A Children's Tale (13 page)

Just a few yards below the
Griffin
, her captain sailed past with as much speed as the longskiff could manage. He saw the exchange above, and despite an involuntary wince at the strain he just knew had happened to his ship, he wanted to salute and smile at the ingenuity of his crew. At that moment, however, he had larger issues to concern himself with.

"I'm losing starboard control, Moira! We're listing badly! Pray tell, what did we lose?" Hunter called out while he fought with the wheel.

Moira, with Angela in close tow, scrambled to the right side and peered over. While a longskiff was held aloft by an appropriate-sized gas bag, it was only the means of lift, not propulsion. On the rear and just below the line of sight there were three propellers - one large and two small - and a small set of fins. The large propeller provided the main means of forward motion, but the fins and smaller propellers could tilt and adjust. These allowed the pilot to fine tune the direction or turn. At that moment, only the main propeller, fin and smaller propeller for the left side of the small boat were functional. The smaller right propeller hung at a crazed angle and the small right fin had been snapped cleanly in the middle.

Moira leaned back up and looked at Captain Hunter. 

Hunter struggled with the wheel and frowned. "Well?"

Moira exchanged a worried look with Angela then they both leaned back over the side at the damage. The two ladies then leaned back into the longskiff. Moira looked around, a bright glimmer in her eyes. "It's na gone."

Hunter's frown darkened. "What? How do you mean?"

Angela bit her lip and looked over the side again. Moira's eyes settled on running boards, stowed oars and other parts of the longskiff. "Ah can be fixin' it."

The young werewolf girl sat up straight and stared aghast at Moira. "What?"

Hunter raised an eyebrow suspiciously but reserved his comments, since the longskiff chose that moment to fight him again while they passed beneath the
Griffin
. "Good."

Moira turned towards Angela. "And Ah'll be needin' yer help."

Angela's eyes grew wider. She pointed at the side with the damage just when the longskiff jerked on the wind. "But ... it's danglin' ..." she said in a small voice.

The blacksmith ignored the girl's protests and looked around the longskiff. "Aye, aye. We'll be needing somethin' fer that." Moira pulled loose one of the plank seats, snatched up spare rope, and grabbed an emergency hatchet. Again the blacksmith cast about the boat for anything loose. 

"Moira... the fan thing." Angela stammered when another groan of metal escaped the wounded machinery.

"Aye, it be called a 'screw', sweet peach." Moira answered quickly while she checked the rope for any frayed spots.

"It's ... danglin'. I think it's goin' to fall. How're we going to fix somethin' like that?" 

Moira frowned and looked over the side at the damaged section. She sat up and glanced over her loose collection of random parts in front of her. Without another thought, she opened a small panel in a small box next to the opti-telegraphic then yanked out a long bundle of wires. Angela jumped as if shot and stared in horror at what Moira had done.

She presented the batch to Angela, "That's what we'll be usin'."

The girl looked at the box, then the wires. She shook them slightly at Moira. "Don't we need these for something important?"

Moira shook her head. "Na a bit. Those be for a backup, emergency battery. We can be missin' it for a bit. Now hold on a moment." With a savage swing, Moira slammed the hatchet down against the longskiff bottom and severed the rope she had found in two. 

She handed one end to Angela. "Hand me what Ah'll be askin' for, when Ah call out."

Angela whimpered slightly, but eventually sighed then nodded.

Suspended by a tenuous balance on the rail with her foot hooked under a wooden seat plank, Moira fashioned a makeshift splint by lashing the wood to the broken fin with the remains of the rope. The wires she used to repair frayed connections to the propeller and lash the housing of the screw to a set of twisted bolts that protruded from the hull.

Moira leaned back up just as the longskiff bounced once more, jostling its occupants. Crude as the repairs were, the damaged screw sputtered, hummed, then began to spin. In moments, the little boat steadied out, despite the high winds and occasional bullets or debris that fell past. Moira brushed her hands together with a satisfied smile. 

"That'll do 'er, Cap'n! Least till Ah can be gettin' get at it proper with tools and more a few bits and pieces."

Captain Hunter nodded. A smile of approval appeared briefly on his face while he navigated the perilous route through the aerial combat around them. "Excellent, as we are about to land. Though I fear it may be a bit ... steep."

This time it was Moira's turn to look stunned. "What?"

Behind her, Angela, turned to look in the direction they were headed. Abruptly, she let out a shrieking howl of surprise and terror. Moira spun around as Angela cowered against her, eyes closed.

"What be the noise?" The rest of Moira's words caught in her throat when she saw where they were.

The longskiff had sailed directly underneath the
Brass Griffin
. From there they had turned to move between the
Griffin
and the mercenaries' larger airship! Cannon and rifle fire flew between the two in bursts of deadly light. The yells and cries of pain from both crews filled the air between the thunderous boom of cannon and staccato crack of rifles. Bullets and lighting crisscrossed the air to form a lethal net.

Just beyond the deadly display, the landing harness for the mercenaries' airship took shape out of thick clouds of bitter smoke. A steambat aircraft waited in the cradle of leather for the pilot to slide the craft out into the air. The small craft's propellers spun as the steam engine boiled to life, pulling the canvas and wood craft into the air, then directly into the path of a stream of lightning from the
Brass Griffin
. High pressure jets of water hammered the canvas structure, and lightning played violently across the brass fittings of the engine. Wires melted, canvas burned and metal pipes deformed then broke away from their fittings. No more than a moment after her launch, the steambat turned her nose down and fell the ground below. 

"That's where we'll board her!" Hunter shouted over the chaos.

"There?" Moira looked from the landing harness to the smoke and fire beyond, then back to Captain Hunter.

"Yes, there. We're only ten feet above where we need to be. Just have to bring the 'skiff down a touch."

Moira wiped a grease-stained hand across her face and let out a shuddering sigh. "Oh ... my. Cap'n's at the helm." The blacksmith joined Angela in closing her eyes.

Hunter let the shade of a grin touch his lips before he pulled a cord to slow-vent the air of the gas bag and hit the emergency stop lever on the longskiff's engine.  "Indeed."

The small craft shuddered, as the engine stopped. Abruptly, the boat dropped sharply towards the net. 

W
ith air escaping the gas bag and the longskiff's steam engine no longer powering the propeller, the small airship hurtled downward. Hunter clutched the engine controls with a death grip. His eyes focused, unblinking, on the leather harness that rapidly drew closer with every passing second. Suddenly, he shoved a lever down. Sparks flew from the housing as the steam engine sputtered to life, powered by the longskiff's primary batteries. Two seconds later, the propellers roared to top speed and the longskiff leveled out.

The small airship struck the landing harness at full speed. Leather straps stretched and creaked horribly, but held against the impact and weight of the longskiff. Hunter threw the lever again to cut power to the steam engine. He pulled a cord to close the leak from the gas bag, leaving just enough air to give the longskiff some lift later, but not enough for it to float away. 

Stray bullets shot by, and occasionally wood exploded into fragments while the longskiff swayed drunkenly in the landing harness. The motion soon settled to match the main airship. Captain Hunter drew his pistol, then looked over to check on his companions. 

"All hale and whole?" He asked.

Angela nodded hesitantly, her eyes darting around in alarm at all the new sounds and smells threatening to overwhelm her young werewolf senses. 

Moira sighed, and likewise nodded. "Aye, all parts be accounted for. Though, Cap'n, we've sprung their trap, how're we ta be findin' Miles?"

Hunter looked to Angela. "We'll need your help with that, my dear. We can try the opti-telegraphic but I've not any confidence he'll be able to see where they've put him to give us clues in finding him. Though you might could discern something."

Angela closed her eyes to concentrate. A moment later, she opened them, fatigue showing in her canine face. "It's so noisy..."

Moira shook her head slightly. "She's been through a ringer, Cap'n. Ah might can toss apart our opti-telegraphic, then be makin' a quick locator ta find Miles' opti?"

The young werewolf shook her head. "No, I can do this." She closed her eyes again and grabbed the railing with her paw-like hands. Her claws cut small grooves in the wood as she extended, then retracted them idly. Finally her eyes snapped wide open. She swayed a little, as if slightly dizzy. 

Moira stepped forward to steady the young girl. "What do ya hear?"
"No ... " she said with a gasp, then shrieked, "Miles!" Abruptly, she launched herself over the rail. In one bound, she had leaped from the longskiff and across eight feet of the mercenaries' airship.

"Angela! Wait!" Captain Hunter swore, then hammered the longskiff's railing with a fist. "Bloody hell and damnation! Don't lose sight of her!" He leaped over the rail and landed in a crouch on deck of the larger ship. Quickly, he raced off after Angela, with Moira not far behind him. 

In a mad chase, Angela leaped and dodged across the deck, racing headlong towards her brother's terrified and angry shouts. Captain Hunter and Moira followed close behind as best they could. Not able to dodge as well as the young girl, they fired upon those sailors unfortunate enough to cross their path, or simply ambushed them along the way. Moira's shots were deadly and careful, with one per target. Hunter's less so, but what he missed with bullets, he occasionally resolved with a well-placed fist. When his latest pistol clicked on an empty chamber, he resigned himself to just his fists and wits.

While Angela was not entirely deaf or blind to any of this in her headlong search, her focus was mainly on her younger brother. His screams were like needles pricking her skin, grating her nerves with the anxiety that she was not there - yet - to protect him. Although, no matter how carefully she listened, the noise of the battle blurred the sounds the closer she got to where she believed he was. A desperate panic rose in her mind that clouded her concentration and threatened to overwhelm her completely. She needed information. She wondered how Hunter or Moira would find out. Then, she had an idea.

The young werewolf vaulted a trio of barrels and landed on an unsuspecting sailor. Pistol and sword fell from his grip and skittered across the deck. He started to rise, but as he did, she slammed her paws onto his back and leaned so close, the harsh rasp of her angry breath blew across one of his ears.

"Ye gods!" He yelped when realization dawned upon him as to just who - and what - was on his back.

"Where is my brother?" She demanded.

"Whot?" He squeaked then swallowed hard. He laughed nervously, then tried a half-hearted attempt to stall. "Ye gots a brother?"

"The young boy. Where ... is ... he? Tell me!" She snarled, a dark and ugly undertone creeping into her voice. 

"W ... wait! The whelp's ahead! With the Cap'n!" The sailor pointed with a free hand towards the quarterdeck then licked his dry and cracked lips, his eyes wide in fear. "Narry a soul's ta touch 'im. Cap'n's orders! Ya let ... let me go, eh? Roit?"
"You'd better not be lyin'!"

"Ah'm swearin' it! On me muther's grave! If ... if she was in one ... bless 'er soul!" He stammered in a panic. 

"All right. I'll let you go." Without another word, she sprung off the back of the sailor towards the direction he indicated. Behind her, the man squeezed his eyes shut and sighed heavily with relief.

A short race across the deck towards the rear, Angela jumped up onto a crate and crouched down. Just ten feet ahead she saw Miles. He looked only slightly the worse for wear, as he was more disheveled than before. He had been bound to the narrow railing that braced the side of the ladder to the ship's quarterdeck with a thick stretch of hemp rope. Archibald RiBeld was there, just retying the last knot on Miles' wrist. RiBeld's coat was torn. Dirt and blood smudged his fine linen shirt, and his hair tossed wild about him on the wind. He looked less the aristocrat and more an apparition from a nightmare. About him stood five armed men, none of whom had a pleasant look for Miles. When RiBeld was done, he grabbed Miles roughly by the chin. 

"Now you little maggot, you'll not free yourself this time! Not if you know what's good for you!" RiBeld shook Miles by the chin then let go. 

"Miles!" Angela yowled, heedless of the danger in front of her.

Miles' eyes went wide, fully aware of the trouble they were in. "Angela? Run away!"

"The shape shifting whelp! Excellent! My second catch of the day!" In a blur of motion, RiBeld yanked a pistol from one of the sailors near him and cocked the hammer. 

Immediately a barrel arced down from above and slammed against the mercenary captain. Heavy wooden slats, abused by both weather and battle, broke apart on impact. RiBeld was engulfed in a cloud of splintered wood that knocked him off his feet and across the deck. His pistol flew into the air and over the side of the ship to the ground far below.

"Which means you've not read the notice, Sirrah. It says 'off limits'!" Hunter shouted as he reached for a second barrel despite the rising pain that rippled through him. Bullet wounds reopened, then tortured him with white-hot pain and dull aches for every abrupt movement. The pain quickly became a distraction, one that he knew he could not afford to focus on. With an extreme force of will, he concentrated on the moment. His pain he would think about later.