Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (47 page)

“Stupid,” he muttered as he sawed. “Stupid.”

Lina quit sawing. She flung out her hands, nearly hacking off his ear accidentally. “I know! It was a terrible idea! My ideas are always terrible!”

The young Mechanist didn’t even flinch. He paused to glance up at her with eyes like ice. “Not you,” he snapped. “Me.”

Lina blinked. “What?”

Allen shook his head. He went back to sawing, and one cable in the bundle gave away with a twanging snap. “This whole time. Ever since Breachtown, I thought I had a chance with you, that we could be...more than friends. When really, it was never going to happen.”

Lina stared. “That’s what you’ve been worked up about?” she almost shouted. “All day long you’ve been in
such
a snit.”

“No!” he yelled at her, his voice choked with unshed tears. “I’m cranky because my ankle is sprained, my arm is broken, I lost a finger which aches abominably, there’s a monster trying to kill us all, and because my home is being invaded by the Perinese! And yes. Because I just realized today what an
idiot
I’ve been.”

Another cable gave a snap and fell away. Several more joined it across the deck of the airship, and the crew shouted their progress to each other. Runt and her crate went sliding past, this time in the other direction.

“I’ve been an idiot!” continued Allen, not even looking her way. “I should have just asked you, clearly, and been done with it. But I’m a coward! So I’ve been carrying a torch this whole damned time, hoping to win you over. Which was stupid! But you didn’t have to play me off like some sort of tool. You’ve been using me. Just so that
he
would jump through a few more Goddess-damned hoops for you!”

Allen jerked his head back towards the bow of the deck, where Michael Hockton hacked away with a boarding hatchet at an almost-severed bundle of cables. Just the sight of him made Lina feel warm. Then she felt ashamed.

“Allen. I...I was probably wrong in doing that.”

Allen stared up at her, incredulous. He still kept sawing, though. The bundle was almost severed. “How in the Realms Below can you even say that? Probably? Probably wrong?”

Runt and her scrynlings went sliding past. Lina gave a shrug.

“I’m sorry, all right? I mean, I know you’ve always had a crush on me, but that’s just it, right? A crush. I thought it would pass! And come on. When we first met, you were sobbing your eyes out on Euron’s old derelict airship. That’s not exactly a great first impression. I’ve never really been able to take you seriously after that.”

Allen stopped sawing. He stared up at her. “Lina Stone,” he said. “You are an utter bitch.”

Ropes snapped audibly all across the
Dawnhawk
. The cries of her crewmates reporting severed cables echoed down the deck. The airship lurched then, listing to starboard—the weight of the Dray Engine was now supported by nothing more than the strand of cordage in front of Lina and its own grip upon the hull. Even that gave way suddenly as they felt a shudder through the deck of the ship. The ancient Voornish war machine swung into view, roaring, and the deck pitched even further. Panicked yells rung out as the others aboard slammed into the starboard gunwales, along with all the corpses sliding unceremoniously about. Lina barely held her footing. She looked down and out at the Dray Engine, covered in cables and flailing furiously. She looked past it, where the shantytown buildings of the Waterdocks swarmed with Perinese soldiers. The bundle of ropes in front of her snapped and popped with a twang.

“Stone!” shouted Natasha from where she clung to the wheel. “Cut that damned rope!” Butterbeak punctuated her cry with a fearful shriek of his own.

Lina yelled, her fear, frustration, shame, and anger all finding outlet in her voice even as her balance gave way. She swung desperately, furiously, and felt the cutlass in her hands bite home.

The bundle of cable seemed to explode in a hail of snapping fibers. They shot out over the gunwales with skin-shredding force, leaving the scent of burned wood in the air. Lina toppled with the force of her swing, slamming into the gunwales alongside Allen. She barely hung on as the airship violently righted itself.

A blur of brilliant brass fell through the air like a comet: the Dray Engine, free from any bonds save those of gravity. It roared out, less in defiance and more in something like panic, its dinner-plate eyes wide. The ancient machine toppled end over end on an almost parallel path along the rear cliffs between the Waterdocks and the Craftwright’s Terrace.

Almost.

It slammed into the cliff face, the force of its impact echoing across the entirety of the lagoon. Granite dust rose in a plume as it skidded down, impacting with a tannery and sending filthy timbers flying in a blocks-wide explosion. The monster wasn’t done yet. It rolled like a lost cannonball, smashing shacks, warehouses, and homes in a devastating path. Soldiers’ screams were only barely heard over the clamor. The stairway up to Pillager’s Square collapsed as the monster took it out and the twenty brass automatons there fell. Finally, the monster came to a stop, buried beneath rubble just before the southern edge of the Waterdocks.

Lina stared. She panted, her emotions a tangled mess.
What have I done?

“What’s going on?” demanded her captain from back near the helm. “What happened?”

Beside her, Allen pulled himself slowly away from the ledge, cradling his arm. “I...I think we killed it, Captain.” he said, voice quavering with pain.

Lina had to agree. The world just wasn’t fair if the monster could survive a fall like that.

“Hey!” called Michael Hockton from farther up the deck. “Isn’t that Captain Fengel?”

Lina followed his outstretched arm to the Mechanists’ Gasworks on the northern tip of the Craftwright’s Terrace behind them. The structure was a mess of pipes and exhaust stacks topped by an airship landing pad that would have almost reached the Flophouse Terrace above, were it still in place. Part of the place had collapsed, though, revealing a small courtyard past a tangle of broken wall and wreckage. In the middle of it moved a man in a blue officer’s coat and a tricorn hat. Something he wore flashed in the reflected light of the setting sun.

Someone shoved Lina roughly aside. It was Natasha. The
Dawnhawk’
s captain peered down before nodding sharply. “That’s him. And he’s about to be in a mess of trouble too.”

Lina glanced at her quizzically, then caught it. Past them, coming in low and slow, was the Perinese airship. It had twisted aside as the
Dawnhawk
appeared, but now it circled back, heading straight for the Gasworks.

Natasha turned and ran back to the helm, her parrot flying beside her. “Prepare to come about!” she ordered. “Grab up whatever you can—muskets, bombs—Realms Below, get something heavy from the galley.” The pirate captain spun the wheel hard as they reached the southern end of the lagoon. “We’re bearing back around and then straight at that overinflated balloon. And this time,
we
’
re
the ones on the attack. Oh, vengeance is—Omari! What are you
doing?
”

The Yulani aetherite was crouched against the starboard gunwales like the rest of them, but rather than gawking, she was furiously attempting to lift the corpse of Morgan One-Eye overboard. She stopped, panting, and stared at them.

“You’ve got to help me!” she cried.

“Help you what?” asked Reaver Jane.

“We’ve got to throw them overboard. They’re going to come back!”

Natasha pulled at the wheel before her, throwing levers on the gearbox beside her to adjust the airship’s ballast. “We know. We’ll just have to work around those things, for the time being. Grab a gun!”

Omari shook her head. “No, you don’t understand! The Bluecoats, they were just soldiers, and your crewmates were friends. But these men...they really, really hated you!”

Farouk let out a yell as something grabbed his leg and he tripped heavily to the deck. Runt hissed from her scrynlings’ crate, now wrapped around it with wings spread wide, trying to flap away from the bodies stretched up and down the gunwales. Omari yelped and jumped back away from the corpse of Morgan as it angrily swiped at her.

Lina felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as the bodies of the dead Castaways began moving with awful purpose.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Admiral Wintermourn climbed down from the
Glory of Perinault
.

The rope ladder he descended whipped and jerked like a thing alive. It seemed to catch every errant gust blowing across the lagoon, threatening to fling him atop the heads of the dozen or so marines standing in the breach of the Gasworks wall.

“Hold it steady!” he shouted.

“Sorry, sir!” cried Sergeant Greene. He and Private Bryant set their footing, as if they could moor the great airship above them through force of will alone.

Wintermourn snorted. He climbed down the last six feet to stand on dusty boards and broken piping.

Their intelligence called this facility the Gasworks. Purportedly, it was where the Mechanists developed the light-air that lifted their airships aloft. To Wintermourn’s eyes it looked like nothing so much as a child’s tangle of brass piping and arcane machinery, all wrapped around a central smokestack spire surrounded by a protective wall. A wide platform landing pad stretched itself across the top of the structure, supported by struts and the spire itself. Originally, the
Glory’
s captain had thought it an ideal point from which to dismount and attack. That was before the other airship, though.

The
Dawnhawk
had come out of nowhere, bedraggled and battered. Unlike its sister ships, who hung up high near the Skydocks nursing their wounds, she came in low, cutting straight across the town to drop something awful on the Bluecoat columns spreading throughout the Waterdocks. Wintermourn hadn’t quite seen what it was, but the clamor had been enormous.

He ignored the men still waiting to descend and paused at the bottom of the rope ladder, one hand resting on the hilt of his saber while he looked out from the breach to survey the damage along the Waterdocks below. A great furrow had been torn through it, the buildings shattered and the boardwalk itself crushed through in places. It almost seemed like the pirates had dropped some great cannonball from on high, letting it roll across the lowest part of Haventown with abandon. The stairway leading up to this second terrace had been completely knocked to flinders, leaving cheering pirates to mock Adjutant Chesterly and his clockwork soldiers where they were stuck down below.

Which made his current objective all the more imperative. Fortunately, the
Dawnhawk
appeared to be having trouble coming back around, battered as she was.

“Where to, sir?” asked Sergeant Greene. The officer eyed the structure about them with deep suspicion, which was only appropriate, really.

Wintermourn snorted. “Don’t be an idiot. We go inside.”

Greene ducked his head. “Aye, sir. But...then what?”

“We kill all the damned pirates.” Wintermourn let go the ladder. The remaining marines descended as he stepped farther into the breach. A makeshift passage led inward, though it was twisty and haphazard. “I spied a courtyard just past all this while still above,” he continued. “We make our way there, and then we see.”

Crown Prince Gwydion shouted something from over the gunwales of the airship up above. Wintermourn couldn’t make it out, and he didn’t quite care to, either. Instead, he peered into the gloom, shadowed by the curve of the lagoon and the setting sun. Something stank here, like burned metal and old milk.

“There could be anything in here,” he said to Greene darkly. “Another screaming cannon, more treacherous explosives. Any sort of perfidious Mechanist trap. Tell the men that anyone who lingers—”

He paused at another shout from Gwydion back aboard the
Glory
, this one amplified by a speaking trumpet. Wintermourn let loose a sigh. “What does he want now?”

Greene shook his head. “I don’t know, sir, but I think he’s worked up about something back down on the lower terrace.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” snapped Wintermourn. He turned away from the ragged passage and back to the airship up above. “Speak up, curse you!”

“Clear all that grey hair out of your ears, Admiral!” boomed Gwydion. The crown prince was leaning out over the side of the airship gondola, even as more Bluecoats climbed down the ladder. “There is something happening down on the Waterdocks! Along the south—”

A mechanical roar cut him off. It boomed, enormous and malevolent. The sound of it echoed about Haventown Lagoon, moving like a thing alive itself. Wintermourn thought it sounded vaguely familiar, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight at the clear promise of vengeful wrath it contained.

“Hairy knuckles of the Goddess!” shouted Gwydion from on high. For once, the youth sounded utterly surprised. His exclamation was joined by those of the men still on the ladder, all staring southward.

Wintermourn pressed into the now-tight crowd of Bluecoats. He shoved, swore, and elbowed until the men moved aside, coming abruptly to the end of the breach where the Gasworks wall gave way to a slope of rubble spilling down over the cliff top. Admiral Wintermourn looked out over the Waterdocks, then felt his jaw go slack as he stared.

A massive pile of rubble was heaped on the southern edge of the Waterdocks. Wintermourn watched as it shifted, twisted, and rose up. The debris slid away to reveal the brazen hide of a reptilian mechanical monster.

It appeared like nothing so much as a land-bound dragon standing on its two hind legs. Thirty feet high and covered in scales of Voornish brass, it had a heavy torso, a long, segmented tail, and a serpentine neck. It raised up its head and opened its maw, unleashing another mechanical roar.

Wintermourn stared.
It can’t be.
He’d last seen that monster three months ago, after barely dislodging it from his own battered
Colossus
. They’d destroyed it, though, certainly, knocking it into the ocean deeps. There was no way something like that could have been recovered from the depths of the Atalian Sea.