Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (43 page)

“No
real
resistance,” he affirmed heatedly. “And even when the so-called pirate king found the stones to make another appearance, I managed to corner him. He’s surely dead now, but I’d have his head here if your bumbling adjutant hadn’t driven him to his demise in a fiery deathtrap.”

The crown prince drained his own glass. “Was that who that was? Worry not, my good admiral. I saw a bit of the action from above and signaled to Adjutant Chesterly. Turned into a mess, well enough, but we’ll have another chance.”

Wintermourn froze. “What do you mean?”

“That pub that burned down? All those pirates escaped out the back. Deftly done too. I barely noticed before
Solrun’s Hammer
flanked us.”

Euron escaped!
That damned pirate played me for a fool and escaped!
Wintermourn shoved his empty wineglass at the attendant. “We’ve got to go after him!”

Gwydion rolled his eyes. He held out his glass for the attendant to refill. “Well, of course we’re going after him,” he said. “That was kind of the point, to kill the pirate king and all the captains, though we’ve pretty much already won, now. Once the
Oliphaunt
lands and we’ve enough men, it’ll be back into the fray. Oh. I’ll need to recover my adjutant as well, I suppose.”

“No! We’ve got to go after Euron!” Wintermourn turned back to Sergeant Greene. “Go back below and grab three squads of men. I don’t care who’s in charge!”

The sergeant made his salute, then froze at a cutting gesture from the prince. “Belay that, sergeant. Is that how you say it?”

Rage blossomed in Wintermourn’s stomach. He rounded on the man. “What? What is the meaning—”

Gwydion leaned back in his chair and threw up his hands. Wine from his just-filled glass flew through the air, splashing the attendant. “Admiral, they’ve already fallen back to the second terrace by now. Even with just a few defenders, that means a long, hard climb and a lot of dead marines. And while I have no doubt that’s something you’d favor, I’m not willing to risk the
Glory
ferrying small squads of troops up to another part of the terrace, such as that Gasworks or wherever. The pirate airships have been driven back, but if we move from here, they could easily decide to damn the consequences and fall on us from above with whatever few surprises they’ve got left.”

“You yourself wanted Euron dead,” said Wintermourn. “And he’s just slipped through our fingers!” He thought of the pirate king, mocking him from atop his barricade, distracting Wintermourn and keeping them from cover just long enough for his treacherous airship to bomb them from above.

“Admiral!” replied Gwydion. “What’s our hurry? Where are they going to
go?
The pirate airships are battered, and they’re not nearly large enough to carry the populace of a town this size. It’s not like they’re going to just fly away!”

An explosion cut across Wintermourn’s retort. It erupted from above, too loud to be a cannon—and coming from the wrong direction as well. He glanced up to see smoke rising from the highest terrace, along the Skydocks. A second blast followed it, from the south this time, where intelligence suggested the Brotherhood Yards were located. Then came a third explosion and a fourth—from the Yellow Lantern and Flophouse terraces, respectively—ejecting smoke high into the sky.

Crown Prince Gwydion rose to his feet, and Wintermourn rounded upon him. “Did you bomb the city?”

“No,” said Gwydion. “Just a bit of opportunistic sharpshooting on our final pass. What in the name of the Goddess...”

Wintermourn clenched a fist. “If some fool is shelling Haventown
now,
of all times, I’ll have his command
and
his head. I’ll—”

He fell silent as a great rumbling noise roared into life. It started small up above and grew in intensity until it seemed the highest terrace was shaking. Wintermourn watched as those pirate airships not docked suddenly changed course away from their port. Then he felt his jaw fall open—as the highest part of Haventown lifted into the air.

Small white gas bags were inflating beneath the boardwalk, lifting taverns, houses, the Skydocks, and the Brotherhood Yards entire. He could see propellers, just like those aboard the
Glory
and the pirate airships, spinning away, helping to lift. Great hawsers rose up with the terrace, attached securely to the boardwalk and connecting it to the rest of the city below.

The second terrace, Yellow Lantern, gave a mighty shiver. Then it too rose into the air on swelling canvas gas bags and arcane machinery lit by the light of the sinking sun. Dust and debris rained down, and the great immovable brass pipes twisted apart with the shriek of tearing metal. The terrace itself, though, ascended in one piece.

Next came Flophouse Terrace. The poorly built shanties and firetrap lean-tos collapsed in droves. The whole edifice shuddered and sagged. Screams echoed down to Wintermourn, even from so far away. Yet it rose as well to join the rest of the now-aerial city.

Then the whole sequence...stopped. The three terraces of the city floated aloft...just hanging there, a trio of floating steps into the sky connected to each other by thick hawsers and chains. The pirate airships circled around, half-protective, half-uncertain.

Wintermourn blinked. He closed his mouth, opened it to say something, then closed it again.

Beside him, Gwydion dropped his wineglass from between limp fingers. It shattered on the rooftop. Then he laughed. Great big belly-shaking whoops erupted from the crown prince. He doubled over, slapping his hands on his thighs as he fought for air.

Wintermourn shook himself as urgency, anger, and irritation at his liege lord all warred for primacy. “Stop your howling!” he snarled, forcibly straightening his wig as if it was about to crawl away.

Gwydion half stood. His cheeks were flushed, and there were tears in his eyes. “I...I just—oh come now, Admiral. This is just impossible! And the timing. I
literally
just asked—”

“I know what you said! And if we don’t hurry, they’re going to actually do it!” Wintermourn clenched his teeth and thought furiously.

“Ha!” continued Gwydion. “I never would have imagined
this
. I mean, really. The airships were impossible enough. And we still have Helmsin back at the capital—they shouldn’t have been able to come up with anything else! Oh, every day brings new wonders, certainly.”

Wintermourn rounded on the crown prince. He grabbed the man with both hands by the lapels of his jacket. “Will you cease your irreverent prattle?”

Gwydion’s face froze. He gestured to check his guards, who were already moving to action. His grey wolf’s eyes were focused, intent, and dangerous. “Take your hands off of me, Admiral. And have a care—”

“No, you have a care!” Wintermourn gestured at the terraces of the city, still rising above them. “The pirates of Haventown aren’t just fleeing, they’re taking the city with them! The only reason we’re still here is to crush them and conquer this ridiculous shantytown. If they get away, then everything we’ve done is wasted. And I will
not
have my efforts wasted!”

He held the eyes of the crown prince a moment, then let him go and turned to face the Craftwright’s Terrace. “Something’s wrong, though,” he said, largely to himself. “Why hasn’t the second terrace taken off? They’re tethered to it, just like the others, so it’s supposed to go as well.”

“A malfunction—” Gwydion sulked, brushing his jacket where Wintermourn had grabbed him.

“There,” said Wintermourn. He pointed at the bundle of pipes, smokestacks, and gas reservoirs all squatting together at the opposite end of the terrace: the Gasworks. “That’s where the next charge should have gone off.”

“How can you be certain?” asked Gwydion, still irritated.

Wintermourn wheeled about. “Because Euron and all the others are
pirates
. Craven-hearted reavers. We know they didn’t build the airships—the Brotherhood of the Cog, the Mechanists that live here, did. This is their work. They’re the ones really behind this escape. Greene!”

The sergeant made another salute. “Sir!”

“Go below and grab three squads of men. Bring them back up here aboard the
Glory
. Have a message sent to Chest—the royal adjutant
that he is to assault that stairway with everything he has, clockwork men included.” He jabbed a finger at Captain Broadlow. “You. Go prepare to...lift off—or whatever it is you do to make that swollen cow of a vessel fly.”

The
Glory’
s
master opened his mouth to object, but Gwydion cut him off. “Admiral,” he hissed. “That is enough. Your old-fashioned pomposity has been amusing to me, and you’re
so
very easily pushed. But I give the orders here. And I am not going to risk the Kingdom’s sole airship on your uninformed hunch!”

“Then get out of my way while I do!” snarled Wintermourn. He took a step towards the prince, his saber banging against his hip, and stabbed a finger in his direction. “
I
am the Lord High Admiral of the Seas.
I
am in command of this fleet, and it is
my
responsibility to crush our foes and send them fleeing, for glory of the Kingdom and the king. I do not care if your father has given you command of this battle, and I do not care if he gave you Danlann itself! You are not king yet. Your ridiculous, irreverent plans have gained us victories, it’s true, though they’ve broken with all tradition and honor to do so. But now the foe is about to fly away! I will not stand idly by while that happens. So for once, prove yourself worthy of a modicum of my respect,
my prince,
and obey!”

He quieted, holding Gwydion’s gaze. The youth stared at him in return, resolute and unyielding. Then slowly, ever so imperceptibly, he nodded.

“Very well,” said Gwydion in a slithering hiss. “Have your way, Admiral. But you will never speak to me so again. And when this is over, we will have further words.”

“Oh, indeed we will,” snapped Wintermourn in reply. “Greene! Get moving.”

The sergeant completed his salute and hurried off. Taking their cue, the attendants, Captain Broadlow, and the royal guards moved to board the
Glory
again. Wintermourn pushed past Gwydion to join them.

He wasn’t worried about Gwydion, though the prince was truly dangerous. The king still reigned, and victory absolved everything. In short order it would be his, and the Haventowners’ plans would be crushed for the ridiculous gambit that they were.

Chapter Twenty-One

Fengel smiled as the mob around him roared.

He stood in Pillager’s Square on the base of Euron’s ridiculous statue. All around it swarmed pirates and townsfolk alike, both those who’d escaped from the Waterdocks as well as reinforcements from the upper terraces. They tossed their hats into the air and fired pistols in excitement. Fengel wanted to rebuke such a waste—
but no let it pass
.

Because they had won. Nob, Yellow Lantern, and the Flophouse terraces floated above them on gas bags and propellers, connected in a daisy chain by long hawsers, free from the cliff face they’d rested upon for so long. Haventown was rising aloft.

It wasn’t a
real
victory. At least, not a military one, not against the invaders. That wasn’t ever going to happen, though. The Perinese were too advanced, too organized, and there were simply too many of them.

But Haventown had survived. Fengel had saved the whole damned city. With the Mechanists’ help, of course. Now all that was left was to fly somewhere the Perinese could never trouble them again.

And he would be the one in charge.

Fengel hopped down from the base of Euron’s statue. “Well, Mr. Smalls. I bet you never thought to see the day, hmm?”

His officers, Henry and Sarah Lome, both stared slack-jawed at the terrace districts floating above them. Rejoicing pirates jostled his steward, who didn’t even seem to notice.

The
Windhaunter’
s mate, Shannon, went dancing past with Martin, the publican who’d sacrificed his tavern in their escape. Fengel smiled and adjusted his monocle. He turned back to his officers, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Oh, come now,” he said. “A little decorum, you two.”

Henry shook his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just...how did they even build that?”

“And under Euron’s nose!” exclaimed Sarah.

Fengel rolled his eyes. “Please, Gunney. The Mechanists built this town. And Euron never cared one whit what happened here so long as everyone paid him respect. Now. I’m going to want order and a central command restored as soon as possible. Henry, you’re going up to the Brotherhood Yards. I want a straight answer from the Mechanist Cabal on how we go about piloting a city.” He paused to tap his chin thoughtfully. “Wait—they probably all split up to crack those terrace shackles. Never mind then—continue on to the Skydocks. Our airships look half-crippled, but tell Brunehilde and that bastard Weatherby to keep a perimeter about the town, if they can fly. Remember that the navy still has an airship of its own, though it has to have taken quite the beating itself by now.”

“Aye. But, sir—” interjected Henry Smalls.

“Gunney Lome, I’ve a different task for you.”

Sarah straightened. “Yes?”

“Captain, shouldn’t—” continued Henry.

“Sarah, grab a knot of bruisers here from the crowd. Townies and pirates both. Everyone here knows I’ve taken charge, but there’s a whole town of people hiding away behind barricades. Spread the word—and knock heads if you have to. Take a few of the older fellows, as that might give a bit more credence to—
what
, Henry?”

His steward licked his lips. “It’s just...sir? Shouldn’t Craftwright’s Terrace have lifted free by now?”

Fengel blinked. He looked to the cliff face past the nearest buildings to the east. Then he followed the great hawsers rising there up to the daisy chain of buildings floating above. Finally, he glanced to the west, past the stair and down to the Waterdocks.

Henry was right. He could feel it.
Something has gone wrong
.