On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy)

by Burgess, Jonathon

  “Liar. You’ve found another way off the island. But it’s past the ridgeline. That’s why you came up here.”

  Fengel shook his head. “You’re mad. I’ve found nothing! Now go away and leave me alone, you lunatic.”

  She had him again. “You’re lying Fengel. I can tell. I can always tell.”

  He glared at her. Then he stood and deliberately turned his back on her, before stalking across the hill for the pass through the ridge.

  Natasha rose and followed. Trying to ignore me now? Typical. Well, it’s not going to work. Her husband was clever, when he wanted to be. But he was never able to fool her for long. And he wasn’t nearly as determined as she was.

  They crossed to the rocky cliff that separated this portion of the island from the rest. Up close it looked strange—oddly smooth in some places, hard and brittle in others. Lava flow, she realized.

  The crack in the ridgeline was easily wide enough for a man to pass through. Fengel entered with only a single backward glance, frowning as she followed him. Inside the passage, the bright midmorning sunlight faded to a dank gloom. Natasha kept an eye out for whatever it was he was looking for, determined to outwait him.

  It didn’t take long. Halfway through he whirled to confront her. “Goddess’s teats! Will you leave me alone? Even marooned on an island, I can’t get away from you.”

  “Tell me what you found,” she said.

  “Nothing!”

  “Tell me what you found.”

  Fengel yelled in frustration. He stomped the earth and lashed at the air in frustration before facing her. “If I tell you,” he said between pants, “will you go away?”

  Natasha cocked her head to one side, considering. “Maybe,” she said. The two of them were more-or-less evenly matched at the moment. But it seemed that the more passive avenues of aggression were still open to her. She was enjoying herself, she realized.

  Fengel pointed up.

  Natasha blinked at him. Oh no you don’t.

  He sighed. “Look up.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not falling for that.”

  “No, it’s up there. Look up.”

  Warily, Natasha looked up to the volcano. On this face the slope was rocky and malformed. Though the crack in the ridge was tall, she could clearly see one of the large rock formations that dotted the side of the steaming mountain. It was different than the others, now that she bothered to look more closely, covered in vines and at least a hundred feet tall, wider across than the Dawnhawk’s hull. There was something peculiar about it too....

  Natasha blinked as she realized she was looking at a statue. It was ancient, of strange workmanship. Someone had carved a massive stone statue in the shape of an upright dragon. Over the years the foliage had grown to cover the thing. How did I miss that from the beach? Natasha pondered for a moment. She had to admit that she’d been very angry yesterday, though justifiably so.

  “I don’t get it,” said Natasha, returning to the matter at hand. “How is that going to help you get off the island?”

  Fengel grit his teeth and closed his eyes. “I was telling you the truth, you daft bint. I haven’t found a way off the island. But I saw this yesterday, and thought about it some more. If it’s not some ancient Voornish relic, then someone else had to carve it, which means that this island may not be deserted.”

  She blinked at him in confusion. “So?”

  “So...maybe they have a boat, or at the least, food, fire and shelter.”

  Natasha blinked again. Then she started forward. She walked past Fengel toward the far end of the gap. Sunlight there revealed a similar grassy hill on this end.

  “Hey!” shouted Fengel as he chased after her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to meet them first,” she called over her shoulder.

  “What? No, get back here. It’s my plan!”

  “Nope,” she laughed.

  “You horrible madwoman! Get back here! I thought of it first!”

  The crack widened to reveal the opposite side of the ridge. Natasha heard him scrabbling after her and dashed out onto a grassy ledge that sloped its way down to more jungle. The island stretched before her in a similar panorama to the one behind her, thick jungle rolling all the way down to a beach. Past the beach the waters were blue and green, fringed by a rolling white surf that crashed onto the sands. Beyond them floated a wide wooden structure with three tall masts, the latter covered in the telltale white canvas of sails.

  A ship.

  Fengel crashed into her. “It’s my idea, damn you. And you’ll just screw everything up. You always do, you’re too aggressive! But if we’re going to get help, it’ll take tact. It’ll take subtlety.”

  She shoved him aside without looking, and he fell to the dirt. Fengel sprang back up with one hand formed into a fist, ready for another argument. Natasha pointed out at the ship. “Look,” she said.

  Her husband narrowed his eyes. “I’m not falling for that.”

  “No, out there. Look.”

  Fengel glared at her suspiciously, then slowly looked out at the ocean. Spying the ship, his hand fell back to his side, unclenched. “That’s a ship,” he said wonderingly.

  “Huh,” said Natasha. She raised an eyebrow at Fengel. “You’re actually right for once. The island isn’t deserted.”

  She whirled about and punched him in the ribs. He folded, eyes bugging wide and mouth comically open. Natasha leapt away and ran for the edge of the hill. Her husband made a high-pitched keening noise as she ran down and into the jungle.

  The foliage was just as thick down here as it was on the other side. Vines, ferns, snakes and underbrush all hampered her movement. The gloom made her footing difficult, and until now she hadn’t appreciated that Fengel had blazed a trail for her to follow during her earlier chase. Still, as long as she ran in a straight line, she’d reach the beach before he did.

  A riot of color appeared, landing on a low branch just ahead of her. It was the parrot from this morning, or one close enough to it. The bird lifted its butter-colored beak in surprise at the racket she made. A gleeful cackle worked its way up her throat. Natasha made a fist and swung, putting all of her weight and momentum behind it.

  The parrot squawked just as she hit it. Her knuckles hammered into its brightly-plumaged breast, connecting squarely and sending the obnoxious thing flying from its perch in a haze of rainbow feathers. Natasha laughed in glee and forged on ahead.

  A noise reached her from behind, a crashing through the jungle only a short distance behind her. Apparently Fengel had recovered from her sucker-punch.

  “Too late, hubby dearest,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to be first!”

  “So what?” he called up to her. “You don’t even know who that is!”

  Euron Blackheart would have warned her against being so hasty. Natasha didn’t care. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Sailors are sailors! I think I’ll do the ‘poor damsel’ bit. Say you kidnapped and ravished me, oh woe. That always pulls the heartstrings.” She laughed. “Just like that time off the coast of Capricanto! Remember that you are moderately infamous, Fengel dearest. A notorious criminal! Who wouldn’t want to save me from you, and claim a fat bounty to boot? Then it’s homeward bound, and revenge.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “Daft like a fox!”

  “That’s not how that goes!”

  She laughed, refining her plan as she went. It was solid enough, one she’d used before in a pinch. Deception wasn’t her favorite tactic, finding brute force and intimidation preferable. But Natasha had learned the lesson of practicality a long time ago. Ruthlessness only worked from a position of strength. Unfortunately, she didn’t have that position at the moment, or any way to get it.

  The jungle thinned. Beyond the crash and clatter of her movement through the underbrush, she heard something else: the faint roar of the sea. She was almost there. Natasha practiced her lines in her head. Fengel was right. She didn’t know
who the sailors were. But fortunately, she spoke several languages fluently.

  The underbrush parted suddenly. The bare earth beneath her dropped away into a faint incline, sloping down a dozen feet to a wide patch of sand only intermittently broken by small tufts of yellow grass. The jungle spread out around it, stretching a little farther toward the surf.

  There was a camp here.

  It was not a small one, either. Out near the farthest edges of the jungle it started, a line of grey pup tents arranged with military precision into several orderly rows. Several campfires smoldered between them and a number of long trestle tables were covered with tools, plates, and muskets. The camp stretched all the way back down the beach to the tide line, where three longboats sat beached in the sand. Only a short distance away, too close to be anything but beached, sat the ship.

  It was big, a warship. Either a ship-of-the-line or a very large frigate. She was new as well, with a steam stack in the stern and both port and starboard paddlewheels amidships. A triple-row of cannon nosed out of her ports to face the island, black barrels shiny in the morning sun. Faint golden lettering stood out just below the bowsprit, though she couldn’t quite make out the name.

  The camp was not empty. Men moved about without any sense of urgency, though there was a strange, almost mechanical pattern to the way they moved. She couldn’t see their clothing too clearly from where she stood. That didn’t mean much, though. Most navies were somewhat ragged in appearance.

  A ship was a ship. So long as it sailed, and she got to it before Fengel, Natasha didn’t care who was on it. She tore a sleeve and adjusted the neckline of her blouse lower. Then Natasha pinched the inside of her wrist until it hurt, and willed the tears to come. Mussing her hair, she ran forward.

  Or started to. Fengel crashed out of the jungle and grabbed her wrist. Oh, for the love of….Natasha opened her mouth to snarl at him, then stopped. This could be good for her, actually. If someone saw them struggle, it would make her story all the more convincing.

  “You horrible harpy,” he growled. “You—”

  Her husband cut short as he glanced up and took in the scene before them. Then he paled. Natasha drew in a breath to scream, trying not to smile.

  Fengel promptly clapped a hand over her mouth and yanked her back into the jungle. She fought him, biting and swatting with her free hand.

  “Good Goddess, stop!” he cried. “You haven’t any idea what we’re running into. That’s a Perinese warship!”

  Natasha bit his hand and slammed her heel down on Fengel’s toes. He fell away with a yelp.

  “Help!” she cried.

  Fengel cursed and grabbed her around the waist. She made to plant her knee in his jaw, then checked herself. Wait. Weak and helpless, remember. Natasha flailed ineffectively at his back.

  “Oh, help me!” she cried again.

  “Confound it, woman!” growled Fengel. “Stop!”

  The bushes off to one side parted. Five men in the blue uniforms of Perinese Bluecoat marines appeared, muskets at the ready. Natasha noted that they were likely a watch picket; they hadn’t come from the beach.

  Perfect.

  “Get him off me!” she implored the men.

  Fengel looked around and swore. He released her and tried to run the way they’d come, but it was too late. Two of the Bluecoats stepped in and clubbed him in the back with the stocks of their weapons. Already half-bent, he collapsed to the jungle floor.

  Natasha let herself fall to her knees. Shouts came from the direction of the beach. The commotion had been noticed.

  One of the Bluecoats stepped forward and held out a hand, bowing low. He was tall and fit, with a long nose and oily curls bound into a ponytail beneath his tricorn hat.

  “Are you all right, good lady?” he asked.

  Natasha sniffed and tried not to smile. “I am now,” she replied.

  Chapter Seven

  Captain Fengel wondered what he had done to deserve this fate.

  That meat pie I stole from Matron Shrieveport? No, I was only seven. And besides, she’d gone round the bend and was making pasties out of all those husbands she’d axed. Hmm. I did drop Black Robin adrift in the ocean with nothing but an empty pickle barrel. Though, in my defense, the fellow did try to murder me.

  A thought occurred to him.

  Could it be all the piracy? Surely not. There was that missionary ship with all those nuns. We did stay on and patch things up for them again, though. And my apology was very eloquent.

  The sharp tip of a bayonet poked him in the back. Fengel glared back at the man, but picked up his pace. There wasn’t any point in antagonizing the Bluecoats further.

  Five of the blue-coated soldiers marched him down the beach toward their camp. All were simple privates, fresh-faced youths conscripted from the inner counties back in the Kingdom of Perinault. The sixth and last was a naval officer, a sub-lieutenant by the braid below his shoulder. He stood a little taller than Fengel, with a long nose and oily curls bound into a ponytail. The sub-lieutenant walked at the head of the group, leading the way back while Natasha simpered at his side.

  She glanced back over her shoulder to wink at him. Incoherent rage boiled up inside Fengel. Natasha had done it to him again, had won out against the odds, clawing her way up over him to grasp victory. They weren’t even fighting over anything this time. Goddess knows he’d meant to avoid her as long as he could. He’d only left the beach to find out who had carved the dragon up on the mountain. Who they were, or if they were even human didn’t matter. They’d at least have fire and food, a significant improvement over the last night’s miserably rugged experience.

  And now here they were, captured by the Royal Navy of the Kingdom of Perinault.

  They descended to the camp. It was very recent. The tents were set out in traditional military formation, a long, orderly line of cloth with a latrine dug off behind it. Several fire pits ranged down its length. Crates, sacks, and other supplies were stacked neatly in large piles to one side, the sheer volume surprising. These had to be most of the supplies from their ship, including several large barrels of black powder. Behind those hunkered a portable ship’s forge—poorly placed, in his opinion.

  Nostalgia washed over him. The camp was set with a mindless order-for-order’s-sake mentality that he remembered from his navy days. The fire pits were directly in the way of the wind, not sheltered at all by the jungle or the ship, as common sense would dictate. The latrines were also dug slightly uphill from the tents; a rather foolish thing if one stopped to think about it, yet perfectly in accordance with the Military Code of Instruction.

  Past the camp was the ship itself. Three things struck Fengel about it. First was its anchorage. The vessel was far too close to shore, and thus surely grounded. The second was its unfamiliar make. She was a ship-of-the-line, though small and built for speed, with modern paddlewheels amidships. Lastly was the gold lettering across her bow. This was the H.M.S. Goliath.

  That’s the missing escort for the Minnow. Now, what is she doing here?

  The sailors and Bluecoat marines of the camp crowded around as Fengel and his captors approached. One of the marines stepped out from the press. Fengel blinked at him. The bars on his shoulder denoted him a sergeant, but the man was a hunk of jerky in uniform. Beady eyes stared out from beneath a slanting brow and a lumpy, repeatedly broken nose. Cauliflower ears adorned the sides of his head.

  “What you got there, Hayes?” he asked

  “I’m not entirely certain, Sergeant,” said the sub-lieutenant. “They stumbled over our picket—”

  “Oh,” cried Natasha. She clung to Hayes’s arm and pressed herself against the man. “They saved me. Just as I was about to be ravaged by that brute of a pirate.”

  Fengel grit his teeth. His wife was in fine form at the moment.

  “A pirate?” said the sergeant. “Here?” he frowned, then peered at Fengel and Natasha more closely.

  “Well, they’re not from the Salmalin,” replied Hayes
.

  “He’s not. But with skin like that, she could be, and the golden eyes to boot. She speaks the King’s tongue without an accent, though. That says Copper Isles pirate to me.”

  It seemed to Fengel that his own status was a foregone conclusion. Cheerfully, though, everyone now stared anew at Natasha, and not in befuddled admiration. A surprised frown flashed across her face, so quick only Fengel recognized it. He smiled and reappraised the battered Bluecoat. The man was a brute, but a clever one.

  “That’s ridiculous,” snarled Natasha. She caught herself and fell against Hayes’s chest. “However could you think such a thing?” She gazed imploringly up at the sub-lieutenant with glistening eyes.

  Fengel rolled his eyes. Oh, for the love of the Goddess. His wife preferred brutality and ruthlessness, which was why she only had a few simple tricks up her sleeve. Unfortunately, this one seemed to be working. It usually did, when she bothered. The sub-lieutenant had that slack-jawed, glazed-over look that Fengel had seen far too often on other men.

  “Nonsense,” said Hayes. He smiled slightly. “The poor lass has obviously suffered very dearly at the hands of this man. I’m taking them both to the Commander, and we’ll whistle the truth out of him then. Your business, Sergeant Cumbers, is to tighten the perimeter against any of this fellow’s associates.”

  Hayes glared for a moment before resuming his pace back towards the ship, gently supporting Natasha. The sergeant narrowed his eyes at the sub-lieutenant, then turned back to the other Bluecoats.

  “Oily peacock,” he muttered. “You heard ’im, lads. Get back to your pickets. Smith, fall out and join the others. I’ll help escort this prisoner off to the Commander. That smarmy fool doesn’t tell me what to do.” Then Sergeant Cumbers took the lead of the marines and prodded Fengel down to the beach.

  Hmm, mused Fengel. Discontent among the ranks? What’s the story here?

  The party reached the shore, where Hayes was helping Natasha into one of the longboats resting on the sand. Fengel got in at musket-point, then sat quietly as the Bluecoats heaved the vessel into the water and climbed aboard. Two grabbed oars and pushed them out toward the Goliath.