Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (26 page)

As the jolly boat climbed higher into the air, the sounds of triumphant ululation rose up from below. Glancing down, he saw Khalida standing over the body of al-Rahim, her swords lifted in victory. She caught Mikhail and Daphne watching her, and gave another long, piercing cry of triumph. Daphne flawlessly returned the cry, as did her parents.

Despite al-Rahim’s death, the conflict was far from over.

Someone on
Bielyi Voron
must have seen the approaching jolly boat, because the ship beat a slight retreat from fighting the other airships, allowing the smaller vessel room to come closer. Mikhail brought the boat up into the
Bielyi Voron
’s cargo bay, and the doors swung shut beneath them.

“Stay below decks,” he commanded his newest passengers. Everyone looked too stunned to argue. Except, as Mikhail headed topside, Daphne followed, still holding the ether rifle.

He rounded on her.

She spoke before he could. “If you think I’m going to cower in my cabin while you’re up there risking your goddamn life,” she said hotly, lifting her chin, “then you haven’t been paying attention.”

He swore, but she didn’t blink. A shudder rattled the ship. Capable as Levkov was, the
Bielyi Voron
was still Mikhail’s, and no one commanded her better in combat than he did. He had to get topside. And Daphne was determined to join him there.

Much as he wanted her safe, one of the things he respected so deeply about her was her strength of will. Locking her in her cabin would only deny a part of her he admired.

“Keep low,” he said quickly, “fire at anyone who looks threatening, and for God’s sake, don’t try to take on either of the Man O’ Wars.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “There’s only one Man O’ War I’d ever take on.”

He kissed her, quick and hard. Seemed the only fitting response. She kissed him back with bruising force. Neither of them seemed to care that the passageways were filled with crew members. All that mattered at that moment was the feel of each other, their shared heat and strength. But the kiss had to be brief, and they broke apart as the ship shook again.

Together, they leapt up the companionway, emerging onto the top deck, and the elegant brutality of aerial combat.

D
APHNE COUGHED AS
smoke wreathed the deck of the airship. Crew members were everywhere, shooting ether cannons at the two other ships. She felt the concussion of the ether cannons thundering in her chest. Shouts and explosions, the whine of gunfire, and the world spinning as the three airships dove and wheeled in combat. She had never known anything like this.

She was grateful she’d gained her air legs as she staggered after Mikhail. It felt as though she’d fallen into a bellicose dream, where flight and combat interlaced. Half a mile below stretched the desert, dotted with the figures of Khalida’s and al-Rahim’s warriors still fighting, and all around her was the sky, scented by cordite, streaked with smoke.

The enemy ships had positioned themselves on both sides of the
Bielyi Voron
, so the ship was taking fire from all angles. It seemed impossible that they could survive such bombardment.

Levkov looked relieved when Mikhail appeared beside him. “Doing what I can, Captain, but two against one doesn’t make for a nice dinner party.”

“Then we disinvite one of the guests,” Mikhail answered. “Target the French ship. Give it everything.”

Though it made little sense to her that Mikhail would want to go after the smaller and less threatening of the two enemy airships—particularly given his hatred of Olevski—Levkov seemed to understand his strategy. “Aye, Captain,” he said, then hurried off to spread the word to the crew.

Once the message reached the crew, the ship spun about to face the French airship. Every cannon and ether gun on board the
Bielyi Voron
was unleashed. The enemy ship shuddered and quaked, pieces of its hull shattering and crew falling to the deck, wounded. In response, the French airship began to retreat, drawing closer to Olevski’s ship as if seeking protection.

“If the French Man O’ War does that,” she said above the sound of gunfire, “he’ll crowd Olevski. Give him no way to maneuver.” Her eyes widened as she understood the strategy.

“We get you some telumium implants,” Mikhail answered with a ferocious grin, “you might make a damned fine airship captain.”

Indeed, as the French ship tried to find cover, it nearly collided with the Russian airship. Several moments passed as the two vessels awkwardly attempted to position themselves. Olevski seemed to want to bring his ship around to launch a broadside against the
Bielyi Voron
, but the French ship kept getting in the way.

“Bring us closer to the
Chyornyi Golub
,” Mikhail roared to the helmsman. He turned to other crew members. “Golovkin, Cheng, Simonov, Alvarez—grappling hooks on the starboard side!”

As the ship flew nearer to the Russian ship, four of the
Bielyi Voron
’s crew members appeared at the rail, each carrying gramophone-sized devices. The brass-cased devices were open on one side, and she could just make out what looked like a steel claw within. A small tetrol-powered engine was attached to each device, as well. The crew clamped the devices onto the rail, with the open side facing outward.

She held her breath as the
Bielyi Voron
drew up only thirty feet from the side of the Russian ship. At this distance, she could see the battle-enraged faces of the other ship’s crew, and Olevski striding up and down the deck, bellowing orders.

“Fire!” Mikhail commanded.

The four crewmen pulled handles on the side of the devices fixed to the rails. Four hooks shot from the devices, with stout iron chains attached to them. The hooks latched onto the rail of the enemy ship. Golovkin, Cheng, Simonov, and Alvarez then flipped levers on the engines, and winches inside the devices began to draw in the chains and their attached hooks. The grappling devices pulled the two airships ever closer together, shortening the distance foot by foot.

Both crews massed at the railings, everyone bristling with weapons of all varieties, from cutlasses to revolvers to ether pistols. Though a crewman on the enemy ship worked frantically to saw at the chains binding the two airships, he couldn’t work fast enough. The distance continued to narrow. Twenty five feet, twenty.

Mikhail jumped up onto the rail. In each hand, he held a long, wicked sword. His face was a mask of determined fury, his hate-filled gaze fixed solely on Olevski, who glared back with equal loathing. A distance of over fifteen feet separated the ships. Then Mikhail leapt, and Daphne forgot how to breathe.

He seemed suspended in the air, half a mile above the ground, for an eternity. Yet he jumped over the heads and raised weapons of Olevski’s crew. Mikhail landed in a crouch right in front of Olevski. For a moment, the two Man O’ Wars simply stared at each other. And then they bellowed in rage and charged each other.

As the two ships continued to draw closer, Mikhail and Olevski launched into furious combat. They moved with superhuman speed and strength, their blades moving so quickly as to be steel blurs carving through the air. Their swords clashed together with enough force to draw sparks.

The hulls of the airships ground together as the grappling hooks reeled the Russian ship close. The massed crew members stood at the rail, swinging blades and shooting guns, each struggling to board the others’ ship. Daphne stood just behind this melee, trying to see the progress of Mikhail’s fight with his most hated enemy. Goddamn it, she
needed
to do something.

A roar rose up from Mikhail’s crew as they gained the upper hand, surging over the rail to board the enemy ship. The fight continued onto the upper deck of the Russian airship, rogue crew against rogue crew. But the crew of the
Bielyi Voron
seemed to fight as a cohesive unit rather than in a disorganized jumble. Two of the enemy crew had enough organization to realize that the main threat came from Mikhail, and aimed their ether guns at him.

Instinct took over. Daphne stood atop the railing, getting above the fight. From her vantage, she clearly saw two of the enemy crewmen preparing to shoot Mikhail. She lifted her rifle, taking aim. Despite the chaos around her, she made sure her breathing stayed level. Then squeezed the trigger. She turned and fired on the other gunman. Both men went down instantly.

If Mikhail noticed, he gave no sign. He fought against Olevski with a terrifying viciousness. Cuts covered the faces, arms, and hands of both Man O’ Wars, but neither seemed to show any sign of slowing down. Mikhail thrust one of his swords at Olevski, and the other Man O’ War slipped aside a split second before getting skewered. But the sword was jammed hard into the wooden deck. Rather than try to wrest it out, Mikhail left it. Mikhail kicked one of Olevski’s hands, and his foe’s sword flew from his grasp. Now he and Olevski faced each other with one blade each.

Roaring, they rushed each other again. Their swords collided. And shattered from the force of the strike. Neither Man O’ War seemed to care that they were now both unarmed. They continued to fight, throwing punches so hard that when their fists connected with the deck or bulwarks, wood shattered into splinters.

She leapt down from the rail, joining Mikhail’s crew pushing further onto the enemy ship. She tried to aim her ether rifle at Olevski, hoping at least to wound him. But as she lined him up in her sights, someone grabbed her from behind, his arms wrapping around her and squeezing the rifle from her grip. She struggled against him, twisting and kicking.

“Heard Denisov had himself a little English piece.” The crewman’s breath was hot and foul in her ear. “You wouldn’t turn my head, but I could have some fun with you, and let him watch.”

Mikhail, seeing her struggle, tried to break away from Olevski to come to her aid. But the other Man O’ War blocked his path. Olevski seemed to taunt Mikhail, glancing over his shoulder at her and sneering, as though her presence weakened Mikhail.

No—she wouldn’t let herself be a liability. She shoved her feet against the deck, pushing against her attacker. She managed to wriggle enough space between them to lash backward, catching him in the eye with her thumb. The man released her at once, crying out. She spun around. With all her might, she punched him in his jaw.

The crewman stumbled backward, toward the rail. This side of the enemy airship was not hooked to the
Bielyi Voron
. The only thing that lay beyond the rail was open air. The crewman hit the rail, throwing off his balance. His eyes widened in horror as he toppled over the railing.

His scream faded as he fell the half mile to the ground.

She refused to go to the railing to look. It was enough that the man’s threats wouldn’t come to pass. Whirling around, she searched for Mikhail. It didn’t take long to find him.

The battle between him and Olevski raged on.

R
ELIEF POURED THROUGH
Mikhail as the crewman assaulting Daphne fell to his death. It would’ve been more satisfying if he’d been able to kill the bastard himself, but he was damned impressed by her, sending that son of a bitch to his doom all on her own. For now, she was safe.

He, however, wasn’t. Mikhail had never been so injured, his every bone and muscle aching with each thrown punch, each absorbed blow. But he wouldn’t let up. Either he or Olevski had to die today.

Olevski swung at Mikhail, who ducked the attack. “Blaming me. But the blame’s on you, too. You were eager for that gold. Panting for it.”

“Carry that like an anchor around my neck.” He slammed a boot into Olevski’s thigh, causing him to stagger. “Same way I blame myself for ever introducing you to my family. For letting them love you. But the gun pointed at my head—that was your doing. Cost us time. Cost us everything.” He swung a fist, connecting with Olevski’s jaw. It made a satisfying crack.

“Damn fool.” Olevski spat blood and a tooth onto the deck. “Rushing into a fight when I had you cornered. I should still be in the navy. Be a rich admiral. Married to your sister and carving the roast for the Denisov Christmas dinner.” His bloodstained mouth curled. “Blame’s all yours, Mikhail Mikhailovich. The damn thief of my life.”

They threw themselves at each other again, grappling and punching. Back at the Admiralty, during training, Man O’ Wars had faced each other in the gymnasium, but they’d never gone full out like this. With the intent to kill. Olevski pushed Mikhail against the bulkhead of the pilot house, then locked his forearm across his neck, trying to crush his windpipe. Mikhail shoved his knee into Olevski’s stomach, throwing him back.

“I’ll kill you,” Olevski vowed hoarsely, “kill your crew. Break your ship into scrap. Sell that Englishwoman to al-Rahim—”

“Al-Rahim’s dead.”

Olevski shrugged, unconcerned over the death of his employer. “Plenty of warlords from here to Oceania. Rich warlords who’ll pay good money for her. It won’t be a total loss of profit for me.”

Smoke-colored fury clouded Mikhail’s eyes. Rage unlike anything he’d ever felt turned his veins to fire. Olevski could say anything he wanted about Mikhail, but
no one
threatened Daphne.

The ship juddered from all the damage it had taken from the
Bielyi Voron
’s ether cannons. A thick metal support beam, jagged at one end, swung loose from where it had held up an ether tank.

Mikhail raced toward the beam.

Olevski saw his intent, and tried to beat him to the thick piece of metal. But Mikhail was faster, motivated by far more than revenge or greed.

Snarling, he snapped the beam free. He swung around to face Olevski. His enemy pointed an ether rifle at his face. If Mikhail took a step, Olevski would shoot. A standoff.

Olevski fired. Mikhail rolled under the shot, narrowly avoiding it. He leapt up and swung the beam against the rifle, and the gun broke apart in Olevski’s hands.

Wasting no time, Mikhail slammed his boot into Olevski’s knee. The other Man O’ War fell to the deck.