Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Cubbins, hungering for a leg to rub against, turned and trotted towards Clangfoot. The Mechanist hurriedly stepped out of the way, turning the motion into a purposeful approach of the table. There he flipped a hidden switch on the backside of the diorama. “That’s because you have to turn it on first.”

  There was a faint whirring, then a hiss. Fengel watched as the tiers of the miniature Haventown all shifted...and rose up off the cliffsides upon which it rested, supported by tiny gasbags built into the underside of each terrace. His jaw dropped open as he understood.

  That’s...impossible. Isn’t it? You can’t... “You don’t mean to tell me that we’re going to fly the town away from here?”

  “That is exactly what we mean to do,” said Eight-Eyes, pausing to sneeze again. “There is no need to locate a new home, Captain Fengel, because we will be taking it with us.”

  His watch-clad brother reached over and poked the floating miniature, sending it back to hover in the center of the table. “Everyone knows of the agreement made between First Mechanist Helmsin and the pirate king, yes?”

  “Of course,” replied Fengel. “He let you stay here and gave you a spot for these yards. In return, you oversee the town’s infrastructure and keep it all running.” Behind him, Imogen sneezed again.

  “That is the common interpretation. Though it is not technically accurate. For one thing, Euron Blackheart never asked us to oversee the infrastructure of Haventown. We’ve taken up that task up ourselves.”

  “Another...reason,” interjected Wheezer, “that...we have so little faith...in his ability to protect the town.”

  “Why?” asked Fengel, confused.

  “Because what we asked of the pirate king wasn’t land,” added Eight-Eyes. “It was mining rights.” He stepped back warily as Cubbins dropped to the platform and rolled over to his back, presenting his belly, looking up hopefully at them all.

  Clangfoot gestured to the miniature cliffface below the floating Haventown. “The Copper Isles are a special place,” he said. “Until very recently, they were the sole locale from which light-air gas could be gathered. Raising an airship without it is an expensive and time-consuming process.”

  So that’s the secret. Everyone in Haventown knew what kept a Brotherhood airship afloat. But where the gas was generated, or how, was unknown. “All the piping running through the town. From the Gasworks down on the Craftwright’s Terrace, up to here. That’s what it’s for.”

  Eight-Eyes cocked his head. “You didn’t think they were for pumping hot water?”

  “Of course not,” Fengel lied. “But why are you telling me this?”

  Clangfoot gestured again to the miniature floating township. “Because you are needed. But first you must understand. We came to Haventown because it is the source of the light-air gas we need. And we took care of the township’s infrastructure not just to harvest it but for Atherion Helmsin’s greatest experiment: to make a city fly.”

  “And now...it is time to...test it,” wheezed his fellow Mechanist.

  “The Perinese are at our doorstep,” said Timekeeper. “They will not stop. And there are many, many preparations to make before we can lift away. Two of which have bearing upon this discussion.”

  “Fortunately,” added Clangfoot, “all the light-air gas we need has been harvested from the mining tunnels below the town. It simply needs to be released into the Gasworks. That will be your task, Captain Fengel. Mechanist-Aspirant Imogen will lead you. The rest of us will be leading four teams to break the great mooring shackles that keep each terrace tethered to the clifffaces of this lagoon.”

  Fengel raised a hand. “All right. But again...why me? This sounds like something any one of you could do.”

  “Because we are short...of time and manpower...both,” said Wheezer, somewhat irritably. “And because you are the only...trustworthy captain who can be spared...from the Graveway at the moment. Natasha has taken...your ship north on Euron’s foolish...errand.”

  Behind him, Imogen made a self-righteous noise. Then she sneezed again.

  “Maybe a quarter of the populace of Haventown is fighting at the Graveway,” said Clangfoot. “The rest are all here. The citizens look to the pirate captains to lead them. Our misgivings of Euron Blackheart aside, someone is still needed on hand to keep order once we are afloat. That will be you.”

  “My crew need me at the Graveway,” said Fengel.

  “Everyone else needs you here more,” replied the Mechanist. “We are raising a city. You must be the one to captain it.”

  Fengel looked away at the half-finished hull of the airship behind them. It all seemed mad. The Mechanists kept repeating that he was needed, but to captain the city? The flying city?

  Insanity.

  The Mechanists were deadly serious, however. And they were right. The people of the town were all independents and free-thinkers. When crisis hit, they looked to Fengel and his fellow captains for leadership. Euron was spiraling out of control with every passing moment, the glory-mad old fool. Realms Below, he might already be dead.

  Fine, then. He had never been one to shirk from duty. Looking back to the assembled Mechanist Cabal, he nodded. “Very well. Let’s get to work, then.”

  Timekeeper nodded. “Good. Mechanist-Aspirant Imogen? Approach.”

  Imogen stepped up past the table, though on the opposite side from where Cubbins wriggled on the platform, still waiting for attention. She wore her full mask and goggles now, and her voice was muffled. “Sirs?”

  “Take Captain Fengel down to the mines below the Gasworks—the entrance behind the Smuggler’s Warehouse, which I am sure you know. Activate the pumps. The Gasworks team will fire signal flares once light-air gas is distributed throughout the system, and the rest of us will release the mooring shackles for each terrace.”

  Pounding feet and a ringing clatter echoed up to them atop the platform, cutting short Imogen’s reply. Fengel glanced back to see another Mechanist barreling down the pathway towards them, his bulky leather greatcoat catching on all manner of trays, tools, and devices on the workbenches he passed, spilling them to the ground in his haste. The Brother of the Cog did not stop until he had ascended to their level, startling Cubbins back to his feet.

  “Sirs!” he cried, gasping. The fellow wore no gas mask, but did, of course, have his goggles. “The Graveway has been lost!”

  What? Fengel felt his monocle fall free as the Cabal made varying noises of shock and surprise. Fengel grabbed the newcomer by the shoulder. “How?” he demanded. “What happened?”

  The Mechanist looked startled by the contact, but Fengel held his gaze until the man answered. “It was the Powderheart. The Perinese, they sent a lone ship, the Ogre, into the lagoon. Captain Glastos tried to board her, just like Euron did. But it was a trap. A fire ship. The invaders detonated her, which killed the Powderheart. The others moved to assist and got shelled by the Glory of Perinault and the enemy gun batteries atop the Graveway. Everyone’s falling back. We’ve been routed!”

  Fengel paused to think. He let go the messenger and turned back to the Cabal. “The pirate captains will make a fighting retreat, to save face if nothing else. And I know my men will harry any ships from the cliffs above. The Perinese will keep up the pressure, but securing the old fort will take time, and that entrenchment of theirs will take time to move as well. We’ve a few hours, at least. Is that enough time?”

  Clangfoot nodded slowly. “It will have to be.” He turned to face the rest of the Cabal. “To work, then!”

  Fengel grabbed Imogen and hauled her after him as he descended the platform. The others likewise scattered. As she flailed, Cubbins ran down the steps ahead of them, purring loudly. The fat orange tabby cat seemed far too enthusiastic for what was to come.

  Chapter Ten

  Lina lifted the corpse by his shoulders. Young Paine grabbed the feet. Grunting, they prepared to sling the dead man into the open cargo hatch of the Dawnhawk’s holds.

  One more gone. In the chao
s of the fight, she hadn’t even seen how Nate Wiley had died. Now she just wasn’t sure what to think of it. Nate and his dead twin brother Jonas had come from Natasha’s crew originally. They had been crude and violent but not terribly malicious. Now he stank of dried blood and the great gash in his stomach that had killed him. Lina couldn’t help but think that he smelled only a little worse now than he did in life.

  “On three,” she gasped. Across from her, Paine nodded, red in the face. Nate Wiley had not been a small man. “One...two...thr—”

  The corpse of Nate Wiley opened its mouth and moaned, hands and feet twitching violently. Lina and Paine both yelled in surprise. They released the newly arisen Revenant to fall back to the deck.

  “In the hold, in the hold!” shouted Lina.

  “I don’t want to touch it! You touch it!”

  The thought made her skin crawl. If they didn’t move it now, though, the thing that was Nate Wiley would be more or less back in control of itself.

  “Both of us together,” she said. “Quickly now, while it’s confused!”

  She forced herself to kneel beside the twitching corpse, trying not to focus on its entrails flopping about. It reached for her head, forcing her to duck aside. Out the corner of her eye, Lina spied Paine, still standing, his boyish face twisted up in horror.

  “Now!” she yelled at him.

  Paine fought with himself a moment, then knelt beside her. No coordinated effort this time. They shoved at the reanimated corpse haphazardly, pushing until it flopped over the side of the hatchway and fell out of sight. There was silence—and then a wet thump.

  Lina climbed to her feet, panting. She felt nauseous. The deck around them was clear now, if stained. Nate was the last of the half dozen corpses they’d thrown hurriedly into the holds before they could become Revenants. Of the Dawnhawk’s crew, only Nate and the newcomer Jahmal had been casualties, with the rest composed of Bluecoat invaders cut free of their boarding tethers. Not all of the latter had been beyond saving, but Natasha gave no quarter. That had been...conflicting. Lina had expected better, for some reason. At least they weren’t just dumping the corpses over the side, though, leaving the walking dead to haunt the jungles of the Copper Isles.

  She’d wanted to get away from the war, but the war had come along after them. The deck of the airship had been a mess before the attack. Now it was a downright shambles. Dangling cordage, torn sailcloth, and a great rent in the starboard exhaust belching steam made the Dawnhawk seem just as ruined as the Revenants within her hold. There was also blood—a lot of blood, smeared across deck planks gouged by blade and ball. The wide blue skies and green jungle beyond the gunwales stood in stark, peaceful contrast.

  Natasha herself stood at the wheel, shouting questions of heading and speed to Reaver Jane where she limped about the bow. Omari had been banished to the lookout’s nest and the care of the White Ape. Michael Hockton ran up and down the ship on a number of tasks, freed from Revenant handling by virtue of light injury. Amidships sat the rest of the diminished pirate crew. Big Farouk tended to his friend Etarin, who had taken a nasty blow to the neck. Ryan Gae wrapped Rastalak’s arm, looking himself uninjured, though exhausted and aged. Andrea Holt sat cross-legged in front of a whimpering Allen, finishing the stitches on his hand. The apprentice Mechanist was now short a finger.

  Lina watched Michael Hockton as he ran back to Natasha. She really wanted to hear his voice at the moment, wanted him to tell her that everything would be all right. It was a small, selfish desire, and she knew it. Realms Below, she should probably go say something to Allen about his missing finger. But in the aftermath of the fight with the Bluecoats, everything just felt like it was falling apart. She’d never wanted to fight a war.

  Maybe Paine would do, if she could get the ball rolling. She wiped the half-crusted blood off on her pants and then put a hand on the youth’s shoulder. The towheaded boy was staring at the cargo hatch with his characteristic sulk. “Good job on that,” she said, hoping the praise sounded sisterly.

  “Captain said to help,” he muttered, not looking up at her.

  His voice quavered. Lina realized he was more upset than she’d thought. A memory came to mind of the last fight, of Paine hunkering against the gunwales, trying to escape the fight, if not actively to hide.

  “Hey,” she said, rubbing his shoulder. “Hey, it’s all right. Everyone freezes up their first time in a fight. I sure did.”

  An ugly memory, that. She’d been even younger than Paine was now. Caught in an alley by some of the Bundle Street Gang, her only weapon a broken bottle, against their ugly leers and grasping hands.

  “I don’t want to be here,” said the boy. He stared into the black pit of the cargo hold. Weak groans from the restless dead within rose up to them both. “I don’t wanna be a pirate. I didn’t want to even be in the navy! Father sent me, because that’s what Paines do. But Granduncle is an industrialist in Triskelion. Why couldn’t I have gone there?”

  “I came from Triskelion,” said Lina, fighting off awful memories that only sank her mood further. Goddess. Paine, this wasn’t really supposed to be about you, of all people. She gave the boy a brittle smile and gestured beyond the airship, where distant white clouds puffed along through a blue midafternoon sky. “Oh, come on. This is so much better than that smelly old coalsmoke city.”

  Paine looked up at her flatly. “Of course you’d say that,” he replied. “Everyone knows you were a whore.”

  Spoiled little shit. This was what she got for trying to be comforting. Lina whacked the boy upside the head. “Get that hatch closed, then report to the captain,” she growled. Great. Now she was angry as well as melancholy and depressed.

  Her eyes alighted on Allen. Yes! The young Mechanist always wanted to please her—he’d be good for some comfort. Besides, she really should say something nice to him. I mean, a finger. That can’t be easy.

  She walked over to where her friend sat next to one of the equipment lockers amidships. Andrea Holt was beside him, using the locker as a low table, holding Allen’s hand firmly against the wood while she swathed it in bandages.

  “Can’t we find it and sew it back on?” wheedled the apprentice Mechanist. His voice was frantic, tight with pain as he pleaded. Tears leaked through eyes scrunched up tight, carving channels through the blood and dirt caked onto his face.

  Andrea didn’t look up. She kept her focus on the bandages. “Do you know how to do that?” she asked.

  “N-no...”

  “Neither do I.” She gave him a tight smile. “Buck up, lad. You Mechanists lose bits all the time.”

  He looked like he would break down. “But I never thought it would happen to me.”

  “I’ve cleaned it and stanched the bleeding. We’ll have a proper sawbones take a look when we get back to town. Find Lina; that Cure-All she keeps for Runt will put paid to yer hurt, for now.” She glanced over as Lina approached. “There she is. You injured, Lina?”

  She shook her head. “Just sore.”

  The other woman nodded. She gathered up the surgeon’s kit and stood. “Give ’im a pull off that flask o’ yours. I’ve got to see to Ryan and the others.”

  Lina waffled a bit. The Cure-All was for Runt. Still, there was plenty—her pet hadn’t been drinking it of late. Yet another worry on her mind.

  She pulled the flask from her pocket and uncorked it, releasing the overpowering stink of apples into the air between them. “Careful with this,” she said, passing it over.

  Allen whimpered but accepted the flask. He knew all about the Cure-All by now.

  She sighed as his eyes bulged out and he gave a violent cough. Allen thrust the flask back at her and doubled over to pound the blood-spattered deck beneath them with his good hand. When he looked up again, fresh tears streamed anew.

  “I can’t...I can’t feel my finger anymore,” he rasped hoarsely. “I can’t feel my tongue either.”

  This wasn’t working. It should have been funny, watching Allen flop
around. Instead, it just seemed pitiful. “Yeah, that’s Cure-All for you.” Lina capped the flask and put it away, tempted to take a pull herself.

  “Where’s Runt?” gasped Allen.

  Lina glanced over at the exhaust pipe where she’d last seen her pet. The scryn was there, a little farther down from where he usually relaxed. He hunkered in tight, angry coils, glaring out at the world. With the steam from the rent in the pipe washing over him, Runt looked like some infernal daemon ascended from the Realms Below to harry them all.

  Lina didn’t understand what had come over him. Usually Runt was downright affectionate after a fight. But at the moment he was so cranky she’d decided he was better off alone. Though it wasn’t just now, either. He had been ill-tempered for weeks now, and he was growing more irritable with every passing day. What was going on?

  Her mood was blacker by the minute. Maybe she could get him started, like with Paine. “That was brave,” she said to Allen, “in the fighting.”

  “Tried to help where I could,” he whispered. Allen forced a weak smile for her, but the Cure-All was making him flush violently—his face was as red as a beet. “Saw you in trouble, I thought. So I came to help.” His shoulders slumped. “Now I’ve lost a finger.”

  Great. Lina realized she was actually fairly bad at this. Now she felt guilty. She fumbled wordlessly for a response.

  Heavy boot steps sounded behind her on the deck. It was Michael Hockton, jogging furiously from the stern of the airship back up to the bow. Lina’s heart rose at seeing him. Why had she sought sympathy from Paine? And Allen? No, her ex-Bluecoatie soldier would do the trick.

  “Hey, yeah, don’t worry,” she said to Allen distractedly. “Should be fine. I need to go...see to something.” She turned away to follow after Hockton. Out of the corner of her eye, she dimly saw Allen staring after her like an abandoned puppy.

  Lina jogged up the deck after Michael. She called his name several times, but he did not stop, didn’t seem to hear her. She reached him just before the bow and reached out to grab his arm. Michael stopped and spun at the contact. His eyes were wide and his face pale. A fresh cut oozed wetly across his cheek.