"Shall I throw in, Mordecai?"
Konrad watched the battle, fingers grasping, eager to join it. Mordecai shook his head. "No. Save your magics. It's too uncertain, still." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled up at the gas-bag frame above them.
Ten carefully picked pirates swung down from the far side of the gasbag, their ropes anchored up above the melee. They flew over the deck and up past their brethren, letting go at the apex of their arc to land on the Dawnhawk behind the defenders. A few stumbled, but most landed well, turning back to harry Fengel's Men from behind. Mordecai sighed in vexation, despite the success. He and Natasha had argued long over this particularly ludicrous trick.
The surprise attack threw the defenders into disarray. Bit by bit Natasha's men drove them back and forced their way onto the Dawnhawk. Natasha followed her crew over, yelling for blood at the top of her lungs. Mordecai nodded at Konrad and drew his own blade; it was time.
Calmly, he descended to the main deck and made his way over to the press. "Out of the way, you laggards," he roared. Even in their zeal, the crew obeyed him. Those closest opened up a path. Mordecai leapt up onto the gunwales, then over to the other ship. For a moment he had the brief sensation of being weightless, unsupported by anything at all as he moved through space with only the momentum of his jump. His boot touched onto the Dawnhawk's railing and Mordecai clambered down to the deck, stepping onto the familiar exhaust-pipes and the polished wood of the ship herself.
Pandemonium reigned. Natasha's pirates drove Fengel's Men back, individual fights spreading out across the length and breadth of the airship. They gained ground, and quickly. Something struck Mordecai as odd; resistance was fierce, but the fight was going easier than he and Natasha had expected. Had his trick with the topmen been that surprising? No. Fengel's Men were wounded, many sported fresh bandages and cuts across their faces, and semi-fresh ichors stained the deck. They had been in a fight recently.
All the better, then. Mordecai dove into the fray. A gap-toothed pirate appeared before him with a cutlass. Mordecai contemptuously parried a blow and gutted him as he pushed past. Then a short woman with boarding axe hacked at him. He ducked it and ran her through.
Something exploded near his head. The charm in his ear warmed to almost scorching, and he felt the faint pressure as the pistol ball deflected away. Mordecai turned to face an unfamiliar woman with a scar across her lips. She stared at him, the flintlock pistol in her hands trailing smoke from its barrel. Mordecai smiled contemptuously and raised his sword.
He broke out in a cold sweat. In seconds he was soaked, teeth chattering in a biting chill that stole the breath from his lungs and the warmth from his skin. As he watched, hoarfrost broke out over his sword arm where his shirt was damp all the way through, growing with each passing moment until his arm and his ribs were coated with ice. He fell to his knees under its weight, panting, now desperate for water. He fought to lift his weapon back to a defensive stance.
A man in a half-cloak with dark, shoulder-length hair appeared through the melee a short distance away. His blew out over his cupped hands, guiding his breath at Mordecai. It was Fengel's aetherite, Maxim.
Mordecai felt a wild current of unaccustomed fear. He'd yet to find his equal with a blade. And the charm in his ear kept his opponents from equalizing things with a gun. But against the Workings of an aetherite he had nothing. When pressed an aetherite could conjure hungry and living fire, turn your weapons to rust and your friends into enemies. Only their extreme reticence at expending their power balanced this; Worked magic was hard to come by even for an aetherite, and they paid for each hex dearly.
Maxim grew red in the face as if winded, and his skin were chapped by the cold. Still he blew, and Mordecai's ears ached with the bite of a sorcerous wind that forced the sweat from his pores and then froze it in place. The eyes of the other man were dancing; he was going to kill the infamous Mordecai Wright.
Liquid light splashed across Maxim. The aetherite recoiled with a yell. Konrad stood a short distance away, hands wrapped around a luminous orb that seeped between his fingers. Its spill landed on the deck, spattering and sizzling. Natasha's foreign navigator swung his fists out at Fengel's aetherite, casting the droplets in a luminescent spray.
Maxim cursed and fell back again. His clothing smoldered where the liquid light touched it, the fabric abruptly rotting away. He brought up his wind-burned hands and clapped them once at his rival. Konrad flinched, then yelled as those closest to him, both friend and foe, fell on him in screaming, inchoate rage.
Mordecai left the aetherites to their duel. At worst they would keep each other occupied. And who knew? Maybe Konrad would come out on top, kill his opponent, and turn his powers to help the raid.