd harnesses; they took smallswords and bayonet-tipped muskets to hand as they leaped aboard the pirate airship.
Lina scrabbled to her feat, drawing both of the daggers at her hips. On her shoulder Runt arched up, hissing violently. She tried to yell another warning as she saw Natasha on her feet with cutlass upraised, her puffy sleeve torn and bloody, long splinters sticking out from her shoulder. Rastalak was snarling, fingers spread in claws, looking for all the world like some monstrous beast. Nate Wiley lay facedown, and Michael Hockton was taking aim with his musket as Allen clutched the spurting stump of a missing finger. Then the Perinese were flying through the steam and there wasn’t time to do anything but fight.
She fell back at the charge of a bull-necked man with a smallsword trailing a rope tether back to the Glory from his leather harness. He blinked in confusion as he saw her, expecting something other than a hundred-pound waif with a weird creature on her shoulders. Lina recognized the gift for what it was and threw herself forward. She slashed at his wrist, then aimed for his throat with the other dagger. Runt snapped forward, hissing poisonous spittle at his face. The soldier fell back with an inarticulate cry, only for another to replace him, eyes narrow with determination.
Her new opponent was hampered by his harness and tether but still dangerous. He thrust for her head with his blade, forcing her to bring both daggers up in an X-shaped block. The blow stumbled her backwards. Then he was on her again, hammering his smallsword at her like he was pounding nails.
“I’ve got him!” screamed Allen. The young Mechanist appeared with a long pike he’d found who knew where, goggles down, his wounded hand clumsily wrapped. He jabbed her assailant in the side. The Bluecoat grunted and knocked the pike away, sending the butt of the polearm straight back into Lina’s chest.
Her air whooshed out as she staggered back again. The shine of another Bluecoat’s smallsword flickered in the corner of her eye, and she made to duck away, only to be knocked sprawling as Michael Hockton crashed into her, sword upraised to block the blow she would have easily dodged. Lina lost her grip on a dagger and watched it clatter to the deck. She barely kept ahold of the second.
“I’ll save you,” Michael cried dramatically.
“Stop helping!” Lina reached for her other dagger. Its hilt was in her fingers when Michael stepped on her wrist. She yelled, and he stumbled, falling back into the soldier attacking Allen, forcing the man forward with a scream onto the pike.
She threw her arm up at the melee from where she lay, not quite caring at whom she pointed. “Runt! Kill!”
Her pet eeled from her shoulders and took wing, hissing and spitting and filling the air with lurid red light. Hoarse yells and curses rose up over the roar of the battle.
Lina scrabbled out from between the furiously stamping feet and twisting, knotting Bluecoat tethers only to find herself caught in yet another melee. She rose up and swiped at a marine, then dodged past Andrea Holt as the other woman charged into the fight. Lina swung wildly as she ran, taking as many opportunities to attack as she could—until she slammed into the exhaust pipe running along the starboard gunwales and there wasn’t anyone else to hit. Lina breathed great gasping breaths and used the pause to take in the battle before her.
The Perinese boarding action had been successful. Though there were fewer marines than she’d initially expected, their charge had worked perfectly, following just on the heels of the brass knights’ fusillade. Her crewmates had fallen back, allowing even more soldiers to board. Now individual melees raged up and down the deck, the defenders outnumbered two to one. Their only advantage was the mess of Bluecoat boarding tethers that stretched back to the enemy airship, hampering the invaders.
Past the struggle lay the Glory of Perinault, masked by a constant spray of steam. Through the cloud she thought she could see the knights. They hadn’t moved at all to join the attack, frozen like statues as they held the boarding grappels tying both ships together. Lina realized that they weren’t knights at all. They weren’t even alive.
Clockwork automata. Like the Brass Horses back in Triskelion. Or some kind of Voornish machine.
A figure leaped out of the steam to the port side of the Dawnhawk’s deck. Not a Bluecoat, he landed adroitly to stand with his hands on his hips, pompous and excited and very well dressed in tasteful scarlet and sable. He wore a boarding harness like the rest of the Perinese and was barely older than Lina herself, both thin and handsome. Instead of a smallsword, he wore an honest-to-the-Goddess longsword, like something straight from a penny-tale of knights and dragons.
“Avast, ye scallywags!” he said in a rich, cultured voice. “The day of yer doom be—” He abruptly broke into laughter. “I’m sorry. I always wanted to say that, but it sounds so silly out loud.” The fellow shook his head and looked about the deck. “Now, what have we...ah!”
He looked to Natasha, who was fighting in the middle of the deck. Putting a hand to the hilt of his longsword, he sauntered in her direction with polite calm, like a spectator at a sporting exhibit.
A soldier collapsed in front of him with Rastalak crouched upon his bloodied chest. The little Draykin looked up, saw the newcomer, and leaped.
The man moved like a serpent. He twisted and ducked, coming back up to catch the little Draykin with the palm of his free hand. Rastalak flew past, slamming against Reaver Jane and big Farouk, who stood back to back against four soldiers.
“My word,” said the newcomer, “there’s all manner of strange beasts aboard this vessel.”
He made a little pirouette behind Natasha, who was noisily sawing open the throat of a soldier with her cutlass. She seemed to see the movement and dropped her toy, twisting to swing her blade in a great, head-chopping arc. The newcomer laughed and stepped away, his longsword leaping from scabbard to hand in a parry like it was a living thing.
His blade flared with soft golden light. The metal positively glowed. When it met Natasha’s cutlass, sparks flew, as if from a blacksmith’s anvil. As she pulled back to strike again, Lina saw the blade was badly chipped.
A Worked blade. Oh no.
Aetherite magic was uncommon enough. A Worked object was an order of magnitude more rare. To bind a permanent enchantment to a tool that anyone could use was difficult—and costly. Any aetherite willing and able to do so charged dea
rly for the service. But the results were worth almost any price: blades made of flame or charms that provided unparalleled protection.
Natasha was a skilled and vicious fighter. But the dandy seemed capable as well, and a magic sword put the odds firmly in his favor. Lina took a breath and ducked back into the fight; the captain was going to need her help.
“Natasha Blackheart!” crowed the fellow, cutting at her face. “Captain of the airship Dawnhawk and ravager of the Atalian Sea. I’ve read so much about you! It is an honor to finally meet you.”
Natasha parried the blow, more sparks flying. She bound his blade and held it, glaring at him between the cross of their swords. “And who are you, you damned peacock?”
The newcomer gave a nod. “Forgive me. You have the pleasure of speaking with Crown Prince Gwydion, heir apparent to the Kingdom of Perinault.”
Lina faltered as she ducked past another fight. The Crown Prince? Here? But that’s insane, impossible.
Natasha apparently came to a different conclusion. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she smiled cruelly. “Well now, if that’s true, you’re worth this trouble and then some. You should have stayed on your ship, peacock! Now I’m going to ransom you for all the gold in the Kingdom while my allies bomb your boats into flotsam!”
Gwydion laughed. “Oh, don’t blame me. I was bored! Besides, they’ll deal with it. We’re so completely superior to you silly pirates, after all. I even gave my royal guards the slip for a moment—left them behind to make this a bit more fair.” He looked away, at the Glory. “Do you like my airship? It’s very modern. Full of all sorts of clever mechanical improvements to this old rattletrap vessel of y—”
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 12