Finally, they caught up. The Dawnhawk had performed a full circuit of the valley, back to where it had started on the west-most cliff, only a dozen feet above the canopy. But now Natasha's Reavers were only a hundred yards away. Fengel made to turn her west. Natasha ordered the cannon fired across their bow. The report was thunderous, and made the whole Queen groan and creak alarmingly. Yet the message was clearly understood.
Mordecai moved back to the helm, his place for the moment. He ordered the crew armed and ready for boarding. Hooks and grapnels were brought out. A barrel of powder was brought up from the magazine for those with muskets and pistols. Natasha moved to the starboard rails, ready to lead the action, hungry for it.
The defenders did what they could. Muskets were brought out and potshots fired, doing little damage. Lines were formed to repel the assailants. Mordecai saw Lucian striding back and forth, shouting orders and calling for discipline. But nowhere did he see the tricorn hat or shining monocle of their captain.
Fifty yards left. Then forty, then thirty. The grapnels were thrown and muskets fired. Mordecai watched a number of his men fall. Natasha herself flinched aside as a ball cut her cheek. The losses were more than acceptable.
The airships ran together with a crunch.
Natasha howled a bloodthirsty cry and leapt over the gunwales. Her men followed her, blades in hand and murder on their minds. Even the white ape went, leaping over to the Dawnhawk's gas-bag. Fengel's crew were prepared, though. Muskets fired at point blank range. Boarding axes hacked at the ropes while their mates covered them from above.
There was no clever distraction this time, no crewmen waiting to swing across and catch the defenders from the rear. It was a struggle in the old way, with blood staining both decks and sulfurous gun smoke tainting the air. The defenders slew a few of the boarders, those not quick enough or skilled enough to hold their own against so many on so many sides. Natasha though, held her own.
The piratess hacked about her with reckless abandon, anger giving her the ferocity she needed. Natasha wasn't nearly as skilled as Mordecai, but she was no one to ignore. She slashed with her cutlass back and forth, and when someone tried for her blind spot, she calmly drew a pistol and fired it.
Reaver Jane dropped down beside her. The skinny woman was a wire-whip, deadly and vicious with her long knives. Between the two of them, they formed a bridgehead that allowed another crewman to come over. Bit by bit, they made the boarding.
Mordecai took another look at the deck. He didn't see the giant gunnery mistress, Sarah Lome. Nor did he see Captain Fengel, or the ever-present Henry Smalls. Where in the Realms are they?
He had no more time to worry about it. The pressure was mounting on Natasha. It was time for him to join the fray.
Mordecai moved to the press of yelling men and women on their side of the struggle, and with curses and back-handed blows, made his way to the front. He drew his cutlass and went over, fighting beside Natasha, Reaver Jane, and three others.
It felt good to wield his sword. The fight against the white apes had been too surprising and desperate to enjoy. There was also a catharsis to be had. The foes before him now had wronged him. They had stolen his ship, shamed him before his crew and captain. It felt good to lay them out.
Mordecai hacked forward into the face of the man before him. His opponent fought in the new style, and brought an off-hand dagger up to block the blow. Mordecai ignored the sword he held; the quarters were too close for his opponent to really use both. He pressed forward, sliding the blade back and ramming the man in the face with the basket hilt of his own blade. Cartilage crunched and blood flew on the air. His opponent screamed as his nose was broken, pulling instinctively back and giving up more room.
Using the time and space just bought, Mordecai drew the blade back sideways, across the bare neck of a man fighting Natasha. Blood sprayed from a cut artery. Mordecai ignored it, turning back to his original foe and lunging into the now-open space, running him through. The man gasped and fell to the deck. Mordecai freed his blade and moved on.
Mordecai slew efficiently, workmanlike. Pressed at the back by the others on his crew, he scythed through the defenders with deadly efficiency. A few blades licked out at him, a few lucky blows were struck. It was inevitable, with quarters so close and the fighting so furious. But nothing was lethal or even really much of an inconvenience. Pistols were fired at him, but the charm in his ear warmed and the bullets whizzed past, deflected by its aether-wrought magic.
The press cleared. The defenders fell back and spread out, no longer united, two-dozen individual duels springing up as they fought for their lives. Mordecai moved to a free part of the deck and took a moment to search for the leaders. Fengel, Lome, Smalls, Maxim: none of them did he see about the deck. Only Lucian, at the far end of the ship now, barking out commands and holding his own against two other men.