"Why, Maxim," said Fengel with a grin. "We're pirates. We're going to steal something." And we'll show that drunken wench a thing or two.
Fengel's mood spread throughout the ship like a drop of oil on a calm pool of water. Those crew closest to the helm moved with renewed confidence and enthusiasm. The lingering, hang-dog depression over their circumstances faded. Those he'd heard complaining about the surrender quieted, bending to their tasks more readily. In short order the ship was alive again and bustling.
Fengel flew them as hard and fast as they would go, aimed dead ahead for the cloudy horizon, where the Stormwall bordered the strange eastern shore of the Yulan. Their speed wasn't much. The Copper Queen lacked skysails, and even if it did they'd never catch the Dawnhawk now; with their stores, Natasha could simply outrun them. So instead he kept them pointed dead east at the Stormwall. Fengel trusted to the weak propellers of the airship and caught the wind as best he could.
The sun rose to mid-morning, then high overhead at noon, before sinking back down again in the mid-afternoon. Their stores of fuel grew smaller. Maxim returned and insisted on taking the helm again. Fengel reluctantly let him, moving down onto the deck and eyeing the state of the ship. He called for more anchorage to the gas-bag frame and reinforcements to weak sections of railing. Several times he came across Miss Stone carrying a long iron gaff-pole. Ryan Gae and the Mechanist moved with her, making minor repairs to the steering systems she'd changed to get them all aboard. Fengel wasn't certain who led whom; Miss Stone seemed just as canny and far more confident than the young Brother of the Cog she'd found.
Fengel made certain to compliment her. His opinion of the little waif only seemed to rise. She was constantly pulling them from one dire problem or another on this voyage. The only oddity was her bashfulness whenever he approached her. This time she listened to him, blushed furiously, and then scurried off to see to a pulley assembly, her crewmates following after her in confusion. Ah well. She'll relax at some point.
When he was sure that things were running smoothly, Fengel descended to the kitchens for a bit of lunch. Not much was to be had, aside from a haunch of salt pork and wormy ship's biscuit. But it would suffice. He took his meager meal up to the bow and watched as the churning Stormwall grew closer. Faster. We need to go faster. The sun sank into late afternoon just as tall rocky islets appeared in the distance, the precursor to the shores of the Yulan. Their journey was almost over; they had reached the far continent.
The Stormwall was aptly named. It was just like he remembered; a roiling, churning cloudbank that stretched along the coastline as far as he could see. It towered, the upper end rising out of sight where lightning crackled in its reaches. The only consistent point of weakness was Breachtown, more than a day's journey north. A few other places were rumored, like the river mouth they'd sought. Unlike the Maelstrom though, this storm was real. Already its winds brushed at his hair and jolted the airship.
Fengel returned to his post at the rear of the ship and its helm. Lucian climbed up to stand beside him. They watched in silence as they approached the churning black wall dead ahead. "That doesn't look pleasant," said his first mate.
"That it does not," replied Fengel. He smiled. They'd all heard the rumors of the Stormwall, and seen it from afar. But this was the first time they were going to enter it. There might be the chance that they could fly over it. He'd never heard of anyone trying it though, and with the furious bolts shooting through the heights, he had no intention of trying to. Fire was a sky-pirate's greatest fear; the light-air gas was very, very flammable.
So, straight through it was. I will pull this off. That treasure's mine. It wasn't so much even his debt anymore. He just didn't want Natasha to get it.
His first mate stared at the Stormwall. "You know, there is entirely too much bad weather in this region."
Fengel smiled. "That's why no one ever comes out here."
They quieted. Maxim kept their course true and they flew at the continent and its storm. Beneath them the surface of the sea grew choppy and foamy. The strong breeze grew into a buffeting wind. The airship moved past the islets and now he spied the sand of the coastline, a thin, grey stretch of land lashed by rain. Past that everything was occluded by the rage of the storm.
Lucian called for all hands to stations. The pirates scurried about, binding themselves to the gunwales and ratlines. Hatches were battened down and loose gear stowed as best it could be. Then the storm was upon them.
It towered, a violent wall. Rain lashed the deck and drummed the gas-bag frame. The sun disappeared, blotted out by churning clouds. Beneath them the deck heaved and shook, swaying like a drunkard about to collapse. Lucian shouted something at their navigator. Fengel could not hear him, and neither could Maxim from the shake of his head. The first mate grabbed his half-cloak and thrust out a hand clutching a small compass. The needle swung back and forth, rocking its way clockwise. The storm was trying to turn them around.