A Children's Tale Read online

  Moira winked at Angela, then returned her attention to the matter at hand. "So Cap'n, how'd ya be knowin' about the trap? Ya never be sayin' ya met him afore." Moira asked.

  "Correct, I have not. When you fight someone, you tend to learn a bit of their habits. Through that, a bit of themselves. He has no finesse. He's a rough brute at best. He may be a nobleman by birth, but by nature he's a base cad and a poor example of one at that." Hunter approached the corner of a building, glancing quickly around for any sign of ambush. Satisfied there was none, he motioned for the other two to follow. "This way is clear." Hunter paused with a sigh and turned. "Oh, pray tell, what is it Angela?"

  Angela, who was quite literally, ever so slightly bouncing up and down on her hind paws, had a slight grin on her lupine features and a bright glint of excitement in her eyes. It was the look of any ten year old who had just discovered something important that no one else had yet learned. For a ten year old girl, the motion was distracting. In a ten year old werewolf girl, it was just short of disturbing.

  "I think I'm knowin' ... pardon ... I know ... where Miles is! Right now! Right, right now!"

  Both Moira and Hunter stopped dead in their tracks. "What? Where? Are we headed in the right direction?"

  "Almost! A building more to the right and we'll be headed right for them! I can hear him yellin' in the trees."

  Hunter had already changed his course to head in the direction Angela pointed. He called over his shoulder. "What else do you hear? Spare nothing, girl!"

  The trio turned and raced along the cold, dirt path between mud-brick buildings, now scarred by bullets and blood stains. Angela maintained a running account of what sounds she heard.

  "Clicking sounds. It's like a wheel. Now Miles is yelling again. Someone just yelled in pain." Her voice dropped an octave, an ugly feral snarl crept into her voice. "They're yelling at him again. Sayin' they're likely to hit him."

  "Angela, concentrate."

  She took two deep breaths. Slowly she regained her composure, though her anger still bubbled just beneath the surface of her thin calm. "Yes, Sirrah. I hear water and a whistle."

  Moira cast a quick glance over at Angela while they ran. "A whistle? Like a shrill thing? Or be it a teakettle?"

  Angela jumped over a forgotten bundle of ram fur with a single leap, then listened carefully again. "Teakettle."

  "Cor blimey! They be at the longskiffs!"

  "Steady, we'll get there."

  Drawn to the noise of conversation, two mercenaries appeared with pistols drawn. One was dressed in gray trousers with a ragged cuff, a worn leather belt around his waist, a white shirt and an old brown vest. A day's worth of iron-gray stubble that matched his hair, adorned his face and chin. The other was dressed in a similar fashion: brown trousers instead of gray, no vest and and a malnourished, thin, reddish mustache instead of stubble. Both wore old black leather sailor's shoes that had seen better days. Their attitudes and swagger made it obvious they did not consider the badly wounded Captain Hunter, crouching Angela, or Moira a threat.

  "Well 'ere now. 'ello me dear poppets." Said the one on the right.

  "We have no time for this, gentlemen. Stand aside." Captain Hunter warned the duo.

  he one to Hunter's left giggled, very much like a young girl at play. A normal sound for a child. For an adult, it was very unsettling to hear. "Oh 'e sounds so purty. Me mate 'ere think ye more than enough time fer us, dearest!"

  Hunter did not blink. He set his jaw, straightened his spine, and raised his hands slightly. All of this was merely a distraction that drew the sailors attention. Immediately, Moira sidestepped and aimed from her hip at the mercenary to Hunter's right. Angela burst from her crouch, jumped over to Captain Hunter's left side, then jumped again. Claws out, she slammed into the sailor on Hunter's left. The mustached sailor screamed in terror the moment Angela's blur resolved into an angry mass of fur and claws.

  A few moments later, a smirk crossed Hunter's weary face while he limped by. He nodded to the wounded mercenaries, who now both rolled on the ground yelling in pain, clutching one or more shot or clawed appendages. "Word of advice gentlemen. When asked to stand aside for two fine ladies, one does so. Otherwise, said ladies, as you have noticed, take that rather ... poorly."

  "It's Miles! He's yellin' again!" Angela exclaimed.

  "Then we'd best hurry." Hunter replied.

  Despite Hunter's wounds, they raced at best speed out of the village. Downslope in their direction, fingers of a dark tree line reached toward the village but did not quite touch it. Further down, the strands of trees joined together into a thick wash of greenery covered in the mountain snows.

  No sooner than they had reached the first few thick stands of the snow-covered trees, a dull roar shook the air. Trees shivered from a blast of steam that rolled like a white wave through the branches. The wave of steam covered the trunks of the trees, fast turned to fog and engulfed Moira, Captain Hunter and Angela. Overhead, a longskiff rose quickly above the trees, its gas bag tight and main aft propeller already turning.

  "No!" Angela screamed at the vessel, tears poured from her eyes and down along her snout.

  Moira grabbed the girl by the shoulder to get her attention. "We're not done by half. There be another longskiff. We just need ta 'borrow' it a mite."

  Captain Hunter limped quickly into the forest. "You can say 'take', I will not be offended."

  "Usually ya be."

  "Not today."

  Deeper within the forest, beyond the thick stretch of trees that reached out toward the village, the second longskiff sat quietly in the snow. Two sailors were left aboard as sentries. At that moment, one was checking the boiler, while the other looked over the snow toward the trees.

  "Are ye sure o' what the Cap'n said?"

  The sailor at the boiler put down his wrench on a wooden bench in front of him. "Aye, ah'm sure. Three figures, says he. One woman, one girl and a man who's had the lovin' snot kicked outta him."

  The sailor on watch shifted his sitting position. His face screwed up in thought. "That don' sound all bad."

  A rush of wind blowing from the wrong direction and the faint scuffle of feet caught the lookout's attention. "Oi, Boyd, ye be hearin' that?"

  There was no reply. The lookout frowned. He scanned the forest one more time, then turned around. "Boyd, be ye deef? Pay attention ..."

  His words trailed off to a squeak when he saw his companion, Boyd, plastered against the railing of the longskiff. Atop his chest, Angela was perched with her claws pointed menacingly at a softer, more sensitive part of Boyd's anatomy. Namely, his throat. She growled at the lookout. "We need your boat!"

  The sailor suddenly snapped out of his shock, struggling to jump up and bring his rifle to bear. He only made it off his seat when he heard the click of a gun being cocked not far behind him.

  "I most certainly wouldn't try that if I were you, Sirrah." Captain Hunter advised while pointing his pistol at the sailor on lookout. "Now, Angela, manners young lady. Remember your manners."

  Angela bared her teeth in a horrific mockery of a smile, and said in her most convincing ten year old little girl voice, "Please?" The lookout swallowed nervously and tried to smile in return. Slowly, he stepped from the boat.

  Hunter limped toward the longskiff. "Ah, good man. The rifle, toss it away. Moira? Be a dear and check the boiler would you? It seems they had some trouble with it."

  Moira grinned and holstered her pistol. "Aye, Cap'n. Gladly."

  "Angela? I think the young man would like to join his friend."

  Slowly, Angela climbed off her captive. The moment she was two steps away from him, he scrambled to his feet in a panic and nearly threw himself from the longskiff into the snow. Meanwhile, the lookout had fingered his rifle nervously, but had not thrown it aside.

  Hunter limped closer. "I may have had the 'snot kicked out of me' but from this distance, Sirrah, I shan't miss any part of you I wish to put a large hole through before you raise that
rifle. How dearly do you wish to suffer pain today? I'm in a right royal mood to assist."

  With a sigh, the lookout tossed the rifle a good six feet from him into the snow. Captain Hunter smiled to the man.

  "That's much better. Now, if you two gentlemen will excuse us, we'll be on our way."

  Once aboard, Captain Hunter limped behind the wheel and throttle controls for the boiler. Moira looked over the steam engine, turbine, boiler and all the fittings.

  "Lines be lookin' fair and fit. We can be castin' off. Just let me at the wheel and ah'll take her up."

  "I've the wheel. See if this thing has an opti-telegraphic or something close aboard."

  Moira hesitated a moment. Hunter raised an eyebrow.

  "Problem, Ms Wycliffe?"

  Moira stepped back and shook her head. "None at'all Cap'n. Checkin' for that Opti now."

  She turned to look while the longskiff lifted abruptly from the ground. Angela joined Moira in searching.

  "Isn't he too hurt to do that?" Angela asked in a whisper.

  Moira nodded slightly. "Quite likely so. But he's got that look in his eye."

  "What look?"

  Moira looked cautiously at Captain Hunter, who did not notice, then shook her head just slightly. "Oh sweet peach, it be a look o' fire and brimstone in his eye. He set himself ta guardin' the two o' you and that RiBeld went and spit all over his honor by takin' ya brother among whatever else he said. Now he'd be chasin' RiBeld across Purgatory with a wet stick and a bucket o' sand till he be gettin' yer brother back." She gave Angela a reassuring smile. "Ah've seen him take four bullets and keep goin' till his job be done. If'n anyone can be gettin' yer brother back, it'd be him. Now, lets be findin' that Opti."

  The pair searched what few components and controls that surrounded the boiler and steam engine itself. Finally, Moira pointed at an inset panel on a box that seemed out of place next to the boiler steam gauge. "Here, turn that knob."

  Angela did so and suddenly the air was filled with Miles' panic-stricken voice.

  "Hello? Hello? I know this works. I made it work. Someone's gotta hear me."

  "Miles!" Angela screamed at the wooden and brass box.

  "Angela? Angela!" Was the immediate sobbing reply.

  Suddenly, both siblings were talking, sobbing and shouting over each other. Neither one was calm enough to wait for the other to speak. Finally, Moira interrupted.

  "That'll be enough from both of ya. Miles, where'd they'd put you?"

  "I dunno. They tossed me aboard a small boat. Then I tried to run after I kicked the man in the long coat in the shins." Miles repressed a nervous sniffle.

  "Stout lad." Hunter commented tersely from behind the wheel.

  Moira ignored Hunter. "Then what?"

  "They grabbed me again and threw me in a box. I'm on the little boat. Kinda. Maybe. I dunno." His voice cracked, as if he was on the edge of sobbing again.

  Moira leaned toward the opti-telegraphic mounted on the longskiff. "Ah, now, none o' that. Anyone who'd be able to get that wreck o' an Opti workin' with barely anything at all save what he be havin' on him shouldn't be sobbin'. Now did they say where they be headed?"

  "The big ship. I heard 'em say it."

  "Right then, you stay put as best as ya can. We're comin' for ya now."

  "Ok. I gotta go. I didn't wind this up that much."

  Moira nodded, even though there was no way Miles could see her. "All right, we'll be there soon."

  There was no response however, save static.

  Moira looked at Captain Hunter. He spared a glance over at Moira, then back to the skies where the bloody, explosive battle between the airships was taking place.

  "They had ta know what he had with him." Moira commented.

  "Of that I've no doubt." Hunter replied flatly.

  "So they wanted us to talk to Miles?" Angela asked, a touch of confusion in her voice.

  Hunter nodded. "That they did, my dear."

  "But ..."

  Moira answered her question before she spoke it. "A trap. They're plannin' on a trap o' some kind. Lettin' Miles natter his head off at us be the bait."

  Angela looked between Moira and Captain Hunter. "So what do we do?"

  The hint of a dark, mischievous nature touched Captain Hunter's face. "We spring it. And then burn it down around his noble ears."

  Hunter spun the wheel sharply. The longskiff banked hard to starboard until its bow pointed directly for the mercenaries' burning airship.

  Chapter 18

  Not far above Captain Hunter's borrowed longskiff, a chaos of gunfire and swordplay echoed across the Brass Griffin's deck. With the tethers firmly attached, the Griffin had been drawn close enough to the mercenaries' airship for two boarding parties of sailors to swing over and board her. Blasts of orange fire erupted from the bow, followed by deadly showers of bullets that peppered men and ship alike. Some of the crew fell in the volley of gunfire, but many stood their ground. Smoke burned eyes, smudged skin. Small fires burned in different places on the deck and rigging. Everywhere the faces of both crews took on the ghastly pallor of desperate men fighting for their ships, and therefore, their lives.

  Close to one of the tether lines, Krumer lashed out with his cutlass. His intended target, a younger man in tight black cotton trousers, boots, white shirt and an elegant blue vest laughed and danced aside. The man was an elf, as was evident due to the slight graceful point of his ears and the distinctive arch of his eyebrows over his amber eyes. He spun like a well-trained dancer, his long, braided pony tail flowing behind him. Despite the air of grace and poise about the elf, the light in his eyes was wild and insane. Krumer's look, in contrast, was one of mild amusement mixed with irritation at the insulting fop in front of him.

  "Come Orc! Surely someone taught you to use that blade better than one uses a butter knife!"

  The elven fop completed his spin, only to find the point of Krumer's sword stuck through the fabric of his expensive vest, and into the wood behind him. Krumer grinned, then hammered a massive, well-tanned right fist into the fop's face once, twice, then a final time. Punch-drunk, the elven fop swung his rapier in a wild slice. Krumer let go of his own sword and neatly sidestepped the poor attack.

  Then, he raised his fists and adopted a pugilist's stance. "Why no. But I did manage to learn a little when I took to boxing for a year in London." The fop started to reply and raise his sword, but Krumer interrupted that conversation with two fast jabs from his left, followed by his right, which hit the elven fop like a sledgehammer. Lips split, the elf's head rocked back and forth twice before he slowly oozed down the wood to the deck. With a chuckle, Krumer yanked his cutlass from the wood and turned away from his unconscious opponent.

  Across the deck, the pitched battle had taken its toll on both sides. However, with a third of the mercenaries' crew on ground and a third having to man the guns and ship, that only left a third to try and cram themselves aboard a vessel half the size of their own. They simply could not get enough numbers past the Brass Griffin's crew to subdue the smaller vessel.

  "Push 'em back, lads! We're taking the fight out of them!" Krumer shouted.

  The first mate waded into the mass of blades and chaos. Eventually, Krumer made his way to one of the tethers at the railing. With a quick succession of slices, the first mate frayed the braided leather and let the pull of the Griffin do the rest. The first tether snapped with a loud pop and fell away. The ship shuddered, as if relieved to be free off one of her burdens. On deck, with raw, bloody determination, the crew finally pushed the mercenaries back to their own vessel.

  From the bow, a shout rose over the fighting. "It's the Cap'n!"

  Tonks and Krumer, both looked around in the direction the crewman had indicated. Krumer's grin broadened. "Ah, it's good to see him alive and breathing."

  Tonks shook his head with a dark look, then pointed higher above Captain Hunter's longskiff. "Look above. He'll not be that for long."

  From the far side of the
larger airship, three steambats arced up, then banked hard. It was obvious that their target was not the partially tethered Griffin, but the longskiff!

  Immediately, Krumer sheathed his cutlass in his belt and strode across the deck to recover a fallen rifle. "Not if we give them something more interesting to chew upon."

  The first mate checked his load, aimed and then fired. However, the three steam-powered biplanes continued to arc and dive on the longskiff. Krumer reloaded and fired again, then again.

  "Don't waste the ammo!" Tonks shouted. "They're outta range!"

  "I'll not just stand by and do nothing!" Krumer shouted back angrily.

  Tonks glanced at the trio of steambats, then back at the longskiff. Already the steambats had opened fire. Bullets and electrified jets of salt water reached angrily for the slower-moving longskiff. Bits of wood peppered and flaked off its hull. While his eyes measured the distance, a smile grew on the pilot's face as inspiration dawned on him. He grinned at Krumer. "Ya want your shot? I've got an idea that'll give it to ya!"

  The first mate gave the pilot a curious look. "What would that be?"

  Without warning, Tonks spun the wheel hard, turning the Griffin away from the mercenaries' airship. Unprepared, Krumer flew off his feet, then onto his backside. Before he could right himself, Krumer, along with several of the crew, slid wildly across the deck and slammed into the starboard rail, crashed into barrels, and smashed through crates that lay within their path. The Griffin strained and pulled at the single tether, which stretched so taught that the Griffin's port side hull buckled outward from the tension. Tonks struggled with the wheel and trim controls. Slowly, amid the Griffin's creaks and groans of stressed rigging and damaged structure, she turned her bow in the direction of the steambats and the longskiff.

  The muscles on Tonks' arms bulged and his face turned red while he struggled to keep the Griffin aimed where he wanted. From the port side, the creaking rose in intensity to nearly a panic-filled shriek of strained wood and brass fittings. The winch at the other end of the tether pulled mercilessly, stretching the braided leather leash until it visibly grew thinner.