by A. C. Cobble
Then, the second airship began its run, fifty yards to the right of the original path, and it laid its own trail of devastation. The few people who’d survived the initial sweep were scrambling out of the way and were caught in the new wave of fire and power. Like fireworks at the new year, she saw the bright flashes of light and then a moment later heard and felt the concussive blasts.
“Small arms fire!” cried a lookout from the rigging above her.
Captain Haines’ airship lurched, and their course shifted.
She saw flashes atop a peninsula that stuck out from the main island. A dozen sentries were discharging their weapons at the stalking airships. Hundreds of yards below them, the shooters had little hope of an accurate shot, but Duke pulled her back from the railing anyway.
“They’d have to get lucky,” he said, “but no sense in giving them the opportunity.”
From several steps back, she watched as they closed on the emplacement.
Below, there was a sharp crack and a high-pitched whistle.
Beside them, a sailor laughed. “They’re trying to hit us with their shore guns. These fools don’t know the first thing about facing an airship.”
The sailor shouldered a long-barreled rifle and peered down the sight. He squeezed the trigger, and Sam covered her ears a moment too late.
“Sorry,” mumbled the man, setting the butt of the rifle on the deck and opening an ammunition pouch at his belt.
The firearm was similar to the blunderbusses that were common in Westundon, but the barrel was longer and instead of a pouch of pellets, the man loaded it with a single metal ball. It was an expensive weapon, but like the fae lights, she supposed it was worth the Company’s sterling to provide accurate weapons for their men. A blunderbuss would be worthless from the deck of an airship, and the next best option was a bow and arrow.
“I think you missed,” responded Sam, looking down where several figures were scrambling atop a cleared space, attempting to adjust their big shore gun. “Shouldn’t you save it for when you’ve got a better shot?”
“Not going to get one,” said the sailor with a grin.
They drifted closer, and on the other side of the deck, she saw a pair of men toss a clay container over the edge. Running along the railing and looking down, she gasped when the container landed half a dozen paces away from the cannon. It burst with an impact she could feel from far above. The small figures of the men were blasted into the foliage of the jungle, and even the heavy gun was flipped on its side like it had been kicked by the foot of an angry giant.
“If the sailing master is on point, you don’t get a lot of chances to shoot from an airship,” said the sailor standing beside her, no longer bothering to reload his rifle. “Combat aboard these things is about how clean a line the sailing master can hold. It ain’t about what we can do with rifle or sharpened steel anymore.”
The four airships completed their passes and began the slow, onerous process of turning around and tacking back to the pirate’s lair, taking a ponderous zig-zag course into the wind. All the while, Sam stared down at the destruction — flickering fires where buildings once stood, shattered trees, broken bodies.
The third airship had bombarded the ships at anchor. It appeared two of them had escaped without crippling damage. In the pre-dawn gloom, Sam could see men scrambling aboard, trying to repair damaged rigging and get the boats underway.
“It’s not going to be easy to bomb them on the move,” she mumbled.
“Watch,” said a voice, and she looked to see Governor Dalyrimple standing three paces down the railing from her.
She watched, and when they got back within range, she saw the lead airship pivot like a dancer on the ice. She heard a concussive rumble, and the airship lurched. On the far side of it, its cannon had opened fire, and a dozen barrels spat heavy iron balls into the sky, raining down on the vessels below. The second and third royal marine airships swept in and continued the fusillade, peppering the vessels below with dozens of heavy iron shot. They didn’t need to reload. The two ketches below had taken more than they could handle, and in moments, they were listing, already taking on water.
“Time to go down,” said the governor, turning to find Captain Haines at the helm.
“You’ll disembark, m’lord?” questioned Sam.
“Of course,” growled the governor. “I aim to see this is done right. These corsairs will never again plague Archtan Atoll, or anywhere else, ever again. I’ll be on the ground until we’re certain the last one of these bastards is dead.”
Sam frowned at the man’s back as he stomped up the stairs to address Captain Haines. She looked around and found Duke. “You know the governor is going down with us?”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” he replied.
“What if he’s killed?” she asked. “He’s an earl and the governor of Archtan Atoll… That’s a high-profile target to put into reach of desperate men.”
“You haven’t complained about me going down,” remarked Duke.
“Well—”
“Let’s get ready to drop,” interrupted Duke. “It’s too dangerous to put the ships on the ground here, so they’ll float a score of paces above the turf, and we’ll shimmy down on ropes or get lowered by a rope, I suppose, for those who cannot shimmy.”
She followed his gaze to where Governor Dalyrimple was being strapped into a makeshift harness. The governor had a thin rapier on his belt, a dagger more suited to the dinner table than battle, and he was clutching a short blunderbuss in his meaty hands.
“You think he knows how to use any of that?” asked Sam.
“I’m certain that he doesn’t,” replied Duke sardonically. Quietly, he added, “There’s something he wants to find down there, though, and it’s not just dead pirates.”
“What?” whispered Sam. “You don’t think he’s the… the one who the crone warned me of? She said sorceress, as in female, and that the person had left the islands. That has to be the countess.”
“Agreed,” responded Duke, “but there’s something I realized while you were sleeping today. Commander Ostrander said the governor changed his tune on the pirates about three weeks past.”
“Three weeks…” murmured Sam. “That’s when… that’s when Countess Dalyrimple was killed. You don’t think… He must have! He must have learned of her passing somehow.”
“Is it possible through sorcery?” questioned Duke.
She shrugged. “It could be. If the spirit enters the underworld, a sorcerer would be able to communicate with it. Should we…”
“Not now,” replied Duke. “Let’s give him a long enough leash we can figure out what he’s up to and what’s really happening. Perhaps he’s a sorcerer like his wife, or perhaps he’s only vaguely aware of her activities, but I’m convinced the man knows something. He’s not going to tell us, so we’ll find out by following him.”
She forced her hand off the hilt of her kris dagger and nodded curtly. Madam Winrod claimed the sorceress had departed, but her husband could still lead them to an explanation, a clue. If Countess Dalyrimple had brought some artifact tainted by Ca-Mi-He to Enhover… She shuddered and tore her gaze from the governor’s back. They had the scent now. They couldn’t let the man know they suspected him.
“When we’re on the ground, keep an eye on him discreetly,” advised Duke. “He’s not acting the way he is because he’s crazy. He knew his wife was gone. Maybe he knew exactly when she died. Everything the man has told us was a lie, a ruse, to get him here.”
“If he did know when his wife passed into the underworld, you know what that means, right?” questioned Sam. “She wasn’t the only one practicing…”
Grim-faced, Duke nodded. “Don’t lose sight of him.”
Sam shifted and checked her weapons.
A sailor was passing out thick leather gloves, and more of the men were securing ropes to the masts and then arranging them beside the railing.
Captain Haines came striding up and informed Duke, �
��As soon as the royal marines make their drop, we’ll come in behind. I cannot guarantee your safety, m’lord.”
“Understood,” replied Duke.
“The governor wanted to drop first, but… I can’t do that, m’lord. The risk is too great that one of these bandits is still lurking in hiding and would jump out and take themselves a hostage.”
“You have my support, Captain,” assured Duke. “Let the marines get on the ground and form a perimeter. Then, we’ll go in.”
Nodding, Haines turned and began issuing his last instructions.
Sam could see that one of the other airships was already deploying, and the other two were drifting, sails down, right behind. Shaking herself, she pulled on her gloves and prepared to go in.
Knee-high leather boots thumped down on the sandy soil and Sam stepped away from the rope, tugging off her gloves and drawing her two kris daggers.
Duke landed beside her and drew his broadsword, nervous eyes glancing around the edge of the ravaged village.
Behind them, they heard Governor Dalyrimple cursing. She turned to see some of the marines helping the man out of his harness. The governor gripped his blunderbuss and scowled at a pulped corpse a dozen paces away.
All around them, the royal marines moved through the ruins of the village and walked along the edge of the jungle. They were armed with a collection of short swords, halberds, and blunderbusses. Commander Ostrander was standing at the center of the activity, shouting orders and listening to reports from his men.
Sam and Duke meandered toward the wreckage of the village, watching the governor out of the corner of their eyes.
She swallowed as they stepped over charred bodies of fallen men or saw those who’d avoided the fire but had been crushed by the concussive force of the explosions. The soil was littered with flesh the consistency of jelly, shattered bones, and deep pools of blood that hadn’t yet soaked into the sand.
“Let’s hope they’re all pirates,” mumbled Duke.
A shout and a scream of pain. Men scrambled and cursed.
One hundred paces from them, a trio of rough-looking men had burst from underneath a flimsy, fallen wall and were charging into the blue-coated royal marines around them. At least one marine was down, but the corsairs were helplessly outnumbered.
A thunderous clap erupted as a marine fired his blunderbuss, but the scattered pellets didn’t seem to slow the attackers. Grunts and screams sounded as the men engaged with sharp steel. Over the tumult, Sam heard shouted orders — take no prisoners.
She grimaced, turning to Duke. She broke into a string of curses, her eyes darting around the wrecked village.
“Damnit!” snapped Duke, following her look. “Where did he go?”
She slipped her daggers into their sheaths and closed her eyes, pinching her wrists with two fingers from the opposite hand. Her fingers pressed into her flesh where the lines of her tattoos ended. She drew a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling…
“There,” said Sam, opening her eyes and pointing to a wall of vegetation.
“Where?” asked Duke.
“There’s… there’s something back there,” she said. She couldn’t explain it to the nobleman, but she knew that whatever the governor was looking for, whatever the crone had warned about, was hidden behind the wall of jungle.
Whatever it was, it made the old woman’s small rituals feel like a fishing shack beneath a castle. Even from hundreds of yards away, even after releasing her supernatural sense, Sam could still feel the cold burn of the underworld. She’d barely felt Madam Winrod’s conjurings just outside of the old woman’s shack. That she could sense whatever lay within the jungle from so far away…
Duke eyed her for a moment and then waved to the two men who had been assigned to guard them. “Can you check with Commander Ostrander about how long until the area is cleared?”
“M’lord,” said one of the men. “We’re, ah, we’re to stay by your side no matter—”
“Surely no one who outranks me gave you those orders, soldier? Go on, and don’t worry. The only thing Ostrander will hear from me is that you followed instructions.”
Frowning, the two men shared a look. After a moment, they turned to jog toward their commander.
Sam led Duke toward the jungle where she was certain they’d find a path through the dense vegetation. They made it to the edge of the foliage and walked along it until she found a dip. She pushed her way into a narrow passage.
Whispering, Duke said, “I didn’t see this until you stepped into it. If the governor went this way…”
“He knew where he was going,” agreed Sam.
Reluctantly, Duke gestured for her to lead into the darkness.
Stepping lightly on the sand, Sam crept through the jungle. Under the canopy, it was nearly pitch-black. It was silent, too, the animals either run off previously by the pirates or scared by the airship’s bombardment. As they moved along, the sounds of the marines’ activity behind them faded quickly, blocked by huge fronds, thick leaves, and hanging vines.
In the quiet, she thought she heard something, or someone, in front of them. Hoping Duke was behind her, she sped up, brushing aside creepers that shrouded the path and pushing through huge leaves that were as wide as her waist.
“Look what we have here,” purred a voice in front of her.
She slowed, taking her steps with care, stalking closer.
“I told you I heard someone behind us,” claimed another voice.
“Is that the spirit-forsaken governor?” asked a third.
“Release me,” growled Dalyrimple.
Ahead of her, Sam saw a slight break in the jungle where the path opened up. The pre-dawn sun shed weak light over the trees and plants, but she could see four figures standing in the clear, a space three of the pirates evidently selected to wait for and then ambush their tail. One of the figures jerked, trying to break the hold of two others.
“Release me now or I’ll call out. I’ll have one hundred royal marines here in an instant, and I’ll make sure each one of you suffers before you die.”
“Go ahead and yell, Governor,” sneered one of the figures.
Sam paused, waiting, but the governor did not call out.
The man, the leader of the three corsairs she guessed, laughed. “You don’t want any more attention on what happens here than we do, Governor.”
Muttering a curse, Dalyrimple lunged at the pirate leader, but the other two held their grip, and the large man thrashed ineffectively.
“Bring him,” said the leader, and he started deeper into the jungle. “We just got the leverage we need to get out of here.”
Duke touched Sam’s arm and nodded after the departing men. She understood. Follow them. The other part, the part left unsaid, was that they were not dashing back to get reinforcements. Whatever was happening, Duke wanted to investigate away from the prying eyes of the common soldiers.
Sam started again, following the backs of the four men but staying far enough away they wouldn’t immediately notice her in the dim light of the jungle.
They didn’t have to go far. After three hundred more paces, the foliage opened again. She could see the light of a new day in front of them. Slinking forward, she and Duke stayed close to the verdant plants that lined the path, hoping it would hide the shapes of their bodies. Ten paces away from the break in vegetation that marked the end of the trail, she reached across and put a hand on Duke’s chest. She would see what was in the clearing.
He waited patiently as she edged closer, forcing down a churning boil in her stomach.
“What are you going to do? Kill me?” asked the governor.
“Of course not,” growled the pirate leader. “We’re going to use you as a bargaining chip. We want to make sure we get paid for our efforts, after all. We’ll keep you here until your friends out there get tired of looking for you.”
“Why here?” demanded Dalyrimple.
“Because those soldiers can search this island for
weeks and they’ll never find you here. You can scream until you lose your voice, Governor, and they’ll never find you.”
The governor didn’t argue, and Sam saw why.
In the clearing was a waist-high, stone altar. It was stained a deep rust-red. Old, dried blood, she knew. There was a ramshackle structure half-hidden in the jungle on the other side, and around the clearing, spaced at even intervals, were skeletons, hanging suspended in a circle. Their skin had been flayed and spread, fixed to their arms so they looked like giant, skeletal bats. The rest of their body tissue had been removed, and as the sun rose and shone brighter, she could see arcane symbols and patterns painted on the dried, wing-like skin of the corpses.
She swallowed.
This was not the scene where they found the countess. This was not what she’d discovered in Madam Winrod’s lair. This was far, far worse. This was true, powerful sorcery. This was from the darkest stories her mentor Thotham told her, the terrible depths of what was possible, and what should never exist.
She heard Duke behind her, his breath coming faster and harder as he took in what she’d already seen. She knew he wouldn’t understand the meaning of the symbols. She didn’t either. They didn’t need to. It was clear this was no benevolent circle calling upon the spirits of life. This was no parlor game purporting to speak to a dead relative. Human souls had been spent here, in that circle, and she shivered thinking about what they may have purchased. What Madam Winrod said was true. The worst was true.
The pirates released the governor, and he stumbled away from them.
“You mean to ransom me?” he asked. “What, you’ll write the Crown, write the Company, and demand gold?”
The leader of the men nodded his head and then hopped up to sit on the blood-stained altar. “You will write a letter, Governor, and when the soldiers have left, we’ll deliver it to your wife.”