The clouds, bruised and darkened from the repeated abuse of cannon shot, released a single drop of water. It fell past the fliers, past Patheran's banner, past the canon, and burst into a puff of steam on the barrel of Robert's rifle. Outraged at such an unseemly end, the clouds released their horded waters, which charged down from the heavens.
"The rain will slow them," Lyle's ghost said by Robert's side. "Use it to your advantage and choose your targets."
Robert worked his trigger with methodic precision and sent blast after blast down the field.
"I didn't see it," Stockbridge told her command crew, "but I was able to determine the placement of the engines here in the lower stern."
Stockbridge, Hajeck, Lindstrom, Vilaster, and McCarthy gathered in McCarthy's quarters off the engine room. They stood around the sketch of the Cape York she drew and pinned to a board.
"That's why we lost at Antrim." McCarthy rubbed his chin while he spoke, and never took his attention off the diagram.
"How's that?" Stockbridge prodded. She knew her chief engineer well, and left to his own devices, would lose himself in the labyrinth of his thoughts. She needed actionable information about the new design, not some mechanical breakthrough a week from now.
McCarthy pointed at the picture's stern. "These modifications allow for speedier lift along the x-axis. They simply move faster, can reposition faster."
"So they can outmaneuver us?"
The engineer did not answer, but continued to rub his lower jaw. His brow furrowed, and he leaned closer. Watching him, Stockbridge considered overlooking standards of regulation dress, and insisting he grow a beard. His chin was too small, anyway, and would benefit from it.
"McCarthy," she prompted.
"What?" He looked about, as if startled to find them all in his office. "Oh. Out maneuver us. Right. Yes, they can, but there's a flaw in their design."
"How so?"
He pointed at the aft turbines.
"I noticed these when we picked you up," he said, and Stockbridge snorted. He made it sound like they sailed up after a weekend of shore leave, instead of flying through the entirety of the enemy fleet to assault their flagship. "They're stationary."
"You've lost me, Chief," Lindstrom said. "All turbines are fixed to the undercarriage."
"And that's the flaw," McCarthy said. He picked up a wooden scale model of an airship. He moved it in a straight line between them. "When they fill the chambers with helium the entire ship lifts, like this." He moved the model to a higher elevation, but kept it level. "They bob up and down like a cork."
"They can only change their active plane," Hajeck said. "The rest of their course corrections require the same motions."
"Exactly." McCarthy gave her a smile and tossed the model back on the cluttered workstation. He lifted a miniature cannon. "We can't change elevation so quickly, but our guns can."
"We instruct the gunnery crews to match their ascent," Stockbridge said. "That should remove their surprise. We'll just track them."
"We'll have to remove a portion of the upper chocks," McCarthy said. "There's not enough time to retrofit them, but we need some bracing to keep the kickback from throwing off the targeting."
"Captain to the bridge," Beckett's voice sounded over the communications' speaker. "Captain Stockbridge to the bridge. All hands, battle stations."
"Make it happen, Chief," Stockbridge said and strode out of the office. "And make it quick. Sounds like we're out of time."
Whelan removed the shard of metal from his side and tossed it away. It stroked the anger surging within him. His lips pulled away from his teeth, and his nose shook with the rictus of his snarl. Served him right, he thought, and he wiped his bloody hand on his trousers. What in the Seven Hells was he thinking, jumping on a crane and ordering people to safety?
Flames roared through the southern sections of the keep and consumed the storehouses. The firebombing sheered the airdocks from their moorings, and the twisted shards of steel careened into the river far below. Tethered airships burst into quick spreading infernos when their helium tanks caught fire, and the flames burned so bright the metal glowed white hot.
He was not able to save everyone on the docks.
Whelan tapped the tip of his sword against his boot. The bombs softened the target. Now for the second act.
"Anything yet, sergeant?" he said. He watched the heavens, looking for something deadlier than rain.
Far behind Patheran's defensive line, three squads of Zephyrs scanned the skies beside him. The enhanced optical lenses in their helmets allowed them to achieve a greater magnification than he was capable of. At least not without attracting attention.
One of the Zephyrs pointed.
"Contact." The speaker cones distorted his voice into an emotionless growl. "Three point four degrees."
Small detonations blew the wings off the dropships, and five slammed into the remains of the airdocks. Others sailed past the mark, screaming through the air to descend on the river docks, or further north into the keep itself. A horrific crash behind them indicated the successful landing within the keep.
"Zero squadron," Whelan pointed over the railing with his sword. "Follow them down and rip them up."
The Zephyrs ran to the edge and leapt off.
"Wolf Squadron," he said and pointed into the keep. "Firebrand squadron. Take the inner courtyards and halls."
"That leaves the docks unprotected, Sir," came the reply.
Whelan lifted his sword out to the side, and a glimmer of a sickly yellow light coursed along its edge.
"You have your orders, sergeant." He stepped into the rain, without looking to see if they obeyed his command, and walked to meet the enemy.
The shock troops raced along the tilting airdock with their weapons raised to their shoulders. Twenty men, each wearing darkened breastplates and helmets, held a tight formation around a single woman in crimson, flowing robes. Gold bands displayed elaborate runes and symbols that decorated her hems and collar. Her dark tresses fell loose about her shoulders, but stark white bands adorned the sides of her head. Her eyes held a brilliant, crystalline blue. A Tarekien mage, in full regalia and stigmata.
The sight did not give him pause, the way it would any normal soldier. If anything, it caused Whelan to increase his pace.
He fed the anger seething in his belly. What an utter abomination the woman and her beliefs were! He should have stamped the foolish notion out when it was still a fumbling, nascent idea laughed at on the edge of society. Now, it carried the weight of accepted dogma and the accumulated tradition of generations. To grant the Apostate Tarek, of all creation's beings, the veneration of godhead gave a subtle shade to the meaning of evil.
The lead soldier fired, and the musket ball took Whelan in the shoulder. He did not stop, but continued his march.
Thirty paces separated them.
The two behind him repeated the gesture when the first failed to fell him. Both hit their target; one musket ball pierced his belly, and the other took him square in the sternum. His steps faltered, but only for a moment. A third shot hit him between the eyes.
He staggered back a step, and gritted his teeth.
Fifteen paces separated them.
The soldiers lowered their weapons and wore matching expressions of disbelief.
"Behind me," the mage cried and pushed her way forward.
A wise command, Whelan reflected, but it came too late. He leapt forward and raked the tip of his sword across the top of the lead soldier's chest. The strike left a yellow line in its wake, which spread with astonishing speed to devour his physical form. The man uttered a brief, startled cry before the light washed over him and erased him from existence.
Whelan danced past him and struck the next in line. A quick scratch, and he moved on to the next two. He feinted toward the mage, and rolled around behind her to attack the other side. He batted their muskets away with the flat of the blade, and slipped beneath their defenses. A stab into one's fo
ot, a slash across another's belly, a chop across a face; Whelan moved between their attacks, and dispatched his opponents.
At last, he stood before the mage, the airdock littered with weapons, but devoid of soldiers. She looked at him, and her eyes expanded into a halo of fear. Her haughty, determined mien succumbed to shaking hands and panting breaths.
Whelan stepped closer. He raised his sword and ran the edge between his thumb and forefinger. The glow around the blade changed to a deep, hunter green.
The mage took a step back.
"So," he said, and held the blade up for inspection. "I hear you've pledged yourself to my father."
Her eyes widened, whether from the statement or the blasphemy it implied, he did not know and did not care.
"It's a bad idea, that," he said. "Dad's not the type to think fondly of humans. He'll rip your soul from your body and walk around in your skin, perhaps. But he sees you as little more than chattel."
"I walk with Tarek in the light of the Nexus," the mage said. Her voice quavered, but firmed with each word of the prayer. She moved her hands and bent her fingers in the ritual patterns while she spoke, and her posture improved. "I am his staff, I am his sword, and I await the coming of his vessel. I fear nothing save his wrath."
"There you are mistaken," Whelan said. He watched the traces of Kal form between her digits, and saw the construct she created. As if a shield could save her. "I am his vessel, and you have much more to fear from me than you do from him."
He flicked his wrist, and his sword shot forward. A bright green light flared across the middle of her finger where the steel scraped. It spread upward, and the flesh above the line burned away. Her scream interrupted her incantation, and the magical construct fell half formed when she griped her hand.
"So much for your platitudes."
Her fear turned to anger, and she launched a ball of fire.
Whelan flicked it away.
He struck with his sword again and removed her ear. She staggered back and clutched at the wound, as if the touch of her flesh could regrow the appendage. Her fingers twisted intricate patterns, until Whelan lobbed off half her hand.
He would reveal to her truth, inch by painful inch if need be.
Maybe, he reasoned, she might forsake her false god by the time he got to her breasts.
"Trepidation is moving to engage the targets," Beckett said when Stockbridge stepped on the command dais. Lindstrom, Vilaster and Hajeck took their usual posts on the bridge. "They've already dropped ordinance and launched fliers. I think they launched dropships as well."
"You think?" Stockbridge said. "How many?"
"Maybe a dozen, Ma'am."
"Are our fliers still in their bays?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Launch fliers," Stockbridge ordered. "Bring us about to intercept their battlecruiser."
"Ma'am," Beckett said. "We are seventy percent operational. Wouldn't it be better to keep our fliers in reserve and cover the retreat from the keep?"
Stockbridge moved closer to him, so little more than their breath separated them.
"There is a time for caution, Beckett, and a time for action." She hoped to admonish him for his lack of initiative in private, but his comment removed the possibility. "We are at war, and our forces are under attack. You should have launched the fliers the moment you noticed the triad, and moved us to prevent the launch of their dropships."
"My first duty is to the ship -"
"Your first duty is to your King and country," Stockbridge hissed. Despite her lack of volume, she couldn't keep the venom from her voice. "This is twice now your reluctance to act has put others in harm's way."
"If you're referring to the rescue attempt-"
"The rescue." Stockbridge stepped forward and forced him back. "It succeeded. The courage of a few proved your fears false."
She drew a breath and looked at the ceiling to reign in her temper.
"You kept the Dreadnaut and her crew safe," Stockbridge said. "I do not fault you that. However, we are now engaged with the enemy, and there will be no retreat. I need to trust my second in command to see my orders enacted. Do I make myself clear? Or do I need to find another for the task?"
Beckett's stare hardened. She knew he stood at the edge of his tolerance, but she didn't give a bloody piss bucket's weight. She did not allow dissension in her crew.
"Battlecruiser coming into range," Hajeck called from her station at tactical.
"Ready forward cannon and port broadsides," Stockbridge said. She kept Beckett fixed with her stare, and lowered her voice. "We're going into battle, and we're not leaving until every last one of them is a burning husk on the ground."
"Your captivity has clouded-"
"Do not finish that statement," Stockbridge said.
"Captain Solara Stockbridge," Beckett said, loud enough to be heard across the command deck, "I am relieving you of your command. Your time as a prisoner of the enemy has rendered you unfit for duty. Sergeant Barnes, remove the Captain from the bridge."
The thump of the Zephyr's armored boots struck against the deck. Stockbridge held up her hand to stall him.
"Ensign Lindstrom," she said. "Do you agree with the Lieutenant's judgement?"
"No Ma'am," Lindstrom said. He stepped away from his station and drew his sidearm.
"Ensign Vilaster, do you agree with the Lieutenant?"
"No Ma'am," he said, and also drew his weapon.
"Aeronaut Hajeck, do you agree?"
"No Ma'am," she said, and did likewise.
"Three members of the command crew make a quorum," Stockbridge said, and held out her hand, palm up. "Your motion is denied, Beckett. Surrender your sidearm."
Beckett opened his mouth as if to speak, but shut it after he glanced around the bridge. He unclipped his holster, withdrew his pistol and placed it in her hand.
"See him to the bridge, Sergeant," Stockbridge said. "Helm, full ahead."
"Aye, Ma'am," the helmsman said. "Full ahead."
The sounds of battle drifted from the interior of the keep, but Robert kept his attention focused on the field before him. He slung his rifle, as the weapon became too hot to hold, and worked his brace of pistols instead. He needed a better vantage than his little corner offered. If the enemy penetrated the citadel, their fight did not have much longer to go.
He slipped behind a sandbag bulwark, and raced up the broad steps. Musket balls and grapeshot tore chips from the stone all around him. The mezzanine battery held the best view of the area defense, as well as the entrance to the keep. He ducked behind the improvised wall and paused to catch his breath.
"Lovely day for a stroll, Sir," one of the gunners shouted when he saw him. The blast of the cannon swallowed his next words.
Robert gave a thumbs up in reply, and focused his spyglass on the field. The enemy occupied the entirety of the floodplain, and moved forward down its center. A blue dome shimmered in the air above them. The blasts from the defensive cannon and rifles raced along the circumference, and subsumed into its structure.
It absorbed the charges.
In the center of the formation, atop a mechanized cart, stood three mages with arms upraised.
Robert removed a flare from his belt, pulled away the safety, and held it aloft. A red plume shot into the storm. It reached its apogee, and seemed to hang in place before it drifted back to earth.
Prepare for hand-to-hand combat, the flare told the defenders.
The fall of Sharil's Forde was at hand.
The Dreadnaut skimmed through the storm amid the flashes of lightning. The rush of wind and rain devoured the roar of its engines.
Ahead, the destroyer Trepidation dropped away from the Aeresian battlecruiser, its port side aflame with the combustion of helium and munitions. The upward motion of the enemy vessel increased, but the Dreadnaut compensated and adjusted course to swing across its wake.
A chorus of cycling cannon bellowed into the tempest and the charges slammed into the Aeresian airs
hip when they came alongside. As per Stockbridge's observations, the gunnery crews targeted the lower stern. The combined might of fifty cannons smashed through the hull, and a tremendous explosion brightened the sky. The isolator erupted, igniting the trapped helium, and the flames raced along the length of the airship. With a mighty groan, its upward momentum ceased. It careened starboard, and the new formed comet fell to the earth.
Aeresian forces within the pass looked up when the flaming wreckage dropped toward them, and ran in vain for cover. The doomed ship crashed into the stone arch of Caliban's Crossing, and the impact shook the ancient structure. Stone screamed and ground against itself. The first chunks fell, and they pulled the remainder of the arch after to lie forever as a massive gravestone.
The earth shook with increasing tremors. In the distance, Caliban's Crossing transformed into an avalanche of rock while it charged toward the river.
The citadel's soldiers had no time to mourn the end of the natural wonder, for the enemy breached the defensive perimeter and stormed over the ramparts. First came the pikemen. Their long halberds and polearms reached over the bulwarks to seize and skewer the Patheran soldiers. The first rank of defenders unloaded their rifles at point blank range, but the cluster of bodies pressed forward regardless of the death toll. Lifeless corpses continued to move, pushed forward by the bodies behind them. Arcs of lightning cast by the Tarekien mages sizzled through the Aeresian soldiers and continued on into the Patheranian guard.
"Those brutal bastards," Robert said in disgust, and fired toward the mages.
The cannon muzzles dropped in elevation, and unleashed their charges into the fray.
Robert fired his pistol and slashed his sword with eloquent desperation while he walked backward up the steps. Steel bit at his flesh, and his sweat set the wounds to acid. The thick leather of his uniform took the brunt of the damage, but the design accounted for slashing weapons. A few thrusts slipped past his guard and resulted in shallow punctures.
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