NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  “I will, sah, thank you.”

  ***

  Wesley returned to the airship with due haste. Despite Fred being in Blindside, it took him three hours to get home. Such was the problem living in a city built in a wheel and spoke design. Fred’s hideout was nearly on the opposite side of Velaroth, and Wesley was not about to pay the exorbitant toll required to pass through the hub that was Highborn.

  Despite the arduous trek, Wesley returned without a hint of exhaustion or sore feet. Dream dust did an excellent job of dulling pain and increasing one’s stamina. He found Kiera in her exercise room, punching and elbowing her static fighting dummies. The sound of her fists striking wood created an interesting, percussive chorus with whatever piece of metal Russel was beating on deep within his lair.

  Kiera noted his arrival and ceased her combatives. “How did it go?”

  “Fantastically terrifying, just as I expected,” Wesley replied, rolling his shoulders and gyrating his hips to the sound of the “music” still playing in his head.

  Kiera stormed across the room and glared into his eyes. “Are you high?”

  “Are you an angry, violent little prat? Did I mention the terrifying part? I needed to take the edge off, that’s all.”

  “You are supposed to sell whatever Fred gave you. You have to sell it or Fred is going to use your guts for garters!”

  Wesley rolled his head around on his shoulders as he stared at the ceiling. “Right, because it would be the apex of stupidity for anyone to steal from Fred!”

  “This is different. This is business. What you’re doing is idiotic self-abuse.”

  “Whatever self-abuse I engage in is purely for the benefit of my clients, because no one appreciates it when you prematurely discharge your musket, but as I say this, I realize that you are referring to my chemical indulgence, not my…masturbatory practices…”

  Kiera rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “You are as stupid as you are disgusting. Just tell me what you saw when you met Fred.”

  “Ah, yes, your brilliant plan to rob the psychopath. Fred is holed up in the old counting house on the other side of Blindside not far from Lowgate Plaza.”

  “What about money? Did you see any money?”

  “Oh, you’re such a greedy little skitter lizard, so obsessed with shiny things.”

  “Shut up and tell me what you saw!”

  Wesley scowled. “Angry. Little. Prat.”

  Kiera stood on her tiptoes and nearly touched her nose to his chin. “You forgot violent. Do I need to remind you about that one?”

  Wesley grinned and took a step back. “He had a good bit of coin on his desk, but also two stout chests too small to be luggage.”

  “Could they have contained his drug stash? I don’t want to steal his drugs. He’d be onto us the moment we tried to sell it.”

  “Nope. He kept his drugs in separate strongboxes in another room.”

  “What did his guard force look like?”

  “Aside from Top Hat, a short, bald guy, a short, fat guy, and another guy of average height and poor hygiene.”

  “I mean numbers not appearances!”

  “Oh, right. Pretty light—except for the fat guy.” Wesley held his hands up and took another step back when Kiera cocked a fist to punch him. “It was a joke! He only had a few guys that I was able to see. I think he wanted to keep a low profile. He has Top Hat doing all of his face-to-face business. Whatever it was that got him dragged before the magistrate, he seems to be going out of his way not to go back anytime soon.”

  Kiera chewed her lower lip as she studied the floor. “I can do this. I can get in and out without him knowing I was ever there. If those chests are full of money, he probably won’t even know he’s been robbed.”

  Wesley snorted. “And if skitter lizards could fly all of our hats would be covered in crap.”

  “Just make sure you sell the rest of your drugs to your clients.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  It was Kiera’s turn to snort as she knew the value of one of Wesley’s promises. “Yeah, and Russel is going to become a bard.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The wind and rain struck so hard that the magical weather screens could not keep the heavy droplets from pummeling the crew on the Anguish’s deck. The hurricane-like gales blew with such intensity that not even the wailers’ tormented cries could be heard above the sound of the storm.

  The airship bucked and rolled on the tempest’s invisible waves, plunging through thick clouds like ocean swells, the mist and rain pelting those on deck like sea spray. Dorian and Jasso took turns at the airship’s controls, fighting the weather and their own exhaustion in a war from which there could be no retreat nor surrender. Neither side was willing to offer or accept quarter from the other.

  For three days the storm tried its best to grind them to a pulp, but the tempest was like an old man with too many missing teeth. The Necrophages worked diligently to guide their vessel between the gaps in that enormous, ancient maw until it finally spit them out like a cherry pit.

  Sunlight blanketed them as if the twin gods had thrown open heavy curtains to illuminate a dark room. The drenched crew gazed up at the sun, basking in its warm embrace.

  Dorian shook Jasso’s shoulder as he looked out over the red stone and sand drifting beneath them. “We did it! I was right!”

  Jasso smiled and nodded, but the joy slid from his face as a dark shadow draped itself over the land and enveloped the airship. The Necrophages looked out over the port side and beheld a great wall of wind-blown dust barreling down upon them.

  “The sorcerers know of our arrival and are bent on destroying us!” Jasso cried out.

  “The sorcerers are dead! It is just another storm.” Dorian shouted to his crew, “Hoist the sails and push the wailers! We will let the storm drive us ahead of it. If we tack a few degrees east maybe we can find the outer edge and sail clear.”

  “If we push the wailers any harder we risk killing them,” Jasso said.

  “Then we kill them! We have to outrun this land tempest or we all die. I have come too far to fail now.”

  The sails cracked like massive whips as the wind filled them, driving the airship forward at incredible speed. Unlike the tempest, this dust storm seemed to blow largely in one direction, to the south. Without side winds buffeting them and threatening to roll the vessel, Dorian was able to ride the edge of the dust storm like an ocean wave, sliding along its face. For every mile they managed to fly eastward, the storm drove them ten times as far to the south.

  The Anguish’s stern crept higher as the storm front slowly overcame the fleeing airship. Dorian glanced back and saw that the stern rail was now several feet over his head. Looking out past the bow, he saw the ground rushing past far below, obscured by a thin veil of dust. His heart pounded as he felt the airship tilting beneath his feet, knowing that they were only a few degrees from reaching its tipping point.

  Any captain would have ordered the sails lowered to prevent such a catastrophe, but Dorian knew his vessel and his crew could not withstand a second storm thrashing. Already, the airship creaked and shuddered ominously, like a dying beast. Escape was their only chance of survival.

  Moments from disaster, Dorian steered the airship into relatively calm sky, like reaching the safety of a protected harbor. Behind them, the storm barreled on, creating a brownish-red wall through which there was no return.

  Jasso’s hands were stiff and aching from the death grip with which he had held onto the sterncastle railing. “Dorian, we must land and effect repairs.”

  Dorian nodded his agreement. “Look for a suitable spot. We’ll rest and repair at the first opportunity.”

  That opportunity was not going to come anytime soon. A lookout cried out, “Sails east!”

  Jasso raised a spyglass to his eye and studied the white dot set against a blue sky. “It is definitely an airship. Possibly a warship given its design, but I cannot be sure. Should we run?”

 
Dorian thought for only a moment before shaking his head. “No, they have likely already spotted us. We cannot outrun them in our condition, and I will not risk word of our arrival getting out no matter how slight the possibility. Our ultimate success relies upon getting word back to my mother and doing a great deal of damage to Eidolan before they know we are even amongst them. Ready the weapons crews and prepare our warriors for battle.”

  ***

  Captain Janis Forney stood next to her pilot, watching the massive dust storm blot out the world just a few miles west of where they hovered, safely out of harm’s reach. An odd black speck in the reddish backdrop caught her attention, so she brought up her spyglass to take a closer look.

  “What is it?” Winoc Boyce, her pilot, asked.

  Janis frowned. “It looks like an airship, but I don’t recognize the sail configuration.”

  “Do you think it’s out of Nibbenar?”

  “If it is, they stupidly sailed through that storm. Have you ever heard of any black-hulled vessels out of Nibbenar?”

  Winoc shook his head. “Black? No, never heard of a black ship before—except the Bastion, but I’m pretty sure we would know if anyone ever made another void-steel airship. Do you think it could be pirates?”

  Janis shrugged her shoulders. Pirates were rare but not unheard of. Once in a while, a crew on a trading vessel mutinied or stole one from a cradle in a shipyard and managed to acquire some guns and powder, but it did not usually take long for the navy to track them down and either recover the airship or blow it out of the sky.

  “It appears to be heading straight for us, and I can’t imagine they haven’t noticed that we’re a navy vessel, not some toothless merchant. More likely they got battered by that storm and require aid.”

  Winoc nodded, agreeing with his captain’s assessment, then cocked his head toward the approaching vessel. “What is that horrible keening? Did the storm change direction?”

  A chill went up Janis’ spine as the wailing sound reached her ears. “I don’t think it’s the wind.” She shouted across the deck for her quartermaster while studying the black airship through her spyglass. “Mr. Hampson!”

  A large man emerged from below decks and jogged to the foot of the sterncastle stairs. “Aye, Captain?”

  “Open the armory and have the crew draw weapons. Order the gunnery crews to ready the cannons and stand by.”

  The quartermaster knuckled a salute. “Aye, Captain.”

  The crew, which had been mostly resting at ease, began bustling about the deck as officers relayed orders to prepare for battle.

  “Do you think they’re hostile?” Winoc asked.

  Janis stared stone-faced at the dark, wailing airship as it drew ever closer. “I don’t know, but my gut is telling me to be ready for anything.”

  It was impossible for Captain Janis Forney to know that there was no way she could ever have prepared for what was coming.

  ***

  “What do you make of our enemy, Dorian?” Jasso asked as he guided the wailing ship into battle.

  Dorian studied the enemy vessel through his spyglass. “Their uniforms suggest they are part of a military force, but I do not recognize any weapons or persons on the ship except for the occasional sword. Wait, men are appearing holding odd spears. Their hafts look bulky and unwieldy. Perhaps they serve to function as a bludgeon as well.”

  “It matters not. Our Ulec should be able to defeat a group of sailors with relative ease. If they should pose a challenge, then I am confident in your ability to sway any battle deeply in our favor.”

  “Your faith is always appreciated, Jasso.”

  Jasso grinned. “Nonsense, faith is what one has in the absence of fact or certainty. I merely state the obvious. How would you like me to proceed?”

  “Maintain a direct course and bring us alongside. I will conceal our warriors as best I can. With any luck, they will allow us to get close enough to rush in and our warriors can cast grapnels and board their vessel before they know we have come for battle.”

  ***

  “What do you make of it, Captain?” Winoc asked, his voice taut with unease.

  “I think I see a few ballistae mounted on the deck, but the vessel has no gun ports I can make out. There are two figures dressed in black on the sterncastle. One is surely the pilot. The other is holding a staff with a pennant of some sort tied to the end. If it’s a signal flag, I don’t recognize its meaning.”

  “What about her crew?”

  “The deck is deep in shadow. I spotted some movement but can make out no details.”

  Worry lines creased Winoc’s face as he thought. “Do you think the Thuum have developed airships?”

  Janis chuckled in an attempt to relieve some of the anxiety she felt. “The twin gods help us all if they have. Still, if they think to take on a ship of the line with nothing more than a few ballistae and rail-mounted arbalests, they are in for a rude awakening. Let them close within hailing distance, but be prepared to move us away if they appear to be attempting to ram us. I don’t know how that airship is constructed, but she looks damn heavy.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The pilot and captain watched the black vessel approach with nervous anticipation while the bulk of her crew hunkered behind the rails, masts, and barriers with loaded muskets tipped with bayonets to repel any attempt to board their ship. Janis looked out over the deck and saw the fear she felt, brought on by the approaching airship’s awful wailing, mirrored on the faces of her crew.

  “Steady as she goes, people,” Janis called out. “If that black beast seeks to do us harm, we’ll damn sure give them something to cry about.”

  A ragged cheer ushered from the mouths of her crew, displaying far more bravado than they felt. Sweaty hands gripped muskets and muscles clenched in more than one crewman in an effort to hold back the sudden need to relieve themselves.

  The black airship slowed as it closed within hailing distance and made a languid pivot on her center axis to turn parallel with the Eidolanian vessel.

  Janis raised a megaphone to her mouth and shouted through the large cone. “Ho, the ship, what is your intent?”

  The Necrophages’ primary language was old Phaerian, but nearly two centuries of education enabled Dorian to be fluent in most tongues spoken throughout the known world. Dorian responded by dropping the flag he had attached to the end of his void lance.

  Grapnels attached to stout lines arced across the chasm separating the two airships as Jasso maneuvered the Anguish to make a lateral lunge in an effort to close the gap. Even as the Aigle tried to veer away, powerful Ulec arms hauled in on the lines, locking in every inch gained by use of special pulleys that only allowed the ropes to be drawn in one direction.

  The Aigle’s crew responded by discharging their muskets into the first wave of Ulecs trying to leap the span, decimating their numbers with their initial volley. Cannons erupted just a moment after hearing the musket fire on deck. Their iron shot struck the Anguish at nearly point-blank range. The black vessel shuddered and wood splintered and cracked, but few of the twelve-pound balls managed to pierce the thick, hearty forgewood planks.

  Dorian watched in awe as the Eidolanians’ weapons spat smoke and fire and sundered his warriors’ bodies with missiles his eyes could not see. He had hoped to take the airship intact and capture a large portion of the crew in order to gather information and to replace the many wailers that had died on their perilous journey through the tempest. His quick battle assessment told him that was not likely to happen.

  “Gunners, loose bolts!” he ordered.

  Innervated spears flew from the two starboard ballistae as well as half a score of smaller bolts loosed from the rail-mounted manuballistae. The explosions created large gaps in the defenders’ positions, allowing the Ulec to storm onto the Aigle’s deck. A second fusillade rocked the Anguish with far more devastating effect than the first salvo had. Several heavy shots found weakened timbers and punched through the stout ebony woo
d and wreaked havoc on the vessel’s internal structure.

  Dorian turned to his pilot. “Jasso, once our host is across, order the remaining crew to cut the lines, and try to keep the Anguish out of line of those weapons. We cannot afford to lose the ship.”

  Jasso nodded, his blood-red lips pressed into a thin line as he fought to control the airship beneath his feet. Dorian leapt across the short gulf between vessels, his strength augmented by the power of his soul stone. He landed in an opening on the enemy ship’s deck like the specter of death, his black hooded cloak billowing out behind him. His void lance stole the lives of three men in as many seconds as he rushed toward the nearest hatch leading below decks.

  Dorian was confident that his Ulec could handle the puny crew despite their formidable fire weapons, but he had to stop those larger ones before they ripped his ship apart. Discovering an enemy more menacing than the sword-and-dagger-wielding Ulec, several humans directed their weapons at the newest arrival. Dorian summoned a spectral whip to his off hand and lashed out at the faces bent behind raised muskets. The weapons roared with their characteristic discharge of smoke, fire, and thunder. Shot whizzed past Dorian and tugged at his cloak as he flitted across the deck like a shadow and spread death in his wake.

  The Necrophage wasted no time battling the crew topside. He hacked, stabbed, and slashed his way through any resistance and leapt down into the bowels of the airship. A pair of musket shots rang out, one striking the bulkhead near his right ear, the other gouging the step below his feet.

  Dorian hurled himself off the stairs and took shelter behind a stack of crates. Cloaking himself in shadow, he stole out of his hiding place, circled around the stairs, and came up behind the two sailors as they furiously tried to reload their muskets. Dorian’s void lance took them both in the back with two swift thrusts before either man could pull their ramrod from the barrel of their weapon.

  He hurried toward the concussive cannon blasts, knowing that each strike could spell disaster for his ship. Even as he waded through the cannon crew, stabbing them through their hearts and unleashing his necrotic magic, Dorian pieced together what had likely happened to the sorcerers, surmising that the mortals had struck them a crippling if not fatal blow with these awesome new weapons. The cataclysm was probably the sorcerers’ response, aimed not at his people, but at those who had dared rebel against them.