The Clockhaven Chronicles (1st Ed): Captive Sky, Truant Heart

Chapter 8

                                                              8

Byron found no satisfaction in taking men’s lives, but if it meant bringing him closer to his objective, it would be done. He marveled at their tenacity, each man fighting the tide of death as he besieged their ranks and the deck with nearly 600 rounds a minute. Their sacrifice, however feeble, incited recollections of past glories; pitched moments forgotten to the ages, but not to him. Let them seek the forlorn hope as he had. These recollections fed his movements. He cranked hard upon the wooden handled lever, dragging the six rotating barrels up and down the forecastle. Twisted, ravaged, ruined remains lay cast about the bloodstained and splintered deck, their horror-stricken faces forever etched in his perfect memory.

   Wisps of smoke slid into the night from the ring of barrels. Byron released the hand crank of the Gatling gun, surveying the destruction he had wrought. Well done, but there is much left to do. The loader, shuffling through mounded spent casings, replaced the empty magazine with a fresh one. “Take over,” Byron instructed him. Climbing from the forward well of the starboard launch, he made his way across to the Osprey’s main deck. Below he could see the faint phosphorescent gleam of whitecaps.

   A man, by appearance a stoker from the Margueritte, with a crudely bandaged arm hailed him.

   “We have the engine room,” he said. “That daft Irish engineer, Muldoon, says he don’t mind who runs the ship, just so they remember the engines are his domain,” he added, wincing as he adjusted the bandage. “Also, his ‘lordship’ is unhappy right now. Says us apes better stop mucking about. May have to jettison the starboard outrigger. Something wrong with the lifters.”

   The Tin Man nodded when the man concluded his report. “Get to the bridge, tell them to lower sails, steer due west, ahead two-thirds, and inform the engineer that repairs are underway.” With a quick acknowledgement, the man scurried off to deliver the messages.

   Byron reflected a moment. The pirate crew’s resistance had been effectively crushed. They held the bulk of the Osprey, and for the present, he was in command. The pilot was still at large, though there was the possibility he had been killed in the fighting. That, however, would be far too convenient, and it would run against Byron’s usual fortune.

   As to the lift-ship, the Osprey had been built as an outer-realm patrol gunboat able to traverse both sea and sky. She was old, older than he was…which said something. Considering her age and general lack of upkeep, he was not prepared to test the lift-ship’s structural or watertight integrity in a forced landing. At least, not while he was still on board.

   Byron returned to the access hatch. After restoring the Alberns, he returned to the task at hand: locating the pilot and retrieving his watch. He was in motion when a thought struck him. I dispatched three men to guard the portside launch. If they still hold it, the pilot will be in what remains of the forecastle…if not, what I seek will have the launch. Quickly Byron moved from the blood-slicked deck to the port gunwale, so as to peer between the lift-ship and its outrigger.

   In that moment, he saw Sky and the pilot. They were aboard the launch, hardly visible through the screen of pirates seizing the craft. It was a desperate situation. If Byron had any hope of catching the pilot, now was the moment to intervene. Seeing an opportunity, he leapt to the gangway, drew the cutlass, and readied a Webley.

...tick-tock…

   The Tin Man took careful aim. The Webley barked. The pirate holding the girl died in an instant, shot through the heart. Calmly thumbing back the hammer, he fired again and another man died. He crossed the gangway. Three more shots…three more dead men. Only the pilot remained.

   Seeing Byron’s advance, the pilot reached down, pulling Sky to her feet. He held her in front of him as a shield. “Drop the gun, Thayer!” he commanded.

   Byron brought the Webley to his chest, letting it fall into the holster. 

   “Satisfactory?” he asked.

   Drop-stepping into the launch, he slid into a profile stance, revealing as little of himself to the pilot as possible. Whether the man was armed with a pistol was yet to be determined. Byron had always felt a deep sense of annoyance at being shot and it was certainly not a good time to be incapacitated. His blade cut the air between them, singing a decisive greeting.

   Sky stood motionless against the tight embrace of her captor. She felt his heartbeat quicken in time with her own at the approach of the Tin Man.

    “Not any closer, Thayer! I mean to kill her if you proceed. Now toss the cutlass away and take a seat.” He punctuated the instructions by bringing the sharpened back edge of the saber to Sky’s throat. “We have an appointment to keep at the Tyrellion gate… An old friend wants to reminisce.”

...tick-tock…

   Byron gave a knowing but grim smile in reply. So, Benjamin was behind this. His posture relaxed while he carefully assessed his surroundings and the situation. It was a cramped fighting space. There were many obstructions, made worse by the debris of battle. Once engaged it would be victory or death. That suited him.

   The pilot grew anxious at his inaction and pressed further, “Yes, Mr. Wringham sends his regards and his apologies. Levasseur’s conduct was…most unbecoming.” The pilot sniffed.

   Byron’s eyes narrowed, his mind rapidly plotting his next series of moves. “Yes, well, he had his shot, hadn’t he?”

   The pilot tensed; something was amiss. The Tin Man had not so much as demonstrated an understanding of his initial threat or instructions. He had the watch in his possession; the Tin Man should be following his orders. Sweat began to bead at his receding hairline. He was becoming cognizant of the fatigue in his joints and muscles from the exertions spent on Levasseur, the fight to the launch, and now this.

   “I mean it, Thayer,” The pilot tapped Sky’s chest with the blade of his saber. “Do as I’ve commanded or the girl will suffer for your insubordination.”

   Byron’s lips pulled into a curious grin; his somber grey eye landing on Sky. “You shouldn’t tangle with the hungry ones. They’ll bite any hand put out to them.” Sky, taking Byron’s meaning, sank her teeth into the pilot’s exposed forearm, then lurched forward exploiting his surprise.

...tick-tock…

   With the girl out of the way, Byron lunged forward, carrying himself over Sky and full into the pilot.