Quick, he needed a weapon! The weight of his cane had been relieved from his hand. It had to be somewhere nearby. He quickly realized it had been blown just to his left, with a quick calculation of the relative force of the explosion and the proximity of the walls. His paw gripped the heavy dragon-headed stick. It wasn’t the best weapon, but in such close quarters, it might just-
“Aww, lookit dat, the blind gramps needs a cane!” A rude guffaw barked out near him and when he looked up, the rusted steel barrel of a large bore machine gun stared him in the face, the swarthy looking rhinoceros towering over him with a grin of crooked teeth which were half natural, half brass, yet invariably seemed like they hadn’t seen a brush in weeks. He was draped from shoulder to toe in heavy steel plate and chainmail, lacking any kind of consistency or logic in his armor design. His arms were covered in improvised mail and the chest protection he was quite sure was a pot belly stove designed for Class II-sized mammals chopped up and molded roughly around his barrel chest. Three other figures soon clambered in through the holes created by the cannon shot via ziplines. The frangible round shattered the wall, but it was designed to quickly lose its energy afterwards and it disintegrated alongside the wood and brass, making it relatively harmless for the occupants, though Tyras was fairly certain that these pirates cared more about not damaging any potential loot than saving lives. Other cannon shots which shook the entire flying structure mere seconds after the first, shouted demands and panicked screams confirmed that they were doing this all over the ship
“Roight, now, get up, fucker.” The rhino growled in a voice that could have grinded stone to sand, motioning with his MG. Not seeing any alternative which didn’t end in his death for now, Tyras obeyed. He willed his heart rate to remain normal and he looked around and pretended to have trouble finding his footing.
There were three others pirates, a wolf and a deer armed with a revolver and a “harmonica” pistol respectively who were covering Achlos, having recognized him as the greater threat, and a lightly armored lynx who cleared the room with a snappy, hurried pace, aiming a light, side-loaded SMG at the ladder which led to the upstairs hatch. The lithe cat was the most competent of the bunch, clearly.
The rhino himself was enormous, even for a Class IV. It was the kind of build which spoke of a previous job of manual labor combined with a hearty appetite, as the stove armor struggled to contain his prodigious gut. Metal worker, judging by the scars caused by molten steel on his giant hands. He most likely made his crude, yet intimidating armor himself with that experience, but it was built in such a way that any chest shot risked sending shrapnel right into his throat. A man of very limited intelligence then, but still, one who would be difficult to take down one on one. He seemed to slightly favor his right leg, putting more weight on it. Focusing just a tiny fraction of his Forte, Tyras took a second to look into his left leg. The muscles were fine, yet going deeper, he noticed the ankle presented a hairline fracture from a recently healed broken tibia. He took a mental note of that.
The rhino bent down and picked up Tyras’s cane, turning it into his massive leathery paw and whistling. “Hehe, look at this bloody ponce! Whaddya doin’ mixin’ with the rabble? Look at him, walkin’ around a bloody airship with a silver cane and fancy bowler hat, don’t he look like a roight Fashion Gazette dandy?” He laughed at his own joke, blasting a foul breath of poor hygiene and poorer alcohol into the lion’s face, a few flecks of spittle joining the vulgar words.
Tyras glanced at the other pirates. The wolf and deer were still both upon Achlos, the deer aiming the brass side-loaded pistol at his larger cervine genetic cousin while the wolf secured the bone pistol, which had been knocked aside from the blast. The lynx had smartly positioned himself in such a way as to cover all exits with his SMG. While they were far from fully competent, they each seemed to know at least the theory of controlling hostages.
The cop grit his teeth in frustration. Here they were, probably the two most adequate men for stopping such a crisis in a hundred mile radius, each a mere few feet away from their guns, as helpless in the face of common thugs as the hapless sailors on the other decks, armed with nothing more threatening than rope knives.
His thoughts of impotent rage were interrupted by the phone mounted on the wall ringing. The pirates must have by now taken over all the decks without resistance, judging by the lack of gunshots, so only one of their brethren could have been calling. The lynx walked over to the phone with broad, confident steps, the others not doing as little as turning their heads to the strident machine. So, he was the one in charge of this particular group.
The feline pressed a button on the phone, activating the brass speaker above rather than picking up the receiver, so that all of his comrades could hear.
“Yes, Captain: Enoch here. Second deck is secure, only two fancy-looking passengers here, don’t think these toffs will give us much trouble.” He said with some pride in his voice.
“Well, see if they have anything valuable!” A much less satisfied, furious voice barked through the speakers. Such was his fury that Tyras heard through the still buzzing engines of the ship, as well as the ones of the attacking ship nearby, the same voice, just barely, below and further off towards the bow of the ship. So, the captain was down in cargo. “Because this shitty flying bucket of cogs doesn’t have anything of value on it! They’re transporting fish! Not the good kind either, the fucking ice covering this smelly tuna would be worth more than they are!” Tyras watched with some satisfaction as the smaller feline’s focused green eyes suddenly went wide and his maw agape.
“Uh… captain, but… w-we saw in the registry that “The Flying Belle” was due to dock in Ignisdava was carrying pistons and gears for the new factories being built! I double checked the registry!”
“You fucking useless idiots… you should have also checked the gods-damned shipping numbers! I remember now: there was also a ship called the Flying Besse. That’s where we are now, geniuses!”
The pirates were all wide eyed and slack-jawed. Even the rhino took a few steps back and looked to his comrades in fright. It was clear: while these ruffians had limited experience in robberies, this was their second, or at most third airship raid. They had poor intel, and while they were efficient in quickly securing the vessel, four of them remained for just two hostages when just one armed pirate would have been enough.
The fact that he was facing amateurs was no big comfort to Tyras. Amateurs panicked in such situations, and it would not take them long to realize that the longer they stayed here, the more chance there was of some other airship to notice the two blimps held together by ziplines and quickly make the connection and wire to the authorities. And they’d soon come to the conclusion that the guns in their hands were the only power they had left, and they would eventually decide to use that power, if nothing else to vent their anger. They would either kill the entire crew to make sure there won’t be any witnesses to such a botched robbery, or decide to make the best out of a bad situation, force the crew to board their ship, then sell them on one of the slave markets in the more remote areas of the Open Range. Neither option much appealed to Tyras.
Tyras Maloko began to feel the icy claws of panic scraping against the cage he’d carefully confided it to. He’d been in tighter situations, but he always had some degree of control over them, including the ability to run away, a more comforting thought than he’d ever dared to consider.
“Gods, you’re a bunch of wannabe no-hopers, aren’t you?” Achlos sneered. The wolf growled and rammed the barrel of his revolver into his stomach. The towering moose barely grunted.
The lynx momentarily abandoned the telephonic conversation and took a few steps towards the moose, more peeved than furious. “You’re really not in a position to be insulting us. Consider yourself lucky it wasn’t Maul holding you at gunpoint.” The rhino’s eyes flickered with recognition at the name. By now, all but one of the pirates were focused on the unruly hostage. Perfect.
Tyras glanced up at the behemoth and gave him a sidelong smirk.
“Ah. Maul, is it? Charming name.” At the same time, the rhino screamed in agony as Tyras kicked at his shin with all his might, splintering the freshly healed bone with a wet crack, the bloody cartilage sticking out the flesh and staining Tyras’s shoes crimson.
The mountainous rhinoceros fell to one knee, his left leg collapsing in a heap, the foot twisted and mangled in a grotesque heap of cloth, flesh and bone. He tried to raise his MG one handed, led by instinct: something hurts you bad, you shoot it. He didn’t think how unwieldy the long heavy weapon would be in close quarters. Tyras went aside, grabbing the mag release and yanking out the semicircle magazine. It was a good four pounds of steel, and he chucked it at the rhino’s ruined shin again. The giant brute let loose a scream that would have made a castrati blush and fell in a heap on the floor with a heavy thud as half a ton of flesh and steel impacted the wooden floor. That would take him out of action for ten seconds at least. In fight terms, that was forever.
The three pirates distracted by Achlos’s rudimentary yet effective disturbance turned around in shock. Led by instinct. You hear someone scream in agony and fear, especially a friend of yours, you turn around to see. Hammered into their brains by millions of years of evolution and tens of thousands of war, completely irresistible.
Achlos wasted no time and grabbed the pirate closest to him, the wolf, his long thick arm snaking around the throat, the other knocking the harmonica pistol out of his paw. But that left two. Tyras’s living cover was gone, now at his feet, moaning and groaning, protecting no more than his shins. Real ironic.
The lynx and deer began to raise their guns towards Tyras as the rhino fell. SMG-man opened up early, the report of the automatic weapon filling the room with what a sewing machine must have sounded to an ant trapped inside the table. He aimed low and the string of bullets plinked against the rhino’s sturdy armor and the beds nearby, filling the air with sparks and debris.
Then, Tyras did something no one expected. Something no sane person did when faced with bullets mere inches from opening up their belly: he took his hat off.
He threw his bowler hat in front of him like a street dancer at the end of a particularly flamboyant performance and stuck his left hand inside just as it was in front of him and a metal object shone in the gaslight at him, no larger than his middle finger.
He caught his concealed Derringer tied inside his hat with practiced ease. One moment unarmed, the next flicking his hat and presenting a pistol. Not unlike a magician, the lynx thought strangely as he adjusted his aim towards his adversary. It was the last thing that ever went through his head, unless one counts the .44 caliber slug which ripped through his right eye and exited through the back of his head, killing him instantly.
Tyras flicked his wrist and aimed for the melee of two smaller fighters attempting to overwhelm a much bigger one. Achlos had caught a knife-armed wrist, twisting his opponent towards the whistling boiling kettle, possibly with the thought of using the scalding iron instrument, but the other making him buckle with a kick to the back of the knee caused him to reconsider, and he rolled away, cornering his opponents near the gas stove. Rule number one of fighting multiple opponents: make sure they’re somewhere tight, where you can see all of them and force them to come at you single file.
Achlos was busy mercilessly pounding the wolf’s face, but the deer was free and saw what came of his feline companion and aimed his revolver for the now armed lion with a mixture of fright and frothing rage in his small eyes. The explosion of the kettle was louder than the report of the .44 derringer which burst it.
The two pirates screamed in pain as boiling water seared the skin of their backs and shards of steel pierced skin. Judging by how Achlos recoiled, some had gotten on him as well, but his attackers had shielded most of the spray. Sometimes it’s unavoidable to damage your own units with artillery, just make sure you damage the enemy more.
Just as Tyras thought to turn back to his mountainous opponent, Maul spared him the trouble. A cruel hand made to twist steel nearly crushed his throat and all the 110 kilos of him were picked up with ease. Two cruel metal colored eyes stared at him with frothing fury, the rhino having gotten up on one leg, the other limping dumbly beside him.
Tyras plunged his claws deep into the meat of his opponent’s tough palm, piercing the rubbery skin and working his way towards the thumb’s ligaments, cutting through meat and sinew, a fine red spray coating the cuffs of his sleeves. The giant was forced to drop him with a shrill scream as his thumb lay limp, muscles and nerves now cut off. Tyras could not attack the armored midsection. He palmed his derringer and stuck the barrel between his fingers as an improvised knuckle duster, catching the rhino’s chin in a savage uppercut, allowing him to once again kick the shin which at this point was a mass of gore and bone. The ground quaked as the giant collapsed to one knee again. Tyras wasted no time and he hurled three elbow strikes into his now level face, his limb smashing into the giant’s face, crunching bone and teeth. He shifted left, avoiding a desperate backhand and launched his left knee into the rhino’s chin, sending a string of almost rubbery blood along two teeth to stain his waistcoat.
Then, his vision went dark as he felt as if a tank had crushed his trench, cracking the wall behind him as his ribs and lungs were mashed under its merciless treads.
“F-fahk yuuu, bheshterd!” The rhino growled with a snarl of gore and broken teeth as he merely allowed his indomitable mass to fall onto his comparatively diminutive opponent, headbutting his midsection to deprive him of oxygen, missing with his horn by inches, then picking him up once again with his uninjured arm.
Tyras once again plunged his claws deep in his opponent’s hand. This time, however, the rhino did not react. It was as if his sheer fury had denied the giant the ability to ache.
His vision was already going fuzzy around the corners and he felt light headed as his brain was deprived of oxygenated blood, the aqueduct responsible for delivering such being squeezed mercilessly by a titan’s mountain-crushing hand. His trained, blood-starved brain panicked and fell back to instinct once training failed and Tyras threw the empty small pistol into the rhino’s face, like a desperate cornered soldier throwing his last grenade into an approaching tank. It was equally effective, the light metal bouncing harmlessly off the skull made to withstand blows from boulders. The rhino looked almost insulted.
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With a roar, Maul tossed Tyras aside like a petulant child bored with an old toy.
Tyras instinctively gasped for breath, yet his lungs hadn’t filled halfway before his back was battered by a table, shattering wood and abandoned kegs of beer, the cards of a forgotten poker game flying lazily above his fuzzy vision.
The monster approached slowly, purposefully, taking his time, letting the booms of his single hobbling step be heard before he was seen, huge and indomitable to his prone doomed opponent. He grinned at him victoriously, raising the cane, the shimmering silver dragon’s head shining like the sword of some great hero just before he plunged it into his nemesis’s belly. He probably thought it’d be far more satisfying to brain the bastard who broke his leg and jaw with his own cane.
Tyras willed the gray mist away, and took in as much oxygen as his battered lungs and bruised neck would permit without gasping, ignoring the burning in his throat. He got up, feigning to be more injured than he truly was. The cane was raised and it began swinging towards his skull like so many trench shovels and improvised clubs had before. Not now. Wait until it’s past the point of no return.
With a sudden jolt of energy, the apparently beaten lithe lion leapt back, the ruby eyes of the dragon missing his temple by inches and swinging into empty air, causing the already lame rhino to lose his balance. Tyras clamped his hand on the cane. The rhino looked almost confused for a moment. This idiot couldn’t possibly think he could wrestle the weapon away, could he?
The confusion turned to horror as the dragon head was separated from the stick with an efficient, metallic rasp, a flash of silver now jutting out of it, about the length of the lion’s forearm.
A new unknown threat. The brain pauses for a fraction of a second to analyze it. Instinct. Irresistible.
A fraction of a second was all it took for Tyras to punch the blade up and forward. The log-like neck’s leathery skin offered the scantest moment of taut resistance, stretching to its limit in a vain attempt to stop the fatal blow, then it gave way. The short sword carved its way through the windpipe then deeper into the skull. Blood geysered out and formed a crimson trace across the lion’s silver eye, like a new scar which joined the three sinister scarlet trails. The singular brown eye and the soulless silver ball staring up at him without a hint of remorse haunted the rhinoceros pirate for the whole ten seconds that he remained alive.
Tyras stepped aside to allow the slain giant to fall forward in a graceless ground-shaking thump which scarred the wooden floor, blood pooling below his throat.
Giving the dead body only a second of consideration, he whipped around where Achlos was still fighting off his two attackers. The wolf turned around as he heard the rhino’s death gurgle, cursing and whipping his gun towards Tyras. Lacking his friend’s aid and horribly injured from the boiling water, the deer pirate was quickly overwhelmed by the stronger, more skilled opponent, Achlos dodging the blade of his knife, catching the wrist and breaking the elbow with a simple, savage downward blow. He then took the knife and stabbed it into the smaller man’s shoulder. His screams were silenced as he was grabbed by the horns and his head was slammed into a wall, knocking him out cold.
Tyras decided to dive for the closest and most solid protection, namely the now slain rhino whose armor was still largely intact. He needn’t have bothered. A choked grunt caused him to leave his opponent turned protector and risk a look towards the wolf. Having taken care of his other attacker, Achlos decided to quickly dispatch of the other, and a length of wire was wrapped around his neck, the larger moose mercilessly pulling on two handles on either of its ends. It was non-metallic, most likely made of solid fiber, again made to defeat the rare yet dangerous metal detector. This was no improvised garrote, this was a deliberate assassin’s weapon. And one he was clearly well versed in using.
Tyras could have shouted for him to stop it, to let go and merely immobilize the fiend . Hell, he could have ordered him. Threatened him with arrest and a murder charge should he not do so. Yet something stopped him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the pirate would have killed him if the moose had not intervened and he had some twisted desire for revenge. Perhaps he felt like it would be hypocritical to order such pacifist actions after he skewered a man through with his sword-cane. Either way, he said nothing as the merciless wire cut deep into the pirate’s neck and his struggles to breathe turned into pitiful, rattling whimpers as his eyes, which looked begging at Tyras, rolled into the back of his head.
The two men said nothing as the wolf collapsed forward, adding to the sprawl of broken bodies of three dead and one barely alive. Tyras was almost thankful to the pirate captain when he broke the silence. Or more likely, he’d begun shouting the moment the melee had begun and the former soldier had been too focused on survival to notice.
“Can you hear me!? Talk, gods-dammit! What the fuck is going on up there!?”
Just when Tyras was about to suggest they stay quiet, Achlos marched over to the phone. “You led your men to their deaths, asshole. And you’re next. That’s what’s going on.” A press on the button next to the speaker silenced whatever tirade the captain had launched into after.
Yet the sounds of gunshots and combat did more than just alert the choleric pirate captain. The airmen upstairs became unruly. They figured that the sounds of gunshots and screaming was the pirates killing their comrades. Tyras decided to have a look upstairs and focused his Sight.
There were seven pirates and about fifteen airmen on the upper deck. The outlaws were surrounded, threateningly waving their guns at their “hostages” as they approached with knives, cutlasses and vicious improvised clubs as the sounds of bloody melee downstairs emboldened them. Real pirates would have already taken out one unruly hostage to make an example out of them. Their second, or at most third airship raid.
He noticed one of the only two women of the crew, a lithe snow leopard, sneak away as the pirates were struggling to maintain the airmen outside of arm’s length with waves of their firearms and cutlasses. Smart. None would be looking for someone moving away from them. Crouching beneath some crates, knife in hand, she scampered around to where one lonely boar pirate was more isolated from his group, trying to pull rear guard with a sawn off Tarbus rifle in case the sailors got violent. Not hesitating in the slightest, she sliced his hamstrings, then plunged the knife into the side of his thick throat, not bothering trying to force it out of the tough meat then yanking the butchered rifle from his limp hands and opening up on the pirates closest. He smiled through his trance. Clearly a fellow veteran. Nothing more threatening than rope knives.
Almost at the same time, as the pirates turned around at the screams of his comrade, the giant ox who had fought Achlos grabbed a white-furred wolf pirate, lifted him above his head and threw him overboard like an overworked dock laborer throwing crates to finish the job quicker.
Then, similarly to how it only takes two brave souls to step onto a ballroom floor to entice everyone else to come out of their shells and join, fifteen burly men and women, with knives, chains, bare claws and eventually captured firearms, descended upon the hapless outnumbered pirates.
Tyras released his powers. He’d seen enough. He turned around to Achlos as he picked up the downed rhino’s LMG and loaded the mag back in. He searched for a second magazine in the giant’s equipment pouches with no success. Clearly he’d meant for his gargantuan size and intimidating weapon to do the talking so that it didn’t come to any prolonged combat.
“Next time, the big one is yours.” Tyras said dryly, a little hoarse. Achlos responded with a smirk as he hefted the large weapon.
“So, you admit I’m a better fighter. Got it.”
The inspector wanted to groan and roll his eyes, but he found he could only smile instead. Then, alongside the sounds of shooting, blades clattering and the dull thud of clubs on flesh coming from the upper deck, he heard quiet shuffling downstairs and the rack of weapon actions being checked. He didn’t need to use his Forte to know the remaining pirates down in Cargo, including the captain, were gearing up for a final desperate assault to take back the ship and at least be able to make it back to their own and run off. Even the most inexperienced ruffians knew that fighting uphill was a major disadvantage, especially with the ship’s narrow stairwells, so they’d take their time.
Tyras still strained to take a look for a quick situational assessment.
Down in the maze of chained crates were ten pirates, advancing slowly, methodically, guns and blades raised. Three of them were staying behind, guarding several hostages hastily tied to metal poles near the large jagged hole left by the pirates’ frangible cannon shot. He’d have almost said they were being tactical, were it not for the clear fear in their eyes and shaking limbs, constantly sweeping the muzzles of their guns over their own comrades (with shaking fingers on the triggers, naturally) and even backing up over themselves in the confusing maze of haphazardly placed cargo. He quickly spotted the captain, a towering white tiger. Not by his willingness to lead his men from the front or his higher situational awareness, but by his bellowing orders, countenance of both boiling fury and sheer terror, gaudy armor and gold-plated revolver. He clearly had some experience in heists, but only in leading crews of two or three accomplices. A tale he’d heard dozens of times at the constabulary: A successful bank heist, more money than a minor gang leader knew what to do with, an airship bought on the cheap, then an attempted hijacking ending in disaster. Still, the tiger had them outnumbered and outgunned. And he couldn’t bring himself to enlist the help of the airmen who’d dispatched of the pirates on the upper deck, knowing a good portion of them were inexperienced and would undoubtedly lose their life. They were still some distance from the corridor which led up to the crew deck, which gave Tyras some options.
He noticed a few crates opened with crowbars of the “smelly fish” the captain had mentioned minutes before. He observed they were not cooled with mere ice, but with a solid substance that let loose wisps of a thin white vapor. A relatively new development in chemistry for the preservation of food that the war effort a few years ago had necessitated. Solidified CO2. More commonly known as “dry ice”. And another open crate had spare recipients of the substance. Sometimes, when they ran out of smoke bombs in the war but had fresh frozen food deliveries, they would-
Tyras released his vision, grinning ear to ear.
“I dunno what you’re so merry,” Achlos said in his dry, almost defaultly sarcastic Nyterian accent. “We’re still up shit’s creek.”
“My dear compatriot, are you in the habit of reading the Weekly Science Periodical?”
“I mostly stick with the Police Gazette and Penny Dreadfuls, but once or twice.”
“Well, if you happened to read Issue #124 of two months and one week ago, it is time to put that data to good use. Pray, run into the kitchen and bring me a sack of flour and what's left of the boiling water from the kettle I shot. Oh, and I know that the cook snuck firecrackers onboard under the lemons. Quick, there’s not much time!”
Achlos was visibly confused, yet didn’t protest, having learned by now that his new companion did nothing without solid intellectual analysis and reasoning. He returned with the desired objects in record time. In the meantime, Tyras had opened his footlocker and retrieved his large-framed handgun.
It was an ECW Moonshadow, the Eclipse Empire’s standard sidearm during the war. He was unsure of the exact model. If there existed any doubt that it was a Lunist production, it would have quickly been dashed away by the fact that even the trigger itself seemed like a halfmoon cocooned in an eclipse. The high quality blued finish, the light grapevine engraving and the fact that the magazine (positioned forward of the trigger rather than in the pistol grip as Lunist handgun designs so tenaciously stuck by) was removable and not fed by clumsy stripper clips solidified this as the former companion of a high ranking officer. Or perhaps even a Harbinger…
Tyras attached the wooden stock-holster to the grip and replaced the eight round box magazine of heavy Class III-rated 12mm rounds with a 30 round drum magazine resembling a fat steel snail, turning the sidearm into a veritable close-to-mid range carbine, which the Lunist Stormtroopers had used to full extent in the close quarters of the trenches to deadly effect.
The hollow cane was tied around his waist now, serving as a sword sheath, and a leather bandolier with magazine pouches worn across his now jacketless torso finished the transformation from mild mannered gentleman to trench raider.
“Right,” said the Scout Raider, pulling back the slide to check for the reassuring gleam of the brass casing in the chamber. “Sergeant, the enemy is ill-trained, but numerous and well-equipped. A show of force in the form of speed, surprise and violence of action may turn this into a mostly bloodless trench sweep. Follow my lead.”
“Yes sir!” Said Achlos with more enthusiasm than he’d intended for the half-joking response. A long-gone yet familiar feeling stirred in his chest. It was more than just the combination of excitement, fear and anticipation for the combat that was to come, but also warm comfort, which seemed at complete odds with his current situation. It was the feeling of belonging, the same sentiment which had kept him fighting a war for a strange culture he had no personal stake in. The antithesis to the constant discontent and indifference which had kept him moving from one town to another, living off bounties set by the law or those opposed to it.
And he followed this lion in combat to chase that elusive forgotten emotion as much as it was to save his own skin.