Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (25 page)

“That is a treasonous line of thinking,” snapped Wintermourn. “Whatever we think of him, personally or professionally, the boy will one day be our liege lord.” He yanked his arm free, though not as harshly as he could have. “No, we follow his commands, as is our duty.” He made to turn away, then stopped. “And by doing so,” he continued in a whisper, “we give him just enough rope to hang himself.”

Captain Roderick stared a moment before nodding sharply. “Very good, sir,” he said, standing up straight. “We’ll move our lads back aboard, then prepare to lead the assault.”

He stood aside, gesturing for Wintermourn to take the chair. Wintermourn returned the nod, then sat. As the marines lowered him, he watched the naval vessels flowing into the lagoon.
For all that the princeling barks, these ships are mine. I am the Lord High Admiral of the Sea—the navy listens to me, seamen and marines both. He would do well to remember that.

Once back aboard the
Colossus,
he gave full vent to his ire. The lieutenants were called to order and berated soundly, then allowed to return to the task of repairs and preparations for the assault. They took their own irritation out on the rest of the crew, driving them to speedy progress. The blood on the deck was washed with sand. Debris and broken rigging were removed. Spare powder and ammunition were brought up from the magazine. The elevated cannons were shifted free of their complicated carriages and recalibrated. Quickly, the moans of the injured and the weary complaints of sailors were replaced by the sounds of industrious labor. Wintermourn approved, unsmiling as always. Aboard his ship, men knew their duty. Not that it ever hurt to put the fear of the Goddess into them.

Wintermourn chose the order of battle in accordance with the prince’s wishes, then conveyed it to the rest of the invasion force. He ordered the marines back aboard from the clifftop to the ships marked for the vanguard. Quietly, Wintermourn spread word for a small force to remain with the battery of antiairship guns and move them up to the old fort. Even the querulous crown prince couldn’t disagree with protecting those weapons still in the field. Or if he did, no word came down from above.

In short order, everything was ready and in position. The order was given, and the
Giantess
led the way into the eastern channel,
followed by the
Colossus,
then the
Titan.
  After the vanguard came the remaining warships, each chock-full of Bluecoat marines and battle-hardened sailors. The waterway wasn’t quite so narrow as those that came before. It still wouldn’t allow two ships abreast but lacked the twists and tight turns that threatened to dash them up against the cliff walls of the channel.

Shouts echoed down from the foliage atop the cliffs as pirate stragglers tried to outrace the warships on foot and return home with a warning. A few seemed to find their backbones, as evidenced by the pop and smoke of musket fire among the foliage. They caused only a handful of light wounds, however, and brought a fusillade of return fire from the Brass Paladins aboard the
Glory
above. Wintermourn sharply reissued his commands for the marines to hold fire. It would have been satisfying to annihilate the upstarts, but only the
Glory
had any chance of hitting them now. These few pirates wouldn’t be a real threat unless joined from above by their airships.

Which there was no chance of at all. The rest of the enemy was gone. Trails of black smoke hung across the otherwise empty sky; even
Solrun’s Hammer
had escaped intact. Those few that could be glimpsed were all directly to the east, fallen back to their home port in search of safety. Which they wouldn’t find. With every moment the fleet closed the distance. In the waters below, Wintermourn spied the corpses of pirates that had fallen in the frenetic retreat from the Graveway.
Before we’re done, these waters will be choked with Haventown dead.
It was a promise he intended to keep. And then they’d burn the bodies, just to be safe.

The end of the channel appeared past the
Giantess
up ahead. Wintermourn felt the old thrill seize him. Regardless of how they’d gotten here, the real objective was now in sight. He had his officers ready the men. It was a redundant order, but a good one to give all the same.

“Sergeant Adjutant, prepare the marines. First Lieutenant, we push on directly for the nearest dock; beach us if you have to. The rest of you—”

Cries of alarm called back from the
Giantess
as the warship entered the lagoon. Wintermourn looked ahead to see the stern of the vanguard ship veer hard to port, the paddlewheels along her hull suddenly churning. Then the cacophony of twin broadsides erupted from beyond.

Their thunder echoed down the channel, followed a heartbeat later by the sounds of splitting wood and tearing metal. Men in blue coats went flying from the ship and down into the water of the lagoon—or to hammer against the cliff wall.

Wintermourn stared. The pirates had been waiting for them. He slowly nodded in satisfaction.
Good
.

The
Giantess
hadn’t quite cleared the channel mouth, but close. Wintermourn rounded to face his first lieutenant, pointing for the gap. “Make to starboard, full steam ahead!”

Lebam nodded, grabbed the speaking tube beside the wheel, and relayed the command down to the engine room. In moments the rumble beneath the deck changed as they were received. The
Colossus
sped down the waterway, veering for the gap between the stern of the injured vanguard warship and the wall of the ravine.

The gap closed from fifty yards away to twenty to none at all.
Too narrow!
Wintermourn had just a moment to brace himself. The bow of the warship slid through easily enough, but the great paddlewheel housings along the hull were too wide. Everyone on deck staggered as the ship collided along its outer edges, the housings ringing against the cliff face and the stern of the
Giantess
like a pair of great brass bells. Metal squealed and tore, but still they slid by, momentum pushing them through. Then it was over, and the
Colossus
was in Haventown Lagoon.

The pirates were indeed ready for them. The lagoon here was as large as the Graveway, fed by a number of smaller waterways. Two ships floated at anchor just inside the mouth,
Fortune’s Loss
and the
Saltspray
, canted to present their broadsides straight on to the invaders, their crews busily reloading. The path between them led straight to Haventown on the opposite end of the lagoon, where the pirate township rose from a series of terraces cut out of the cliff wall itself, webbed over by brass pipes. All of the retreating pirate airships were here, floating above, attached to the highest terrace. A single airship, the
Moonchaser
, hovered directly overhead, ready to bombard any Perinese vessel that made it within the lagoon.

Wintermourn considered quickly. It was barest luck that they’d pushed through as they had. They could weather anything the
Moonchaser
dropped, but if those ships fired again...

He didn’t mean to let that happen. “Straight on down their throat,” he roared. “Gunnery crews, fire as you bear!” A quick check back revealed that the impact had pushed the injured
Giantess
out of the channel’s mouth. The assault could continue, so long as the
Colossus
opened the path for the other ships.

The calls of the gunner’s mate rang out as they pulled abreast between the
Saltspray
and
Fortune’s Loss,
both older ships lacking in modern steam-driven technology but no less deadly for that. Their crews swore insults and fired muskets. His own cannons gave answer as both port and starboard gun crews fired away. A few of the pirates’ own cannon crews had managed to reload, and for a moment everything was a senseless chaos of sulfurous gunsmoke, shattered wood, and the screams of dying men.

Then it was over. The
Colossus
was through. Half-deafened, Wintermourn thought he heard the pop of muskets shot and bomb bursts from the
Moonchaser
above. Most of the Bluecoats and sailors hunkered on the deck below; only a few had been slain by an unlucky cannon shot.

Dead ahead lay the lowest levels of the pirate township, where a series of piers stretched out into the lagoon. Wintermourn picked the nearest, at the far end, then turned back to order Lebam towards it.

The first lieutenant was dead. His corpse slumped against the helm wheel, a hunk of ruined meat. Behind him, Thomasen had been blasted as well, along with the remainder of Wintermourn’s own useless lieutenants. Even the sunburst flag flapping from the rear of the ship had been shredded. The sight gave him pause. He had not even felt the blast that killed them all, and only a quirk of positioning had saved him from the same fate.

There but for the grace of the Goddess...
well. This hadn’t been his first close call, not by far. It certainly wouldn’t be the last, and he hadn’t gotten to where he was by being useless.

Wintermourn moved to the helm and kicked Lebam’s corpse away from it. He grabbed the wheel and threw it, feeling his ship twist them straight for the empty berth at the bottom of the pirate township docks.

Damnation. I’m going to have to find a new helmsman now
.

The plumes of cannon fire bloomed along the terraces of the city, flinging iron balls that called up great waterspouts in the waters of the lagoon. It was impossible to see where the guns were hidden—the pirate haven seemed a ramshackle warren of sagging buildings and firetrap alleyways, all stacked one atop the other.

The pirate town grew with every moment. Men cried on the deck and fell still. Wintermourn barely heard himself as he roared commands to hold, to prepare to go ashore, to
hold
, by the Goddess, or he’d see them all dance from the yardarm.

Pirates and townsfolk appeared on the docks ahead. Some were on the ships, some were on the piers, and a few hunkered atop the lower rooftops, muskets and ancient blunderbusses and even crossbows at hand. Wintermourn saw both men and women ready to fight, young and old. He curled his lip at them. The Haventowners couldn’t even muster a proper group of defenders. They were uncultured savages.

A musket ball whipped past his head. Wintermourn grimaced and grabbed for the speaking tube as the prow of his warship passed the end of the starboard pier. He shouted down the tube to the engine room, calling for a full stop. Too late. The
Colossus
gave a great shudder as her bow slammed into the boardwalk, which snapped and crunched like kindling as the vessel pushed even farther into a shoddy warehouse, which violently arrested its motion. Wintermourn was flung up against the wheel. Through the spokes he saw the Bluecoats on the deck below topple as well.

Sergeant Adjutant Lanters knew his role, though. The man was on his feet in an instant, shouting for the men to advance ashore, for king and country. They responded by throwing down the boarding ramps and pouring out onto enemy territory with a roar on their lips and weapons in their hands, a blue-backed, black-capped army.

Wintermourn used the wheel to pull himself back up to his feet. He glanced around his ship, battered and broken by the charge, a season’s repair in dock by his estimate. Blood pooled around the corpses of sailor and Bluecoat alike, littering the deck like so much debris.

The damage to his ship dismayed him, as did the part his own reckless bit of seamanship had played. But he looked out back across the lagoon to where the other warships followed in his wake, tearing the defender vessels to pieces as they came. He looked up to where Crown Prince Gwydion engaged the
Moonchaser
and Brass Paladins fired from the
Glory of Perinault.
Most of all he looked out at the Bluecoat marines surging onto the piers with muskets and smallswords and the sunburst flag of Perinault at hand, driving back the degenerate pirates, whores, and vagabonds with blade and ball. He decided that the cost to get here had been worth it—any cost would have been.

Finally, Admiral Wintermourn let himself smile.

Chapter Twelve

Captain Fengel ignored the pop of musket fire and considered the question calmly.

He rubbed at his beard as they made their way down the Flophouse Terrace boardwalk. “Aha,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Eight-Eyes. That’s what I called him.”

Beside him, Mechanist-Aspirant Imogen stumbled. Her boots made a staccato tromp as she fought the weight of her satchel for balance. Recovering, she stared up at him, face still somewhat puffy from her allergies. “That’s Mechanist Second Class Isaacs,” she said, scandalized. “He’s responsible for all things involving optics. The goggles he wears are his own invention.”

“They still makes him look like a damned prat,” Fengel replied in vexation, stepping once more past Cubbins. The fat orange tabby cat was seemingly inexhaustible in his affection and had gamely kept up with their pace.

Haventown’s middle terrace was frantic as they threaded their way through the narrow alleys along its southern edge. Townsfolk boarded up windows and passed out weapons while Mechanists ran on orders of the Cabal. The sounds of battle raging down in the lagoon drove them on, their widespread panic only barely checked at the moment.

Fengel had hoped for more time to prepare. He had hoped that Natasha would find Euron’s Voorn relic and make all this moot. The sight of the pirate airships returning to port took care of that, though. It seemed their only chance now was the mad scheme of the Mechanist Cabal.

A part of him wanted to join in the panic. The Perinese had moved far more quickly than he would have thought possible. He wanted to rush up to the Skydocks and find out what had happened, to get news of Henry Smalls and the others, to organize the defense. But he had a command again now, and the enemy was at the gates.
Never let them see you stumble
.