Chasing the Lantern (30 page)

Rastalak covered his face with one hand. "Woe! The curse of the Great Masters has proven strong, however. The Burning Eye has corrupted those hands I trusted, bringing itself back to blight my people."

The Draykin guide quieted. Fengel frowned. A kernel of discouragement had taken root as Rastalak spoke. Fengel shook his head, clearing it.
Silas Thorn stole in and took it away without a hitch
.
No reason why we can't do the same
. And then he'd have it, and Natasha wouldn't. Though these Draykin would likely be more alert this time. He shrugged away the concern.

His crew recovered their companion. Fengel forbore from a withering chastisement. They were short on time and his disapproving stare should have to prove sufficient for now. With Rastalak leading the way again, they were back into the jungle, a seemingly endless expanse of thick foliage, biting insects, and creeping vines.

The moon rose high, and then sank low again. They encountered several more ruins along the way. Rastalak steered them around each time. Now properly warned, Fengel and his crew encountered no further issues. The Draykin treated each ruin oddly. It requested quiet as they passed, be they monolith, ruins, or simple statue. Fengel thought at first it was simple prudence, avoiding detection by the others of his tribe who would be presumably angered at their approach. It occurred to him that the cause might be something different, however; Rastalak hissed in displeasure when they would touch the stones, even just by accident.

It was obvious to Fengel that the ruins were not built by Rastalak's people. The Draykin was short, but there was something else. The dimensions were too strange, the archways too tall, the stairs too deep. Bas-relief decorations could be half made out, and though weathered and shrouded by the dark, the beings they depicted were unlike any other people he had ever seen or heard of. For all its obvious inhumanity, Rastalak was closer to man that whatever odd race were responsible for the construction of these monuments. He wondered what their relation was, these builders and the Draykin.

The answer came quite unexpectedly. 

During their travel the sky had darkened to blackest night; now it lightened again into the rosy glow of pre-dawn. As they walked the jungle became lighter and more sparse, both easier to see and traverse. Though they'd walked all night, Fengel was filled with a kind of restless energy. The gem, the Lantern, was nearby. Soon it would be his.

The underbrush thinned. Fengel moved across flat, warm ground after their guide, his trousers soaked by sweat and condensation. Up ahead Rastalak stopped at a thick banyan tree, beyond which Fengel didn't see any others, or any other growth, for that matter.

Fengel caught up to their guide. He climbed up on a high root beside the Draykin. "What is it?" he asked. "Why have we stopped?"

Rastalak was staring out past the tree. Fengel followed his gaze and his jaw dropped.

There were no trees and no undergrowth, because there was nowhere for it to grow. The earth abruptly gave way to a cliff wall that dropped down three hundred feet to a valley floor. The valley was a mile wide and roughly two miles long, encompassed on all sides by sheer stony cliffs.

The valley was not empty. Stair-stepped pyramids, low, wide houses, and towers constructed in strange unreal whorls filled the space, separated by broad thoroughfares of paving stones. The tips of the tallest buildings towered hundreds of feet above the ground, just below the lip of the chasm, higher than any building Fengel had ever seen, even those back in the old cities of the Western Continent. The stonework of each structure was a soft gold in color, shot through here and there with silvery lines that seemed to almost shine. Flying lizards and the eel-like scryn swooped from niches in the upper structures to fight, hunt, and play.

It was the city they'd seen the evening before from the
Dawnhawk
. Fengel felt a moment's incredulity. They'd walked all night but barely covered a few miles.

"Behold," said Rastalak with reverence. "Yrinium. Ancient seat of the Great Masters."

"The Voorn," said Fengel in realization. "These are Voornish ruins. That's who made all this." Artifacts and ruins from the old race were found occasionally back on Edrus, bits and pieces of the civilization that had come before those of man. But nothing like the city down below. He was possibly the first living man to gaze upon this place.
I wish Natasha could see this
. Immediately, he quashed the errant thought.

"Voornehai," nodded Rastalak. "The Great—"

Their guide broke off. It twisted its head suddenly, as if hearing a sound. It looked back the way they'd came and hissed. Fengel turned, hand automatically to his saber. The rest of the crew were crawling along, obviously exhausted. Henry Smalls led their way toward him, Gunny Lome at the rear. Fengel spied something past her, hiding in the bushes only a dozen paces at her back. A face, reptilian and long-muzzled. Just like Rastalak.

Their Draykin guide hissed something in its own tongue. Fengel didn't understand, but the meaning was clear. "Alarm!" he cried. "Sarah, at your back!"

Gunny Lome was a warrior born. She whirled, drawing her cutlass as she did so. The hiding Draykin leapt from the bushes, a spear upraised and ready to throw. Sarah took in the threat and squared herself, ready to dive aside.

A spear flew through the air. It caught Henry Smalls in the back and he went down, eyes wide, still trying to understand the danger. Fengel shouted in denial and drew his blade.

Draykin appeared, seeming to rise out of the very earth itself. There were dozens of the short reptiles. They hissed and screamed, and then the battle was on.

Chapter Eighteen

I really hate this ship
.

The
Copper Queen
lumbered through the air like a pregnant cow. It swayed, not always with the movement of the wind. The light-air cells were a third depleted and the others rolled around loosely within the gasbag frame. As if that weren't enough, the support struts and cables stringing the ship itself to the 'bag were on the verge of giving way. Several had already torn and been rapidly replaced.

Mordecai had just woken for his shift, yet still felt exhausted. The last eighteen hours had almost killed him. He felt like murdering someone in turn for having had to live through them. First had been the repair of the
Queen,
as mishap after mishap revealed the little life left in the craft. Then they'd returned to the wreck of the
Albatross
to load aboard the lingering treasure, supplies, light-air canisters, and anything that would burn for fuel. After that, Mordecai would have been glad to put the whole sorry adventure behind them, to return to Haventown if they could, or simply to Breachtown where they could scuttle the ship and make their way home via smuggler's routes.

But no.

Mordecai hated Fengel and wanted him dead. Yet this desire paled beside that of Natasha. His captain was driven, almost manic. At several points he'd thought to sway her from her mad course. Every attempt had been met with withering scorn. Still. He thought he'd almost had her. Until they'd seen smoke on the horizon, and then a distant, shining dirigible in the light of the setting sun. There'd been no choice then, though still he tried. It galled him to watch Fengel go, but the
Queen
would never catch the
Dawnhawk
now. They had just enough coal and burnable fuel scavenged up for a return to Haventown.
That
was their best bet at the moment. Go home. Set a trap. Fengel's Men would have to return sometime.

That wasn't happening. Natasha lashed them onward. Mordecai had spent all night keeping their haphazard vessel aloft and chasing their prey. On the verge of passing out, he'd slipped down below to rest for an hour or two, and had only just now been kicked awake by his captain, her face grim, preparing herself for a fight that he knew would not happen.

The pre-dawn twilight set the eastern sky afire and the canopy below them a softer shade of blue. They flew lower than Mordecai would have liked, but that could not be helped. To the northeast hung the
Dawnhawk
, a speck against the horizon, just barely visible.

He yawned, just as a spring popped free from the rudder linkage overhead. It shot out past where his head had been a moment before, across the deck, whistling over the tired and edgy crew up to the bow, where Guye Farrel was coiling rope. It pelted the man hard across the back of the neck and Mordecai watched him topple, momentarily stunned. He hit the deck, then shot up, swearing and yelling at the ship, the men around him, and the more notable aspects of the Goddess. Other members of the crew started to mutter, either at the rattletrap airship they all worked to keep afloat, at Farrel, or just at their situation.

Mordecai knew a tipping point in the making when he saw one. He didn't intend to let it even form. The crew hurriedly bent back to their tasks as he stalked down from the aftcastle deck, yelling orders and cursing them aloud. He stalked up to where Farrel was ranting and quieted the man with a glower, until Farrel looked away to sullenly coil rope again. Mordecai turned and strode back down the deck, sighing under his breath.

Sad thought it was, he missed their Mechanist. Well, not really. But the youth's skills would have been invaluable now. Mordecai somewhat regretted leaving him behind.

The sun finally rose above the horizon to spill gold across the jungle below them. Mordecai marveled for a moment, caught by the view. The Yulan was amazingly clear, its clouds high and distant. He could see for miles and miles in every direction, even to the omnipresent Stormwall bordering them distantly to the west. Even the
Dawnhawk
looked clearer, its magnificent frame shining, the skysails along its side all but glowing.

Mordecai frowned. He stalked back up to the bow. Guye Farrel flinched at his approach; Mordecai paid him no mind and drew out his spyglass instead. Through it, the
Dawnhawk
resolved, far clearer than it should have been. They were gaining ground.

Fengel had to see them. The clear skies of the strange jungle continent worked both ways. It was possible that the
Queen
hadn't been spotted during the night.
Possible, but not plausible.
Mordecai had been working under the assumption that they were making a pursuit they couldn't possibly win.

So why were they catching up?

He strode back down to the aftcastle. He took in the status of the ship as he went and ordered crewmen to tighten ropes here, loosen the rigging there. Back near the captain's cabin their lone cannon lay lashed to the deck. He ordered five crew to free it and secure it up on the bow. Then he ascended to the helm.

Konrad had the ship's wheel in hand. The aetherite was muttering to himself, probably arguing with the invisible daemon on his shoulder. The man hadn't dealt well with their recent troubles. During the last surprise attack and theft of the
Dawnhawk
, his counterpart Maxim had unleashed some apparently extremely unpleasant hex upon the man.

"Navigator," said Mordecai. "Bring us over six degrees. See if you can get us some height."

Konrad started at his voice. He turned tired blue eyes toward Mordecai. "What is the point?" he asked in his thick accent.

"We're gaining on our prey."

The ship's navigator stared at him, then nodded slowly. Mordecai turned away and descended back to the deck, where the door to the captain's cabin was shut. He rapped on it, waited, and went to rap again. Before he could knock a second time, however, the portal opened wide and Natasha glared at him, eyes bloodshot and baggy. She couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour. For a wonder, she didn't stink of booze.

"What?" she asked, voice tight.

His captain looked half-mad. Mordecai wondered whether he should tell her. But duty won over in the end. "The
Dawnhawk
is dead ahead," he said.

She scowled. "Tell me something I don't know," she said, disappointment coloring her voice.

"We're gaining."

Natasha stared at him. Then she threw open the door and sauntered out onto the deck, brushing past him. She was still dressed, though her shirt was un-tucked and both her boots were missing.

The pirate captain strode up to the bow. Mordecai followed quietly as she stared out at the world. Natasha hissed suddenly, like a cat. She slapped the barrel of the carronade that the five crewmen struggled with.

"Get this mounted," she ordered them. "Dead ahead. Cut open the old gun ports in the bow again if you have to." She turned to Mordecai. "We've plenty of powder and shot left?"

He nodded. "I only dropped about half of what was in the magazine. We could fire all day if you really want to. But they have to see us. They know we want them dead. There's no way they'll let us catch up close enough."

"I don't care," said Natasha. She was almost vibrating with excitement, and her smile was ugly. "Get us closer, Mordecai. Get us back on top of our ship."

He returned to the helm and ordered the crew, keeping his thoughts suppressed. The sun rose, revealing more of the world around them. To his surprise the lookouts called out again; there were buildings ahead, just below where the
Dawnhawk
was hovering.
What's this?
Could they have found something?

Mordecai waited impatiently as the distance shrank between the two airships. He saw their prey clearly now, even spied the little figures running about on the deck. Anger, thick and raw, surged up in his breast, surprising him. Fengel had stolen his ship. Twice now. It was galling and incredible at the same time. Occasionally spats did arise between pirate captains. But never before had Natasha's Reavers come out the worse in these exchanges. Natasha herself fought harder and more ruthlessly than anyone Mordecai had ever known, desperate to move out from under her father's shadow. And until that tussle with Fengel aboard the
Dawnhawk
he had never found his match with a blade. This chase was no longer a futile desire of his captain's. He looked forward to the impending struggle. He would
relish
it.