Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Fengel caught up to their guide. He climbed up on a high root beside the Draykin. "What is it?" he asked. "Why have we stopped?"

  Rastalak was staring out past the tree. Fengel followed his gaze and his jaw dropped.

  There were no trees and no undergrowth, because there was nowhere for it to grow. The earth abruptly gave way to a cliff wall that dropped down three hundred feet to a valley floor. The valley was a mile wide and roughly two miles long, encompassed on all sides by sheer stony cliffs.

  The valley was not empty. Stair-stepped pyramids, low, wide houses, and towers constructed in strange unreal whorls filled the space, separated by broad thoroughfares of paving stones. The tips of the tallest buildings towered hundreds of feet above the ground, just below the lip of the chasm, higher than any building Fengel had ever seen, even those back in the old cities of the Western Continent. The stonework of each structure was a soft gold in color, shot through here and there with silvery lines that seemed to almost shine. Flying lizards and the eel-like scryn swooped from niches in the upper structures to fight, hunt, and play.

  It was the city they'd seen the evening before from the Dawnhawk. Fengel felt a moment's incredulity. They'd walked all night but barely covered a few miles.

  "Behold," said Rastalak with reverence. "Yrinium. Ancient seat of the Great Masters."

  "The Voorn," said Fengel in realization. "These are Voornish ruins. That's who made all this." Artifacts and ruins from the old race were found occasionally back on Edrus, bits and pieces of the civilization that had come before those of man. But nothing like the city down below. He was possibly the first living man to gaze upon this place. I wish Natasha could see this. Immediately, he quashed the errant thought.

  "Voornehai," nodded Rastalak. "The Great—"

  Their guide broke off. It twisted its head suddenly, as if hearing a sound. It looked back the way they'd came and hissed. Fengel turned, hand automatically to his saber. The rest of the crew were crawling along, obviously exhausted. Henry Smalls led their way toward him, Gunny Lome at the rear. Fengel spied something past her, hiding in the bushes only a dozen paces at her back. A face, reptilian and long-muzzled. Just like Rastalak.

  Their Draykin guide hissed something in its own tongue. Fengel didn't understand, but the meaning was clear. "Alarm!" he cried. "Sarah, at your back!"

  Gunny Lome was a warrior born. She whirled, drawing her cutlass as she did so. The hiding Draykin leapt from the bushes, a spear upraised and ready to throw. Sarah took in the threat and squared herself, ready to dive aside.

  A spear flew through the air. It caught Henry Smalls in the back and he went down, eyes wide, still trying to understand the danger. Fengel shouted in denial and drew his blade.

  Draykin appeared, seeming to rise out of the very earth itself. There were dozens of the short reptiles. They hissed and screamed, and then the battle was on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I really hate this ship.

  The Copper Queen lumbered through the air like a pregnant cow. It swayed, not always with the movement of the wind. The light-air cells were a third depleted and the others rolled around loosely within the gasbag frame. As if that weren't enough, the support struts and cables stringing the ship itself to the 'bag were on the verge of giving way. Several had already torn and been rapidly replaced.

  Mordecai had just woken for his shift, yet still felt exhausted. The last eighteen hours had almost killed him. He felt like murdering someone in turn for having had to live through them. First had been the repair of the Queen, as mishap after mishap revealed the little life left in the craft. Then they'd returned to the wreck of the Albatross to load aboard the lingering treasure, supplies, light-air canisters, and anything that would burn for fuel. After that, Mordecai would have been glad to put the whole sorry adventure behind them, to return to Haventown if they could, or simply to Breachtown where they could scuttle the ship and make their way home via smuggler's routes.

  But no.

  Mordecai hated Fengel and wanted him dead. Yet this desire paled beside that of Natasha. His captain was driven, almost manic. At several points he'd thought to sway her from her mad course. Every attempt had been met with withering scorn. Still. He thought he'd almost had her. Until they'd seen smoke on the horizon, and then a distant, shining dirigible in the light of the setting sun. There'd been no choice then, though still he tried. It galled him to watch Fengel go, but the Queen would never catch the Dawnhawk now. They had just enough coal and burnable fuel scavenged up for a return to Haventown. That was their best bet at the moment. Go home. Set a trap. Fengel's Men would have to return sometime.

  That wasn't happening. Natasha lashed them onward. Mordecai had spent all night keeping their haphazard vessel aloft and chasing their prey. On the verge of passing out, he'd slipped down below to rest for an hour or two, and had only just now been kicked awake by his captain, her face grim, preparing herself for a fight that he knew would not happen.

  The pre-dawn twilight set the eastern sky afire and the canopy below them a softer shade of blue. They flew lower than Mordecai would have liked, but that could not be helped. To the northeast hung the Dawnhawk, a speck against the horizon, just barely visible.

  He yawned, just as a spring popped free from the rudder linkage overhead. It shot out past where his head had been a moment before, across the deck, whistling over the tired and edgy crew up to the bow, where Guye Farrel was coiling rope. It pelted the man hard across the back of the neck and Mordecai watched him topple, momentarily stunned. He hit the deck, then shot up, swearing and yelling at the ship, the men around him, and the more notable aspects of the Goddess. Other members of the crew started to mutter, either at the rattletrap airship they all worked to keep afloat, at Farrel, or just at their situation.

  Mordecai knew a tipping point in the making when he saw one. He didn't intend to let it even form. The crew hurriedly bent back to their tasks as he stalked down from the aftcastle deck, yelling orders and cursing them aloud. He stalked up to where Farrel was ranting and quieted the man with a glower, until Farrel looked away to sullenly coil rope again. Mordecai turned and strode back down the deck, sighing under his breath.

  Sad thought it was, he missed their Mechanist. Well, not really. But the youth's skills would have been invaluable now. Mordecai somewhat regretted leaving him behind.

  The sun finally rose above the horizon to spill gold across the jungle below them. Mordecai marveled for a moment, caught by the view. The Yulan was amazingly clear, its clouds high and distant. He could see for miles and miles in every direction, even to the omnipresent Stormwall bordering them distantly to the west. Even the Dawnhawk looked clearer, its magnificent frame shining, the skysails along its side all but glowing.

  Mordecai frowned. He stalked back up to the bow. Guye Farrel flinched at his approach; Mordecai paid him no mind and drew out his spyglass instead. Through it, the Dawnhawk resolved, far clearer than it should have been. They were gaining ground.

  Fengel had to see them. The clear skies of the strange jungle continent worked both ways. It was possible that the Queen hadn't been spotted during the night. Possible, but not plausible. Mordecai had been working under the assumption that they were making a pursuit they couldn't possibly win.

  So why were they catching up?

  He strode back down to the aftcastle. He took in the status of the ship as he went and ordered crewmen to tighten ropes here, loosen the rigging there. Back near the captain's cabin their lone cannon lay lashed to the deck. He ordered five crew to free it and secure it up on the bow. Then he ascended to the helm.

  Konrad had the ship's wheel in hand. The aetherite was muttering to himself, probably arguing with the invisible daemon on his shoulder. The man hadn't dealt well with their recent troubles. During the last surprise attack and theft of the Dawnhawk, his counterpart Maxim had unleashed some apparently extremely unpleasant hex upon the man.

  "Navigator," said Mordecai. "Bring us over six degrees. See if
you can get us some height."

  Konrad started at his voice. He turned tired blue eyes toward Mordecai. "What is the point?" he asked in his thick accent.

  "We're gaining on our prey."

  The ship's navigator stared at him, then nodded slowly. Mordecai turned away and descended back to the deck, where the door to the captain's cabin was shut. He rapped on it, waited, and went to rap again. Before he could knock a second time, however, the portal opened wide and Natasha glared at him, eyes bloodshot and baggy. She couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour. For a wonder, she didn't stink of booze.

  "What?" she asked, voice tight.

  His captain looked half-mad. Mordecai wondered whether he should tell her. But duty won over in the end. "The Dawnhawk is dead ahead," he said.

  She scowled. "Tell me something I don't know," she said, disappointment coloring her voice.

  "We're gaining."

  Natasha stared at him. Then she threw open the door and sauntered out onto the deck, brushing past him. She was still dressed, though her shirt was un-tucked and both her boots were missing.

  The pirate captain strode up to the bow. Mordecai followed quietly as she stared out at the world. Natasha hissed suddenly, like a cat. She slapped the barrel of the carronade that the five crewmen struggled with.

  "Get this mounted," she ordered them. "Dead ahead. Cut open the old gun ports in the bow again if you have to." She turned to Mordecai. "We've plenty of powder and shot left?"

  He nodded. "I only dropped about half of what was in the magazine. We could fire all day if you really want to. But they have to see us. They know we want them dead. There's no way they'll let us catch up close enough."

  "I don't care," said Natasha. She was almost vibrating with excitement, and her smile was ugly. "Get us closer, Mordecai. Get us back on top of our ship."

  He returned to the helm and ordered the crew, keeping his thoughts suppressed. The sun rose, revealing more of the world around them. To his surprise the lookouts called out again; there were buildings ahead, just below where the Dawnhawk was hovering. What's this? Could they have found something?

  Mordecai waited impatiently as the distance shrank between the two airships. He saw their prey clearly now, even spied the little figures running about on the deck. Anger, thick and raw, surged up in his breast, surprising him. Fengel had stolen his ship. Twice now. It was galling and incredible at the same time. Occasionally spats did arise between pirate captains. But never before had Natasha's Reavers come out the worse in these exchanges. Natasha herself fought harder and more ruthlessly than anyone Mordecai had ever known, desperate to move out from under her father's shadow. And until that tussle with Fengel aboard the Dawnhawk he had never found his match with a blade. This chase was no longer a futile desire of his captain's. He looked forward to the impending struggle. He would relish it.

  Yet something was off. They were indeed catching up. With each passing minute they grew closer and closer. That shouldn't have been the case. Mordecai wondered what had happened. Had they sustained damage? Did something happen to them? It was obvious from the frantic scurrying that the enemy crew was aware of their presence. Why weren't they moving off?

  Natasha gasped in surprise. Mordecai looked up at her, then walked to the portside rail and followed her gaze. His captain looked not at the Dawnhawk, but to the jungle down below. Peering down, he found himself blinking in surprise.

  The jungle ahead of them fell completely away to reveal a wide valley with sheer cliff walls. Between those lay a city, the source of the ruins his lookouts had seen. Mordecai had never spied anything like it. It was massive, alien, and very strange. And far from empty. Figures moved about it, sized like human children, though odd in shape. They clustered in the streets below the Dawnhawk, hovering over the center of the city, and Mordecai heard the cry of their voices. Scryn, those dangerous flying nuisances, soared over the streets in agitation at the noise.

  "What is this?" he wondered aloud.

  His captain stared. Then she shook her head, narrowed her eyes and cast her gaze back at the airship off their bow. "It doesn't matter. We'll find out later, after we take our ship back."

  The figures on the Dawnhawk moved frantically about. Fengel turned his airship about. Mordecai frowned. What had they been waiting for? There was still a chance at escape, the Queen was a wreck, but it was a slim one. Natasha growled as the Dawnhawk tacked ponderously into the wind and let it carry them to the far side of the valley.

  "Damnation," she hissed. "Blast it!"

  "We can't catch them," agreed Mordecai flatly. They were down to burning doors and cabinets scavenged from the interior for fuel.

  They watched the airship pick up speed. Then, amazingly, it stopped. The Dawnhawk reached the northern wall of the valley, but rather than pass over it, she turned her nose eastward, following the cliff-line.

  Natasha and Mordecai shared a look. They didn't waste time in wonderment, though—something was very odd here. Mordecai called out orders to the helm to give chase.

  So it went. The Dawnhawk would fly ahead, the Copper Queen would chase doggedly behind. The stolen airship refused to leave the valley. But though she was faster and more refined, the Dawnhawk was still a dirigible, with limited maneuverability. Bit by bit they closed upon her.

  Finally, they caught up. The Dawnhawk had performed a full circuit of the valley, back to where it had started on the west-most cliff, only a dozen feet above the canopy. But now Natasha's Reavers were only a hundred yards away. Fengel made to turn her west. Natasha ordered the cannon fired across their bow. The report was thunderous, and made the whole Queen groan and creak alarmingly. Yet the message was clearly understood.

  Mordecai moved back to the helm, his place for the moment. He ordered the crew armed and ready for boarding. Hooks and grapnels were brought out. A barrel of powder was brought up from the magazine for those with muskets and pistols. Natasha moved to the starboard rails, ready to lead the action, hungry for it.

  The defenders did what they could. Muskets were brought out and potshots fired, doing little damage. Lines were formed to repel the assailants. Mordecai saw Lucian striding back and forth, shouting orders and calling for discipline. But nowhere did he see the tricorn hat or shining monocle of their captain.

  Fifty yards left. Then forty, then thirty. The grapnels were thrown and muskets fired. Mordecai watched a number of his men fall. Natasha herself flinched aside as a ball cut her cheek. The losses were more than acceptable.

  The airships ran together with a crunch.

  Natasha howled a bloodthirsty cry and leapt over the gunwales. Her men followed her, blades in hand and murder on their minds. Even the white ape went, leaping over to the Dawnhawk's gas-bag. Fengel's crew were prepared, though. Muskets fired at point blank range. Boarding axes hacked at the ropes while their mates covered them from above.

  There was no clever distraction this time, no crewmen waiting to swing across and catch the defenders from the rear. It was a struggle in the old way, with blood staining both decks and sulfurous gun smoke tainting the air. The defenders slew a few of the boarders, those not quick enough or skilled enough to hold their own against so many on so many sides. Natasha though, held her own.

  The piratess hacked about her with reckless abandon, anger giving her the ferocity she needed. Natasha wasn't nearly as skilled as Mordecai, but she was no one to ignore. She slashed with her cutlass back and forth, and when someone tried for her blind spot, she calmly drew a pistol and fired it.

  Reaver Jane dropped down beside her. The skinny woman was a wire-whip, deadly and vicious with her long knives. Between the two of them, they formed a bridgehead that allowed another crewman to come over. Bit by bit, they made the boarding.

  Mordecai took another look at the deck. He didn't see the giant gunnery mistress, Sarah Lome. Nor did he see Captain Fengel, or the ever-present Henry Smalls. Where in the Realms are they?

  He had no more time to worry about it. The pressure
was mounting on Natasha. It was time for him to join the fray.

  Mordecai moved to the press of yelling men and women on their side of the struggle, and with curses and back-handed blows, made his way to the front. He drew his cutlass and went over, fighting beside Natasha, Reaver Jane, and three others.

  It felt good to wield his sword. The fight against the white apes had been too surprising and desperate to enjoy. There was also a catharsis to be had. The foes before him now had wronged him. They had stolen his ship, shamed him before his crew and captain. It felt good to lay them out.

  Mordecai hacked forward into the face of the man before him. His opponent fought in the new style, and brought an off-hand dagger up to block the blow. Mordecai ignored the sword he held; the quarters were too close for his opponent to really use both. He pressed forward, sliding the blade back and ramming the man in the face with the basket hilt of his own blade. Cartilage crunched and blood flew on the air. His opponent screamed as his nose was broken, pulling instinctively back and giving up more room.

  Using the time and space just bought, Mordecai drew the blade back sideways, across the bare neck of a man fighting Natasha. Blood sprayed from a cut artery. Mordecai ignored it, turning back to his original foe and lunging into the now-open space, running him through. The man gasped and fell to the deck. Mordecai freed his blade and moved on.

  Mordecai slew efficiently, workmanlike. Pressed at the back by the others on his crew, he scythed through the defenders with deadly efficiency. A few blades licked out at him, a few lucky blows were struck. It was inevitable, with quarters so close and the fighting so furious. But nothing was lethal or even really much of an inconvenience. Pistols were fired at him, but the charm in his ear warmed and the bullets whizzed past, deflected by its aether-wrought magic.