On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy)

by Burgess, Jonathon

  Lina shook her head and turned away to find Omari standing before her, glaring furiously.

  “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “They would have killed me!”

  Lina’s emotions shifted from hard and unyielding to feeling like a bag of broken glass, but the other woman’s fury stoked her own. “Because you’re raising the dead! These people were my friends! I’ve gamed and laughed and drank with them. They’re the closest thing to a family I’ve got left!”

  “I told you that it’s not my fault,” growled the other woman. “I don’t do this intentionally! What—”

  A panicked cry from above cut her short. Lina glanced up just as a bright flash exploded out from the bottom breach in the bag, and a jet of fire shot down toward them. Omari threw herself aside with catlike reflexes, and then Lina was flying back, through no fault of her own.

  She hit the deck beside Michael Hockton, who’d appeared from nowhere to knock her out of the way. Heat washed over her half-bared face, almost scalding. The air filled with the stink of Hockton’s sweat, burning hair, and light-air gas.

  The ex-marine held her a moment longer. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Oh no. Echoes reverberated through the deck below them as pirates pounded past, rushing to extinguish the flames. She looked up at the gas bag above.

  The opening in the belly of the frame was a smoky hole, blackened around the edges. Just beneath it hung the corpse of another pirate, one who’d been suspended from the gas bag to stitch canvas, squarely catching the blast. The Mechanist stood directly below, yelling commands at the crew as they scurried to maintain the ship. She spied Allen disappearing around the corner of the gas bag, reaching it through the primary hatch.

  “If another cell lights off, we’re all dead,” said Lina.

  Michael swallowed at that and looked past her to the airship gasbag. Lina let herself be held, and watched with him. Seconds ticked down, and she held her breath.

  A yell came from inside the hole, and a round, red-black object fell to the deck like a stone. It was the cannonball that had struck the Dawnhawk earlier, still hot, scorching the deck where it lay. Allen poked his head out of the smoking hole, peering through his gas mask at the pirates below. He held up a hand with his thumb upraised, before disappearing back inside.

  The crew clapped and gave a ragged cheer. Lina sighed in deep relief and extricated herself from Hockton’s grasp. She spied Omari out of the corner of her eye, climbing wearily to her feet.

  Andrea Holt stalked past with a gas mask around her neck and a bolt of canvas over one shoulder. She took five steps and stopped suddenly, whipping around to stare at Lina. No, not at Lina, at Hockton behind her.

  “What?” she said. “What is he doing here?”

  Michael Hockton gave a lazy smile. “Hello. I don’t think we’ve been acquainted. I’ve, ah, been hiding in the forward stairwell the last few hours. Seemed a nice, out-of-the-way place. Michael Hockton, pleased to meet you. I’d like to sign aboard, if I could—”

  Andrea dropped the bolt of fabric and darted forward, lashing out with a right cross that jerked the ex-marine’s head around like a top. He fell back against the deck, and before he could recover, she was there, with both hands on the lapels of his battered blue jacket, hauling him up to the gunwales as if to throw him over.

  “Scum,” growled Andrea. “Worm. Good friends of mine are dead because of you and yours. Even in just the last half an hourglass!”

  Lina started. “Wait! He’s with us!”

  Andrea glanced back over her shoulder. “Realms Below he is.” She bent Hockton back just as Lucian Thorne and Sarah Lome came over to see the commotion.

  Lina looked to Lucian and back to her friend. “No! Really, he’s with us! He came over, left the marines, helped us get out of the counting house last night.”

  “A Bluecoat?” said Lucian. He held a length of rope in his hands, while Sarah Lome held a long gaff-hook on a pole. “Ridiculous. Toss him over the side.”

  “No!” cried Hockton. “No, really! I mean it, I’m on your side now.” He hunted from face to face for an ally. “I gave you all the key to the side door. I’m done with the navy, and the Kingdom. They were going to kill me!”

  “Quiet you,” said Lucian. “Over the side, Miss Holt, if you please.”

  Sarah Lome stepped forward. Her face was colored with ink, stained blue from too many long hours attempting to work out the mathematics of supply. The huge gunnery mistress put out a hand to Andrea’s shoulder. “No,” she said.

  Lucian raised an eyebrow. “Sarah?”

  “Ship’s injured. We’ve got work to do.”

  Andrea’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right.” She shook her head and released the ex-marine. Hockton slumped down the gunwales to the deck. “Henry’s right. We’re not doing anything. But if Ryan dies because some Bluecoat bastard shot him...and, and comes back as a thing because of her”—she jerked a thumb at Omari—”then I....” She fell silent, shaking her head again. “Just stay out of my way.”

  She pushed past Lina. The rest of the committee watched her go. Hockton gave a relieved sigh. Lucian looked at him sharply.

  “Don’t think you’re getting off free, just because we’re not throwing you overboard. The question now is, what do we do with you?”

  “Really, sir,” said Hockton. “I promise to stay out of the way. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

  “What you’ll be,” growled Sarah Lome, “is useful.” She hauled the man up to his feet. “Doing something that will keep you out of sight. Stitching canvas in the hold should suit.”

  Lina winced. Stitching together old canvas for the frame was a miserable, thankless job that took forever. If Lome buried him down in the hold doing that, she’d never see him. Worse, it wasn’t that important. What he needed was a task that would keep him at least mildly protected because no one else wanted to do it.

  It came to her then. “He can wrangle the Revenants!” she exclaimed, bringing up the first thing that came to mind.

  Everyone looked at her. Then they looked to where Fat Thomlin and Tricia sat groaning. Hockton gave her an incredulous look and she winced, holding her hands out in apology.

  “Someone’s got to,” mused Lucian. “And if they eat your face, I surely won’t weep. All right, Bluecoatie, take up that pole and some rope.”

  Fear and revulsion shot across Hockton’s features. He pointed at Omari. “Wait! What about her? They’re her fault. She can take care of the things!”

  Omari made a flippant gesture and turned to walk away. “What made you think that I like them? I need to go find my cat, anyway.”

  As Sarah and Lucian escorted Michael to his new duties, he looked back at Lina, somewhat betrayed. She started and called after them as she abruptly remembered. “There’s one down in the quarterdeck too!”

  After they had left, Lina sighed and joined in the work. She grabbed a mask and climbed aloft to the gas-bag interior, where the Mechanist put her to work replacing torn and scorched gas cells. It took hours, and it wasn’t until after noon that she was back down on the deck again, running cord and canvas to make a patch, then inspecting the gear-train linkages that went from the skysails to the propellers at the stern of the ship.

  She was passing beneath the port-side linkage when she spied the cannonball. It was the same one that had punctured the gas bag earlier. Apparently, it had rolled back here, and everyone had been too busy to dispose of the thing.

  Lina knelt and picked the thing up. It was heavy, and it took her three tries before she was able to lift it up over the gunwales to fall into blue ocean below. The dull thump of a cannon sounded as she let go, startling her.

  She peered out and down at the ships that chased the Dawnhawk. Not just one or two vessels plied the waves in their wake, but dozens. Hundreds, maybe. The entire Perinese Royal Navy was after them, and for over half a day now, they hadn’t given up. Those in the lead fired chase guns, hurriedly elevated at the sky. But the air
ship was too high, and now too far ahead, to be clearly reached. Now and again someone tried a musket shot, but those never had the power, let alone the accuracy, to reach them.

  Allen joined her at the stern. The young Mechanist was filthy and frazzled. His hair stuck up like an old paintbrush, caked with sweat and grease and the stinking of light-air gas. His gas mask hung around his neck, revealing the ugly gash across his face that he’d earned the other night, slathered in some healing ointment. His greatcoat was stained and scorched. Surprisingly, there was a metal hip flask in his hand.

  “Look at this,” said Lina. Still puzzled by it all, she gestured vaguely at the crew on the deck, then down at the assembled Perinese navy. “How did things come to this? How did they all get so screwed up?”

  Allen gave her a quizzical look. “How in the Realms Below should I know? Though, I suppose it’s all your fault, really.” He took a swig from the flask.

  Lina started back in surprise. “What? What do you mean?”

  “You were the one who came up with all this. With the mutiny. With getting rid of Fengel and Natasha. You were the one who held the meeting, and brought it up to everyone.”

  Lina blinked. What’s gotten into him? It might have been exhaustion, or the drink, but something was seriously amiss; Allen was never short with her. “Of course I brought it up!” she exclaimed. “We were headed for a catastrophe! They would have gotten us all killed!”

  Allen ignored her a moment. He took another swig and then chucked the flask off the back of the airship, clearly as hard as he could, watching it fall like a shooting star before looking back at her. “And we’ve done so much better now ourselves, haven’t we?”

  He walked away. Lina watched him go, troubled. She glanced back at their pursuers: the entirety of the Perinese Royal Navy, hunting for their blood.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The drop was about ten feet. Natasha let go of the rock face and fell, landing feetfirst on the soil below with a grunt.

  The base of the cliff that she’d spent the last day and a half stuck upon wasn’t much different when viewed from up close. A thin sliver of loamy earth dotted with ferns sloped down to a wide pool, caught between thick jungle and a sheer face of volcanic rock. The waterfall thundered down into the pool, shedding a mist that shimmered with rainbow hues in the late morning sun. At her side stood the triangular monolith that had been dislodged during their fall down the flanks of the volcano. It pierced the ground, inverted, its wide base at head level.

  Natasha ran a hand across the monolith. It was smooth and unblemished by the fall. She paused to smell the jungle, the scents of rich earth and falling water.

  A rain of pebbles spilled down the cliff wall behind her. Natasha glanced back up to see her husband, hugging the stone face for dear life. She smiled. Fengel was a nimble and competent climber, but there was something about this stretch that had troubled him, making her the first one down.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s only a dozen feet at most.”

  Fengel half-turned his head to glance back down at her. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. “I am resting,” he said, voice overloud and somewhat hoarse from exertion. “This climb has been ruinous, regretful, and altogether repugnant.”

  Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’ve spent years climbing about, both on sail ships and flying vessels. What’s the difference here?”

  “It never took me two hours of solid clambering to get about one of those!”

  He slowly began his descent again. Natasha shook her head. She retrieved Fengel’s battered tricorn from where it had fallen sometime last night, and moved to meet him as he reached the ground.

  “Ridiculous,” he continued, tottering to his feet again. “Ridiculous, riotous, re—”

  She shut him up with a kiss. Mostly. He continued to murmur, but returned her affections in between. When she plunked his hat back atop his head and broke away, he finally quieted, leaning after her with puckered lips.

  “Enough of that,” she said with a chuckle. “We’ve been on that damned rock for too long. I’m parched and starving.”

  “Hmm,” agreed Fengel. He eyed the waterfall. “That should suit. All the water on the island I’ve found so far has been fresh.”

  They staggered to the pool’s edge. Natasha fell to her knees and tried an experimental sip from a cupped hand. It proved potable, and then she was drinking, gulping down as much as she could with both hands. The water was clear and clean and cold. When finished, she fell back and lay on the earth, listening to Fengel. They’d spent close to a day and a half stuck on the cliff without any food or water. Natasha could remember worse privations, and there had certainly been distractions, but that hadn’t made it any less comfortable.

  Fengel stripped off his jacket, shirt, and hat before wading into the pool to wash. She eyed his figure appreciatively, and counted the scars on his arms and torso. There were dozens of them, some large and others small. Some he’d gained in battle and some by accident. A decent number, more than half, had been acquired in her honor, either directly at her hand or by someone she’d upset, just to goad him into protecting her. It made her smile.

  Her husband took a breath, submerged, and rose again with a shout. He floated backward into deeper water and smiled back at her. “This was needed,” he said with boyish enthusiasm.

  Natasha rolled over onto her belly and rested her chin on her hands. “I can think of something else I need,” she replied.

  He smiled and paddled towards the shore. She growled and crawled to her feet, just enough to launch herself at him. He grabbed her out of the air as they collided, falling back into the pool. The cold water was a shock and she rose up with a yelp, then he had her again in his arms.

  I almost regret everything I’ve ever done to him. She met Fengel’s smile with one of her own. His eyes were very green.

  Something garish flew past. It landed on a tree branch as a speck of white dung fell past her head into the pool, just barely missing her. It was the parrot, butter-yellow beak and all. The thing cocked its head to glared at her with malicious enthusiasm. Fengel gave a faint grunt of surprise.

  Her father would have killed the thing. Instead, Natasha let out a laugh. She shook her head and ignored the parrot, turning back to kiss her husband. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the bird rear back in surprise. It let out a great raucous shriek at her, and Fengel made a noise of irritation, but she continued to pay it no mind. After a moment the bird just stared at them, hunkering low over the branch, seeming somewhat crestfallen.

  “We should find something to eat,” murmured Natasha.

  “More than that,” said Fengel. “We should really find a way off—”

  A mechanical bellow cut him off, echoing down past the canopy and off the cliff face. It was deafening, silencing even the waterfall, for a moment. The parrot flapped off in alarm as the thin shapes of gibbons swung away deeper within the jungle.

  “Ah,” said Fengel. “I’d forgotten about that monster.”

  “Yes,” replied Natasha. “Kind of ruins the mood. Think it’ll let us be?”

  “In a word: no. I’m rather certain that the Voorn didn’t build it to care for orphans. Still. I think we should take a holiday sometime soon. Just you and I.”

  Natasha smiled. “That sounds fine.”

  “Good. In the meantime, shall we work together to find a way off this rock?”

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  She held out her hand as if she were a highborn Perinese lady, and Fengel bent over it, giving it a kiss and leading her back up out of the pool ceremoniously. They laughed as he dressed again, and they moved off into the jungle.

  A little bit of scouting seemed in order. She followed Fengel as he led the way through the green shade of the foliage, pushing for the beach. Neither of them were certain what side of the island they were even on. From the cliff, she had seen the sun rise, but neither the Salmalin nor the Goliath were visible. It likely meant tha
t they were on the eastern half, which they had not, until now, untraveled.

  A question occurred to Natasha. “Fengel?” she asked as she pushed a branch out of her way.

  “Yes?”

  “How are we going to get off this rock?”

  He was silent a moment. They traversed between the trunks of an old mangrove, disturbing a large snake, which Natasha killed using a branch.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” said Fengel as he pushed through a fern. “Or pleasant. Unfortunately, the best thing I can think of is to grab a longboat from the Goliath, and set ourselves adrift. If we’re lucky, we’ll get caught up in one of the shipping lanes. Or maybe just blown back to Yulan.”

  Natasha grunted. “That’s not exactly appealing.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve none better, alas.”

  She sighed and nodded. He was always more creative than she was. If that was the best he could come up with….“You’re right,” she said. “It won’t be easy. But there’s a whole huge stash of supplies on the Salmalin, left by Kalyon Mahmoud. We can pillage what we need there, and haul it around the isle to take with us when we steal a boat.”

  “Capital!” he smiled. “See? Better already. Let’s find out exactly where we are first, though.”

  They pressed on and found the beach. The unblemished white sand stretched down from the tree line to where cerulean waves smoothed it like cloth across a child’s chalkboard. Natasha looked out upon the horizon, and keenly felt the isolation of Almhazlik. Her crew was gone, and the Dawnhawk with them.

  Natasha snorted to herself. Assholes. Her rage at mutiny and abandonment hadn’t cooled, really. But it was what it was, and there was little she could do about it.

  For now.

  Fengel waded out into the surf and spun around to examine the island. The ground suddenly rumbled, and he fell with a splash. Natasha fought to remain standing, as always, refusing to be beaten by the place. The tremor stilled, and her husband picked himself up. She threw him a cocky smile, and he just shook his head.