Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (31 page)

“Sir,” he said, making his salute. “This place is even twistier than the docks around the
Colossus
. We’ll be walking into a hundred such ambushes here.”

Wintermourn gingerly pulled his handkerchief away from his nose. The flow seemed to have stopped for now. “Hoary locks of the Goddess,” he swore. “I’d thought any pirate with a spine vanquished already, yet they keep popping up on every street we turn down. They’re like cockroaches!” He paused to consider. “Very well. We shall treat them as such. Sergeant! We go building by building from here on in, so long as we can keep cover from above. Our objective is to take control of the Waterdocks. Eliminate
all
opposition. Be methodical.”

“Aye, sir,” he said with a salute, turning back to the Bluecoat column. “Secure that shack! Greene, Bryant, Slain, you’re all on point! Batter down the door if you have to.”

Wintermourn watched in approval as the men jumped to. Muffled shouts and the clatter of steel sounded within the little building. A few moments later the bedraggled marines emerged, hauling behind two little old ladies wearing bandoliers full of knives. The sergeant put them up against a wall and had them shot.

Wintermourn nodded in approval. They’d been pushed back, yes. They’d been bloodied. But they would not be stopped.

Next came a warehouse with a wide sliding door, just before an intersection. There seemed many such structures down here on the Waterdocks. It made a certain sense—pirates needed
somewhere
to store their loot, after all.

Bluecoats pulled aside the door to reveal a haphazard wall of carts and wooden pallets. Grimy, youthful faces appeared behind them, with swords and makeshift pikes at the ready. It was some gang of filthy hoodlums, without even enough gumption to serve with a pirate’s ship. The men dealt with them quickly, subduing resistance and putting them up against the wall as they wept and plead. Wintermourn felt acute satisfaction at the report of muskets, followed by the chain gang slump of fresh corpses collapsing.

Not everyone shared his enthusiasm. A few troubled faces appeared among the soldiery. Private Bryant was prime among them as the column marched to the junction up ahead. Wintermourn decided to have Lanters put him in the lead. One way or another, everyone would be reminded of their duty.

The intersection was dominated by a two-story tavern, a rusty cutlass above the door its only signboard. Wide, smoke-stained windows looked out onto the lane—perfect spots from which to prepare an ambush. The Craftwright’s Terrace above cast its shadow over all of it, the cliff wall it sat upon only a short distance away, past the tavern and a low warehouse. Wintermourn realized they’d almost doubled back through the twisty streets, ending up quite near to where the pirate bomb had blunted their initial advance.

Sergeant Adjutant Lanters ordered the men up to the front of the Rusty Cutlass, with Wintermourn observing from the middle of the street. The sergeant tested the latch, then kicked in the door. Bluecoats followed his charge inside, their battle cries mixing with the shouts of defiance from within. The soldiers emerged a few minutes later with captives. There were two older pirates, a middle-aged woman, a girl clutching a doll who couldn’t have been more than eight, and surprisingly, a Mechanist in his leather greatcoat.

Wintermourn felt his boredom fade.
Will wonders never cease
. Aside from their awful screaming cannons, the Mechanists had hidden from the battle, preferring to let the pirates do their fighting. Wintermourn considered. Perhaps this one could be of use, if only to avoid more of their infernal weaponry. “Well done, Sergeant Adjutant,” exclaimed Wintermourn. “Hold off on shooting them a moment. Bring that fellow over, so that we can have a bit of a chat.”

“Right,” said Lanters. He gestured at the other captives. “Put the rest of them up against the tavern wall.”

One of the marines balked. It was Private Bryant again. “Sir? The girl?”

“Your senses rattled, soldier? Up against the wall with ’er.”

Suddenly, the Mechanist dropped to his knees. He freed one arm and shoved a hand into a pouch at his waist. It came back gripping a grapefruit-sized black sphere with a complicated clockwork mechanism atop it. A bomb.

“Go!” he shouted at the girl, his voice muted by his mask. Then he thumbed the mechanical fuse and tossed it into the middle of the street.

The girl grabbed the head of her doll and pulled it free, revealing a stiletto’s blade with a plushy handle. This she jammed into the arm of Bryant, who cried out and fell back. The other pirates took advantage as well, biting, kicking, and fighting their way free.

Wintermourn stared in horror as the bomb hit the boardwalk and bounced towards him.
No!
He stepped back and reached for a Bluecoat standing to his right, then pulled the man in front of him.

The blast was a surge of force that slammed into his living shield and bowled the both of them over. Wintermourn fell to the boardwalk, stunned. For what seemed an eternity he struggled to recover;
this
way was up,
these
were his limbs, and
that
was his own saber he was lying uncomfortably atop of. Hearing was a loss, for the moment.

He thrust the soldier atop him aside. The fellow was dead, a ruined and bloody mess who had served with distinction at the end, even if he hadn’t meant to.

The Bluecoats lay about the street, similarly thrown back. Windows were shattered and the boardwalk splintered where the blast had gone off. Those closest had been likewise killed, but the bomb had stunned more men than it had done real damage. Sergeant Lanters was climbing to his feet, slapping his ear in confusion, one of his eyes red and bloody. The young girl had survived, along with the Mechanist, amazingly. Both of them ran away down the street, past the tavern and warehouse, headed perplexingly for the cliff wall.

“After them!” roared Wintermourn. His voice sounded weak and tinny in his ears, more felt than heard. “Get those bloody pirates!”

Sergeant Lanters looked to him, then followed his outstretched arm. He roared a command of his own and took off in pursuit. After a moment, a few of the less injured Bluecoats staggered after.

Rough hands helped Wintermourn up. He shoved the marines aside as soon as he could stand, drawing his saber with one hand and straightening his wig with the other. “On your feet!” he snarled at the marines all about him. “Get on your damned feet and get after them. And if any one of you kills that Mechanist before I get to him, you’ll hang for high treason!”

He led the remnants of his force down the street. It didn’t take long to catch up to the other marines. They clustered at the back of the warehouse, where a number of the thick brass pipes emerged from the solid rock, climbing up to the Craftwright’s Terrace and beyond, cleverly hidden by the shadows.

“What are you doing?” demanded Wintermourn.

Lanters turned back, revealing a stack of crates between the warehouse and the wall. The Bluecoats were prying at them with their muskets and smallswords. “There’s a hidden door here, sir,” he said. “They slipped right through before we could nab ’em”

“Then get it—”

The Bluecoats heaved, and something snapped with a metallic ping. The stack of crates slid out on oiled hinges, all of a cunningly crafted piece. An opening wide enough for two men was revealed, leading down a passage that descended into the bare rock of the terrace wall.

“Hmm,” muttered Wintermourn. Lanters and his Bluecoats looked back, awaiting his orders. The opening could lead anywhere, really. Some sort of mine? The Mechanists could have any number of nasty surprises waiting.
I’m certainly not exposing myself to another of those screaming contraptions.

But he’d be damned to the Realms Below if he’d let those two escape.

“Sergeant Adjutant,” he said. “Take a pair of men and go down there. Find the Mechanist. Find out where this goes.”

Sergeant Lanters raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Sir? What about the rest of the Waterdocks?”

“I am the ranking navy field officer here,” replied Wintermourn in tones of iron. “I will lead the company. Who is your second?”

“The platoon sergeant,” said Lanters. “Greene! Get over here!”

Wintermourn glanced back at a marine with a bloodied coat and a battered hat, one of the bomb-battered others running hurriedly over to join them. He stopped to make a salute, and Wintermourn curled his lip. He had little use for tardiness.

Well,
any port in a storm, as they say.
Though the fellow certainly wouldn’t get a promotion out of this.

“Good enough,” he said to his adjutant. “Now get below and do your duty. We’ll have control of these Waterdocks soon enough.”

“Sir!” Lanters made his salute, grabbed two men, and entered the hidden passage with his blade drawn.

Wintermourn watched him disappear. Then he turned to Sergeant Greene and the marines standing nearby. “Back to the intersection!” he barked, sheathing his saber. “Form up and move out. We’ve still got a job to do!”

Technically, Greene probably should have given the command. Wintermourn was in a hurry, though; there was a lot of ground still to cover. And the man was a marine officer, after all not even possessing a real rank.

The company moved away from the Rusty Cutlass, continuing on to another series of warehouses. He had eighty-some troops left in fighting shape, more or less. It would be enough, if they kept up the momentum. Soon they marched along again, the very picture of efficient conquest.

Progress came slowly, though. The next few buildings were excellently situated for ambush. Under Wintermourn’s eye, Sergeant Greene led the men to secure each one, just waiting for a pistol shot or battle cry, followed by a rush of blades. Most were empty. It did prove tedious, nerve-racking work, though.

Still, the men did what they were told. Any reticence had been quashed by the Mechanist’s bomb. Anger stiffened their spines. Bit by bit they marched, conquering this ridiculous pirate town, even if the rest of the fleet floundered about in the lagoon just beyond it.

The final warehouse in the area was small, in an out-of-the-way corner of the Waterdocks. It was short and padlocked from the outside. The lock was heavy and well made, better protection than Wintermourn had seen so far on any of the other warehouses. And quizzically, while it seemed that the pirates didn’t want anyone getting inside, several brand-new crates were haphazardly stacked up against the wall near the door, as if put there in a hurry. Sergeant Greene and a trio of men moved cautiously over to examine it and listen carefully at the door. They whispered in hushed tones to each other before Wintermourn’s new second returned to him.

“Sir,” said Greene, snapping a salute. “There’re people inside this one. Not saying anything, but there’s plenty of shuffling around.”

Wintermourn raised a condescending eyebrow at the man. “So? Break the door down, then, and kill them.” He didn’t care if it was a whole pirate orphanage this time. The men and women inside would die.

Greene licked his lips nervously. “Beg pardon, sir. But those crates are marked. I think the pirates are storing tea in there.”

Admiral Wintermourn paused. “Tea, you say?”

The Bluecoat nodded. “Aye, sir. Marks are from Greisheim, Zhong-hei, Capricanto. From all over. They must have hauled a bunch of crates outside to make room, though they had to be in a hurry. Rest of the warehouse has to be filled with it. Can’t imagine why it’s locked from outside, though.”

A whole warehouse full of ill-gotten tea, eh?
This was valuable cargo. And it had been positively ages since he’d had a good cup. Wintermourn considered a moment.

“Hmm,” he mused. “Let us try to minimize the damage, then. Line the men up in a semicircle around that door, muskets at the ready. Then hack off that lock. Let’s give these poor fools a chance to surrender.”

Greene nodded, then looked back to him in shock. “Sir? We’re taking captives?”

Out the corner of his eye, he saw the marine, Private Bryant, sigh in relief. The man would be dealt with summarily, once this task was finished. “No, of course not. As you were, Sergeant Greene.”

The Bluecoat ducked his head and gave the order. As his marines took their places, Wintermourn strode forward with his hands behind his back, just far enough away that he could be heard clearly. Greene moved past, coming up to the door with a drawn pistol before firing at the lock. There was a pop and a flash, and it fell to the boardwalk with a clatter. Green stepped aside, ready to grab the door handle, and nodded to Wintermourn.

“Ruffians and scurrilous knaves!” he began. “I know that you’re in there. Come out with your hands up, and you will be treated fairly.”

He smirked, turning to share the jest with the rest of the Bluecoats. They joined in with a chorus of snickers, as they well should have.

A long moment passed with no reply. Wintermourn frowned. Surely the pirates heard him? He could hear their rustling now and the shifting of many feet. “Have a care,” he continued. “My patience grows very thin, you scallywags. It will not last forever.”

Silence, and the distant boom of battle. Near the door Sergeant Greene jerked his head aside and covered his nose with the back of his hand. Wintermourn smelled it too: the faint whiff of old meat. Was someone keeping a dead cow in there?

This is what I get for trying to be reasonable
. “Very well, then,” he said. Wintermourn turned and marched back behind the first rank of Bluecoats. “None will say that I gave you less than every chance in the world,” he said frostily. “Sergeant Greene!”

The Bluecoat nodded. He reached out and grabbed the handle to the warehouse door, then hauled it back, opening it out into the street and taking cover behind it from the muskets of his fellows. No one fired, though. Instead, cries of shock and horror rang out among the marines. Wintermourn himself only stared.

Corpses stood in tight ranks within the warehouse. They were locals, pirates and townsfolk both, all hideously wounded and in varying stages of decay. But they still moved. They shuffled back and forth and bumped into one another, a constantly rustling pack of the living dead. As one, they looked out onto Admiral Wintermourn and the Bluecoats.