Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (48 page)

And yet, the pirates appeared to have done it. Somehow.

A trio of Brass Paladins had reassembled after their fall from Pillager’s Square. They formed up to face this new threat, moving as one to open fire with their clockwork muskets. Sparks flew from the hide of the mechanical beast as they unleashed volley after volley, ricocheting away into the city. The monster paused in its tirade and swung its head down low to glare at the metal men. The thing cocked its head back and forth, peering out from great malevolent red eyes before exhaling a cloud of steam that washed over them all.

Then it charged.

Bluecoats all around Wintermourn called out to the Goddess as the thing attacked. It moved with startling speed, plowing through a half-collapsed shanty and kicking through the rubble at its feet. It reached out and caught up one of Gwydion’s Brass Paladins, flinging it a hundred paces to slam into a warehouse. Another of the Paladins tried to move aside, but it grabbed the mechanical soldier up in a titanic paw, pausing only to step down with mortal finality upon a screaming Bluecoat who’d had the bad luck of getting too close to the thing.

Adjutant Chesterly screamed for order, and the marines moved to action. Soldiers fell into firing formation and unleashed a rippling report of shots at the thing. The machine-dragon whirled suddenly, its tail lashing out like a cannonball to hammer through their ranks, separating several poor souls entirely from their lower portions. Reinforcements from the waterfront paused as they entered the scene, as bewildered and horrified as the officers at their head.   

The Brass Paladins proved more stubborn. They rose from where they’d fallen and joined straight to the fray, firing with their heavy pepperbox muskets—or using them like clubs if they were close enough. Before long, the southern side of the Waterdocks rang with the sound of metal hammering on metal.

“That thing is going to wreck our entire advance!” yelled Crown Prince Gwydion from on high.

Reflexive anger at the princeling snapped him back to himself. Wintermourn glanced back up at the
Glory
where it floated above. “So take that fancy airship of yours up and go do something about it!”

“Exactly my thought, Admiral! Now quit dawdling and go do
your
job!”

The crown prince disappeared, even as his orders rang out from over the edge of the gondola. Those marines still on the ladder descended quickly. Before long the airship was moving away. Wintermourn watched it go peevishly.
Always something new. Damned pirates!

Sergeant Greene coughed beside him. “Orders, sir?”

Admiral Wintermourn took a calming breath. “We do our job, Sergeant.” A quick count revealed three dozen marines clustered together, half of those he’d gathered from the docks before lifting off. Numbers enough for what lay ahead. “It’s our task to stop these damned pirates from getting away.”

The Bluecoat sergeant jerked his round, black cap towards the lagoon. “That other airship, sir. It’s coming around again. Looks like they’re back in control.”

Wintermourn followed his gaze. The
Dawnhawk
was indeed circling back over the lagoon, straight for the
Glory
. It shuddered and shook as the navy forces below fired a rain of musket balls into its ragged hull, but still, it came on.

“So it is,” agreed Wintermourn. “So it is, Sergeant. Well. Let the crown prince deal with it. Come.”

He turned and pressed back through the soldiers for the Gasworks interior. At Greene’s orders, a pair of Bluecoats flanked him, peering about at the weird structure as if a piece of it might come alive to do them harm at any minute.

It wasn’t an unfounded concern. Mechanical dragons, screaming cannons, and airship bombardment from above—even a flying city! The damnable Mechanists meddled with all manner of perfidious mechanical wizardry. Well. Their time had come, at long last.

Admiral Wintermourn ducked under a length of pipe, then clambered up a pile of broken wood. The wreckage sloped away, revealing the small courtyard he’d seen from aboard the
Glory
. It was built atop the boardwalk, butting up against the cliff wall at its rear. The rest of the Gasworks held it close, the outer wall and the slumping interior both. A single stair of wrought steel climbed the cliff before bridging across to the Gasworks proper and the great airship landing pad moored to the smokestack spire. The air was heavy with the stink of spoiled milk.

In the center of the courtyard was a thick, waist-high metal spike surrounded by a ring of toothed gears the size of carriage wheels. The boards beneath the gears were warped, and they squealed and groaned as if under great pressure. Beside this array knelt two figures: one in the greatcoat of a Mechanist, the other a pirate wearing a mockery of Wintermourn’s own naval finery.

The man wrestled something from his companion, small and black like one of their aerial bombs. “Imogen! How in the Realms Below do you light this damned thing off? And where’s Henry and the others?”

Imogen, the Mechanist, snatched the bomb back from him. “That ogress of yours is still stuck, and I don’t care! I got them masks and came straight back because I knew you’d screw this up! What have you done to my bomb?”

The pirate waved a small box her way. “I’ve been trying to light it off! Why do you Mechanists make everything so complicated?”

Imogen stared at him. “What is that, a tinderbox?” She glanced down at the bomb. “What were you thinking? You have to
prime
this first! It’s a clockwork fuse, it lights itself!”

Her companion sat back and crossed his arms. “Well, that is a serious design flaw!” he huffed.

Wintermourn drew his saber. The rest of the Bluecoats pushed out past him, forming two ranks on the slope at either side, with more ready behind. “No one will be lighting any fuses, clockwork or otherwise,” he said.

Imogen and the other pirate turned simultaneously to stare at him. A monocle fell free from the pirate’s face to dangle on its chain at his breast.

He stood quicker than Wintermourn would have thought possible. The saber at his side slid out and into guard more easily than most men lifted their forks at mealtime. In spite of himself, Wintermourn was taken aback.  Still, the fellow was pompous, something more than the overblown individualism the pirates thought to call panache.
I’ve heard of this man before. But where?

“I’d ask how you got up here,” said the pirate, “but I don’t particularly care. Men of Perinault! Be glad. You’ve driven us from the Copper Isles—I concede you your victory. However, attempt to prevent us from leaving, and you’ll be accounted as suicides when I send you to meet the Goddess.”

“Fengel!” shouted the Mechanist from behind him. “You broke it! I don’t know if I can fix this thing.”

The pirate half turned to call back at her, trying, and failing, not to ruin his pose. “Now is
really
not the time for pessimism, Mechanist Sixth Class.”

Now Wintermourn knew where he’d heard the name. Fengel was one of the pirate captains, master of the missing airship
Flittergrasp,
according to the dossiers. That idiot Chesterly had been going on about him just yesterday. Wintermourn smiled.

“Pirate Captain Fengel,” said Wintermourn. “I’ve heard of you. You’re a mutineer and traitor as well as a pirate.” Sergeant Greene appeared beside him, at the tail of the Bluecoat column pushing its way into the courtyard. “By rights you should hang,” Wintermourn continued, “though I’ll be just as comfortable pitching your headless corpse over the side of this cliff.”

“Many have said the exact same thing,” replied Fengel. “And I’m sure they will continue to. But who are you? An admiral, by your braid.” He jerked his head forward, indicating the lagoon behind them. “You’ve a bit more gumption than most, if that’s the case. I dare say your command is floundering down here.”

“The Lord High Admiral of the Sea does what he pleases. And unfortunately for you, I prefer to take a more personal hand in things.”

“I...I think this might be doable,” shouted Imogen.

“Not
quite
so loud, if you please,” said Fengel. He stared at Wintermourn, nodding slowly. “Yes. You’re Wintermourn. High Admiral of the Sea. I know of you.” Fengel narrowed his eyes. “You’re everything wrong with the Kingdom. The epitome of the whole rotten system and every cruel, nepotistic, imperialistic action it takes. You’ve the ear of the king himself, who isn’t any better. It’s a small handful of men like you that makes everything so much worse.”

Wintermourn allowed himself a slow smile. Finally. “It is men like me who will make this world something glorious. It’s a pity that you’re a turncoat. Deckhand or drudge, at least you’d have lived long enough to see the rise of an empire.” Wintermourn paused. “Well. Possibly.”

Fengel shook his head. “You are a burden upon the world,” he said. “And I will fight you as long as my body draws breath.”

“Unfortunately for you,” replied Wintermourn, “that will not be long.” This banter was amusing, but it was time to put an end to it. Once he stopped this idiot in whatever mad plan he had, there was still the matter of the mechanical dragon to tend to.

“I’ve got it!” cried Imogen.

“Enough,” said Wintermourn. “Greene? Fire.”

Captain Fengel swore and turned back to cover Imogen, who looked up as if she’d only just then noticed the kneeling ranks of Bluecoats taking aim. Muskets steadied as Greene called out, slashing down with his sword.

A wash of caustic brilliance splashed over the men to his right. They fell back, screaming, their cerulean jackets and round black caps—as well as their weapons and very flesh—eaten away by arcane malevolence.

Wintermourn stepped back behind the sergeant at his side reflexively. The aetherite who’d thrown the blast stood just across the courtyard where a passage led to the Gasworks interior. He wore a half cloak and a gas mask, and his hands gripped a seething Working, something that dripped down to spatter at the boards beneath his feet. Wintermourn swore that the vile necromancer eyed the fallen eagerly, as if just waiting for them to die so that he could raise them up again.

Other pirates appeared beside him, bearing gas masks and an assortment of differing weapons and ragged clothing. One stepped forward and pulled off his own mask, revealing a cocksure smile beneath.

“Lucian!” shouted Captain Fengel from where he stood covering Imogen. “About damned time!”

“Sorry, sir!” replied Lucian. “We all got split up from Henry and Sarah back at the Graveway—Goddess knows where the rest of us are. Took near forever for Konrad to track you down, even with a Working.”

A big, hirsute fellow to his left gave a grunt.

Lucian jerked a thumb back through the Graveway. “Then we found Sarah’s huge arse jammed into the door.”

“It fell on me!” snapped a large, red-haired woman.

“Well,” said Fengel, seemingly practiced at stalling arguments. “Now that you’re here, help me hold off this lot so that we can blast this shackle free and leave these Bluecoat-infested isles.”

“Aye, sir,” drawled Lucian. “Also, something’s making a terrible ruckus down on the Waterdocks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was that Dray-thing you found on Almhazlik.”

Captain Fengel stared, his monocle popping free again. “What?”

Admiral Wintermourn glanced about his side of the courtyard. The soldiers stared, somewhat stunned by the surprise reinforcements. At least, those soldiers who weren’t screaming at his feet. “What are you buffoons standing around for?” he snarled. “Charge!”

Sergeant Greene jerked as if he’d been slapped. He raised his saber and roared out the order. The Bluecoats all threw themselves forward, crying out as they raised muskets or drew their smallswords. Captain Fengel whirled to meet them while Lucian and the others came to his aid. In seconds, the ruined Gasworks courtyard rang with the sounds of clattering steel and ringing musket shot.

Wintermourn let the men run past him, throwing themselves into the fray. He hung back, letting them expend themselves, as was only right and proper. From the slope of rubble he watched the field of battle, calling out commands in an effort to direct it.

Which unfortunately was somewhat needed. Unlike Euron and his lot down on the Waterdocks earlier, who had constantly retreated, these pirates could
fight
. The Bluecoat charge slammed into them, knocking them back...only to be blunted and fought back. Lucian and his pirates found their footing and stood as firm as any trained regiment. They parried smallswords or cut the marines down, even as fresh soldiers replaced those who stumbled or fell. Then, incredibly, the pirates moved forward. They fought foot by foot, not to throw the Bluecoats back but to force them aside as they made their way to the captain, giving him the time and cover he had asked for.

The huge, red-haired woman hacked away with her cutlass as she met the brunt of the Bluecoat charge, bowling men aside and cleaving their skulls with abandon. Beside her worked Lucian, mixing dirty tricks and a bandolier of pistols with his more-than-competent swordplay. A small man, heavyset and scowling, darted in and out between the two to cover them. The aetherite came next, wielding his awful liquid light. As if that wasn’t enough, Fengel apparently had two of the heretical necromancers at his call. A thick, heavyset man with a wild beard and wilder eyes blew gouts of living fire that crisped skin and burned flesh. Wintermourn tried not to think of what these two would do with the corpses after the fight, though an image of rotting claws and hungry jaws came unbidden.

There were a few victories for his side. Blood ran freely from dozens of wounds: gashes, nicks, and musket-ball wounds. A vicious-looking pirate with a mouthful of filed-down teeth was skewered by two marines at once, grasping feebly at the smallswords transfixing him. The hirsute aetherite cried aloud and lost his fiery Working as a Bluecoat stepped up and shot him in the shoulder. Others fell as well, cursing, gasping, and pleading for help. Still, though, the pirates tried to reach their captain.

Who stood alone. Impossibly so. A full squad of marines had rushed Fengel when the fighting started, but rather than be immediately overcome, he stood firm. His saber whirled faster than Wintermourn could see, a blinding blur of steel that parried, cut, parried, and rebounded. Bluecoats fell back clutching severed wrist-stumps, mangled feet, and torn-open throats. Behind him the Mechanist Imogen knelt, working feverishly.