Should she live through this, she would recommend the design to the engineers. McCarthy would salivate at the notion, and probably tear the Dreadnaut apart to reposition the gear at the first chance.
A muffled explosion sounded, and she paused. What in all the Hells was that? It almost sounded like the squeal of strained steel. A heartbeat later, a diminutive crash caught her attention, followed by the rapid staccato of machine gun fire. Another explosion shook the airship, and the grinding of metal on metal intensified.
The flagship was under attack.
Good, she thought. Someone brought the fight to the bastards. The Hellion, or the Trepidation. Maybe even the Dreadnaut, though she hoped her ship held off. Her life wasn't worth the cost. Hopefully Beckett at least had the sense to fix the isolator before he engaged.
"All hands, battle stations," the communications trumpets blared through the deck. "Incursion on the forward decks. Prepare to repel boarders."
The machine gun fire continued, and the pop of musketry joined in. Why did she only hear small arms? Those sounded like the wrist guns the Zephyrs wore. Why did the ships main guns did not fire? A trio of explosions echoed through the corridors, and screams added weight to the chaos.
What the bloody hells were Zephyrs doing here? The distinctive crackle of cycling chambers echoed through the corridor, coming from the deck above.
Doors opened further down the corridor, and soldiers rushed into the hallway. Stockbridge drew a pistol. If her people were here, she would offer what support she could. She fired at the first target. The rush of smoke from the exploding gun powder fogged the corridor, and she ducked to the side. Soldiers turned to face the new threat, and she dropped her cutlass to draw the second pistol.
The unmistakable sizzle of cycling bolts ionized the air from the ladder in quick succession, and soldiers fell before they fired. A pair of boots hit the metal deck, and another followed seconds later.
Stockbridge kept her pistol raised and readied herself.
Lieutenant Raen'dalle stepped through the haze of powder, his rifle raised before him.
"Whelan," Robert called, and lowered his weapon. "We found her."
Stockbridge sagged against the wall, the impossibility of the sight battering aside her flow state.
Pyrrhic Victory
Robert caught the Captain before she collapsed to the deck. She gripped his uniform, unable to believe him real, and she struggled to focus her single working eye on him.
"What are you fecking doing here?" she said, and sagged against him.
He wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her from the deck.
"Ah, I missed you too" he said. "We heard you crashed the Aeresian party, and decided to join the fun."
"Glad to see you up and about, Captain," the Boatswain, Whelan said. "Our ride out should be here momentarily."
"I ordered you to remain at the Citadel," she said, her words slurring. "You disobeyed a direct order."
"Not the first time today, Ma'am." Robert rushed her back toward the ladder.
"Lieutenant Beckett was the first to taste his disrespect for the chain of command." Whelan said. He took point, and covered the upper deck with his rifle. "He's in a rare state today. You know how it is with these pumped up aristocrats? Think they're above the law."
"Not now, Whelan," Robert said. He paused at the base of the ladder. "I'm sorry, Captain, but this is going to hurt a bit. Try to hold tight."
Whelan jumped up and ascended the rungs with an impossible speed. Robert slung Stockbridge over his shoulder and hoisted the pair of them up.
"Almost there," Robert grunted.
Whelan scanned the corridor with his rifle while Robert laid her to the deck. She cried out when her tortured back touched the metal, her thin shirt not providing any protection for her wounds.
"Sorry, Ma'am," he said, and lifted her again.
Whelan's rifle fired in controlled bursts. He dropped the magazine and replaced it with a fresh cycling cartridge, his movements practiced and smooth.
"Clear," he said, and moved forward.
The din of battle still roared through the corridors while they moved on.
"Missed the engine room." Stockbridge forced her words out, and hoped them coherent.
"This one is soon for the next world," a spectral image by Robert's side said, and Stockbridge's good eye widened. He wore the ceremonial robes of a Demort'gal, a black mage of the Sharikeen order.
"Will you let her pass on?" another ghostly figure said from Robert's other side. Stockbridge's mouth went dry. It looked like the image of Chief Winslow. "Do not bind her. She has suffered enough. Let her pass."
"Don't let me pass," Stockbridge whispered. The dread of her own mortality passed over her. Her death approached, and Lieutenant Raen'dalle trained as a black mage.
Robert looked down at her, his brow furrowed with concern.
"You heard them?" he said.
Stockbridge managed a brief nod.
"I'll not let you pass," he said, "but I will not bind you if you do. We're here to save you, and I intend to do just that."
"What did you mean about the engine room?" Whelan said. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she turned her head to look at him.
"Now's not the time," Robert said.
"On the lowest level," Stockbridge said. "Stern. Precise design."
"Is it now?" Whelan said. He turned to Robert, with a grim cast to his visage. "Take her up to the schooner."
"What are you talking about?" Robert said. "I can't carry her and run point."
"You're capable of more than you think you are," Whelan said. "Trust in yourself, lad."
"Where are going?"
Whelan drew himself to his full height and handed Robert his rifle. He drew his walking stick from the holder on his back.
"I'm going to ruin the pride of the Aeresian airfleet," he said. "Don't bother waiting for me. I'll find my own way back down."
"Whelan, wait," Robert called, but the boatswain leapt down the ladder. "Reckless bastard."
"Coarse language is the sign of a common soul," the black mage said, though Robert acted like he did not hear. He adjusted the rifle, so it pointed outward, and Stockbridge groaned when it pressed against her wounds.
Robert moved forward and worked his way up two more decks. He regretted every time he needed to fire, for the Captain cried out in pain with the movement. he hurt her enough when he climbed the ladders, but the continual engagement with the enemy took a worse toll.
He needed to get her out of here.
By the security hatch to the main deck he paused and laid the Captain down. His magazine empty, he took a moment to reload. He grimaced at the action. The cost to benefit ratio of working the weapons ran in the negative. For each charge he expended to kill an enemy, he needed to replace it. Two souls spent for the cost of liberating one. What a stupid design, he reflected while he seated the new cartridge.
He opened the hatch, and after a quick look around, removed a sealed canister from his belt. He pulled the ring, activating the weapon, and tossed it outside. A plume of green smoke escaped to indicate the landing zone for the schooner. Hopefully the airship held to the target. None of the main guns fired, so he clung to the hope it remained an active asset. The sounds of the Zephyrs battle still echoed throughout the ship, and he wondered at how much ordinance they had left. They've been firing almost non-stop since their arrival, he thought.
He gave them a simple objective: cause as much chaos and destruction as possible, and then abandon ship. Each suit of armor came complete with an air to ground retrieval system, so the fall from such a height would not be fatal. His concern revolved around where they landed, especially if they used up all of their ammunition. Robert didn't think they would last long if they dropped behind enemy lines.
The roar of venting steam caught his attention, and he craned his head out of the hatch.
The schooner came to rest beside the port railings, and held position. Boarding l
ines were cast, and the small airship drew tight to the deck. Their machine guns and carronades opened fire toward the fore of the flagship.
Robert grabbed Stockbridge and hoisted her into his arms. She moaned, but did not open her eye. With his rifle trained toward the enemy, Robert raced toward the schooner.
"Come on," McCarthy yelled, and paused his machine gun to wave his arm.
A squad emerged from the far side of the forecastle and trained their muskets on them. Robert fired a quick burst to scatter them, and continued his sprint. He neared the railing, and adjusted his grip on the Captain.
The Aeresian weapons blossomed with a plume of smoke and fire, and a musket ball skimmed across Robert's calf.
He stumbled and dropped Whelan's rifle, but managed to maintain his grip on the Captain. Another ball sheered against his shoulder and spun him about. Stockbridge spilled from his grasp when he crashed to the deck. Robert forced himself onto his back, and trained his own weapon on the enemy. He depressed the trigger, and a series of crimson energy blast raked across the squad. Soldiers fell, even when struck in the arm, and the rest ducked for cover behind the forecastle.
Hands grabbed Robert's shoulder, but he shook them off.
"Secure the Captain," he ordered. He fought through the pain and dropped the magazine from his rifle.
"She's onboard," Lindstrom shouted, and hauled him over the railing.
"Detach grapples," Bayliff ordered, and the schooner cut free from the Aeresian flagship.
Lindstrom pressed a bandage against Robert's wound, and caused him to cry out in pain.
"The ball ripped a furrow," Lindstrom said. "We just need to stop the bleeding."
Robert grabbed his wrist and pulled him close.
"Whelan's still aboard," he said, his voice a harsh rasp.
"Sorry, Sir," Lindstrom said. "We've already fallen away. Ejected too much ballast getting down here. We can't go back."
"Incoming," Bayliff called from the helm.
Robert flopped to his back and fumbled one of his braces from its holster.
Above them, Whelan dropped from the flagship. He held his stick before him, and the rounded ball of the handle emitted a bluish glow. His descent slowed, and his feet touched the deck with little more than the impact of a step.
"Engines full ahead, Vilaster," he said, and laid the stick over his shoulder. "We don't want to be anywhere near this hulk in a moment or so."
Whelan crouched next to Robert and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Thought I told you not to wait for me," he said. He lowered his stick, and the handle glowed a brilliant white. A field of energy surrounded him, and spread out to encompass Robert. "Didn't I ever warn you about stopping bullets with your body? Not the healthiest pastime."
A warm glow suffused Robert's shoulder and spread across his chest. The pain of the wound receded, but and agony in his shin replaced it. He cried, and flailed about in an effort to stop it.
Moments merged together into an agonizing blend, and at last, he drew a breath. He slapped the deck, and used his arm to draw himself away.
"It's done," Whelan said, though the words seemed to cause him discomfort. "You won't even have a limp. The balls cut deep, but never penetrated."
Robert lay prone and stared at the Boatswain.
"He's a white mage," Winslow's ghost said beside him.
"He's no Fren'gal," Gal'Preston said, his voice filled with more bile than usual. "That was no form of Sharikeen healing. This man's an abomination. He's in league with the Lethen'al."
"What did you do?" Robert said. The words of the specters filled him with dread.
"I healed you, boy," Whelan said. "Usually the recipient says, 'thank you,' or some such nonsense."
"You didn't touch the Kal," Robert whispered.
"Of course I did," Whelan said. "Pain does strange things to the mind. Put it aside, for all of our sakes, and be grateful you'll keep the leg."
An explosion ripped through the air above them, and Robert cast his gaze heavenward.
The Flagship Cape York floundered to port when its stern disintegrated. The flames raced along the outside of the hull, and the metal transformed from a gold to an angry red. Fire blasted from the hatches in great, billowing balls and expanded along the decks. The hull transitioned to a hot white while the turmoil raced along its length, consuming foot after foot. Its prow pitched forward, trailing flames and columns of smoke. It angled toward the earth. Incandescent debris filled the surrounding air, cast to the far reaches of the sky in its death throes.
The schooner shook with a violent impact, and Whelan lost his footing.
"Helm's not responding," Vilaster yelled from the wheelhouse. "We've lost the stern rudder."
An ominous whistle caused Robert to look up. Debris from the Cape York rained down from above. Shards of metal struck the schooner, severed its aft wing assembly, and sent it into a tailspin.
Bayliff's scream lasted only a moment before the centrifugal force threw him off the side of the wounded airship.
"Seven Hells," Whelan said, and he raced to the bow.
Robert turned to the side, to where Stockbridge lay unconscious against the gunwale. He scuttled toward her, and lost contact with the deck every other step. Upon reaching her, he grabbed the lifeline from the railing to secure her.
The Captain had no harness.
Robert secured the line to his own outercoat, and wrapped her in his arms.
He refused to lose her now, after they sacrificed so much to save her.
Whelan hated the arbitrary turnings of fate sometimes. He stood at the prow of the doomed airship and ignored the spinning surface of the earth rushing toward them. It seemed like such a sound plan at the time. Leave a warding on the side of the Cape York's isolator, encase it with a deteriorating shielding, run back to the schooner and get away. Maybe he should have left himself a little more time.
Bad enough the young Raen'dalle had to go and get himself shot. Most of the crew onboard hailed from the red or black mage castes, and did not possess the slightest inclination of how a Fren'gal healed. But those damned ghosts had to go yapping on and destroy the illusion.
He hated to be rushed. Compensating on the fly always left tiny items overlooked.
Whelan held his stick in front of him, and contemplated its usefulness in his current situation. Everything within him told him to let the airship crash back to the earth, killing all aboard. To save them would leave far too many questions. A quick, easy death always solved so many problems. Their deaths, of course. Not his. He did not have such luck. In his long lifetime, death remained the one thing beyond his grasp.
But the boy was a Raen'dalle, the most promising in generations. What good was his self-appointed mission if he let the lad perish?
Whelan cast the stick aside, done with the pretense of it all. What need did he have of a magical talisman?
He extended his sin'del, the life force that surrounded him, and embraced the flows of air that buffeted the ship. He tugged at their flux, his long black hair flying about like ravens wings in the wind, and he nudged the magic into the positions he desired.
Too fast. He waited too long to act, and he had no way to account for their speed.
Very well, then, he thought. A long, drawn out landing is better than a sudden stop.
The prow of the airship lifted, and the stern dropped. The remains of the canvas wings fluttered in the rigging. The canyon that held the Deven River sailed past beneath them, and he guided the ship to the leeward shores.
Not territory he wanted to walk through, but it had merits over the alternative. After all, what choice did he have?
The lad was a Raen'dalle, and the oath of the Protectorate superseded all other considerations.
The hull of the schooner smashed against the barren landscape. It bounced back into the air, and landed again, cutting a furrow through the parched soil. The airship slid to starboard, but Whelan manipulated the energies of the earth to keep it f
rom flipping over.
At last, it came to rest amid the silence of the arid landscape.
Whelan turned to study the damage.
Lindstrom lay by the port railing, clutching a wound to his right arm. McCarthy staggered to his feet, and helped Vilaster to stand. Robert lay by the starboard railing, shielding Stockbridge with his body.
Whelan walked over and kicked Robert's foot.
"Enough of that now, boy," he said. "They'll be time for snuggling later."
Robert stirred and looked at him, as if amazed they still lived.
"Boatswain," McCarthy called. He crouched by Lindstrom and applied pressure to his wound. Whelan walked over and laid his hand on the aeronaut's forehead.
"Tie it off," he told the engineer. "He'll have to wait until we get back to the Citadel for treatment."
"But you're a white mage," McCarthy said. "Surely you can do something."
Whelan shook his head, and the world spun about him. He staggered back and clutched the railing to keep from falling.
Damn, but he was tired. How long had it been since he worked this amount of magic? Centuries at least. Since he fought Arielle outside Red River. Since the battle of Reven Marthal. He forgot how tiring it was.
"Too tired. It's the best I can do," Whelan said, and slid to the deck. "He'll have to walk like the rest of us."
A New Design
Steam escaped through fractured lines all along the schooner, and it bathed the remains of the shattered airship in a gray haze. Debris littered the landscape, and a long furrow gouged across the flat plain. The crew picked through the wreckage, hoping to salvage what they could.
"Life aboard a merchant hauler must be awful," McCarthy said to no one in particular. "Everything's second rate. Nothing really salvageable in any of this. Not even a terra-track to get us back."
"That was the most amazing feat of magic I have ever seen," Robert said. He extended his hand to help Whelan to his feet, and noticed how exhausted the Boatswain looked. He just nodded to Robert's words.
"McCarthy," Robert continued, "see if there are any supplies stored below and bring them up."
Of Steel and Steam: A Limited Edition Anthology Page 37