Smythe could already feel a headache coming on. He grimaced as although he thought that he had managed to put the large-scale man management of the army behind him, he clearly had not. Organising the gathering of a small army, comprised of a number of disparate elements is not easy even when one is on home territory. It was even less easy when in a foreign country that might not really appreciate the so-called honour of having such elements within its borders.
His head throbbed as he thought about the high-level communiqués that went and forth between Minister for this Department and Ministers for that Department, Bishop “X” the Pious this, Holy that, Magnanimous this, Ministers and finally both the Prime Minister of England, the Pope and King Alfonso XII of Spain had a quiet talk.
What all of this high-level angst turned into was permission from the Court of the Holy Empire of Spain for the mission required to clear Tabarca. He looked at the signed letter in his hand, delivered by express courier, the last of whom had barely landed before a young lad had jumped down and sprinted towards the nearest people he could see, shouting at the top of his lungs for ‘El commandate’. Even now his heart rate spiked as he read the message, seeing the words ‘expeditious use of force is authorised, the taking of prisoners is not a requirement.’ I’m going to cut the bastard’s heart out, with my bloody teeth!
He turned and looked out of the window. Spread outside of the town, a regiment of Spanish infantry under the command of a Colonel Fernando Torres was hastily erecting tents, pitching camp as quickly as it possibly could. Glancing up he saw the RAS Argyle which had also arrived shortly keeping as close to the ground as possible, using the town to hide it as best it could. Looking back to the camp, he could see a company of Church Militia slowly marching in.
Of all the changes that the Horde could have caused, I’d never have thought that the Church becoming The Church was one. He was not sure how he felt about that; Bishops having almost as much power as politicians and rulers of countries. The Pope himself had over five million men that he could call upon to ‘defend The Church’, many more than the one million or so that Queen Victoria had at her disposal. A further example of The Church’s power was tethered next to the Argylle, the HES Beatific Madonna also having flown to the town.
Finally, and this was sat the worst with him, the Inquirers had arrived, toting duffel bags and looking like nothing more than a group of priests and nuns. All of them were silent, and had the focused stare of people who had killed so many times that they could barely differentiate between friend or foe. He had purposefully met the eyes of one them and shuddered even now as he realised he had been assessed for weakness, weak points, ways of killing him as quickly as possible.
Raised voices brought him away from the small window and he turned to face the men behind him. The eclectic nature of the group practically ensured that there would be disagreements of some for or other.
“Dammit all to hell and back!” RAS Captain James Buller, resplendent in the White and Blue summer issue uniform of the RAS was leaning, fists on the table. Shaven headed, sporting what Smythe considered to be an outstanding moustache, and standing at over six feet tall, he towered over the much smaller HES Captain Del Torro.
“I don’t care what you bloody well think, or whether this is your country’s airspace. I have seniority, I have the bigger ship and I have more guns. Therefore I shall not be at your disposal Captain!”
Smythe closed his eyes and pinched his nose, breathing deeply in a vain attempt to calm himself down. The bickering had started almost immediately the officers convened, each one vying for a position over the other.
I suppose they want the bloody glory. He had had his fill of glory over the last few days, and he had also had enough of strutting peacocks.
“Shut up, Buller.” His calm voice cut through the babble like a hot knife through butter, “and don’t you even think of speaking Torres. This is a Sanction operation, therefore I’m the commanding officer. Buller, you have seniority and will command in the air.”
“Colonel Torres, you will command all ground operations, bar those of Knight Brother Michelangelo, and Padra Fillipo of the Inquirers. Captain Secondo, you will put your church militia at his disposal.”
Del Torro’s chest puffed out as he opened his mouth and took a deep breath. Padre Fillipo thrust himself away from the wall he had been leaning on, placed his hand on Del Torro’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear. Turning sickly pale, Del Terro blew out the breath he had taken and nodded jerkily, “Si Padre, si.”
“Thank you Inquirer,” Smythe could tell that the man made everyone in the room distinctly uneasy. His entire right eye had been covered with an aether-powered monoscope, wires trailing to a battery back on his hip. His other eye was covered by a smoked glass lens that was also attached to a battery pack on his other hip, the mounting jutted out to the left. Smythe thought that it was probably something like a scryer. Topping off the headwear was a full-face rubber mask, a talking mesh in the front making his speech somewhat otherworldly.
The whole of his body was covered in a one-piece, form fitting black rubber suit. It was highly oiled so as to prevent it squeaking when it rubbed together, and Smythe felt the overall appearance was like that of a sinister death-dealing anthropomorphic slug.
Bloody man’s a walking armoury as well.
On the top of his forearms, he had spring-loaded sheaths, the tips of knives just poking out. Across his back, he had twin Winchester Action Shotguns and bandoliers full of cartridges crossed his chest, whilst a waist belt held a number of shrapnels. If the rest of his chaps are as frightful as him the enemy might as well just give up now!
Smythe switched his attention to the commander of the Knight Brothers, . Fortunately he had been the unconcerned about the chain of command, preferring instead to study the map of the island.
Smythe pointed at the map. “There are three objectives. On the eastern end of the island is the lighthouse and airship mooring station. Five hundred yards or so to the west of that is the fort. There are fifty or so men in that. We know that they are all armed with rifles, but that’s it. The fort can be entered either through taking the roof, or by storming up a set of open-sided steps to an iron door set in the wall roughly fifteen feet up. Natural defences consist of a field of cacti. Too low to provide concealment, but just high enough to be a literal ball ache whilst moving through them. They will slow our men down tremendously. “
I don’t envy the poor bastards trying to storm that place, but we can’t have a fort full of enemy soldiers at our backs.
“The island narrows to about three hundred yards, that’s where the harbour is. Two hundred yards from there is the town. The town is fortified, has a garrison of two hundred infantry, five knights and three main gates. There are roughly six hundred civilians there. They have to be considered hostile as they are mostly related to the garrison. The first gate is situated next to a landing. Obviously that’s covered by an unknown number of cannon and gatling guns. The rocks there are covered in seaweed, so footing is going to be treacherous at best. “
He paused as Del Torro raised his hand, “Might I suggest that we have a small force covering this exit to prevent anyone escaping and attack using one of the more accessible gates? I would hate to lose more men than is necessary.”
Smythe smiled in relief, glad that they were finally accepting his command, and that they felt at ease enough to make sensible suggestions.
“Certainly Captain, our attack will begin at the eastern end, with our forces working westward as quickly as possible. The Inquirers will infiltrate the town, and make their way to the governor’s residence and kill everyone they find there.”
The others all shifted their feet and glanced sideways at Padre Fillipo. It was clear that the thought of so-called ‘Padres’ and ‘Nuns’ slaughtering their way through the governor’s house went against their ingrained sense of honour, and shook their belief in a ‘forgiving and kind’ Church to the core.
“Half of the infantry, under Colonel Torres, will land at the western tip and secure the lighthouse and mooring point. This will mean that we can secure the airship and prevent Lord Miles from escaping by air. We expect heavy resistance by the defenders, and support from the airship.
“Ensign Markey, from the Argylle, will lead a party of RAS Aeronauts and Marines in the attack upon the airship, their object is to either secure or disable the ship. I shall accompany them, but Markey is the commander of the attack.”
Ensign Markey, barely eighteen years old, stood as straight as a post as every eye in the room turned on him. Already perspiring in the heat, it was hard to tell whether he was sweating even more under their scrutiny.
“The other half of the infantry will land at the middle of the island and split into two forces. The first will engage the fort with the aid of the Knight Brothers. Their heavy weapons will hopefully cover the infantry and help them to breach the defences quickly. If they fail to do so, then they will act as a containment force, tying up the enemy forces their and restricting their ability to assist their comrades. Captain Secondo, you will command this force. It is vital that you prevent the enemy forces from linking up, as I am certain that the town garrison will attempt this in some form or other.
Aside from that, the second force will act as a holding and diversionary force and prevent the garrison from reinforcing the fort. “
Smythe paused to take a drink. The thought of the coming battle dried his mouth and made his balls shrink. A well prepared and fortified enemy could hold off at least four or five times their number of attackers and cause heavy casualties.
“RAS Argyle and HES Beatific Madonna will hold station and intercept any flyers. All other Sanction members will be aboard RAS Argyle. Once Lord Mile’s position is ascertained, they will make all haste to join the forces that have located him. Every unit will assist them to reach him as required.
“Aside from the human forces that we know are stationed there, it’s reasonable to expect aether-born forces. We don’t know what they will consist of but, based on previous encounters, there will be Slavs, Grotesques, Gorgoyles, Ghouls and possibly even Dracos.
The threat this man presents to all of mankind cannot be underestimated. He has shown himself to be resourceful, and his allies have an immeasurable number of followers. We cannot let them gain entry, no can we let him gain further power and destroy the Empire. Vincit Omnia people, vincit omnia.“
*
The powerful engines of the Argyle, made the ship’s frame thrum lightly, sending a tingle through Smythe’s hand as he leaned forward and looked at the viewing kinescope, twisting a knob he zoomed the camera in on the ad-hoc fleet below them, their wakes trailing and gleaming in the moon’s light like a snail’s trail.
“That would look all the more impressive if those were military boats. I hope to God that the skippers don’t back out at the last minute.” Smythe spoke out of the side of his mouth to the young man stood beside him.
“Have no fear Major, I’m sure that the Spanish soldiers will persuade them to continue.” Ensign Markey was young, and keen, as all the Ensigns Smythe had ever met were.
“Your accent, Irish?”
“Yes sir, I’m from Newtry, my father has done very well in the woollen trade, it was him who arranged my commission. He said that he wanted me to see a bit of the world and make myself into a man before I took over the family business.”
“Are you and you men ready?” Smythe always felt distinctly uncomfortable sending boys into war, but the lad had said he was nearly eighteen.
“Yes sir, We’re going to deploy in the Flitters once it has been confirmed that the airship is still there. We’ll then land and seize the mooring release gear.” Markey’s tone suggested that he thought the action would be a walk in the park. Smythe did not have it in him to disabuse him of that belief.
The horizon suddenly strobed an orange and yellow colour. Explosions rocked the Argyle as anti-air artillery shells burst just in front of her. Looking to the right, Smythe could see that Beatific Madonna was bracketed, red hot shards of shrapnel scything into her bridge.
“The Madonna’s hit! They didn’t have their shields up!” The communications officer’s voice rose in surprise.
There was a series of starbursts, the shocking brightness blinding them, those that had been staring directly forward crying out in pain. Smythe cursed and grabbed for the kinescope, knowing all too well what was to come.
The Argyle rocked violently as there was a series of impacts, and Smythe heard the on-board machine guns start to hammer away. A rating hurtled past, his scream cutting off abruptly as he slammed head first into a console. The battle for Tabarca had well and truly begun.
*
The pleasure yacht Don Quixote slipped easily through the water, her motors practically idling, providing just enough push to cut through the low swell. The captain stared nervously at his passengers for a second before turning back to look for the marker that was their destination.
What he saw in that brief glance was a group of out-of-this world creatures, in the process of slotting tubes into the inhuman masks they were wearing. The tubes were linked to a frame that held two copper canisters. He presumed that they were the new Lung Packs that the richer divers had started to use, but as he had only ever seen the old-fashioned diving suits, he could only guess.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this Captain.” His First Mate talked as softly as possible. “I’m glad we told the others to stay back in port. These men scare the shit out of me.”
The Captain made a shushing motion with his hand, his stomach flipping at his friend’s words, and cut the engine as they approached the island. The sky was alight with flashes to the other side of the island and he prayed to the Madonna that no-one was preparing to blow them out of the water.
Dead in the water, the yacht bobbed up and down, the waves lapping at the hull. Despite the situation, the Captain felt content. There was nothing better than being at sea on a night like this. The ocean was as flat as a millpond, reflecting the light of the explosions in the sky. It was almost as if he was watching an underwater fireworks display.
He heard the First Mate clearing his throat as if to spit and turned to tell him to shut the hell up. Sound carried well across water and it would be sod’s law if someone heard them.
The sword took him straight through the Adams apple. Gentle hands lowered him to the deck and a figure looked over him, making the sign of the cross. He tried to speak but blood bubbled out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry my Son, but no-one must know of our existence.” The figure took out a cross and began the last rites.
*
Ensign Markey’s stomach flipped as the flitter dropped from its mount under the Argyle, excitement and nerves battled for control of his stomach, and he burped bile into his mouth as they plummeted. Even though the engine was at full revs, the flitted still dropped a good fifty feet before the pilot behind him regained control. Turning in his seat he watched as another pusher warrior flitter dropped from the belly of the Argylle, quickly followed by the main boarding crew in the Captain’s Flitter.
The pushers roared through the chill night sky, the wind penetrating the smallest of gaps in his clothing and sending a chill up his spine that mingled with the excitement of the mission. This was his first combat mission and he knew just how much his reputation rested on getting this right. He constantly ran over the mission in head, playing it out as a if it was a chess game, move, counter-move, counter the counter-move. He tried to think of very option, desperate to find a solution, or to at least prepare himself so that he was not surprised.
The flitters weaved their way through the incoming anti-flitter fire, dodging the searchlights that were sending their brilliant shafts of light into the sky. The pilot rolled the craft, sending his stomach into his mouth as a stream of firefly zipped past them.
He watched as another stream reached out for them, approaching them slowly, but then gaining in speed and buzzing past his head like angry hornets.
In under a minute they were approaching the spot designated for their landing. Spotting what he thought was enemy infantry, grabbing the cocking lever, he quickly racked it back, sighted and sent a burst into the nearest group, cutting them down where they stood. He chased the survivors with short bursts, forcing them even further apart as the pilot put the nose down and dived to the ground.
The Flitter crashed into the ground as the pilot put them down as fast as possible, stars bursting in his eyes as his forehead slammed into the weapons mount. Being RAS Flitters they were all equipped with skids rather than wheels, making them much less likely to catch a wheel and flip. Even so, he held on like grim death until they came to a halt, feeling as if his very bone marrow was vibrating. With a final lurch the flitter slewed to a halt.
Looking to his right he saw with no little relief that the Captain’s Flitter had also landed safely, men pouring out of the cabin. Markey ran over to them, drawing his Webley. Smythe bounded out, Maverick and Mauser in hand.
“Markey! This is your command lad, I’m happy to follow, so lead on!”
Markey cast around, looking at his men “Ginstone, lead the way with the Gatling Rifle, the rest of you, spread out, skirmish line.” The muscle-bound rating saluted and strode slowly along, struggling under the combined weight of gun, ammunition and battery pack. His gunner’s mates shadowed him, carrying additional magazines and acting as bodyguards.
Shots rang out from the top of the lighthouse, kicking up stones and dust as the bullets drove into the dry earth. Markey felt his heart hammering, fit to burst as more rounds spanged past, cracking through the air and making the men flinch.
“Damnit, Ginstone, get some fire on them and keep their bloody heads down!” Ginstone stopped and flicked a switch on his rifle, spreading his legs his whilst his mates placed their hands, bracing his back. The barrels started to spin and once they were up to speed, he pulled the trigger. The noise that blared out was intense, drowning out all other sounds, the flash taking away the night vision of the men around him.
The effect it had on the lighthouse was everything that Markey could have hoped for. In under five seconds, the whole of the magazine was emptied as the rounds chewed their way through brick and flesh alike,
Firing broke out behind them at the fort. “Move lads, whilst the buggers have got their heads down. The Spanish should be moving up from the other side.”
The enemy’s aethership was a mere one hundred and fifty yards from them, and Markey could see the ground crew desperately trying to get the ship ready for take off, whilst others scrambled to set up a defensive perimeter. It was clear that they were confused, some even hailing the approaching British as if they thought they were allies.
He cursed as he saw a group of men who were plainly more organised than the others sprinting up the gangplank, whilst portholes and running lights coming on showed that the crew on shift were manning their stations.
More shots rang out from the base of the mooring station. An officer shepherded some of the ground crew, desperately trying to get them to man the release points so that the ship could get under way immediately.
“Don’t let them release lads! Don’t let them fucking release!” Markey led his men in a sprint, heart racing at the thought that he would fail in his mission, snapping off shots as they charged forward. The engines of the coughed once, twice, and then exploded into life, roaring as the helmsman pushed them to full power immediately, the huge propellers kick up dust and sand.
With one hundred yards left to go, Markey knew they had little chance of preventing release. They kept sprinting even as the mooring lines were popped out of their anchor points. One of the ground crew shot in their direction and Markey snapped a round back. Fortune smiled on his as the heavy slug punched into the man’s lower abdomen, dropping him to the ground. Ground crew scattered as the RAS fire started to cause casualties, the lines dragging along the floor as the airship started to move catching their feet.
With one last, tremendous effort, Markey shoved his pistol back into its holster and jumped for the rope. With the rope nearly three inches in diameter, his fingers could barely touch, and he cursed when the coarse rope bit into his skin as it slid through his grasp. Gritting his teeth, he clasped the rope between his knees and then, slowly, inch by inch, he made his way up towards the anchor point.
*
“God be with you my son.” Spoken through an electronic filter, and a mouthpiece, by something that looked like a cast-out from Hell, the words were in no way reassuring. Added to the fact that there was a blade currently pinning his adam’s apple to the back of his neck, and they served no purpose except to confuse Alfonso Delgo in his last moments. The last thing he saw was the creature jerk its blade free, and the floor rushing up to meet him as his legs gave way.
*
Clanking forward with the hiss of steam engines, and the incessant buzz of aether engines, the Knight Brothers clomped forwards towards the fort, Knight Brother Michelangelo leading the way. Above them, at the top of the wall, rifle men were cutting down the attacking troops. Some of them had made the relative safety of the wall, safe from rifle fire, but not safe from the shrapnels or the bottles of oil that were being dropped onto them.
Those that had not made the wall tried to bunch up behind the bulky suits of armour, praying that they would shield them from the bullets coming their way.
God give me strength, these heathens are cutting the poor souls to pieces. Michelangelo forced the grief he felt at seeing so many brave souls being killed by an enemy he had sworn to destroy.
Raising his left arm as high as he could, cogs whirring as the heavy arm came up, he took tiny steps, turning the suit until the crosshairs on the centre of his coffin’s screen lined up with a group of slavs who were pouring fire towards him and the infantry.
In deo confidimus. Lord, speed my bullets into the enemy’s hearts and cast them back to the hell from which they were spawned. Letting go of his controls he kissed the crucifix hanging from his neck, slotted his hand back in and grasped the arm controller. Gently, almost as if he was tickling it, his thumb depressed the firing lever.
Sheltered from the majority of the noise and flash, he still felt a thrill as the sound and strobing light caused by his electro-gatling firing reached his ears. Shifting his feet slightly, he turned back and forth on the spot, raking the slavs with lead, firefly and explosive rounds.
Not the most accurate of weapons, the spread of the gatling’s fire was similar to that of a tightly choked shotgun. Chips and shards of stone added to the carnage caused by the bullets, and he heard a faint cheer as part of the old fort’s battlements gave way under the hail of fire.
Stepping one leg forward, he leaned the body of his armour slightly forward and then raised his left hand. How apt that the greater number of them should die by my sinister hand. He turned a key and then grasped a short, nob-headed handle. Pulling it back sharply, he opened the breach of the of the two pounder cannon, there was a clang as a heavy round dropped down, pushing the lever forward, he loaded the cannon.
Laying his sights onto the main entrance of the fort, he squeezed the firing handle. With a loud boom that sent a couple of infantry in front of him diving for cover, he sent the round flying into the door. Another push and pull, and another round was following the second. Smoke and sparks from the first two rounds obscured his view as he added a third round. By now he knew that the door would be wrecked, but he was keen to keep any defenders away from the open portal. Seven rounds later the cannon fell silent and he watched as the infantry stormed up the steps, adding their shrapnels to the carnage within.
*
Padra Fillipo slid his knife between the man’s ribs, sliding it through the thin skin and into the vital organs beyond as easily as he might pop a soap bubble. With his other hand clamped tightly over the man’s mouth, the kill was virtually silent. A few muffled screams, a snorting of breath, scrabbling of feet and then nothing.
Lowering the body carefully to the ground, he made the sign of the cross and then waved his companions forward. The sound of the battle raging outside of the old town walls left nothing to the imagination. Troops ran past shouting to each other, officers moving men from point to point on the wall as they thought necessary.
There was a buzz from above him and he looked up into the night sky to see a flitter zip over the town, firefly streaming down indiscriminately, whilst firefly raced upwards, trying to knock the flitter out of the sky.
The rest of his team moved forward, slipping in and out of the shadows, racing to the back wall of the Governor’s residence. There was the clatter of a gun being dropped as another of the guards was killed by a sister, the noise of the ongoing battle ensuring that no-one would be able to hear it even a few more yards away.
He pressed his back to the wall and peeked in through one of the massive windows. Even with all of the lights in the house turned low, he could see perfectly clearly, his aether-goggles giving him the ability to see in pitch black as clearly as in the day.
“Brothers and sisters. Five heathens, all armed. Entry formation Luke, total cleanse on my mark.” He took a deep breath, slowing the beating of his heart, and reaching deep down into his resolve. Even a man such as he, dedicated to the cause of the Unified Church felt fear. Not the fear of the normal man, the lay person who worried about whether he would have a job, meet the right woman, meet the wrong women, worry about their death. His fear come from worries on a far higher plane. Worries that he would not be able to save the souls of the lost, that he would fall in death during a mission and not see it through to the end, that he would fail the Almighty and be found wonting.
Our father, who art in heaven, guide this soul as you guided your son, steel his heart for the deeds that must be done, and lead him not into temptation, but lead him to glory in Your name. Amen. Peace settled over him, his heart slowed to its normal rate and he found his breath coming naturally once more.
“Cleanse.’ With that he drew a shotgun from the holster on his back, and stepped out to face the window. As soon as he had a target he fired, the demon shot scything into the men and women in the room beyond. Screams rang out as the merely wounded burst into flame, living candles proving additional, flickering light for the Inquirers to see their targets by.
Fire cleanses the heathen, purifying their soul so that Our Lord can receive them into his grace. Firmly convinced that he was doing God’s work he vaulted over the window sill, chambering another round and blowing the lower leg off a man who appeared at the room’s door.
Seeing more shapes in the room beyond he whipped a shrapnel from his belt. There was a brief scream, most likely a warning, and then the shrapnel detonated. Without a second of hesitation he stepped through into the smoke, firing as he did, doing God’s work.
*
“Receiving message from the Madonna, Captain dead, Executive Officer also dead. Using secondary helm, both engines damaged, under attack from air.” Von Adin looked over at the communications rating. The man was containing his fear well, managing a clipped monotone as he relayed the potentially catastrophic news. If they lost the Madonna, they lost their advantage in the air, and increased the chances that they would suffer damage themselves and be forced to withdraw. The idea of leaving the troops on the ground behind made him grit his teeth in anger.
He understood now why Buller had been so insistent that the two aetherships separate as soon as the Madonna, it was a logical decision taken to lessen the chances of her inadvertently destroying the Argyle if critically damaged.
The enemy had poured their fire into the stricken vessel with all the tenacity of a wolf pack sensing the end of the hunt. At least two Gargoyles swooped around her, the Grotesques trying to disable her rudders and ailerons whilst her remaining flitters were tied up in a catfight with another wing of gargoyles who had forced the flitters away from their charge.
The communications officer spoke again, “Whisper coming in from Ensign Markey’s force sir. The enemy ship is airborne. Heading towards the Madonna”. At that everyone on the bridge stared towards the beleaguered ship. A junior officer picked up the bridge telephone and spoke to the lookouts, finishing with a “well look harder damn you!”
The Captain ordered the helmsman to head towards the eastern end of the island.
“Hauptmann, I suggest that you and yours prepare for a boarding action. That ship would not be airborne if your quarry wasn’t on board.”
*
Von Adin and the others rushed from the bridge, clattering through the corridors and down the ladders to the flitter bays. Set in the underside of the hull were two sets of massive of double doors, pusher Flitters sat in cradles above them.
Clambering up ladders set against the sides of the flitters by engineering ratings, Von Adin and the rest of his force struggled into their harnesses. As soon as the signal was given that the crews were in their seats a whilst shrieked fit to burst his ear drums. A great grale appeared from beneath then and his stomach flipped as he realised that the the bay doors had opened and their was nothing between him and the ocean apart from a three thousand foot drop.
As soon as the doors were fully open, the Flitters rotated, dropping their noses towards the sea below and Von Adin found himself desperately bracing his legs so that he would not fall out. This despite the three point harness strapping him in.
Ach, we must look like bats. With all of the flying kit he was wearing, he could barely lift his head to look at the flitter in front. He grasped the bar in front of him, knowing that they were soon going to be on their way, either by the pilot tugging on a release leaver, T or jettisoned by the Release Bay Master all at once.
Von Adin’s adrenaline was coursing through his veins, making his fingers clumsy and his bladder feel full. He gritted his teeth against the feeling of nausea hanging in such an unnatural position caused, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could just get off and go for a piss.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
He jumped as the diesel engines of the flitters roared into life at the same time, sparks from the starter cartridges drifting through the air, the sound reverberating throughout the bay, bouncing back and forth off the walls.
Clunk. That was all the warning he got before his insides tried to climb their way out of his mouth. It felt as though they would never pull up. The Flitter plummeted, nose down towards the ground, through the rising firefly and anti-air artillery, engine screaming, Von Adin screaming with it. The cold wind bit at his skin where his flying outfit failed to cover him, and he closed his eyes, convinced that they were going to die.
At last, the pilot pulled back on the stick and the flitter leveled out. They raced along towards the enemy airship, zipping along seeming to Von Adin as if they were bare feet away from death. All the daft bugger has to do is sneeze and we’ll be pushing up edelweiss before we know it!
The pilot tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to their front. Squinting against the constant flashes of light around then, he realised that they were heading towards two gargoyles. Taking aim, he squeezed off a burst at them, aiming low and letting the recoil of the gun lift the barrel. Cursing he watched as his target rolled up and over the firefly with almost contemptuous ease and the grotesque rider fired back.
More streams of firefly snaked their way towards the gargoyles and Von Adin realised that his force was flying in a parallel formation. They literally sent a wall of firefly ahead of them, forcing the enemy flyers into ever more desperate maneuvers. At least they can’t shoot back at us if they’re too busy trying to save their own measly skins.
Almost as if they had heard his thoughts and decided to prove him wrong, bullets stitched their way across the plane and there was a spluttering sound from the engine. He turned and felt his bowels turn to ice. The pilot was clutching at a wound in his shoulder and there were flames coming from the engine.
“Can you make it?” he screamed above the roar of the wind and engine. The pilot nodded and gave a grimace of a smile.
They flashed through the gargoyles, trying to avoid being drawn into a pointless catfight. Another starburst exploded and he caught sight of the enemy airship looming directly ahead.
She was big, as big as some dreadnought class ships he had seen and bigger by half than the Argyle. She was a pure airship, not designed to go anywhere near water however, and so could afford the luxury of having turrets and firing positions all over her hull.
Von Adin winced as the whole of the side facing them rippled with gunfire.
*
Markey’s arms were burning by the time he reached the top of the rope, his breathing ragged and blisters covered his palms, the coarse rope having worn away the tough skin all members of the RAS develop as if it were a newborn’s. Quickly he grabbed a handhold next to the winching mechanism and squeezed through into the ship, kicking his legs to add momentum. His heart stopped as a hand grabbed his arm, and he was unable to stop a squeak escaping his throat.
“Good climbing lad. Think you can get us to the engineering room?” Smythe sat in the dimpsy light, reloading his Mauser. His breathing was far less labored, and Markey looked at his leather gloves, wishing he had thought of wearing his own.
“Sir, yes sir,” his voice quavered as if it was yet to break. Scared the fecking life out of me, so he did. He stood, looked around and led Smythe to a small ladder that led to a hatch. A quick climb saw him pushing through the hatch, poking the barrel of his pistol through before he popped his head above the lip. Seeing that there was no-one around, he climbed out, covering both ends of the service corridor.
If we came through a tether housing at the stern, then Engineering should be to our right, and up another ladder.
He motioned to Smythe and they set off down the corridor, pepper-potting as they did so, providing each other with cover and ensuring that one of them always had a good firing position before moving on.
Finally Markey found the ladder they needed. Inch-by-inch he climbed up, Smythe covering him from below. Heart pounding, he pushed open the hatch, the noise that greeted him was amazing as the combined diesel and aether engines pumped life into the propeller units. Climbing into the room, and moving into a nearby alcove, he saw that a mixed team Grotesques and humans tended the controls, monitoring the myriad of dials, lights and switchboards. He knelt, covering Smythe as the major poked his head up out of the hatch and did a quick scan before joining him.
“That’s the main control panel, over there where the man in the red uniform is. He looks like the Chief Engineer.” he had to shout into Smythe’s ear just to be heard. There was no danger of anyone more than a foot away hearing anything.
Smythe nodded, raised his pistol and shot the engineer clean in the head. Markey felt his mouth open. There had been no change in Smythe’s face, no sign that he was about to take another being’s life. Just a nod, a standup and a shot.
If the noise had not been so ear-splitting, he was sure that there would have been a stunned silence, but the only people to react to the sudden – and somewhat messy death – of the Chief Engineer were the grotesques manning the control panel. Even as they started to reach for their weapons, they died or clutched at wounds as Markey and Smythe poured fire into them and panel.
Markey’s hand shook as he shot a grotesque twice in the chest, doing something he had only heard or read about in the mess. I’m part of a boarding action, I’ve blooded myself, blooded twice over. Finally. He was not too sure how he felt about the latter, but pushed the doubts firmly to the back of his mind, knowing that the enemy would kill him without a moment’s hesitation if he gave them the chance. As soon as the enemy crewmen were down, the two of them ran across the gap and jumped up onto the control platform. Markey pulled the pins from his shrapnels and jammed them under the main control desk.
“Move it sir!” He pushed Smythe off of the control platform just in time as there was a muffled thud, a bright flash and shards of debris scythed their way across the room, a large piece embedding itself in the back of a man talking to two others. That finally caught the attention of the engine room crew. As one they turned to the site of the explosion, looks of shock on their faces. As soon as they saw Markey and Smythe, they sprang into action, reaching for tools; or in the case of the Petty Officers, their pistols.
Without a sound, they charged forward. Markey drew a bead on a Grotesque that was heading for him, a massive wrench clutched in its powerful hands. Forcing himself to squeeze gently he fired. The round tore the throat out of his target and sent it gobbling to the floor. Another jumped over and he shot that one in the stomach, only for another to come forward.
Shit! How many rounds do I have? He shot a human in the chest, and again as the man barely paused, the second round hitting him squarely on the diaphragm and dropping him to the floor, mouth open and vomiting blood. Another man stepped in front of his sights and his heart stopped as the hammer clicked on to an empty chamber.
The man swung a foot-long monkey wrench at his head, forcing him to duck. As he did so, he reversed his grip on the pistol so that he was holding it by the barrel. As the man over-extended his swing, Markey went under and to the outside of him, slamming the butt of the pistol’s grip just behind his attacker’s ear. There was a wet crunch and he blinked as blood sprayed onto his face. Where he had hit the man the skull was deformed, a grip-shaped depression clearly visible. His attacker swayed for moment before slamming face down into the metal gantry.
Markey looked over to see if there were any more enemy crew men and watched Smythe put a bullet into the last of the engine crew.
Smythe leaned forward and tugged at the collar of one of the corpses, “See how they’re all wearing torques apart from the Chief? Poor sods probably didn’t even know what they were doing. Whatever you do, don’t try to take one, you’ll blow all to Kingdom Come!”
Markey strode over to the nearest engine. Reaching into his back-pack he pulled out two heavy sacks of iron filings. Tossing one to Smythe, he unscrewed the cap on the oil inlet and poured a healthy amount down the tube. Smythe did the same with the other diesel and they moved onto the aether engines after that.
Doing a quick scan of the room, Smythe turned to Markey “Captain Buller said that you thought we should have roughly five minutes before the engines start to seize. Should that give us time to get away from here and work our way up to the bridge?”
“Correct sir. These buggers are so big that it will take that long for the oil to circulate properly. Once that does happen, they’re going to play merry hell with the engines. To be honest, I wouldn’t want to be in this room when one of them seizes, they’ll rip themselves apart,” he looked for the exit, and saw the heavy hatch across from them, “this way sir.”
They hurried out of the room and into the corridor beyond. Taking a deep breath, they started to make their way through the ship.
*
Although she was completely in her element, Lady Ashdown was most certainly not having the time of her life. The amount of anti-flitter fire that was being sent their way was stretching her powers to the limit. Already she had realised that there was no chance she could shield the warrior Flitters that were escorting them as well as their own heavy flitter, and so purely concentrated on the flitter she was in. Sat in what would normally have been the observer’s seat, she looked out of the bubble-shaped cockpit wincing as another of the warriors was blown out of the sky, the gunner falling through the air like a burning comet, as more incoming rounds flattened themselves on her shield. The sheer weight of enemy fire was gradually wearing her shield down.
If they keep this up, I won’t have enough strength to fight properly when we board. That worried her more than anything. The thought of letting her troops and comrades down when they needed her most put a snarl on her face, and she physically shook herself as she poured yet more aether into the shield.
A sudden flash made her wince and she turned her attention back to the enemy airship. It had made its way over the island and was heading out to sea. Its guns were firing both at the airborne forces and at the troops below. She watched as one of the one-inch rapid firers sent shells slamming into the melee around the fort. Men on both sides were blown into bloody chunks and not a few stopped fighting each other to return fire at what both sides obviously viewed as a hostile craft.
A gargoyle bore down on them, the grotesque sending bullets hissing through the air and making their pilot jink desperately, the heavy craft groaning as it was put through tight turns not normally expected of a Captain’s flitter. A sudden rushing sound was the warning they had as a salvo of rockets burned their way through the sky past them, flame spouting from their tails, before they hit their target, blowing a wing from the gargoyle and clearing the way for them once more.
They were getting much closer to the enemy ship now and she could clearly see where the enemy gargoyles were being launched from the deck. Gripping the handles of the observer’s machine gun in front of her, she blasted the gargoyles and their riders, sowing death and confusion in equal parts amongst their ranks.
As they passed through over the deck, the pilot pulled a toggle, dropping a scattering of bomblets from hastily crafted hardpoints on the wings, cratering the smooth wooden surface and sending deadly splinters of wood hurtling through the air, cutting through the thin membranes of the gargoyle’s wings.
“Got them!”, the pilot pounded his thigh in jubilation, “Those wounds, although minor, should prevent those damned creatures from getting enough lift,” he explained to her, sparing her briefest of glances as he did so.
They both screamed in exultation as the last bomblet to drop triggered an explosion from one of the deck armouries. Bodies and parts of ship alike were blown in to the air, trailing smoke as they plummeted towards the ground below.
Clearing the ship, the pilot put them into a steep dive, twisting and rolling to throw the aim of the enemy gunners off. Her stomach threatened to squeeze its way out of her mouth as the gee forces pressed her back into her seat. Behind her, she could hear muffled curses from the main body of the flitter as the aeronauts inside were thrown about.
By now the sun was starting to rise and in the light she saw that smoke was billowing out from the ships propeller mountings. The propellers started to falter, clouds of smoke puffing out every time they stopped and started. Finally, they stopped. The ship was dead in the air, drifting at the mercy of the air currents.
She pounded the rail in front of her, screaming in victory as she realised that Lord Miles was trapped. I can finally kill the bastard! The thought of making him pay for his crimes sent a thrill of excitement through her.
The pilot angled the heavy flitter back around towards the ship and the crew unbattened the hatches, throwing the anchors they had brought with them through the doors. It was going to be a hard and fast landing. Prior to drop-off, the pilot had explained that the anchors could well be all that was between them stopping on the enemy ship, or plummeting to their deaths as they overshot the deck. The fact that this sort of action was normally undertaken by specially built craft, and not hastily improved Captain’s flitters had not filled her with the greatest of confidence.
I bloody well hope those damned things stop us like they should!
Ten yards from the deck the pilot throttled the engines back to idle, raising the nose to lower their airspeed even further, barely keeping the engines from stalling. To say that the landing was rough would be an understatement. At the point of stalling, the flitter dropped out of the sky, the pilot nudging the nose down so that they were barely level when the first of the anchors dug into the wooden deck. The skids slammed onto the deck, sending splinters and shavings in all directions as the metal on their undersides scraped away at the highly polished wood.
“Brace, brace, brace!” screamed the pilot as he hauled back on the throttles, struggling with his feet to keep the rudders in place.
Rope played out of the back of the flitted as more and more anchors dug into the deck, finding purchase in the craters left by the bomblets. Enemy crew were sent scattering as the anchors tumbled and skipped along the deck. Some who were too slow screamed as the anchors buried themselves in their bodies, dragging them along the deck and leaving long bloody smears.
With a sudden yank, the flitter reached the end of the first anchor rope. It snapped and whipped across the deck, cutting through enemy crew members like a hot knife through butter, driving them back as they tried to rush forward and prevent the anchors from finding purchase.
The Flitter continued to skid along the deck, rope after rope snapping until she feared that they would never stop but would plough into the bridge, or fall off the side as they started to go into a spin. Shouts and curses from the men in the cabin behind echoed the fear she felt as they careened their way across the deck.
She uttered a quick prayer of thanks as, with one last hard jerk they stopped. She could taste iron in her mouth and when she spat it was full of blood. She looked at the pilot, expecting him to be getting out of his harness and softly cursed as she saw that clear fluid ran out of his ears and his neck was twisted at a funny angle.
Bullets thunked into the frame, punching their way through the thin canvass as the enemy finally gathered their wits.
“Out! Out and at “em lads!” Gubbins was suddenly next to her, cutting through her harness rather than waste time undoing the buckles, “Come on my Lady, no time to be enjoying the view.” He took her hand and helped her stand.
Bullets stitched their way across the glass of the cockpit, killing the co-pilot and Gubbins cursed as one creased his arm. Looking past him she saw the enemy crewman frantically working at the bolt on his rifle. A quick Pull and push, and he burst into flame, the flesh sloughing off his bones like meat in a slow-cooked stew.
She allowed Gubbins lead her through the cabin, it was empty of everyone bar the dead. Jumping down into Gubbin’s arms she cast around frantically for Von Adin. The German giant was a state. His Flitter was tail-up and he had a gash along the top of his head that pumped blood down his face. He lashed out at the enemy surrounding him, crushing the skull of one and stamping the face of another into a bloody mess. He staggered as a rifle butt smashed into his back and roared in pain.
“Gubbins, we have to help Von Adin.” He nodded and they set off, charging headlong into the melee.
*
The downstairs cleared, the Padre lead his team up the wide stairs, his bloodstained boots ruining the priceless carpet. He barely registered the movement above him before his shotgun was nestled in his shoulder and he had opened fire. A girl, no more than five years old dropped her teddy, a wide ‘o’ of surprise on her angelic face as she stared down at the gaping wound in her stomach. Still looking at him, she pitched face down onto the landing.
A scream of rage snapped his eyes from her body. A man in a mixture of nightdress and day wear slashed downwards with his sword, the Padre hastily blocking it with an overhead block with his shotgun.
“You killed my daughter, you demon!” the man kicked Padre Fillipo in the stomach, sending him backwards and immediately following it up with thrusts and slashes, the fury behind the man’s attacks driving the Padre back, keeping him on the defensive.
Other people rushed forward and engaged the rest of the team, whilst the Padre continued to block, looking for an opening.
He should start tiring any time soon, even under pressure he analysed every move, every breath that his opponent took, concentrating purely on defence, looking for that one moment where the opponent would leave himself off-balance and open to a counter-attack.
Now, the man had fractionally overswung, taking his sword too far across, the momentum meaning that he struggle to convert it into a back hand. Padre Fillipo stepped his left foot forward, moving into the opening. Checking his attacker’s arm with his right palm, he cocked his left wrist. A clicking sensation ran down his arm as the blade on his forearm snapped out. He punched one, twice, the blade going straight through the side of the man’s neck, an uppercut drove the blade up into the man’s armpit at a forty-five degree angle, finally he three three vicious hooks into the man’s right kidney.
The man dropped his sword from nerveless fingers and slumped into the Padre’s arms.
“I’m sorry, truly sorry. It was not my intention to harm an innocent child. She will go to our Father’s benevolent grace.” He lowered the man gently to the ground, as he talked, “I shall see that she gets a worthy burial, and I shall pray for her soul for as long as I live.”
The man stared into his goggles, eyes wide as he struggled for breath, struggled to hold on to life for as long as possible.
“Gracias, Lord for…” with a burp, and a surge of blood, the man died. Padre Fillipo quickly scanned the landing and saw that his team had finished off their attackers.
“Brother O’Lafferty, please convey the child from here. No other children are to be harmed.”
Standing, he shook the blood from his blade, shaking the memory of the child from his brain at the same time, The time for nightmares will come, Father, guide my hand on this mission.
Running, he led the team towards their objective.
*
Another hail of one-pounder shells came sleeting down from the sky, cutting the infantry to pieces as Knight Brother Michelangelo led his force to attack the lighthouse. Behind them the captured fort was being used to both support the attack on the town, but also as a makeshift hospital for their casualties.
Despite having seen the boarding action, he knew that the airship would continue to send down shells until every gunner was either dead, or incapacitated.
He Pulled, welcoming the way the sauna-like air chilled as he did so, “Brothers, ignore the airship, concentrate on taking the light house and support the aeronauts at the mooring station.” With a Push he sent a whisper to his men. Their signal lights flickered once, indicating that the message had been received.
He chambered his two-pounder once more, side stepping to avoid a stream of firefly that reached out to him from a mid-level window.
“Brother Johnson, flank to the left of the light house, Brother Clarke to the right. I shall engage the gatling and provide cover for the infantry.” He sent the whisper, wishing briefly that he could Pull deeper and reduce the heat in the confined space of his coffin. The heat caused by the aether engine at his back had reached through the thick armour, and the padding of his chair and, even though he was wearing only specially designed undergarments, he was drenched with sweat.
Bullets pattered across his armour before finding softer targets, killing two infantry who had knelt to return fire. Taking quick aim, he fired, reloaded and fire again. The window frame, as well as the bricks surrounding, it was blown out. Sandbags, and the remains of a man tumbled to the ground, the bent barrel of the gatling gun pointing upwards.
He fired another round into the opening, just for good measure, and then started to stride forward again. The sight of a suit such as his inspired awe and fear alike, boosting confidence and destroying moral and he intended for the enemy to suffer both as much as possible.
Reaching forward he flicked a switch, turning on his external speaker, “All infantry, press forward and show the bastards the error of their ways!”
*
Pondersby shook his head to clear it. There was a dull ache from when he had slammed into the side of the flitter carrying him and his men, and he bit down on his lip in anger. The pilot had come in far too hard and fast in his opinion and he had lost a number of men before they even had a chance to fight the enemy.
We’re not fucking aeronauts, this is not how a gentleman fights.
The chaos of a ship-board combat was almost overwhelming. He was used to wide sweeps, swift attacks and even swifter withdrawals. Intense face-to-face contact was not the sort of combat he and his men were trained for.
Snapping his rifle to his shoulder, he tracked a man charging towards his right, leading slightly he held his breath and fired. Blood spurted out of the enemy aeronaut’s face, his helmet spinning away as the bullet punched its way out his target’s head.
There was no time to gloat, the enemy just kept coming. He chambered another round, firing from the hip and killed a grotesque in front of him. Sudden movement out of the side of his eye gave him bare warning, desperately he parried a bayonet thrust with his barrel, knocking the rifle to his right. The thrust turned into a butt strike, the rifleman stamping forward and smashing his teeth into tiny chips. He staggered back, the pain momentarily blinding him.
There was a sudden, burning pain in his stomach. Looking down he saw a bayonet buried up to the barrel of the rifle to which it was attached. Screaming in fear and pain, he grasped the rifle, trying in vain to stop his attacker slowly twisting the bayonet, opening his wound. His attacker screamed back, fear and anger etched clearly on his face, as he pulled the trigger, blowing Pondersby’s spine into flinders. As he fell back, he marveled at the lack of pain, even the lack of fear, dying before he landed on the deck.
*
“Padre, I have it!” Fillipo turned at the shout, stepping over the body of his most recent victim he strode into the room from which the voice came. The debris of battle lay all around, the rebels having put up much more of a fight than he would have thought possible. Bodies lay in the corridor, shells, swords and other weapons were scattered all over the one beautiful carpets. Seventeenth century oak paneling was blasted and scorched, the smell of the varnish adding to the stench of battle.
Stepping over the remains of the bedroom door, he saw Governor of Tabarca knelt on the floor, his arms around his weeping wife, glaring at his captors. Cuts on his arms, face and side showed that he had put up a hard fight, and Sister Bernice stood clutching a wound in her side.
“You bastards! You fucking murderers, you will burn in hell for this!” Flinging out his arm he pointed to what ‘this’ was. Fillipo sighed as he saw a lad of no more than sixteen years old slumped in a chair. Blood was dripping slowly onto the floor from a gaping hole in his chest and his dead eyes seemed to star accusingly at the Padre.
“Calm yourself Governor, if you and your people hadn’t joined this traitorous Lord Miles, hadn’t consorted with the aether-born, hadn’t brought them into our country, your boy would still be alive.”
The Governor lowered his head onto what Fillipo presumed was his wife’s shoulders and wept, sobbing only as a man who knew his soul was doomed could.
“The book. Show me.”
Padre Achen stepped forward, holding an ancient book towards him. He was surprised at the weight when he took it, realising that the wooden covers added to the weight of the paper.
He stiffened as he turned a page. These aren’t paper. Trembling, he removed a glove and stroke the edge of one of the pages. Bile rose into his mouth as he realised that they were made from skin, the ink was blood.
“By our Lord God, what on earth did you think you would achieve using such a book?” He skimmed over the words on the page, seeing how they seemed to instruct an aethermancer on how to open a gate.
“What gates are these? Where do they open to? What is this strange script?”
The Governor looked him directly in the eye and laughed, and laughed, his mouth growing ever wider with each guffaw until suddenly, with an almighty crack and a high pitched scream that was choked off by a surge of blood that jetted forth, the Governor did.
“Mother of God, protect us, your servants.” Fillipo crossed himself fervently and kissed the jet black ring that was an integral part of his right glove. Not a lot unsettled him, but the death of a true innocent, and this shockingly messy death – which was clearly far mor unnatural as any visited upon the inhabitants of the house this night – had touched him in a way that he knew would require many hours of prayer or reflection to lessen.
*
Gubbins slowly strode towards the melee, each step accompanied by a carefully aimed shot, alternating his pistols. Every shot hit, killing or incapacitating an enemy. Careful to avoid firing into the melee, he picked off the enemy that were crowding on the outside, trying to add their weight to the crush.
Next to him, Lady Ashdown added her own pistol fire to his, surprised that she was not using aether, he risked a glance at her, “Milady? Are you tired?”
Her reply was just as concise, “No, but I need to save energy.” He watched as she shot a man through the neck, dropping him to floor. He admired the fact that she was just as handy with a pistol as she was with aether. Damned dangerous. Damned beautiful. Damned well out of my reach.
Unaware of what was happening to their colleagues, enemy continued to crowd the Sanction forces but, as their numbers lessened, the Sanction were able to start to push them back. Another four steps and the enemy finally broke, running for a hatch that led down into the ship.
“Karl, don’t let the buggers get dug in.” Von Adin pulled the pin on a shrapnel, ran forward, and dropped it through the hatch. There was a loud bang and smoked billowed out, flames leaping into the air. Screams ran out and the smell of burning flesh warred with the smell of burning fuel. Gubbins watched as Von Adin peeked over the hole, fired a couple of shots and ran over to them.
“Danke, Gubbins. That got a bit hairy as you might say, no chance we can follow them down there though.” Blood ran from a fine cut on Von Adin’s cheek and his jacket was rent in a myriad of places. He also seemed to be favouring his left side slightly.
There was a sharp explosion and they turned to see that their men had blown a hatch into the main superstructure. Shrapnels went through the hatch, the men following as soon as they had exploded. Two came flying back out, blood streaming from wounds in their bellies. Their bodies hadn’t landed before a Vampyre strode out of the entrance, shadows dripping from his claws.
“Bumsen”
*
Markey was surprised at just how hard it was to cut through the windpipe of a fellow human. Frantically he sawed back and forth, as the man tried to pitch him over his back. The blood loss finally became too great and they flopped to the deck, Markey crying out as he banged his funny bone on the hard metal, the pain lancing the full length of his arm and nearly causing him to drop his knife.
He kicked the body off and twisted onto his stomach to see how Smythe was doing just in time to see a classic shin rake followed by a grab to the head and a short knee to the body. The knee dropped back and pistoned back into the body, drawing a “woof” from the victim. Controlling the head, Smythe spun his opponent into the nearest wall and into the ground. Changing his grip, he bashed the head into the deck faster than Markey thought, time after time. Blood, bone and brains started to leak out of the back of the man’s head, splattering onto the wall and Markey.
“Sir! Stop! He’s dead! FUCKING STOP!” he instantly regretted his tone as well as the words when Smythe paused, his hands looking as though they had red gloves.
Smythe sighed, wincing as drawing breath clearly pulled on the broken ribs he had gained in the vicious scuffle.
“Quite right Ensign, sorry. Lost myself there.”
Looking at the ruins of the man in front of him, Markey grimaced, forcing down the hot, rancid bile that raced up into his mouth. Slowly he wiped his knife on the man’s uniform and stood.
He turned as he felt Smythe’s hand on his shoulder, “Good show there lad. Good show. Lead on will you? Keep your eyes peeled, don’t want to get ambushed again do we?” Smythe’s smile and approval made him feel somewhat better, somewhat less shaky.
They inched their way along the corridor, straining their ears to listen out for another ambush. Prior to ambush they had been the ones ambushing, killing the enemy crew as they raced down to see what was wrong with the engines. Markey cried out as another heavy impact through him against a metal strut.
“Their aethermancers are tiring. Not a chance that the fire from the Argyle would have got through otherwise sir.” Markey paused to take a swig from his hip flask, passing it back to Smythe, “Sheep Dip, my father’s favourite tipple.”
“Mine too now by God.” Smythe took another sip and rolled it around his mouth, clearly the flavour and the bite.
“How much further lad?”
“Two decks and we’ll be there sir. Think the others made it?”
“I’m sure they did lad, with ease.”
*
Von Adin was having anything but an easy time. Gubbins was lying on the floor, his leg shattered from a Grotesque’s shout and Lady Ashdown was busy trying to heal him whilst avoiding the aether being thrown at her by the Vampyre.
The Vampyre was a master of multi-tasking. He sent a stream of red-coloured aether towards Lady Ashdown with one hand, whilst lashing out at Von Adin with his other hand.
Von Adin managed to parry with a high guard, stepped around it and launched a powerful strike himself at the Vampyre’s head. With far too much ease for his liking, it swayed back, moving so fast that it blurred.
Von Adin howled as the claws swept back, slicing through his clothes and stomach as if they were made of paper. The tearing sound that came from his ripping stomach skin sent adrenalin coursing through his veins, with a jolt he realised that he had to finish the fight, no matter what it took.
He threw all of his weight behind a lunging downward strike, stamping forward as he did so. The Vampyre laughed as it caught the blade with both hands, trapping it between its open palms.
“Fuck you!” the Vampyre’s face twisted in horror as it clearly realised that the strike had been a feint. Only now did it feel Von Adin’s aether glove cupping its privates. Von Adin squeezed as hard as possible before releasing the stored aether straight into its gonads
The Vampyre screamed and twitched, paralysed both by the pain, and the aether coursing through its body. Sparks coursed along his body, following the metal of his armour and carrying the aether over his entire body, completely transfixing it.
“Karl! Kneel!” He dropped to the ground straight away as Lady Ashdown’s aether punched its way through the Vampyre’s chest. She widened the stream and cut the Vampyre in two, bitter gore showering Von Adin.
Von Adin sighed in relief as Lady Ashdown ran over to him and performing a quick heal. The jolt made him leap to his feet with a shout, he patted at his stomach, feeling the still tender scars. Gubbins joined them, still limping, mostly remembered pain, like mine.
“I propose gentlemen that we finish this charade right fucking now! No more delays. If we get attacked like that again, one deals with it and the others push on. Agreed?”
At the nods of the others, she sniffed, dusted herself down and strode through hatch, clearly not bothered as to whether she was being followed, Von Adin chuckled as he stooped through the door after her.
*
Smythe and Markey were feeling somewhat the worse for wear by the time they finally managed to get near to the bridge.
Both had been shot, sliced, stabbed and battered and it was only stubborn stupidity that prevented them from lying down and letting someone else do all the work for them whilst they cried quietly in a corner.
They stood before a firmly sealed hatch. Having killed the two men on guard outside the bridge, they now peeked through the porthole, trying to see what they faced. The bridge lights had been dimmed, reducing what they could see.
Smythe could count about fifteen crew members, manning various stations and telephones. At the captain’s chair stood a figure wearing a cloak resembling that of the Cult of Aether. The hood was up but he was certain it was Lord Miles. The Captain of the ship was busy directing the fight, whilst Miles seemed to be content to watch.
Leaning over, he murmured into Markey’s ear, “I’m going to loosen the hatch as much as possible. On my count I’ll pull the door open. You go through firing, shoot that traitorous bastard as much as you can, I’ll follow and shoot the crew.”
Smythe indicated to Markey that he should check his weapons one last time, as did he, making sure that they had enough ammunition, and that the barrels were as clean as they could be given the amount of use they had seen so far.
Smythe’s arms bulged as he slowly turned the locking wheel on the hatch. Gently he pushed the lever up, praying that any noise would be lost in the general din of battle. Fortunately, it was well oiled and turned silently, the wheel stopped, locking into position. He braced himself, nodded to Markey and pulled the door open.
Markey stepped through first gun up, and firing as soon as he was in the room. Smythe followed him, his vision clouding as if he was in a tunnel, funneling in on each target in turn. Every time a target came into focus he fired, every shot hitting its mark, sending blood and bodily fluids in all directions.
He risked a glance towards Markey just in time to see a huge, plate sized fist that punch into the boy’s ribs, sending him flying into a panel, smashing it, sparks showering everyone around.
“Oh fuck.”
*
“We’re there! I can see them the other side of this door.” Von Adin, Gubbins and Lady Ashdown were the only ones left from the boarding party. All of them bore injuries of some sort, having faced a ghoul a few minutes before. Lady Ashdown was too tired to waste aether on healing them so they bore their pain with a stiff upper lip. She rolled her shoulders to loosen them, feeling a knot of tension that she knew only a hot bath and deep tissue massage would remove.
“I’m going to burn the hinges and locks off. As soon as the door falls, go in all guns blazing. Everyone in there is a valid target. I’ll engage Lord Miles, you kill everyone else. Clear?” she looked both of them straight in the eye. Reaching out, she gave their arms a gentle squeeze. My dear, dear, friends. It pained her to realise that they were facing their toughest opponent ever, and possibly facing the loss
She turned back to the hatch, Pulled deeply, pushed hard and the edges of the door glowed white hot before melting. The door clanged to the floor and they charged in, the first thing they saw was a man flying sideways from the other hatch.
*
What the fuck was that! all Smythe had seen was a grey blur, bloody mist from Markey’s mouth, and a shadow looming out of the dimly-lit shadows. Arms suddenly came out of the dark.
He dived to the deck, twisting in the air so that he landed on his back. A troll that was easily eight foot-tall, not including its top hat, stood by the hatch, recovering from the blow it had swung as he dove to the deck.
He rolled as the troll stamped down, the deck ringing with the force of the blow, the force being transmitted to his body. He snapped off three shots with his Mauser as he fumbled for his Maverick.
The troll paused, wincing as the bullets punched into its skin, then flexed and laughed as the lead pattered onto the deck, the wounds healing before his eyes.
“Fire, little man. You need fire!” Shit it’s a troll bitch. Desperately he ran through what he knew of trolls, snapshots of the Royal Society’s Anthropological Guide to Sentient and Humanoid Aether Born Creatures ran through his mind. Harder than a Dog, ability to rapidly heal, fire the only effective way to harm them.
The bitch grabbed his ankle, tensed and flung him through the air. He landed heavily, slamming into a wall before dropping to the fall, screaming as yet more ribs snapped. Blood sprayed onto the deck from his mouth as he tried desperately to breathe. Lung gone, she’s collapsed my lung. He was in trouble and he knew it.
*
Lady Ashdown screamed in fury as a troll bitch, dressed in a bright gypsy skirt, white blouse and dark green top hat threw Smythe through the air as if he were a babe. She choked back a sob as his flight was stopped first by the wall, and second by the deck.
She launched a continuous stream of aether at Lord Miles, forcing him to concentrate on keeping a good defence up, whilst drawing her own revolver and emptying it at the bitch.
She was vaguely aware of Von Adin and Gubbins killing the bridge crew. A stream of aether from Von Adin turned a trio of men into shrieking human candles, their agonised thrashing blocking their colleagues as they tried to attack the Sanction forces.
The troll barely blinked as Lady Ashdown’s bullets thwacked into her body. She halted her next stamp in order to expel the lead and then looked down at her victim, Lady Ashdown stifled a gasp as she saw Smythe raise his Maverick.
*
“You want fire bitch? I’ve got fire.” The bitch flinched away from his first shot and it ricocheted off the bulkhead behind her. Smythe lowered his aim and shot her in the groin, ramming the pistol forward until it was touching her and firing as fast as he could pull the trigger.
The bullets tore into her, releasing their demons almost simultaneously. She screamed in agony as her body struggled to rejuvenate, flames racing through her body. The heat fused her to the deck as her corpse continued to burn.
Smythe pushed with his feet, sliding away from the corpse as far as he could, grim satisfaction warring with the pain of his injuries. The last thing he saw before blacking out was Lady Ashdown pouring aether towards Lord Miles.
*
Lady Ashdown was starting to get desperate, Von Adin, Gubbins, Markey and Smythe were all down. They had managed to kill or disable every member of the bridge crew but had finally succumbed to their injuries, and she had no chance of being able to heal them.
She faced Lord Miles from bare inches away, pouring aether at him with all of her might. She knew he was powerful, but not as powerful as her when she was rested. And there rested the nub of the matter. She could not afford to do anything other than attack. If he managed to put her on the defensive, he would be able to wear her down. If she kept him on the defensive by pouring as much aether at him as she could, she might be able to wear him down.
Sweat poured down their faces both from the effort and from the heat of the attacks she was launching. Fire had always been her forte and the metal surrounding them was glowing with the heat, corpses nearby slowly starting to cook.
Her stream pulsed and she saw Lord Miles smile in anticipation. She was losing her strength, soon she would not be strong enough to keep him busy and he would kill her and then the others.
I can’t let this fuckweasel beat me, the thought that she could lose to such an arrogant, traitorous piece of scum as Lord Miles, leaving her friends to his tender mercies filled her with a fear stronger than she would have felt had it been just her.
Her stream pulsed again and Lord Miles laughed. The laugh turned into a scream, puzzlement crossing his face. She followed his gaze and saw Markey preparing to stab his foot again. A trail of blood the width of the bridge showed just how far he had to drag himself
The knife flashed down again, skewering lord Mile’s foot and making a ting as it punctured the sole of his shoes and hit the metal of the deck. He twisted the blade jerkily back and forth whilst Lord Miles screamed.
Finally it was too much, Miles’ concentration slipped and his shield failed. With one last monumental Push, Lady Ashdown blew him through the reinforced windows of the bridge, launching him like a human version of her fireballs.
She collapsed to the floor, exhausted. Reaching out she smiled in victory at Markey then everything went black.