ON DISCORD ISLE
Book Two of the Dawnhawk Trilogy
by
Jonathon Burgess
On Discord Isle
Copyright © 2013 by Jonathon C. Burgess
All rights reserved. Neither this book or any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All events and characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Cover art by Ksenia Mamaeva.
Cover design by Vladimir Verano.
Map by Vladimir Verano.
Interior format by Jonathon Burgess.
Editing by Susan Defreitas.
Published by Brass Horse Books.
First Edition, June 2013
Find out more about the author and the Dawnhawk Trilogy at www.jonathonburgess.com.
For Mom & Dad
ON DISCORD ISLE
Chapter One
Things were not going according to the plan.
“That was great!” said the first mate. “You came out of the clouds and had us before we even noticed. Just like in a penny-play! My boys are going to love this.” He shared a lascivious smile. “And it won’t hurt my chances with the wharf-lasses either.”
Captain Fengel blinked, nonplussed. He did agree with the man, if only about the first part. They’d dropped down from the noonday sky right above the merchant vessel, snaring its sails and descending to the deck before the crew had any time at all to react. The few who’d thought to resist had been quickly disarmed. Captain Fengel and his airship pirates had successfully captured their prey.
It was just that no one seemed to care.
The first mate appeared harmless. Still, Fengel kept the man in the corner of his eye as he glanced about, checking on the progress of the raid. They stood on the middle deck of the Minnow, a wooden barkentine hailing from the Perinese colony of Breachtown. The hull was a long rectangle tapering up to a bowsprit that jutted out over the clear, cerulean sea. Three thick masts thrust up from the deck, a foundation for the forest of rigging, ratlines, and sails that completed the vessel. Those last should have been billowing, full and taut against the wind. Now, however, they hung limp. Their cloth was tangled by heavy grappling hooks whose ropes led even higher, to the long, clean lines of the airship Dawnhawk hanging against the bright sky above.
“Now that’s a thing,” said the first mate, following Fengel’s gaze. “Fixing our sails is going to be a pain. But it’s worth it, just to see yer ship.”
Fengel peered back at the man. Don’t these people realize what’s going on? At least he was properly awed by the vessel above them. Fengel felt the glow of pride beneath his suspicion.
The Dawnhawk was a long pumpkin seed hanging from a spindle. Thick chains and hawsers connected the rounded hull to the rigid gas bag above, a great attenuated egg of ridged cloth. Propellers hung from the stern end of the vessel, as well as exhaust pipes for the steam engines that powered them. Large triangles of shimmering fabric lay folded against the hull, the arcane skysails used to ride aetherial currents.
“Yep,” continued the first mate. “Quite a thing. I’ve never seen the like. Everyone talks about ’em. How d’you get it to stay up like that?”
“It’s a secret,” Fengel muttered.
Both ships were furious with activity. Those up on the Dawnhawk tossed down rope and netting for the soon-to-be pilfered cargo. Fengel’s own first mate, the dashing Lucian Thorne, stood upon the port-side gunwales as he supervised the crew on deck. Usually Lucian would lead the raid, but there were considerations now, and Fengel’s presence was required.
More of his crew occupied the rigging of the Minnow, reefing the sails and keeping an eye on the captives from up above. He recognized Lina Stone, a diminutive city-born prostitute and recent addition to his crew. Fengel smiled. Letting her on had been a gamble, but it had paid off handsomely. Lina was competent, quick, and had saved his skin more than once. Though he did not care for that thing she called her pet, now whipping through the air to land on her shoulders. Runt was one of the scryn, a vile cross between flying snake and manta ray that all sensible sailors rightly hated.
“Scryn, eh?” said the captive mate of the Minnow. “I didn’t think anyone could train those nasty little monsters. You pirates are just full of surprises.” He chortled and shook his head.
Fengel considered having the man sent to join his crew; he was growing irksome. But no. Fengel needed to keep an eye on him. And besides, a gentleman possesses self-control. He turned his attention away.
The merchant vessel had a few dozen hands, all of whom stood along the railing. They were scruffy from their long voyage and nursed a few small, recent wounds. Weirdly, though, they looked more relieved than worried. A small handful of Fengel’s crew watched them, led by his huge gunnery mistress, Sarah Lome.
On the opposite side of the ship stood a gaggle of civilian passengers, similarly watched by the silent Geoffrey Lords, Fengel’s terrifying cook. The passengers didn’t seem much phased, merely watching their captors at work and quietly conversing amongst themselves. The other members of his crew moved up and down the ship, hunting for anyone still trying to hide. Fengel himself stood near the main cargo hatchway while Henry Smalls worked to open it with a few other pirates. Rastalak, of the reptilian Draykin, assisted him.
“You’ll want to watch the upper-right corner on that hatch,” said the Minnow’s first mate. “She sticks something fierce, and our carpenter is a lazy bastard who hasn’t gotten round to fixin’ it yet.”
Henry Smalls glanced at the man. “Thanks?” he replied, throwing an uncertain look at Fengel.
Fengel shrugged helplessly. What is wrong with these people? Not that he was complaining, overmuch. Willing victims were far better than the alternative.
Rastalak gave a grunt and stooped to lift the hatch. Fengel still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the tiny lizard-man; he hadn’t even known the fellow’s gender until an awkward incident in the privy last week. Though less than half Fengel’s own height, the lizard-man was strong; he raised the heavy hatch single-handedly, and apparently without any undue effort.
“Oh, good show,” called one of the passengers, a matronly woman at the front of the group. She was dressed in the conservative Perinese style, a peacock feather jutting from her wide-brimmed hat.
She began to clap demurely, pausing for just a moment to glare around her. The rest of the passengers joined her, giving polite applause. Geoffrey Lords gave a worried look back to his captain. Fengel felt for the man. Of all the things expected on a pirate raid, this was not one of them.
Still, loot is loot and no one’s dead.
“Here’s the dog!”
Fengel winced. Only one person in the world had such a piercing, peace-shattering roar.
His wife.
He closed his eyes and took a breath, counting to three. Then he turned to face her.
Natasha Blackheart strode up from the aft-castle cabin where she’d been rummaging. Even still, his breath caught in his chest at the sight of her. Long, lustrous dark hair spilled down from the kerchief wrapped around her head to her shoulders, framing a heartbreakingly lovely face. Her eyes were golden and almond-shaped, her lips full and twisted in a cruel smile. She wore tight breeches and a distractingly low-cut blouse. There was nothing soft in the heavy cutlass at her hip, though, and the Wiley twins at her back were her loyal brutes. One carried a lit oil lantern. The other chivied along a portly man with a grey beard and
captain’s jacket.
“Ha!” barked Natasha. “Found this slug hiding in a smuggler’s hole under his bed. Or trying to, anyway. He couldn’t fit his fat arse all the way in!”
She gestured, and the twins threw the Minnow’s captain to the deck. Fengel tried to remember their individual names, and failed, which was bothersome. He brushed the thought aside and looked to the figure at their feet.
The man sat upright with a grunt. “That was uncalled for,” he said. “Got to make a show of at least trying. If only so’s we can say such to the shipping agent.” He stuck a hand out. “Now that we have observed the proprieties, let me offer our full cooperation with your piratical endeavor, so that we can get this business over quickly. I would like to be on our way before too much time has passed.”
Natasha snorted. “Be on your way? You fat sack of suet! You’re assuming you’re going to live through the day.” She kicked him in the side. “You’ll cooperate in cutting yer own stones off, should I desire it. Your ship is mine now, you—”
“Your cooperation is most welcome,” interrupted Fengel. He gave a brittle smile to Natasha. “And there’s no need to be discourteous…my dear.” He sheathed his saber and faced the merchant captain, offering a hand. “Let me assure you, sir, that we mean your crew no harm, and are only interested in your hold.”
The captain took it, and Fengel helped him to his feet. “Thank you m’boy, thank you. At least some of you young people today still possess common decency. Captain Mortimer Pyke, of the Minnow.”
“Captain Fengel, of the pirate vessel Dawnhawk.” He thought for a moment. “And this is my absolutely darling wife,” he added venomously. “Captain Natasha Blackheart.”
The first mate gave a low whistle. “Buyer’s remorse, eh?”
Fengel rolled his eyes. “She even refused my name, when we were wed.”
“Enough of this!” snarled Natasha. She glared at Fengel, then faced the crew. “For all my fool husband says, you’re our captives. We’re taking your hold, your jewelry, all of it, and you seem to be forgetting that.”
Ah, there we go. Courtesy was courtesy, but in her dim, roundabout way Natasha had recognized that something was amiss with these people.
“Well now,” said Captain Pyke. “You’ve got us, that’s plain as day. No need to get worked up about it. We’re not even Merchant Navy, with Bluecoat marines aboard or any such. You can have our holds, and gladly.”
Natasha blinked in confusion. Fengel glanced at Henry Smalls and nodded to the gaping hold. The steward clambered down inside along with Rastalak.
“We’re just glad you’re not the Salmalin,” said the first mate. “I mean, you want our cargo, right? It could be a lot worse.”
“Oh yes,” called the woman with the massive hat. “Those people are just the worst sort of savages. I mean, you hear all sorts of awful things about them.”
“Too true,” said a man beside her.
Aha. There is something else going on. “What’s this now?” asked Fengel.
“Frigate,” said Captain Pyke. “Hailing from some barbarous city in the Sheikdom of Salomca. We heard reports back in Breachtown of her; she’s been hunting Kingdom ships this last season, avoiding direct engagement with anything capable of fighting her off, coming for us defenseless merchants instead. We were worried stiff when we spied her a few days ago. She’s been shadowing us ever since.” He paled at the memory.
Fengel did the math in his head. The Minnow only has three sails, plus mizzenmasts. A Salomcani frigate could easily catch up. If it was only shadowing, there had to be a reason. Fengel cursed under his breath as the answer came to him.
“I’d rather be press-ganged by the Navy than let those jackals get ahold of me,” said a captive sailor. The rest of the Minnow’s crew all took up the conversation, rousing more emotion than they’d displayed during the entire pirate raid. Geoffrey Lords and Sarah Lome both looked back to Fengel for direction.
“Enough!” barked Natasha. “I’m tired of your gabbling; it’s not important. This Salomcani ship isn’t here, so let’s get back to the matter at hand. Namely, taking everything that isn’t nailed down.”
Fengel wheeled about to face her. “Actually, dearest, it is somewhat important,” he said, voice tight. “If you’d stop to let two thoughts hammer together in that head of yours, then you might figure it out. This Salmalin is a Salomcani vessel. The Sheikdom of Salomca is at war with the Kingdom of Perinault. This is a Perinese merchant ship. Which means she would have had a Perinese naval escort. An escort, that if it returned, we would not be able to escape, seeing as we are currently tied up so very neatly to the Minnow.”
“Oh yes,” said the dowager with the hat. “The Goliath. Very charming captain. Stout ship too. Very modern.”
Natasha wheeled about. “Will you shut up, you daft old biddy? This is a private conversation!”
The woman’s hand flew to her throat. “Well!” she said. “I never!”
Ah, dearest wife. Always making things better. Fengel considered how best to rein her in. Suddenly, he realized that he did not care to bother. No, the sooner they offloaded the cargo, the sooner they could be on their way, and the less likely all around that they would be set upon by an irritated Perinese naval frigate. He smiled at the first mate and captain of the Minnow, at Natasha and her goons. “By all means, continue the conversation. However, I think I shall go below.”
He tipped his tricorn hat and moved away to the lip of the hold. It wasn’t deep. Wooden crates were stacked right up to the edge, forming a convenient pyramid stair down into the dim spaces where the noontime sun did not penetrate. Rastalak and Henry Smalls were standing just within the dark, examining a crate. Fengel clambered down to join them.
The cargo area continued forward, stacked high with crates that Fengel knew would stretch all the way to the bow. Thin aisles had been left, dim and shadowed spaces that he couldn’t see too clearly. The planks of the floor were heavy and thick. Just below them, Fengel knew, lurked the bilge of the vessel. The faint smell of stale water rose up from it, mixing with the wood of the crates and the exotic scents of cargo.
The others looked up at his approach. “Well, what have we got, then?” asked Fengel.
His steward stood with pry bar in hand. “The lot here at the opening seems to be the most valuable,” he replied. “Got shipping marks from clear around the far side of the Edrus. Don’t know why they’d be coming from the Yulan. The rest is mostly dried bulk goods.”
“Hmm,” mused Fengel. “Breachtown has a huge need for raw goods. These have probably been in transit for months.”
“This seems inefficient,” rasped Rastalak. “Why so long in transport?” The little Draykin peered around the cargo hold, curious. Most of human civilization was clearly still new to him.
“Merchants try to pack as much profit into one trip as possible,” replied Fengel. “It’s a gamble, especially when people like us get involved. Still worth it, though, if the goods are especially valuable.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Their loss, our gain. Let’s crack it open.”
Henry bent to the nearest crate as a racket sounded behind them. Fengel whirled to see one of the Wiley twins clambering down into the hold. The fellow was tall and thuggish, with blond hair and pretty features. He had a particularly dim look in his eyes.
The fellow stumbled to the bottom of the stack. “Captain Blackheart sent me down to help,” he said.
Or to keep an eye on me. “Then come along and help,” said Fengel dryly. “What was your name again?”
“Nate Wiley, sir,” replied the man.
Fengel nodded. Nate Wiley. That’s it. He hated forgetting a crewman’s name.
Henry rammed the pry bar into the lid while Rastalak wrenched at it with his claws. The lid popped free to reveal tightly packed rows of folded red fabric.
“What’s this?” asked Henry.
Fengel ran his fingers over the bolts. They were of a thick cut. He smiled. “Henry, I thin
k we’ve hit the jackpot.”
He reached in and pulled out one bolt, unrolling it and laying it across the top of the crate. The fabric was a crimson rug with fine golden patterns stitched throughout. Henry whistled in appreciation.
“These, my fine, felonious fellows, are expensive rugs from the far away land of Catai. The well-heeled back in Perinault pay handsomely for such exotic goods.”
Nate Wiley gave a dissenting grunt. Fengel glanced over at the man, who met his eyes, blinked, and looked away uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry,” said Fengel acidly. “Is there something you wish to say?”
Natasha’s thug reluctantly met his gaze. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that these ain’t what yer thinking they are.”
Fengel leaned back. “Really. I suppose you’re an expert on exotic furnishings, then?”
Nate Wiley winced. “A little. This is Cataian, that’s for sure. But it’s the cheap stuff that comes out of the southern provinces. Supposed to look like the better stuff from the famous places of the north. Look at the corner there. That small weave? It says ‘made in Zhon-hei.’ Because they weave ‘em so quickly there, and so cheaply.”
The pirate quieted as everyone stared at him. Fengel grimaced. Every pirate had a slew of oddball skills. If it was true, their loot was now significantly less valuable. “Well, they’ve got to be worth something, at least,” said Fengel.
“Probably,” said Nate Wiley. “Most people don’t know, they just hear ‘it’s from Catai,’ and call it good. I bet Mr. Grey could get some decent prices for them. You an’ Captain Blackheart just need to—”
A harsh scream pierced the air, echoing down into the hold from the deck above. Fengel glanced back at Henry and Rastalak. “Stay here and get this loaded.” He scrabbled back up to the deck above. He drew his saber as he clambered up over the edge of the hatch, ready to fight. Then he stopped and slid the weapon back into its sheath.
Things were much the same as before. Crew and passengers were still separated, and the pirates still watched from the airship above. Now, though, Natasha was divesting the passengers of their valuables. She stood before a small man in a shabby brown suit, who rubbed one hand as if injured. Geoffrey Lords stood beside him with a sack. The other Wiley brother shadowed Natasha, lit lantern still in hand.
On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy) Page 1
