His wife went white. The fists she made at her side trembled with suppressed rage. "You're the one who's running away," she hissed, voice thick with contempt. "Do your crewmates here even know the truth? The one you've been hiding all these years?"
His crew turned to look at him curiously. Fengel felt the blood drain away from his face. "You wouldn't," he said, voice small.
"Oh, yes. Yes, I would." She turned to the little steward, the big gunnery mistress. "Do you know even his first name?"
"Don't," said Fengel.
"What?" She put a hand to her throat in mock surprise. "You mean you haven't told them? But Ashley, why ever not?"
Silence filled the cage. Not even the Draykin moved. Distantly, he could hear the rumble of the boiling lava at the bottom of the temple.
"You horrible bitch!" screamed Ashley Fengel at the top of his lungs. He threw himself at her, hands stretched out to strangle. "You slut! You scheming, backstabbing harpy!"
"As if you don't deserve it!" she howled back, fending him off. "You started this whole mess! It's your fault your crew are dead!"
Fengel paused, shocked. Natasha threw him back. "What?" he asked. All the crew were on their feet now, eyes widening.
Natasha waved a hand. "We retook the Dawnhawk using that wreck you'd discarded. Fairly bloodlessly, too. I tied them all up and sent them overboard again as a lark." She shrugged. "Unfortunately the powder magazine or something went up. The whole thing exploded out to the northwest of the city. Wouldn't have been any survivors."
Fengel felt a cold weight settle into his belly. He turned away from his wife, his crew, even their Draykin captors, watching their interaction in alarmed confusion. The Governor's Lantern gleamed at him from its pedestal in the center of the temple. Dead, he thought mutely. They're all dead.
"You bitch!"
He glanced back to see Sarah Lome leap at his wife, ham-hock fists swinging. Natasha leapt contemptuously aside, grabbed the big woman by the head, and rammed her into the wooden bars that were at her back. The whole cage shook, and the Draykin gave a fluting cry of alarm.
The rest of his crew wasn't done. Henry Smalls leapt at her with his paring knife. She kicked him in the stomach, pulled the blade from between his fingers, and threw it at Maxim, who was raising his hands to invoke a Working at the back of the cage.
"Enough!" cried Fengel. "Back, all of you! I'll deal—"
Wooden spear hafts rammed into the back of his legs. Fengel went down to the floor of the cage. Glancing up, he saw that the Draykin were moving in to restrain him. Their captors had had enough.
He was hauled out from the cage, along with Natasha. Fengel thought about fighting...but, no. His wife, however, didn't realize the futility yet. She bit, fought, screamed.
The two of them were pulled up the stairs and out of the temple entrance. Outside, the sun was bright, heading on into mid-afternoon. The plaza was filled with the Draykin inhabitants of the city. Almost all of them were pointing and watching the conflict above them in the sky.
The Dawnhawk hung nearby. Scryn swarmed over it, hellish red light illuminating the skyship. The irregular reports he'd heard were indeed gunshots. Fengel saw the defenders fighting off the flying vermin, and it seemed that they might be winning. Dead scryn hung from the gunwales and rigging, their black ichor staining the hull. Dead pirates lay about as well, a telltale hand or arm flopped out over the rails to signify their presence.
Fengel was hauled off the top tier to a terrace on the side. Natasha was pulled behind him. Their Draykin captors forced them to kneel before two of the strange, squat statues there. Then they were tied up with their backs to the stone and wrists tied tightly together around it. They were left there while the lizard-people returned inside the temple, presumably to finish re-dressing the other crew.
Fengel watched the city, the airship, the native lizard-men below. "This is your fault," he said to Natasha after a moment.
"Go suck on a loaded musket," came her reply.
There was a weariness to her voice. Fengel looked over at his wife. She looked tired.
The two of them gazed out upon the city and the struggle up above them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mordecai roared. He lashed out with a two-handed blow, bringing his weight to bear. The blade of his cutlass hit the scryn in mid-dive, cleaving it in two. Momentum carried the corpse, and the pieces slammed into him bodily. Mordecai fought to keep his balance. The deck was slick with scryn ichor. The pieces of his last attacker fell down to add its own bile to the mess, still twitching.
He glanced up and around. Nothing else threatened him. The air was thinning as well. Against the odds, they were winning out. There were fewer of the attacking vermin around. There were also fewer of his own men and women still standing.