His arms felt like wood. The attack seemed to go on forever. Discipline amongst the crew dissolved the moment the first screaming sky-beast fell upon them. Then it was pure survival, blade and pistol at hand. Mordecai had tried to rally some of the crew together. Even now, though, he couldn't say if it had been successful. Fighting the scryn was like fighting an ocean— a hissing, screeching ocean that spit poison. Those crew he'd called together fell apart, and soon enough Mordecai was isolated, worried about his own survival.
Now the struggle thinned. "To me!" he called. "Everyone to me!" He took a swipe at a passing scryn, sent it tumbling to the deck with an outraged scream.
One by one the crew heard his call and came to him. Those still standing, at least. After a few more minutes of furious combat, the last of the scryn flit overboard to avoid them. Mordecai leaned on his sword, panting. A glance around told him that the crew were similarly exhausted. Some stared numbly at the devastation around them. Others just stood there.
Time to take control again. Mordecai raised his sword up high and shouted victoriously. Stunned out of their weariness, others took up the cry in ragged twos and threes. Mordecai let them feel their victory, then lowered his blade and examined the carnage on the deck.
The Dawnhawk was a mess. Dead scryn lay everywhere. Their stinking ichors stained the wood of the deck, the rails, even the ratlines and cables leading up to the gasbag. Reavers lay among them, groaning, gasping, or dead. A quick headcount revealed that they were at less than half their number, and none of those on their feet were unmarred or unwounded.
Mordecai called for order and picked a few likely faces out from the crowd. "Reaver Jane," he called. "Konrad." The two pirates looked up and made their way over. "Start getting people to clean up this mess. Get the Mechanist up here. Those propeller linkages look damaged, and we're not going anywhere without them in working order." Konrad grunted and turned away. Reaver Jane gave him an odd look.
"What about the wounded...Captain?" she asked.
He didn't like the tone in her voice. Jane had been staunchly loyal to Natasha. Would she give him problems now?
"See to them," he said. "Get them taken below and checked out." He turned away to give other orders.
The propeller systems turned out to be damaged indeed. Something had snapped a number of the linkage chains connecting the steam engines to the propellers at the rear of the ship. A stray pistol ball, cutlass strike, or enraged scryn, it didn't matter; they were stuck where they drifted for the moment. Other problems made themselves known. The gasbag frame had been torn, and one of the light-air gas cells was gushing its stinking contents down over the deck. It had to contend with the stench of dead scryn for most sickening odor on the ship, but Mordecai ordered it seen to immediately. An errant spark in the wrong place could be the doom of them all.
There was something else as well. Reaver Jane wasn't the only malcontent. As they recovered from the shock of the attack and their weariness, Mordecai saw more dark glances, heard more unhappy muttering. His hold on the crew wasn't as strong as he'd thought. They'd been unhappy with Natasha, yes. But they hadn't wanted to overthrow her, not really. He'd engineered the Crewman's Vote to take advantage of their emotions. Now though, they were having second thoughts.
Mordecai kept the crew moving, busy, focused on leaving. He was strict, though he used a lighter hand than he usually would. It wouldn't do have them resent him at the moment.
"Mordecai...I mean Captain!"
He looked up to see one of the Wiley brothers waving at him from the starboard rails. Mordecai didn't remember his name. But it didn't matter. Frowning, he sauntered over to the man.
"What?" he asked, putting a slight edge to his voice.
"Down there! It's Captain— I mean Mrs. Blackheart."
Mordecai gave him an ugly look, then peered over the side.
The Draykin still filled the plaza below. Most had moved back from below the Dawnhawk, avoiding the fleeing and falling scryn. Up on the temple just beneath them, a clutch of their warriors stood, spears in hand. They watched the airship above them. Now and again, though, one of them shot a glance toward a pair of humans tied to the statues on the terrace below.
Both of the captives were almost naked, wearing little more than scraps. Yet Mordecai knew them instantly. Natasha, he could pick out at a three hundred yards, in the night, probably even blindfolded. And there was only one man alive who would dress like a savage, yet still insist on his hat and that ridiculous monocle. Captain Fengel.
Tied up and held by lizard-pygmies, the two were quarrelling. Mordecai wasn't even remotely surprised. What did surprise him, though, was that Natasha was still alive.