Maledictus Aether (8 page)

Owen, up in the crow’s nest,
clambers down from the rigging and sprints right on up to the helm,
barely out of breath. Captain Davis looks our way, hovering nearby
despite the fact that he trusts me enough to fly his ship – as he
still is the Captain. I take one look at my friend’s expression,
and my heart sinks.

“
They’ve
tracked us,” he states. “Portside, twenty klicks and coming in fast
– another at starboard, fifteen klicks.”

I look to the Captain, my ques
tion plain in my eyes – as they will catch up long
before we make it to Aeon, the Skyland still thirty klicks away,
and the galleon isn’t as quick as the Fleet’s airships, that’s for
certain.

Looking between the Captain, the Quarter Master and
the deckhand, I get an idea. It is
downright insane, and may get us all killed, but it is the best I
can come up with on such short notice – within the hour, they will
be upon us.

“
We wi
ll arm up the
cannons and prepare to engage,” Captain Davis is saying, and I cut
in before they can actually put that plan into motion.

“
Actually, I have an idea,” I state, and they look
my way. “I warn you, though; it is
crazy.”

The men regard me a moment, the
Captain crossing his arms, and Owen breaks the silence.

“
I like
crazy,” he admits, shrugging. The Quarter Master, Fulke, nods in
affirmation.

“
The lad
knows how these men think,” he adds on, both men looking to the
Captain – as this is his call. “Their tactics and such. How about
we go with crazy, just this once?”

Another crew member shouts at
us that our starboard companion is ten klicks away. Orin shifts on
my shoulder, sensing the tension, and I stroke the animal’s head
carefully, trying to calm it.

“
What do we
need to do?” Captain Davis asks me, and I grin, reaching for the
aviator goggles sitting on my head and pulling them over my eyes,
so that the world is reduced to murky shades of brown and
copper.

“
Tie yourselves down – this wi
ll get really, really rough,” I instruct, and they relay
the message as I jump down from the helm to the lower deck,
sprinting towards the engine compartment – the one thing I did not
have to learn, having already mastered that part well enough. I
open the hatch and slip in, much to the dismay of the two engineers
already in there.

I tell them the same thing, and for a second they look at
me
oddly before complying,
while I am already reaching for the wrench and screwdriver sitting
in the toolkit strapped to my left thigh. Orin wraps his tail
around my arm, as if sensing the oncoming turbulence, and I begin
unscrewing a pipe’s brace while turning off the steam to that
output, making the ship lose a few inches in altitude.

Working quickly, I remove the brace off two pipes and pull
the box of extra supplies on hand here with my foot, holding the
screwdriver with my teeth. I fish out a cap for the pipe, shutting
off the
Aether at the front
of the ship and forcing the airship into a nosedive that gradually
deepens.

The engineers shout in protest
while I work, connecting two pipes you wouldn’t normally connect
and screwing them together, tightening the brace with the wrench
before pocketing both and taking out a pair of wire cutters. My
heart is beating steadily in my chest, the way the mechanical heart
is created to, despite the adrenaline soaring through my veins and
the short and rapid intakes of air I’m breathing.

Cutting two wires, I take the
tips after pocketing the cutters and start twisting them to the
other wire, the engine spluttering briefly and picking up speed,
the hiss of steam loud as it picks up the pace. The clockwork
system grinds back into gear with the connection of the second
wire, and I secure both before pulling the lever again and
returning full power to the engine, eyes darting briefly to the
meter before I pull myself out of the room, apologizing to the
engineers.

From there, I have to use the
guardrail to pull myself to the helm, freeing a hand to tuck Orin
into my tailcoat before pulling myself up the steps, the whistle of
the wind in my ears making me glad I have my father’s goggles.

The three of
them are
staring at me as if I have gone mad as I reach the helm, one hand
on the override controls and the other holding onto the helm
itself, watching the meter fall as we lose altitude frighteningly
fast. We break the cover of the clouds and, far below, the cities
that are desperately holding onto the archaic way of life their
forefathers knew greet us.

“
Kennedy!”
Captain Davis yells, and I shake my head, knowing the wind will
whip my words away – it almost tore his shout away from my
ears.

Four thousand and dropping. I continue to wait, until we
hit the three thousand five hundred mark, where I pull on the lever
and the propellers burst to life with renewed
vigo
ur this airship has not
seen in decades, and with another pull on the second lever the
Aether comes back to life on the sails. Finally, I pull on the
lever that allows us to rise back into the sky, shifting the
rudders and using the momentum we collected on our way down to push
us forward even more, and the meter rises by the hundreds as I
guide the ship back on course.

“
Fulke, get the men on the canno
ns and ready to waste them – we are coming up right
beside them!” I shout, and with a nod he runs off to do as I ask.
Orin crawls out of my tailcoat, clutching on my right arm and
watching the events unfold. Eight thousand seven hundred
feet.

“
Owen, get the
Calypso
ready for a
landing – we will be there within the hour, I assure you,” I order,
and with a quick nod he goes to the lower deck to relay the order.
Captain Davis makes his way over, giving me a look the mixture of
shock, anger and approval.

“
I’
ve in my right mind
to thrash you, lad,” he warns me, and I shoot a grin at
him.

“
Let u
s save that for
when the Fleet is dealt with,” I reply sweetly, and the pirate
nods.

“
I must warn you, though, Kennedy; you
did
violate a handful of the rules I enforce here,” he
continues while I watch the meter. Nine thousand five hundred, and
the shadows of the hull of the other ships are visible through the
clouds. I give the order to prepare to fire. “You see my problem,
right?”

“
I do no
t see one
because there
is
none,” I reply evenly. We break the
cloud cover and I give the order to fire, levelling the ship out as
the shots ring in the silence of the sky.

“
Kennedy-”

“
I a
m a member of your
crew, and as such I am to be punished for this insubordination,
with or without your permission,” I finish, looking at him. He
looks almost sad when our eyes meet, but nods. “Once we are back on
course, okay? For now, we will start with the Fleet.”

Again he nods, looking out to
the airships that fall to the cannon fire of a ship eons older than
theirs. As they do I level the ship, turning us back on course at a
speed substantially greater than before – instead of three hours,
the time’s been cut in half at the very least.

The threat gone, I turn and
offer a smile to my Captain.

He just gives me that same, sad
look, as if a deep regret he cannot begin to voice is eating away
at his insides, and he cannot do a thing to stop it.

“
For the act
of endangering the ship and the lives of every man aboard, five
lashes; for the complete disregard of orders, seven lashes,” he
lists, reading these from a leather bound notebook he pulled from
his quarters. I stand by the main mast, my heart beating calmly
even though I’m on edge.

No sane man can mentally
prepare himself for what’s about to transpire, and to be quite
honest, I’m petrified.

With those and the two others listed, that makes nineteen.
Nineteen lashes from a cat-‘o-
nine-tails, as are the rules he has enforced on the ship.
As a crewmember, I am no exception, apprentice or not.

He hands the book to his
Quarter Master, the deck deathly silent as I quietly pull off the
gun belt at my waist and the one looping around my right shoulder,
both connecting to a copper ring, then unbuttoning my tailcoat and
undoing the cinches so I can slip out of it. I set it on a crate,
doing the same for my short-sleeved white undershirt and dropping
it by the tailcoat.

Walking to the guardrail, I
lean against it by pressing my hands against it and looking out to
the sky below. I hear him take the whip, and I close my eyes,
tensing for the first strike.

I a
m not afraid to
admit that I cry out when it comes, arching my back against the
pain. It is like nothing I have ever felt, burning up my spine as
soon as it hits and cradling me. I can hear Owen struggling with my
lizard in his arms, and without missing a beat Captain Davis
strikes a second time, the scent of iron making itself known. Blood
trickles down my back, and the seventeen other lashes come as
well.

After the tenth, I take them
without a sound, other than a grunt of pain – too tired to do much
else. By the last, I’m shuddering in pain, but I continue to stand
despite the overwhelming pain that threatens to make me pass out. I
focus on breathing deeply through the lump in my throat, screamed
raw, though it does little to alleviate the pain.

Finally, mercifully, I succumb
to the veil of darkness teasing at my peripheral, letting my mind
shut down and relinquishing all control to it as I black out from
the pain.

I a
m woken again, not
long after I collapse against the guardrail, by the sheer magnitude
of pain caused by three men carrying me off as best they can and
trying not to jostle me too much. Fulke follows them, carrying my
clothes, and Captain Davis follows them as they carry me into his
quarters. My sight swims, spots of darkness dancing across my
vision as the pain is sensed but not quite registered.

They lie me down on one of the
couches, on my stomach, and through the ringing in my ears I
vaguely hear Captain Davis order them to fetch a handful of items –
one of which is thrust to the side of the couch I lie on, a metal
tin. A few seconds later I feel my stomach clench, acid burning up
my throat as I cough up the contents of my stomach, heaving
painfully and forcing more tremors of pain to jolt over every inch
of my skin. The acid burns my nose and I cough against the
intrusion, a hand holding the strands of curly hair that are trying
to trail into the mess.

I collapse back on the couch,
lungs expanding for air every second as I hyperventilate. Something
cool and welcome presses itself against the wounds on my back, yet
despite the kindness the touch offers I arch against it, gritting
my teeth and shutting my eyes to the pain. The taste in my mouth
makes my stomach lurch again but, emptied of its contents, I simply
heave painfully.

They are speaking, but I a
m deaf to their words, lost in the world of pain and
fire.

Then, a different kind of burning on my back makes me black
out a moment, but only a second later I return, a scream
registering in my ears. I only vaguely
realise its mine, a cloth soaked in some sort of
alcohol cleaning the wounds.

This goes on for some time, blacking out and returning as
the lashes are treated, the blood flow staunched long enough for
the painful procedure of the sutures
. I faintly hear them ask if it would be a good idea to
give me a drink of rum, to quell the pain, but another voice
counters that idea with the conclusion that my stomach would reject
the liquid.

After what feels lik
e
hours, but is mere minutes, I am pulled into a sitting position
where they can then bandage the stitched-up wounds, fastening the
bandages securely before lying me back down on my stomach. I am
shuddering still, and a wave of exhaustion threatens me once more.
The crew members leave just as my eyelids slip shut, too heavy to
remain open, and Fulke and Captain Davis sit on the opposite couch,
looking exhausted.

I second that, and fall into a
sleep untroubled by dreams or pain.

Waking later on, I stiffly push
myself to my knees on the couch and glance around, my stomach
hollow and my throat raw. My movement wakes Fulke, sitting at the
couch still, and upon seeing me rise he stands and makes his way to
a cupboard by the other doorway I’ve never been beyond, reaching
inside.

“
Don’t move
around too much, Kennedy,” he suggests, coming back around with a
silver flask in his hand. He offers it to me, and I take the
object, unscrewing the cap and taking a curious sniff. “It may be a
bit hard on your stomach after what you threw up, but the Captain
suggested I give you this – to help with the pain.”

I nod, tipping the flask back and drinking its contents,
its neck against my dry lips. The liquor, a heady liquid with a
hard flavo
ur, rolls down my
parched throat and soothes some of the fire, before settling in my
stomach and pleasantly offering some comfort. I cough against the
taste regardless, unaccustomed to the flavour of rum, but the
Quarter Master stops me from closing it again.