Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (10 page)

Natasha stared at him, stunned. “What? No! The
Dawnhawk
will stay here and fight! I’m not going into hiding—”

“I never said ye were!” roared Euron. “Don’t ye dare be interruptin’ me again!”

Natasha shut her mouth with an audible, angry clack of her teeth.

Euron leaned forward. “Outnumbered? Of course we be! It don’t matter so much as one spilled tankard’s worth o’ ale. There’s a weapon on that isle, old. Voornish. I found it decades ago, back when Haventown still be a rude collection of shacks an’ starving Salomcani outcasts. I’ve kept it hidden ever since, with some of me best men watching over it.
They
be why none go there an’ return. They guard me Stormhammer. Yer going to go and get it, girl, activate it, and turn it on me foes.” He slammed a hand against the arm of his chair, knocking the old broken wooden tankard to the tavern floor. “That will show those Perinese worms.
That
will teach them to challenge the rule of Blackheart!”

A weapon? A Voornish weapon?
Lina didn’t like the thought of that. It was always dangerous to deal with the artifacts that the old race had left behind. But what choice did they have? The weapons of the Voorn were certainly powerful.
I need to find Rastalak.
The pygmy Draykin was knowledgeable in such relics.

The news surprised the rest of the room as well. Murmurs shot back and forth. Then Euron slammed his fist against the chair again.

“Quiet! Natasha, get ye to the northern isle. The rest of ye! Prepare fer war! Weatherby, Tooley, and Glastos, I want ye an’ yer men at the Graveway Lagoon immediately. Brunehilde, yer gonna carry anyone who can hold a blade to the fort. The rest of ye load up on bombs, incendiaries, musket shot. Oh, this’ll be just like the old days! Back when I vanquished Reddon, that dog, and Black Alice.” The eyes of the pirate king shone with remembered bloodshed. “Like the day I sank the Free Traders Association and burned their forts to the ground...”

Men and women moved to follow Euron’s orders, but Lina saw Natasha press close to Fengel and whisper in his ear. Lina couldn’t spare more than a glance for either of them, though. Instead, she watched the pirate king. He wasn’t even looking at them anymore. Instead he gazed off blankly, reliving glories long gone.

Lina felt cold.

Chapter Five

“Lanters, serve the pudding now, if you please.”

Admiral Wintermourn felt jovial, his mood buoyed by both impending victory and what had proved an exceptionally fine repast. The others present for the dinner party—all favored captains in the fleet and gentlemen of breeding—were not quite so cowed as his own officers. Still, Caldwell, Thomasen, and the others knew just well enough to reflect his attitude, resulting in pleasant conversation that echoed about his cabin all throughout the meal.

His burly sergeant adjutant leaped into action from his place along the wall. Lanters appeared grossly out of place in his ill-fitting footman’s jacket, like some sweating farmer’s livestock brought inside to escape a chill. He was properly subservient, though, and moved with a lively step towards the sideboard.

“Gentlemen,” said Wintermourn to the table at large. “A toast to our success over that ill-washed rabble—and to the glory of the Kingdom ascendant.” He held up a snifter of brandy, watching the amber liquid slosh about the glass as the assembly raised their own drinks in unison.

“Sir,” said Chesterly, the captain of the
Juggernaut
. “Let me be the first to congratulate you; by this time tomorrow, those airborne vermin will be nothing more than a bad memory.”

Wintermourn glanced at the ambitious young man. “Your praise is utterly misplaced,” he said, lowering his glass. “For that, the
Juggernaut
shall deploy to the rearguard.” He felt a small, vindictive amusement as the other captain paled. Such a position in any upcoming fight meant little chance of glory.

“No,” Wintermourn continued to the table at large. “I meant the Salomcani. Mongrel savages though they are, at least the sheik’s men lasted long enough to give us a few real fights. These island pirates are scarcely more than a nuisance, at best. Though they do need taking care of.” He raised his glass again. “Now, gentlemen. To the glory of the Kingdom!”

“For the Kingdom!” came the shout in unison.

Wintermourn drank deep, taking pleasure in the warmth that spread down his throat and through his chest. The liquor was ruinously expensive, as was the magically preserved fruit littering the table. Wartime rationing had left short commons all around, both in the Kingdom and even the rest of the Royal Navy. Command, however, did have its perquisites. The common sailors might have to sup on weevil-infested biscuit, but he’d be damned if
his
table wouldn’t be sumptuously set.
After all, things are done a certain way. Tradition is important.

The door to the cabin banged open as Crown Prince Gwydion strode in. Wearing his dark raiment, the prince was almost invisible against the night-clad outer deck, his pale skin making him seem a kind of night-gaunt bogeyman. Gwydion seemed jovial, however, with a wide smile on his lips.

“No toast for
me
, my good admiral?”

Wintermourn felt a moment’s panic as he stood, kicking his chair back so hard that it toppled over. “Your Royal Highness—”

Gwydion waved airily. “Worry not, my good admiral. Worry not. We’re all comrades here, eh? Soldiers at war? No need to stand overmuch upon formality.”

The assembled captains all shot to their feet as the crown prince turned to close the door. Shock and surprise had frozen them into immobility. That was no excuse, however, and Wintermourn glared death at the rest of the table. At least Lanters possessed the presence of mind to drop to one knee.

Gwydion ignored them all. He moved straight to the sideboard and examined the fare there arrayed. “Watercress soup, oysters on the half shell with mignonette sauce, braised hare with an apple garnish and almond-cranberry pilaf, along with an assortment of cheeses, jellies, wines, brandy and, ah! Even a pudding.” The crown prince grabbed a plate and began to heap it full. “Magically preserved, no less. Well, there’s certainly no danger of starvation around here.”

Gasps echoed around the table as the crown prince served himself. Wintermourn flushed in acute embarrassment and shot a glare at Sergeant Adjutant Lanters. “Sir, let my man—”

“Pish,” said the prince, turning back to face the assembly. “I’ve a pair of hands, and we’re far from the palace now. Soldiers all together, remember?”

He looked to the table for a place to sit. It was full, of course, the setting carefully designed for those naval men that the admiral had wanted to reward, test, or entrap. Chesterly was the first to respond, with what Wintermourn had to admit was admirable alacrity; the man had an eye for currying favor. The young captain grabbed up his plates in one smooth motion and stood back from the cabin table with them, bowing low.

“It would be my pleasure to offer my place to Your Royal Highness,” he said.

Gwydion smiled. “Ah, excellent. My thanks...?”

“Chesterly, Your Highness. Of the
Juggernaut
.”

“Excellent. You’ve just won yourself a place in the vanguard.”

The crown prince tucked a napkin into his collar as Chesterly beamed. Adjusting the longsword at his hip, he sat. Admiral Wintermourn frowned.

No. Later for Chesterly. There are more important things here.
The admiral felt a moment’s unease; it was rare that he had to be on his guard, socially speaking. He took a calming breath and waited for Lanters to right his chair. Then he adjusted his wig and sat, which was only appropriate now that the crown prince had seated himself. The other captains waited a judicious moment before returning to their seats as well.

“Sir,” said Wintermourn after a moment. “Let me apologize. If I’d known you were coming, I would have set a—”

“Mrgh,” replied the Crown Prince, his mouth full. “Not your fault, my good admiral. The action in Haventown took a goodly bit longer than I’d expected. I also took the opportunity to perform some aerial mapping of the waterway channels on the way back.”

Wintermourn paused, curious in spite of himself. “And how did that...sabotage...fare?” He already knew the answer that he wanted, that
had
to be given.

“Oh, miserably,” said Gwydion, spearing another slice of braised rabbit. “The fools took all damned evening to slip into the lagoon of that pirate town. Then they climbed the cliffs and snuck into the airship docks via the jungles. That all went well enough, I suppose, as not a single alarm was tripped, but they’d barely gotten any fires started before they were noticed and promptly slaughtered to a man.” The crown prince paused to shrug. “Was entertaining enough, in its own way.”

I knew it would fail. Damned cowardly way of doing things.
Wintermourn adjusted his neckerchief and cleared his throat. “Well, the cost was low enough,” he said. “Though it must be said that such skulking about has never advanced the cause of Kingdom. Victory is won by glorious battle, at a great cost of sweat and blood.”

“Yes, yes,” replied the Crown Prince distractedly, raising up an oyster. “You told me so, and whatnot. Worry not, my good admiral. The pirates are certainly stirred into a tizzy over our opening poke. They’ll come looking for a fight tomorrow—if we let them.”

Vindication mixed with the brandy to leave Wintermourn feeling heady. “Excellent. We will be ready for a proper fight, full of thunder and triumph—the sea at our back, our guns roaring. Our fleet is a hammer, and we shall crush those curs against the anvil of these isles. Let the pirates assemble and meet our lines. Nothing will save them then.”

The assembled captains shouted their agreement and pounded at the table, setting silver tableware clattering against fine porcelain. That everyone was so quick to agree proved heartening. Not only did it show a fine sense of purpose, it was clear that they knew which side their bread was buttered on.

His face froze, though, upon seeing the crown prince. Gwydion stared at him, frozen in midchew. Swallowing, he set down an oyster shell.

Then he laughed—great shuddering belly laughs that shook his slight frame and resounded throughout the cabin. The crown prince laughed until tears came from his eyes.

“Are you...are you all jesting?” he asked. “I swear, you’re all fossils, the lot of you. Though not
quite
so bad as my father’s Order Gallant.”

Wintermourn flushed. As Lord High Admiral of the Sea,
he
was a member of the Order Gallant. “I do not jest,” he replied after a calming breath. In his lap, his hands were folded tightly into fists.

“Then I shall be charitable and blame the lack of thought on the hour.” He leaned forward towards Wintermourn, hands steepled together. “Tell me, my good admiral. Do you think that a bunch of
flying pirates
are going to just line up for you to shoot them? No. They’ll drop from the skies and bombard us with all sorts of incendiaries and suchlike. Most of their airships are unarmed, though I’ve seen designs for things that I know their Mechanists to possess. Once they’re ready for us, they’ll fall on our fleet like a pack of starving wolves upon a lamb.”

“We’ve the new guns,” snapped Wintermourn, “and ours is the pride of Perinault. I remain confident that we will trounce the pirates.”

The crown prince sighed. “Your dedication is admirable. But no. Once they’re fully prepared, cleansing these isles is going to be significantly more difficult. Even if we drove the pirates back, what then? A slow, follow-through advance with overwhelming force, the usual tactic, is insufficient. Those damnable waterways thread through everything. Calling this place the Copper
Isles
is appropriate—it’s a collection of a hundred little islets. Sending any kind of overland force is going to be nigh impossible. And the path we found? It’s the only real way to Haventown, proceeding through a natural series of bottlenecks which are deathtraps, should any properly prepared defenders hold the high ground.”

“I assume Your Royal Highness is going somewhere with this,” said Wintermourn flatly.

“Of course.” Gwydion leaned back with a glass of brandy. “We will treat this action like a duel; we’re not going to let them prepare. We need to keep the pirates off-balance.” He took a drink, savoring it, and then held the admiral with his sharp, wolfish gaze. “I’ve had time to mull over that idea I mentioned earlier. After watching the progress of the earlier sabotage, I am convinced that it is a sound one. Speed is better than stealth, any day. Return to your ships. Send word to the rest of the fleet. I’ve changed my mind about tomorrow. The pirates are certainly distracted at the moment, just as I said they would be. So we begin the invasion in three hours’ time.”

A flurry of complaints echoed about the walls.

“What? That’s not nearly enough time—”

“It’s not quite midnight!”

“The men are all asleep.
Or
drunk—”

“We won’t be able to see a thing—”

Admiral Wintermourn held up a hand for quiet. The captains quieted.

“Doctrine dictates that, when possible, any fleet action should be initiated at high noon,” he said, “dawn at the earliest, for visibility and tactical advantage. If nothing else, navigating those waterways you so worry about, in the dark, will be impossible.”

“Not impossible,” replied the prince calmly. “The
Glory
will provide lighting from above. The galvanic lanterns are quite powerful enough. Send in twenty of the newest paddlewheel steamships, with the rest of the fleet held in reserve out here. They’ll have the easiest time of it and bring as much force to bear as we can, for the moment. Why send only men when we can have warships? I know for a fact that mooring anchors were built by bright lads back in Darrenway for attaching to these sheer coastal cliffs in order to offload the marines. They’ll be invaluable in those ravines—break them out. As for the men, rotate shifts as we prepare and get them awake after they’ve rested a bit.” He stopped to chew another bite of hare, meeting the admiral’s gaze as he swallowed. “Tell me, my good admiral, how wise would it be to wait for noon when fighting an enemy who flits about the sky?”