Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles

by Zoë Archer

  He fought against the two remaining sentries, knocking their drawn swords from their hands. Spinning, he planted a kick right in the middle of a sentry’s chest. Gasping for air, the man flew backward. He also slammed into a wall, then fell to the ground, dazed. The other sentry stared at Mikhail for a moment before running off with a panicked yelp.

  Daphne dashed up to Mikhail, who was standing beside the door. He pushed it open, and they both stepped into the chamber.

  She recognized the room from the cinemagraph, but her gaze moved quickly past the details of the chamber. Where were her parents? The chamber seemed empty. Was this another of al-Zaman’s cruel tricks?

  “Mama?” she called. “Papa?”

  Figures darted out from behind a wall hanging, straight at her. Mikhail instantly took a defensive posture, ready to unleash an attack. She hadn’t words to tell him it was all right. Instead, the two figures embraced her, and he dropped his fists.

  “Daphne!” her mother cried.

  “My God,” her father choked, “it’s really you? Here?”

  She couldn’t speak. Instead, she clutched her parents close as they hugged her back. Tears leapt into her eyes. They seemed a little thinner, but everything else about them was familiar, from her father’s white-and-ginger beard to the little smile creases bracketing her mother’s mouth. Safe. They were safe.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her parents’ assistants come out from their places of hiding.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” her father said gruffly, pulling back a little. “Too dangerous.”

  “I couldn’t leave you here, Papa.” Daphne’s tight throat made talking difficult. “And I had some assistance.”

  She glanced at Mikhail, and caught, very briefly, a look of bittersweet longing on his face as she held tight to her parents. The expression disappeared quickly, replaced by the sangfroid of a battle-hardened warrior.

  Her father’s gingery eyebrows climbed up toward his forehead, and her mother made a small, shocked sound. Daphne almost laughed. She’d forgotten how his extraordinary appearance could startle people.

  “Mama, Papa, this is Captain Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov. Mikhail, this is Edgar and Adelaide Carlisle.” She felt a little ridiculous, making formal introductions in the middle of this madness, but she was English.

  Both her parents mumbled stunned greetings as Mikhail tipped his head. Her mother’s gaze strayed to the glimpse of telumium beneath Mikhail’s waistcoat. “A Man O’ War? I know our captivity has kept us a little out of current events, but are the Russians now our allies?”

  Her father stared at Mikhail’s outrageous hair, the rings in his ears, and his elaborately adorned and modified coat. “I think Captain Denisov is a rogue, my dear.”

  “I’m only allied with your daughter, Mrs. Carlisle,” Mikhail answered.

  “Oh …” her mother murmured, looking even more astonished. She glanced at Daphne with concern. “Is that … wise?”

  Despite her joy at being reunited with her parents, she felt immediately indignant on Mikhail’s behalf. “He’s the reason why we’re here now, freeing you.”

  “I’m sure it’s a long and fascinating tale.” Her father winced as the building shook from the sounds of gunfire and explosions. “Perhaps you can recount it later. Much later.”

  Mikhail was all business. “Everyone to the jolly boat. Now.” He ushered everybody out of the chamber, including her parents. Their steps were cautious, but gradually grew in confidence as they realized that no one was going to stop them from leaving.

  The last to leave the room, Daphne stood in front of Mikhail, and placed her hand on his forearm. She felt the burn of grateful tears as she gazed up at him.

  His expression remained impassive. “It’s not over yet.”

  “I know,” she replied. “But even this is a gift.”

  Before he could answer, another explosion rattled the building—the sound of airships engaged in furious combat. He was right: many more obstacles lay ahead. No time for sighs of relief.

  Together, she and Mikhail ran from the chamber and back into battle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  MIKHAIL NEVER ALLOWED himself a sense of triumph until the final shot had been fired. He’d seen too many victories unexpectedly collapse.

  As Daphne, her parents, and their assistants kept pace behind him, running through the corridors of al-Rahim’s palace, Mikhail kept vigilant, his thoughts and body focused on combat. He’d felt a stirring of happiness seeing Daphne’s joy at being reunited with her parents, but he’d ruthlessly suppressed it. Complacency would get them all killed. And to see her have what he never could only roused his own longing. There’d be no tearful reunions with his family.

  Guards charged at them from behind columns and doorways. But he beat them back without mercy. And when any of al-Rahim’s men aimed guns in their direction, Mikhail dropped them with single blasts from his ether pistol.

  He glanced back to see Daphne shepherding the freed captives. While some of them, including her parents, looked utterly terrified by all the violence and anarchy around them, her expression was determined, focused. Betraying not a hint of fear. Only fortitude.

  Goddamn it, but she made him proud.

  As he ran, he saw al-Zaman’s body lying on the ground.

  “He wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about our plans to free my parents,” Daphne said.

  Mikhail smiled grimly to himself. His professorsha was as fierce in battle as she was with her wits.

  With Mikhail in the lead, they burst out of al-Rahim’s palace to spectacles of pure bedlam. Fighting warriors filled every open space, some on horseback, some on foot, and even a daring gyrocopter pilot zooming down to take on an enemy armed with a Gatling gun. All of this chaos lay between them and the jolly boat. Mikhail was just glad that the boat was still there.

  Looking up, he saw the Bielyi Voron bravely holding its own against the two enemy airships. The sky was filled with gray smoke, as though made of steel. Yet the Bielyi Voron didn’t seem to have sustained much damage. Levkov might be a stubborn and opinionated bastard, but he was a damned genius when it came to commanding a ship in combat.

  “Everyone to the boat!” Mikhail roared to his charges.

  Again, he served as the lead, carving a path through the madness to reach the vessel. He knocked aside attacking enemies without breaking stride.

  “Mikhail!” Daphne nodded toward one side of the open yard.

  He didn’t slow his pace, but still admired the sight. Khalida fought against a bearded man with a scar across one eye. Not only did the man have sumptuous robes, but he held two elaborately ornamented scimitars, one in each hand, and used them like a whirlwind against Khalida, who also held two swords. Though Mikhail had never actually clapped eyes on the man, he recognized him at once: al-Rahim.

  The two warlords battled each other on foot, rage blazing the air between them. Though Mikhail had seen more than his share of armed combat, he’d never seen two people fight each other with such hatred, both of them baring their teeth as they struck steel against steel.

  “Should we help her?” Daphne asked. “Wouldn’t mind having a go at him myself.”

  “It’s their battle,” he answered, though part of him wanted to gut al-Rahim from throat to belly simply for putting Daphne and her family through such hell.

  While she looked a bit disappointed that she couldn’t join the fight against al-Rahim, she hurried on, and helped her parents and their assistants into the jolly boat. Mikhail leapt in, threw Daphne his ether rifle, and took the tiller. Once everyone had been secured, he brought the vessel straight up into the air. Yelps of astonishment rose up from the Carlisles and their assistants, but he kept his focus on dodging enemy gunfire and making sure that Daphne was unharmed. Using his ether rifle, she continued to shoot back at anyone who dared fire on them.

  As the jolly boat climbed higher into the air, the sounds of triumphant ululation rose up
from below. Glancing down, he saw Khalida standing over the body of al-Rahim, her swords lifted in victory. She caught Mikhail and Daphne watching her, and gave another long, piercing cry of triumph. Daphne flawlessly returned the cry, as did her parents.

  Despite al-Rahim’s death, the conflict was far from over.

  Someone on Bielyi Voron must have seen the approaching jolly boat, because the ship beat a slight retreat from fighting the other airships, allowing the smaller vessel room to come closer. Mikhail brought the boat up into the Bielyi Voron’s cargo bay, and the doors swung shut beneath them.

  “Stay below decks,” he commanded his newest passengers. Everyone looked too stunned to argue. Except, as Mikhail headed topside, Daphne followed, still holding the ether rifle.

  He rounded on her.

  She spoke before he could. “If you think I’m going to cower in my cabin while you’re up there risking your goddamn life,” she said hotly, lifting her chin, “then you haven’t been paying attention.”

  He swore, but she didn’t blink. A shudder rattled the ship. Capable as Levkov was, the Bielyi Voron was still Mikhail’s, and no one commanded her better in combat than he did. He had to get topside. And Daphne was determined to join him there.

  Much as he wanted her safe, one of the things he respected so deeply about her was her strength of will. Locking her in her cabin would only deny a part of her he admired.

  “Keep low,” he said quickly, “fire at anyone who looks threatening, and for God’s sake, don’t try to take on either of the Man O’ Wars.”

  A corner of her mouth lifted. “There’s only one Man O’ War I’d ever take on.”

  He kissed her, quick and hard. Seemed the only fitting response. She kissed him back with bruising force. Neither of them seemed to care that the passageways were filled with crew members. All that mattered at that moment was the feel of each other, their shared heat and strength. But the kiss had to be brief, and they broke apart as the ship shook again.

  Together, they leapt up the companionway, emerging onto the top deck, and the elegant brutality of aerial combat.

  DAPHNE COUGHED AS smoke wreathed the deck of the airship. Crew members were everywhere, shooting ether cannons at the two other ships. She felt the concussion of the ether cannons thundering in her chest. Shouts and explosions, the whine of gunfire, and the world spinning as the three airships dove and wheeled in combat. She had never known anything like this.

  She was grateful she’d gained her air legs as she staggered after Mikhail. It felt as though she’d fallen into a bellicose dream, where flight and combat interlaced. Half a mile below stretched the desert, dotted with the figures of Khalida’s and al-Rahim’s warriors still fighting, and all around her was the sky, scented by cordite, streaked with smoke.

  The enemy ships had positioned themselves on both sides of the Bielyi Voron, so the ship was taking fire from all angles. It seemed impossible that they could survive such bombardment.

  Levkov looked relieved when Mikhail appeared beside him. “Doing what I can, Captain, but two against one doesn’t make for a nice dinner party.”

  “Then we disinvite one of the guests,” Mikhail answered. “Target the French ship. Give it everything.”

  Though it made little sense to her that Mikhail would want to go after the smaller and less threatening of the two enemy airships—particularly given his hatred of Olevski—Levkov seemed to understand his strategy. “Aye, Captain,” he said, then hurried off to spread the word to the crew.

  Once the message reached the crew, the ship spun about to face the French airship. Every cannon and ether gun on board the Bielyi Voron was unleashed. The enemy ship shuddered and quaked, pieces of its hull shattering and crew falling to the deck, wounded. In response, the French airship began to retreat, drawing closer to Olevski’s ship as if seeking protection.

  “If the French Man O’ War does that,” she said above the sound of gunfire, “he’ll crowd Olevski. Give him no way to maneuver.” Her eyes widened as she understood the strategy.

  “We get you some telumium implants,” Mikhail answered with a ferocious grin, “you might make a damned fine airship captain.”

  Indeed, as the French ship tried to find cover, it nearly collided with the Russian airship. Several moments passed as the two vessels awkwardly attempted to position themselves. Olevski seemed to want to bring his ship around to launch a broadside against the Bielyi Voron, but the French ship kept getting in the way.

  “Bring us closer to the Chyornyi Golub,” Mikhail roared to the helmsman. He turned to other crew members. “Golovkin, Cheng, Simonov, Alvarez—grappling hooks on the starboard side!”

  As the ship flew nearer to the Russian ship, four of the Bielyi Voron’s crew members appeared at the rail, each carrying gramophone-sized devices. The brass-cased devices were open on one side, and she could just make out what looked like a steel claw within. A small tetrol-powered engine was attached to each device, as well. The crew clamped the devices onto the rail, with the open side facing outward.

  She held her breath as the Bielyi Voron drew up only thirty feet from the side of the Russian ship. At this distance, she could see the battle-enraged faces of the other ship’s crew, and Olevski striding up and down the deck, bellowing orders.

  “Fire!” Mikhail commanded.

  The four crewmen pulled handles on the side of the devices fixed to the rails. Four hooks shot from the devices, with stout iron chains attached to them. The hooks latched onto the rail of the enemy ship. Golovkin, Cheng, Simonov, and Alvarez then flipped levers on the engines, and winches inside the devices began to draw in the chains and their attached hooks. The grappling devices pulled the two airships ever closer together, shortening the distance foot by foot.

  Both crews massed at the railings, everyone bristling with weapons of all varieties, from cutlasses to revolvers to ether pistols. Though a crewman on the enemy ship worked frantically to saw at the chains binding the two airships, he couldn’t work fast enough. The distance continued to narrow. Twenty five feet, twenty.

  Mikhail jumped up onto the rail. In each hand, he held a long, wicked sword. His face was a mask of determined fury, his hate-filled gaze fixed solely on Olevski, who glared back with equal loathing. A distance of over fifteen feet separated the ships. Then Mikhail leapt, and Daphne forgot how to breathe.

  He seemed suspended in the air, half a mile above the ground, for an eternity. Yet he jumped over the heads and raised weapons of Olevski’s crew. Mikhail landed in a crouch right in front of Olevski. For a moment, the two Man O’ Wars simply stared at each other. And then they bellowed in rage and charged each other.

  As the two ships continued to draw closer, Mikhail and Olevski launched into furious combat. They moved with superhuman speed and strength, their blades moving so quickly as to be steel blurs carving through the air. Their swords clashed together with enough force to draw sparks.

  The hulls of the airships ground together as the grappling hooks reeled the Russian ship close. The massed crew members stood at the rail, swinging blades and shooting guns, each struggling to board the others’ ship. Daphne stood just behind this melee, trying to see the progress of Mikhail’s fight with his most hated enemy. Goddamn it, she needed to do something.

  A roar rose up from Mikhail’s crew as they gained the upper hand, surging over the rail to board the enemy ship. The fight continued onto the upper deck of the Russian airship, rogue crew against rogue crew. But the crew of the Bielyi Voron seemed to fight as a cohesive unit rather than in a disorganized jumble. Two of the enemy crew had enough organization to realize that the main threat came from Mikhail, and aimed their ether guns at him.

  Instinct took over. Daphne stood atop the railing, getting above the fight. From her vantage, she clearly saw two of the enemy crewmen preparing to shoot Mikhail. She lifted her rifle, taking aim. Despite the chaos around her, she made sure her breathing stayed level. Then squeezed the trigger. She turned and fired on the other gunman. Both
men went down instantly.

  If Mikhail noticed, he gave no sign. He fought against Olevski with a terrifying viciousness. Cuts covered the faces, arms, and hands of both Man O’ Wars, but neither seemed to show any sign of slowing down. Mikhail thrust one of his swords at Olevski, and the other Man O’ War slipped aside a split second before getting skewered. But the sword was jammed hard into the wooden deck. Rather than try to wrest it out, Mikhail left it. Mikhail kicked one of Olevski’s hands, and his foe’s sword flew from his grasp. Now he and Olevski faced each other with one blade each.

  Roaring, they rushed each other again. Their swords collided. And shattered from the force of the strike. Neither Man O’ War seemed to care that they were now both unarmed. They continued to fight, throwing punches so hard that when their fists connected with the deck or bulwarks, wood shattered into splinters.

  She leapt down from the rail, joining Mikhail’s crew pushing further onto the enemy ship. She tried to aim her ether rifle at Olevski, hoping at least to wound him. But as she lined him up in her sights, someone grabbed her from behind, his arms wrapping around her and squeezing the rifle from her grip. She struggled against him, twisting and kicking.

  “Heard Denisov had himself a little English piece.” The crewman’s breath was hot and foul in her ear. “You wouldn’t turn my head, but I could have some fun with you, and let him watch.”

  Mikhail, seeing her struggle, tried to break away from Olevski to come to her aid. But the other Man O’ War blocked his path. Olevski seemed to taunt Mikhail, glancing over his shoulder at her and sneering, as though her presence weakened Mikhail.

  No—she wouldn’t let herself be a liability. She shoved her feet against the deck, pushing against her attacker. She managed to wriggle enough space between them to lash backward, catching him in the eye with her thumb. The man released her at once, crying out. She spun around. With all her might, she punched him in his jaw.