Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Natasha tried to take advantage of his distraction with a vicious cut at his head. The golden blade parried it neatly. “Come now,” he mocked, turning back to face her, “you’re going to have to do better than that. I wield Danlann, the Ruling Blade itself.”

  “It’s a pretty thing,” snapped Natasha. “It’ll look perfect on my hip.”

  Lina reached the two of them and moved to circle around behind Gwydion. As she watched, Natasha feinted with a sweeping overhand cut that fooled the crown prince. He raised his longsword to parry. Natasha suddenly drew a pistol with her free hand and aimed at his thigh. The plume of gunsmoke obscured Lina’s view, but the whine of a ricochet was all too familiar to her ears. When the smoke cleared Gwydion was standing nonchalantly, an eyebrow raised.

  “Really now,” he said. “I’m the heir to the greatest kingdom in the world. Did you think I wouldn’t have all manner of rare and expensive protection at hand?”

  Natasha hissed. “A bullet-warding Worked charm?” She looked directly to Lina. “Leave off—you’ll just get in the way. Fengel said you’re clever; go cut that damned armored whale from us!” Then she renewed her attack upon Gwydion with a flurry of blows so furious the prince was forced on the defensive.

  Lina fell back. Natasha was right; there wasn’t much she could do against the prince. The question was, could Natasha?

  Lina backed away, glancing to the struggle surrounding her. It was going poorly for the defenders. No one was laid out yet, but everyone was wounded. And if those automaton knights came aboard as reinforcements, it would be all over. She had to get the Glory separated from the Dawnhawk, just as ordered.

  But how am I going to do that?

  A Bluecoat ran past her, screaming as Butterbeak and Runt swooped together at his head. Behind him trailed the rope tether of his boarding harness, slithering back to the Glory like a lazy serpent. It hit her then, what to do.

  Rope. That’s the answer.

  She turned away, sheathed her blade, and ran for the starboard gunwales. Arms and heads and the plumes of gun smoke all tugged at the corner of her vision, but she ignored them; success might be measured in moments now.

  The exhaust pipe was hot under her hands as she clambered atop it. Lina quickstepped among the skysail linkages with the ease of long practice and leaped up onto the rigging leading to the gas bag above. It was all she could do to climb. Her back itched at the thought of a smallsword or even just stray musket shot.

  Nothing stopped her, though. Lina clambered up to the gas bag and higher along the canvas skin of the upper airship. The sky was blue, sharply contrasting the dark green jungle below, interspersed by the watery ravines threading the Copper Isles. The fight below was muted, secondary to the sounds of the wind and the whir of propellers.

  Her goal was one of the half-dozen ropes dangling down from atop the gas bag. Normally they were neatly coiled near the lookout’s nest for when they were needed to haul things up above, such as light-air cells or provisions for the lookout. They’d been in heavy use these last few days, however, and no one had bothered to put them away. Lina had thought them unsightly. Now they might just save the ship.

  Lina sidled over to grab the nearest one. She coiled it once around her neck and continued her climb, coming up over the curve of the Dawnhawk’s roof. It was empty up here save for the White Ape, sitting in the lookout’s nest at the peak of the airship as usual, playing idly with the boots of two Bluecoat marines who’d attempted to board from up above.

  The ape bared his fangs reflexively, then grunted in apprehension as he saw who she was and looked about for Runt. Lina ignored the beast and gathered more of the rope. She followed it back to the thin wooden deck running the length of the airship, to the metal ring where it was attached. Past it, the gas bag sloped back down to meet the curve of the Glory—from up here, the airships were a pair of canvas eggs floating through the sky.

  A trick of the wind carried the sounds of battle up to her. Lina knelt by the ring and took up her dagger again. Faster. I’ve got to move faster. She sawed at the end until the fibers split and frayed. It seemed to take an eternity, but at last the rope came free.

  Lina didn’t waste time. She jammed the dagger roughly back into its sheathe and almost ran down the planks to the stern end of the ship. Almost. Even sure-footed as she was, the top of the airship wasn’t a place to go dancing. More than one pirate had slipped to his doom up here.

  Caution paid off. The rear of the Dawnhawk’s envelope attenuated to an ovoid point; the propellers were down beneath. But the Glory was built differently. In addition to those along the sides of her hull, two great propellers spun side by side at her stern—but up above, from the rear of the armored gas bag.

  Now came the hard part of her plan. Lina took a breath. She made a quick prayer to the Goddess. Then she ran down the port-side canvas slope of the Dawnhawk and jumped.

  For a moment she hung in space. Then she realized that she hadn’t leaped nearly hard enough. The hundred-foot coil of rope hung around her shoulder and in her arms, awkward and sickeningly heavy. But no, she landed on the armored plate of the other airship.

  Armor plate that was too damned slick. She slid downward, scrabbling frantically for purchase, the golden paint of the painted sunburst sigil scratching away in the process. Her fingertips bit painfully into the crack between two plates, threatening to jerk her arms right off as she came to a stop. Lina groaned with the pain. If she fell now, she’d be chewed up by the hull propellers of the Glory—or drop straight down into the jungle below.

  So there wasn’t any choice. She pulled herself up, inch by inch, until her weight shifted and she could reach another handhold. How do those idiots...even get up here?

  Her arms ached and her fingertips were bloody by the time she climbed up to the pinnacle of the airship, but there wasn’t time to feel it. She rose to her feet and made for the rear of the envelope, sliding and slipping on unsteady footing until the propellers loomed just below.

  Lina swallowed. Here goes...everything. She unshouldered the rough coil of rope and pitched it towards the far, port-side propeller. It flew through the air in a lazy mess, straight for the spinning blades. Her breath caught in her throat as the propeller smacked the coil aside, but then it was drawn neatly along the shaft like a ball of twine onto a loom.

  The whole contraption slammed to a halt. Metal groaned, and something snapped loudly down below. The wind brought up the smell of burning grease.

  She smiled, and then the ship pitched hard to the left, pushed away from the Dawnhawk by the one remaining propeller. Oops. Not done yet. Worse, she was on enemy ground.

  Air tinged with a whiff of gunpowder and the jungle smells of the isles filled her lungs as she ran back for the side of the airship. The Glory pitched beneath her feet, almost as if it were angry at what she’d done. Then the downward slope of the gas bag held her footing no more and Lina leaped back aboard the Dawnhawk.

  Rough rigging caught her hands and feet. She grabbed on and held as momentum threw her about until she was safe again. Seriously. How do they climb atop that beast?

  Lina glanced down between the two airships. The armored automatons stood all in a row on the deck of the Glory, twenty strong, gauntlets clamped tight on the ropes binding both airships together. She ignored the whirling propellers spinning down below them in the space between the airship hulls. Those ropes were next—she had to figure some way to cut them free. But they were braided, thick and tough, too big a job for her little dagger.

  Sunlight glinted from the armored carapace of the knights. An epiphany struck her. I don’t have to cut them free.

  She just had to get the clockwork knights to let go.

  Another dangling rope caught her eye, one of those tied forward atop the gas bag. Lina skittered over and gathered it up, coiling it until she had the lower end, which she tied around her waist. Then she returned to the rear of the envelope. Taking a breath, she aimed for the brass automaton at the end of t
he row and threw herself again over the side.

  Lina fell, down between both envelopes and the rigging that kept them attached to their lower decks. The rope jerked taut, knocking the air out of her and swinging her in a low arc, straight along the gunwales of the Glory. Lina lifted her legs and kicked out as a knight rose up hugely.

  She hammered into the thing so hard that she thought her legs would break. The machine was heavy. But her daredevil act worked. It rocked back slowly, then toppled over, clumsily flailing for balance. The rope it held fell free. Behind it, four soldiers with halberds and rich uniforms ceased trying to don boarding harnesses, staring at the commotion in surprise.

  Lina landed precariously, kneeling in a balanced crouch upon the gunwales. Fortunately, they were thick and rather wide, meant to facilitate boarding attempts. She stood again, ignoring the four soldiers, running straight at the next automaton in the row, jumping over the numerous boarding harness tethers draping across both airships.

  Sopping wet, she weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds. Budging this machine with just her own weight was impossible. It didn’t matter, though. The clockwork knights were turning towards her, responding with whatever programming filled their mechanical heads. The nearest reached out to grab at her, letting go of its rope.

  Lina ducked the clumsy grip and charged past for the next. It took a swing that she likewise avoided. As she made her way up towards the bow, the machines tried for her, letting go of their straining ropes until the short gap between the two airships rapidly became a wide gulf, pushed on by the uneven propellers back above.

  Then she was past them all. Lina took a breath, made a prayer to the Goddess, and jumped free. Her tether to the Dawnhawk carried her back across the span between both hulls, close enough to the whirling propellers of the hull of the Glory that she felt sucked towards them, only to swing past and land neatly feetfirst between the port-side skysails on her own airship.

  Lina gasped for breath, glancing back aboard to check on her crewmates. The struggle had become a violent mess. Everyone was wounded. Ryan Gae was at his knees, gasping, as Andrea Holt fended off three men at once. Rastalak moved like a short but monstrous shadow, crouching down only to leap up and hiss, claws outspread, his mouth bloodied and a fang broken. Reaver Jane brutally hacked at the eyes of a man with a broken musket, who screamed, clawing at her face and leaving great jagged fingernail rents in her skin. The boy Paine hunkered against the starboard gunwales, tears in his eyes and a hatchet in both hands as he warded away anyone who came near, Bluecoat or pirate. In the middle of it all stood Natasha, still fending off the crown prince. Her sword was jagged like a saw blade, chipped and thin from the blows it had parried. She was bloodied as well, covered in a hundred thin cuts that had slipped past her defenses. The Perinese prince stood uninjured, though sweat slicked his brow.

  “You’re better than I expected,” crowed Gwydion. “Skilled and vicious! I thought I’d have hacked you down in moments. The news reports don’t lie, overmuch.”

  “Expensive toys you may have,” hissed Natasha as she parried again. “They’re not going to stop me clawing your eyes out and pissing in the sockets. I’ve beaten far better men than you, you little shit, including my husband.”

  Gwydion drew back in surprise. “What’s this? The great Natasha Blackheart is married? Well, will wonders never cease.” He drew his glowing sword up in guard and wrapped both hands around the hilt. “That poor bastard will be thankful, I’m certain, once I make a widow of him.”

  Natasha snarled. There was worry in her eyes, though. The notched cutlass she bore couldn’t take much more punishment, and Gwydion laughed at pistol balls.

  A chorus of startled cries sounded about the deck. Both Natasha and Gwydion flinched in surprise, but neither looked away from the other. Then a boarding tether snapped taut between them and a Bluecoat flew past, forcing them apart.

  Gwydion blinked. “What...?”

  It was happening all over. Confused marines were falling back, tumbling and toppling as their harnesses yanked them towards the Glory, now rapidly pulling away. Their boarding tethers had become a knotted mess during the fight, and now it was all that Lina’s crewmates could do to duck out of the way.

  “No!” shouted Gwydion. He twisted to hack at the rope upon his own back. “This is my victory! I won’t lose it to something so absolutely ridicu—”

  His tether went taut. Over the deck he tumbled, slamming against the ruined portside exhaust, then the gunwales past Lina. His eyes met hers, the outrage comical and plain upon his face. He aimed a rough cut at her legs, but she nimbly kicked away.

  The soldiers of the Glory went flying through the air to dangle below their airship as it veered away—or to fall with a scream as their ropes snapped apart. Black smoke trailed from the rear propeller assembly Lina had sabotaged, which noticeably slowed the enemy airship.

  “Curse you!” screamed Crown Prince Gwydion of Perinault as he swung down below the Glory, just missing the propellers along his hull, unlike some of the hapless Bluecoat marines. The sword Danlann waved back and forth in his hands, brilliant even in clear daylight. “This isn’t over! I’m going to sack that ridiculous pirate town of yours. I’m going to burn everything you’ve ever loved! Broadlow! Get us back over there! Get us back over there!”

  Then his ranting faded, dopplering into incoherent buzz as he dangled below the airship. The four richly uniformed men still aboard frantically pulled him up.

  Lina looked back to the deck of her own airship. The defenders stood, too weary for surprise, all injured. Some were grievously so. Nate Wiley lay crumpled on the deck. Ryan Gae was grey faced, wrapping a bandage around the leg of a furiously swearing Reaver Jane. Andrea mechanically loaded a pistol. Rastalak was tearing strips of cloth off a dead Bluecoat to wrap his hand with. The Salomcani, Jahmal, clutched a hideous belly wound. Etarin slumped against the helm wheel and held his neck, while Allen clutched the blood-soaked rags around his hand and was now weeping openly. But Lina’s heart went to her throat as she spied Michael Hockton, sitting on the deck with his head in his hands, covered in blood.

  Natasha looked furious, like she wanted to give chase. Then she looked to her ruined sword and dropped it down to the deck. The impact snapped the blade neatly in two.

  “Enough,” she said. “Stone, get aboard. Help Etarin at the helm. North, at all speed.”

  Relief washed over her. Lina had half expected the captain to order pursuit. She ached and wanted a rest but nodded instead and wearily climbed back aboard. She couldn’t help but feel frustrated. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t wanted a fight, Natasha.

  But if old Euron Blackheart was wrong—if the Stormhammer wasn’t real—then this was just a taste of what was to come. Lina shook her head and raised her arm for Runt, who circled angrily up above near the ragged bottom of the gas bag. Then she limped over to help Etarin keep them flying north.

  Chapter Eight

  The cannonball flew like a black comet towards the bow of the Colossus. It whipped over the churning waters of the lagoon, a ricochet shot that had already hammered the floundering Behemoth, continuing freakishly straight for the naval flagship sitting anchored.

  Admiral Wintermourn stood watching at the edge of the poop deck. His crew ran about at the command of Lieutenant Lebam, tending the damage taken so far. The Bluecoats were lined up along the starboard side of the ship, muskets slung as they waited to ascend the rope lines dropped from the cliff above. Stray bits of rigging and shattered wood decorated the deck, accented with the occasional spray of blood. It would disappear soon enough. Everyone aboard knew to keep the ship trim and tidy. Though that didn’t mean they were safe.

  The Colossus sat in the mouth of the Graveway, jostled constantly by the waterway current. Mooring anchors secured her to the cliff walls on their right—specialized spikes attached to chains forged just for such a purpose. Still, the current banged them about, setting the deck to shifting abruptly, ringing the
starboard paddlewheel housing like a gong. Wintermourn did not trust the arrangement to hold them fast and had ordered power kept to the engines all throughout the morning.

  Dead ahead lay the Graveway—the bowsprit of the Colossus aimed like an arrow at the heart of the old Salomcani fort atop the far cliff. The pirates there nested like termites, watched over by their accursed airships, which drifted back and forth like wolves waiting to pounce.

  Wintermourn’s own forces now had a fort of their own situated on the cliff top above. It was admittedly somewhat makeshift, but the cannons they’d lifted there were doing an admirable job of warding away the pirate airships, for which they’d been specially designed.

  Behind him waited the rest of the warship column. All were similarly anchored against the current as their crews raised both men and materials up the cliff. The reports that had reached him were enough to give pause; every ship so far had sustained some form of damage traversing the ravines. Worse, the incidents continued to pile up with each passing hour they held this ridiculous position. Fortunately, the damage was largely superficial, though the pirates had given the Ogre a beating—everyone could, and would, still fight.

  Their own airship, the Glory of Perinault, had taken to the skies without warning, and now was nowhere to be seen. Admiral Wintermourn had said quite a lot about that earlier, as pirates rained down their bombs and the cliff battery fought to drive them back.

  Lieutenant Lebam shouted a warning as the rogue cannonball careened out of the Graveway Lagoon. It skipped against the water and rose to hammer straight into the bowsprit of the Colossus. The great wooden spar shattered, raining debris on the crew as the cannonball continued along, tearing rigging and falling back down to clip the capstan before rolling to a stop against the mizzenmast. The vessel’s superior construction spoke well by it, but the damage wasn’t negligible.

  “Clean that mess up!” roared Wintermourn. He straightened his wig, not even caring if it was mussed. “Get this under control. I want the ship’s carpenter up here on the double. Replace that spar in two bells, or by the Goddess I’ll have every last man jack of you strung along the bow to stop the next cannonball.”