Devon Monk - Tin Swift

Hink didn’t try climbing. Once the nets reached horizontal, he knew he could mostly crawl his way in.

Bullets cracked through the smoke and fire, and another set of cannon blasts broke the mountain into echoes. Hink held on, waiting for the nets to go horizontal, smoke digging tears out of his eyes.

Then the Swift shook like a wet dog. She’d been hit. Hink could feel the pain of it in his chest as clearly as if he had been shot. So clearly that he looked down at his shirt to make sure he hadn’t taken a bullet.

He was whole, but the Swift was not. The Devil’s Nine must have doused the fire Seldom had started in her. And now her cannons were about to blast the Swift into brittle bits.

A voice yelled out over the noise of fans and winds. “Cage!” the voice boomed. Not one of his crew, and not coming from the Swift . No, that voice was coming from somewhere below them.

Hink looked down.

He hadn’t expected an angel. He didn’t get one. Nope, all he got was a demon.

The Devil’s Nine hovered beneath them, every damn gun, cannon, and harpoon on that ship aimed their way.

“Marshal Cage. Come aboard, or we’ll fire.”

They wanted him.

They didn’t want his ship. They didn’t want his crew or Cedar Hunt and his brother. They didn’t want Rose. And if they gunned the Swift out of the sky they’d all die.

He had to buy them time. He had to buy Rose a chance at seeing the skies again with her own wings.

“Take care of her,” he whispered to the Swift .

“Marshal Cage!” the amplified voice from below yelled out again. “Surrender!”

Hink didn’t intend to surrender. Not his ship. Not his crew and passengers. Not Rose.

He twisted his head and looked down at the Devil’s Nine . He’d hit her nets if he dropped now.

“Captain!” Cedar yelled.

Hink looked up at him. “Get them the hell out of here!”

Then he pushed off of the net and spread wide so he could catch at the Devil’s ropes and rigging.

He hit her envelope with all the grace of a drunk knocked sprawling to a barroom floor. Instinct curled his hands, arms, legs around anything he could catch hold to.

A long, sickening slide made him wish he’d taken up a god to pray to, and then he stopped, the ropes pulling taut.

He was still on the Devil’s Nine , though he’d slid down the envelope so that he was dangling by both arms off the side. No graceful way out of this. He figured he had about a minute and a half before the captain tipped the Nine and he spilled brains all over the hills.

Of all the places he’d thought he would breathe his last, it certainly wasn’t on these damn rocks or on somebody else’s damn ship.

Hot, sharp pain cut through his arm, bad enough that he was sure the bone had broken.

But the Swift shot into the sky, barely clearing the mountain range, pulling up with a beautiful scream. He couldn’t make out anyone on board, but he was glad they’d had the sense in their skulls to get his ship out of danger while they had the chance.

The ropes tugged. And four men came scrambling over the netting like spiders over webs. Fast. On hands and feet. Hungry for the kill.

Death or capture? Hink held on. So long as there was a chance of breathing left to him, he intended to take it.

The men caught up to him at once. One of them pressed a cloth over his face, while the two others caught his arms. The last one punched a fist in his bleeding leg.

Hink yelled, but never heard the end of it, what with the passing out he was intent upon.

He came in and out of consciousness as he was harnessed, carried, lowered, then dropped to a solid surface. Just glimpses of moments in which he should have been fighting, or planning an escape, and instead couldn’t do much more than take in a lungful of air before going black again.

But when someone slapped him around and stuck smelling salts up his nose, he came right on up out of his terrifying slumber.

Swinging a punch.

But his arms were tied up over his head. His feet were spread wide and tied up too. Mouth gagged. Chest strapped down. Trussed like a pig, but on his feet, which wasn’t much good, as the pain of being unable to take the weight off his bad leg was enough to drench him in a hard sweat.

He was inside a ship. Not the Swift . From the smoke and the grind of the engine, he knew it was the Devil’s Nine .

Which probably meant Alabaster Saint was nearby.

What he couldn’t figure was why the Saint hadn’t already skinned and roasted him.

“Awake, Mr. Cage?” a man’s cultured voice asked. Not Alabaster. “You will be pleased to know your ship is out of range. We could have decimated her, but she is of very little interest to us.”

Hink knew that voice. But the pain, and whatever extra breaks and contusions the crew had decided to treat him to while he was unconscious, teased the memory from him.

On top of that, the pain in his chest he’d felt when the Swift got hit was still gnawing away, burning hard as if his skin were on fire. His broken arm throbbed dully.

No use trying to talk. The gag held his tongue in place. So he waited.

Finally, the speaker strolled out in front of him.

Neat, thin, dark hair combed back and not a wrinkle in his sharp uniform. Lieutenant Foster, Alabaster’s right hand.

“We both knew this day would come, Mr. Cage. My apologies for the limited degree of my hospitality. If it were up to me, I’d be breaking your bones, one by one. But the general has given me strict orders to bring you to him whole. So he can give you a…proper welcome. And you know I am a man who always follows orders.”

Cedar hauled himself into the Swift . He had watched Captain Hink drop to the ship below. The captain hadn’t let go expecting to die, nor had he been shaken off. No, the captain had jumped.

Fool. The ship was filled with strangework—Cedar could smell it, could taste the oil and sour of their sweat on the back of his tongue.

Hink may have thought he’d survive the fall, but he had to have known he’d never survive if they captured him.

The crew was struggling to pull the Swift up and over the edge of the mountain. The ship had taken a hit from the other airship and was listing, struggling to hold a true heading. Coupled with the angle and the speed, the mountain range was coming up so close that Cedar would be able to reach out a hand and touch the stones in a minute or two. That is if they didn’t just plow into it.

“Up, damn you, up, up!” Guffin yelled.

Seldom, at the wheel, never flinched or hesitated. He angled that ship up the edge of the peaks, cutting so close that the netting where Hink had just been clinging a moment before caught on the outcropping of brush and rocks.

“Net hung!” Cedar yelled.

Seldom didn’t change course. The trawling arm snapped in two, as the Swift screamed to the sky.

Leaving the captain. Leaving the Devil’s Nine behind.

“Did he make it?” Guffin yelled out. “Captain. Did you make it?”

Cedar stood in the door and turned, one hand clamped tight on the overhead bar.

“He jumped.” Then Cedar saw Wil curled in the corner, wedged between some crates that were strapped down so he wouldn’t slide across the floor. He looked sick.

“What the blazes?” Guffin rushed to the window and looked down. Cedar wasn’t sure he could see anything through the smoke and the speed of their ascent.

“Did you see him land?” Guffin asked. “Did you see him hit?”

“He landed on the other ship. Grabbed hold of the rope.” Cedar crossed to Wil, knelt, and ran his hands over him. No blood. He wasn’t hurt.