Chasing the Lantern (31 page)

Yet something was off. They were indeed catching up. With each passing minute they grew closer and closer. That shouldn't have been the case. Mordecai wondered what had happened.
Had they sustained damage?
Did something happen to them?
It was obvious from the frantic scurrying that the enemy crew was aware of their presence. Why weren't they moving off?

Natasha gasped in surprise. Mordecai looked up at her, then walked to the portside rail and followed her gaze. His captain looked not at the
Dawnhawk
, but to the jungle down below. Peering down, he found himself blinking in surprise.

The jungle ahead of them fell completely away to reveal a wide valley with sheer cliff walls. Between those lay a city, the source of the ruins his lookouts had seen. Mordecai had never spied anything like it. It was massive, alien, and very strange. And far from empty. Figures moved about it, sized like human children, though odd in shape. They clustered in the streets below the
Dawnhawk,
hovering over the center of the city, and Mordecai heard the cry of their voices. Scryn, those dangerous flying nuisances, soared over the streets in agitation at the noise.

"What is this?" he wondered aloud.

His captain stared. Then she shook her head, narrowed her eyes and cast her gaze back at the airship off their bow. "It doesn't matter. We'll find out later, after we take our ship back."

The figures on the
Dawnhawk
moved frantically about. Fengel turned his airship about. Mordecai frowned. What had they been waiting for? There was still a chance at escape, the
Queen
was a wreck, but it was a slim one. Natasha growled as the
Dawnhawk
tacked ponderously into the wind and let it carry them to the far side of the valley.

"Damnation," she hissed. "Blast it!"

"We can't catch them," agreed Mordecai flatly. They were down to burning doors and cabinets scavenged from the interior for fuel.

They watched the airship pick up speed. Then, amazingly, it stopped. The
Dawnhawk
reached the northern wall of the valley, but rather than pass over it, she turned her nose eastward, following the cliff-line.

Natasha and Mordecai shared a look. They didn't waste time in wonderment, though—something was very odd here. Mordecai called out orders to the helm to give chase.

So it went. The
Dawnhawk
would fly ahead, the
Copper Queen
would chase doggedly behind. The stolen airship refused to leave the valley. But though she was faster and more refined, the
Dawnhawk
was still a dirigible, with limited maneuverability. Bit by bit they closed upon her.

Finally, they caught up. The
Dawnhawk
had performed a full circuit of the valley, back to where it had started on the west-most cliff, only a dozen feet above the canopy. But now Natasha's Reavers were only a hundred yards away. Fengel made to turn her west. Natasha ordered the cannon fired across their bow. The report was thunderous, and made the whole
Queen
groan and creak alarmingly. Yet the message was clearly understood.

Mordecai moved back to the helm, his place for the moment. He ordered the crew armed and ready for boarding. Hooks and grapnels were brought out. A barrel of powder was brought up from the magazine for those with muskets and pistols. Natasha moved to the starboard rails, ready to lead the action, hungry for it.

The defenders did what they could. Muskets were brought out and potshots fired, doing little damage. Lines were formed to repel the assailants. Mordecai saw Lucian striding back and forth, shouting orders and calling for discipline. But nowhere did he see the tricorn hat or shining monocle of their captain.

Fifty yards left. Then forty, then thirty. The grapnels were thrown and muskets fired. Mordecai watched a number of his men fall. Natasha herself flinched aside as a ball cut her cheek. The losses were more than acceptable.

The airships ran together with a crunch.

Natasha howled a bloodthirsty cry and leapt over the gunwales. Her men followed her, blades in hand and murder on their minds. Even the white ape went, leaping over to the
Dawnhawk's
gas-bag. Fengel's crew were prepared, though. Muskets fired at point blank range. Boarding axes hacked at the ropes while their mates covered them from above.

There was no clever distraction this time, no crewmen waiting to swing across and catch the defenders from the rear. It was a struggle in the old way, with blood staining both decks and sulfurous gun smoke tainting the air. The defenders slew a few of the boarders, those not quick enough or skilled enough to hold their own against so many on so many sides. Natasha though, held her own.

The piratess hacked about her with reckless abandon, anger giving her the ferocity she needed. Natasha wasn't nearly as skilled as Mordecai, but she was no one to ignore. She slashed with her cutlass back and forth, and when someone tried for her blind spot, she calmly drew a pistol and fired it.

Reaver Jane dropped down beside her. The skinny woman was a wire-whip, deadly and vicious with her long knives. Between the two of them, they formed a bridgehead that allowed another crewman to come over. Bit by bit, they made the boarding.

Mordecai took another look at the deck. He didn't see the giant gunnery mistress, Sarah Lome. Nor did he see Captain Fengel, or the ever-present Henry Smalls.
Where in the Realms are they?

He had no more time to worry about it. The pressure was mounting on Natasha. It was time for him to join the fray.

Mordecai moved to the press of yelling men and women on their side of the struggle, and with curses and back-handed blows, made his way to the front. He drew his cutlass and went over, fighting beside Natasha, Reaver Jane, and three others.

It felt good to wield his sword. The fight against the white apes had been too surprising and desperate to enjoy. There was also a catharsis to be had. The foes before him now had wronged him. They had stolen his ship, shamed him before his crew and captain. It felt good to lay them out.

Mordecai hacked forward into the face of the man before him. His opponent fought in the new style, and brought an off-hand dagger up to block the blow. Mordecai ignored the sword he held; the quarters were too close for his opponent to really use both. He pressed forward, sliding the blade back and ramming the man in the face with the basket hilt of his own blade. Cartilage crunched and blood flew on the air. His opponent screamed as his nose was broken, pulling instinctively back and giving up more room.

Using the time and space just bought, Mordecai drew the blade back sideways, across the bare neck of a man fighting Natasha. Blood sprayed from a cut artery. Mordecai ignored it, turning back to his original foe and lunging into the now-open space, running him through. The man gasped and fell to the deck. Mordecai freed his blade and moved on.

Mordecai slew efficiently, workmanlike. Pressed at the back by the others on his crew, he scythed through the defenders with deadly efficiency. A few blades licked out at him, a few lucky blows were struck. It was inevitable, with quarters so close and the fighting so furious. But nothing was lethal or even really much of an inconvenience. Pistols were fired at him, but the charm in his ear warmed and the bullets whizzed past, deflected by its aether-wrought magic.

The press cleared. The defenders fell back and spread out, no longer united, two-dozen individual duels springing up as they fought for their lives. Mordecai moved to a free part of the deck and took a moment to search for the leaders. Fengel, Lome, Smalls, Maxim: none of them did he see about the deck. Only Lucian, at the far end of the ship now, barking out commands and holding his own against two other men.

Mordecai frowned.
Where in the Realms Below are they?
Without the others in the fight, things were going poorly. Fengel's men fought well, but Natasha's Reavers were angry, and desperate, and bloodthirsty.

Time to end this
. If Lucian was the only one in command, then that was where he needed to be. Mordecai moved to make his way down the deck.

A short, boyish form landed right before him on the deck. It was a girl, a waif with blond knife-hacked hair, ill-fitting clothing, and leather gloves. She'd leapt out from one fight to his left, ducking under someone's legs, and rolled to a stop. She looked up at him in surprise. Mordecai recognized her. She was the one who had cut the rope he was climbing back near the
Albatross
.

He narrowed his eyes. "You," he snarled.

"Oh, no," she said. "You."

Mordecai raised his cutlass. But the waif was quick. She was on her feet as the blade came down at her. She backed away, bare inches from the edge, and brought a single heavy dagger up to guard herself with.

Mordecai advanced. He lashed out again, testing her. The young woman yelped and threw her weapon up to block the blow. His heavy blade crashed into it and sent her back. Mordecai brought his cutlass back into guard and raised an eyebrow at her.

Something dark flew at his head, screaming. Mordecai ducked and drew back. Raising his eyes he saw a wide, serpentine shape winding through the air, red light emanating from its belly to reflect upon the deck. To his amazement, the scryn circled around and landed on the waif, who held up her now-empty arm to it. The creature landed and wrapped itself around her shoulders.

"Chirr!"

"No! Not now Runt. Get off, you're too heavy!" She struggled with the thing, trying to dislodge it. For its own part, the scryn didn't want to be removed, and used its muscular length to grip onto her even tighter.

Mordecai stared a moment, then shook his head. He wasn't the sort to give up an opportunity. He raised his blade and stepped forward.

The waif looked up at him, eyes wide. She threw out one scryn-wrapped arm at him. "Runt! Kill!"

The creature turned to him, rising up. It flared its body wide, shining hellish red light at him. The scryn opened its jaws, mandibles flexing, and hissed. Poisoned spittle flew everywhere.

Mordecai raised his blade instinctively and fell back. The poison spattered across his arm and blade. Where it touched his bared wrist the skin instantly went numb. Thankfully, though, he'd been quick enough, and his face was unmarred.

Some sixth sense warned him just in time. He ducked, and the scryn flew overhead, tail whipping down to jab its stinger at his eyes. It missed by a hair's breadth. Mordecai cursed and leapt forward, hacking with his sword. He had to keep the waif on the defensive, before she could use the distraction for those knives, or before her pet could wheel back around.

The blade passed through empty air. He glanced up; she was gone, running away towards the starboard gunwales. Mordecai leapt after her with a snarl.

She heard him. Reaching the rail and the exhaust-pipe there, she wheeled around to face him, half-stumbling on a coil of rope tied to a stanchion up on the rail. Her eyes were wide and uncertain, though she did not appear frightened. For some reason, that angered him.

"Nowhere to go, girl," he said, slowing. "Now I'm going to—"

Her eyes warned him. He turned and punched out with the basket hilt of his sword. It caught the scryn in mid-flight. He felt its muscular, ropy body impact and deflect, knocked away and back into the melee.

"Runt!" the young woman yelled.

Mordecai turned back to her, an ugly smile on his lips. She looked left and right for help. None was coming. She was trapped. Mordecai decided he would take his time finishing her; he owed her a debt from the scene at the beach.

"Don't think I'll give you quarter, girl," he said.

She narrowed her eyes and sheathed the dagger on her hip. "I wasn't about to ask you for it," she said.

Quick as a cat she grabbed up the coil of rope at her feet and threw it overboard. Then she danced up the exhaust-pipe, took some of the length in her hands, and jumped overboard.

Mordecai stared. Then he leapt forward, lashing out with his blade. It missed, biting into the wood of the gunwale instead. He yanked it free and then bent out over the gunwale.

She was falling, halfway already to the green canopy of the jungle a dozen feet below her. He couldn't reach her. It might as well have been a hundred. She was escaping. The young woman looked up at him as her part of the rope went taut. Her eyes were merry and she laughed at him.

Mordecai growled.
Oh, no you don't.
He hefted his cutlass again and hacked out, this time at the knot around the metal stanchion on the gunwale. It parted and went flying away. He leaned out again over the rail just in time to see her plunge into the canopy, eyes wide in surprise and sudden fear. Mordecai leaned back with a smile, darkly amused.

He threw himself back into the fight, working his way back to the helm where Lucian fought with Natasha. They were evenly matched, the two of them. And just versed enough in dirty trickery enough to counter the other.

Lucian spied Mordecai's approach. He cursed and gave ground, trying to fight his duel and command the crew at the same time. Natasha pressed her attack and Mordecai moved in on her flank.
I must have pleased someone
.
Things seem to be going my way today.

Fengel's first mate put up a valiant effort, but it wasn't enough. Mordecai put his counterpart's blade into a bind and then disarmed him, sending Lucian's sword flying away. He then punched the man with the hilt of his cutlass—Lucian, and satisfyingly, some of his teeth, went sprawling. He recovered quickly and made to stand, but paused when Natasha lowered the tip of her blade to his throat.

"What," asked Mordecai. "No clever escape this time?" He moved closer. "No witty repartee?" He felt pleasure at the dark glower of the other mate.
How does it feel now, you little shit?

Lucian said nothing. He peered past his captors at the battle on the deck. Without his guidance, it was going poorly. He looked up at Natasha. "Spare the crew. I ask for quarter."

"Well, you're not going to get it," snarled Mordecai. "You and Fengel have been an irritant long enough—"