Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) by Jonathon Burgess Page B

himself. And if Gwydion’s royal father had given him that blade... Wintermourn looked away. He reached up and straightened his wig. “Very well,” he said at last. “We attack in three turns of the glass.”
    “Excellent,” said Crown Prince Gwydion, lifting his glass for another drink. “I will go aloft again shortly to rest and prepare. The rest of you, be about it. Really, though, I must say that you serve quite a table; the food this evening has been excellent.”
    He looked away, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. Wintermourn jerked his head towards the cabin door, and the assembled captains quietly left. Sergeant Adjutant Lanters moved to clean the table. None of them dared to catch the admiral’s eye.
    Wintermourn pushed past them all, storming out onto the deck of the Colossus to give his own orders. He ignored the pair of royal guards bracing the doorway, fully ready to vent his frustrations on the crew.
    You are not king yet, pup. Do not forget that.
    Rousing the crew of the Colossus at such an hour was irksome. Expecting the attack on the morrow, none were in any state of readiness. He snarled at Lebam, his first lieutenant, who transferred orders frantically, and all his other officers moved to chivy the men awake or away from their grog. Once so ordered, all moved with alacrity. Any malcontents had long ago been made examples of. None wished to provoke the admiral’s wrath, from the first lieutenant to the lowest seaman. Wintermourn kept a keen watch from his perch upon the rear deck. The crown prince may have been beyond his reach, but he could damned well punish with impunity any slacking or shirking upon his own ship.
    Other ships came to life as their captains returned. Men raced to and fro along other decks, shouting orders that echoed across the water until the whole fleet seemed alive, like a hive of ants stirred into readiness. The spreading bloom of oil lanterns revealed the might and power of the Perinese Royal Navy, quickly made ready in even the darkest hours.
    The sight was comforting. It was a show of strength, of righteous efficiency. There was no chaos here, no fires blazing out of control. Certainly, there were no murderous corpses tottering about in a hideous, counterfeit version of life.
    Wintermourn shook the memory away. “Sergeant Adjutant Lanters,” he said stiffly.
    “Sir?” The burly sergeant stepped forward, having discreetly replaced his serving jacket with the blue jacket and trousers of marine dress uniform.
    “His Highness’s commands were clear. Let’s give some order to this mess. I want Lebam back up here with the signalman on the double. Send to the Behemoth that she’s to form ranks ahead of us. The Ogre and the Giantess will tail us, along with the rest of the fleet. Oh, and signal the Juggernaut that she is to have the vanguard.” Wintermourn felt darkly pleased. That pup Chesterly might get his wish for glory, but Admiral Wintermourn would make damned sure that he got the danger that went along with it.
    “Aye, sir,” replied the sergeant, who touched his forelock and ran off.
    His lieutenants appeared almost as if by magic, and Wintermourn was surrounded by a clutch of golden braid that issued further commands and gabbled among themselves about wind speed, heading, and other such trifling concerns. He ignored them, watching instead as anchors were raised and great paddlewheels started to turn, shining wetly in the oil-lit night. The mooring anchors—long pikes attached to stout chain—were lifted up from cargo, should the Colossus need to anchor itself to the island cliffs ahead.
    Minutes ticked by as the fleet changed shape. The crown prince returned to the Glory of Perinault , and then the airship ascended aloft. Those vessels Wintermourn had specified churned the water until they were in position, aimed like an arrow at the dark mass of the isles.
    Then came time to wait. The long hours would be rough on some, but Wintermourn had never