Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (11 page)

“Nevertheless,” said Wintermourn in tones of iron. “Attacking before dawn—”

“Will leave the enemy far more vulnerable when we do cross blades. If our boys were to try hopping from islet to islet, or worse, were we to send one ship at a time up those channels, we would get picked off and swarmed, even with the
Glory
to assist. If they’re ready when we send in a column, the pirates will bomb at their leisure, stopping up our whole advance and turning the waterways into a graveyard. No, we’re not going to give them that kind of chance. I mean to get the drop on them and be in that pirate town when the sun rises, if possible—that or this Graveway Lagoon, at the worst. Oh. A standing order: any Mechanists encountered are not to be harmed. Capture or cripple them, but do not kill them.”

“I cannot—”

“I do not care,” hissed the crown prince, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. “Admiral, you seem to forget yourself.
I
am in command of this fleet action.
You
are my subordinate. Do not think to test me upon that. Do not think it at all.”

He dropped his fork and grabbed the hilt of the longsword at his side. It slid an inch from the sheath, shedding soft golden light that illuminated the room.

Wintermourn stared. “Danlann...” he whispered, recognizing the Blade of the Kingdom itself. The sword wasn’t just Worked, it was a powerful and priceless object, the subject of countless legends through five hundred years of Perinese history.

The silence that followed was absolute. Wintermourn looked to the crown prince and held his gaze. The assembled captains of the fleet watched on. Wintermourn knew his face was flushed. He felt enraged that someone would dare speak to him so.

But what was to be done? Higher authority could only come from the king himself. And if Gwydion’s royal father had given him
that
blade... Wintermourn looked away. He reached up and straightened his wig. “Very well,” he said at last. “We attack in three turns of the glass.”

“Excellent,” said Crown Prince Gwydion, lifting his glass for another drink. “I will go aloft again shortly to rest and prepare. The rest of you, be about it. Really, though, I must say that you serve quite a table; the food this evening has been excellent.”

He looked away, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. Wintermourn jerked his head towards the cabin door, and the assembled captains quietly left. Sergeant Adjutant Lanters moved to clean the table. None of them dared to catch the admiral’s eye.

Wintermourn pushed past them all, storming out onto the deck of the
Colossus
to give his own orders. He ignored the pair of royal guards bracing the doorway, fully ready to vent his frustrations on the crew.

You are not king yet, pup. Do not forget that.

Rousing the crew of the
Colossus
at such an hour was irksome. Expecting the attack on the morrow, none were in any state of readiness. He snarled at Lebam, his first lieutenant, who transferred orders frantically, and all his other officers moved to chivy the men awake or away from their grog. Once so ordered, all moved with alacrity. Any malcontents had long ago been made examples of. None wished to provoke the admiral’s wrath, from the first lieutenant to the lowest seaman. Wintermourn kept a keen watch from his perch upon the rear deck. The crown prince may have been beyond his reach, but he could damned well punish with impunity any slacking or shirking upon his own ship.

Other ships came to life as their captains returned. Men raced to and fro along other decks, shouting orders that echoed across the water until the whole fleet seemed alive, like a hive of ants stirred into readiness. The spreading bloom of oil lanterns revealed the might and power of the Perinese Royal Navy, quickly made ready in even the darkest hours.

The sight was comforting. It was a show of strength, of righteous efficiency. There was no chaos here, no fires blazing out of control. Certainly, there were no murderous corpses tottering about in a hideous, counterfeit version of life.

Wintermourn shook the memory away. “Sergeant Adjutant Lanters,” he said stiffly.

“Sir?” The burly sergeant stepped forward, having discreetly replaced his serving jacket with the blue jacket and trousers of marine dress uniform.

“His Highness’s commands were clear. Let’s give some order to this mess. I want Lebam back up here with the signalman on the double. Send to the
Behemoth
that she’s to form ranks ahead of us. The
Ogre
and the
Giantess
will tail us, along with the rest of the fleet. Oh, and signal the
Juggernaut
that she is to have the vanguard.” Wintermourn felt darkly pleased. That pup Chesterly might get his wish for glory, but Admiral Wintermourn would make damned sure that he got the danger that went along with it.

“Aye, sir,” replied the sergeant, who touched his forelock and ran off.

His lieutenants appeared almost as if by magic, and Wintermourn was surrounded by a clutch of golden braid that issued further commands and gabbled among themselves about wind speed, heading, and other such trifling concerns. He ignored them, watching instead as anchors were raised and great paddlewheels started to turn, shining wetly in the oil-lit night. The mooring anchors—long pikes attached to stout chain—were lifted up from cargo, should the
Colossus
need to anchor itself to the island cliffs ahead.

Minutes ticked by as the fleet changed shape. The crown prince returned to the
Glory of Perinault
, and then the airship ascended aloft. Those vessels Wintermourn had specified churned the water until they were in position, aimed like an arrow at the dark mass of the isles.

Then came time to wait. The long hours would be rough on some, but Wintermourn had never really slept all that much and did not care—his officers had learned long ago to adapt. The rest of the crew were more bluntly animalistic in their needs, so he ordered a skeleton staff to keep his ship in formation while the others took their rest. The
Colossus’
s company of marines would perform the brunt of the fighting to come, but men were tools, and it was never wise to dull one’s tools without a modicum of reason, even if most of them would be discarded.

At last Lieutenant Lebam turned the hourglass one final time. As he rang the bell, light bloomed up above. It was the
Glory
, shining a powerful galvanic lantern down upon the bow of the
Colossus
. As Wintermourn watched, the single beam split into three, swinging back and forth among the ships in the lead formation. Calls sounded across the water as paddlewheels began to turn. Lieutenant Lebam gave the order, and the
Colossus
leaped into activity. Ahead, the
Juggernaut
took the lead as the whole formation followed, crawling through the waves of the Atalian Sea.

The invasion of Haventown had begun.

Their destination was difficult to make out in the dark. The Copper Isles were a stark mass that grew with every passing moment. In a handful of minutes, Wintermourn discerned the crash of waves upon the cliffs of her shores, resounding throughout the night. The lanterns of the
Glory
revealed turbulent waters crowned with shifting foam. Beside the vanguard ship, spires of rock appeared, smoothed and chipped by the passage of so many pirate vessels over the years. Gwydion’s airship shifted a light, illuminating the chosen waterway ahead: a ravine between two rocky cliffs leading into the interior of the isle.

The walls of the passage yawned wide, swallowing the
Juggernaut
. Wintermourn felt a moment’s relief—there was more room here than he had allowed, though certainly not enough for comfort. Two ships could not have gone abreast, and the crow’s nest barely poked level with the top of the cliffs.

Then came their turn. The shadowed waterway held them close, amplifying the cries of the sounding-men as they called status from the bow. Visibility ahead was lower than anyone could like, and Wintermourn felt an unusual moment’s sympathy for the
Juggernaut
. Fortunately, Lieutenant Lebam was possibly the best sailor in the fleet. The man knew his craft, well enough that Wintermourn had purposely sabotaged the fellow’s chances at advancement, simply to keep him aboard the
Colossus
.

Behind them, the third ship in the formation followed, then the fourth. One by one the fleet made ingress into the isles, with not a single enemy resisting them. Which was a disappointment. Crown Prince Gwydion’s plan was working, Wintermourn supposed, but why all this dangerous fuss just to avoid a pitched battle? What was the point? Dying in the fray was what men were
for.
Putting the ships at such risk was almost unconscionable.

Cries of alarm yanked him from his reverie. Ahead, the
Juggernaut
shifted alarmingly to port. Her crew assembled with poles, pressing out to prevent the warship from crashing entirely into the cliff wall. Wooden spars scraped and squealed, a few snapped, and the port-side paddlewheel housing skidded along the rock, shedding sparks that were bright even in the light from the
Glory
above.

“Hidden current!” yelled Lieutenant Lebam from back at the helm. “Wheels to half speed! Men, to the port-side railing—and take up spars!”

The steam engine buried in the guts of the ship gave a mighty rumble, and the
Colossus’
s wheels shifted. White steam blew from the stacks in great gouts as men ran across the deck to prevent the collision the
Juggernaut
had suffered.

It was enough, barely. Wintermourn felt his ship shift as a current grabbed ahold of them. Lebam swore to the Goddess as he and the second lieutenant threw their weight against the ship’s wheel to compensate. They veered dangerously close to the rock walls of the port-side cliff but slid past without colliding.

The vanguard warship recovered, Chesterly proving not entirely incompetent. But just as the way seemed clear, the
Juggernaut
lurched again with the shifting current. For the next hour, the column fought treacherous waters; the
Juggernaut’s
warnings were barely enough to protect the
Colossus
from further damage, with First Lieutenant Lebam yelling almost constant changes in heading. If the
Glory of Perinault
had not been at hand, this advance would have proven not only impossible but a costly waste.

Then the current slowed. The way became easier, providing a reprieve. Wintermourn released his grip on the rail ahead of the helm and took a deep breath. It seemed as if the worst was over, for the moment.

The current faded away almost completely, forcing them to engage the paddlewheels. Ahead, the channel walls widened. Wintermourn shook himself and glanced about. Had they reached the Graveway Lagoon already?

He called over the navigating lieutenant and consulted. No. According to Crown Prince Gwydion’s reconnaissance—and the traitor pirate Oscar’s maps—there was a smaller, nameless collection of several waterway channels before the Graveway. This had to be it, then.

Still, the place was ideal for assessing the column.
And if we’ve lost a ship to this damned nighttime escapade, I’ll have more than a few choice words for that pup.
Wintermourn paused at the seditious thought.
Possibly
.

Gentle waters lapped the channel, which was just wide enough for the
Juggernaut
and the
Colossus
to fit comfortably abreast. Tawny light illuminated the vessels as the airship above played its lamps across the cliff walls, causing veins of ore to peek back at them through masses of jungle vines draping from above.

“Lieutenant Lebam,” said Wintermourn, “full stop, if you please. Sergeant Lanters, pass me my telesco—”

A musket shot echoed out across the water. One of the seamen along the starboard gunwales jerked and fell to the deck. Wintermourn looked to the source, a cloud of expanding gunsmoke along the cliff top fifty yards distant.

“To arms!” shouted Sergeant Adjutant Lanters, rushing to the rail beside the admiral. “Marines to arms! Enemy fire to port!”

Crewmen and marines alike leaped into frantic activity as the
Glory
illuminated the cliff. “Really, Sergeant,” drawled Wintermourn dismissively, “a single sniper is nothing to be overly concerned about. In fact, it’s about time these pirates showed themselves.”

A staccato ripple of musket fire exploded from the cliff top, and lead shot ripped across the deck of the
Colossus
, splintering wood and eliciting cries from the men who were hit. One ball whipped past only inches above Wintermourn’s face, tearing through the brim of his hat and flinging it from the powdered curls of his wig. He stared at his fallen hat as the fusillade fell quiet. Then Wintermourn felt a surge of righteous anger.

“I don’t care who is on that cliff,” he snarled aloud, straightening his wig. “I want them dead! Bring up the new guns! Get those cannons aimed and loaded! Marines, form a damned proper line and fire as you will!”

Officers, marines, and sailors all moved to carry out his orders. The Bluecoats raked the cliff top with their muskets, dropping down to reload and allow their fellows clean shots. Sailors unlocked the new eighteen-pounders from their moorings and elevated them; the carriages of these guns had been designed specifically to fire at a high angle to counter airship bombings from above. They fired thunderously, shattering the draping foliage and coppery rock of the cliff face with grapeshot.

Still, it wasn’t good enough. Wintermourn caught sight of disheveled pirates in colorful bandanas recoiling from the attack, but the angle to hit them was too steep, covered by the cliff against the worst of the onslaught. In moments they recovered, returning fire of their own.

Clattering ripples of gunfire called out from above, raking the top of the cliff. It was the
Glory of Perinault
, with twenty Brass Paladins standing at attention along its starboard gunwales, firing their heavy pepperbox muskets. They unleashed more shots than should have been possible, reloading quickly and efficiently when they finally had to, not a movement wasted.