Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3)

by Jonathon Burgess

  “Landfall was the objective,” repeated Wintermourn. “I swear, some days there isn’t a sailor in the fleet worth a damn. Everyone was getting fouled up by these reprobates, so I went ahead and created a beachhead. Myself. When it was apparent that no one would be joining me, I conquered this terrace.” He took a sip and smiled. “Single-handedly, I might add.”

  Gwydion snorted. “Until the Mechanists deployed that screamer of theirs.” He laughed. “I’m going to want what’s left of it later. And you have been trying to capture those madmen in gas masks, yes? I gave an explicit order, I recall. But! It was a good thing I gave you my Paladins. They’ve certainly proved their worth by now.” He paused to shake a finger. “Though you could have taken better care of them.”

  “They did prove their worth,” agreed Wintermourn frostily, “and then old Euron Blackheart dropped a wall on them. Your wind-up toys proved nearly useless after that, so we pressed on.” He paused to sip his wine, enjoying the crown prince’s frown. “Good men of flesh and bone served out where clockwork failed. Not that the pirates gave us any real resistance.”

  Gwydion raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  Wintermourn thought back to dead men who wouldn’t fall. He saw their rotting claws scrabbling for his eyes, empty maws hungry for his flesh. The scents of wine and ash faded against the memory of rot and desperate sweat. Wintermourn drained the rest of his wine, forcing away the image.

  “No real resistance,” he affirmed heatedly. “And even when the so-called pirate king found the stones to make another appearance, I managed to corner him. He’s surely dead now, but I’d have his head here if your bumbling adjutant hadn’t driven him to his demise in a fiery deathtrap.”

  The crown prince drained his own glass. “Was that who that was? Worry not, my good admiral. I saw a bit of the action from above and signaled to Adjutant Chesterly. Turned into a mess, well enough, but we’ll have another chance.”

  Wintermourn froze. “What do you mean?”

  “That pub that burned down? All those pirates escaped out the back. Deftly done too. I barely noticed before Solrun’s Hammer flanked us.”

  Euron escaped! That damned pirate played me for a fool and escaped! Wintermourn shoved his empty wineglass at the attendant. “We’ve got to go after him!”

  Gwydion rolled his eyes. He held out his glass for the attendant to refill. “Well, of course we’re going after him,” he said. “That was kind of the point, to kill the pirate king and all the captains, though we’ve pretty much already won, now. Once the Oliphaunt lands and we’ve enough men, it’ll be back into the fray. Oh. I’ll need to recover my adjutant as well, I suppose.”

  “No! We’ve got to go after Euron!” Wintermourn turned back to Sergeant Greene. “Go back below and grab three squads of men. I don’t care who’s in charge!”

  The sergeant made his salute, then froze at a cutting gesture from the prince. “Belay that, sergeant. Is that how you say it?”

  Rage blossomed in Wintermourn’s stomach. He rounded on the man. “What? What is the meaning—”

  Gwydion leaned back in his chair and threw up his hands. Wine from his just-filled glass flew through the air, splashing the attendant. “Admiral, they’ve already fallen back to the second terrace by now. Even with just a few defenders, that means a long, hard climb and a lot of dead marines. And while I have no doubt that’s something you’d favor, I’m not willing to risk the Glory ferrying small squads of troops up to another part of the terrace, such as that Gasworks or wherever. The pirate airships have been driven back, but if we move from here, they could easily decide to damn the consequences and fall on us from above with whatever few surprises they’ve got left.”

  “You yourself wanted Euron dead,” said Wintermourn. “And he’s just slipped through our fingers!” He thought of the pirate king, mocking him from atop his barricade, distracting Wintermourn and keeping them from cover just long enough for his treacherous airship to bomb them from above.

  “Admiral!” replied Gwydion. “What’s our hurry? Where are they going to go? The pirate airships are battered, and they’re not nearly large enough to carry the populace of a town this size. It’s not like they’re going to just fly away!”

  An explosion cut across Wintermourn’s retort. It erupted from above, too loud to be a cannon—and coming from the wrong direction as well. He glanced up to see smoke rising from the highest terrace, along the Skydocks. A second blast followed it, from the south this time, where intelligence suggested the Brotherhood Yards were located. Then came a third explosion and a fourth—from the Yellow Lantern and Flophouse terraces, respectively—ejecting smoke high into the sky.

  Crown Prince Gwydion rose to his feet, and Wintermourn rounded upon him. “Did you bomb the city?”

  “No,” said Gwydion. “Just a bit of opportunistic sharpshooting on our final pass. What in the name of the Goddess...”

  Wintermourn clenched a fist. “If some fool is shelling Haventown now, of all times, I’ll have his command and his head. I’ll—”

  He fell silent as a great rumbling noise roared into life. It started small up above and grew in intensity until it seemed the highest terrace was shaking. Wintermourn watched as those pirate airships not docked suddenly changed course away from their port. Then he felt his jaw fall open—as the highest part of Haventown lifted into the air.

  Small white gas bags were inflating beneath the boardwalk, lifting taverns, houses, the Skydocks, and the Brotherhood Yards entire. He could see propellers, just like those aboard the Glory and the pirate airships, spinning away, helping to lift. Great hawsers rose up with the terrace, attached securely to the boardwalk and connecting it to the rest of the city below.

  The second terrace, Yellow Lantern, gave a mighty shiver. Then it too rose into the air on swelling canvas gas bags and arcane machinery lit by the light of the sinking sun. Dust and debris rained down, and the great immovable brass pipes twisted apart with the shriek of tearing metal. The terrace itself, though, ascended in one piece.

  Next came Flophouse Terrace. The poorly built shanties and firetrap lean-tos collapsed in droves. The whole edifice shuddered and sagged. Screams echoed down to Wintermourn, even from so far away. Yet it rose as well to join the rest of the now-aerial city.

  Then the whole sequence...stopped. The three terraces of the city floated aloft...just hanging there, a trio of floating steps into the sky connected to each other by thick hawsers and chains. The pirate airships circled around, half-protective, half-uncertain.

  Wintermourn blinked. He closed his mouth, opened it to say something, then closed it again.

  Beside him, Gwydion dropped his wineglass from between limp fingers. It shattered on the rooftop. Then he laughed. Great big belly-shaking whoops erupted from the crown prince. He doubled over, slapping his hands on his thighs as he fought for air.

  Wintermourn shook himself as urgency, anger, and irritation at his liege lord all warred for primacy. “Stop your howling!” he snarled, forcibly straightening his wig as if it was about to crawl away.

  Gwydion half stood. His cheeks were flushed, and there were tears in his eyes. “I...I just—oh come now, Admiral. This is just impossible! And the timing. I literally just asked—”

  “I know what you said! And if we don’t hurry, they’re going to actually do it!” Wintermourn clenched his teeth and thought furiously.

  “Ha!” continued Gwydion. “I never would have imagined this. I mean, really. The airships were impossible enough. And we still have Helmsin back at the capital—they shouldn’t have been able to come up with anything else! Oh, every day brings new wonders, certainly.”

  Wintermourn rounded on the crown prince. He grabbed the man with both hands by the lapels of his jacket. “Will you cease your irreverent prattle?”

  Gwydion’s face froze. He gestured to check his guards, who were already moving to action. His grey wolf’s eyes were focused, intent, and dangerous. “Take your hands off of me, Admiral. And have a care—�
��

  “No, you have a care!” Wintermourn gestured at the terraces of the city, still rising above them. “The pirates of Haventown aren’t just fleeing, they’re taking the city with them! The only reason we’re still here is to crush them and conquer this ridiculous shantytown. If they get away, then everything we’ve done is wasted. And I will not have my efforts wasted!”

  He held the eyes of the crown prince a moment, then let him go and turned to face the Craftwright’s Terrace. “Something’s wrong, though,” he said, largely to himself. “Why hasn’t the second terrace taken off? They’re tethered to it, just like the others, so it’s supposed to go as well.”

  “A malfunction—” Gwydion sulked, brushing his jacket where Wintermourn had grabbed him.

  “There,” said Wintermourn. He pointed at the bundle of pipes, smokestacks, and gas reservoirs all squatting together at the opposite end of the terrace: the Gasworks. “That’s where the next charge should have gone off.”

  “How can you be certain?” asked Gwydion, still irritated.

  Wintermourn wheeled about. “Because Euron and all the others are pirates. Craven-hearted reavers. We know they didn’t build the airships—the Brotherhood of the Cog, the Mechanists that live here, did. This is their work. They’re the ones really behind this escape. Greene!”

  The sergeant made another salute. “Sir!”

  “Go below and grab three squads of men. Bring them back up here aboard the Glory. Have a message sent to Chest—the royal adjutant that he is to assault that stairway with everything he has, clockwork men included.” He jabbed a finger at Captain Broadlow. “You. Go prepare to...lift off—or whatever it is you do to make that swollen cow of a vessel fly.”

  The Glory’s master opened his mouth to object, but Gwydion cut him off. “Admiral,” he hissed. “That is enough. Your old-fashioned pomposity has been amusing to me, and you’re so very easily pushed. But I give the orders here. And I am not going to risk the Kingdom’s sole airship on your uninformed hunch!”

  “Then get out of my way while I do!” snarled Wintermourn. He took a step towards the prince, his saber banging against his hip, and stabbed a finger in his direction. “I am the Lord High Admiral of the Seas. I am in command of this fleet, and it is my responsibility to crush our foes and send them fleeing, for glory of the Kingdom and the king. I do not care if your father has given you command of this battle, and I do not care if he gave you Danlann itself! You are not king yet. Your ridiculous, irreverent plans have gained us victories, it’s true, though they’ve broken with all tradition and honor to do so. But now the foe is about to fly away! I will not stand idly by while that happens. So for once, prove yourself worthy of a modicum of my respect, my prince, and obey!”

  He quieted, holding Gwydion’s gaze. The youth stared at him in return, resolute and unyielding. Then slowly, ever so imperceptibly, he nodded.

  “Very well,” said Gwydion in a slithering hiss. “Have your way, Admiral. But you will never speak to me so again. And when this is over, we will have further words.”

  “Oh, indeed we will,” snapped Wintermourn in reply. “Greene! Get moving.”

  The sergeant completed his salute and hurried off. Taking their cue, the attendants, Captain Broadlow, and the royal guards moved to board the Glory again. Wintermourn pushed past Gwydion to join them.

  He wasn’t worried about Gwydion, though the prince was truly dangerous. The king still reigned, and victory absolved everything. In short order it would be his, and the Haventowners’ plans would be crushed for the ridiculous gambit that they were.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fengel smiled as the mob around him roared.

  He stood in Pillager’s Square on the base of Euron’s ridiculous statue. All around it swarmed pirates and townsfolk alike, both those who’d escaped from the Waterdocks as well as reinforcements from the upper terraces. They tossed their hats into the air and fired pistols in excitement. Fengel wanted to rebuke such a waste—but no let it pass.

  Because they had won. Nob, Yellow Lantern, and the Flophouse terraces floated above them on gas bags and propellers, connected in a daisy chain by long hawsers, free from the cliff face they’d rested upon for so long. Haventown was rising aloft.

  It wasn’t a real victory. At least, not a military one, not against the invaders. That wasn’t ever going to happen, though. The Perinese were too advanced, too organized, and there were simply too many of them.

  But Haventown had survived. Fengel had saved the whole damned city. With the Mechanists’ help, of course. Now all that was left was to fly somewhere the Perinese could never trouble them again.

  And he would be the one in charge.

  Fengel hopped down from the base of Euron’s statue. “Well, Mr. Smalls. I bet you never thought to see the day, hmm?”

  His officers, Henry and Sarah Lome, both stared slack-jawed at the terrace districts floating above them. Rejoicing pirates jostled his steward, who didn’t even seem to notice.

  The Windhaunter’s mate, Shannon, went dancing past with Martin, the publican who’d sacrificed his tavern in their escape. Fengel smiled and adjusted his monocle. He turned back to his officers, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Oh, come now,” he said. “A little decorum, you two.”

  Henry shook his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just...how did they even build that?”

  “And under Euron’s nose!” exclaimed Sarah.

  Fengel rolled his eyes. “Please, Gunney. The Mechanists built this town. And Euron never cared one whit what happened here so long as everyone paid him respect. Now. I’m going to want order and a central command restored as soon as possible. Henry, you’re going up to the Brotherhood Yards. I want a straight answer from the Mechanist Cabal on how we go about piloting a city.” He paused to tap his chin thoughtfully. “Wait—they probably all split up to crack those terrace shackles. Never mind then—continue on to the Skydocks. Our airships look half-crippled, but tell Brunehilde and that bastard Weatherby to keep a perimeter about the town, if they can fly. Remember that the navy still has an airship of its own, though it has to have taken quite the beating itself by now.”

  “Aye. But, sir—” interjected Henry Smalls.

  “Gunney Lome, I’ve a different task for you.”

  Sarah straightened. “Yes?”

  “Captain, shouldn’t—” continued Henry.

  “Sarah, grab a knot of bruisers here from the crowd. Townies and pirates both. Everyone here knows I’ve taken charge, but there’s a whole town of people hiding away behind barricades. Spread the word—and knock heads if you have to. Take a few of the older fellows, as that might give a bit more credence to—what, Henry?”

  His steward licked his lips. “It’s just...sir? Shouldn’t Craftwright’s Terrace have lifted free by now?”

  Fengel blinked. He looked to the cliff face past the nearest buildings to the east. Then he followed the great hawsers rising there up to the daisy chain of buildings floating above. Finally, he glanced to the west, past the stair and down to the Waterdocks.

  Henry was right. He could feel it. Something has gone wrong.

  Fengel swore under his breath. He pushed past Gunney Lome ran for the stair, slammed into its railing, and peered down at the terrace below.

  The great clouds of battle smoke were clearing from the lagoon, revealing a graveyard of broken ships foundering in the water. Despite that, Perinese vessels had docked against the piers and were disgorging hundreds of marines into the streets, an entire ship’s company’s worth. The Glory of Perinault had even landed, far back enough along the waterfront that it was protected by the rest of the invasion force. Only a block away from the bottom of the stair stood the shining brass forms of the clockwork knights, at attention in the smoking ruins of Martin Pool’s pub.

  They’re coming straight for us.

  Fengel turned around, grabbing the rail with both hands behind him. Everyone still rejoiced, save Henry and Sarah, who looked at him in
alarm.

  All right. All right. We’re not dead quite yet. But what to do? What to do? Fengel thought furiously. What he really needed right now was a status update from the Mechanist Cabal. He glanced to where the arcane machinery of Atherion’s Siren lay in a broken heap at the corner of the square. No one remained here to service it, as all the Mechanists had apparently run off to tend to the Cabal’s master plan.

  Past the siren, past the other buildings of the terrace, rose the pipe-bundle edifice of the Gasworks. Fengel snapped a finger. There. That’s where I sent Imogen and the others. That’s where the shackle for this terrace is? Or was it somewhere else? Why didn’t I bother to ask? He rubbed his beard for a moment, then shook his head. It didn’t matter. They had to act, and fast. He’d figure this out as he went along. If nothing else, he’d find Mechanists at the Gasworks. Never let them see you stumble.

  Fengel pushed away from the railing stair and back across the square. He hopped up onto the base of Euron’s statue and adjusted his hat, then gestured to Sarah Lome while jerking his head towards the pirates about them.

  Sarah nodded, then put two fingers to her lips. Her piercing whistle cut across the square, silencing the revelry. Fengel clapped his hands together in the aftermath and held them out, gathering everyone’s attention.

  “Hold, lads,” he said. “Hold just a moment now. We’re not out of the woods quite yet.”

  “I thought we only had jungles hereabouts,” called a hook-handed young pirate in the crowd.

  Fengel rolled his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech. And what I mean is that we’re not quite ready to take off entirely. There’re...things that still need doing. The Mechanists have work to do yet. And those blue-backed bastards down there are coming right this way.” He gestured down past the stair to the lowest terrace of the town.

  The assembled fighters pressed up against the terrace railing. Whispers of alarm spread among the crowd as they beheld the forces encroaching upon them.