Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (42 page)

“You little rat’s arse,” she said. “I’m going to jam that gun so far up your backside you’ll spit sparks when you cough. Who are you?”

Oscar tightened his grip on Allen, who choked. “You don’t recognize me? I’ve been on your ship all this time, and you don’t recognize me?”

“It’s Oscar Pleasant!” snarled Lina. “He’s the one that led the damned Perinese onto the Skydocks. He slipped aboard the ship afterward—no wonder we couldn’t find him. Oscar! You traitorous bag of shit. I’m going to make good on that promise I made you last year.”

He glanced up at her. “Lina Stone. Goddess above, I’ve been waiting to teach you a lesson.” He dropped his spent pistol and drew another. “Now I’ve got your little milksop friend here, and that’s not all.”

“Enough of this!” snapped Morgan One-Eye. The Castaway took a step forward towards Natasha. “I’m taking command, you brat of Blackheart.”

Natasha ignored him. She gave a violent shrug that flung Butterbeak into the air. Then she locked the wheel in place and pulled a series of levers on the gearbox beside it. Somewhere below the deck, the engine gave a great thump. The propellers buzzed like a nest of angry hornets and the airship lurched forward. Great gouts of steam billowed out from both exhaust pipes, damaged and not. The
Dawnhawk
strained under the pressure, pushing forward for home as hard as possible; if she could hold together, the trip wouldn’t take long. Only then did her captain step out to squarely face her foes. “How did you get aboard my ship?”

Morgan laughed, the rest of his companions joining in. “We climbed the damned ladder! Running away from that big brass monster back to our village, and what did we see but yer airship and a rope ladder just dangling from it! So we climbed aboard and hid away, and then you got us away from that damned island.”

Natasha glared angrily past the Castaways. “Omari!”

The aetherite was trying to find her balance as the airship sped forward. “I was busy with the ape!” she cried.

Morgan ceased chuckling. “Enough. Now we’re away from the monster. So we’ll be taking yer ship now.”

Natasha drew her own cutlass. “Over your dead body,” she snarled.                       

A clarion roar echoed out from below the airship. The deck of the
Dawnhawk
jerked violently; the Dray Engine had awoken.

Reaver Jane chose that moment to hurl a boarding hatchet, which hammered into the skull of a Castaway. The rest of the Lina’s crewmates charged the newcomers, who raised their weapons and shouted in defiance. Then the battle was joined.

Chapter Twenty

Admiral Wintermourn gasped, tasting ash upon the air.

He glared down at Private Bryant, who knelt beside his makeshift chair wrapping a bandage around his bare chest. “You incompetent boob!” Wintermourn snarled. “Have a bit of care!”

Private Bryant ducked his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just, the splinters left a jagged sort of wound, sir.”

Splinters.
Three-inch shards of wood stuck in my ribs, more like
. Such wounds were common in the aftermath of a broadside. He’d watched men bleed to death from them without even realizing that they’d been wounded. But when during that mad chase after Euron Blackheart had it even happened to him? Wintermourn could not say. “Worry less about what caused the wound,” he said, “and more with stanching it!”

The soldier nodded, then bent back to work. Admiral Wintermourn winced, shifting in his seat. All around them, the Haventown alley was a claustrophobic mess. He sat on an empty wooden rain barrel, watching as Sergeant Greene frantically formed a fire brigade. Those marines not too injured passed barrels of hastily scavenged rainwater down the alley in an effort to quench the blaze at its end. Adjutant Chesterly stood there too, screaming commands at the twenty Brass Paladins as they mindlessly wandered through the inferno that had been the Cock O’ the Green Tavern.

Even if he hadn’t been too weak to countermand the up-jumped ex-officer, the sudden overhead bombardment from
Solrun’s Hammer
had been devastating, a parting blow as she fled for the safety of the upper terraces. He’d managed to avoid further injury himself, thank the Goddess, but he could only watch in frustrated rage as the Brass Paladins recovered before the men. The machines effortlessly tore apart the damned barricade, only to find the pirates had managed to flee a little farther.

The tavern had seemed a futile gesture, understandable though it might have been in the face of the clockwork monsters. But when they broke down the door, it exploded into the inferno that even now threatened to spread. The pirates had killed themselves rather than be taken alive. It was utterly mad.

And I wanted to kill you, Euron. You were mine by rights. My prize. I’d have had you, to the Realms Below with these wounds and the bombs and damned Chesterly. I’d have had you, you craven old fool. But now you’re gone. Which...works to the same thing in the end, I suppose. Victory. And none of you will rise again from this pyre you’ve built yourself.

“About-face! No, not that way—you...you damned wind-up machines! Just...just listen to me! Argh!”

Adjutant Chesterly stood as close to the burning tavern as he could get, sweating profusely and getting in the way of the Bluecoats. Wintermourn listened to his frustrated screams in amusement. With any luck, the fire-blinded automatons would melt into slag.

“High Admiral Wintermourn?”

Wintermourn looked up to see a fresh-faced young naval field officer, a lieutenant commander he did not know. The man was smudged and dirty from battle, but he still wore his embroidered jacket neatly. A squad of similarly uninjured Bluecoats stood at his back, black-capped, holding their muskets at the ready.

Where in the Realms Below have you come from?
“Yes?”

The officer gave a salute. “Lieutenant Hollyway, off the
Leviathan
. His Highness Crown Prince Gwydion requires and requests your presence along the docks.”

Wintermourn’s irritation rose anew. “And how am I to reach him through that war zone? Besides, I’m overseeing this operation here. If we don’t get it under control, this whole damned part of the city could burn.”

“The
Glory of Perinault
has landed, sir. We’ve taken the lagoon and quashed the pirates there. Their airships have fallen back, crippled. Deployment of the marine companies is taking place all along the Waterdocks.” Hollyway nodded up the street. “As for this...” He gestured at the screaming adjutant and the blinded, tottering forms of the automatons in the skeleton of the burning building, “I’m instructed to let the royal adjutant see to it.”

A great crash sounded at the end of the street as the roof of the tavern fell in. Fire and ash flew out, choking Chesterly and those Bluecoats nearest him.

Wintermourn shrugged. Chesterly wanted to be responsible for this mess? Let him, then. Good, even. “Very well,” he said. “And it’s about time the rest of you showed up.”

He rose to his feet, shrugging off Bryant. Gingerly, he dressed himself again; first his shirt and then his jacket, and then he yanked his sheathed saber from Bryant’s outstretched hands. He took his time straightening his wig, even though Hollyway fidgeted impatiently. The man might be here on an errand of the prince, but he seemed to have forgotten that he was fetching the Lord High Admiral of the Sea, one of the king’s own Order Gallant. Wintermourn hurried for no one.

Especially that infuriating fop of a crown prince.

His breath came easier now than before. “Greene!” he shouted, buckling his sword back in place. “Put someone else in charge and get over here.”

The sergeant obeyed, limping over to attend him. Wintermourn sighed. He actually missed Sergeant Lanters, he realized. Where in the Realms Below was the fellow? Cleaning out that pirate bolt-hole should have been simple. He would have to think on an appropriate chastisement when the sergeant finally returned.

At least Greene had found his hat. Donning it, Wintermourn looked to Lieutenant Hollyway. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

Hollyway made his salute. Then, obviously wanting to be off, he marched them all back down the street, following the winding path that led out of this mazelike warren of a town.

Something had indeed changed, Wintermourn realized. Away from the clangor of the alley, he realized what it was: the omnipresent sounds of battle had faded. The occasional musket pop still sounded, but the blasts of cannons and bombs had disappeared. Overhead, the pirate airships clustered in tight knots around the Skydocks, lit by early evening twilight, looking battered and worn. Hollyway was right—they’d won the lagoon.

And I’ve won the city
. With Euron dead and the rest of the Waterdocks scourged by their invasion, there shouldn’t be anything stopping his reinforcements from climbing up through Haventown. It would be hard, messy work, digging out every last pirate, whore, and urchin still hiding in their hovels. But now it was only a matter of time until the sunburst sigil of Perinault flew from the highest terrace. The Copper Isles truly belonged to the Kingdom now.

The close-knit boardwalk streets widened as they made their way out to the lagoon. Echoes reached Wintermourn, of many polished black boots marching in unison. Hollyway led them around a corner, and he sighed in relief at the sight.

Navy warships filled the piers lying directly ahead. The
Leviathan
and the
Cyclope
sat  in port, their gangplanks down to disgorge mostly fresh marines onto the docks, the sunburst sigil flying proudly from atop their rigging. Other ships filled the lagoon behind them, their splintered and broken masts poking up through clouds of roiling smoke as they jockeyed for position. They thumped and collided, their captains screaming epithets at each other. Wintermourn wanted to snap at them—he wanted to take direct control and bring order to the mess. But, no. The faster the better. He was tired of these pirates. It was time to bring this action to an end.

Hollyway gestured to a nearby building with all the hallmarks of a dockside tavern. It was squat and low, with a rickety stair leading up the back to a shanty atop the roof. Stray cannon fire had cleared most of that away, leaving an almost perfect landing pad for the bulbous form of the
Glory of Perinault
.

Wintermourn didn’t wait for the lieutenant commander. He crossed the boardwalk and ascended the stair with Sergeant Greene limping along after him. The steps shook and wobbled alarmingly as he climbed.

Gwydion was waiting for him. The crown prince sat at the base of the gangplank in a fine chair that had obviously been brought down from the airship, wineglass in hand. An attendant stood beside him, quietly waiting with a bottle of wine. The airship captain, Broadlow, leaned against a remnant of a wall with a glass of his own, staring up at the pirate city. Spaced out along the rooftop stood the royal guards, eyes cold and halberds at the ready.

“Ah!” cried Gwydion as Wintermourn climbed up past the staircase. “My good admiral, how wonderful of you to join me.” The prince rested his wine on the arm of his chair and snapped his fingers at his attendants. “Another glass—and be quick about it.”

Wintermourn wanted to refuse on principle, but after the smoke and fire and all the action, a bit of wine sounded rather fetching. He took the offered glass and raised it in salute, then drank deep.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said, putting a bit of edge to his voice, “should you really have landed the
Glory
here? Pirates could fall on this location at any moment.” He glanced pointedly back up the terraces of Haventown, past the edifice of the Gasworks, to where the airships floated, around the Skydocks so high above.

Gwydion made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, you worry too much, Admiral. I’d say it’s one of your charms, but you haven’t any, really. No, after the drubbing we gave them, the pirates are in full retreat, at least for now. Didn’t get any of the captains, but there’s been a hideous cost of lives, both theirs and ours—they’ve barely enough men left to fly their ships, from what I can tell. Any bombing passes they make now would wreck their own city—not that I think they’ve munitions enough left for it. So drink your damned wine and tell me what you’ve been up to here.” He held out his glass for a refill. “You are to be commended, my good admiral. Not a one of the other useless captains made landfall save yourself.”

A part of Wintermourn just wanted to needle the prince. To prod and poke at him like one would a chained bear. Anything to twist that smirk off his face. The man—the youth—really, was insufferable. The wine was good, though, and the day had been effectively won.

“Landfall
was
the objective,” repeated Wintermourn. “I swear, some days there isn’t a sailor in the fleet worth a damn. Everyone was getting fouled up by these reprobates, so I went ahead and created a beachhead.
Myself.
When it was apparent that no one would be joining me, I conquered this terrace.” He took a sip and smiled. “Single-handedly, I might add.”

Gwydion snorted. “Until the Mechanists deployed that screamer of theirs.” He laughed. “I’m going to want what’s left of it later. And you have been trying to capture those madmen in gas masks, yes? I gave an explicit order, I recall. But! It was a good thing I gave you my Paladins. They’ve certainly proved their worth by now.” He paused to shake a finger. “Though you could have taken better care of them.”

“They did prove their worth,” agreed Wintermourn frostily, “and then old Euron Blackheart dropped a wall on them. Your wind-up toys proved nearly useless after that, so we pressed on.” He paused to sip his wine, enjoying the crown prince’s frown. “Good men of flesh and bone served out where clockwork failed. Not that the pirates gave us any real resistance.”

Gwydion raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Wintermourn thought back to dead men who wouldn’t fall. He saw their rotting claws scrabbling for his eyes, empty maws hungry for his flesh. The scents of wine and ash faded against the memory of rot and desperate sweat. Wintermourn drained the rest of his wine, forcing away the image.