Oh, by the Goddess’s hairy teats. Fengel cursed under his breath and shouted to the others. “Up!” he cried. “Up now, all of you!”
The mixed crew of survivors moved like he’d cracked a whip. Natasha went first, then Cumbers, Paine and then rest. Fengel went last, and didn’t bother to keep an eye out for Hayes.
The great red lantern-glass eyes snapped open. They peered about, the Voorn machine lifting its head to look at the figures scurrying over the hull of the Goliath. It rumbled—a hollow, echoing noise from somewhere deep within its chassis.
Fengel gave orders as soon as he cleared the deck. “Cumbers, go over to the captain’s cabin and take an inventory. I locked it, but the door fits the frame badly. There should be enough powder for the deck guns, at least. Paine! Check out the mess and see if anything’s worth saving. Simon, you’re on boat-duty.” Fengel eyed the Salomcani, who shifted between watching him carefully and eyeing the rising Dray Engine. “Etarin, Farouk, Jahmal, split up and help the others.”
They didn’t immediately move to obey. Instead they looked to Natasha, who jerked her head and cursed them in their native tongue. Only then did they leap into action.
Fengel walked to the gunwales, watching the island and the Dray Engine. Hayes was barely visible below, a dark speck that coughed and shouted as he swam their way.
“I still want to run,” said Fengel. “But I’m very much afraid that we’re going to have to fight.”
The Dray Engine rose to its feet. It raised its great brazen head and roared in defiance at the sky. As if in response, the island shook, and the volcano vomited a great blast of ash and magma.
Natasha leaned into his arm. “You always say the sweetest things.”
Fengel patted her hand, then reached up to adjust his monocle. He very much wished he had a spare, at that moment. Things were about to get ugly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lina forced the needle through thick canvas. It poked back out from the surface of the gasbag, a piece of sharp spiral steel as long as her hand. The cord it pulled was thin, but of a heavy gauge that she had yet to snap, no matter how she yanked at it. I’ll say this for the Mechanists: they make good tools.
That didn’t make her any less tired, or the labor of patching the airship any less irksome. She put her feet up against the torn canvas skin of the gas bag and leaned back in the rope harness suspending her alongside it. The ocean breeze played with her hair and chilled her hands, its usual salt scent tinged by coalsmoke from the Perinese Royal Navy at their backs.
She looked down past the gas bag and the hull of the Dawnhawk at the navy warships chasing them. Most were mere specks upon the horizon; Henry Smalls had managed to lose them with a goodly bit of distance. One in particular was proving quite tenacious. It was a massive vessel, modern, with both sails and hull-mounted paddlewheels to port and starboard. The H.M.S. Colossus had kept pace with them through wind and rain, both night and day. It fired on them regularly, managing glancing blows on their hull and gas bag twice more. In clear weather they’d spotted an imperious figure stalking the poop deck. Lina didn’t know how, but she was certain it was the villainous Admiral Wintermourn.
Lina bent back to her task. The light-air cells pushed out against her as she sewed the patch, but it wasn’t too much effort to stuff them back inside the gas bag as she worked. Then she finished the final knot, stowed the tools in her harness, and grabbed the rope at her chest. Kicking her way over to the rigging, she waved at Rastalak, up above, where the little Draykin watched over her and the others as they worked.
She descended back to the deck and found the Mechanist. The taciturn old man directed repairs and adjustments to the airship like a conductor overseeing his orchestra. Pirates moved about the deck, the gas bag, and even alongside the hull with a frenetic energy. After several days of constant pursuit by the most powerful navy in the world, there were quite a few things to fix.
“Starboard patch applied,” Lina said when he turned her way.
The Brother of the Cog pulled a scarred pocketwatch from a pocket of his greatcoat. He nodded once, sharply. “Exactly within the allotted time period. Very well. I require no further assistance from you at the moment, Miss Stone.” He made to move away, then paused. “Miss Stone?”
“Yes, Mechanist?”
“Your work is almost always perfectly satisfactory. Which is more than I can say for most of the drunkards and villains aboard this vessel.”
“Thank you, Mechanist. I think.”
“In fact, you might have made a fine Mechanist, aspiring even to second or third-class Aspirant, if only you were born male. Though never fourth or fifth.”
“Uh. Thank you. Mechanist.”
“I mention this, because it would be a shame to see you consistently squander what little potential you do have by making such colossal mistakes as this…committee…of yours.”
He walked, away and Lina glared at him as he went. Then she sighed, frustrated, before moving across the deck toward her customary spot alongside the exhaust-pipe.
Lina forgot about the mechanist and chided herself. Coward. What she should be doing was visiting the injured below. Ryan Gae still hadn’t recovered from the wounds he’d taken in Breachtown. There wasn’t a real physician aboard, but both Henry and the aetherites had some skill at anatomy. All said that her friend could go either way, at this point.
Andrea, her only other close friend, had been devastated. The piratess was angry, furious at first, but more and more she had withdrawn, until now she spent almost all her time with Ryan.
Lina couldn’t face either of them at the moment. Andrea hadn’t said anything, but along with most of the rest of the crew, she had grown cold toward Lina. They all blamed her for their current state of affairs, even Nate Wiley, who was disconsolate after the death of his twin brother. To be fair, she had made the original suggestion to mutiny. But even Runt wasn’t around much of late. He haunted the top of the gas bag to avoid the smell of the Revenants being kept in the hold down below.
The only ones not actively avoiding her were the old members of the committee, who were even more miserable than she was. Lucian, Reaver Jane, and Sarah Lome were being obeyed by the crew, but only when acting with the approval of Henry Smalls. When it came to any further socializing, they were outcasts.
But what could we have done? Natasha and Fengel had been destroying them. Would the Breachtown raid have gone any better if they hadn’t mutinied? Would they have succeeded, despite the odds?
“Gnrrhh.”
The low groan shook her from her thoughts. Tricia the Revenant stood a short distance away, up against the corner of the exhaust pipe. She was not doing well in her new, undead state. The gas leak that killed her had left her physically whole enough, though puffy-skinned and stinking. She seemed even less focused than her fellows, bumping repeatedly against the pipe beside Lina, reaching for an skysail whose chains were cut free from the rest of the assembly.
A wide noose attached to a long pole slipped over the undead abomination. Michael Hockton appeared from where he’d been sneaking up along the gunwales.
“Ha!” he cried as he wrangled the Revenant with his catch-pole. “Gotcha.” His eyes met Lina’s and he blushed abruptly. “Oh. Hello, Lina. Tricia here keeps coming up on the deck, for some reason.”
“Hi,” she replied. Lina looked down at his boots, and found herself wringing her hands. Cursing quietly, she put them behind her back.
“How are you—”
“How are you—”
Lina coughed and looked away to the Revenant he’d caught. Tricia was groaning in irritation now, but didn’t seem to have the fine motor skills necessary to raise the noose over her waist.
“They’re not so bad,” said Hockton suddenly. “I mean, I don’t really want to do this. At all. And that Nate Wiley fellow keeps getting in the way when he visits his brother, but if it keeps the others from throwing me overboard, then I’ll do it.”
Lina realize
d that this was as close as she was getting to being forgiven. “You’re all right with this, then?” she asked, looking up at him.
Hockton gave her a wry smile. “For now. I’ll wrangle corpses if I have to.” He looked back at Tricia. “They seem to remember some of the skills they used to have,” he continued, “and don’t get violent unless you really get in their way. This one can even see that sail there is all busted up. The stink’s a shame, though.”
“Oh,” said Lina. “That’s—”
A series of stuttering grunts interrupted them. Lina glanced up to see the white ape hanging from the rigging above by one hairy arm. With the other it pointed at something off the bow.
Lina cupped her hands. “Lookout sees something dead ahead!” she shouted at the deck.
Crewmen dropped what they were doing and ran forward. Lina waved for Hockton to join her and made her way up as well. She pushed through the still-forming crowd until she was up against the gunwales, looking out at the moonlit night.
Almhazlik Isle lay directly ahead. But the once-quiet peak at its center now shot hot ash and flaming magma to rain down on the island below. The jungle shook as if in an earthquake, and Lina thought she could see the tall masts of a sail ship past a small spit of palm-tree-covered land jutting out into the ocean. There was something else too...a large moving figure made of bright metal.
Henry Smalls appeared beside her. He took in the scene, then pulled a spyglass from the folds of his jacket. Extending it, he peered through, and the crew all quieted to hear what he would say.
“Huh,” said the steward, after a moment. He lowered the spyglass and stared ahead, looking puzzled.
The crew were still, then they all fought for the glass. Lina was small and quick and got it first, jamming it to her eye and leaning forward to keep it from the others. She stared, and then uttered an exclamation of surprise.
There was indeed a ship moored up near the beach of the isle. It was a warship, in fact, Perinese. And on the beach beside it raged a massive reptilian creature, armored somehow. The thing stood on its hind legs, forearms stretched out to reveal wicked claws. It roared at the moon, and even at this distance, Lina could hear the echo of its thunderclap call.
Someone snagged the spyglass away. One by one the crew took their turns peering through it. When they were done, Lucian retrieved the tool and handed it back to Henry.
“Only Captain Fengel,” said Lucian, “when left on a deserted island, could manage to find a Perinese warship, a live volcano, and what appears to be an ancient Voornish war-dragon.”
The entire crew muttered assent. Lina had to admit that a small part of her was completely unsurprised.
Cannon fire sounded from somewhere past the stern. The rippling whistle of a cannonball echoed down the deck, and everyone reflexively ducked.
Lucian shook his fist at their unseen pursuer. “Damn him to the Realms Below!” snarled the first mate. “Doesn’t that fool know when to give up?”
“There were figures moving on the deck of that ship ahead,” said Henry Smalls. “One of them had a monocle, I’m sure of it.”
“Then we’ll have to swing by and pick them up,” said Sarah Lome. “But how do we deal with that,” she asked, gesturing at the towering armored monster that grew larger with every passing moment.
“We can’t fend that off,” said Reaver Jane. “It’d take cannon of our own, at least. And we haven’t any. Almost no airship does. Only Euron Blackheart himself was ever mad enough to really try and pack on a full broadside.”
Henry turned to Konrad and Maxim. “Can either of you do anything to that monster? Even just long enough to distract it?”
Konrad made a gesture that Lina couldn’t interpret. “We have not had chance to recover Workings, of late. None of you understand. They must be bartered, but then the preparations for fine control utilize significant—”
“Yes or no would have worked,” said Henry in irritation. “I don’t need to know—”
The Colossus loosed another volley of cannon fire. Grapeshot whipped past in a cloud off the starboard side of the airship. One passed so close that it played with Tricia the Revenant’s hair.
An idea came to Lina.
That’s it. She grabbed Henry Smalls by one arm, turning the short steward to face her. “Henry,” she said, licking her lips nervously. “I’ve got a plan.”
The crew fell dead silent. Every last one of them glared at her. Even undead Tricia at the back of the crowd turned to stare her way. But Henry only looked past her shoulder at the island.
Quickly, before they could throw her overboard, Lina told them what they should do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Natasha was getting her wish.
The Dray Engine turned to face the Goliath. It lowered its head and stalked down from the sandy beach of Almhazlik into the crashing ocean surf. Both arms were spread wide, the claws ready to grasp and tear. Seawater churned as the thing came, crashing into its ankles only to fall back in a scintillating spray.
“Fire!” shouted her husband.
Natasha yanked the lanyard of the cannon guncock. The weapon leapt back with an ear-splitting eruption, belching a half-second blast of fire and fury. It slammed against the chains holding it in place near the bow, even as Sergeant Cumbers and Farouk leaned in to brace it again, looking away.
The cannonball was a silver-black blur in the moonlight. She could barely see it. But it struck the Dray Engine across the side of the head before spinning off to throw up a spray of sand where it landed upon the beach.
The Voornish monster halted its charge. It shook its head as if confused, then lowered itself to the attack again.
Damn. Natasha wanted to snarl. Only a glancing blow. She could see that they wouldn’t have time to aim another shot, even with other cannons they’d loaded on the deck.
Fengel glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the makeshift crew on the far starboard side of the vessel. They stood in a longboat stacked with the meager supplies, ready to drop into the water at a moment’s notice.
“Launch the boat!” he cried. “We’ll swim to you, now launch!” Fengel faced her. “We can try one more, but—”
Too late. The Dray Engine rose up before the Goliath. It slammed into the port hull with an impact that cracked wood and tore iron chain. Natasha slipped and fell along with the others, starting to slide backward as the deck tilted up. The row of port-side cannons fell back faster, either broken from their mooring chains or insecurely fastened in the first place. She wrapped her hands around her head, hoping she was clear. Being crushed by loose cannon was a common death, as such things went.
Hard wood slammed into her side. It was the capstan. Natasha wrapped an arm around it and reached out to Fengel as he slid past. Her husband saw in time and grabbed for her hand. Their fingers clasped, and he held on for dear life in the cacophony that thundered around them.
The deck fell abruptly, shifting down again to something like level. Above them, the Dray Engine roared at the sky before turning its gaze back downward. The machine stood chest-high with the deck, both arms resting where they’d crushed the gunwales.
Something flew past over head. It was large and dark and blocked out the moon. The Dray Engine looked up at the shadow, only to be struck by a number of falling metal canisters lit by the firefly glow of burning fuses.
Most fell off into the sea. The rest sundered on the Dray Engine’s armor. A familiar stink washed over the deck of the Goliath as light-air gas exploded about the head of the ancient Voornish weapon.
It was the Dawnhawk.
Natasha only stared a moment, too stunned to react. Rage, pride, and relief all warred within her as she spied the heads and faces of her mutinous crew, peering over the side. Rage mostly won out.
Her husband was more practical, however. As usual.
“Starboard side!” he yelled. “Pick us up in the water! On the starboard side!”
Fengel clambered to his feet and pointed fu
riously out toward the ocean. The longboat had already dropped, either torn or let free from the ropes used to lower it. Farouk and Cumbers were already fleeing, jumping over the starboard side of the ship.
Natasha scrabbled upward. The Dawnhawk flew past, banking for the island, now illuminated by the light of the moon and the burning cinders of Almhazlik’s volcano. The once-beautiful airship was a wreck. The stern cabin windows were broken and boarded over. The great canvas gasbag was a mess of crazy patching. Her skysails were shredded and torn, the controlling mechanisms dangling out from their armatures.
What had those treacherous pirates done to her ship?
The Dray Engine spun to follow the airship, unharmed by the bombardment. One paw still grasped the deck of the Goliath, and the vessel shook as the machine-beast roared its defiance.
Fengel turned to face her. His face was twisted with worry. “We can’t let that thing chase after the Dawnhawk. It’ll never be able to pick us all up if the Dray Engine is hounding it. I’ll stay behind to draw its attention.”
“That’s stupid,” she said to him. “You’ll never be able to get away in time.”
He looked aggrieved. “It’s doubtful. I know you don’t care about them, but I think we’ve done these folk wrong enough. I’ve got to try and save them if I can.”
Natasha didn’t say anything to that. She only looked up at him as the Dray Engine raged at her airship, and she rose up to kiss him. He lowered his head to meet her.
Then she sucker punched him in the stomach.
Fengel bent low with a gasp and she grabbed him by the jacket. Natasha ran him at the starboard side of the deck, picking up speed as she went. Her husband stumbled along beside her, fighting to keep his balance and recover his breath. When she reached the broken gunwales where an errant cannon had punched through, she threw him off of it. Fengel made a nice cannonball splash in the water below.
“I don’t care about them,” she yelled at him as he resurfaced. “But I do care about you. Now get your arse up on that airship, and get them out of here!” She made to turn away, paused, then glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh. And make sure you have good, long chat with our mutinous crew.”
On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy) Page 32
