“Must be the work of Euron’s crewmen,” said Reaver Jane.
The monstrous roar sounded again, closer this time, as if just around the pyramid. Everyone stilled, raising their weapons and looking about.
“That is no jaguar,” said Rastalak.
Lina heard something else now too: heavy footfalls and a mechanical hiss, as of steam escaping. The ground shook.
Etarin turned to Natasha. “Captain,” he said, “Goddess strike me down, but that sounds like—”
“No,” she replied. “It’s just not possible.” She turned to the others. “Get inside. Now!”
They rushed into the darkened entryway, going about fifty feet before reaching a much greater space, which smelled of ozone and unwashed bodies.
Standing just inside that main chamber was a small group of maybe a dozen people, all somewhat elderly. They were greying, their skin wrinkled and suntanned. Some had long, scraggly beards. A mix of Perinese and Salomcani, it was obvious by the rags they wore and the swords at their sides that they had all been pirates at one time. They looked wary—and more than a little crazed.
Runt hissed drunkenly at them from Lina’s shoulder. Her other crewmates spread out, wary. Natasha pushed forward, sheathing her blade. “Hello there, then. Who are you lot?”
They looked uneasily at each other. One man, with a long grey beard and an eye patch made of ancient leather stepped forward to meet her. “We be the Castaways,” he said, voice thick with the old Haventown accent. “Euron Blackheart’s crew, left behind on this accursed isle. How did ye get here? And how did ye escape the beast?”
Lina relaxed. This was the group they were looking for.
Natasha turned her attention back to the Castaways. She breathed a sigh of relief. The rest of the Dawnhawk’s crew lowered their weapons, following her lead. “I got here on an airship,” she said. “And you’re just the ones I’ve been looking for.”
Outside, the tread of something enormous shook the earth.
Chapter Eleven
Admiral Wintermourn glanced at the bomb falling towards him.
A grapefruit-sized sphere of black iron with a fuse fizzing merrily away at one end, it was close enough to touch, one of several thrown from the pirate airship Solrun’s Hammer flying above. He slapped at the thing, sending it bouncing off the forward railing and tumbling down to the main deck of the Colossus below.
“Load faster,” he roared, turning his attention back to his gunner’s mate and the starboard gun crew below. Their firing angles were too sharp here in the Graveway Lagoon. There was only a tiny window when they could hit the old fort above them, even with grapeshot and the elevated cannons. We need to fire, and it needs to be now! “Load faster, Goddess damn you—”
The bomb exploded below him. Its blast shivered the stern cabin deck he stood upon and sent lethal metal shards whipping up past his outstretched hand, missing by only inches. The flash of light lit the rear of the warship in a moment of stark illumination, highlighting nearby sailors and the other falling bombs.
Their blasts seemed fiercer, eager to outdo their companion. Two burst up near the bow while the third detonated in the rigging amidships, directly above the port-side gunnery crews. What remained of the pirate salvo splashed into the lagoon off to port between his ship and Captain Caldwell’s Titan. The damned foolish pirates had let loose too early.
Wintermourn shook his head to clear away the afterimages of the bombs from his vision. Victory was at hand, here in the Graveway Lagoon. His Colossus worked together with the Titan to rake the Salomcani fort as best they could with cannon fire, circling the burning wreck of the Ogre and the Powderheart, where what remained of both vessels slowly sank in the middle of the lagoon. Along the southern cliff wall, Captain Roderick’s Giantess sat anchored firmly, his company of Bluecoat marines ascending with the support of their compatriots who had already made the climb.
A few pirates remained at the walls of the fort, firing irregular musket volleys. They did little more than blunt the advance, though. Most of the ruffians were in full retreat, and all their airships save Solrun’s Hammer lumbered behind the fort down low to the jungle. Dozens of lines and rope ladders dangled from each airship, each thick with pirates desperate to escape.
Crown Prince Gwydion’s plan to win the Graveway had been an audacious gamble. Wintermourn had to admit that it had worked, though he still raged at the cost. All repairs had been ceased upon the Ogre, and instead Captain Thomasen’s beleaguered warship was loaded with as much ordnance as could be spared. Sufficiently full, she was sent to the Graveway alone with a timed fuse in her powder magazine and her sails half-furled to hide the deck from above.
One of the pirates had taken the bait, just as hoped. The Powderheart fell on the Ogre, ignoring both the cliff guns and the airship’s own allies in its eagerness to duplicate Euron Blackheart’s earlier success. Then the fuse lit off, killing the pirates and the Ogre both. The blast had been apocalyptic, igniting the airship’s gas bag and sending a fireball raging up into the sky. Even Wintermourn found himself impressed by the explosion.
Other pirate vessels moved to assist their fallen, but the cliff guns and the score of Brass Paladins aboard the Glory pounded them fiercely, causing severe damage and driving them back off. Wintermourn had then ordered the charge. While angered by loss of the navy ship, it would have been foolish not to capitalize on what the sacrifice had bought them.
Of the pirate airships, only Solrun’s Hammer had tried to drive them back. Now she tried to escape, turning ponderously as shells from the cliff guns burst across her gas bag. The pirate vessel would pay dearly for bombing the Colossus.
“Sir!”
Wintermourn glanced over his shoulder. It was Lieutenant Lebam, taking a half step from the helm and reaching out to him.
“Sir!” he repeated. “That blast...are you all right?
Wintermourn rounded on the man. “Take your other hand away from that wheel, and I’ll chop it off myself,” he snarled. “Slow us down and keep on heading. I want that round of shots at the fort before we turn aside.”
His lieutenant drew back, chastened. Beside him, ex-captain Thomasen stood, stone-faced and angry. The man hadn’t been required to captain his ship on its suicide run, though maybe it would have been a kinder fate. Even with his decades of service, he was unlikely to gain another commission. Now he lingered about, just another officer without a ship on which to serve. A small part of Wintermourn recognized the unfairness of it, and perhaps something might be done after the invasion—a small sloop or some such. Still, he felt the ingrained disdain any career naval officer would have of a man who’d been demoted, whatever the reason behind it.
The gunner’s mate shouted from the deck below. His guns thundered in response, rocking back, almost toppling completely over from their elevated positions as they spit fire and thunder along the railing. Their shots hammered the old Salomcani fort, the grapeshot gouging into the native stone, collapsing a section of wall, and even skipping up off the roof, past which the majority of the pirates were ascending to their airships. Wintermourn saw a ball sever one rope line completely. The pirates dangling from it screamed as they fell down into the jungle. The shot had been one in a million. Still, he would take it.
Those crewmen not too injured gave a raucous cheer at the volley. Admiral Wintermourn approved of their spirits. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to join in or do something so vulgar as pound his fist against the rail. Instead, he pursed his lips, not quite allowing himself to smile.
There wasn’t time or room enough to fire again. It did not matter—the guns had done their work. The Bluecoats above were charging, their yells echoing down to the water as the defenders recovered from the cannon volley. Some of them managed to rally, but the answering shots were inadequate, felling just a single marine before his brothers leaped over the walls and into the interior. In minutes it would be over. The Graveway Lagoon belonged to the Kingdom now.
Admiral Winter
mourn allowed himself to relax a little. The scoundrels are routed and their fort taken. That’s another victory sorted. “Bring us back around alongside the Giantess,” he said to Lebam. “I am going up once the fort is secured.”
“Aye, sir,” replied the lieutenant.
Thomasen moved up to the rail to stand behind Wintermourn. “Well,” he snorted. “At least we’ve won through. I’d have hated to have sacrificed my ship on some damned boondoggle.”
Wintermourn stiffened, feeling the usual affront at such presumed familiarity. While he had actually known Thomasen a goodly time, it still wasn’t any excuse. Turning to deliver a sharp chastisement, he paused upon seeing the ex-captain’s face. Behind the well-practiced countenance of a stern naval officer hid something raw.
The man had good reason for the emotion. What had been done was downright infuriating. Gwydion had ordered an entire warship sacrificed for the sake of a fleeting tactical advantage. True, the tactic had won them the day, and the Ogre had been worst off of all the fleet at the moment. Fire ships weren’t anything new in the history of naval warfare. Such things simply weren’t done, however. A ship might be lost in glorious combat, but to throw it away as if it were worth so little as the men who crewed it? To use it as a...a trap?
Not that it would do to make such thoughts clear, even to his senior captains. “We have managed no less than I expected,” Wintermourn lied. “The Ogre proved us the superior force. Take heart in that, Thomasen, if nothing else.”
“I don’t think I’m getting a royal appointment out of it,” replied the man in ill humor.
“No,” agreed Wintermourn. “Likely not.” Chesterly’s reassignment as royal adjutant still rankled. Who did the crown prince think he was, to assign such an inexperienced, undeserving minion such a plum of a post?
He turned his attention to the Bluecoat running down the deck. It was Sergeant Adjutant Lanters, his blue uniform bloodied and his round black cap all torn. The man climbed up the stern cabin and made his salute.
“Sir,” said the sergeant, a finger-long splinter embedded in the meat of his shoulder. He didn’t appear to give it notice, of which Wintermourn approved.
“Yes, Sergeant? Out with it.”
“The other lads up top signal that they’ve taken the fort.”
The sergeant adjutant’s voice was as subservient as ever, but Wintermourn could tell that he was unhappy. The man had wanted to be part of the charge, where the fighting was thickest and the most glory could be gained.
Wintermourn had refrained from sending his own company of marines into the assault, though. It seemed only prudent. Along with the Titan, the Colossus had kept up the battle from the water, shelling the fort and braving bombardment from the pirate airships above. He hadn’t thought it too unlikely that some of the damned fools would try to board, even after the death of the Powderheart. Among their many failings, pirates simply didn’t seem to learn. And he hadn’t intended to get butchered by some last-ditch show of desperation.
“Very good,” he replied. “Signal back that I will be coming ashore personally to inspect the site. I want a cordon set—”
The thump of the cliff battery at the western edge of the lagoon interrupted him. Looking up, he watched shells burst in the air all about Solrun’s Hammer. The now-fleeing airship gave a violent shudder in return. Flames shot from the semirigid gas bag as it ripped out along the stern, a propeller exploded, and men flew screaming from a lucky shot that slipped along her decks. The airship managed to hold together somehow, though, and ponderously moved out of range, flying past the fort and above the channel leading east, straight for port in Haventown with the rest of the retreating foe.
“Aye, sir,” said Lanters. He completed his salute and retreated to find the signalman.
Other ships entered the lagoon as First Lieutenant Lebam brought the Colossus up alongside the Giantess, moored to the southern cliff. With the enemy in full retreat, it was safe to advance the new steamship, which was capable of maneuvers that would have been impossible with an older vessel. The other ships presented a stirring tableaux, their gunports open and at the ready, ranks of marines in blue at her rails. Still, the sinking wreckage in the middle of the lagoon caught his eye.
The Colossus pulled up alongside the Giantess, sending a shiver through both ships as they touched hulls. Lines were tossed over and made fast. As soon as the boarding ramp had been extended, Wintermourn crossed over, followed by Lanters and a small honor guard of Bluecoats. Captain Roderick, commander of the Giantess, was waiting for him, the toady, and began an obviously rehearsed bit of fluff congratulating him on the larger victory. Wintermourn paid him no mind. Instead, he went straight to the far side of the vessel, where a rope ladder and a bosun’s chair dangled against the cliff face, each held by a sailor. Wintermourn sat upon the chair, disdainful though it was, and barked a command. In moments he rose in jerky fits up the cliff.
A bosun’s chair was a simple bench attached to two ropes, much like a swing. Usually he avoided them. They were perfect for situations like this, though, where the alternative was a hundred-foot climb up a swaying rope ladder. As much as it galled Wintermourn to think on, he wasn’t all that young anymore. The chair lacked dignity, but arriving at the top winded and out of sorts would be simply unconscionable.
Two Giantess Bluecoats grabbed for him once he’d reached the top. Wintermourn swallowed his disapproval at the contact and let them assist for just long enough to find his feet. He nodded as they made their obeisance, then turned away to view the top of the cliff.
It was much as he’d expected from below. Verdant jungle undergrowth grew thickly, running out from the recessed tree line to spill over the edge of the cliff. The only exceptions were the artillery battery they’d built to the west and the Salomcani fort up ahead. A loose path of sorts had been torn through the foliage by the Bluecoat charge.
The place wasn’t much to look at. But this was what he’d come for: to stand on something the enemy had held, something that he’d taken from them.
Wintermourn waited impatiently for Lanters and his men to finish their ascent. “Come along then,” he said as they rose over the cliff, and then pushed his way in the direction of the fort. Behind and below, Captain Roderick’s voice echoed up, plaintively telling the men to hurry with the chair.
The Salomcani fort wasn’t much to look at anymore. If any decoration had improved it at an earlier time, it had long since been wiped away. Now the fort was a simple square of weathered and gun-battered stone, open to the lagoon past a crenellated wall that hid the cannon emplacements. Wintermourn disdained that entrance in favor of a hole blown into one wall by fortuitous cannon fire.
Inside, the place was just as dull as the exterior. Blood and gun smoke fumed the air, but there were surprisingly few pirate bodies. They lay still, all slain in battle or savagely executed by the marines, their faces frozen in rage, fear, or horror. Admiral Wintermourn watched them a long moment, half expecting them to rise up as unholy Revenants seeking revenge.
There were few other exits: an arched opening led out back to the jungle, and a stairway in the floor that led to lower levels. Marines tended minor wounds and stood about chatting idly; the fort was secure.
Sergeant Adjutant Lanters bellowed out, calling attention to their presence. The other squad sergeants stepped to, roaring orders and driving the rest of the men to weary attention. Wintermourn gave a cursory nod, mildly enjoying their respect. He did not smile, though, quickly pressing his way past the men, looking to the walls, the roof, and the walkway with its cannon emplacements. Nothing would make it a proper Perinese fortification. But it could be repaired and fortified—there was still value here. I’ll need to pull masons and carpenters up from the fleet. We’ll move the cliff battery here—maybe we can get better facing from the roof?
The clatter of boots and muttered cursing told him that Captain Roderick had arrived. Surprisingly, First Lieutenant Thomasen was with him as well. Wintermourn raised an e
yebrow, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t like the man had anywhere else to go.
“Sergeant Adjutant,” he said, turning back to Lanters. “What do you think about these walls? Should they be reinforced?”
“Don’t know, sir,” he replied. “Far one looks a bit shoddy.”
“Aye,” added Roderick, pushing into the conversation. “We’ll need to get the masons and carpenters up to take a look. Shouldn’t be too hard though, eh?”
The man was an idiot. Wintermourn prepared a withering retort. A shadow fell across the fort exterior, though, cutting him off. It was the Glory, crossing the lagoon to the fort. Shouts from marines out back made it clear that the airship was descending. Wintermourn frowned and walked over to the rear exit. He should have expected this. It was inevitable that the crown prince would have wanted to consult after the battle.
That didn’t mean that Wintermourn was looking forward to it.
Out back, the airship hung overhead like some ugly mechanical bird. It made its way down, propellers buzzing to hold it somewhat stationary. The hull had barely touched the ground before the ramp shot out and the crown prince stormed down onto the newly claimed Perinese soil, outpacing his ever-present guards while Captain Broadlow watched from along the gunwales.
Gwydion had replaced his torn finery, looking again as he had before haring off on his ill-advised chase after the Dawnhawk. The prince seemed far from stately at the moment, though, as his features were screwed up in consternation. One hand was tight on his hip, holding the relic Danlann in place as he stalked over.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
Wintermourn drew himself up stiffly at the tone. The sheer cheek of this lad. He may have been the prince, but Wintermourn was still Lord High Admiral of the Sea, one of the Order Gallant. “Surveying the ground we’ve just taken,” he replied, reaching up to straighten his wig. “I would have thought it obvious.”
“I can see that,” Gwydion said, an edge of irritation to his voice. “But why, in the Goddess’s name?”
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 18