Lina pulled back in surprise. “Hey,” she said, forcing some girlish excitement into her voice. “How are you doing?”
“I just killed six of my own countrymen,” he whispered.
Lina blinked. “What?” He wasn’t even looking at her, she realized, just staring past her shoulder.
“I didn’t know any of them, but they were just soldiers, like I was.”
“They were trying to kill us all,” she said, aggravated.
“A year ago, I would have been one of them.”
That does it. Her depression and melancholy evaporated, replaced in an instant by irritation. It felt like there were hot burrs under her skin. Him? Him too? Is anyone on this boat not absorbed in their own little miseries at the moment? Can’t they pay attention to me, for once, when I need them? Well, to the Realms Below with it. They can all wallow, then. Oh no, I got a finger lopped off. Oh, I killed a bunch of stupid Bluecoats. She folded her arms angrily.
Hockton blinked and glanced down, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Lina? I—”
A shout from the port-side rigging cut him short. It was Omari, pointing north beyond the bow. “Your stupid island is up ahead!” she shouted.
The island. The one with the Voorn superweapon on it. The point of this stupid trip.
Lina pushed past Michael and strode to the bow. His boot steps echoed up behind her. She ignored them, peering out beyond the confines of the airship. Captain Blackheart and the rest of the crew arrived also, crowding up beside her.
Beneath them stretched the uninhabited portion of the Copper Isles, which were more broken and fragmented here than to the south. No one ever came up this way. The waterways between the islets were wider, almost completely open to the Atalian Sea.
One island lay dead ahead, a round chunk of land maybe a mile across. It was ringed by a fringe of sandy beach that rose up to sharp slopes of brittle rock a few hundred feet above the water. There the slope cut off abruptly, revealing that the island was cratered, like the caldera of a long-dead volcano. Thick jungle growth filled the interior, growing sharply sparse towards the center, where a great golden pyramid poked up. The structure was fanciful and strange, its angles odd to look upon. Lina knew at a glance that it had not been crafted by the hands of men.
“I am not going back up where that ape is,” said Omari. “How can you even keep such a—”
“Shut up, Omari,” said Natasha. She retrieved a spyglass from her hip and peered around the island. “This is the place,” she said after a moment. “But where are...ah!” The pirate captain closed the glass and pointed. “Down there.”
Lina followed her gesture, along with everyone else. Natasha pointed at a series of rooftops poking up through the jungle, not too far from the closest part of the southern-facing cliff of the crater. Ramshackle, the buildings were definitely man-made.
“That’s where my father’s men will be.” Natasha turned to stalk back down the deck. “Everyone, get ready—we’re putting down there. Maybe we can get this over with quickly and get back to the fight.”
Lina watched her go. At her side, Michael leaned down to whisper at her. “Lina...do you think it’s true? That there’s some old Voorn weapon here?”
“Whatever,” she replied, still angry at him. She threw up her hands and walked away. Why didn’t anyone ever care how she felt? Well, to the Realms Below with it. She was Lina Stone, of the Dawnhawk, and everyone else could go hang.
The trip to the tree houses would have taken hours on foot. The Dawnhawk crossed in minutes, descending past the cliff-top boundary of the crater. Natasha brought them down until the airship floated just above an opening in the jungle canopy, through which other buildings could be seen.
Up at the bow, Reaver Jane hoisted the land anchor. It was a heavy, hook-shaped device meant to keep the ship somewhat moored to one place. She let it fall overboard, then unrolled a rope ladder after it.
Beneath Lina’s feet the steam engine belowdecks rumbled, downshifting. Natasha had disengaged the propellers. She locked the helm in place and stalked up to Reaver Jane, gesturing for everyone else to attend her. Lina pressed in along with the others.
“All right,” said Natasha quietly. “I don’t like surprises, but this place looks like it’s got more than a priest’s bedsheets. Somehow my father has kept that golden pyramid here a secret for the last forty years. Probably because he’s got a whole pack of his old crew murdering anyone who ever came down to check. I want as many blades at my back as I can get, which means all of you. Get ready to go ashore. Omari!”
The accidental necromancer started in surprise from the rigging. “What do you want? I’m not one of your crew.”
Natasha’s grinding teeth was audible. Lina winced. Her captain may have been polishing her social skills, but there were limits to what could be accomplished.
“You aren’t one of my crew,” snarled Natasha, “but if you don’t want me to pitch you over the side, you’ll do as I damned well say.” She glared at the other woman until Omari looked away. “Now,” Natasha continued, “we’re going down there, and you’re going to pull up the ladder afterward. Don’t let it down for anyone but us. Other than that, just keep out of the way and don’t touch anything. Got it?”
Omari nodded in wordless reply. Natasha grunted, then fished out How to Pillage Friends and Intimidate People, opening it to a dog-eared page. “Also, I appreciate your ass...assets? Damned smudge. Assistance! I appreciate your assistance in these dire times.”
She shut the book and jammed it back down the front of her puffy shirt, only then realizing that everyone was staring at her, Omari included. Natasha growled and jerked her head towards the side of the ship.
Lina paused as the others moved to disembark. What was she forgetting? Ah. She ran over and grabbed up Runt. Cranky or not, she didn’t go ashore without him. The scryn chirped grumpily but crawled to his customary place across her shoulders.
The ground below the airship was hard packed and clear of any growth. The tree houses were clearly visible now, three shacks built in the spreading branches of two different banyans. A number of smaller huts sagged against the trunks on the ground below, complete with fire pits and clotheslines. A fume of garbage and burned wood filled the air. Yet the encampment appeared completely empty. Lina didn’t like how that felt.
“Ahoy there!” cried Natasha as she stepped down from the ladder. Butterbeak joined in from her shoulder, screaming sharply enough that she winced, along with all the other pirates, prompting a swat from the Dawnhawk’s captain. Both calls echoed about the encampment, unanswered.
“No one’s here, Captain,” said Reaver Jane. The pirate woman limped around, a cutlass in her hands, peering at the darkest shadows for any threat.
“It figures,” replied Natasha flatly. “Decades? Here? Damned pirates probably left after five months.”
“I do not think so.”
Lina turned like everyone else. It was Etarin, standing beside a fire pit near one of the huts. A thick bandage swathed his neck, and with difficulty he gestured up past the Dawnhawk to the cliff walls of the island through the treetops. “Those are sheer,” he said. “Too smooth by far to climb, I think. And here, look. This fire is only a day cold, and it was left in a hurry.” He stabbed into the pit with his scimitar, lifting the blade to reveal the charred carcass of a small bird on a spit. “Whoever was here left in a hurry.”
Lina glanced about. There were other signs of recent occupation: rags hung on the clothesline and an unceremoniously piled trash heap still stinking of refuse. But where had the inhabitants gone?
Natasha sheathed her cutlass. “Fine. We’ve more important things to do than track down a bunch of fossilized cutthroats. Come. We’re here for the pyramid and that Voornish weapon. If we find Euron’s old crew along the way, that’s fine. I’m not wasting time on them, though. Rastalak, you can tell me how to work the thing, right?”
The little Draykin turned to her in surprise. He looked su
ddenly awkward as he lifted his hands up in a wordless shrug. “Maybe?”
“Good enough.” Natasha whistled up at the Dawnhawk and gestured for Omari to pull up the ladder. Then she turned towards the center of the island and stalked out of the camp. One by one the rest of the crew joined her, leaving Lina standing alone.
There was something unsettling about this place. Where was everyone? And why had they left so abruptly? We’re probably only going to find out when it’s way too late.
Lina sighed. She glanced up at the Dawnhawk, where Omari had yet to pull up the ladder. Then she ran to catch up.
The undergrowth proved less dense than it had appeared from above, though still thick. Big Farouk moved at the forefront of their pack, hacking down vines and fronds with his blade, and the others followed along untroubled. Rich jungle smells of damp earth and pungent flowers rose from all around them, tinged by the sea-scent breeze of the ocean. Through the treetops she spied the golden peak of the Voornish pyramid, unvarnished and shining in the afternoon sun.
Ahead, Paine ducked a branch, followed by Reaver Jane, who bent it back to pass it. Lina put up her hand to catch it, but moved too slowly. The limb whipped into her face, a tangle of leaves and overgrown vines.
Runt went berserk.
“Chirr!” screamed the scryn. “Chirr!” He hissed and spat poison, thrashing about from her shoulders as Lina disentangled herself from the branch. His coils tightened about her shoulders, restricting her arms and clamping on her neck.
“Runt!” she gasped, slapping at his coils. “Calm down! What’s wrong?”
Her pet only hissed in reply. Lurid red light reflected from the fronds and vines all around them.
Michael Hockton moved up beside her. “What’s happening?” he asked, concerned, looking like he’d shaken whatever malaise possessed him back aboard the ship. After a moment Allen appeared beside him, eyes red but somewhat recovered from his own ordeal. Alarm showed plainly on the faces of both young men. They weren’t stepping too close, however.
“It’s Runt!” said Lina, trying to simultaneously calm her pet and retain balance against his flailing. “Something hit him in the face, and he just lost it!”
“Ah,” said Allen.
“Right,” said Michael.
Neither one of them moved to help.
Her pet was usually ill-tempered at the best of times. Ever since the Almhazlik affair, though, he’d been especially cranky. Lina had meant to visit the disgraced veterinarian back in Haventown again, but there hadn’t been enough time before the invasion. A tiny pang of fear shook her for the first time. What if her pet was sick? What if he was dying?
“Get over here and help me out!” she snarled.
Michael looked pained. “But what do you want us to do, Lina?” Beside him, Allen ducked a stream of poisonous spittle.
Damnable cowards! Really, Lina didn’t know why everyone was so wary around Runt. He was perfectly sweet, normally, especially right after he’d eaten a seagull or had a shot of Cure-All. The flask! That was it. Maybe Cure-All would work.
Neither man moved. They warily watched her dance about while Runt thrashed.
“If someone could help me with Runt,” she said, trying for what she thought was a demure tone, “I’d be ever so grateful.”
Both men looked conflicted. They took a step and stopped, simultaneously noticing each other. Determination flashed across their faces, and they both strode over purposefully. Lina wanted to breath a sigh of relief, but her pet was coiled too tightly now for that.
“What should we do?” asked Michael.
“Allen! Get over here and rub his back. Along the scales, like you would a dog.”
The Mechanist just stared. “Runt’s going to bite me. I don’t want to lose another finger!”
“It’ll be fine. Now, do you want to help me or not?”
“Runt’s going to bite me!”
“Michael,” she said, ignoring him. “Grab the flask on my hip. You need to feed it to him, slowly. The Cure-All will calm him right down.”
“Runt’s going to bite him,” said Allen.
Her ex-soldier grimaced. Then he deflated. He and Allen shared another look before Michael reached for the flask like a man going towards the gallows.
The next few minutes were unpleasant. But at the end of it, Runt was calm again, chirping in an unhappy, drunken daze against her shoulders. Allen had black-and-blue bruises along his face and good hand, and the side of Michael’s neck was swelling from a near-miss of poison spittle. The ex-soldier also shook his hand, covered in red, angry scryn bites.
“There, there,” Lina cooed, patting Runt along his scaled, wormy coils.
“Why is he so cantankerous?” asked Michael. “Is he...backed up? Your pet is fat, Lina.”
“I’ve never seen him like this before,” said Allen. “Well, except that one time he tried to eat my face. And the time he poisoned my food. And that time you threw him at me.”
Lina turned to Michael. Even with a red splotchy mark on his neck, he looked gallant. “Thank you,” she said to him, heartfelt. “Poor little Runtie appreciates it too, even if he doesn’t show it. But we both know you care. You’ve got a special rapport with him, after all.” She winked at him.
Michael blushed. He gave an embarrassed shrug. “Well,” he said. “Well.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Allen stand a little prouder, as if waiting for a compliment in turn. Lina wasn’t sure why—it was only Allen, after all. Right now Runt was what was important, and she had to say something to Michael while she remembered. He was just so dashing. He’d let himself get bitten no less than three times in calming Runt down, after all.
Allen seemed to freeze suddenly. Then he blinked at Lina, standing there with Runt. He looked odd. Angry. Something changed with the apprentice Mechanist.
What’s your problem? Lina ignored him. “Who’s a sweet thing? Is it my Runtie? Is it?” She turned to the others. “Oh, I hope he isn’t getting sick.”
“Chirr,” muttered her pet.
“He’s fat,” said Allen sharply. “Probably got a seagull lodged sideways in there.”
Michael Hockton sighed. “We should move on. We’re still in a strange place, and the others have gone up ahead.”
“Whatever,” said Allen. He stared at his bandaged hand with a grimace.
“Yes,” said Lina. “We’d best catch up.”
The others hadn’t gotten far. Natasha glared at them when they arrived, but Farouk was still cutting a trail through the undergrowth. As the minutes passed, though, it thinned out, as palm fronds and creeping vines were replaced by open patches of green, growing grass.
Farouk paused at a particularly thick fern and reared back. He swung, parting the plant with ease, and the follow-through pitched him forward through it. After the others pushed through, Lina followed, stepping out into warm sunlight and blue skies.
They’d reached the edge of the jungle, about halfway to the center of the isle. The underbrush and trees faded away, becoming sparse after only a few hundred feet, replaced by open land covered in green grass. The midafternoon sun shone brightly, reflecting from the golden pyramid squatting at the center of the island, alien and strange.
“Well,” said Natasha, stepping aside as Rastalak moved to help Farouk up. “This’ll make the going easier—”
A monstrous roar cut her short. It echoed out from somewhere else on the island, bestial and strangely tinny.
Everyone drew weapons, peering around warily. Lina eyed the jungle past the pyramid, where it sounded like it had come from. “I think it came—”
She stopped short, though, at seeing her captain’s face. Natasha stood rigid, stone-like. Her knuckles were white where they gripped her cutlass, and her face was a mask of enraged hostility. On her shoulder, Butterbeak peered around with frightened eyes, looking as if it might take flight at any moment. Etarin and Farouk shared an incredulous look. Young Paine looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
> “No,” she hissed. “Impossible.”
“What is it, Captain?” asked Ryan Gae.
“Nothing,” she said. “Probably just a...jaguar. Or something.” She gestured with her cutlass at the pyramid. “Get over there now,” she said. “And run.”
Warily, Lina did as she was told. The crew of the Dawnhawk moved at a jog across the grassy plain, dodging the occasional fern or short palm tree. It felt good to have the sun on her face and the wind in her hair, even though Natasha hissed at them to go faster.
The golden pyramid containing the Stormhammer grew as they approached. It was Voornish, certainly, a stair-step structure rising a hundred feet above the ground. Etchings and bas-reliefs dotted its sides. She was still too far away to make them out clearly, but Lina knew they would represent a strange, long-limbed people. Beside her, Rastalak hissed in familiar wonder. His people inhabited ruins such as these, still standing after uncounted millennia.
The pyramid was not completely immune to the ravages of time, however. A great golden spire had once stood at its peak, rising up even higher above the crater. It had fallen now, snapped free from its mooring, though the base of it was still propped up across the top of the pyramid. The rest of the spire ran down to the ground, its tip buried beneath the surface of the earth like a needle stuck in a seamstress’s thumb.
More details became apparent as they ran towards the building. A rectangular opening appeared in its nearest face. Only eight feet tall or so, it was wide enough for the entire crew to enter its darkened interior abreast. Before the entrance, on the ground, lay a mess of components, both Voornish relics and primitive tools, along with rough-hewn planks and hempen rope. Something very much like a canoe caught Lina’s eye, which appeared to be made from cobbled-together pieces of Voornish brass.
The pirate crew slowed as they reached the entryway to the pyramid. “What is all this?” asked Farouk, gesturing with his cutlass.
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 17