Steam gushed forth as the Dray Engine snorted in satisfaction, then turned to face the rest of the Castaways, who had frozen in horror. It roared, and they screamed in kind, fleeing again for the jungle. Almost leisurely now, the Dray Engine pursued them.
No one made a sound within the tunnel about her. Even Runt had quieted in response to the noise and horror taking place outside.
“Captain,” said Reaver Jane. “That’s a problem.” She turned to Natasha. “It’s still between us and the Dawnhawk.”
Paine kicked at the metal floor sullenly. “Pirates and monsters. It’s always pirates and monsters.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” replied Natasha to them both. She gave a sour shake of her head. “But we’ve more important things to worry about right now.” She gestured with her cutlass back at the arcane machinery shining behind them. “Let’s get that mess figured out,” she continued, “and see if we can win a war.”
Chapter Fourteen
Admiral Wintermourn jammed a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.
The advance had fairly stopped for the moment. Whatever bomb the pirates lit off had packed one impressive wallop. Now rubble and whale bones filled the street in a man-high pile, walling it off more effectively than the sagging walls creaking ominously to either side.
Of the Brass Paladins, there was no sign. The blast and collapse had buried them, just as it had thrown his own men back from the fray. Admiral Wintermourn felt conflicted about that. On the one hand, they had been unarguably effective in the advance. On the other hand, damned good riddance to Gwydion’s wind-up toys, and to the Realms Below with how well the inhuman things worked.
Sergeant Adjutant Lanters tottered across the rubble to make a snappy salute. His cerulean jacket and trousers were coated in a fine layer of dust, giving him the appearance of some cheap stage-born ghost. His eyes were bloodshot and dried blood coated his mustache. Wintermourn knew he looked just as much a fright—the legacy of that infernal screaming Mechanist device, as well as the bomb. His nose wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“I’ve reassembled a platoon for immediate duty,” said the sergeant.
About damned time. Wintermourn gestured for the man to stand at ease. He turned to see a loose clump of Bluecoats at attention. They were just as ragged and bloodied as their sergeant, but they stood with stiff spines and muskets at the ready. Some even still had their hats.
The invasion of the Waterdocks was proving unexpectedly difficult. At first, things had gone well enough. Crashing his own beautiful Colossus into the Waterdocks had certainly taken the locals by surprise. Their disorganized defense had fallen quickly to the marines, and the piers and streets surrounding his beached warship became territory of the expanded Kingdom of Perinault. As the only field officer left in the area, he’d buckled on his saber and taken direct command.
He’d made shockingly little progress since, though. This part of the pirate city was a thickly clustered maze, full of dead-ends and blind alleys. As if that wasn’t enough, the pirates had rebounded. Though not led by anyone of note, as Gwydion had seemed to think they would have been, pockets of resistance appeared in the oddest places. Just when Wintermourn thought them finally all crushed, that damnable Mechanist weapon on the second terrace had come into play.
He knew Gwydion wanted it intact. Yet if Wintermourn had his way, it would never work again. The scream it uttered was something more felt than heard, reverberating within the chest and shaking the limbs until one felt they were shattering apart. Men had died all around him, falling to the boardwalk with blood gushing from ears and nostrils. Not even his Colossus had been immune. Spars from the mast turned to flinders that rained down about them all, an excessive bit of devastation.
“It will take some time to get the rest of the company going,” said Sergeant Lanters.
That’s a matter of opinion. Wintermourn gestured at the marines lazing about the street, resting and nursing their injuries. “If they can still walk and hold a smallsword, I want them on their feet. Reinforcements should be due at any moment, and I won’t have this honor snatched from—”
A shadow fell over him. It covered the marines, the rubble, and this whole end of the pirate township. Wintermourn glanced up, shading his eyes with the handkerchief.
An airship flew overhead. It wasn’t the Glory, but rather a Haventown vessel taking off from their Skydocks: the Sky Serpent, according to the crude legend across its hull. Another drifted just behind it, the much-battered Solrun’s Hammer. A third airship, the Windhaunter, came lackadaisically up behind, both propellers obviously nonfunctional and tethered to a pier by long lines, but doing what it could for the fight.
The airships bore down on the Glory as Wintermourn watched. Prince Gwydion would soon be caught between them and the errant Moonchaser he hunted. The pirate vessels opened with rippling musket-fire volleys, and the flow of battle changed up above.
Damnation. So that’s where Haventown’s leaders were. The pirates had rallied. Soon, they would have aerial advantage once more. It was even conceivable that they might impede the action still raging in the lagoon. Wintermourn curled his lips in a snarl, even as a coppery tang filled the back of his throat. He spat and pressed the handkerchief back to his nose. Damnation! He needed those reinforcements to land.
Someone shouted nearby. Admiral Wintermourn looked to a pair of Bluecoats heaving a massive whalebone away from the rubble in the street ahead, revealing a skin of polished brass. Gwydion’s clockwork soldiers had been found.
“Sergeant,” said one, turning back, “here’s the first—”
The automaton shifted beneath the rubble, a cascade of cheap brick and old bone sliding away as it tried to sit upright. A brazen helm appeared, followed by the shoulder and right arm. But there it stopped, still too buried beneath the detritus to free itself further. The marines stepped away in apprehension.
“Damn yer eyes, Bryant!” snapped Sergeant Adjutant Lanters. “That’s valuable Kingdom property! Have more care with it.”
Private Bryant and his companion both snapped their salutes, though they looked put-upon.
Admiral Wintermourn sighed. “Very well,” he said, forestalling the sergeant. “Go ahead and unearth the things. Our crown prince is going to want them back if they can be recovered.” Besides, the Mechanists doubtless have more surprises to unleash. And Admiral Wintermourn swore to himself that he wouldn’t be taking the brunt of their attentions. To the Realms Below with capturing them, no matter what the crown prince wanted.
The two Bluecoats bent back down to obey. Beneath them, the automaton went suddenly berserk. It lashed out with its free arm, catching Bryant by the leg and toppling him over, then reaching over to grab the other marine by the throat with that jerking, surprising speed that so belied expectation. The Brass Paladin pulled the flailing man in close, metal fingers tightening like a vise.
Sergeant Adjutant Lanters gestured at the assembled men. “Get it off him!” he shouted.
Wintermourn felt his nostrils flare, dried blood cracking. Damnable malfunctioning contraption!
Bluecoats rushed forward to pull at their fellow. The dying marine gasped and choked, going red beneath the grit and dust that covered his face. One hand flailed at the mechanical arm that was killing him, even as he tried to pry himself free with the other. Musket strokes battered at the head of the automaton, ringing down the street and echoing off the walls.
The Bluecoat gave a last, guttural rattle, then fell still. His fellows continued to beat the machine, which lashed out at them defensively. Private Bryant was trying furiously to crawl away.
Damn! Damn and blast these things to all the Realms Below. “That’s enough!” Wintermourn shouted. “Clear away, you fools, on the double!” He watched the corpse of the marine twitch out his last little bit of life. Wintermourn felt his gorge rise. Rotting claws, coming through the fire. Reaching up...
The marines’ training took precedence over their anger. They fell back, though their frus
tration still showed clearly.
“Sir?” asked Lanters.
Wintermourn spat. “Those wind-up toys are more trouble than they’re worth. I’ll spend good Perinese blood against the foe, but not as sacrifices for these damned infernal machines.”
“But sir, the prince—”
“If he wants them back, he can dig them out himself!” snarled Wintermourn, gesticulating wildly. “Now, form up and move out! We find another path forward. Shoot any Mechanists on sight. And any man in the company who can’t march will be dragged!”
Blood seeped from his nostrils, soaking his mustache and staining his lips. Admiral Wintermourn hurriedly replaced the handkerchief, glaring death at the soldiers. From its place in the rubble, the Brass Paladin continued to flail, flywheels spinning beneath its armor and steam belching from the exhaust pipe behind its shoulder.
Sergeant Lanters formed up the men and made them ready to advance, but finding a way forward turned out to be harder than it appeared. The pirate’s bomb had effectively sealed the street they stood upon, and this ridiculous shantytown was built with even less forethought than Wintermourn could have imagined. What started as a boardwalk alleyway would widen into a street before abruptly coming to a dead end. There might be a kind of sense to it all. Perhaps if one lived in this place long enough it became clear. Wintermourn did not care. He would see it all burned to the ground.
In the end they had to pull almost all the way back to the Colossus and advance along behind the other piers. Even that proved slow going. The pirates had hauled out every crate, barrel, and old table they could lay hands on, it seemed, choking the piers with makeshift barricades. Few defenders stood behind these, though. With good reason.
Haventown Lagoon was a damnable mess. Stray bombs and musket balls flew everywhere, and stinking gun smoke clouds lay over the water like thick fog. Navy warships fought pirate vessels in the tight waterway while the airships dueled above. Incredibly, the Saltspray and Fortune’s Loss still survived near the lagoon entrance, preventing more than a handful of Perinese vessels from entering. They were wrecks, only barely afloat. Still, their crews fought on bitterly, their battle cries loud enough to be heard above the chaos surrounding them.
The Titan had managed to slip that gauntlet, even opening fire on the town earlier, damn Captain Caldwell for a fool. The pirate airship Moonchaser had wrought vengeance, though, and now the Titan struggled to come about, her masts shattered and her paddlewheels stuck within dented housings.
Above, the battle was even more fierce, tilted heavily in the defenders’ favor. Now Crown Prince Gwydion’s airship was outnumbered three to one, by the Moonchaser, Sky Serpent, and Solrun’s Hammer. The Windhaunter hung back, still tethered to the aerial docks. For all of Gwydion’s boasting, the heavily armored ship was sorely pressed. Two pirate vessels would move to board the Glory, grapnels flying, forcing Gwydion away and giving the third ship enough room to run amok, bombing the Perinese naval vessels below with impunity.
Reinforcements wouldn’t be coming any time soon. Wintermourn sighed. Of course I’ve got to do every damned thing myself. He shook his head and climbed past a makeshift barricade. Three old men had been behind it, taking potshots at the Bluecoats and missing every time. Sergeant Adjutant Lanters was about to skewer the third and last defender as his marines spread out to secure this part of the docks.
“Quarter!” cried the pirate, kneeling, one hand outstretched to ward off the sergeant. He was old, with the leathery skin earned by an entire life at sea. Past him, the docks continued on—a pier to the right stretched off into the frothing water of the lagoon, and to the left a dark street wended deeper into the Waterdocks. “Quarter,” he repeated. “I beg ye!”
Sergeant Adjutant Lanters paused with his saber upraised. He looked to Admiral Wintermourn.
Admiral Wintermourn smiled at the fellow, genuinely amused. “What a ridiculous consideration,” he laughed. The Bluecoats standing nearby knew what was good for them, so they laughed as well. “No, of course not. Sergeant, if you please.”
The pirate panicked. He looked back to the man standing above him, but Sergeant Lanters was already thrusting. The pirate scrabbled feebly at Lanters’s blade, crying out as he was transfixed on two and a half feet of steel.
Of all the ridiculous things people come up with. Wintermourn chuckled to himself and grinned at the Bluecoats standing nearby, who laughed dutifully. “Quarter! Can you imagine that? I mean really—”
Explosions burst all about them. They staggered Wintermourn and shattered the makeshift barricades, sending a hail of jagged wooden splinters flying through the air.
“Bombs!” shouted Lanters. “Sir, we’re in the open. We need cover!”
Wintermourn regained his bearings. The salvo had come from the Sky Serpent, opportunistically bombing them while her sister vessels kept the Glory of Perinault occupied. “I can see that!” he snarled. Something wet dripped down his chin. Wintermourn wiped away blood with a curse and retrieved his handkerchief. With his other hand, he gestured down the path leading back into the pirate town. “Advance! All of you! For king and country!”
“For king and country!” cried the marines.
They fled the docks, down the twisty street leading back into the Waterdocks’ interior. The ramshackle structures loomed overhead, a mishmash of slapdash architecture that hid a hundred different places where pirates might be lurking, just waiting to ambush them.
Which happened almost immediately. Several popping pistol shots rang out in the narrow street, and the first two marines in the column behind Sergeant Lanters crumpled, their hats flying. Wintermourn spotted their assailants: four pirates in an alleyway. He ordered the men forward, relishing the sight as the dastards were cut down. Lanters saw the street secured, then made his way back to the admiral.
“Sir,” he said, making his salute. “This place is even twistier than the docks around the Colossus. We’ll be walking into a hundred such ambushes here.”
Wintermourn gingerly pulled his handkerchief away from his nose. The flow seemed to have stopped for now. “Hoary locks of the Goddess,” he swore. “I’d thought any pirate with a spine vanquished already, yet they keep popping up on every street we turn down. They’re like cockroaches!” He paused to consider. “Very well. We shall treat them as such. Sergeant! We go building by building from here on in, so long as we can keep cover from above. Our objective is to take control of the Waterdocks. Eliminate all opposition. Be methodical.”
“Aye, sir,” he said with a salute, turning back to the Bluecoat column. “Secure that shack! Greene, Bryant, Slain, you’re all on point! Batter down the door if you have to.”
Wintermourn watched in approval as the men jumped to. Muffled shouts and the clatter of steel sounded within the little building. A few moments later the bedraggled marines emerged, hauling behind two little old ladies wearing bandoliers full of knives. The sergeant put them up against a wall and had them shot.
Wintermourn nodded in approval. They’d been pushed back, yes. They’d been bloodied. But they would not be stopped.
Next came a warehouse with a wide sliding door, just before an intersection. There seemed many such structures down here on the Waterdocks. It made a certain sense—pirates needed somewhere to store their loot, after all.
Bluecoats pulled aside the door to reveal a haphazard wall of carts and wooden pallets. Grimy, youthful faces appeared behind them, with swords and makeshift pikes at the ready. It was some gang of filthy hoodlums, without even enough gumption to serve with a pirate’s ship. The men dealt with them quickly, subduing resistance and putting them up against the wall as they wept and plead. Wintermourn felt acute satisfaction at the report of muskets, followed by the chain gang slump of fresh corpses collapsing.
Not everyone shared his enthusiasm. A few troubled faces appeared among the soldiery. Private Bryant was prime among them as the column marched to the junction up ahead. Wintermourn decided to have Lanters put him in the lead.
One way or another, everyone would be reminded of their duty.
The intersection was dominated by a two-story tavern, a rusty cutlass above the door its only signboard. Wide, smoke-stained windows looked out onto the lane—perfect spots from which to prepare an ambush. The Craftwright’s Terrace above cast its shadow over all of it, the cliff wall it sat upon only a short distance away, past the tavern and a low warehouse. Wintermourn realized they’d almost doubled back through the twisty streets, ending up quite near to where the pirate bomb had blunted their initial advance.
Sergeant Adjutant Lanters ordered the men up to the front of the Rusty Cutlass, with Wintermourn observing from the middle of the street. The sergeant tested the latch, then kicked in the door. Bluecoats followed his charge inside, their battle cries mixing with the shouts of defiance from within. The soldiers emerged a few minutes later with captives. There were two older pirates, a middle-aged woman, a girl clutching a doll who couldn’t have been more than eight, and surprisingly, a Mechanist in his leather greatcoat.
Wintermourn felt his boredom fade. Will wonders never cease. Aside from their awful screaming cannons, the Mechanists had hidden from the battle, preferring to let the pirates do their fighting. Wintermourn considered. Perhaps this one could be of use, if only to avoid more of their infernal weaponry. “Well done, Sergeant Adjutant,” exclaimed Wintermourn. “Hold off on shooting them a moment. Bring that fellow over, so that we can have a bit of a chat.”
“Right,” said Lanters. He gestured at the other captives. “Put the rest of them up against the tavern wall.”
One of the marines balked. It was Private Bryant again. “Sir? The girl?”
“Your senses rattled, soldier? Up against the wall with ’er.”
Suddenly, the Mechanist dropped to his knees. He freed one arm and shoved a hand into a pouch at his waist. It came back gripping a grapefruit-sized black sphere with a complicated clockwork mechanism atop it. A bomb.
“Go!” he shouted at the girl, his voice muted by his mask. Then he thumbed the mechanical fuse and tossed it into the middle of the street.
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 23