Stephen Hunt - Jack Cloudie

The first line of crossbow-wielding brutes had reloaded and they put a third volley into the captain of marines, enough of them in the fight now to keep up an almost constant barrage of independent fire.

Commodore Black and Westwick were halfway down the steps of the caliph’s cell when the door slammed behind them, their view of the uneven stand-off restricted to their angle of sight through the viewing gallery window. Little flecks of blood struck the glass in between each roar of Jackelian defiance from outside.

There was a thump against the glass as a dying beyrog was shoved up against it, another thump as the beast’s twin appeared on the right, and then in the middle, Henry Tempest appeared, a human pin cushion, juddering and twitching with each fresh bolt finding its mark in his spine. ‘Perishing — little — sand — monkeys.’

All three bodies slumped off the glass leaving trails of blood. They could hear the feral roars of the enemy’s victory through the locked cell door.

‘We only have as long as it takes them to key open that wicked door,’ said the commodore, moving to pull the cables out of the prone figure’s body.

‘Poor Henry. You died as you were designed to, as you were fated to by your creators.’ Westwick struggled with the visorless helmet, lifting it off the prisoner’s head to reveal the ageless features that could be seen stamped on the face of any Cassarabian coin. The Caliph Eternal . The rudimentary machines around him whined in protest as their charge was freed.

‘Aye now, let’s see what their precious ruler of rulers is good for.’

The caliph was still lying down, eyes blinking against the light and groggy from being pulled from whatever sustenance they had been pumping into him to keep him unconscious.

‘Up with you, lad,’ urged the commodore. ‘You’ve two guardian angels to thank for your wake-up call.’

‘Two Jackelians?’ coughed the ruler. ‘The almighty of almighty’s sense of humour has not improved for the better, then.’

There was a banging at the top of the gallery as the door was unlocked and opened.

‘And neither has the sight of the grand vizier and my surplus flesh brother.’

They turned to see the caliph’s twin in the doorway, with a thin-faced man the commodore took to be the emperor’s chief of ministers. Commodore Black had his pistol out and pointed to the back of the caliph’s head. ‘How long can your impostor survive without the blood of the Caliph Eternal, and still pull off his royal act?’

‘Quite long enough for Akil Jaber Issman to abdicate in my favour,’ said the grand vizier. ‘After it is miraculously discovered that my veins also flow with the blood of Ben Issman.’

‘A miracle indeed,’ said the true caliph. ‘The kind the order of womb mages specializes in.’

‘You have slept through the start of a glorious war,’ said the grand vizier. ‘The sort of war your recently departed flesh father would have loved to have masterminded, little enculi. Plunder and land enough to make sure the only question the empire’s generals and admirals and sultans ask is, “How much of what we take is mine?” Their loyalty has been well purchased.’

‘Put your gun down,’ Westwick ordered the commodore. ‘They know you’re bluffing.’

‘I’m not bluffing, lass.’

Westwick raised her own pistol, pointing it at the commodore’s head. ‘I gave you an order, Jared Black.’

‘Ah, well here’s the thing,’ said the commodore. ‘I’m not quite ready to take my mortal orders from a Pasdaran double agent. Why do you think the State Protection Board really sent me along with you, lass? They’ve had their doubts about the Cassarabian section for a long time. I didn’t even need the proof of us ending up here to save the caliph rather than inside their wicked celgas rooms where we were meant to be — the board knew that the Sect of Jabal was the recognition word being used by the Pasdaran cell inside the Kingdom. The same word you traded with my old friend back in the safe house at Sharmata Sarl to let her know you were one of them.’

The grand vizier laughed from the top of the stairs, his beasts in guardsmen leathers snarling in front of him. ‘Ah, the Pasdaran. They are like the knotweed that strangles a garden. So hard to pull out, although heaven knows I have tried. I find it strangely reassuring that the Kingdom has much the same problem with them.’

‘Unless your parliament has ordered my assassination,’ said the true caliph, ‘I would rather everyone put their guns down.’

‘This is war, your excellency,’ said the commodore. ‘That makes this medals, not murder.’

‘Not my war, Jackelian.’

‘Put your weapons down,’ barked the grand vizier. ‘Who knows, perhaps I will let you live a while longer.’

The commodore sighed and slowly lowered his gun. ‘Well, there it is then, curse my unlucky stars. I suspect I will come to regret this.’

The grand vizier’s beasts in guardsmen’s uniforms swept down the steps towards the caliph and his two would-be rescuers. ‘Bind their hands and gag the caliph’s mouth. We don’t want the beyrogs getting confused by contradictory orders. So, the Jackelian State Protection Board has taken an interest in the methods for floating my airships? I shall have to involve you all in the process, then.’ His cruel laugh cut across the chamber. ‘I shall involve you very directly. Since you have come such a long way, it is the least I can do.’

There was a lurch as the Iron Partridge pulled violently up, the deck slanting and the pilot on the elevator station fighting his rapidly rotating wheel as the upper and lower lifting chambers near-instantly doubled the amount of gas in their cells. Jack could hear the drone of the engine cars, a nasal complaining whine from the rotors as they struggled to match the viciously strong pull of their transmission belts. Alarms were sounding throughout the airship; anything not tied down was rolling and breaking now, from the pots and pans that belonged to the ship’s slushy, to the far more dangerous shells that hadn’t been tied down by the gunners.

‘Vent ballast water tanks, rear only,’ barked Jericho. ‘I want level yaw for m’broadside when we cut their centre.’

Jack clutched onto the side of the pipes station as the Iron Partridge began to level out. Hold , he begged the gas cells. Just hold on a bit longer without bursting. Circle, but we’re rising fast. The pit of his stomach was falling towards his feet.

‘Hold us regular — hold us regular,’ urged Jericho, his eyes fixed on the view outside the bridge. ‘Quarter gunners, ready cannon hoods for movement.’

There was a brief moment of silence, the sense that they were suspended in time as well as the dark night sky, then Jericho yelled, ‘ Fire! ’ and the airship shook with fury. Even with their cannons rail-mounted on turntables, pneumatic shock absorbers cushioning the recoil, Jack could feel every inch of the anger of the Iron Partridge ’s guns through the shaking decks.

From a porthole Jack caught a fleeting glimpse of two of the enemy pathfinder vessels which had been caught unawares by the massive ironclad’s sudden turn of speed and lift. The enemy’s gun decks had been left completely mangled, un discharged ordnance detonating, their crew in air masks just visible in the light of the fires desperately trying to seal rubber hoods that had been torn to shreds. Such carnage. Men pulling off the remains of their cannons from the remains of their friends. Fires and death and burning. Sailors no different from us trying to cope with it. When will it be our turn?

Jack marked the wheeling draks and their guardsmen riders, like vultures rather than hawks, closing in to finish off the carcasses this giant iron beast had left in her wake. He only had a second to stare in astonishment at the devastation of their cannonade.