“There are a lot of rich fishes down there now.”
Rommond smiled.
There was a gentle tap at the door, which betrayed the nervousness of the person on the other side. Rommond tried to suppress a sigh, but he inadvertently rolled his eyes in the direction the noise came from.
“Mice?” Jacob asked.
“As irritating as mice,” Rommond stated.
“Maybe they'll go away if you give them some cheese.”
“Or come back for more.”
There was another rap at the door, this time a little louder, but still revealing obvious reluctance. Someone had been sent to bang on the door, perhaps to see if Rommond was all right—perhaps to see if he was still alive. Jacob thought it highly unlikely that they came to check if the same was true of him.
“Perhaps you should answer it,” Jacob suggested.
“I'm busy,” Rommond grumbled. He loaded another pellet, and struggled with the spring.
“They're worried about you.”
“I'm worried about all of us,” the general said as the bullet locked into place.
Another series of knocks followed, but no voice accompanied them. They doubtless knew they were disturbing Rommond, and wanted to limit that disturbance. Jacob wondered who it was who knocked. If it were Whistler, they likely would not have heard it at all. If it were Soasa, the door might have blown open on the first bang.
“Let them knock,” Rommond said. “I have work to do.”
But the knocks continued, until it seemed that at any moment the door might cave in. The rhythm was frenzied and chaotic, not like a war drum, but like a war.
“Go away!” Rommond called out. There was no response. That was undoubtedly just how Rommond liked it. Sometimes he wanted a Yes, sir! Other times he just wanted some peace and quiet. With Jacob there, there was little chance of that.
Then there was a sudden loud banging on the door, faster and louder than any that had come before. There was an urgency in the sound, like an alarm. Rommond appeared about to growl, but he was cut off by a frenzied voice on the other side of the door. It sounded like Boulder.
“Pirates, General! Pirates!”
Rommond stood up quickly and marched to the door. What he had spent so long locking, he unlocked in a fraction of the time. Jacob followed him out onto the main deck, which was eerily quiet, and eerily empty of people. The wind had died down, as if it too had heard the news and found itself a hiding place. The only thing worse than seeing a ghost ship in the distance was being on one.
Rommond grabbed a spyglass from the navigation tools nailed to the wall. “Where?” he asked, and Boulder pointed to the south-west. Rommond cast his angered gaze in that direction, and as he stared, he stepped forward, until he met with the fencing that stopped anyone from plummeting far below, where they might in their descent have met the pirates coming up to greet them.
3 – PIRATES OF SEA AND SKY
Far below, in the great expanse of the Last Sea, which had for the past three months served as their last haven, five galleons sailed at great speeds, their sails hoisted high, and their black flags hoisted higher. Then, just as they came close enough to where the Skyshaker cast a faint reflection in the waters, great cannons pounded, and out of them came not bullets or balls, but balloons, which hoisted the ships even higher than their pirate flags. In moments the vessels sailed out of the water and into the sky, and new cannons came into the spyglass view of the horrified crew of the Skyshaker, and these did not carry rubber and air—they carried lead and gunpowder.
“Starboard guns,” Rommond called out, and he obeyed his own order by firing his revolver at one of the advancing airships. The bullet sliced through the balloon, which sent the vessel back down slowly to the sea below.
The pirate ships answered with a volley of cannon fire, all of them grazing the Skyshaker as it hurtled through the air. Rommond knew the pirates did not really want to sink it; they wanted to commandeer it—though they likely would have no problem sinking the crew, and commandeering their belongings.
“Forty degrees,” Rommond said to his crew as they rolled the cannons into place. “Take out the flagship.” He pointed at the Red Serpent, the largest of the galleons, the one whose black flag bore a coiling ruby snake, flicking its tongue. Rommond bit his own at the sight of it.
“Fire,” he ordered. The cannons boomed in unison, but the cannonballs missed their target. Not because their aim was off, but because the flagship easily evaded the metal rain. Like a snake, it slithered from their grasp.
The cannons roared, and the engines whizzed, and the sails creaked, and the crew panted and heaved, and sighed and groaned, while the pirates shouted and jeered, until every sound tried to commandeer each other.
As the sun sank, the pirates ascended. Night was fast approaching with its own black flag to conquer day. What pallid glimmers the sun still dared to show, like the glitter of gold to tempt the thieves of sea and sky, merely illuminated the dark galleons that swiftly rose to meet the Skyshaker in the ocean of clouds.
“Take down the other ones!” Rommond barked, when it seemed the Red Serpent would simply dance like a cobra to a charmer.
By this stage the ships were almost at the same height as the Skyshaker, and now they fired grappling hooks, which clung to the sides of the vessel like the pirates' claws would soon cling to the throats of the crew.
“Get them down!” the general boomed, like a cannon of his own. He fired at one of the ropes, which frayed, but did not sever.
Boulder rolled onto the top deck, casting a bundle of swords to the ground, and casting his hands upon his knees to stop him bowling over. He tried to pant out some words, but no one there needed direction. They knew what they had to do.
Jacob grabbed one of the swords and began hacking at the ropes tethering the pirate ships to the Skyshaker. He felled two before he heard the pellet of bullets, and felt them sailing by, like tiny pirate ships looking for the greatest treasure of all: blood. At the third rope, when Jacob raised his blade, a bullet struck it with such force that it knocked the sword from his hand. He was glad it was not his life.
It seemed as soon as ropes were cut, more appeared, like a many-headed hydra. Those snakes wound their way around the hull of the airship, clinging to the railings, clutching to the masts, and forming bridges for the other vipers who piloted the pirate ships.
The invasion began in an instant, and though guns were fired, and the Copper Vixens flooded the deck, each with duel pistols, and though the air filled with smoke and steam, and the ground filled with gunpowder and bullet casings, the pirates swung into place, dodging the many missiles aimed at them, or clinging to falling ropes, only to launch themselves across the cloudy ravine on yet another one.
Then the bullets were mostly spent, and though many on either side fell, many were left, and all they had were swords. The fight began anew, and the pirates threw themselves forward in a frenzy, hissing like serpents, eyeing everyone in sight with a mad lust, waving their cleavers and curved swords as if the very sky were attacking them.
Rommond did not baulk at this display, but simply walked into the fray, slicing with the sword in his right hand, and firing with the revolver in his left. He was conservative with his shots, keeping them for when a pirate was about to land a killing blow on one of his crew, or when he could fire a ricochet shot that struck several of the pirates at once, and reinforced one of his many nicknames. He waded through the onslaught, which seemed never-ending, and Jacob found himself back to back with the general, swinging his own sword, and wishing he had a gun instead.
Then the Skyshaker rocked, and many stumbled, and they cast their eyes to the starboard side, where the pirate flagship had docked. Latches in the shape of cobra heads locked into place, clutching the railing of the airship in their metal fangs.
The battle ceased for a moment, with the pirates stepping back, but still barking and booing, hissing and hooting. The Copper Vixens manned the other side, holding
each other back, issuing their own insults, bashing their breasts and brandishing their blades.
Then the pirates pushed a plank across from their flagship to the Skyshaker, and across it stepped the leader of their little armada, in which they were certain they were about to add another ship.
4 – THE SNAKE
The pirate leader was a short and slender man with a tanned complexion and golden-brown locks, close enough to Jacob in age, though nowhere near as rough or rugged. He was clean-shaven, and he had a glistening smile, accented by several gold teeth. His dazzling blue eyes matched the rich blues of his long coat and tricorne hat, which had a number of feathers in it from now extinct birds. His belt was laden with many swords and daggers. Jacob thought that there was something very familiar about him.
The corsair captain approached slowly, while his crew stayed back. He did not so much as move, but dance. All his gestures were animated. All his words were spoken with excitement, like a child who talks about his toys. But he was the kind of child who took the toys of others, and a new one had entered his sight.
Rommond glared at him. “The Snake,” he hissed.
The pirate grinned. “The Hawk,” he replied, and he flapped his hands. “I see your eyes are as good as ever.” Then he swivelled on the spot, more elegantly than any pirate had ever moved in the history of hijacking, and he bowed before the other onlookers, as if he expected their applause. “Samadan El Abra. I would say, 'at your service', but I think maybe you are more at mine.”
“You won't get this ship,” Rommond stated. “I'd rather let it burn.”
“Such a waste!” El Abra declared, like he declared everything, sending his arms to the sky, eliciting a gasp from the Copper Vixens, as if he was throwing a grenade. “Why, you're lucky you use helium and not hydrogen in this beauty, or it might already be burning.”
“You're lucky that you still use oxygen,” Rommond replied. “We can change that easily enough.”
“Come now, let us settle this with honour.”
Rommond scoffed. “There's nothing honourable in piracy.”
“Some might say there's nothing honourable in war, yet you still wage it.”
“When fighting demons, everything we do is honourable.”
“Perhaps, but what about before the Harvest? You fought in plenty of other wars back then.”
“And you plundered plenty of ships, more than your fair due.”
“I am due what I can take,” El Abra said. He held his arms up and turned around, taking in the view. “And this, Rommond, is ripe for the taking. Why, I've never seen anything like it. What do you call it?”
“The Skyshaker,” Rommond replied, and his pride was like another medal, pinned visibly to his immaculate uniform.
“Oooh,” the pirate said. “Makes me shiver. I haven't heard a name like that in quite some time. Not since the good old days.” He showed his golden teeth once more.
“When we played cat and mouse,” the general said.
“You never did catch me then, did you? Goldwall's golden boy, with more medals than space on your coat to pin them. But you never got the medal for getting me.”
“Maybe I'll earn it now,” Rommond said.
“Who from, I wonder?” the pirate asked. “If you couldn't do it with that battleship you had—what did you call it? Wavewalker? You always were one for fancy names—then I think your luck is up.”
Rommond could barely hide his contempt behind his walrus moustache. If he could have grown tusks to bare at the pirate, he would have bore them now.
“Whatever did happen to that ship?” El Abra teased.
Rommond glared at him. “I might have lost the ship,” he said, “but I see the mouse has lost none of its smugness.”
El Abra's smile only widened. “Now I'm the cat.”
Taberah leapt at him from out of nowhere, like a rabid lynx, but what others did not see, he saw, and he simply sidestepped out of the way.
“Mademoiselle!” El Abra cried, while parrying Taberah's frenzied strikes and backing away. “Do you not remember? I do not fight women!”
“That's fine by me,” Taberah said, and lunged at him again. “Just so long as you don't mind dying at a woman's hands.”
“It would be a pleasure,” El Abra said, simultaneously raising an eyebrow and the side of his mouth. “Especially one as beautiful and elegant as you, even when with child.” He eyed Rommond, as if he assumed that he was the father. “But alas! I cannot fight you, unless it were a fight with lips. Till then, I must ask you to leave this to the owner of this fair vessel, which might be a little fairer with a different owner.”
Yet Taberah would not back down. She sliced and struck, and El Abra blocked and backed away once more. He looked to Rommond with a hint of discontentment.
“You allow this?” he asked. “Tell her to stop before she gets hurt. Unless, of course, there's not a hint of honour in you, General, and you have women fight your battles.”
“My battles, no,” Rommond said. “They fight their own.”
El Abra waved his sword before Rommond as a challenge. “Perhaps you will dare to fight yours then? Unless all you do is rely on feisty women, and your trademark trick shots, Ricochet Rommond.”
Taberah prepared to attack again, but Rommond held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “Leave this to me.” In most cases she would not have listened, but he looked her straight in the eyes, and hoped she understood: You got Domas. El Abra is mine.
Rommond stepped into the ring, a literal ring of pirates and Copper Vixens, who looked as though they were about to fight amongst themselves at any moment. Yet they waited, holding back their hate, such was the respect they had for their leaders.
The general waved his pistol in the air, before discarding it to the floor. He unleashed his sword, a mostly ceremonial weapon, which had seen far more than ceremony in the trenches of the war's early years.
“Who shall strike first?” El Abra said. “I know! The one who lost last time.”
This angered Rommond more than Jacob thought it should, and the general swung at the pirate, who parried and span out of the way, leading Rommond after him in a trail of misdirection that might have impressed Mudro, were the doctor not watching the fight with a frown.
Taberah stood beside Jacob, arms folded in defiance. At times she twitched and fidgeted, and it was clear that she was fighting her instinct to join the fray. Jacob placed his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, as if it were El Abra's.
The pirate flitted delicately across the deck, barely making a sound, bar the whirring and purring of his sword. Each time he passed close enough to Taberah, he purred a line of his own: “Radiant!” he cried. “Rousing!” he simpered. “Regal!” he bellowed like her rightful king. Then he started on the words that began with 's,' whispering “Sensual” in a way that every woman present, and quite a few men, heard it in their hearts.
“I've got to hand it to him,” Jacob said with a smirk. “He's doing wonders on me.”
Taberah elbowed him. To her, a compliment from an enemy was an insult. To Jacob, who had hard so few compliments in his life, it did not matter where they came from.
As El Abra talked and taunted, and as he traipsed about the deck like a joyful child, Jacob could not help but be reminded of someone he once knew. It had been so long, and the name was different, but the mannerisms were the same. Age changed many things, but others it left untouched, or merely accentuated. El Abra's balletic movements were one of these.
This dance made things worse for Rommond, who struggled to keep up. As elegantly as El Abra swung, Rommond cleaved, using strength when he found he could not match the pirate's speed. The general's steps were clumsy, more of a jittering jive to El Abra's effortless waltz.
The crowd around began to cheer or jeer, depending on which side they were on. It was as if the very fate of the ship really did lie in this outcome, as if Rommond would give it up willingly if he lost, or El Abra would retreat if the general won. W
histler jumped up and down behind the Copper Vixens, trying to get a better view, and joining in the zealous chants of Rommond's name.
“Enough!” Rommond called out, stopping in his tracks like a halting landship. He unleashed a grenade from his belt, which caught El Abra off-guard, knocking him from his feet.
“You didn't dodge that,” the general said.
The pirate humphed. “Dirty tricks,” he groaned.
“No,” Rommond said. “This is just my kind of dance.”
El Abra stood up and dusted himself off. “So, you don't fancy your chances toe to toe.”
“You don't fancy yours, bomb to limb.”
They circled each other, mocking and jeering, which elicited oohs and aahs from the crowd, as if their blades had struck anew. It was as much a battle of wits and words as it was of mitts and swords. It seemed as if they were building up for another round, but the audience was so enthralled, and cheered so loudly, that this might as well have been round two.
* * *
As Jacob watched, he continued to rack his brain, trying to place the figure among the many figures of his past. In time the memory surfaced from the prison of his mind.
“I know him,” Jacob said, though his recollection of him was quite different to what he had become. “He was another workhouse boy, forced to pay his parents' debts. I guess that doesn't leave much options for a career path: smuggling or piracy.”
“Can you reason with him?” Taberah asked.
“I'm not sure. We kind of had a … friendly rivalry.”
“So long as it was friendly,” Mudro said.
“Well, as much of a friendship anyone could form in the workhouses. I got out before him. Part of me felt guilty. I never liked to take the route past there, as it would remind me that he was still inside, toiling away, like those people in the Hope factory. I never saw him after that.”
“So how do you know it's him?”
“You don't forget Samuel,” Jacob replied. “That was his name back then. He's quite a character.”
Skyshaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 3) Page 3