Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5) (36 page)

The Fomorian snarled at Hunter, then bounded off across the deck towards the stern of the
Intrepid
with Angela’s unconscious body slung over his back.

“Clark, circle around!” Hunter ordered before he bolted after the Fomorian. “Don’t let him reach the dock! At the least, don’t let him leave with Angela!”

“Aye!” Clark replied, racing off towards the gangplank and
 
snatching up a rifle from an unconscious sailor along the way. John frowned
 
as the realization of what he was being asked to do sank in. “Oi! How’m I supposed to do that to something that shrugs off gunshots?”

“Be inventive!” Hunter shouted back.

Clark rolled his eyes, then continued to run.

Captain Hunter’s
boots pounded on the deck, his breath coming in deep gulps as he pushed himself to run faster. Ahead, the Fomorian bounded along, eating away twice the distance the captain could run with each massive stride. As the brute reached the stern, he turned, heading for the ladder ascending to the wheelhouse.

Hunter frowned, skidding to a stop. The ladder led to only two places: the
Intrepid’s
wheel and controls, and a longskiff. Given the
Intrepid
was already made fast at the dock, the captain knew the Fomorian had to be bound for the small emergency airship.

“No, Sirrah, not there,” the captain said as he took aim and squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked in his hand and the bullet rammed into the railing between the Fomorian and the longskiff.

With a muttered curse and murderous glare, the Fomorian turned and raced away from the small airship. The brute tightened his grip on the net holding Angela, then leaped over the railing, dropping to the main deck again. With barely a heartbeat’s hesitation, he rushed off to Hunter’s right towards the port side of the ship.

Anthony smiled, satisfied, before he gave chase again, “that’s it, now to turn you a bit more to where I want you.”

The captain cut across the deck, seemingly in an attempt to get ahead of the Fomorian. Seeing the captain out of the corner of his eye, he abruptly turned straight for another longskiff. Hunter fired again, then a third time. Bullets hammered the
 
railing, showering splinters in the face of the Fomorian. With an irritated snarl, the brute turned away from the barrage instinctively, batting aside two of the
Intrepid’s
sailors unlucky enough to be in his path. Immediately, he bolted in the direction where the bow and the starboard side met.

Hunter came to a stop next to the two sailors. “Are you lads hurt?”

“Bruised, eh? But nothin’s broke,” one young man replied. The other nodded in agreement.

Hunter clasped one of the sailors on the shoulder “Capital,” he replied.

“Sir? How do we stop somethin’ like … that?” one young man asked in stunned amazement, looking at the Fomorian. “We can’t shoot him, he’s got that girl.”

“Givin’ them what-for does nothin’ but leavin’ them spittin’ tacks and tossin’ us about like dolls!” the other sailor remarked.

Hunter smiled, “just wait for the signal, lads.”

The two sailors got to their feet with confused looks. One eventually asked, “What signal?”

As if in answer, one of the larger lockers – one typically used to store rope – burst open as the Fomorian raced past. With a blood-curdling yell, Conrad O’Fallon leaped out from inside the large coffin-sized locker, slamming the flat of an oar into the face of the Fomorian with a deafening crack! The brute’s eyes crossed as he staggered ahead and to the right, carried onward by nothing more than momentum and an animal-like desperation to escape.

O’Fallon glanced down at the oar with a wide grin, then at the stumbling Fomorian. “Och, now that be a wee bit o’ all right. Come ‘ere ye bastard, we not be done!”

The captain chuckled, and gave the two sailor’s a grin. “that signal,” he explained, racing off across the deck towards O’Fallon and the Fomorian.

O’Fallon closed on the Fomorian as the brute regained his senses. The misshapen monster yelled in pain from the feeling of a broken nose, lashing out with his free hand as O’Fallon rushed in. Conrad raised the oar just as the Fomorian’s fist crashed down. The oar cracked, but despite the force of the blow, the Scottish quartermaster firmly held his ground. Surprised, the brute backed away a step, blinking back pain and shock. He was used to breaking through doors with his strength, knocking aside full grown men. Yet, here was a man – a seemingly, painfully normal man – who shrugged off nearly his best punch with barely a comment.

The Scotsman grinned, brandishing his oar like a quarterstaff, “didn’t be expectin’ that now, eh? Aye’m still standing! C’mon ye big bugger!” O’Fallon whirled the oar about, slicing it through the air towards the Fomorian.

Slicing the air, the oar swung once, then twice, missing the first time as the brute dodged aside, but connecting on the second. The fire-hardened wood of the oar slapped the shin of the Fomorian with a sharp crack! Howling, Angela’s captor staggered back, then fell to his knees, grabbing at his leg. Without warning from the other side, Clark raced in with another oar, slamming it down against the Fomorian’s hand like a mallet striking a wooden peg!

Immediately, Hunter raced forward, shoving the pistol into its holster. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaped forward, catching Angela as she, still trapped in the net, slid from the Fomorian’s grip. The captain hit the deck with a hard grunt, then rolled to absorb the force of the fall.

As they rolled over, Angela’s eye fluttered open, clouded with confusion. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice slurred. Then, realization dawned. In seconds bones popped, claws extended and fur sprouted forth as she changed to her wolf-like form and tore at the net holding her.

Quickly, Hunter set her on the deck and yanked the net open. “Hush, Angela! Hush!”

Angela, scrambled backwards to free herself, horrified at even contact with the thing. She looked over at Hunter, suddenly smiling in relief. However, the grateful look quickly turned into one of horror!

“Captain!” the girl rasped, eyes wide in panic.

Hunter spun around just as a fist smashed across his cheekbone, splitting his lip. The captain’s head snapped back as the world clouded over. Dimly he felt himself fall hard to the deck. Gunshots that thundered in the air, Angela’s howls of pain, sailors yelling in alarm; all of those seem very far away as darkness threatened to wash over him.

“Guten tag, Kapitän. Did you forget I was aboard, too? Don’t worry, we won’t harm das mädchen … much. You see, we need her,” a rough, smelly voice sputtered in his ear, “and the formula.”

“Bauer!” Hunter growled through bloody and swollen lips. With a white fury as hot as the sun itself, the captain clawed his way out of the fog, pushing himself back to consciousness. At the end of the gangplank, Peter Bauer – transformed into his monstrous Fomorian shape – smashed a barrel of metal shavings into O’Fallon, knocking the Scotsman off his feet. Clark was already laying on the deck, shaking his head from having already been struck. Angela, still transformed into her werewolf form, hung limp in Bauer’s arms, a nasty welt on the side of her head!

The German turned and shot an ugly grin at Hunter, then pulled a modified opti-telegraphic from a pouch at his belt. The eight inch-long box
was littered with a haphazard array of extra wires along the top. The device was like a child’s toy in the large hand of the German. Bauer’s thumb hesitated over the ‘send’ button. “At last Kapitän, auf wiedersehen!”

“Bauer!” the captain yelled, the word ripping from his throat like a battle cry. His hand flew to his holster while he quickly pulled himself up into a gunman’s crouch, his eyes locking onto Bauer’s with a hot glare.

“Leave her be!” Came another voice, followed by a sharp hack of metal against metal as Moira rammed her newly procured fire axe down against a thick metal gray pipe. Salt water, under pressure for the lightning cannons, erupted out like a geyser, slamming into Bauer and making the gangplank slick.

Bauer grunted as the water hit him. He stumbled, losing his footing against the deluge as he and Angela fell roughly to the gangplank. Angela crumpled into a heap while the German fell face first. When he fell, the opti slipped from his grasp, sailing up into the air and towards the deck of the
Intrepid
. With a wordless cry, Bauer lunged for the device.

Hunter hastily drew and fired, clipping the edge of the railing to force Bauer from reaching for the modified device. “Keep that opti away from Bauer!”

“Oi! On it!” Clark replied, shaking his head again to clear it. He lunged for the device as the Fomorian – the one who had originally had custody of Angela – hammered Clark in the ribs with a forgotten oar! John gasped in agony as his bones snapped. He flew backwards, slamming against the railing while he turned a ghastly shade of white.

“Do it!” Bauer cried out, dragging himself and Angela down the gangplank away from the quickly freezing
 
water.

Immediately, the Fomorian sailor dropped onto the nightmarish opti-telegraphic, and slammed a bloody thumb down on the switch.

Bauer spit out a mouthful of the cold salt water, then gave Hunter a smug smile as he reached the safety of the dock. “Did you think the bomb we put on Clark was alone? See you in hell, Kapitän!” the German shouted over the water.

The
Intrepid
shook violently as gouts of flame vomited forth from beneath her deck! Hunter scrambled to his feet. “Abandon ship!”

T
he
Revenge
rocked gently while it cut through the clouds far over the North Sea. Rigging creaked with the complaints of age and exposure to the weather as the airship pushed towards the Scottish coast in the distance. The crew’s footsteps echoed about the deck. Down below, in the dark of the forward hold, it was quiet. Small gossamer clouds of dust drifted lazily on the air, like mythical will-o'-the-wisps skittering about in the gloom.

Shafts of dust-sprinkled light cut the darkness in wide bands across the forward hold. Peeking in from cracks in the hatch covers, it chased away the blackness that washed over the eclectic collection of crates. Some housed gleaming brass Gatling guns. Other boxes held tightly sealed glass bottles labeled ‘liver of sulfur’ that were filled with broken gray-white rocks. All sat next to rough, tan canvas bags bulging with flour and coffee.

Amid the bags of flour, Angela jerked abruptly awake
as she instinctively realized she was in an unfamiliar place. Her natural werewolf impulse to watch and wait kept her motionless while her ears - as she was still in the shape of a brown-furred werewolf - twitched, alert for any movement nearby. Gradually, the rest of her mind became alert, awakening from the deep sleep.

When she heard nothing more than the creak and groan of the surrounding ship, she shifted position. She was still dressed in the torn rags of her blue dress.
The previously fashionable travel outfit was ripped enough that while it barely covered her modesty, it certainly did not pass for ‘appropriate’ or ‘acceptable’ in any company she understood. It was then Angela noticed the pair of dark iron manacles latched in place on her ankles! A metal chain ran from a loop on the manacles to a loop bolted into the wall of the hold itself!

She struggled to breathe against the rising tide of raw panic, while clawing at the manacles frantically. Quickly realizing the metal restraints were stronger than her claws, Angela gripped the chain they were attached to, and pulled frantically in a desperate attempt to free the chain from the wall. However, the chain held fast. At long last, Angela stopped hectically pulling at the chain. Slowly, she wilted into a furry, rag-covered ball and sobbed uncontrollably.

“Wouldn’t go wastin’ any more strength,” a familiar voice rasped weakly.

“Mr. Tonks!” Angela replied, almost shouting, sitting bolt upright. She sniffed the air experimentally, squinting in the gloom.

"Over here," Tonks replied from a drape of shadow, his voice rough. A few feet away from Angela, off to her right, he moved in the darkness at the edge of her vision.

The werewolf spun around in a tangled rattle of metal links. She tried to cross over to him but was stopped short of being able to touch the
Brass Griffin’s
pilot when the chain went taught. Snarling angrily, she jerked at the chains, then finally sat where she was with a frustrated, broken sigh.

"Where are we?" the girl asked, choking back a sob. "Why are we here? Is it the Fomorians?"

In the shadows, Tonks nodded. He shifted his weight, and Angela heard the pilot's own chains rattle.

"Slow a bit … one question at a time, now," Ian replied, again in that rasped voice. "Best I know, we're aboard the
Revenge
. Bound for where, I couldn't tell ya.”

"The
Revenge
?" Angela interrupted in shock. "How? In the infirmary, I heard that Captain Clark, the older one who came in with Captain Hunter, tell Dr. Llwellyn that the
Revenge
was all 'buttoned up for the ball' ... or something like that. He said all the Fomorians had been locked up there." She hesitated, then gestured at the hold with quick sweeping motion of her right hand, "I mean here.”

Ian shook his head. "Couldn’t tell ya how. All I know is that we’re aboard the Revenge. I’ve overheard the crew enough to learn that.”

"But why?" Angela said, the undertone of despair tugging at her voice. “I don't have the monkey servitor! I don't even know where it is now!" She gestured frantically around her. "They even have the formula. Why take me? So what if I am a werewolf, why me? Why you, too? What did you do to them?" Taking a deep breath after her tumble of words, she let it out slowly with a ragged sigh, "It just went all so wrong. I just wanted to get Mother back.”

Tonks shifted his weight again, rattling the heavy chains. "Hush now, none 'o that," the pilot said gently. "Chin up now, we'll see it through. Honestly? I don't entirely know why they want ya, though from the way they've been talkin', yer real important to them. I'm surprised they chained ya."