On Discord Isle (16 page)

She ignored the corpse and focused again on her freedom. Sitting, she stretched both legs until the chain between them was taut. Then she hacked down with the hatchet as close as she dared on either side. The blood on the blade ran down the haft, making it slick against her palms. Natasha held tight: this wasn’t the first time she’d had to perform tricky work covered in someone else’s ichors.

The chain bent and jumped with each blow. Sparks and slivers of iron flew across the deck. At last it broke, only a few links away from her right ankle. She did the same to her other leg, impatiently hacking until her fetter there separated as well. Then Natasha stood and threw the hatchet at the rear bulkhead, sinking it deep into the wood as she howled a wordless cry.

I’m free!

A cascade of all the vows and promises she’d made flooded back through her mind. But not yet, not yet. First she had to make good her escape.

Natasha crawled over to her dead guard. She took his musket and swordbelt, strapping the latter around her own waist. He carried a smallsword, much lighter than her preferred cutlass, but it would do. His boots she took as well. Pleasingly, they were just the right size.

Now prepared, she glanced back outside. The Salomcani still pressed their attack even after the explosion. Many looked injured on both sides. She couldn’t have asked for a better distraction. Now was the time to get away.

She left her prison and strode up the deck toward the stair at the bow. As she went she slapped the rear of each of the fat iron cannons, feeling almost jovial. Halfway up the deck, she stopped and paused to look at the heavy weapons. One had to keep one’s promises, after all.

A quick inspection of the cannons confirmed that what the dead guard had said was true. Madly, each was primed, powdered, and ready to fire. All that was needed was for the guncocks to be pulled back and then triggered.

She worked quickly. Leaving her musket up by the stair, she moved to each cannon and pulled back the tiny hammer-arm positioned above the touch-hole. They locked into place with a click, thundering devastation held at bay by a bit of clockwork. Dangling from the back of each mechanism was a long leather lanyard. A quick jerk and the guncock would hammer a piece of flint down at a steel striking pan, inciting the weapon to fire. When the last of the heavy guns was ready, Natasha took up the leather lanyard and peered out beyond the ship.

Both crews had recovered a bit from the explosion moments ago. Burning bits of wood peppered the beach, and some of the tents in their row were on fire. Bodies lay scattered about, more dead from the forge explosion than from the fighting. The Perinese struggled to regroup into a formation, but the Salomcani were fast and skilled. She spotted Commander Coppertree at one edge of the fighting, up near the jungle’s edge, protected by Hayes and his pet aetherite. Whenever one of the raiders moved too close, the ship’s magician sprayed caustic light their way. Hayes waved his sword, but failed to attack anyone.

Natasha glowered. She stepped back clear of the gun port and took a firm grip on the lanyard. “Retribution is at hand!” she yelled. Then she pulled the lanyard.

 The clockwork mechanism leapt forward. Sparks erupted and the cannon fired, sending a great deafening gout of flame and smoke belching out beyond the ship. The weapon recoiled, checked only by the heavy tackles that bound it to the bulkhead wall on either side of the gun port. The sound of its thunder echoed throughout the deck.

Natasha didn’t wait to check the results. She cackled and moved to the next cannon, taking up the lanyard there. It fired with a similar thunderous eruption. Then she moved down the line, laughing as she fired upon the beach and the bloody struggle taking place upon the sands.

Her ears rang by the time she reached the stairwell and her new musket. The whole deck stank of sulphur and was filled with smoke. Though her lungs burned for clean air, she felt almost light, buoyed up by joy. Unfortunately, she couldn’t wait to see the results. Freedom still beckoned. Cocking the hammer back on her musket, she carefully climbed the stair.

Natasha ignored the other decks she passed through. They were unoccupied. It seemed that everyone aboard the ship had joined in to fight off the raid, at least so far. No one appeared to bar her ascent. The dank gloom of the stairwell lightened as she climbed, until at last she stepped out from the hatch and onto the main deck of the ship.

The sun was bright overhead. Too bright, after three days belowdecks. It joined with the ringing in her ears to obscure her senses. Natasha held up her musket while the world slowly slipped into focus.

She was not alone on the deck, she saw. The carpenter and two assistants stood at the gunwales with their backs to her, exclaiming in horror at the beach encampment below. None of them seemed to have noticed her yet.

Even with the cannon smoke rising up past the hull she could see the devastation she had wrought. All fighting was ended. Bodies littered the sandy beach, scattered and stark against the black scorches left by her cannons. The Salomcani were in full retreat. Those who could grabbed sacks, tools, and whatever spoils they found as they fled. The Perinese were simply trying to regroup. Even through the ringing in her ears she heard the shrillness of confused orders, the cries of the wounded and desperate yelling. Nothing had ever been sweeter.

“You!” cried a voice. “You did this!”

Natasha looked back. The carpenter had seen her. He was old and grizzled, with muscles on his arms like thick cords of jerky. The man ran at her, a hammer raised in his hands.

Reflexively, she took aim with the musket and fired. The weapon gave a sharp crack and ejected a plume of smoke. She tossed it aside and drew the smallsword, taking up a stance.

She felt, more than heard, his hammer hit the deck. As the smoke cleared, she watched him crumple to his knees. The ball had taken him square in the chest. He shook and gave a long gasp as blood pooled on the planks around him. Natasha grinned up at the remaining two men. She recognized them. One was the commander’s boy, Paine. The other had been aboard when she’d first been captured, two days ago.

“All right, then,” she said. “Who’s next?”

They fled up the deck, hollering wordless warnings at the top of their lungs. Natasha moved to where they’d stood, calmly stepping over the dying carpenter, and surveyed the battle again. She tried to pick out Coppertree, Hayes, or anyone else who had personally wronged her, but there was too much smoke and devastation. One thing did stand out, though: a large group of the Perinese were pointing at the ship, and her in particular.

Hmm,
she mused.
Time to go.

Natasha sheathed her blade and stalked up the deck toward the port-side bow. It occurred to her that she hadn’t given thought to what to do next for her escape. Her father would have chided her for that. Fortunately, no one else on the ship was opposing her. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a ready longboat or launch anywhere in sight.

She reached the quarterdeck and peered over the side of the
Goliath
. Beyond, the surf rolled in toward the isle, a soft blue-green, clear enough that she could see sand a few fathoms below the surface. There wasn’t any ready boat over here, either. She was going to have to swim.

Nothing for it, then.
Natasha kicked off her new boots, made sure her sword was sheathed, and dove overboard.

The water was a cool shock after the smoke and stinking air of the ship. Her momentum from the dive carried her down and through it until she touched the sandy floor of the ocean. It was deep enough, just barely. Natasha kicked off from it and swam.

She swam underwater as long as she could, until her lungs burned and her limbs ached. When she surfaced for air, she was pleased to see the
Goliath
a goodly distance behind her. Natasha corrected her course and swam away with broad over-arm strokes in parallel with the beach, heading west around the island. East would take her back to the isolated part of the isle the treacherous
Dawnhawk
had dropped her upon, and there was little point in that.

Natasha swam until the steamship disappeared around the corner of the isle. The surf pushed her constantly inland. She fought it only a little. When her limbs felt like wood and she couldn’t swim any farther, she floated, letting the tide deliver her back onto a short, rocky shore just beneath the jungle canopy. She lay there, panting, getting her strength back and enjoying the shade.

A figure appeared overhead. Natasha blinked up at a rough, dusky face with a heavy red beard and twin mustachios set below golden eyes. His clothing was finely made, if tattered. A scimitar hung from his hip. Other raiders appeared around him, carrying weapons, stolen goods, and a fair share of fresh wounds.

“Well,” said the man in perfect Salomcan. “What have we here?”

Oh, by the Goddess’s teats,
Natasha swore silently.
I just did this!

Chapter Ten

Fengel shifted in his crouch. He tried for a better angle through the bars of his cell at the padlock holding it closed. The hot metal gaff-hook slipped in his hand. He fumbled for a tighter grip on the makeshift lock pick, ignoring the stink of smoldering cloth and the growing pain in his fingertips. The bent piece of metal was his best chance of escape right now. Dropping it didn’t bear thinking upon.

Slowly, carefully, Fengel adjusted his grip. He teased again at the padlock. From outside the ship came the cries of the wounded and dying, punctuated occasionally by the pop of musket fire. Both the Salomcani and the Perinese sounded as if they were reeling after the mad firing of the ship’s broadside at the beach. Fengel pushed the noise out of his mind to focus on his freedom.

His hook found the inner latch. Fengel took a breath. The Perinese navy had far harsher methods of discipline available aboard a ship, and so rarely spent excessively on security. This padlock was a simple thing. But it had been a long time since he’d had to tease open a chest or slip past a door without the key.

If I can just....
He twisted the hook to the right and a loud click sounded. The padlock snapped open. Fengel dropped his makeshift pick and removed the lock. Retrieving his hat, he swung the door open wide, rose from his crouch, and stepped out of the brig cell to freedom.

The berth deck was still empty. At the first cries of battle, both of his guards, Sergeant Cumbers and Private Simon, had run off to join the fighting. Aside from Commander Coppertree and the ship’s carpenter, he was likely alone aboard the
Goliath
. And Cumbers had let slip that the Commander was well enough to inspect the camp today. Fengel knew he needed to move quickly. This chance wouldn’t last. Especially with the recent action of the ship’s guns.

That had been Natasha, he knew. It was just the kind of vindictive, ruthless action she would take. It also meant that she was on the loose. She wouldn’t have done such a crazy thing unless she was already making good her own escape, somehow.

Well,
he admitted.
Probably
.

Fengel moved up from the stern toward the stair at the head of the deck. He kept an eye out for a weapon as he went. Nothing availed itself. Regretfully, he started climbing. When he reached the base—and at each new landing—he stopped to peer up the deck. His hands itched for a sword. If he’d been properly armed, he never would have been captured by the Perinese in the first place. If he ran into anyone now, he’d be forced to surrender.

The interior of the ship was weirdly silent after the clamor outside its hull. The air was dusty and scented with the smells of tar, rum, and just-fired guns. Unwelcome nostalgia washed over him. Fengel hurried his ascent until the hatch that opened onto the deck appeared above, sunlight flooding the stair. He moved to its lip and peered out.

The day crashed into him. High above hung the early-afternoon sun, obscured by billowing columns of smoke that rose from the beach to cast weird shadows upon the deck of the
Goliath
. A soft wind blew in from the ocean, setting loose sails to flapping overhead. The cries of the wounded mixed with the screams of gulls and the roar of the surf below.

Three figures huddled against the starboard gunwales. Fengel recognized the young midshipman, Paine, a boy of twelve with sandy hair. The second was the shifty sailor Riley Gordon. Both had passed through the berth deck on occasion, saying little, lingering just long enough to listen to the tales and jokes that he spun for Cumbers and others among the crew. Beneath both of them lay a third figure, an older sailor curled up and groaning in a pool of his own blood. This must be Harvey, the ship’s carpenter.

“He needs water,” said Riley Gordon, eyes wide. The young seaman had his shirt off, pressed against the carpenter’s chest. Blood covered his hands up to his wrists.

“Don’t be daft!” cried Paine. His shrill voice threatened to crack. “He’s not pregnant. That pirate woman shot him before she scarpered. We need to get Dawkins an’ his spells.”

Ah,
mused Fengel.
Natasha’s gone then
. He relaxed a little. Neither of the two had seen him yet. Also, he didn’t have to worry about meeting the psychotic hyena he called a wife while unarmed.

A quick glance told him that he was otherwise alone. He could easily make a run for the port side of the ship, either dive off and swim for a distant bit of shore or commandeer a dinghy. His escape would be complete.
A hop, a skip, a swim and I’m free again
.

Except...that wasn’t good enough anymore.

He’d been making progress. He’d been
winning
, just like he’d sworn he would. A little bit of polite commiseration had worn down the reservations of his guards. After, they’d been a great source of information, even bringing others in the crew aboard for nightly card games, which Fengel was always careful to lose gracefully. As well, Coppertree seemed on the mend thanks to his advice, putting the hated Sub-Lieutenant Hayes that much farther from any real chance at command. The commander had sent him tea yesterday. Carefully, Fengel had worked the opportunities that came to him, gaining a little ground with every passing hour. He’d been confident that eventual freedom and a mutiny, real or engineered, would give him what he wanted. Then Natasha would learn, once and for all, that he was every bit what he claimed to be.