Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (13 page)

Fengel gazed at the trio suspiciously for a moment before nodding. Then he faced the rest of his assembled crew.

“Listen up!” he called. “Our lovely ship is going elsewhere, but we’ve still got a job ahead. The fighting’s begun at the old fort—we’re going to go lend our arms and see what can be done. So get your pig stickers ready! We might be riding
Solrun’s Hammer
over to the fray, but let’s show those Perinese bastards what the men and women of the
Dawnhawk
can do!”

His crew all cheered. Fengel drew his saber, and they tromped off with righteous bravado, though more than a few glanced back at the airship they were leaving behind.

Movement in the wrong direction caught Fengel’s eye. It was Omari, slipping out of the crowd and back up the
Dawnhawk’
s boarding ramp to disappear from sight. He scratched his beard, considering. Natasha wouldn’t take kindly to stowaways, and she especially disliked the Yulani woman.
No. Best place for her, most likely
. The last thing Haventown needed was the chaos brought on by a horde of Revenants.
And there’re going to be a lot of corpses soon
. He shrugged, sheathing his blade before following after his crew.

Solrun’s Hammer
was an older ship, neither as new as the
Dawnhawk
nor as old as his lost
Flittergrasp
. The hull bowed down towards its keel, reminiscent of the sailing ships that had so obviously inspired it. Old, weatherworn rigging connected the gas-bag envelope, a great semirigid egg of leather and canvas.

Fengel pushed his way to the front of his crew, holding them back with an upraised hand until all others had gone. Then he straightened his jacket and led the way onto
Solrun’s Hammer
with measured dignity.

The captain of
Solrun’s Hammer
stood just past the ramp, waiting for Fengel. Brunehilde was as tall as he was but looked tougher by far. Torques of gold encircled her bare, well-muscled arms, and her ice-blue eyes shined within a face brought to life by the scars and laugh lines around her lips. One hand rested on the pommel of a heavy broadsword at her side. The other rested on her hip, her thumb hooking her sword belt. A thick golden braid trailed down past her shoulders.

Beside her stood her husband Khalid, a hulking slab of muscle towering above both his wife and Fengel. He was Salomcani, with coffee-colored skin and golden eyes. Fengel had never quite gotten along with the man. On occasion, they had clashed blades.

“There you are, Fengel,” said Brunehilde. “Thought you were going to have to swim to the fight.”

“What?” he asked, imperious. “And miss the chance to inspect this old hulk of yours? Perish the thought.”

She laughed and leaned forward to punch him in the upper arm, hard. Fengel grunted, though he managed to refrain from rubbing at the spot. Brunehilde knew how to hit.

“You supercilious bastard. I heard what happened to you and your crew a few months ago.”

Fengel frowned, glaring back at his officers, who had the decency to look away in embarrassment. “Yes,” he said. “It worked out all right in the end.”

“Good.” Brunehilde nodded. “We need as many swords as you’ve got.”

Cannon fire rumbled in the distance. Everyone looked back out the stern of the airship, towards the jungle and the Graveway. The fighting there sounded worse than a single enemy warship would warrant.

“How bad is it?” asked Fengel.

“Bad,” muttered Brunehilde distractedly. She turned away to yell at her crew. “Cast off! Let’s get in the air!”

She stalked back to the helm at the rear of the ship, and Khalid followed without glancing back. Fengel thought to follow but walked instead to the front of the airship.
No.
I have to see.
Lucian, Henry, and all the others trailed behind him.

Anxiety filled Fengel as
Solrun’s Hammer
took flight once more. He ignored the shouts of the crew and the bravado of the locals, his eyes alighting one last time on the top of the
Dawnhawk
, where the White Ape was yanking at the canvas skin of the envelope. He was struck then by Henry’s fear: that he might not see the airship again.

The trip to the Graveway went quickly as they flew out from Haventown and followed the waterway straight to the old Salomcani fort. Cannon fire and bomb blasts, growing in strength with every passing moment, heralded their coming. Before long, the green jungle canopy fell away to reveal a gun-smoke-shrouded struggle being fought.

It was pandemonium. Sheer cliff walls surrounded the roughly circular lagoon, broken by waterway ravines. Two were large enough to allow a ship to pass. The closest was empty, passing just beneath the fort built into the southeastern cliff wall, where pirates fired muskets from behind crumbling Salomcani crenellations. The farthest was directly opposite, to the west, and was clogged by a procession of steam-powered warships, with the foreign airship hovering protectively above. Perinese Bluecoat Marines were disembarking as well, scaling ropes up the cliffs like a militarized collection of spiders in blue jackets and round black caps. Some had already made the trip and looked to be setting up heavy equipment, with two even raising a great pole; the flag hanging from it bore the golden sunburst of Perinault on a field of blue.

Fengel stared in amazed despair. He had been wrong earlier.
They didn’t send a scout—they brought the whole damned fleet inside the isles! But how?

The enemy was too quick by far. Too strong.

Two warships sailed about in the lagoon: the
Juggernaut
and the
Behemoth
. They maneuvered skillfully in the tight space, paddlewheels churning and smokestacks puffing as they tried to bring their broadsides to bear upon the fort. Above, the three pirate airships here—the
Powderheart
,
Sky Serpent
, and
Moonchaser
—foiled the effort. His comrades bombarded the warships with hand-thrown bombs and musket fire.

Brunehilde brought her airship down at the rear of the fort, where a patch of jungle had been cleared down to bare earth. As soon as the airship was low enough, Brunehilde’s men ran out the boarding ramp, disgorging eager, bloodthirsty passengers.

“We’re here,” called the pirate captain, coming up to the gunwales from back near the stern. “Get yerselves off my ship so I can make another run back to town.”

Fengel led his own crew off onto the sunbaked earth. The ramp was immediately hauled back, the airship’s rear propellers spinning up again as it rose.

“I’ll be back anon,” said Brunehilde from along the gunwales to no one in particular. Behind her and unseen, Khalid roared commands up and down the deck.

“Wait!” called Fengel back at her. “Who’s running things here? Euron’s still back in town, and the others are in the air!”

Brunehilde smirked down at him. “I guess you are, Fengel!”

And then they were aloft, the airship turning away at speed.

Fengel’s retort died on his lips.
That’s as good an answer as any, I suppose.
He looked to his crew. Gunney Lome was glaring after the retreating
Hammer
, while Lucian watched the other airships, frowning. Henry Smalls waited, patient as always. Without Omari distracting them, Konrad and Maxim stood together like brothers, cracking knuckles and looking about for enemies to hex. Cumbers, Simon, and all the rest stood warily, weapons in hand as they waited for direction.

Past them stood those who had charged so riotously off the ship. They milled about uncertainly. It seemed that Fengel wasn’t the only one who’d been confused.

Fengel adjusted his monocle. “Well,” he said. “If I’m in charge, let’s get this fight run properly, then.”

“Aye, sir,” said Henry. The steward jerked his head towards the arch leading inside the old brick wall of the fort. “Probably best start there.”

“The Perinese are here, all right,” added Lucian. He turned back to frown at Fengel. “But they’re in a bad spot. Captain, how did they even get so many damned ships here in the first place? And so fast? That little conga line of theirs should have been dashed to pieces in the waterway channels.”

I dearly want to know that myself.
But anything less than confidence would not do at the moment. “It doesn’t matter. We’re hideously outclassed, but we’ve no choice now but to fight. Come, let’s—” He quieted at the faces of Cumbers and Simon, his newest crewmen, both staring out past the fort. “Something amiss, lads?”

The ex-sergeant started. “Nay, Captain. Nothing. It’s just...those are our countrymen out there. I never signed up to fight them.”

Fengel nodded in sympathy, something he didn’t entirely feel. “The Goddess makes fools of us all at times,” he quoted. “Best keep it in mind that those fellows would hang us all, given the chance.”

Cumbers and Simon shared an unhappy look. “I know, sir,” said the ex-sergeant. “I know.”

“Good!” Fengel clapped him on the back. “This way, then.”

The others fell in behind him as he marched into the rear of the fort. Within was a simple room of four walls, the side facing the lagoon open through a series of arches, like an arcade. Beyond stretched a short paved walk, protected by a crenellated wall holding emplacements for fifteen cannons, all empty at the moment. Back inside, a single wide stair descended to the lower levels. Beside it lay a pyramid of old cannonballs stacked four high.

Pirates, brawlers, and hunters all packed the fort. They stood in cliques, glaring at their rivals, hefting cutlasses and muskets thoughtfully, or otherwise just milling about. A few fired their weapons from the crenellations at the ships in the water below.

Fengel frowned.
No. This won’t do at all.

Order was needed, and fast. Fengel stepped aside and jerked his head towards the walk; Gunney Lome moved into action, bulling forward and plowing a path through the crowd. He followed in her wake, stepping outside into the sun before turning back to face those assembled.

“All right, you lot! I want everyone with a musket to assemble on the left and those with pistols and blades on the right. Anyone who knows how to work a cannon, in the middle—I don’t see any here, but the
Windhaunter
should be arriving with a load of spares any minute now.”

A conflicting chorus answered him. 

“What? Who’s that?”

“My left or yours?”

“I’ve got a pistol
and
a musket!”

“That’s Fengel, that is. Where’s his nasty wife?”

“Shouldn’t he be on the
Dawnhawk
?”

“Why should we listen to you?”

“Lookit that fop! I bet he’s working with the damned Perinese—”

“
Enough
,” roared Gunney Lome, and her voice seemed to shake the fort more than the bombs exploding beyond it. Lucian, Henry, and all the rest spread out beside Fengel, facing the crowd in a show of strength.

“You’ll listen to me,” said Fengel, “because out there are a bunch of greedy bastards who want you dead. Now, form up so we can properly draw a bit of Perinese blood!”

The crowd didn’t cheer, but they at least shuffled about as directed. As Gunney Lome and Lucian moved to take control, two bloodied, bedraggled figures stumbled out of the press: the Haventown tracker Phred, leaning heavily on the arm of Geoffrey Lords, the
Dawnhawk’
s own terrifying cook.

Phred was covered head to toe in makeshift bandages, all crusty with blood. Geoffrey Lords didn’t look much better. He sagged with exhaustion, not even offering a greeting.

“Hullo, Captain,” said Phred. “Was hoping you’d show up.”

Fengel moved to assist them, and crewman Cumbers helped set the men down against one side of an arch.

“Good Goddess above,” said Fengel. “Whatever happened to you two?”

Henry passed a waterskin, which both men took up eagerly. After finishing, Phred leaned back with a weary sigh. “Thanks,” he said before looking again to Fengel. “Captain, you were right to send us out last night. Most of my lads thought you were crazy—until we saw all those warships racing down the waterways in the middle of the night. Tried to needle them a bit, slow ’em before they got to the Graveway. They gave a bit better than they got, though.”

“How
did
they get all those—”

“It’s that airship of theirs,” replied Phred. “It knew the right path somehow, and it’s got these big galvanic lamps like the Mechanists make. Might as well have been noon. And each one of those warships is that new kind, armored, with steam-powered paddlewheelers. They got knocked about something fierce—thought a few might even sink and ruin their whole advance, but in the end they didn’t even have the kind of trouble old Cadmus has getting that whale of his into port.”

Fengel leaned back, thinking furiously.
So that’s how they did it.
“Still,” he muttered. “Damned reckless of them. Doctrine should have kept them at anchor until daybreak. What could have made them move so early?”

Shaking his head, he reached out to clasp Phred on the shoulder. “Take it easy, man. You risked quite a bit, on just my asking. You too, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey Lords gave a weak smile, then reached for his waterskin again.

Phred reached up to clasp Fengel’s hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Captain. I was happy to do it.” He frowned. “Rest of the lads probably have a bit of regret, though, seeing as they’re dead.”

The old tracker leaned back against the arch to rest. Fengel stood, turning to see Henry and the others watching him expectedly. “All right,” he said. “Lucian, get everyone with longarms to watch the Haventown waterway; they won’t hit anything where they are now, and I don’t want anything slipping past unscathed. Gunney Lome? Assemble and assign teams for each emplacement—Duvale should be here soon with cannons. Maxim, Konrad, neither of you have anything that’ll make a difference at this range, so hold your spells in case we need to fall back. If there are any other aetherites in the lot, get them to do the same. Henry, I want anyone with a blade out into the bush; Bluecoats are climbing up the far cliffs. They might try to flank overland. The rest of you, split up and help out.”