Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

“Of course,” replied Wintermourn. He reached out to a marine standing to one side and took the blunderbuss. It was indeed ancient, the stock weathered like driftwood and the bell-shaped barrel dented and smoking. “Goddess above. I haven’t seen one of these since I was a lad.”

  “Sir,” began Private Bryant. “They—”

  “It was obviously a mistake,” he continued, ignoring the man. “Even this old salt had to know that the two of them alone against us was folly.”

  The younger man relaxed visibly.

  “Because that’s not how they fight, is it?” snapped Wintermourn. Both men looked up at him in surprise, and he held their panicked stares with a glare of his own. “You’re scoundrels, daemons, the worst scum of the world. You drop bombs from overhead. You hole up in these miserable islands, thinking yourselves safe. And when we come anyway, you unleash abominations, falling back to hide and cower while undead monstrosities do your dirty work!”

  “What? What are ye going—”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “Enough!” shouted Wintermourn. “Enough and more! Cut their throats and move on! It’s fire and the sword for this miserable pirate town, and if we have to do it door by door, street by street, we will!”

  He threw the blunderbuss down and turned away as the Bluecoats moved to obey. Wintermourn froze as the panicked protests of the Haventowners turned into grisly gurgles, so similar to the calls of the unquiet dead.

  Sergeant Greene shouted a series of orders before moving up beside him. “Sir? Are you all right?”

  “What?” said Wintermourn, starting in surprise.

  “From the shot. I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” he snapped. “Get the men moving. Your overfamiliarity is unwarranted, Sergeant. And no, I am not fine. I will not be until every man, woman, and child in this place shares the peace of the grave! Now get back to the column, and you, personally, lead us forth!”

  The sergeant gave his salute, took his place again and ordered the men onward. They marched with weapons in hand and eager, grim looks upon their faces. Wintermourn approved. They marched with a natural, military rhythm completely unlike the shuffling gait of a Revenant.

  Yes. Soldier on. For king and country. Not even the walking dead can blunt our purpose. And next time it’ll be you on the wrong end of a blunderbuss, Greene.

  The fish market exited onto a short street between a pair of warehouses before curving sharply past a thin, two-story building. Past its rooftop and on through the gun smoke haze, Wintermourn spied the stair leading up to the next terrace, up against the curve of the lagoon cliff itself. They’d almost swept these Waterdocks clean entirely, he realized.

  Wintermourn allowed himself satisfaction. And where are you, Crown Prince Gwydion? Hmm? Or all the rest of you laggards in the fleet? Still fencing with a bunch of worthless scallywags! It made him want to despair. All these mechanical men and flashy airships that couldn’t even take advantage of the beachhead he’d given them. The others were only playing at warfare, while he fought the rotting claws of real monsters.

  His Bluecoats advanced down the street to its far end, eyes eager and weapons held tight. No warehouse rooftops collapsed on them, and no hidden ambushers opened fire. They reached the tall building at the end of the street, and Sergeant Greene called a halt, rubbing his injured leg and panting wearily. The Bluecoats fanned out to cover the front door, as Wintermourn stalked over to stand beside the sergeant.

  The building looked on the verge of collapse. It seemed to sag, weary and worn, the two shuttered windows like heavy-lidded eyes. Bright, violently red paint coated the door, almost a vulgarity. There were other attempts to spruce up the place, including a flower box beneath each window. No sign hung out front, but a lady’s weatherworn corset dangled from a gaff hook on a pole above the door.

  “What is this place?” asked the sergeant.

  “It’s a bordello,” said Wintermourn dryly.

  “Oh.” Sergeant Greene blushed. Then he gave a resolute nod. “Rainely, Bryant! Knock down that door.”

  The two Bluecoats stepped up and slammed their shoulders into the bright red door. It cracked but did not otherwise open. Girlish shouts came from somewhere inside.

  Private Bryant turned back to face the lieutenant. “It’s blocked shut, sir,” he said.

  “Of course it’s barricaded,” snapped Wintermourn. “Now put your backs into it and bust it down! The cause of the Kingdom will not be stopped by perfidious tarts and their animate corpses!”

  The Bluecoat paled. He turned back to the door and threw his weight against it, joined by his fellow. With each blow it cracked more and more. The shouts from inside took on an edge of panic.

  At last the door split from the latch. It popped inward a foot, checked by a stack of dark furniture. A woman’s hoarse shout called for order.

  Rainely and Bryant worked further at the door, widening the space behind it until they could wrestle with the furniture itself. Rainely hauled free a chair and passed it back to a waiting marine as Bryant reached for an ottoman that had been wedged beneath it.

  A pointed metal spear shot out through a crack in the pile. It slipped past Bryant, knocking free his cap, burying itself into his companion’s gut. Rainely shrieked in pain, hands grabbing for the haft. Whoever held the other end fought him, jabbing back and forth.

  “Muskets forward!” shouted Sergeant Greene.

  Bluecoats surged to Rainely’s aid, half a dozen shoving their muskets past the screaming soldier into the makeshift barricade. Bryant dodged aside as the men fired, turning the doorway into a chaotic cloud of gun smoke, muzzle fire, and exploding wooden splinters.

  Shrieks echoed out past the barricade. Bryant withdrew, pulling the wounded Rainely with him back behind the lines as another group of soldiers stepped forward. They were ready, stepping in to tear down the barricade. They worked quickly and efficiently until finally it was disassembled enough to allow men to pass through.

  Wintermourn tapped an impatient foot as more Bluecoats barged into the brothel. A cacophony of shouts, gunshots, and the clatter of steel on steel erupted only moments later. Wintermourn sighed. Weren’t there any common peasants in this ridiculous pirate nest? It seemed that even the whores here could fight. He almost admired them for it, though not nearly enough to overcome his disgust. On top of everything else, women fighting. He shook his head, then paused. Though it’s not as if they’re ladies.

  The soldiers emerged a few moments later, hauling a dozen struggling captives along with them. They were all women, and their makeup and jewelry denoted them as common dockside whores, though all wore boots and trousers and were otherwise dressed for a fight. They appeared to have not gone without one, either. The Bluecoats yanked at them angrily, bearing fresh bruises and cuts or clutching more serious wounds.

  “You Bluecoatie bastards!” shrieked a heavyset woman with a face like a bulldog. “We’ve got nothin’ to do with ye, so leave us be!”

  Sergeant Greene opened his mouth to retort, but Wintermourn cut him off. “On the contrary. Not that I believe in leniency, but your fate was sealed the moment you raised those unholy abominations and sent them to fight us.”

  The matron seemed taken aback. “What?”

  “We’re just whores!” shouted a woman with wild, dyed hair. She struggled against the marine who held her. “Please, we beg quarter. We’ll do anything you want!”

  Wintermourn smirked. “Quarter,” he said, turning to the lieutenant. “Why do they always ask for that? Put the first six up against the wall.”

  His soldiers split the group in half and put them up against the front of the brothel, along with the sobbing younger woman who’d spoken up. A dozen of their fellows formed a firing squad a dozen paces away. They worked to load muskets, the first six kneeling in a rank.

  “Ready!” barked Sergeant Greene.

  The marines finished loading and raised their weapons.

  “Take aim!”

&
nbsp; The marines lifted their muskets to their shoulders.

  “Please,” begged the young woman with the wild-dyed hair. Wintermourn ignored her, watching instead the frozen grimaces of each soldier waiting to fire. They might as well have been carved from stone. He approved.

  “Fire!”

  A rippling pop rang out along the street. The women jerked, and the wooden front of the brothel splintered as the musket balls tore through them. Mixed wails of anguish rose from those still standing. “Reload,” said Sergeant Greene, voice suddenly soft.

  Wintermourn raised an eyebrow at him. The man was pale. Is that weakness I see? It would have made him despair if he hadn’t decided to end the fellow already.

  “Get the rest of them up there,” said Wintermourn, already bored. “I want to clear this street in the next half a glass.”

  His soldiers shoved the remaining captives up against their brothel. They swore and fought and wailed helplessly. The ugly older woman just glared at him, murder in her eyes.

  “I’m no aetherite, but I curse ye all the same,” she spat.

  “That reminds me,” said Wintermourn. “Sergeant, make sure to cut off their heads before we leave. No need to give more resources to the filthy necromancers that hide here.”

  The older whore blinked. “What?”

  “Of course, sir,” said Sergeant Greene. “Ranks ready!”

  The soldiers put away their powder horns and hefted their muskets again.

  “Take aim!”

  They raised the weapons to their shoulders.

  “Avast, ye scallywags!”

  Wintermourn blinked in surprise and turned at the shout, which echoed to him from down the street. Then he stared.

  A small knot of pirates stood a good fifty paces away. Wintermourn knew in an instant that they were real pirates: a red-haired woman in a half cloak, another with a belt of jangling seashells and a bandage upon her head, even more men and women bearing cutlasses and pistols and assorted mismatched weaponry. At their head stood a bent-backed old reaver with a greying beard and fierce eyes. He held up a much-worn cutlass while leaning on the sheath with this other hand for balance.

  Admiral Wintermourn recognized him from description. “Pirate King Euron Blackheart,” he said. “So you finally decided to show your face, eh? About time you found your spine.”

  “Ye dogs! How dare ye set foot in me kingdom? The people here be mine! No matter what that blasted popinjay says. Th’ airships be aloft again, so to the Realms Below wit’ him an’ his!”

  Admiral Wintermourn blinked in confusion at the rant. Behind him, Sergeant Greene ordered the men to form ranks.

  “Sir,” said Bryant. “What about the whores?”

  “Shoot the damned whores and then form ranks!” snapped Wintermourn back over his shoulder.

  “Yer fight be wit’ me, ye bluecoated bastards!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Wintermourn, waving nonchalantly at him. “We’ll crush you insects in a moment. I’m not going to chase a bunch of escapees through all the ground I’ve already covered today.”

  “Danica,” said the red-haired pirate woman in a half cloak. “Now.”

  The bandaged woman in the seashell belt lifted her hands up high and cupped them together. Oily darkness bloomed between her palms, swelling and streaking towards the Bluecoats. It moved strangely through the air, like ink poured into a mug of water.

  Then it fell on them. It was like the aetherite had given birth to night itself. Wintermourn couldn’t see his own hands in front of his face; he was blind. Hoarse shouts of alarm echoed from the men about him, along with the pop of muskets fired in panic.

  “It’s sorcery!” Wintermourn yelled. He had a horrible epiphany. “It’s damned aetherite sorcery! Beware the corpses, she’s calling up Revenants. Beware the Goddess-damned corpses!”

  They were coming for him—he could feel it. The dead women would already be clambering to their feet as they sought him out of the crowd for revenge. Something brushed up against him, and Wintermourn yelled. He drew his saber and swung, eliciting a shriek of pain from what only could have been a Bluecoat soldier.

  It didn’t matter. Wintermourn cursed the man for getting in the way, ruining a good swing. They could be behind him now, reaching for him with their rotting claws...

  The darkness lifted. It evaporated like smoke blown on the wind. Wintermourn once again saw the street, the brothel, and the Bluecoat marines frantic with panic. No one was seriously injured—they weren’t under attack. He looked to the brothel wall. The corpses were there, still and unmoving. Wintermourn breathed a sigh of relief.

  But the other whores were gone.

  The pirates! He whirled to face Euron, shoving aside Private Bryant, who gasped and clutched at a saber slash on one arm.

  The pirate king wasn’t bearing down on them, though. He wasn’t even on the street anymore. The pirates were disappearing down a side alley, a pair of coattails and a flashing boot the only sign of them.

  Wintermourn snarled. “They’re getting away! After them! Get the damned pirate king!”

  A trio of Bluecoats responded by running down the street. Wintermourn grabbed the useless Sergeant Greene and shoved him forward. He yelled for the Bluecoats to follow, then ran for the alley as the other marines shook off their confusion. Wintermourn let a few pass by, glancing back one last time at the corpses lying in the street.

  The alleyway was narrow, more a coincidental crack between the bordello and an adjacent warehouse. Bryant, Greene, and the others crammed themselves down it, and Wintermourn cursed their slowness. Finally, he too wedged himself within it, panting and gasping at the exertion.

  “Up ahead!” yelled a marine.

  Wintermourn shoved himself along, prodding his useless sergeant. A jagged board caught his sleeve, and he cursed, shoving past and forcing away the pain of an inch-long splinter in his wrist. The tip of his saber caught the low-hanging gutter, causing old tiles and debris to rain down on them. Then Admiral Wintermourn pushed out of the alley into the street beyond.

  It was narrow, like everything else in the pirate town. Buildings leaned in on either side, racing each other to collapse. Behind his marines the street trailed away, disappearing into darkness like the tail of a lazy snake. Ahead, the pirates stood in a group at the far end of the street.

  Clustered around a cannon.

  “To the ground!” shrieked Wintermourn.

  Euron Blackheart slashed at them with his cutlass. “That usurping peacock thinks he’ll be the one savin’ the day?” he shouted. “Him an’ his clever plans? I’ll show him. Fire!”

  A pirate lowered a long match to the touchhole at the rear of the weapon. Fire bloomed from it in a thunderous eruption, shattering windows along the street. Wintermourn glimpsed black iron death hurtling towards them before a marine was picked up off his feet by the cannonball and thrown back, killed in a heartbeat along with three other men.

  The pirates fled down an alley, though a few hung back long enough to make obscene gestures. Wintermourn closed his eyes and wiped blood from his face. He fought aside visions of blood dripping from a Revenant’s rotting jaws and gestured with the saber in his other hand. “After them!” he cried. “Get those damned pirates!”

  Bluecoats poured from the alley behind him, angrily rushing to obey. Wintermourn paused to catch his breath before joining them, only to find himself stuck in yet another tight alley leading Goddess knew where. The walls to either side groaned as he shoved himself through, making him uncomfortably aware of his gut. Even with the brief rest, his wind was all but gone as well.

  Damn these unholy pirates and their tricks! Damn their deathtrap construction! And damn all those rich dinners!

  The alley disgorged him onto another boardwalk street, this one wide and airy and opening on the docks at the far end. Euron Blackheart and his pirates were out in the open, heading for another alleyway. Past them, on the water, everything was a fog of gun smoke and magically conjured mist. Bombs burst
and muskets flashed in the gloom while the spars and rigging of at least a dozen masts drifted by.

  “Get them!” snarled Admiral Wintermourn.

  The pirate king turned to face them, only fifty feet away. “That treasonous dog thinks he can steal me daughter—and me town to boot? Well, I’ve a lesson or two left, just as soon as I wipe ye mangy curs from me boots!”

  Six marines raced forward eagerly with blades in hand. Wintermourn followed, but abruptly fell back as the boardwalk gave way with a great splintering crash that swallowed the men whole. Euron belted out a hearty laugh, then disappeared down another alley.

  Rage washed over Wintermourn. It swelled up in his throat like a black ball so large he couldn’t breath. He shouted a wordless command at the marines who were already in pursuit, gingerly traversing the part of the boardwalk that hadn’t been sawn completely through.

  Hands reached down to help him up. Admiral Wintermourn fought Sergeant Greene off with a snarl, pointing weakly at the escaping pirates.

  Ambushes, traps, necromancy! You wretches don’t deserve the clean death of battle! I’ll see you hung from the wreckage of your own airships!

  He gasped his way forward, shoving himself into the alley and quickly running into the backs of the hesitantly advancing Bluecoats. Black spots appeared in his vision, and the close air was hard to breath. Anger and spite and decades of training pushed him on, until the soldiers stumbled out into another street. Feeling lightheaded, Wintermourn followed.

  Another street. Behind him it curved out of view, but ahead, it terminated in a dead-end cluster of three low buildings. A makeshift barricade rose up before them, walling off the end of the street with overturned carts, old crates, and ratty furniture. There was nowhere else to run. On the next street over rose the stair to the Craftwright’s Terrace. Wintermourn could just see the top half of a large brass statue beyond the clifftop.

  Pirate King Euron Blackheart stood behind the barricade, his thieves and cutthroats arrayed out beside him with weapons in hand. Wintermourn noted a huge, red-haired piratess as well as the woman in the half cloak.

  “Come forward, ye men of Perinault!” he cried. Euron paused to gasp a breath before lifting his cutlass up with one wavering hand. “No more tricks! I be here, ready to send ye off to the Goddess!”