“Pah!” shouted Natasha. “We’re fine!”
Reaver Jane bent low over the starboard gunwales. “Uh, Captain. I...”
“I don’t care,” snarled Natasha. “I’ve spent long enough on this wild goose chase, avoiding the fight back home! We’re going, and all hands brace for impact if you think me wrong!”
Everyone grabbed for the nearest handholds. Lina looked to Michael, and then they both scrambled for the gunwales. She grabbed on with both hands, looking out and over to see the jungle racing by beneath them and the grey cliffs dead ahead. Her crewmates were right. They were only just clearing the canopy; they’d never clear the cliff top ring around the island.
The Dray Engine was twitching and writhing, only barely stunned now. Whatever machinery buried in that clockwork core it used to think with alerted it to the danger. The machine jerked its head forward, one great red eye half-lidded, the other open wide as it beheld the landform bearing down upon it. White steam gushed out from its maw in seeming disbelief.
Natasha was wrong, just. The Dray Engine slammed into the granite cliff face-first, its head dragged back on its long, serpentine neck as the bulk of the thing slid forward to dig a furrow in the stone. Ropes snapped, and the Dawnhawk jerked violently in sympathetic shock. Lina’s heart shot into her throat as the deck pitched beneath them, and for a moment she thought they would all die in an impending crash.
Lina had a moment of calm, horrible clarity. I take it back. This was a terrible idea. They’ve all been terrible ideas. She held on as the deck bucked and shook. Tools flew past, and dangling rope danced crazily. Faintly, she heard Michael yell and Natasha swear a blue streak. She paid them no attention, though, focused more on every prayer to the Goddess she could make, fighting through the pain of being slammed repeatedly into the gunwales.
Amazingly, the roiling pitch of the airship quelled. The deck righted, mostly, and she wasn’t flung about anymore. The airship was flying smoothly once again.
Lina opened her eyes. Her crewmates hunkered about the deck, all still aboard, if a little battered. Slowly, they stood. This time, no one cheered.
“Enough lying about!” shouted Natasha. Lina glanced back to see the captain at the wheel, confident and mad as ever, but with a darkening bruise forming across one eye and Butterbeak a frazzled ball of puffed-up feathers on her shoulder. “Stone! How’s our passenger doing?”
It took Lina a moment to realize that Natasha was speaking to her. She nodded, then stood and looked over the gunwales. Below, the waters of the Atalian Sea raced by, cerulean and choppy. The Dray Engine dangled between the ship and the sea, the cabling they’d used to secure it a tangled mess. Fully a third of the ropes were torn. The automaton itself hung limp, one talon twitching on its right forepaw.
“I think it’s stunned,” she shouted back. Lina didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread. Hauling the monster back to Haventown might give them a potent weapon to fight the invasion with. Then again, what they were doing was so much worse than holding a tiger by the tail. Lina turned back to the helm, knowing only one thing for certain. “Captain...it’s going to be pissed when it comes to.”
“Ha!” replied Natasha. “Then my day is complete. No, I lie. All right, you laggards and reprobates, we’re heading back to the Graveway—and the fight. Look sharp! It seems things have gotten thick down there.”
Lina took a few steps up towards the bow. She glanced past it, to the south where the jungles of the isles met bright blue sky. A dark smudge stained the sky: smoke and fire.
Something was wrong about the position, though. Lina checked the setting sun to the west, and her stomach fell. That’s not the Graveway.
The fighting was in Haventown itself.
“To your posts!” ordered Natasha. “Reaver Jane, check those hawsers. Rastalak, get yer scaly arse above and look to the rigging. Ryan Gae, get those bombs out from the equipment lockers and to the gunwales. Omari, go back up top and get out of the way—”
“I’m not going back up with that ape!” shouted Omari.
“Mechanist,” Natasha continued, “go check the coal stores. We’re making it back to Haventown in one trip, and I don’t care if we have to burn—”
“I’m going!” he shrieked, already opening the aft-deck hatch.
Natasha fished out her self-help book. “And know that your efforts are valued. Probably. Hockton! Do something with those...scrynlings. I’m sure I saw a small crate in one of those lockers. Stone! Quit scowling and go aloft into the envelope. Make sure we haven’t any slow leaks.”
“Aye, Captain,” she said, weary and indignant at the same time. Runt aside, the last thing she wanted was to climb about the light-air cells wearing a gas mask.
Natasha continued to shout orders. Lina moved to obey, first grabbing Michael Hockton’s sleeve as he passed by. He looked back in surprise, and she winked at him before letting go. Then she turned about and clambered atop the gunwales, reaching for the ratlines and rigging.
Lina was halfway up when she heard the hurried tromp of boots followed by the bang of a pistol. She glanced back down to the deck, almost losing her grip in surprise.
The aft hatchway was open, and a dozen pirates stormed out onto the deck. It was the Castaways, led by Morgan One-Eye. Still battered and half-starved, they looked to have recovered from their earlier fight and flight, having bandaged their wounds. Now they stood straighter, holding gleaming weapons obviously stolen from the Dawnhawk’s stores. One of their number had Allen as a captive, an arm locked around his throat, while the other held a smoking flintlock pistol.
It was Oscar Pleasant.
“Hello, Captain Blackheart,” he said nastily.
Natasha peered out from behind the wheel. Oscar’s pistol ball had slammed into it squarely, just missing her.
“You little rat’s arse,” she said. “I’m going to jam that gun so far up your backside you’ll spit sparks when you cough. Who are you?”
Oscar tightened his grip on Allen, who choked. “You don’t recognize me? I’ve been on your ship all this time, and you don’t recognize me?”
“It’s Oscar Pleasant!” snarled Lina. “He’s the one that led the damned Perinese onto the Skydocks. He slipped aboard the ship afterward—no wonder we couldn’t find him. Oscar! You traitorous bag of shit. I’m going to make good on that promise I made you last year.”
He glanced up at her. “Lina Stone. Goddess above, I’ve been waiting to teach you a lesson.” He dropped his spent pistol and drew another. “Now I’ve got your little milksop friend here, and that’s not all.”
“Enough of this!” snapped Morgan One-Eye. The Castaway took a step forward towards Natasha. “I’m taking command, you brat of Blackheart.”
Natasha ignored him. She gave a violent shrug that flung Butterbeak into the air. Then she locked the wheel in place and pulled a series of levers on the gearbox beside it. Somewhere below the deck, the engine gave a great thump. The propellers buzzed like a nest of angry hornets and the airship lurched forward. Great gouts of steam billowed out from both exhaust pipes, damaged and not. The Dawnhawk strained under the pressure, pushing forward for home as hard as possible; if she could hold together, the trip wouldn’t take long. Only then did her captain step out to squarely face her foes. “How did you get aboard my ship?”
Morgan laughed, the rest of his companions joining in. “We climbed the damned ladder! Running away from that big brass monster back to our village, and what did we see but yer airship and a rope ladder just dangling from it! So we climbed aboard and hid away, and then you got us away from that damned island.”
Natasha glared angrily past the Castaways. “Omari!”
The aetherite was trying to find her balance as the airship sped forward. “I was busy with the ape!” she cried.
Morgan ceased chuckling. “Enough. Now we’re away from the monster. So we’ll be taking yer ship now.”
Natasha drew her own cutlass. “Over your dead body,” she snarled.
Reaver Jane chose that moment to hurl a boarding hatchet, which hammered into the skull of a Castaway. The rest of the Lina’s crewmates charged the newcomers, who raised their weapons and shouted in defiance. Then the battle was joined.
Chapter Twenty
Admiral Wintermourn gasped, tasting ash upon the air.
He glared down at Private Bryant, who knelt beside his makeshift chair wrapping a bandage around his bare chest. “You incompetent boob!” Wintermourn snarled. “Have a bit of care!”
Private Bryant ducked his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just, the splinters left a jagged sort of wound, sir.”
Splinters. Three-inch shards of wood stuck in my ribs, more like. Such wounds were common in the aftermath of a broadside. He’d watched men bleed to death from them without even realizing that they’d been wounded. But when during that mad chase after Euron Blackheart had it even happened to him? Wintermourn could not say. “Worry less about what caused the wound,” he said, “and more with stanching it!”
The soldier nodded, then bent back to work. Admiral Wintermourn winced, shifting in his seat. All around them, the Haventown alley was a claustrophobic mess. He sat on an empty wooden rain barrel, watching as Sergeant Greene frantically formed a fire brigade. Those marines not too injured passed barrels of hastily scavenged rainwater down the alley in an effort to quench the blaze at its end. Adjutant Chesterly stood there too, screaming commands at the twenty Brass Paladins as they mindlessly wandered through the inferno that had been the Cock O’ the Green Tavern.
Even if he hadn’t been too weak to countermand the up-jumped ex-officer, the sudden overhead bombardment from Solrun’s Hammer had been devastating, a parting blow as she fled for the safety of the upper terraces. He’d managed to avoid further injury himself, thank the Goddess, but he could only watch in frustrated rage as the Brass Paladins recovered before the men. The machines effortlessly tore apart the damned barricade, only to find the pirates had managed to flee a little farther.
The tavern had seemed a futile gesture, understandable though it might have been in the face of the clockwork monsters. But when they broke down the door, it exploded into the inferno that even now threatened to spread. The pirates had killed themselves rather than be taken alive. It was utterly mad.
And I wanted to kill you, Euron. You were mine by rights. My prize. I’d have had you, to the Realms Below with these wounds and the bombs and damned Chesterly. I’d have had you, you craven old fool. But now you’re gone. Which...works to the same thing in the end, I suppose. Victory. And none of you will rise again from this pyre you’ve built yourself.
“About-face! No, not that way—you...you damned wind-up machines! Just...just listen to me! Argh!”
Adjutant Chesterly stood as close to the burning tavern as he could get, sweating profusely and getting in the way of the Bluecoats. Wintermourn listened to his frustrated screams in amusement. With any luck, the fire-blinded automatons would melt into slag.
“High Admiral Wintermourn?”
Wintermourn looked up to see a fresh-faced young naval field officer, a lieutenant commander he did not know. The man was smudged and dirty from battle, but he still wore his embroidered jacket neatly. A squad of similarly uninjured Bluecoats stood at his back, black-capped, holding their muskets at the ready.
Where in the Realms Below have you come from? “Yes?”
The officer gave a salute. “Lieutenant Hollyway, off the Leviathan. His Highness Crown Prince Gwydion requires and requests your presence along the docks.”
Wintermourn’s irritation rose anew. “And how am I to reach him through that war zone? Besides, I’m overseeing this operation here. If we don’t get it under control, this whole damned part of the city could burn.”
“The Glory of Perinault has landed, sir. We’ve taken the lagoon and quashed the pirates there. Their airships have fallen back, crippled. Deployment of the marine companies is taking place all along the Waterdocks.” Hollyway nodded up the street. “As for this...” He gestured at the screaming adjutant and the blinded, tottering forms of the automatons in the skeleton of the burning building, “I’m instructed to let the royal adjutant see to it.”
A great crash sounded at the end of the street as the roof of the tavern fell in. Fire and ash flew out, choking Chesterly and those Bluecoats nearest him.
Wintermourn shrugged. Chesterly wanted to be responsible for this mess? Let him, then. Good, even. “Very well,” he said. “And it’s about time the rest of you showed up.”
He rose to his feet, shrugging off Bryant. Gingerly, he dressed himself again; first his shirt and then his jacket, and then he yanked his sheathed saber from Bryant’s outstretched hands. He took his time straightening his wig, even though Hollyway fidgeted impatiently. The man might be here on an errand of the prince, but he seemed to have forgotten that he was fetching the Lord High Admiral of the Sea, one of the king’s own Order Gallant. Wintermourn hurried for no one.
Especially that infuriating fop of a crown prince.
His breath came easier now than before. “Greene!” he shouted, buckling his sword back in place. “Put someone else in charge and get over here.”
The sergeant obeyed, limping over to attend him. Wintermourn sighed. He actually missed Sergeant Lanters, he realized. Where in the Realms Below was the fellow? Cleaning out that pirate bolt-hole should have been simple. He would have to think on an appropriate chastisement when the sergeant finally returned.
At least Greene had found his hat. Donning it, Wintermourn looked to Lieutenant Hollyway. “Well? What are we waiting for?”
Hollyway made his salute. Then, obviously wanting to be off, he marched them all back down the street, following the winding path that led out of this mazelike warren of a town.
Something had indeed changed, Wintermourn realized. Away from the clangor of the alley, he realized what it was: the omnipresent sounds of battle had faded. The occasional musket pop still sounded, but the blasts of cannons and bombs had disappeared. Overhead, the pirate airships clustered in tight knots around the Skydocks, lit by early evening twilight, looking battered and worn. Hollyway was right—they’d won the lagoon.
And I’ve won the city. With Euron dead and the rest of the Waterdocks scourged by their invasion, there shouldn’t be anything stopping his reinforcements from climbing up through Haventown. It would be hard, messy work, digging out every last pirate, whore, and urchin still hiding in their hovels. But now it was only a matter of time until the sunburst sigil of Perinault flew from the highest terrace. The Copper Isles truly belonged to the Kingdom now.
The close-knit boardwalk streets widened as they made their way out to the lagoon. Echoes reached Wintermourn, of many polished black boots marching in unison. Hollyway led them around a corner, and he sighed in relief at the sight.
Navy warships filled the piers lying directly ahead. The Leviathan and the Cyclope sat in port, their gangplanks down to disgorge mostly fresh marines onto the docks, the sunburst sigil flying proudly from atop their rigging. Other ships filled the lagoon behind them, their splintered and broken masts poking up through clouds of roiling smoke as they jockeyed for position. They thumped and collided, their captains screaming epithets at each other. Wintermourn wanted to snap at them—he wanted to take direct control and bring order to the mess. But, no. The faster the better. He was tired of these pirates. It was time to bring this action to an end.
Hollyway gestured to a nearby building with all the hallmarks of a dockside tavern. It was squat and low, with a rickety stair leading up the back to a shanty atop the roof. Stray cannon fire had cleared most of that away, leaving an almost perfect landing pad for the bulbous form of the Glory of Perinault.
Wintermourn didn’t wait for the lieutenant commander. He crossed the boardwalk and ascended the stair with Sergeant Greene limping along after him. T
he steps shook and wobbled alarmingly as he climbed.
Gwydion was waiting for him. The crown prince sat at the base of the gangplank in a fine chair that had obviously been brought down from the airship, wineglass in hand. An attendant stood beside him, quietly waiting with a bottle of wine. The airship captain, Broadlow, leaned against a remnant of a wall with a glass of his own, staring up at the pirate city. Spaced out along the rooftop stood the royal guards, eyes cold and halberds at the ready.
“Ah!” cried Gwydion as Wintermourn climbed up past the staircase. “My good admiral, how wonderful of you to join me.” The prince rested his wine on the arm of his chair and snapped his fingers at his attendants. “Another glass—and be quick about it.”
Wintermourn wanted to refuse on principle, but after the smoke and fire and all the action, a bit of wine sounded rather fetching. He took the offered glass and raised it in salute, then drank deep.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, putting a bit of edge to his voice, “should you really have landed the Glory here? Pirates could fall on this location at any moment.” He glanced pointedly back up the terraces of Haventown, past the edifice of the Gasworks, to where the airships floated, around the Skydocks so high above.
Gwydion made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, you worry too much, Admiral. I’d say it’s one of your charms, but you haven’t any, really. No, after the drubbing we gave them, the pirates are in full retreat, at least for now. Didn’t get any of the captains, but there’s been a hideous cost of lives, both theirs and ours—they’ve barely enough men left to fly their ships, from what I can tell. Any bombing passes they make now would wreck their own city—not that I think they’ve munitions enough left for it. So drink your damned wine and tell me what you’ve been up to here.” He held out his glass for a refill. “You are to be commended, my good admiral. Not a one of the other useless captains made landfall save yourself.”
A part of Wintermourn just wanted to needle the prince. To prod and poke at him like one would a chained bear. Anything to twist that smirk off his face. The man—the youth—really, was insufferable. The wine was good, though, and the day had been effectively won.
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 32