Moon Sea Marauders - Pt9
Steampunk serial (conclusion)
Previous chapters: Part 8 Part 1
The greatest shock, emerging from the tunnels that led to the crystal caves behind us, was not the sight of the Frenchmen fleeing before us, or even the sight of the Daphne’s snow-shrouded masts in the distance - no, it was the sight of the lunar dawn approaching from the east. Never before had the mere sight of the coming dawn caused so much confusion in our ranks, and as the men of the Poseidon pulled up in ragged squads on the icy field which lay outside the tunnel mouth, we - myself, Master Brighton, Captain Devworth, and the other senior officers - frantically consulted our pocket watches and varied timekeeping devices to determine the veracity of this madness.
We had entered the hillside tunnel, with its four grotesque guardian statues, a full three days before the end of the lunar night - and yet now, after spending what had felt like mere hours inside the crystal caves, the dawn was rising again in the outside world.
What strange tides had swept us up while we were below the lunar rock, and so divorced us from the passage of time in the rest of the Universe that we had lost - or been robbed of - almost three days of time?
Even Captain Devworth, who had been so steadfast throughout the entire pursuit and strangeness thus far, was initially shaken by this revelation, although his stern demeanour soon reasserted itself. “No matter the mysteries that lie behind us - our duty lies ahead, and henceforth we shall carry on.” I shall never forget the fire in his eyes as he spoke to the officers, or the way the icy wind carried his words to ranks of waiting men and stirred their hearts too. We could see the French column in the distance, heading rapidly towards the distant Daphne, and with our spirits and resolve bolstered, we set off on the final pursuit.
Sunrise on the moon was always a spectacular affair, although this day there was little time to appreciate it. Glittering fields of frost lay ahead of us, heavy and white from the last ravages of the lunar night, and the first rays of sunlight cast a golden blaze upon this visage that transformed the fields and coarse hills into a vast, glowing tapestry of colour. Whites and greys lurked in the shadowed lees of the hills, offset by the orange and yellow fires which bloomed on the sunstruck land opposite them, and the landscape’s transformation from night to day - a sight I had beheld many times before in my time on the moon - took on a decidedly sinistar pall this time. Our experiences in the crystal caves of Qal’th had planted seeds of doubt and distrust in my mind, and as we scrambled down the trails in pursuit of the French I found myself seeing these lunar landscapes through the same philosophical lens with which I had gazed upon the mind-twisting scenes and murals from the subterranean world that now lay behind us.
Despite all of our years here, what did we really know of the mysteries of the moon, and these newly discovered caverns which lurked, unknown and unseen, so far beneath our feet? When we prided ourselves as the discoverers, explorers and conquerors of the moon, freshly arrived with the scientific marvels of the Faraday coils and the powers of the Glasgow crystals - were we really the first intelligent race to set foot on these dusty grey lands? Were we truly the first thinking species to gaze upon the seas and hills here, and up at the blue marble of our Earth far above?
My ruminations almost made me miss the shout of excitement from the leading scouts, who returned briefly to the main body of the column before racing ahead again. Lady Jessica had been spotted! The scouts claimed that they had seen a figure, clad in a green dress and with long blonde hair in the midst of the French column - matching the description we received at Absolution Point from Lord Gainsley’s household - and this news served to energize the men and officers for the final rush. Ahead of us lay a small hill over which the French had disappeared, and beyond that the masts of the Daphne were waiting.
The French must have thought that they were on the verge of escape, for by the time we crested the hill they were running at full speed for the beached shape of their damaged ship. There was no semblance of order left in their lines at this point, and the roughly two-score of figures were moving in ragged clumps towards their ship with no visible order or plan. Unbeknownst to them, however, was the presence of the small team of Poseidon marines that had been left behind to secure the French vessel when first we found it so many days - or mere hours? - before, and when the French were in the open there was a sudden rush of red-coated figures at the gunwales of the beached vessel, followed by clouds of smoke and the distant popping of musket fire. A surprise salvo indeed! Blackguards tumbled down, fatally surprised and mortally wounded - but despite their exposed position, the French still outnumbered the marines on the Daphne by a factor of four or more. With the first mist of dawn rising from the icy field, and with blood blooming on the snowy ground, the French rabble closed the remaining distance and began to board their own craft again, clearly intent on overwhelming the handful of stout marines who stood against them.
We, of course, had not been still in all of that time, and our charge - led by Captain Devworth with his rapier held high - pounded across the selfsame field moments later. The morning mist was ankle deep at this point, the night’s snow evaporating into ghostly tendrils that clutched at our legs, and the angle of the morning sun made it appear that we were charging through a sea of crimson and fire, replete with the blood of felled Frenchmen. Repeated shouts ran up and down our lines - do not fire, for fear of hitting Lady Jessica! - and the men of the Poseidon responded with fierce yells, brandished swords and bayoneted muskets as they crossed the last distance.
I was running in the midst of this all, my medicine bag clutched to my chest, and only when I stumbled and almost fell over a body did I realise that I was poorly equipped for the fierce melee that was bound to erupt within the next few moments. I dropped back, allowing the rest of the men to swarm past me, and it was thus, from a lumpy position atop a slight rise of the land, that I would witness the final chapter in the villainy that was the history of the Daphne.
Trapped between the hull of the beached vessel - where the Poseidon’s guard detachment had had the good sense to draw up the gangplanks - and the approaching mass of Captain Devworth’s charge, the French milled in confusion for a few moments before order reasserted itself. Commanding voices barked out, drawing the ragged mob into a semblance of order, and battle lines swiftly reassembled themselves as the French officers laid into their men with words and fists alike. Unencumbered by the fear of shooting a valuable hostage, the French showed little hesitation in wielding their muskets against the approaching British crew, and a ragged volley from their ranks cut an equally ragged set of holes in the mass of onrushing marines. Time and distance did not allow for a second volley, and the crew of the Poseidon were upon the Frenchmen moments later in a clash of steel and a many-throated roar of fire and duty. Red-coated marines and fur-clad mariners clashed with the blue-and-black mass of French blackguards, metal testing mettle, and the entire space in front of the Daphne devolved into a raging, shifting chaos of clanging blades and jostling men.
I lost sight of Captain Devworth and his knot of officers for a while, only for them to resurface in the midst of the French lines. Blackguards screamed and fell with every stroke against the furious captain and his men, and once I glimpsed the blonde hair that stood out ahead of them, their mission became clear: the captain was hell-bent on rescuing the captured lady before the French could visit any more harm upon her.
Here, though, our tale takes a turn for the strange, and I must admit, with a guilty heart, that there had been signs along the way which I, as a doctor and a man of science, should have observed long before the events of the hunt brought us to this point.
The French commander, Captain du Valle, had not been spotted in the rushing mass of Frenchmen as they fled before us, and now, when Captain Devworth’s valiant figure finally cutting his way into the last knot of Frenchmen surrounding the distant figure of Lady Jessica, a Shakespearean twist of irony revealed itself. With straining eyes, I observed as the figure of Lady Jessica reached up to pull off her hair - revealing the face of the missing Captain du Valle! With a flourish and a distance-dimmed cry, the French captain swept his cloak aside, revealing it to be a cunning concealment meant to replicate the appearance of a lady’s dress, and drew a rapier with which he viciously engaged the momentarily stunned Captain Devworth and his entourage. I lost sight of them for a moment as the surrounding skirmish shifted, my mouth dry with shock at this sudden revelation, and when the scrum parted again it was to the sight of the two opposing captains laying into one another with their swords.
There was an unspoken sense of propriety amongst the fighting men, it seemed, for a clearing formed around the two dueling commanders, and I was rewarded with a clear sight of the ensuing clash. The captains exchanged blows with both speed and finesse, blade meeting blade time and time again, and in time I could begin to discern a pattern in their fighting styles.
The French captain fought with great alacrity and dexterity, darting here and there over the battlefield while his rapier danced like a silver snake before him, ever looking for an opening to strike forth and touch the skin of his opponent. He was a slim man, and long of limb, and his rapier moved like a living extension of his own will as he engaged our captain.
Captain Devworth, as befitting a man of his age and stature, fought with less speed but more compactness, keeping his guard close and only countering those blows that were absolutely necessary - and what a spectacle those counters were! The British captain was a stout man, broad of shoulders and barreled of chest, and his parries sent the Frenchmen reeling away in shock. Where Du Valle moved fast, Devworth blocked hard; where the Frenchman swirled and flourished, our English captain chopped and hacked, bending the Frenchman’s blade before him with the force of each strike.
The skirmish around them was thinning out, and after a last knot of struggling fighters momentarily blocked my sight, I was rewarded with a view of the final blow. Captain du Valle leapt in, rapier held high in one hand and the other plucking a hidden dagger from his boot to thrust at his opponent’s stomach - but Captain Devworth rolled out of the way in an instant, striking the Frenchman’s wrist with his blade and sending the thin Parisian rapier spinning off into the tumult. A kick caught Du Valle’s other hand, knocking the dagger away, and with a final flourish - his first and only for the entire duel - Captain Devworth laid his sword tip against the throat of the Frenchman and barked for him to yield. Distance robbed me of the actual words uttered, but the sight of their captain slumping back in defeat took the fire out of the remaining French crew, and a ragged cheer lifted into the sky a moment later as the survivors of the Poseidon recognised the victory they had gained.
I rushed in at this point, no longer threatened by the battle and desperate to catch the words of the defeated captain, and arrived just in time to hear the end of the formal proclamation of surrender from Captain du Valle. Cradling his wounded wrist, the Frenchman tried to maintain a veneer of command over the situation, but it was clear - after a moment’s glance at the remaining men - that there was little left for him to command. The French crew had been cut down to barely a double handful of men at this point, and many of them carried fierce wounds where they had collapsed onto the muddy ground in surrender. The Poseidon had also taken losses, and many of the familiar faces around me showed grimaces of pain from their wounds - but their hearts were clearly aflame with victory, and pain was a distant thing to them at that point.
Master Brighton had also taken a terrible blow to his shoulder, and when I approached Captain du Valle to treat his wrist - as the most senior wounded officer there - the Frenchman most graciously declined and instead directed me to treat Master Brighton. Captain Devworth had already sheathed his own weapon at this point, and gave a nod of respect at the defeated captain - although this was to be the only high point of their subsequent discussion.
Several matters - nay, mysteries - revealed themselves as the two captains conversed in a mix of English and French. The first was the matter of the missing Lady Jessica: Captain du Valle only smiled when asked about her, and looked with great longing back in the direction of the tunnels from which we had come. “She has not been harmed, but I cannot tell you where she is now, Captain. Only where last I saw her, and if you followed me through those crystal caves, then you know where she has gone. She is exactly where she wants to be.” Puzzlement rippled through our ranks at this statement, which wanted to suggest that the French had parted ways with their hostage somewhere inside the crystal caves of Qal’th - and the reason behind this parting, which Du Valle was now implying was intentional, eluded us as well.
It was when Captain Devworth called for Sir Henry Cottonby, who had joined us at Absolution Point and been with us ever since, that the second mystery was revealed. Sir Cottonby and his retinue were nowhere to be found. At first we thought that they might have fallen in this final skirmish next to the Daphe, but after a search of the fallen, we were still none the wiser. The officers and sergeants conferred amongst themselves and then with the men, and eventually an answer arose from the ranks of those still living: one of the Poseidon marines had seen Sir Cottonby and his men step aside shortly after leaving the tunnels earlier that morning. Ostensibly it had been to heed the call of nature - but no-one had seen Sir Cottonby rejoin our ranks after that, and with our attentions focused on the French fleeing hare-like before us, no-one had thought to look back and see where or when the lagging retinue had gone.
The final puzzle, and almost a footnote at this point, was the location of the missing daedricium. We had found the iron pails in the halls outside Qal’th, but the mined crystals themselves had still not resurfaced. None amongst the French - either living or dead - had any of the sullen gems on them, and when we asked Captain du Valle about it, he just shrugged and nodded back at the trail behind us.
The crystal caves of Qal’th.
This place, of such mystery and shaded arcane nature, had swallowed us whole, spat us out - and taken something tangible yet undefinable from every man. We, the survivors, found ourselves muttering at this strange news from the French captain, and Captain Devworth must have sensed our mood all too well at this point. We were low on supplies, exhausted from the trek, and bloodied from the battle - and yet, despite the losses and the sacrifice, our goal was still left unaccomplished.
Lady Jessica was still out there, in some strange subterranean realm, and following some path which I, and some of the officers, had begun to suspect was not entirely involuntary on her part.
Sir Henry Cottonby, the personal purser to Lord Gainsley and a good friend and confidant of Lady Jessica, had mysteriously disappeared just before the duplicity of Captain du Valle’s misdirection was revealed.
And we, of the Poseidon, were too depleted to continue the chase.
Thus, as I sit here now, scribbling my final notes in the lee of the Daphne while the rest of the survivors clear the battlefield and prepare to lift off again with their captured prize, I find myself realising that our adventure, which had started so many days before, was now entering not its final act, but instead only nearing the end of the first act. We would return to Absolution Point, taking the captured ship in tow, and there, with fresh supplies and rest, we would have to formulate a new plan to continue the hunt.
I have a suspicion though, about where our path would ultimately take us.
We would be returning to the crystal caves of Qal’th - and our next visit would be of a far more thorough nature.
The story continues in the next installment, titled “The Crystal Caves of Qal’th” - link TBC.
Great conclusion, definitely reminds me of the serials of the past. Good job!
Bravo!