On Discord Isle (28 page)

“Breeding with sheep!” snarled Natasha. “With the odd nag of a horse thrown in for variety.”

“Perinese horses are the finest in the world,” growled Fengel. “I recall that the Salomcani used to have some decent lines, until they all got
eaten
!”

“You bastard!”

“Bitch!”    

Natasha pointed her sword at Fengel. “I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face with the bottom of my boot!”

“You and what army?” asked Fengel

A figure appeared at Natasha’s side. “Kalyon,” cried Etarin. “Enough prattle! Let us end these filthy mongrels.”

She looked back at the rest of her crew. Bloodlust twisted their faces into ugly masks. Not all of them understood Fengel’s insults. But no one could mistake his intent.

Natasha faced her husband. “With this one,” she said, smiling wickedly.

A loud crack echoed throughout the room. Natasha glanced up, along with everyone else, at the massive crystal pipes along the west wall. The fracture left by Fengel’s mis-aimed trap was stretching. She watched as several spiderweb fissures crawled madly across the glass.

“Oh?” said Fengel. He smiled smugly back at the men of the
Goliath.
“That pipe is going to break open any moment,” said Fengel, “dumping hundreds of gallons of lava, or whatever is in there, all over the floor. We will be perfectly safe up here on the platform. We don’t
need
to come down and meet you, if we just keep you at bay on these stairs. And there isn’t a single thing you can say to change that.”

Natasha shifted her gaze to the assembled crew of the
Goliath.
They glared at her and her men, muttering their own threats and curses. “Fengel’s first name,” she said loudly and clearly, “is Ashley.”

Fengel howled in anger. He charged down the stair with his saber raised above his head. The men of the
Goliath
looked to each other in surprise before following with a wordless cry. Her own crewmen roared their response. Both sides rushed forward, crashing into each other like a pair of opposing waves. The battle was on.

Natasha itched to meet her husband. She’d ambushed him, driven him off, and then provoked him again into a fight. But if she crossed blades with him now she knew she would lose. Fengel was better with a blade by far, and while facing him down directly would be satisfying, it wouldn’t work. No. She couldn’t let herself be beaten again. Just like outside, she had to orchestrate this just right if she wanted to win.

Her father always said to cheat, if you couldn’t win a fair fight. She retreated, letting the crew of the
Salmalin
flow past her to face her enraged husband. While Fengel was a skilled swordsman, he had other weaknesses. And she’d hit those where they
hurt
.

She picked several faces out of the melee, those of the hated Perinese. Natasha grinned and reached out as both Farouk and Jahmal went past. “With me!” she cried. “This way!”

The two sailors looked at her in confusion, but followed as she pulled them alongside the fight out toward its edges. There she found a small cluster of Bluecoat marines led by her former gaolers, Sergeant Cumbers and Private Simon.
Good
. She’d made a note of who stood closest to Fengel during his tirade on the platform; they were sure to be his followers, the ones he used to keep everyone in line. Fengel wasn’t strong enough to rule his crew directly by force. He loved to delegate. Removing the sergeant would deal him, and the Perinese, a serious blow.

But she had to be quick about it. Natasha threw herself at the smaller, less-experienced Simon, aiming a punch with the hilt of her scimitar at his freckled face. The blow connected with a thud. Simon cried out and fell back, spitting teeth and flailing his gangly limbs in a blue blur. Cumbers yelled in alarm, just as Farouk bulled forward with a two-handed chop, breaking through the blade of the marine and biting into the man’s shoulder. The sergeant fell back into the knot of Bluecoats. Farouk kept up the assault as the Perinese defense along this side of the battle folded.

A resounding crack reached Natasha through the noise. She glanced up to see another spiderweb crack flaring out up high on the crystal pipe.

Time was running out, but she could still win this. Next was the aetherite, Dawkins. As an aetherite, he was a potent tool for Fengel. As Natasha moved back through the melee, she spied Fengel. He was fending off three of her Salomcani, keeping them at bay with a skillful blur of parries and ripostes. Though close to being overwhelmed, he still lashed out at any opportunities that presented themselves.

Natasha saw Dawkins on the other flank. Fortunately the man was drained of any real Workings; that much she’d learned while in captivity. However, he still had a few tricks left, it seemed. Any blade directed at him jerked away, almost as if alive. Though the aetherite was unarmed, his hands were wreathed in a cool glowing nimbus. Whenever he touched one of her men, they would shriek in pain and collapse to the floor.

Most folk knew very little about Worked aetherite magic. Fortunately, she’d had Konrad on retainer for years now, and knew how to tell the various spells apart. Dawkins’s Bladeward Working was useful, but it had limits. Natasha sheathed her scimitar and cracked the knuckles of both hands. Then she threw herself at him.

The aetherite saw her out of the corner of his eye. He spun about to meet her and raised both hands, smiling grimly in recognition. Natasha didn’t bother returning the gesture. As he swung out with aether-charged hands, Natasha ducked low, coming up past and along his side, almost as if she’d tried to tackle him and decided against it at the last second. Her fist found his sternum just beneath the breastbone, knocking the air out of the magician in a loud gasp. His concentration faltered, and along with it, the spell he held. Natasha grabbed him by the coat and held on as she landed blow upon blow against the side of his head. Feebly, he tried to fend her off. Only when he wasn’t moving anymore did she relent.

As her men moved forward, Natasha released the aetherite, and another loud crack sounded from the great tube on the western wall. Its surface was a fine spiderweb now, ready to give way at any moment. Below, the Perinese were folding. Without Cumbers and Dawkins to hold the flanks and reissue Fengel’s orders, her men were driving them back. They’d almost won.

Time to drive this home
. Natasha pressed back into the melee, drawing her scimitar as she went.

Fengel still stood at the center of the fight. He was almost surrounded now. Still, though, he refused to give up. By himself now, he held the line of battle for his men, but he was at his limits. Sweat poured down his features and he bled from a number of minor cuts.

Natasha grinned and threw herself at his blind side, right where he wore that idiotic monocle. Her blade licked out, but his saber appeared to block it. He glared at her just long enough to make his point before dodging a dagger-thrust by Jahmal.

“I may not have your skill,” purred Natasha, “but there’s only so much you can handle, and we both know it.”

“I’ll hold...my own...as long as I have to,” muttered Fengel. He tried a cut at her thighs.

Natasha danced away with a laugh. “That’ll be a long wait, then. I’ve taken care of both your sergeant and your aetherite. Your people are failing. No one’s coming to help you.”

Fengel rammed the pommel of his saber into Jahmal’s forehead, dropping the man. He cut at the throat of a Salomcani sailor beside him, forcing him back with a yelp. Then, quicker than she would have thought possible, his blade was there, singing down for her face.

Natasha threw up her scimitar, catching the saber at the last second. She foiled his blow, but the blade bit down across the back of her hand. Natasha grunted and fell back, blood running in rivulets down her arm.

His eyes were cold. “It seems that you learned something from Mordecai, after all.”

Her mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. She made to reply, but the pipe on the far wall chose that exact moment to burst. Boiling magma shot out into the room in an incandescent stream. The air heated, becoming instantly almost unbreathable. The liquid splashed only a dozen feet from the edge of the fight, spattering and scatting molten rock all about.

Those nearest the splash yelled in alarm. Salomcani and Perinese sailors both flung themselves back from the overwhelming heat, all thoughts of conflict forgotten. One unlucky Bluecoat caught fire. He ran back for the platform, screaming.

The crack in the crystal pipe widened to unleash even more pressurized magma. Natasha cursed and ducked out of the way. The rest of her crewmen followed suit, scrambling for safety. She kicked and fought to get away from the melee, until the smooth metal floor was empty around her and she could clamber back up the steps of the platform where she’d entered the room.

Natasha took a breath and looked back. Her crew ascended to safety beside her, having moved almost as fast. On the opposite side of the room, Fengel and the Perinese had done the same. Remarkably few of her own people had fallen in the fight. Fengel wouldn’t be able to say the same. Natasha watched the spreading magma ignite Perinese clothing and flesh.

A flash of light caught at the corner of her eye. Natasha looked up to see Fengel standing on the steps to the far platform, watching her, the flames from the corpses of his men reflecting in the cracked glass of his monocle. Behind him, the Perinese nursed their wounds, looking demoralized.

Natasha smiled at her husband. She blew him a wide and extravagant kiss. Her crewmen threw jeers and catcalls along with it.

Fengel said nothing. Wordlessly he herded his crew through the archway leading deeper into the mountain. Natasha drew her scimitar and pointed at the stair up to the causeway that would lead them in pursuit.

I’m not done yet. This day will be mine.

Chapter Sixteen

The arch led into a low tunnel of smooth Voornish brass. Though dim, it was a reprieve from the infernal heat of the magma pumping into the room behind them. Fengel led his new crew with saber in hand, questing forward through the gloom. Behind him came the men of the
Goliath
, groaning in pain, shock, and fear.

Someone tugged at Fengel’s sleeve. He turned to see Midshipman Paine, breathless and bloodied by a slew of scratches above one ear. “Sir!” he cried. “Sergeant Cumbers is hurt.”

“Can he still walk?” Fengel asked.

“Yes. He’s bringing up the rear. Private Simon is helpin’ him because Cumbers won’t rest. But his shoulder is all messed up, an’ bleedin bad. You need to come help!”

The idea was ridiculous. There were far more important considerations at the moment. Natasha was
winning
. “If he can still walk, then he isn’t dead yet. His wounds can wait.”

Paine was taken aback. “But, sir—”

“No buts,” snapped Fengel. “If you’re so concerned, get back there and prop the sergeant up until he can find a better place to die. I am busy at the moment.”

Fengel turned away, feeling Paine’s eyes upon his back. He ignored them, moving farther ahead from the rest of the crew. Hopefully he could find something defensible soon.
This is just...repositioning, tactical repositioning. Yes. That’s it.

It still felt like running away. Which was galling. A small part of Fengel had to admit it was true. Natasha had surprised him in the ravine, forced his retreat into this mountain. Worse, the hasty ambush he’d set up had failed. To top it all off, Natasha had routed him, crushing his lieutenants and forcing him again to flee.

But I can still do this. She is not clever, and she is not skilled. I can still beat her. I just have to arrange the pieces correctly. Somehow.

The tunnel ended in an arch up ahead. Fengel passed through and found himself in another massive chamber, even larger than the one behind them. Polished brass made up the floor, with two rows of glowing crystal orbs illuminating a path that led deeper into the room. They failed to fully dispel the gloom, leaving the boundaries of the chamber shrouded and dark. Encompassing the orbs and the path were long, low platforms made of the same burnished material as the floor, covered with tables and racks full of strange machineries.

A rumbling susurrus of clockwork mechanisms echoed down from the darkness above. They clicked and whirred much like the room before, but held a discordant note, as if their machineries were distressed.

Is this whole damned mountain hollow?
It certainly seemed like it. Fengel could only guess at the purpose of this strange enclave. Was it a gigantic workshop? An alien factory? That was certainly plausible; the few Voornish ruins he had come across always showed signs of great engineering and advanced technologies.

Enough woolgathering
. Fengel looked to his crew as they emerged from the tunnel. They came in twos and threes, eyes panicked and wild. Not a one of them was hale, with injuries running from assorted light cuts to heavily bandaged gashes and contusions. A quick count confirmed that these were the lucky ones, however. All told, there were less than ten surviving members of the crew of the
Goliath
.

Still, they would serve.
He
certainly wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. When young Paine emerged out of the tunnel, helping Private Simon to support Sergeant Cumbers, Fengel clapped his hands for their attention.

“All right, lads!” he called. “That didn’t go so well, admittedly, but we’re not out of the game yet.”

Deckhand Riley Gordon helped a Bluecoat marine carry the unconscious Mr. Dawkins. He let go of the aetherite and then collapsed. “It’s over!” he cried. “That madwoman is right behind us. She’ll be the end of us all!”

“Ridiculous,” replied Fengel. “We just need to be clever about things.”

Sub-Lieutenant Hayes glared at Fengel sullenly. “Is that the same kind of clever you had in the last room?”

Goddess, I am sick of this man.
Fengel smiled. “Of course, Mr. Hayes. After all, my plan was excellent. It was only your incompetent execution that earned us such a miserable failure.”