Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One)

by Jonathon Burgess

  "Did they go after anything else?" asked Fengel.

  Lucian turned to his captain. "No, thankfully. The new girl got rid of them before they had a chance to really run wild. As for the ship herself; we knew she was a beauty, guess that means she's a bit more delicate than we thought too. I chatted with the Mechanist."

  Fengel raised an eyebrow. "Chatted?"

  His first mate grimaced. "Was lectured by, rather. These skysails will give us a higher consistent motivation along the aetherlines, apparently. But we can't subject them to the kind of pressure we're used to in places like the Maelstrom." He sighed. "Yet another thing that girl caught that I didn't."

  If Lucian had any faults, Fengel knew, it was a tendency towards perfectionism. He was much like his old nemesis Mordecai Wright in that respect. It also meant that Lucian tended to dwell on failure. Both of them knew it, though, and Fengel was careful not to prod at it any further. "And the crew?" he said, changing the subject.

  Lucian shook his head. "Could have been a lot worse. Mostly cuts and bruises. A few got stung. That's going to hurt. Scryn-poison is painful stuff, but not usually deadly. We're going do be down a few more on day-watch while they recover."

  Fengel rested his hands on the bow railing. "Well, we should be right enough. It's good that it's not any worse." He watched the horizon, then gestured at the distant, dark stain of the sky. "The course was correct. That's the Stormwall, if I guess correctly. And thus, the Yulan Continent." He smiled at his first mate. "Payday is almost here."

  Lucian nodded. "We'll have to find the Silverpenny River. I went over the maps, and it should be somewhere south of the Engmann's Run terminus. Not far, but the place was only seen once before by a Perinese survey team. We'll have a day, a day and a half maybe, to get things back in order." He turned to his captain. "Looks like you were right this time."

  Fengel grimaced. "I've been wrong enough lately that I think I'm due. It's good to get a break once in awhile."

  "Ship ahoy!"

  They both turned back down the deck. One of the lookouts, a skinny youth by the name of Jonas, had scrabbled down the ratlines from up above. He pointed out and upwards. "Ship ahoy! Dropping fast on us from above, starboard-side!"

  Fengel met Lucian's gaze. Then both of them ran for the starboard gunwales. Reaching it, Fengel leapt up onto the rail and grabbed at the mesh of the ratlines leading up to the gas-bag frame and above.

  The dark, bulbous shape of an airship was falling fast on them from up above, using only propellers and steam. She was on a direct bearing; there was no mistaking her intent.

  It can't be. Fengel fumbled in his jacket for his spyglass. It can't be. Yet he already knew who it was. He brought out his spyglass and extended it, peering into the sky. The distant skyship resolved into a black-hulled vessel, ancient and makeshift. He let out a soft, but heartfelt, curse.

  "What?" asked Lucian. "Who is that?" Fengel said nothing, instead passing the spyglass wordlessly to his mate. Lucian looked through it and uttered an exclamation. "The Copper Queen?" he cried. "Euron himself is bearing down on us?"

  "No," said Fengel. "Natasha." He knew it to be true. The ship from earlier had been her. If she'd moved quickly enough from Haventown she could have just made it to Engmann's Maelstrom. But it would have been close. Fengel had an epiphany. He dropped back down to the deck. "She knew. She knew about the skysails. That was her earlier, Lucian. She wasn't chasing because she knew she could lay an ambush here, knew we'd have lost the sails if it hadn't been for Miss Stone. She'd have had to go at full speed to make it. Blast it, how did she know?" he turned to the deck and bellowed through cupped hands. "Everyone to stations! Heft open the weapons lockers! Arm the wounded and call everyone up on deck!"

  Fengel raced back to the helm without looking at the crew. Andrea Holt made to relinquish the helm and he waved her back to it. Instead, he leaned in towards the speaking-tube atop the helmsman's gearbox. "Furnace to full!" he cried.

  Silence. Fengel felt Andrea's gaze on him and turned back to her. She shrugged, watching him curiously. Did the Mechanist hear me? He leaned farther in. "I say, are you down there? Get that furnace stoked up—"

  A discordant screech exploded from the tube. Fengel jumped back, cursing and rubbing at his ear. The tube fell silent, only to erupt again in an unintelligible cacophony.

  "Dash it all," muttered Fengel. He turned back to the helm. "Andrea, get down to the Mechanist and—"

  "No time sir," said the piratess, pointing. She shook her head, dark locks of hair splaying about. Fengel followed her gesture. Up the deck the crew moved frantically, grabbing weapons from hastily opened lockers while others climbed up from the hatches belowdecks. Past them, the black hull of the Copper Queen was just visible, descending two hundred feet away to come level alongside.

  Sarah Lome clambered up from the aft hatch and took in the situation at a glance. She immediately moved amidships to the weapons locker. Fengel nodded to Andrea and moved up the deck to where the massive piratess stood. His gunnery mistress nodded at him as she picked up a heavy axe and belted on a brace of pistols. Lucian and Henry Smalls joined them.

  "Evening, Captain," said Sarah. She turned to Lucian. "Mister Thorne, what have you let happen on your watch? I'm told we got attacked by scryn too."

  Lucian glowered. "Well, not all of us can sleep the day away—"

  "Belay all that," ordered Fengel. His officers immediately quieted. He gestured them away so that the crew could keep arming themselves. "We're going to be boarded. If things go poorly, though, I'll call for quarter."

  Henry frowned at the other airship. "Think she'll use a broadside to soften us up?" Most modern airships had a few cannons along the lowest decks, to bombard seagoing vessels. With it's traditional layout, Old Euron's ship was ironically better suited to attacking the Dawnhawk than any modern airship.

  Fengel shook his head. "No. She won't want to damage the Dawnhawk. Still, if she came all this way in that old wreck..."

  He trailed off as the other airship approached. It was close enough that he could pick out the individual crewmen on the other side, all shouting and waiving cutlasses high. A few overeager musket-shots rang out, too far away to be even close to effective, the plumes of gun smoke puffing away on the wind. Natasha stood on the foredeck, blade held in the air. Up on the aftcastle he spied Mordecai, a dark figure standing quietly.

  Fengel hardened his heart and drew his blade. "This is our ship," he said, quietly, dangerously. "We stole it, fair and square. And that besotted slattern is not going to take it back from us. Lucian, give the order."

  His first mate nodded and turned to face the deck. "Stand ready to repel borders!" he cried. The crew readied their weapons and pushed up against the rails, swords raised and axes readied to hack away boarding-ropes. Lucian looked back to his captain.

  Fengel met their gazes in turn and then smiled. He drew the saber at his hip and stuck it point down in the deck. "Well then, me hearties, let's be about it."

  His officers turned to the starboard-side, and the enemy airship, with a wordless yell.

  Chapter Nine

  They were closing in on their prey.

  The Dawnhawk lay dead ahead. Even adrift, its skysails presumably damaged, the airship appeared mighty. Her long, clean lines were magnificent in the late afternoon sun. The sight of his ship relieved Mordecai, just as it enraged him to see her in the grip of her captors. Fengel's Men scurried about its deck in alarm, moving like cockroaches startled by a sudden light. Mordecai allowed himself a smile.

  Raucous cries echoed about the deck of the Queen. Natasha's crew of brigands all massed on the port-side gunwales. Eclectically armed, they loaded pistols and brandished axes, or just waved their swords in the air, howling for plunder and blood. The old scow listed dangerously. Thankfully, though, the Mechanist had done his job, solving the wild steering problems from earlier. Mordecai found he didn't care much. They'd burned through most of their coal stores to make it to the Maelstrom on
time. Now they were mere moments away from taking back their ship, their real ship. Whatever came afterward for the Queen was worth less than a worry to him. The makeshift airship could go to the bottom of the sea, so long as it got them to their prize first.

  An overeager pirate fired his musket. They were still a hundred feet off from the other ship; the ball wouldn't have hit a thing. Mordecai frowned. Unruly and bloodthirsty though they were, his crew knew better than to waste shot. He took a step toward the ladder down from the aftcastle deck, ready to discipline the man.

  "Save yer fight!" yelled Natasha. The pirate princess stood up on the bow, gorgeous and wicked. Gone was the cranky, frustrated woman he'd had to put up with over the last two days. Now she stood like something out of a painting or a boy's penny-paper. Her hair was bound by a bandana, the free ends dancing in the wind. She smiled, a crooked, dangerous thing that held ugly promises for whomever it was aimed at. A bandolier strapped a brace of pistols to her chest, wrapped snugly under a blouse cut low to cause distraction.

  "You won't hit a damned thing at this distance," she said, voice mocking, chiding. Mordecai's captain turned back to face the aftcastle deck, where Mordecai stood next to Konrad at the wheel. "So let's remedy that! Bring us in, Mordecai!" She addressed her men, raising her sword high. "Get up the hooks! Get ready for blood! Get ready to take our ship back!"

  The assembled buccaneers all roared. Despite Natasha's rebuke, a few more pistol shots rang out. Those nearest the rail picked up the boarding-ropes. These were a standard tool of the trade, thick rope attached to a chain with a grapple. Normally they were thrown into the rigging or rails of merchant ships from up above to preclude any thought of flight. But the grapples would suit here well enough.

  The Copper Queen closed on the Dawnhawk. Fengel's Men had organized, muskets arrayed along the rail, hatchet-men standing by to repel the grapples. Mordecai raised an appraising eyebrow. That was one thing he'd give Fengel; the man knew how to organize his people.

  One hundred feet shrank to fifty, then twenty-five. Mordecai spied Captain Fengel standing back from the action where he could see and be seen by his men. The pirate captain drew his saber and raised it high, shouting a command. Those with muskets along the rail fired, a staccato racket that echoed in the space between ships. Two of Mordecai's crew fell and he heard the whip-hiss of a ball as it sailed through the air near his head, a miss, but close.

  "That all you've got?" Natasha cried. She howled laughter and gestured at the Dawnhawk with her sword. The crew on the deck below her roared. Muskets and pistols returned fire, and those with grapples let fly. The hooks shone in the fading light, like captive birds of bright metal trailing thick leashes behind them.

  Some of the heavy hooks fell short, bouncing off the hull. Some went too far, braining those in the enemy crew at the rear. But enough fell just right, catching on the railings and behind the gunwales, connecting the ship almost bow-to-bow, like a pair of sky-borne animals nuzzling.

  Natasha's men knew their work. The first wave of pirates up against the rails grabbed the ropes and heaved, pulling them tight and taut before the defenders could unhook them. The second wave knelt, preparing to clamber over.

  Fengel's hatchet-crew hacked at the hooks, severing a few even through the chain. Mordecai watched in irritation as Sarah Lome, Fengel's giantess, reached over the rails to grab a rope in each hand. She yanked and six of Mordecai's men, three to a rope each, jerked forward against the rails, releasing their grip before they plunged down between the airships. Sarah then took up the slack and unhooked the grapples, throwing them overboard before reaching for another pair.

  Mordecai frowned. He held out his hand to Konrad. "Gun," he said. The aetherite passed a pistol into his hand. Mordecai cocked it, took aim, and fired at the giant piratess. The ball just missed, scarring the wooden railing near her hand. Sarah Lome cursed and fell back. A hit would have been nice, but that was good enough.

  The ships slammed together. Roaring their bloodlust, Natasha's crew clambered at the rails of the Dawnhawk. Fengel's Men fought back, forming a hedge of swords, axes, and pistols that flung the assailants repeatedly back onto the Copper Queen. Mordecai watched in irritation.

  "Shall I throw in, Mordecai?"

  Konrad watched the battle, fingers grasping, eager to join it. Mordecai shook his head. "No. Save your magics. It's too uncertain, still." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled up at the gas-bag frame above them.

  Ten carefully picked pirates swung down from the far side of the gasbag, their ropes anchored up above the melee. They flew over the deck and up past their brethren, letting go at the apex of their arc to land on the Dawnhawk behind the defenders. A few stumbled, but most landed well, turning back to harry Fengel's Men from behind. Mordecai sighed in vexation, despite the success. He and Natasha had argued long over this particularly ludicrous trick.

  The surprise attack threw the defenders into disarray. Bit by bit Natasha's men drove them back and forced their way onto the Dawnhawk. Natasha followed her crew over, yelling for blood at the top of her lungs. Mordecai nodded at Konrad and drew his own blade; it was time.

  Calmly, he descended to the main deck and made his way over to the press. "Out of the way, you laggards," he roared. Even in their zeal, the crew obeyed him. Those closest opened up a path. Mordecai leapt up onto the gunwales, then over to the other ship. For a moment he had the brief sensation of being weightless, unsupported by anything at all as he moved through space with only the momentum of his jump. His boot touched onto the Dawnhawk's railing and Mordecai clambered down to the deck, stepping onto the familiar exhaust-pipes and the polished wood of the ship herself.

  Pandemonium reigned. Natasha's pirates drove Fengel's Men back, individual fights spreading out across the length and breadth of the airship. They gained ground, and quickly. Something struck Mordecai as odd; resistance was fierce, but the fight was going easier than he and Natasha had expected. Had his trick with the topmen been that surprising? No. Fengel's Men were wounded, many sported fresh bandages and cuts across their faces, and semi-fresh ichors stained the deck. They had been in a fight recently.

  All the better, then. Mordecai dove into the fray. A gap-toothed pirate appeared before him with a cutlass. Mordecai contemptuously parried a blow and gutted him as he pushed past. Then a short woman with boarding axe hacked at him. He ducked it and ran her through.

  Something exploded near his head. The charm in his ear warmed to almost scorching, and he felt the faint pressure as the pistol ball deflected away. Mordecai turned to face an unfamiliar woman with a scar across her lips. She stared at him, the flintlock pistol in her hands trailing smoke from its barrel. Mordecai smiled contemptuously and raised his sword.

  He broke out in a cold sweat. In seconds he was soaked, teeth chattering in a biting chill that stole the breath from his lungs and the warmth from his skin. As he watched, hoarfrost broke out over his sword arm where his shirt was damp all the way through, growing with each passing moment until his arm and his ribs were coated with ice. He fell to his knees under its weight, panting, now desperate for water. He fought to lift his weapon back to a defensive stance.

  A man in a half-cloak with dark, shoulder-length hair appeared through the melee a short distance away. His blew out over his cupped hands, guiding his breath at Mordecai. It was Fengel's aetherite, Maxim.

  Mordecai felt a wild current of unaccustomed fear. He'd yet to find his equal with a blade. And the charm in his ear kept his opponents from equalizing things with a gun. But against the Workings of an aetherite he had nothing. When pressed an aetherite could conjure hungry and living fire, turn your weapons to rust and your friends into enemies. Only their extreme reticence at expending their power balanced this; Worked magic was hard to come by even for an aetherite, and they paid for each hex dearly.

  Maxim grew red in the face as if winded, and his skin were chapped by the cold. Still he blew, and Mordecai's ears ached with the bite of a sorcerous wind that f
orced the sweat from his pores and then froze it in place. The eyes of the other man were dancing; he was going to kill the infamous Mordecai Wright.

  Liquid light splashed across Maxim. The aetherite recoiled with a yell. Konrad stood a short distance away, hands wrapped around a luminous orb that seeped between his fingers. Its spill landed on the deck, spattering and sizzling. Natasha's foreign navigator swung his fists out at Fengel's aetherite, casting the droplets in a luminescent spray.

  Maxim cursed and fell back again. His clothing smoldered where the liquid light touched it, the fabric abruptly rotting away. He brought up his wind-burned hands and clapped them once at his rival. Konrad flinched, then yelled as those closest to him, both friend and foe, fell on him in screaming, inchoate rage.

  Mordecai left the aetherites to their duel. At worst they would keep each other occupied. And who knew? Maybe Konrad would come out on top, kill his opponent, and turn his powers to help the raid.

  Grunting with effort, Mordecai hefted his arm. Ice covered it, and his hand was already numb from the cold. He lifted his arm with his other hand. Then he swung it down at the deck. The impact travelled from his fist to his shoulder, seeming to shake his bones all along the way. Chips of dirty ice flew free, going rotten and melted without its sorcerous creator present. Mordecai grit his teeth and swung, again and again until he was free.

  He climbed back to his feet. His limb ached, and he felt almost withered, his mouth like it was filled with balls of cotton. One of Fengel's Men appeared and hacked down at him with a hatchet. Mordecai brought his blade up and parried the blow against the haft of his assailant's weapon. The movement was sloppy, and he felt the grip of his sword slip almost out between his fingers. Mordecai cursed and stumbled back. The pirate grinned and raised his axe overhead with both hands.