Red Lightning
Page 1
Tales of the Brass Griffin:
Red Lightning
C. B. Ash
Copyright © 2013 by Christopher B Ash
ISBN: 978-0-557-42406-1
Other fine books by C. B. Ash:
Kinloch Novels:
Kinloch
Tales of the Brass Griffin Novels:
Red Lightning
Children's Tale
Dead Air
Bloody Business
Dead Men’s Tales
The Seventh Knife*
*Currently viewable on http://brassgriffin.com
Copyright © 2013 by Christopher B Ash
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-557-42406-1
Cover by: Jeroen ten berge (http://jeroentenberge.com/)
First Edition: May 2009
Second Edition: Jan 2012
Third Edition: Sept 2013
This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, events and locations portrayed in this ebook are either fictitious or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author and publisher have provided this ebook to you for your personal use only. You may not print or post this ebook, or make this ebook publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this ebook, other than read it on one of your personal devices. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For everyone who looked up in the sky and dreamed … “what if”
Please … Keep on dreaming.
Chapter 1
Winds howled and rain hammered at the sails, like the sharp rapping of a drum. Clouds boiled and twisted, as if stirred by an unseen hand. Amid this maelstrom, lightning arced across the clouds, turning night to day in the oppressive gloom.
Deep among the gray, churning clouds, the airship’s cabin shook from the roar of thunder. Outside, high winds beat mercilessly against the Brass Griffin’s worn wooden and copper hull. Wet rigging popped as it slapped against one another, and against the tight, wet canvas of the airship’s elongated gas bag that kept it aloft.
With a heavy groan, the cabin door protested at being pulled open from outside. A tall, olive-skinned figure appeared in the doorway. Standing a good two inches past six feet, he wore a loose blue shirt, brown cotton trousers and dripping wet rain slicker. Long black hair drawn back into a rough collection of braids framed a stern face. He wiped rainwater from his eyes with the back of a sleeve.
“Captain! We've reached the storm's heart," the broad-shouldered man said.
Across the room, Captain Anthony Hunter memorized the page number in front of him, closing the old, leather bound volume of “King Solomon’s Mines” and setting it on a small table beside him.
The captain was a tall, square-built man with thick shoulders in a plain white cotton shirt. He tugged at the old leather vest he wore, the one dotted with the occasional bullet scars, to straighten it. As he did so, he reached into a vest pocket instinctively, remembering at the last moment that his pocket watch was no longer there. With a sigh, he quickly combed a hand through his brown hair, cut short in the Royal Navy style, that was touched with a hint of gray at the temples.
“Very good, Mr. Whitehorse. What sign?”
Winds thrust at the ship again, threatening to turn the vessel broadsides. "Hail in the lower clouds, lightning here on high," the olive-skinned crewman replied.
Hunter nodded, then stood, strapping on a pair of brass-trimmed wheel-lock pistols before throwing on a worn long coat for protection against the elements.
“Good. Lightning nets deployed?”
“Right before we crested the cloud bank.”
“Well done. Once we’ve refueled, we can light the furnace and process some of that ore we picked up at Chapman’s mining camp.” He paused to listen to the rage of weather outside. “Quite the storm. If we can spare a barrel-cell or two, we could sell it on market. It’d make some blacksmith or engineer very happy.”
“Aye sir, true enough.” Krumer started to move back on deck, but paused when he noticed Hunter was not behind him. "Captain?”
Hunter flexed his artificial left hand, gears and clockwork mechanisms opening and closing his brass and leather fingers obediently. "Just the hand again, Krumer. Ghost aches and pains.”
"Bad omen, that. Last time it ached, a vampire had stowed away," Whitehorse shrugged.
"I still doubt the two were related. Besides, you’re only irritated because he locked you below decks," Hunter replied.
The first mate made a sour face, "he tied me like a game bird and stuffed me in the ship’s stores! I still owe him for that insult.”
Captain Hunter ignored the phantom ache in his artificial hand and reached for a glove to tug over it.
"Fortunately, he didn’t make a light meal out of your tough orcish Canadian hide. I understand your feelings, however I’d like to lay hands upon him myself. He stole my best pocket watch, not to mention a week’s worth of supplies and our best steam glider before setting out for whatever port he finally landed on. Speaking of which, how far out from a port are we?”
"Mr. Baker says no more than three days' strong sail for Briggs' Reach. Five for London proper. Not much here, this far north over the Ardennes."
"Not surprising. We're off the main route a bit."
Suddenly the ship lurched violently, knocking both men off their feet. Hunter glanced around, grasping for a handhold. The room itself was a common room that joined together the officer cabins aboard the Griffin. It was a box-like, with cabinets lining the walls. A long meeting table usually dominated the middle of the floor, but had been tossed to one side against a wall.
Maps and charts, normally stuffed away, were now tossed about the room. Cabinet doors stood open, their contents spilled out upon the floor. An empty bottle rolled past the captain’s boot, unnoticed.
The captain’s eyes searched the air, as if he could look into the seasoned wood and copper sheets of the ship itself for any damage. Krumer, accustomed to the captain’s odd behaviors, had always accused Hunter of having the sense of a mystic when it came to ships. Anthony often ignored the remark, passing the comments down to good-natured ribbing. He simply knew his ship.
"That’s more than just a gale of wind."
Scrambling to their feet, they raced to the deck.
Chapter 2
Outside, wind-swept rain beat on ship and crew alike. Clouds swirled like gray-black cream twisted about in a churn, tossing lighting like a child tosses a ball. Rain washed over the vessel in sheets, soaking anything in its path. In between the bursts of rain, wind howled like a thing, alive and angry.
The weathered canvas gas bag strained against the mooring ropes above, while the crew scrambled across the Brass Griffin’s deck. A trio of sailors struggled to stow the steering sails, fighting against the storm which greedily sought to steal the sailcloth, ropes and all. Others aboard pulled to secure an extra run of lines, specifically placed to help reinforce the airship's main gas bag to its collection of stout, hardwood masts.
As the door to the officer's cabins below the quarterdeck opened, a bright blast of lightning lashed out through the storm. The bolt of electricity engulfed one of the wire mesh nets that were extended out like metal gossamer wings on either side of the Griffin's hull. Coursing over the thin metal, it raced outward until it found the steel mooring lines and metal cables leading to the ship. The net and lines glowed, but instead of continuing the lightning - as the net was intended to do - the lines snapped with an ear-splitting shriek!
Krumer Whitehorse raced onto deck from the cabins beneath the quarte
rdeck first, followed by Captain Hunter, close on his heels. The captain shielded his eyes against the rain, squinting as he searched for the source of the sound, while the first mate grabbed a gangly, brown-haired young man by the arm when he ran by.
"William, what happened?" Krumer asked leaning forward so the young man could hear.
William Falke pointed frantically at the starboard side of the bow. "Big bolt 'o red lightnin', mean as can be, arced over the starboard net. Burnt out the net’s bow cables. Burnt ‘em clear through.”
"Anyone hurt?" Captain Hunter shouted over the storm.
“Nary a scratch, Cap’n," William replied.
“What of those stray lines?" Krumer asked quickly. "Has anyone tried to hook them back in reach?"
“Crew’s tryin' ta secure the netting now to keep it from flailin’ about anymore," William explained pointing towards a trio of his crew mates that were desperately trying to secure the metal net despite the loose cables whipping about. "We figure if we can just lash it down, it'll hold long enough ta make it through the storm."
"Belay that! Those cables could whip a hole through the ship's gas bag and cut any of us right in half in this storm. Just stow the starboard netting," the captain ordered, "as the net is pulled in, the cables will come with it. We’ll make do with the port side."
"Cap'n, the batteries is plenty low," William replied.
"Rather short a few batteries than lose the ship or crew. If I have to, I’ll get out and push! Now move! Let’s get that net stowed!" Hunter growled at the crewman.
"Aye, Cap'n!" William replied sharply. "I'll pass the word!"
As William fought his way across the deck against the swirling wind, Mr. Whitehorse and Captain Hunter crossed the deck in another direction towards the main mast where Hunter could get a better view of the damage, while the crew at the bow worked at the rigging attached to the net. Ahead of the first mate and the captain, three crewmen worked feverishly at the lines to pull them under control.
Through the rain and storm, Anthony and Krumer could see the damage: blackened metal mesh, fluttering loose like a deadly steel cloth in the savage wind; torn rigging snapping at ship and crew alike; and the occasional spark of red-tinged electricity crackling over it all. Hunter shook his head at the sight.
"Bloody hell," Captain Hunter swore, "it's quite the mess."
"Aye, Captain, it is," Mr. Whitehorse agreed. "Fortunately, it doesn't look so far gone that it might could be patched until we reach port."
As the two men watched, a bolt of lightning struck the errant mesh, illuminating it a moment as the raw electrical power was transferred along the net, recharging the ship's batteries. No sooner had the electricity faded than another rigging line snapped due to the wind. Immediately, one of the three sailors trying to get the net under control turned and raced off across the deck. He returned a moment later with hooked poles.
Armored in rubber gauntlets to protect themselves from the electricity, the three sailors navigated the ruined mesh with a practiced grace - the kind of grace born from years of experience in dangerous storms. Grabbing the lines, the crewmen hauled away at cables attached to the steel mesh frame, which flared out away from the ship like a large pair of wings. This netting caught and channeled the dispersed lightning into barrel-shaped Daniell cell batteries stored below decks.
Two cables towards the bow swung wild in the wind, above crewmen fighting to bring them under control with hooked poles. William ran up and relayed the captain’s instructions while Whitehorse and Hunter unsecured the starboard winch and hauled away.
Steadily, the damaged mesh was drawn in, rolled like so much fabric. Once the netting was coiled against the ship's side, Mr. Whitehorse began tying it down with William's assistance. As the five worked feverishly, Captain Hunter stalked across deck towards the bow though the hammering rain, as if oblivious to the storm's futile efforts to wash him over the side.
"Mr. O'Fallon! What's been happening to my ship?" Hunter shouted over the rain.
The man Hunter addressed turned at hearing his name. Wiping rain water from his eyes, the quartermaster reached up to squeeze the rainwater from the long, braided red lock that extended from the sole island of hair on his head.
"Torn cables, Cap'n, storm's too much for them. Been needin' replacement now onto a good month or more. Ah'd been hopin' to be gettin' more once we reach port for Moira or Kylee to be usin' for repairs."
Hunter scowled at the cable ends as if he could frighten them into repairing themselves. Lifting one carefully, the captain lightly touched frayed strands.
"We just put these in two or three months back?" Hunter asked.
"Aye, three tae the day, nearly. But we've been storm chasin' a wee more'n normal," Conrad replied.
"I’d gauge it only a sight more than normal. But I could've lost count in all the cargo runs to and from the mining towns. Besides, look close there at the threads," Hunter said, gesturing with the frayed end of the cable. "They look cut to me, not ripped," he added.
"We be deep in the middle of a blow Cap'n. Cut by what?" the quartermaster said, wiping rain from his eyes. "There nae be but us out here."
"That's what bothers me. Let Moira know we may need her at her forge for a patch," the captain said, handing over over the ruined cable to O'Fallon. "In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled."
"Aye, Cap'n," Conrad replied with a small nod.
“Oh, and what’s this I hear about ‘red lightning’?” Hunter asked curiously.
“Ah canna say, Cap’n. It struck so fast, Ah can’t be sayin’ that Ah saw anythin’,” The quartermaster replied.
"Indeed," the captain said thoughtfully. "Keep a sharp eye about you, if it was actual red lightning, then that means nothing good."
Suddenly, a gust of wind struck the Brass Griffin broadside, scattering crew across the deck. The wood protested in anguish as timbers groaned and rigging threatened to snap while the ship rotated. Ropes holding barrels in place stretched while wet, frayed hemp popped and unwound rapidly. The first of the barrels leaped free of its bindings, and slammed against the main mast. Rigging popped in the wind, slapping the wet canvas of the gas bag overhead.
Immediately, as the ship listed, Captain Hunter and his crew scrambled across the deck, like mountain climbers scaling a wet cliff face. On reaching the far side, they released a set of lines, pulling open small trim sails used specifically to correct the airship when she turned too hard against the wind. Another moan filled the air; a groan from wood and metal echoing like an abused soul just freed from purgatory.
As the ship finally righted after a few minutes' fight, Hunter and O’Fallon spotted two figures laying on the deck: One sported a hurt arm, the other a nasty bruise already forming on his forehead. William Falke raced over to a crewman who was clutching his arm against his chest.
"Someone find Thorias and tell him we've got two comin' down for treatment!" The young man called out.
While the wounded were carried below, Captain Hunter’s eyes searched the clouds, scouring them as if seeking a sign. With a glower as dark as the storm that surrounded him, Hunter stalked away into the driving rain towards the bow of he vessel.
O'Fallon glanced at Krumer Whitehorse. "What be the Cap'n on about?"
"The captain does not like this kind of storm. Never does. He lost his hand in such a storm," Krumer explained, wiping rain from his eyes.
“Ah remember the story. Twasn’t a storm the way Ah heard it, but some beastie?” O’Fallon asked curiously.
“After a fashion,” the first mate replied matter-of-factly, “it was a beast.”
A bright flash of lightning lit the sky the same moment an explosion of sound washed over the ship. Again, the Brass Griffin pitched, fighting against the wind slapping her across the bow. Crewmen clung to nearby hand holds, belaying pins, rigging, whatever stable surface they could find. Before the ship settled, it lurched once more. A hard groan of timbers followed a pair of sharp pops. Krumer and O'Fallon exchan
ged a glance.
"Ah'd be knowin’ pistol shot, even in this blow. Shot came from near the bow, Ah be thinkin’," the quartermaster said.
"Precisely,” Krumer replied in alarm. “Which is where the Captain is!"
Hunter’s voice cut through the howl of wind, "All hands! To arms!"
Chapter 3
Again gunshots echoed through the rain. There at the bow, Captain Hunter stood rooted to the deck, smoking pistols aimed at the monstrous form of a lightning drake which had materialized out of the clouds.
Thirty feet in length, nearly half the length of the Griffin herself, the blue-gray scaled behemoth roared in defiance as it turned to sail dangerously close to the flying schooner’s gas bag. Claws flexed and tensed, but only brushed the reinforced material, leaving it undamaged. Eyes as black as obsidian scanned the crew with a predatory glare. With a sharp pop, its leathery wings snapped against the wind, flapping to keep the beast steady on its new perch. Hot steam, wrapped in the pungent odor of overcooked fish, coiled from its mouth in ghostly tendrils. Scars lined the beast's neck and side, old wounds from battles won long ago.
Hunter fired twice more, his shots skimming just past the glistening blue gray scales of the beast. Its black-rimmed, red maw opened in a roaring reply, and Hunter dove to safety as a bolt of deep red lightning scarred the deck where he'd stood. Wood exploded in a shower of splinters while fire erupted where the bolt struck the deck. Taking a sharp turn on the high winds, the drake dipped out of view past the stern.
Quickly, the crew scrambled for their weapons. Some appeared with pistols and knives, others with rifles. O’Fallon handed a revolver to Krumer, who nodded his thanks, then checked the cylinder. Satisfied, the first mate raised his voice.