Skies of Fire (2 page)

The
Demeter
sped through the narrow passage between the frigates. As it raced past, a wake of air knocked into one of the enemy ships. It listed, then thudded into the mountain just behind it. Crewmen scrambled out of the way of rocks tumbling free from the mountainside. One sizeable rock slammed through the deck, scattering men and splinters of wood.

There was no time for celebration, however. The mountain was just ahead. If Christopher’s ship couldn’t make the crest, it would smash into the massive pile of rock.

Here was one of the times Christopher wished airships were built of metal, like their seafaring ironclad brethren, but wood was far lighter. Airships sacrificed hull strength for the ability to fly.

Christopher raced to the wheel. “No offense, Mr. Dawes,” he said, taking the wheel from the helmsman.

“None taken, sir.” In truth, Dawes looked relieved that Christopher would assume responsibility for guiding the ship over the dangerous peak.

The wheel in one hand, Christopher grabbed the shipboard auditory device. “Give ’em everything,” he ordered the engine crew. “Flank speed!” He hoped that, between the turbines and the venting ether, they’d have enough power to make it over the mountain. Switching the auditory device to shipwide, he shouted, “Everyone, hold tight!”

Just before the
Demeter
crashed into the rocks, he pulled back hard on the lever that controlled the vanes behind the turbines. Gritting his teeth with effort, he fought to keep the airship climbing. The jagged face of the mountain sped past. Cold blue sky gleamed beyond the prow. Crewmen shouted as the ship rose up, almost completely vertical. Every muscle in Christopher’s body strained with effort. Even strong as he was, he still had to fight gravity.

Heat sizzled through him as the implants drew on his energy, both feeding off of and building his power. He hadn’t liked the sensation at first, the strange symbiosis between him and machinery, but now he reveled in it, knowing he needed as much strength as he could muster in order to ensure this ship and crew’s survival.

It might not be enough. They weren’t going to make it. The top of the mountain rose too high up. They’d lose power and careen into tons of stone, raining wood, brass, and canvas down onto the valley below.

No. By God, if he had to die, it would be in combat against the enemy, not smashed against unfeeling rock. Louisa might claim to value cunning over valor, but his values were different.

Groaning, he pulled harder on the wheel, turning to correct the sudden tilting of the ship. Then—the
Demeter
just crested the peak. Rocks scraped against the keel. The ship juddered. Suddenly, they were over.

And plunging downward. As tough as the climb upward had been, now the ship took that force and rushed down the other side of the mountain. They plummeted into a valley.

Wind tore at Christopher’s face and clothes, his coat flapping behind him, as he steered the ship down the face of the mountain and into the heavily wooded valley. With another groan of effort, he pulled back on the vane-controlling lever right before the
Demeter
crashed into the ground. The ship shot forward. Into the forest. He piloted the ship between huge, ancient trees, their massive trunks stretching toward the sky. With the ether tanks vented, the ship didn’t have its normal height. Flying low was the cost of their speed.

Had the woods been any younger, there would have been no room to fly the ship. But the forest—what he could see of it past the green, shadowed blur—seemed older than time itself, exactly the place where giants roamed. Christopher zigzagged through the woods, whipping around trees, keeping the ship racing onward.

Even with his precise piloting, tree limbs snapped against the speeding hull, and the crew shielded themselves from falling branches.

“Throttle back,” Christopher shouted to the engine crew.

Details of the forest emerged from the blur as the ship slowed. The wooded valley appeared uninhabited, no sign of chimney smoke or a clearing. Wherever the
Demeter
was, the known world—and friendly territory—was far behind.

“All stop,” Christopher ordered.

He brought the ship to a hover just beneath the heavy forest canopy.

“No one move,” he hissed. “No one speak. Not even a scratch or sneeze.”

“Aye—”

“Quiet!”

Everyone, Christopher included, kept still and silent. The shadows of the Hapsburg ships passed overhead. Breath held, he watched the frigates lingering just above. Searching for the
Demeter
. With any luck, the Hapsburgs would think they had crashed, and move on.

Christopher didn’t believe in luck. If a body wanted something to happen, only effort would make it come to pass. That’s how he rose from a midshipman to a captain in such a short period of time. He worked his bollocks off for it.

Yet he wouldn’t mind a dram of luck right now. As he kept his gaze upward, a drop of sweat worked its way down his back.

Hours passed. Or minutes. But after what felt like hundreds of years, the enemy ships flew on.

He didn’t permit himself a sigh of relief. Several more minutes passed as he made sure that the frigates did not return. At last, reasonably certain that they were in the clear, Christopher gave the order to power up the engines.

After guiding the ship toward an open patch of sky, he brought the ship up above the tree line. More mountains lay all around them. Aft of the ship was the battle they had just fled, and presumably the remaining Hapsburg ships. Retracing their route meant the possibility of finding themselves back in combat, and being vastly outgunned and outnumbered. Doubtless the two British ships were already hightailing it back to friendly airspace.

Which meant that the
Demeter
was deep in enemy territory. Alone.

“What now, sir?” asked Pullman, coming to stand beside him.

“We steer clear of enemy ships, fly hundreds of miles of hostile territory, and hope the ship holds together for the journey home.” He grinned. “Easy.”

The first mate shook his head. “I’m certain Mr. Herbert will enjoy charting that, sir.”

“Our navigator enjoys a challenge,” Christopher answered. “If he doesn’t, he should.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Pullman strode off, Christopher surveyed his crew. Some of the younger men appeared shaken, but most had recovered enough to go about their usual duties. Good. He relied on a capable and steadfast crew, expecting as much of them as he did himself. If the
Demeter
and the one hundred and fifty men aboard were to have any chance of survival, everyone needed to be diligent and aware.

At the least, this stretch of mountains seemed sparsely populated. Off the starboard side, he caught sight of a tiny village, its sloped roofs forming a scrap of habitation here in the wilderness. The ship’s engines would be heard by the villagers, but unless a farmer had a telegraph line directly to the Hapsburg Admiralty, the
Demeter
ought to be safe.

The faint
pop pop
of artillery caught his attention. The sound came from the village. He ought to steer clear of that . . . except why would there be ground military action out here? He’d received no reports of it. Damned strange.

“Some of ours, sir?” asked Tydings, the bosun.

“There haven’t been ground battles this deep in enemy territory.”

“Maybe a local skirmish.”

He hadn’t heard anything about internal conflicts, but this was isolated terrain, and it was always possible that native factions were engaged in their own disputes. Disputes that, judging by the sound of it, involved dozens of armed troops.

“If it
is
some conflict between local factions, we’d best stay well away from it.”

“Sound plan, sir.”

“Glad you agree, Mr. Tydings.”

The bosun reddened.

Christopher was about to adjust the ship’s course when something gleamed in the village. A shimmering, like light bounced off a mirror. When the glinting happened again, he knew it was not simply sunshine bouncing across a window. It repeated itself. A flash. Another flash, longer this time, and then another. A pattern. Coming from the second story of a barn at the edge of the village.

His senses sharpened further.

“That’s code, sir,” Tydings said.

“Aye.” Someone was signaling—using code belonging to British Naval Intelligence. “A distress call.” He made another change to the ship’s bearing, steering toward the village.

Whoever was down there, they were allies and needed help. As dire as the
Demeter
’s situation might be, as her captain he was honor-bound to come to the unknown British agent’s aid.

He cursed when he saw ground cannons being pulled toward the barn. Once the heavy guns were in position, the British agent would either have to surrender or be blasted into pulp and powder.

“Prepare a jolly boat for landing,” Christopher commanded. “I’ll need Royal Marines with good aim for the landing party.”

“You mean to lead the party yourself, sir?”

“If the man down there
is
Naval Intelligence, he’ll want to speak with the captain directly. Don’t worry, Mr. Tydings. Anything happens to me, there’s enough power left in the ship’s batteries and ether in the tank to get you the three hundred miles to the northern border of Greece.”

The bosun saluted and moved to follow the order. As the marines assembled, Christopher handed the wheel back to the helmsman.

“Keep us circling, Mr. Dawes. The local army hasn’t spotted us yet, and that’s how I’d like to keep it.” Christopher checked to make sure his rifle was loaded with both ammunition and ether. He tucked an ether pistol into his belt.

Properly armed, he made his way belowdecks. The
Demeter
followed similar configurations of other airships, with charging panels built into many of the bulkheads. They hummed as he passed, generating power from his proximity. Insulated cables ran from the panels, which lead to a central battery deeper in the ship. The ship’s engines drew their power from this battery.

After passing the orlop deck, Christopher reached the hold, where seven marines waited beside the jolly boat. The small metal craft had no oarlocks or sail. Instead, an ether tank was mounted on the center bench, and a small turbine was bolted to the stern, with a tiller attached to the turbine. A swivel gun was mounted in the prow of the boat.

At Christopher’s nod, the marines clambered into the jolly boat, and he did the same, taking up position at the tiller. Sitting on the benches, everyone fastened leather straps around their waists and buckled themselves in securely.

“We’re going to make a quick extraction,” Christopher said, “and then get the hell out of there.”

Once he was certain they were all well strapped in, he nodded at Dawes, standing beside a tall lever. “Now, Mr. Dawes.”

The first mate pulled the lever. The cargo gates opened and the jolly boat plunged downward in freefall.

Christopher had long since grown used to the fall, but two of the marines looked ashen, their lips white, as the jolly boat hurtled toward the ground. He waited until the landing craft had cleared the hull of the ship before throwing the valve that activated the ether tank.

With a jerk, the boat stopped its plummet. It hovered for a moment over the trees until he turned on the turbine. The jolly boat hummed as it surged forward under his guidance.

He steered toward the village, and cursed when, looking over the side of the boat, he saw two dozen uniformed troops surrounding a two-story wooden barn at the outskirts—the origin of the coded signal. Someone on the small second floor of the barn shot back at the soldiers.

As Christopher searched for a place to land, he was careful to keep out of sight of the troops. A wooded ridge stood some quarter mile from the barn. An ideal spot for a concealed landing.

He guided the jolly boat to the ridge, between the trees, then brought the boat down.

“You five,” he said, pointing at the marines, “with me. Farnley, Josephson, you stay with the boat. When I signal, bring her to the barn. Farnley will steer as Josephson uses the swivel gun to soften up the enemy during your approach.”

“What about the cannon, sir?” asked Josephson.

“We’ll just have to get out before they’re rolled into position.” Lucky that the troops didn’t have any draft horses or tetrol-powered engines to pull the heavy guns, or else the timeline would get damned abbreviated.

Knowing that they hadn’t much time, he led the marines down the ridge, all of them careful to keep their steps quiet. As they neared the barn, sounds of gunfire grew louder as did shouts in Romanian—a language Christopher couldn’t speak, but he knew what
Surrender or die
sounded like in any tongue. The man in the barn continued to shoot, making plain his feelings on those options.

The troops had formed a ring surrounding the barn, and none of them saw Christopher or the marines creep out of the woods. Their attention remained fixed on the cornered British agent. Christopher led his men toward an eight-man section of the encircling enemy soldiers.

Silently, Christopher signaled to the marines to wait for his command. As some of the enemy soldiers paused to reload their weapons, giving him the opening he needed, he gave the signal. They rushed forward.

Christopher sprang, pushing away from the ground in a powerful leap. The troops barely had time to turn around before Christopher descended on them. They stared with wide eyes as he dropped down from an impossible height. He swung out with the butt of his rifle, the force of the blow knocking back two soldiers. They flew back ten feet and sprawled, unconscious, in the dirt.

Man O’ Wars seldom fought on solid ground, but when they did the results were always devastating. It was one of the many reasons why they had been created. They were unrivaled weapons who also happened to be men.

Though the marines didn’t have implants like his, they were highly trained. They brought down the closest enemy troops, creating enough of an opening in the cordon to rush toward the barn. One soldier lunged to bayonet a marine. A bullet pierced the would-be attacker’s chest, and he fell. The shot had come from the man in the barn. Whoever the British agent was, he had damned steady nerves and remarkable aim.