Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5) (38 page)

"And I protest mein ship is taken by rats!" Captain Wilhelm roared at the top of his lungs. "This will not stand! They steal one ship, smash the station relays and explode another! Mein Kapitän, are you with me?" Klaus shook a fist in the air for emphasis. "We'll hunt das vermin from the skies! Drown them in their rat holes for ..." he waved one hand around him at the makeshift hospice, "... this atrocity! Where is mein niece? Where is Clark? Where is that kapitän of the
Intrepid
as well?”

“He hasn’t seen John?” Hunter asked Thorias.

“No,” Dr. Llwellyn replied. "The few medics and volunteers here are having enough of a time with Captain Wilhelm without adding fuel under his righteous fire.”

While Captain Wilhelm stalked forward, Thorias quickly turned to face the large, angry man. The doctor's face was as calm as he could manage, despite sharing the irate captain's feelings. "Captain, calm down. Moira is safe aboard the
Griffin
. We'll get to that as soon as we can. First you need to rest your wounds.”

"I'll rest aboard mein ship! Not a moment sooner!" Klaus growled.

"They damaged the station's relay equipment?" Hunter asked, concerned.

Wilhelm stopped his advance, throwing up his arms in exasperation when the young medic re-appeared, putting himself in the angry captain's path. Dr. Llwellyn let out a long, weary sigh.

"Yes, they took pains to create as much chaos and destruction as quickly as possible," the doctor explained.

Hunter considered that a moment, his mental gears already churning at high speed. "Not chaos, but an elaborate distraction. A dangerous slight of hand." He glanced over at Thorias. "Just where is the crew? Is the
Brass
Griffin
air worthy? And what of John’s son?”

A faint smile crossed the doctor's tired face. "The crew is fine, as is the
Griffin
. Conrad and Moira are triple checking for anything amiss, just in case. Krumer knew you'd want things air worthy at a moment's notice. Captain Clark - Thomas, that is - is battered, but alive. John nearly died saving his son from the gas. When the explosion happened, John located his son among the burning wreckage. He wrapped him in wet cloth and whatever else he could find before carrying him off the ship. Unfortunately, the gas caught them as they reached the Boardwalk. The layers John used to protect his son were enough to block the effects of the gas.”

Hunter nodded solemnly, with a glance over at John, who coughed again in his half-sleep. “He swore he’d protect his son.”

“John took a cloud of that gas head-on to do just that,” Dr. Llwellyn explained. “He should be dead, but he’s not. Honestly, a tougher pair I’ve rarely met, given not even Fomorian apes can do either of them in. The younger Clark is out helping search the wreckage, despite the need to walk with a crutch.”

"Those Fomorians have snapped at our heels every step of the way," Hunter said in a dark tone, while thoughts clicked into place in his mind. “They have kidnapped innocents, scuttled ships and wasted lives - all for what?" The captain hesitated a heartbeat. "A thrice-damned potion that is worse than any poison-peddling opium den fueling wild delusions of grandeur!" Hunter took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I was originally content to scuttle their plan, rescue their hostages, and leave these addled lunatics to the mercy of Her Majesty’s Navy. That, as I see it, is no longer the lay of the land.”

Dr. Llwellyn considered his captain and longtime friend carefully. The doctor had seen Hunter genuinely enraged only a handful of times. This, in the doctor’s estimation, was about to be another. He nodded and folded his arms over his chest. "Direction and heading, then, Captain?" Thorias asked.

Anthony's eyes were dark, filled with a seething anger. "Can you be spared here?”

Thorias nodded. “I can. I’ve passed along my notes on cleaning out the poison to others here. They can manage for a small while.”

“Good. The Fomorians have bombed a ship; kidnapped, wounded, or killed countless innocents; and fashioned a weapon - a chemical weapon - that I believe they intend to use on other targets. Lastly, they have taken one of my crew and a young lady for their hellish work. I am well and done with 'subtle'. If they want a fight, they have it! There’ll be justice for their butchery of the
Fair Winds
, and this hellish gassing of innocent people. I’ll chase them down in the streets with rocks and sticks for this barbarism if I must! I'll have these demons out of my sky, Doctor, mark me well!”

"Mein
Whirling Strumpet
will fly with your
Griffin
, Kapitän!" Captain Wilhelm exclaimed with a savage grin. "We will need riflemen! Gunners and supplies, Ja?" he asked.

"Quite," Hunter replied sternly. "The
Strumpet’s
a larger lady than the
Griffin.
Her extra firepower will be most welcome. However, and most importantly, we need to get word to the British Fleet. Last I knew, they still suspect the
Griffin
for wrongdoing. Right now, there is a larger threat, and I need them with us, not against us.”

“Leave that to me, Captain,” Thomas Clark said as he followed a rescue crew down the row, watching as another survivor was lowered onto an empty cot nearby. The young captain wore bandages across his arm and around his head, and bore a patch over one eye. He walked with a crutch, given his right leg could not fully support his weight.

Despite his bloody, torn uniform and the state of his damaged leg, Clark stood tall with his back as straight as he could. His one good eye burned with the pain of losing his crew and a white-hot urge to see justice for the crime.

“While the
Intrepid
may not fly at this time, I have other resources at my disposal,” the young captain explained while he limped forward. “My ship’s blacksmith is already at work inventing a makeshift repair to the station’s relay. Likewise, not all of my crew were aboard. I have forty uninjured riflemen, two of which are sharpshooters, that stand ready even now.”

Hunter watched the captain of the
Intrepid
carefully. “Would they sail with a suspected traitor? A crew wanted in questioning for the scuttling of a passenger ship?”

Thomas shook his head, coming to stand
within arm’s reach of Anthony. “No. However, I’ve already spoken with them. They’ll certainly sail with you, Captain. They bloody well deserve a spot of payback.” He thrust out his hand to Hunter, offering friendship. “We all do. I’ll damn well speak on your behalf. I’ll make the Fleet see the reason in this. As I understand, there is, at last, a small force of ships two hours from here. What say you?”

Hunter clasped Thomas’ hand in a firm grip. “I say the
Griffin
and
Strumpet
sail north
with all able-bodied crew and every rifleman that can shoot. If the Fleet can spare it, we’ll need a presence south of Inverness and another coming in from the east. Given what these Fomorians have done so far, I expect a large force hidden away above Inverness.”

Clark nodded curtly as he stepped back from Hunter in preparation to leave. “Consider it done.”

“Capital!” Hunter replied, his mind already working out the strategy of assault.

Clark turned to go,
then paused, “Wait, Hunter. How will they locate you? The Fomorians will surely be listening over opti-telegraphic transmissions for any clue as to our movements.”

“The Fleet will know precisely my location,” Hunter said, his voice brittle and angry. “It will be on fire!”

F
or the remainder of the voyage, the
Revenge
had sailed silently along her course; first to Inverness, then to Culloden Moor. There, she set anchor at an enclave hidden deep within the northern side of the moors, and nestled among the trees and mists like a predatory cat lying in wait.

Ian Tonks Wilkerson remembered little of the trip between the
Revenge
and the hidden compound carefully constructed in the highland bogs. One moment he had been in the hold, talking of escape plans and machinations with Angela, in the next moment the hold had been soundly gassed with some white fog, robbing both of them of consciousness.

It was some time later when Ian awoke, head throbbing as if a hammer were beating inside his skull. He hung suspended, face down, between two Fomorian sailors that half-carried, half-dragged him by his arms along an ancient stone hallway. Their nailed shoes echoed dully off the stone floor. The pilot blinked groggily, looking around.

The hallway stones were grayish-green, covered in a fine layer of moss formed over many long years of exposure. The air was damp, almost stagnant, as if there was little chance for wind to refresh the air, as if they were underground. Ian tilted his head, turning it slowly to look in front of him. Through the thick drape of shadows, he barely made out the hard lines of a stout, iron-bound cell door.

One of his captors, a sailor with a narrow pock-marked face, noticed Ian's movements and laughed nasally. "'Ere, 'ere, look who's awake! 'Ave a nice sleep?"

"Get bent," Ian replied with a dry rasp.

Both his captors laughed. The second one, with a swarthy complexion, replied first. "Yer gonna sing a new tune after some time in a cell under the doctor's tender care. He'll set yer thinkin' right!" 

Ian struggled a bit, which earned him a hard elbow to the side of his head that caused him to see stars. He fought desperately against the black wave of unconsciousness that threatened to swallow him whole, barely able to keep his mind about him.

"None o’ that now," the first sailor growled. "Mind yourself, or we'll ...."

A sudden chorus of wordless shouting punctuated the darkness. Abruptly, a man cried out, "Watch it! The chains came loose!" His words immediately devolved to a scream of pain. Then, as quickly as it began, the corridor ahead descended into an uncomfortable silence.

The two sailors holding Tonks paused, glancing at one another with suspicious concern. Hauling Ian upright, the larger of the two nodded down the corridor in the direction of the sound. "Go see what that was. He's goin' nowhere."

"Why me?" the narrow-faced sailor complained.

His companion glared at him. "'Cause I did it last time, when the prisoners stormed outta the cells."

"Roit, roit ..." the other sailor grumbled, still unhappy with the idea.

They leaned Ian up against the wall to slump lean with his back to
the damp, mossy stone. The larger one pressed a hand to the pilot's chest, pinning the man to the wall while the pilot's eyes carefully kept track of both sailors. "Now, just keep yerself right there, and we'll get along just fine," the big Fomorian sailor said.

Ian said nothing in reply. Instead, he trained his gaze on the narrow-faced sailor in the faded blue shirt walking carefully down the corridor, who had just slipped his revolver from his belt. From the moment the pilot had regained consciousness, he had known he was too weak to overcome both men. One, however, was a very different situation entirely, provided he could catch the sailor off guard.

"Lose yer prisoners often?" Tonks asked in a raspy voice, his throat still slightly raw from the small dose of Hellgate elixir they had forced in him earlier.

The guard snorted derisively. "Dirty mob gets unruly sometimes when that damnable woman stirs ’em up.” Then, as the sailor realized who he was talking to, he quickly glared at Ian, “Shut it! Ya don't need ta know that!"

“Just a question,” Tonks replied casually, glancing back towards the other guard.

At the far end of the corridor, the narrow-faced sailor cautiously approached a shadowy corner. The man's features were tense, on edge. He peered into the darkness, then around. Suddenly giving a sharp cry, he jumped backwards, squeezing the trigger rapidly. Gunfire stabbed the darkness, punching hot bullets wildly into the shadows from which a lithe figure rushed forward.

Jerking his hand away from his captive's chest, Ian’s guard reached quickly for the revolver at his waist. His hand never made it, as the pilot summoned all his strength and lunged, striking his captor across the mouth with the calloused knuckles of his right fist!

The Fomorian grunted in pain, staggering backwards, his hand still
grasping for the butt of his Colt pistol. Tonks continued his unsteady, almost drunken charge, this time grabbing the Fomorian by the right shoulder while he hammered blow after blow into the surprised guard’s midsection. The sailor wheezed, his knees buckling as he crumpled to the floor. Immediately, Ian fell heavily beside him.

With a wordless snarl of rage, the sailor lunged for Tonks’ throat, but the pilot managed to block his attacker's hands at the last moment. Quickly grabbing the Fomorian’s red cotton shirt-front, Ian head-butted his captor. The Fomorian’s eyes immediately rolled back into his head. He slumped to the stone floor like a deflated gas bag.

Ian blinked, wiping a bead of grime-filled sweat from his eyes. “Well, not so tough without yer little flask, eh?” he said with a tired smirk. No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the pilot pitched forward onto the floor, skin turning a ghastly gray-pale as if from blood loss. He barely had time to get his hands under him while he fought alternating waves of nausea and lightheadedness.

Distantly, he could hear the fight at the other end of the hallway, complete with two more gunshots! The sound to his ears was muffled by the all-too-loud pounding of Ian’s own heartbeat. Dimly he heard what could only be Angela’s sharp cry of pain. He blinked, slowly glancing at the unconscious Fomorian next to him.

“Damn me to hell,” he muttered angrily, fumbling with the Fomorian’s vest pockets. “I bloody hate this, but I have to.” Finally, his shaking fingers closed around a small vial. Lifting it free, he scowled at the container. “Thorias, I’m trustin’ yer workin’ on a cure for this devil’s drink already. Otherwise, I’ll be as good as dead.”

Ian quickly drank a quarter of the yellow elixir. Rapidly, he shoved the stopper back into place, fighting down the near-manic craving to drink the flask dry. Hands shaking, Ian pushed the small bottle into his shirt pocket. He wheezed, then erupted into a wet cough. It was as if his lungs were trying to escape his chest. The heat rapidly spread through his body to his arms, his legs. Invigorated as if he could wrestle a mad bull, he quickly ran in the direction of the gunshots.