Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (36 page)

“Very good, then,” he snapped. “Finish hacking up these misbegotten corpses, and let us get a move on.”

The sergeant snapped a salute. He turned back to the men, raising his sword and barking out orders. Wintermourn watched him with narrow eyes.

So what if he detested the undead? Not a one of the thousand differing denominations back on Edrus could agree on which way to best please the Goddess. But every single one preached that Revenants were an unholy horror best purged by righteous fire. Even the heathen Salomcani of the Sheikdom understood
that
much.

Yet an officer couldn’t afford such weaknesses. The Lord High Admiral of the Sea and a member of the Order Gallant, even less so. Only Sergeant Lanters was aware of his horror, and Wintermourn weighed that knowledge against his value every time he saw the man. Fortunately, the sergeant was loyal and dull. Could the same be said of this Greene?

No.
No. Best not take the risk. Wintermourn smiled with thin lips. Glory was always in the advance. Soon Greene would take his prying eyes to the grave. Where they’d damned well stay, if they knew what was good for them.

The last three Revenants toppled over. Even then the Bluecoats kept at it, hacking away until they were just another pile of rotting meat. Greene shouted an order, and they stopped, weapons out, waiting and expectant. What was left of the Revenants did not move.

The men let loose a victorious cheer. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to join in, but Wintermourn felt relieved all the same. He sheathed his sword and folded his hands behind his back, waiting for the noise to die down.

Sergeant Greene turned to him, and the rest of the men followed his lead. Wintermourn looked to each in turn, holding their eyes a moment. The rippling pop of musket fire and bomb blasts from the battle in the lagoon echoed down past the ramshackle buildings they stood between.

“So,” he said. “Now you see. Pirates, whores, smugglers. And worse than that.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “Necromancy. Abomination. While you wear that uniform, you are a soldier of our great nation. The church doesn’t enter into it. But if any of you had any doubts...” He gestured at the rotting carcasses in the middle of the street. “This is holy work we’re about.”

Wintermourn snapped his head up to glare at them each in turn. “There’ll be no rest while even an
inch
of this wretched soil remains unclaimed. If even one perfidious pirate can raise his sword against us, then the price of mercy is too high. Greene!”

The man made his salute. “Sir!”

“Assemble the men and move out. This part of the town
will
be mine by nightfall.”

The sergeant nodded sharply. He turned to the men and barked orders. The Bluecoats moved wearily but moved all the same. Not a few glared with disgust at the remains lying about the street before falling back into columns for the march.

And march they did. Fear was better, to Admiral Wintermourn’s mind, than inspiration. So long as they followed, though, what did it matter? But whether because of his speech or their own righteous disgust, the column moved with purpose back through the pirate township.

It wasn’t long before another ambush occurred.

The march through the streets went unopposed at first. Doors were kicked in and windows shattered, but no one appeared to fight back. Wintermourn was wondering if the knaves had evacuated completely to the higher terraces when the street widened to a small fish market. It was an impoverished affair, filled with poorly built driftwood stalls and leftover canvas. Crates containing last evening’s catch rotted in the sun, their stink mixing with the gunpowder haze that hung in the sky above. An airship flew past, returning to the battle raging just beyond the city.

What is taking those laggards so long?
How hard could it be to mop up that ridiculous pirate force? The lagoon should be positively
filled
with their own ships by now.
Is it the crown prince? Has he come up with some other contrivance of a plan? Or has he just gone haring off again—

“Sir! Look out!” 

It was Private Bryant, who slammed into him, tackling him down behind a stall just as the crates atop it exploded into flinders and scraps of fish.

Debris rained down about him as the men shouted cries of alarm. Wintermourn lay in stunned surprise before shoving the marine aside and clambering to his feet. He’d forgotten about the man. Maybe he was of
some
use, then.

Some of his Bluecoats returned fire blindly, and the pop of their muskets echoed about the market while those more perceptive charged a cart at one end. It had been overturned, spilling rickety crates everywhere. These shifted and shook as someone beneath tried to escape, but it was too late. The marines kicked the detritus aside and hauled out two men, one clutching an ancient and smoking blunderbuss.

Both were thrown roughly up against their cart, seconds away from being skewered by Perinese smallswords. One was a grizzled old man with a peg leg, obviously once a pirate. The other was younger, of fighting age, and Wintermourn wondered why he was here in town until he spied the fellow’s clubfoot.

“Pirate scum!” shouted Sergeant Greene at the top of his voice.

“No!” begged the young man. “Please, we’re just hiding! I didn’t mean for it to go off!”

“Oh aye we did!” belted out the older pirate.

“Sneaking curs,” said Sergeant Greene. “Can’t beat us in a fair fight, so you snipe and skulk.” He turned to the other Bluecoats. “Cut their Goddess-damned throats!”

An angry murmur arose from the assembled soldiers. Wintermourn held up a hand. “Wait,” he snapped.

The marines froze, their bloodlust checked by their training. All eyes turned to him, including those of the pirates. Wintermourn stepped forward, and the men moved aside as he pushed through to face his would-be ambushers.

“Please, sir,” said the younger pirate. He struggled against the Bluecoats holding him to raise his arms in supplication. “I didn’t mean it, really! We were just hiding, and that thing went off!”

“Pity it didn’t take yer head,” snarled the older man. He spat at the marine holding him.

“Oh, I believe you,” said Wintermourn to the younger man.

“You do?” he replied in surprise.

“You do?” said the older pirate.

“Of course,” replied Wintermourn. He reached out to a marine standing to one side and took the blunderbuss. It was indeed ancient, the stock weathered like driftwood and the bell-shaped barrel dented and smoking. “Goddess above. I haven’t seen one of these since I was a lad.”

“Sir,” began Private Bryant. “They—”

“It was obviously a mistake,” he continued, ignoring the man. “Even this old salt had to know that the two of them alone against us was folly.”

The younger man relaxed visibly.

“Because that’s not how they fight, is it?” snapped Wintermourn. Both men looked up at him in surprise, and he held their panicked stares with a glare of his own. “You’re scoundrels, daemons, the worst scum of the world. You drop bombs from overhead. You hole up in these miserable islands, thinking yourselves safe. And when we come anyway, you unleash
abominations
, falling back to hide and cower while undead monstrosities do your dirty work!”

“What? What are ye going—”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Enough!” shouted Wintermourn. “Enough and more! Cut their throats and move on! It’s fire and the sword for this miserable pirate town, and if we have to do it door by door, street by street, we will!”

He threw the blunderbuss down and turned away as the Bluecoats moved to obey. Wintermourn froze as the panicked protests of the Haventowners turned into grisly gurgles, so similar to the calls of the unquiet dead.

Sergeant Greene shouted a series of orders before moving up beside him. “Sir? Are you all right?”

“What?” said Wintermourn, starting in surprise.

“From the shot. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” he snapped. “Get the men moving. Your overfamiliarity is unwarranted, Sergeant. And no, I am not fine. I will not be until every man, woman, and child in this place shares the peace of the grave! Now get back to the column, and you, personally, lead us forth!”

The sergeant gave his salute, took his place again and ordered the men onward. They marched with weapons in hand and eager, grim looks upon their faces. Wintermourn approved. They marched with a natural, military rhythm completely unlike the shuffling gait of a Revenant.

Yes. Soldier on. For king and country. Not even the walking dead can blunt our purpose. And next time it’ll be you on the wrong end of a blunderbuss, Greene.

The fish market exited onto a short street between a pair of warehouses before curving sharply past a thin, two-story building. Past its rooftop and on through the gun smoke haze, Wintermourn spied the stair leading up to the next terrace, up against the curve of the lagoon cliff itself. They’d almost swept these Waterdocks clean entirely, he realized.

Wintermourn allowed himself satisfaction.
And where are you, Crown Prince Gwydion? Hmm? Or all the rest of you laggards in the fleet?
Still fencing with a bunch of worthless scallywags!
It made him want to despair. All these mechanical men and flashy airships that couldn’t even take advantage of the beachhead he’d given them. The others were only playing at warfare, while
he
fought the rotting claws of
real
monsters.

His Bluecoats advanced down the street to its far end, eyes eager and weapons held tight. No warehouse rooftops collapsed on them, and no hidden ambushers opened fire. They reached the tall building at the end of the street, and Sergeant Greene called a halt, rubbing his injured leg and panting wearily. The Bluecoats fanned out to cover the front door, as Wintermourn stalked over to stand beside the sergeant.

The building looked on the verge of collapse. It seemed to sag, weary and worn, the two shuttered windows like heavy-lidded eyes. Bright, violently red paint coated the door, almost a vulgarity. There were other attempts to spruce up the place, including a flower box beneath each window. No sign hung out front, but a lady’s weatherworn corset dangled from a gaff hook on a pole above the door.

“What is this place?” asked the sergeant.

“It’s a bordello,” said Wintermourn dryly.

“Oh.” Sergeant Greene blushed. Then he gave a resolute nod. “Rainely, Bryant! Knock down that door.”

The two Bluecoats stepped up and slammed their shoulders into the bright red door. It cracked but did not otherwise open. Girlish shouts came from somewhere inside.

Private Bryant turned back to face the lieutenant. “It’s blocked shut, sir,” he said.

“Of course it’s barricaded,” snapped Wintermourn. “Now put your backs into it and bust it down! The cause of the Kingdom will not be stopped by perfidious tarts and their animate corpses!”

The Bluecoat paled. He turned back to the door and threw his weight against it, joined by his fellow. With each blow it cracked more and more. The shouts from inside took on an edge of panic.

At last the door split from the latch. It popped inward a foot, checked by a stack of dark furniture. A woman’s hoarse shout called for order.

Rainely and Bryant worked further at the door, widening the space behind it until they could wrestle with the furniture itself. Rainely hauled free a chair and passed it back to a waiting marine as Bryant reached for an ottoman that had been wedged beneath it.

A pointed metal spear shot out through a crack in the pile. It slipped past Bryant, knocking free his cap, burying itself into his companion’s gut. Rainely shrieked in pain, hands grabbing for the haft. Whoever held the other end fought him, jabbing back and forth.

“Muskets forward!” shouted Sergeant Greene.

Bluecoats surged to Rainely’s aid, half a dozen shoving their muskets past the screaming soldier into the makeshift barricade. Bryant dodged aside as the men fired, turning the doorway into a chaotic cloud of gun smoke, muzzle fire, and exploding wooden splinters.

Shrieks echoed out past the barricade. Bryant withdrew, pulling the wounded Rainely with him back behind the lines as another group of soldiers stepped forward. They were ready, stepping in to tear down the barricade. They worked quickly and efficiently until finally it was disassembled enough to allow men to pass through.

Wintermourn tapped an impatient foot as more Bluecoats barged into the brothel. A cacophony of shouts, gunshots, and the clatter of steel on steel erupted only moments later. Wintermourn sighed. Weren’t there
any
common peasants in this ridiculous pirate nest? It seemed that even the whores here could fight. He almost admired them for it, though not nearly enough to overcome his disgust.
On top of everything else, women fighting.
He shook his head, then paused.
Though it’s not as if they’re ladies.

The soldiers emerged a few moments later, hauling a dozen struggling captives along with them. They were all women, and their makeup and jewelry denoted them as common dockside whores, though all wore boots and trousers and were otherwise dressed for a fight. They appeared to have not gone without one, either. The Bluecoats yanked at them angrily, bearing fresh bruises and cuts or clutching more serious wounds.

“You Bluecoatie bastards!” shrieked a heavyset woman with a face like a bulldog. “We’ve got nothin’ to do with ye, so leave us be!”

Sergeant Greene opened his mouth to retort, but Wintermourn cut him off. “On the contrary. Not that I believe in leniency, but your fate was sealed the moment you raised those unholy abominations and sent them to fight us.”

The matron seemed taken aback. “What?”

“We’re just whores!” shouted a woman with wild, dyed hair. She struggled against the marine who held her. “Please, we beg quarter. We’ll do anything you want!”

Wintermourn smirked. “Quarter,” he said, turning to the lieutenant. “Why do they always ask for that? Put the first six up against the wall.”

His soldiers split the group in half and put them up against the front of the brothel, along with the sobbing younger woman who’d spoken up. A dozen of their fellows formed a firing squad a dozen paces away. They worked to load muskets, the first six kneeling in a rank.