Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (18 page)

Chapter Eight

The cannonball flew like a black comet towards the bow of the
Colossus.
It whipped over the churning waters of the lagoon, a ricochet shot that had already hammered the floundering
Behemoth,
continuing freakishly straight for the naval flagship sitting anchored.

Admiral Wintermourn stood watching at the edge of the poop deck. His crew ran about at the command of Lieutenant Lebam, tending the damage taken so far. The Bluecoats were lined up along the starboard side of the ship, muskets slung as they waited to ascend the rope lines dropped from the cliff above. Stray bits of rigging and shattered wood decorated the deck, accented with the occasional spray of blood. It would disappear soon enough. Everyone aboard knew to keep the ship trim and tidy. Though that didn’t mean they were safe.

The
Colossus
sat in the mouth of the Graveway, jostled constantly by the waterway current. Mooring anchors secured her to the cliff walls on their right—specialized spikes attached to chains forged just for such a purpose. Still, the current banged them about, setting the deck to shifting abruptly, ringing the starboard paddlewheel housing like a gong. Wintermourn did not trust the arrangement to hold them fast and had ordered power kept to the engines all throughout the morning.

Dead ahead lay the Graveway—the bowsprit of the
Colossus
aimed like an arrow at the heart of the old Salomcani fort atop the far cliff. The pirates there nested like termites, watched over by their accursed airships, which drifted back and forth like wolves waiting to pounce.

Wintermourn’s own forces now had a fort of their own situated on the cliff top above. It was admittedly somewhat makeshift, but the cannons they’d lifted there were doing an admirable job of warding away the pirate airships, for which they’d been specially designed.

Behind him waited the rest of the warship column. All were similarly anchored against the current as their crews raised both men and materials up the cliff. The reports that had reached him were enough to give pause; every ship so far had sustained some form of damage traversing the ravines. Worse, the incidents continued to pile up with each passing hour they held this ridiculous position. Fortunately, the damage was largely superficial, though the pirates had given the
Ogre
a beating—everyone could, and would, still fight.

Their own airship, the
Glory of Perinault
, had taken to the skies without warning, and now was nowhere to be seen. Admiral Wintermourn had said quite a lot about that earlier, as pirates rained down their bombs and the cliff battery fought to drive them back.

Lieutenant Lebam shouted a warning as the rogue cannonball careened out of the Graveway Lagoon. It skipped against the water and rose to hammer straight into the bowsprit of the
Colossus
. The great wooden spar shattered, raining debris on the crew as the cannonball continued along, tearing rigging and falling back down to clip the capstan before rolling to a stop against the mizzenmast. The vessel’s superior construction spoke well by it, but the damage wasn’t negligible.

“Clean that mess up!” roared Wintermourn. He straightened his wig, not even caring if it was mussed. “Get this under control. I want the ship’s carpenter up here on the double. Replace that spar in two bells, or by the Goddess I’ll have every last man jack of you strung along the bow to stop the
next
cannonball.”

An image came to mind then: a string of sailors torn apart, falling dead to the deck but still moving, awfully. Clawing and moaning and reaching as they rose again.

Wintermourn turned away with a snarl, forcing his useless officers to clear out of his way. Normally, their haste would have mollified him a little. But not now. His mood was too foul, he had to admit. And it was growing blacker by the minute.

The offensive was...stuck. Both of the vanguard ships had failed to take the Graveway Lagoon, and the rest of the invasion force was stopped behind them. The
Juggernaut
had let herself be boarded, of all damnable things, failing to fight off the pirates before they’d fired her powder magazine. Captain Chesterly had been spotted in the waters near the ravine, having somehow survived. Her sister ship, the
Behemoth,
had survived the few hours since then, but now she was being pounded piecemeal into a slowly sinking wreck, the pirate airships darting in and out of range from the cliff battery above. Worse, while the guns there had the angle and distance, the shells they fired were too damned light to do more than irritate the old Salomcani fort across the lagoon. As well, the
Colossus
was too distant to give any aid to the fight, though protected enough by the cliffs that only the odd enemy cannonball proved threatening.

Wintermourn put a hand to the stern railing, looking at the ships stationed back along the channel to the rear. All considered, things were in stalemate. Any advantage they’d had with numbers and equipment was countered by the ridiculous terrain of the Copper Isles. Pushing in might still have been possible, if the crown prince hadn’t taken their air cover with him on whatever ill-considered errand he’d sought out.

No, any progress they were to make now would be along the clifftops around the lagoon. It would have to be made slowly. On foot. But if there was one resource the assembled fleet possessed, it was men. Inch by inch they could take these isles, for king and country, and to the Realms Below with the cost in marines.

The thought made him want to smile.

That’s how things are done. With pride and courage and the spilled blood of stalwart soldiers.

He would go above shortly. To make sure that a proper beachhead was being built, with an eye on an advance to the Salomcani fort. Once enough marines had been off-loaded from the warships, they could pursue assault along that route.

Someone coughed for his attention. Admiral Wintermourn turned, raising an eyebrow fiercely. It was Sergeant Adjutant Lanters, standing at attention with Lebam and the other officers behind him, who looked thankful that someone else had presented himself as a target for their admiral’s ire.

“Sir,” said the burly sergeant. “Captain Chesterly has been recovered from the waters below. And a launch has just arrived bearing the captains of the
Titan,
Ogre
, and the
Giantess
.”

The ships so named were those most immediately behind the
Colossus
. As such, their captains were some of the most senior in the fleet. Wintermourn was modestly pleased; he’d expected them to make their way over a goodly bit later.

Not that it would do to let that be seen. “About time,” he growled. Wintermourn turned away and descended to the lower deck. There the commanders were just coming aboard, a cluster of embroidered blue jackets and golden epaulets. All of them wore wigs, a habit of the older, more distinguished gentleman—one didn’t advance in the fleet without the requisite amount of years
or
connections, after all. The crown prince might look at them and see a bunch of conservative stuffed shirts, but Wintermourn saw them for what they were: paragons of tradition and service. A collection of long years of experience hammered into the only worthwhile class of men, commanding the most powerful vessels of the greatest kingdom alive.

And they’re mine.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said condescendingly. “If you’re done taking your leisure, please join me in my cabin.”

Sergeant Adjutant Lanters was already standing by, holding the door. Which was pleasing.
Fellow is worth more than half of my own officers
. Not that he’d ever progress any farther than his current, temporary station. Lanters was noncommissioned—and lowborn to boot. Wintermourn had hinted at the promise of a real navy promotion after the pirates were crushed, but it would never happen. Marines weren’t capable of any
real
initiative; they were only weapons. Even their ranks were mostly honorary, after all. 

The ship’s carpenter had replaced the setting of the previous evening. Gone were the extra chairs and the credenza. Wooden paneling had been put back into place, giving the room a small, closed-in feeling. His bunk and chest had been put away, leaving only the heavy table to dominate the space. Atop it were numerous charts and maps, along with a Worked bucket chilling a bottle of wine, because he wasn’t a savage. Through the stern windows could be seen the prow of the
Ogre
, frenetic with repairs.

Wintermourn took his customary place behind the table, at the only chair. “This has rather turned into a pig’s ear now,” he said. Lanters came around with wine, serving him first. “Not my plan, of course. But we do what we must. Chesterly! Do I see you lurking in the rear there?”

The ex-captain of the
Juggernaut
looked up at him from the rear of the assembly, numb with shock. He was still sopping wet and covered in numerous small injuries. His jacket was tattered and torn. Appropriately, he’d lost his epaulets. Still, the fellow seemed to have some sense of propriety about him, because he gave a sharp salute. “Sir,” he replied, voice hollow.

“Dashed luck,” said Wintermourn, warming to the topic. A captain without a ship lost his commission and was reduced to a mere first lieutenant again. Only the admiralty were safe from such an eventuality; they controlled the disbursement of new vessels, after all. Not that
he
would have ever let his ship get blown out from under him. “Losing your ship. Whatever happened?”

Chesterly stared past Wintermourn, looking haunted. “It was the pirate king himself. Dropped down on us like a bolt from the blue. Just old men, we thought at first, but by the Goddess, they were mad. They lit off our
powder stores
, for Her sake. Blew me overboard when it went. I...I don’t know why I’m alive...”

Wintermourn raised an eyebrow at him. “Captain Euron Blackheart? In the flesh? That fellow has to be pushing seventy, if he’s even really still alive. You mean to tell me your ship was taken by a bunch of geriatric old criminals?” He shook his head. “That’s the saddest excuse for losing one’s command I have ever heard. I should just hang you, you incompetent.” He snorted disdainfully, then turned away. “Now, Captain Thomasen, the
Ogre
seems to be a bit out of sorts. How go her repairs?”

The burly, muttonchopped Thomasen sneered contemptuously at Chesterly, who was served last, as Wintermourn had intended. “Had a dashed bad blow,” he said, shaking his head and setting the curls of his wig to swaying. “I’m ashamed to say. That pirate airship—
Moonchaser,
I think it was—dropped a whole load of bombs upon us before the cliff guns drove her off. I’ve lost most of my mainsail and starboard deck cannon.” He paused to make a flippant gesture. “Oh. Quite a few dead crewmen too. Lookout got smeared all over the inside of the crow’s nest, I think I heard. These are tough new vessels, though—no one builds a ship better than the Darrenway Yard boys. We’ll be back on our feet before too long.”

Wintermourn nodded in commiseration. “Well, see what you can do about the guns. I—”

The cry of the
Colossus’
s bosun and the tromp of assembling boots cut him short. Wintermourn looked to the cabin door in confusion.
What in the Realms Below?

The door banged open as Crown Prince Gwydion strode through, and his royal guards took up position just outside. Bruises colored his features, and he walked with a limp. His clothing was torn, and he had lost his hat somewhere. He smiled, though, and his eyes were like that of a young child on his birthing-day. Wintermourn rose and bent the knee, as did the rest of the room.

“Oh, get up, get up,” said Gwydion, gesturing dismissively. The sable glove he wore was torn, missing two of the fingers. He shrugged upon noticing this, pulled it off, and threw it over his shoulder. “By the Goddess! You’ve all got wine—where is a glass?”

Panic at the impropriety checked all the irritated things that Wintermourn wanted to shout at him. “Of course, Your Highness—”

But Chesterly was there, passing his own glass over. The crown prince took it with a nod and drained it in one go. “Ah, that’s the stuff. My thanks...Chesterly, wasn’t it?
Juggernaut
was your ship?”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”

“Ha! Saw what happened down there in the lagoon. Bad bit of luck, that.”

A pained look crept over the ex-captain. He opened his mouth to reply, but Gwydion had turned away already. “Now, I expected to find my good admiral so cloistered, but what are the rest of you old fossils doing in here?”

Wintermourn felt all his irritation at the crown prince rising again. “We were convening over the aftermath of this morning’s action.” He shook his head. “Quite a pity. Two ships lost and a third severely damaged.”

“Those damned pirates made a run at us after the
Juggernaut
blew,” said Thomasen irritably. “Bypassed the
Behemoth
entirely. We’d no proper air cover at that point.” He looked pointedly at the crown prince.

Wintermourn blinked in surprise. Thomasen was an old hand at politicking, and needling Gwydion was far from a rational move for such an old soldier. He must have been more upset than he appeared.
Not that our princeling doesn’t deserve it.
It was possible for a man to serve another and not respect him personally. So far, that seemed like it would be the case with most of the fleet’s commanders and the heir apparent.

“Oho,” laughed Gwydion. “Found your spine now, have you?” He shook  his head. “Yes, yes. My apologies for leaving you all in the lurch. I just got so sick of you lot getting all the glory. And with such an opportunity presenting itself, how could I resist?”

Wintermourn frowned. He looked to the rest of the assembled captains, who appeared just as confused.

“What opportunity was that, sir?” asked Chesterly.

Gwydion gestured dismissively with his wineglass. “Oh, I spied an airship out of formation just north of the lagoon. The
Dawnhawk,
under Natasha Blackheart. All on her own, she was. Which meant that I just
had
to have Captain Broadlow try to chase her down. I’d have tried to pick off one of the other pirate vessels earlier, but numbers do still matter, alas.”