Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles

by Zoë Archer

  “I’ll have some breakfast brought,” he said, voice gravelly.

  “I couldn’t possibly eat.” She pressed her hand to her stomach, already fluttering with anxiety.

  “Make yourself.”

  She bristled at his command, though she knew his intentions were good. Any words she had of complaint died, however, when he got up naked from the bed and stretched. In the cupola, and in the light of the dimmed lanterns last night, she hadn’t seen him fully nude, and the sight of him now—telumium gleaming on his shoulder, body solid with ridged muscle, his cock, impressive even at rest—nearly made her forget her trepidation about the upcoming battle. He may have been created to be a weapon of war, but she’d never seen anything or anyone so beautiful.

  Catching her staring, he finally smiled, that audacious grin of his. Utterly unconcerned with modesty—he might have been preening, in truth—he crossed his cabin and headed into the water closet. Seeing his naked body in motion, she appreciated his lack of shyness.

  They took turns using the water closet and washing up. Then it was time to get dressed, making themselves ready for the day. After Daphne had pulled on her clothing, a crewman delivered a tray, utterly indifferent to the fact that she was in Mikhail’s cabin. Once the crewman left, she forced herself to eat a roll and cheese, chasing it with a cup of bracing coffee. Even though she’d never been in battle before, she understood that growing faint from hunger in the middle of it would be a disaster.

  Mikhail ate three loaves of bread, a whole roast chicken, and two nectarines. As he did so, he finished dressing and then engaged in the extensive process of arming himself. Not just his ether pistol on his thigh, but an ether rifle holstered on his back and a bandolier of plasma grenades. His actions were quick, practiced.

  She started to tuck her revolver into her belt.

  “Use this.” He tossed her another belt, which held an ether pistol, two extra ether tanks, and pouches of ammunition.

  She buckled the belt around her hips. “I’ve never shot one of these before.”

  “Works the same as a normal gun, but the kick can knock you on your arse. Whenever you fire, keep your legs braced, your breathing steady, and make sure to replace the tanks after twenty bullets, or you won’t get the same power.”

  “I’ll try to remember all that,” she answered, wry. “Though I might be too busy recalling all your instructions to actually shoot someone.”

  Suddenly, he was in front of her, his expression severe. His large hands cupped her shoulders. “Shoot anyone who crosses your path, anyone who looks threatening. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Be as cold as the fucking tundra, and stay alive.”

  The intensity of his gaze and words made her heart seize. “You do the same.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then kissed her. Hard. She returned the kiss just as hard.

  Such a painful pleasure, this moment. It had taken thousands of miles and a vault filled with deadly traps and negotiations with ruthless warlords, and here they were, she and Mikhail, as they were meant to be. But only for a short while.

  She’d had one mission: to get her parents back. And she’d done everything, used every trick, to make sure she succeeded. But there were no more tricks. No more hiding. Not from him, or her heart.

  Courage. She needed it now, more than ever.

  A tap sounded at the door. “Captain,” Levkov said.

  She and Mikhail broke apart. The time for battle was here.

  “I HATE WAITING,” Mikhail grumbled.

  Daphne, standing beside him on the forecastle, raised a brow. “I’m not an encyclopedia of military strategy, but isn’t waiting rather important?”

  He scowled, bracing his hands on the rail. The sky continued to shift, lighter and lighter, with the approach of morning.

  “It’s necessary,” he conceded. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. At the naval academy, I’d been upbraided several times for rushing into the thick of a conflict, rather than holding back and waiting for the exact right moment to launch my own attack.”

  “Seems an unwise tactic,” she said.

  “Took me a while to learn that, but I did. I overcame my instinctive desire to dive into the heat of battle. A hasty captain puts not just himself in danger, but his ship and his crew.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. “Harder to overcome that impulse after my telumium implants.”

  “But you did.”

  “For the sake of survival and strategy.”

  “Not much longer now,” Levkov said, also standing nearby.

  The Bielyi Voron was hidden behind one of the mountain ridges encircling al-Rahim’s compound. The ship was flying extremely low—barely twenty feet off the ground—to ensure it remained hidden. Mikhail had memorized the detailed map Khalida had drawn yesterday, and though he couldn’t see beyond the ridge, he knew what he’d find on the other side.

  Al-Rahim’s compound was a collection of buildings surrounded by a thick wall, topped with gun turrets and guards patrolling the parapets. A heavy central gate was the only way in or out. The compound itself lay in a plain, with another ridge running at a diagonal. Just as Mikhail’s ship was hidden behind one of the mountain crests, so Olevski and the French rogue had their ships tucked behind a distant ridge, out of sight from anyone foolish enough to try to attack the compound, thinking it defended only by guns and men, not airships. But both Mikhail and Khalida were counting on that.

  They’d planned their strategy well, yet it meant biding his time, being unable to make the first move.

  He could hear the guards patrolling the perimeter of the compound, unaware of the attack moments away from happening. They only expected the arrival of Mikhail’s airship, for what was supposed to be Daphne’s delivery of a ransom.

  “What is it?” she asked, when he turned away from the prow.

  “They’re coming. I can hear them.” The sound was faint, but he’d picked it up long before the origin of the noise would become evident.

  Her eyes widened as she finally heard it, too. And then, suddenly, gyrocopters sped past the airship, flowing around it like a tide. The zawbaahs resembled low, three-wheeled vehicles, with canvas stretched over a wooden frame, and four blades spinning atop the craft. Ether-powered guns were mounted on the front of each zawbaah. Robed men and women piloted the gyrocopters, their eyes shielded by goggles, and as they swept around the airship, all the pilots raised their fists in salute. Mikhail, Daphne, and the rest of the Bielyi Voron’s crew lifted their hands in response.

  The gyrocopters raced over the crest of the ridge and then down into the plain, heading straight at al-Rahim’s compound. As they did, thunder sounded from the ground. Riders mounted on horses galloped along the same path as the zawbaahs toward the compound, their animals churning up dust as they raced. Khalida was one of their number, and as she and her warriors stormed toward al-Rahim’s fortress, she and her band lifted their voices in an ululating battle cry. They rode and shot their rifles without breaking stride, a flawless unity of human, animal, and technology.

  It was too soon for the Bielyi Voron to make its appearance, but Mikhail’s hearing allowed him to know everything that happened beyond their cover.

  “Khalida and her warriors are firing on the compound,” he narrated for Daphne and Levkov. “The guards are shooting back. Al-Rahim’s men are massing along the parapets. There,” he said, hearing several sharp whines. “Khalida’s snipers were able to position themselves on the ridge closer to the compound without anyone seeing them. Now they’re using their ether jezails to pick off guards, and the guards can’t return fire, because they’re too far away.”

  As he narrated, Daphne stood up on her tiptoes, as if she could strain to see what was happening. “Now?” she demanded.

  “Not yet.”

  Then came the low double drone that he’d been anticipating. Olevski and the French Man O’ War were coming out of hiding, their airships finally appearing to repel what they must have thought was merely a ra
id by Khalida. But they had no idea with whom she was allied. The sounds of more gunfire erupted across the plain, including the rat-a-tat of the airships’ Gatling guns.

  “Now!” Mikhail commanded.

  At once, the Bielyi Voron rose up over the ridge.

  A scene of chaos unfolded below: Khalida and her fighters against the guards protecting al-Rahim’s compound, and the two enemy airships hovering above everything, unleashing their arsenals against the tribal warriors. The Bielyi Voron raced toward the other airships, its crew unleashing a barrage from ether cannons and ether rifles.

  Neither Olevski’s ship, the Chyornyi Golub, nor the French ship expected Mikhail. The two airships wheeled around in confusion, both scrambling to make sense of this new, unexpected foe.

  “Full engagement, Levkov,” Mikhail shouted at his first mate.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Daphne was already running along the deck of the ship with him, both heading for the jolly boat. She didn’t look afraid—only determined. Heat and admiration spread through him at the sight.

  They hurried below, and down through the ship, until they reached the cargo bay. Herrera waited by the release lever.

  Mikhail put his hands on her shoulders as she headed toward the jolly boat, and turned her around. She stared up at him, confused and impatient.

  “I can do the assault with one of my men,” he said. “You’ll stay behind here, on the ship.”

  She scowled at him. “Hide, you mean?” She made a sound of aggravation. “Those are my parents down there. This mission is mine.” Her mouth firmed. “Those sapphires paid for my right to go into battle, and I’m determined to get my money’s worth.”

  He resisted the impulse to grin. Much as he wanted her safe, he couldn’t fault her logic, or deny her courage.

  Instead, he nodded, and took the tiller, while Daphne positioned herself at the front of the boat. Per Mikhail’s instructions, Herrera had set up a harpoon gun at the stern. The moment that Mikhail and Daphne had harnessed themselves in, and he’d given Herrera the signal, the cargo doors opened. The jolly boat plunged downward. Into the heat of battle.

  Mikhail steered the small ship as Daphne hefted her rifle and provided covering fire. They passed over Khalida and her warriors engaged in ground skirmishes, and flew past the zabwaahs as the gyrocopters combated gun turrets and guards shooting from atop the bulwarks. The flying craft couldn’t gain headway against the barrage and penetrate into the fortress. As much as Khalida’s warriors fought on the ground, they couldn’t breach the compound’s gate. It remained firmly closed to their assault.

  Daphne continued to fire as Mikhail guided the jolly boat over the compound’s walls, bullets whizzing all around them. Within the walls of the fortress were numerous buildings, some no more than sheds, others serving as stables or storage, with one larger structure adorned by columns and domes. This had to be al-Rahim’s residence.

  “I don’t know where my parents and their assistants are being kept!” Daphne shouted above the chaos.

  “Only one way to find out.” And it wasn’t from the air. The guards on the ramparts were too preoccupied with the gyrocopters to pay much attention to a lightly-armed boat. Mikhail banked the jolly boat sharply, then brought the craft down.

  He barely had time to unstrap his harness and leap out of the boat before the guards suddenly realized that the jolly boat presented a very real threat. The enemy attacked. After all the waiting and pent-up frustration, it was a relief to unleash the fight within. His movements were all instinct. Yet throughout his continuing battles, he never lost sight of Daphne. She aimed the harpoon gun, then fired. The harpoon shot into the heavy door. The explosive mounted to the front of the harpoon detonated.

  The force of the explosion knocked everyone off their feet—including Mikhail and Daphne. He lurched upright. Panic cut through him when he saw her lying on the bottom of the jolly boat. He’d never run faster as he sped to her. Carefully, he picked her up.

  She blinked, slightly dazed. He scowled when he saw the thin trickle of blood running down from her forehead.

  “Goddamn it, you’re hurt.”

  She touched her fingertips to the wound. “Can’t even feel it. The gate …”

  They both turned to see that the gate had been knocked down, and Khalida and her warriors now flooded the interior of the compound. The guards turned their attention to this threat, and everywhere was the ring of steel against steel and the whine of gunfire. On horseback, scimitar in hand, Khalida herself looked like the incarnation of war, slashing mercilessly at anyone who dared approach her. She shouted encouragement at her warriors, who yelled back their willingness to fight.

  There was still no sign of al-Rahim, but Mikhail had no doubt the warlord would make an appearance soon.

  Sounds of gunfire thundered overhead—sounds he recognized. Looking up, Mikhail saw the Bielyi Voron engaged in heavy combat with the two Man O’ War ships. The French airship was smaller than Mikhail’s, but Olevski’s Chyornyi Golub was the same class, with the same number of guns. An even match—had they been fighting only each other. Yet the Bielyi Voron had not one but two opponents. Leaving Mikhail and Daphne very little time to find and free her parents before they had to get back to the ship.

  Moving deeper into the compound, with the fight all around them, they searched for her mother and father.

  Al-Zaman suddenly stumbled out from the swirling chaos. Seeing them, the emissary’s face twisted with rage.

  “Where are my parents?” Daphne demanded.

  Al-Zaman sneered. “It does not matter.”

  Mikhail took a threatening step forward. “Tell me where they are.”

  The emissary attempted a look of defiance, but gave himself away when his gaze flicked toward the main building.

  Both Mikhail and Daphne ran toward the palace.

  “Your haste is useless,” al-Zaman shouted after them. “Their throats will be already cut by the time you reach them.”

  Neither Mikhail nor Daphne responded. They pushed their way through the battle as it swept deeper and deeper into the compound. Any men who got in his way were knocked aside like dolls. He breached the interior of the main building. It was only after he ran through a courtyard and then down several corridors that he realized Daphne was no longer with him. Somewhere along the way, she’d disappeared.

  THE CONFUSION HAD spread into the main building, and she fought to keep with Mikhail as servants and others fled. It was like swimming upstream, the current of humanity pushing against her.

  When the first burst of panicked people ebbed, she found herself lost in a maze of hallways. Mikhail was nowhere to be found.

  Daphne hadn’t taken more than a handful of steps before al-Zaman blocked her path. The veneer of affability he’d worn in Medinat al-Kadib had crumbled away, revealing the rot of hatred beneath. He pointed a revolver at her, and she realized that her own gun had been knocked out of her hand when she’d been thrown by the explosion. Hell.

  She could try to call to Mikhail for help, but that might delay him from reaching her parents in time. No, she had to face al-Zaman on her own.

  Talking the emissary out of shooting her was impossible. Hatred blazed in his eyes. She had to act—quickly.

  Strong and fast, she reminded herself. Any missteps meant her death.

  With her left hand, she grabbed the wrist of his gun hand. At the same time, she used her other hand to grip the barrel of the gun and push it back toward him. The revolver now faced al-Zaman, his wrist completely twisted, and he grimaced in pain and fury. She covered his trigger finger with her own.

  They struggled for the gun. She prayed he would be smart and simply let go, but he refused. Her heels slid on the floor, fighting for balance. She couldn’t let him regain control of the revolver.

  Suddenly, there was a muffled bang. Al-Zaman’s eyes went wide. Color drained from his face, and his hand slackened on the gun. He stumbled backward. Fell. Daphne stood with the revolver i
n her hand, gazing down at him as he sprawled on the ground. A red stain spread across his chest. He gaped up at her. Then his eyes turned glassy and his head lolled to the side.

  She stared at the weapon in her hand. A brief wave of nausea rolled over her. She’d actually killed someone. Looked him in the eyes and pulled the trigger, then watched as he died. God.

  The sickness passed quickly. This wasn’t just combat, but a war. For her life, for her parents’ lives. For Mikhail.

  Mikhail. She raced down a corridor in search of him, without giving al-Zaman another thought.

  The further she got into the building, the more she had quick impressions of additional guards running here and there, many fighting with Khalida’s warriors. Servants hid beneath tables and behind silken wall hangings. The palace itself looked sumptuous, covered in mosaics and filled with potted palms, but she barely noted any of this. She needed to find Mikhail, and her parents.

  As she hurried down another corridor, she just caught sight of him turning a corner, fighting deeper into the building. She sped after him. Even farther ahead were two giant guards, heading toward the wing of the palace where her parents must be kept. They held massive scimitars. These had to be the men al-Zaman had sent to kill her mother and father.

  The guards reached a door at the end of a corridor, where two more men stood sentry, but before they could open it, Mikhail launched himself at them. He threw one of the guards against a wall. The man slammed into the tile-covered surface, then slumped to the ground. He struggled to rise, but Mikhail planted a fist in the guard’s face. The man’s head snapped back and he was instantly unconscious.

  The second guard finished entering the combination into the lock on the door. Before Mikhail could grab him, Daphne aimed al-Zaman’s gun and fired. The guard howled, clutching at his wounded shoulder. His yowls of pain stopped, however, when Mikhail punched him into insensibility.