Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Plans were in motion but so were the pirates. Outnumbered three to one, calling it long odds seemed thin. While Doctor Thorne had deduced the possible toxin, and a repellent, to use with the Llamhigyn y Dŵr, it might not be enough. Caleb Rourke and his raiders had arrived in a screaming, bloodthirsty rush. Bullets looked for victims, but Rebekah kept her eyes on hope… and a wildly desperate gamble…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or a doctor protecting her patients…

I’ve never considered myself a hero. Certainly not one of those from the stories with a lantern-jaw, flashing eyes, and a roguish grin. Pure flummery! I’ve only thought of myself as a doctor. But I’d be thrice-damned if I let that confounded man and his foul bunch touch my patients; deciding who lives and who dies.

No. Not today.

The tower house door slammed shut behind me with a final sound, like punctuation on my damn fool idea. A pair of bullets tore past my ear, clipping a length of my hair as I tasted the raw smoke of burnt earth. Maddock had been right. It would be close. So close, I knew Caleb’s raiders would be on us with knives the moment we tried to push off.

We’d lose people. Good people.

Not. Today.

I raced for the nearest marine, who was a certain lieutenant I knew too well. Lieutenant Angwin nearly jumped out of his tattered uniform when I stumbled into him behind his makeshift shelter of crates.

“Doctor?” he sputtered.

I shoved the clay jar into his hands. A glance across the battlefield made my blood chill. Caleb was up and leading a batch of butchers our way.

“Throw the jug at the nearest fire.”

The lieutenant glanced at the jar, then at me. “What?”

Scowling, I jabbed a finger at the nearest fire between us and Caleb’s bunch.

“Jar! Fire! Now, Leftenant! It’s thick with tallow and used gear grease; that’ll throw smoke everywhere! Do it and run for the boat!”

By God’s teeth, the man actually cooperated. Black-gray smoke, like the devil’s breath, leaped into the air, blotting the battlefield from view. Obviously, Angwin thought I’d follow him when he ran off. A part of me wanted to, but we needed one last bit of bait to slow the rotten bastards down in the smoke.

Me.

“Flummery! I hate cheap heroics,” I muttered in a tight voice. “Now I’m doing them!”

After a deep breath, I clenched my fists, then stepped out from behind the stack of crates. A shot tugged the air next to me, as Caleb waved his pirates back. I brushed loose strands of my dirty brown hair behind my ears, holding my ground; a short, thin doctor in a splattered waistcoat who’d had enough. I was unarmed, but never helpless. Fortunately, I didn’t have to hold the line forever; only long enough. Caleb belted out a laugh.

“Run down her crew,” he snarled. “We’ll dig the villagers out later. This one?” His dark eyes burned with a lurid light that gave me chills. “I know her,” he said, words like a velvet lie. “She’s mine to handle.”

I planted my boots in the dirt, knowing the smoke fouled Caleb’s Gift slightly. If luck were with me, it’d be enough.

“Handle?” I said with a sweet smile, my native Irish lilt from home bleeding under my words. “Now, Caleb, seems I recall you couldn’t do that even if you had a lantern and a map every time you tried.”

Caleb’s face twisted into a portrait of ugly rage. Several of his cutthroats whooped and laughed as they chased after Captain Vane and the others. That ended the instant the lot of them ran into Lieutenant Angwin’s devilment with the fishing line tripwires. Yelps of alarm replaced laughter.

“Stow it!” Caleb snarled at his crew, then slowly stalked toward me. He was sweat-and-soot-stained with blood splattered over the front of his fancy long coat and white shirt. It wasn’t noble or romantic, just dirty and repulsive; a look showing his true nature.

“Get your men and leave, you bloody bastard. You won’t harvest the dead like you did at the wreck of the Lewis Ross.” I sucked a ragged breath against the smoke. “Like you nearly did to me.”

His smile was like oil.

“Now, Rebekah. Don’t be like that. The past is in the past. It was an honest mistake. But we can make it better… I can make it better.” His voice dropped with a subtle echo as his Gift purred to life. A dull heat, like tiny fires, burned in his dark eyes. “Come to me.”

I took a slow step toward him before I realized it.

God help me, the man was already in my mind, turning it; Gift working, words purring.

I took another step against my will.

Then I stopped as a soft song hummed in my ear. It came from Caleb. The blood I heard was his. I felt the purr fade from my mind, barely a ragged, unpleasant memory. A soft smile dared bloom over my face as a gout of tallow smoke blew in between us, blocking his view and his Gift. The last Mesmer effects vanished like dew before the sunrise.

“No,” I whispered, iron packed into the word.

“Rebekah?” Caleb’s brow pinched in confusion as he tried again.

“Banshee,” I sharply corrected him, “or Doctor Thorne, if you please. Also, you know your Gift doesn’t work when mine has heard your blood.”

Wide-eyed, Caleb reached for a bleeding cut half-hidden at the edge of his hairline, against his ear. Grinning, I sang an Irish shanty off-key. Caleb yelled in pain as his blood danced to my tune. The man collapsed to one knee, and I leaned into the song. The pirate blinked, locking eyes with me.

“Rebekah, stop!”

The words purred into my mind like velvet poison. I heard them, but I no longer cared. My Gift held firm. I remembered the pain he’d caused my family. The cries of the dying and the just-dead at the wreck of the Lewis Ross. Pain visited on me when we were engaged. All of which this man had caused. Every bit for greed; for himself. It was blood money at its worst.

“No!” I snapped between verses, then roared out the shanty about a highwayman getting his due.

Red-faced and twisted in pain, Caleb yanked a knife from his belt before shoving to his feet. Blood steamed from his cut as he squared his shoulders, then charged. He managed three steps before a boarding ax sliced the air in front of his nose. Caleb jerked back, wide-eyed and panting, as if he’d seen his misbegotten life flash before his eyes. I glanced to my right where the ax had come from.

Corporal Maddock stood there, skin as metal as could be, with another boarding ax held at the ready. He gave me a curt nod, jaw tight. Metal or not, I saw a glimmer of concern behind that resolute expression.

“Ma’am.”

Confound it, that man packed more into one phrase than I could process.

Heart tight, I flashed a feral smile at Caleb, releasing my hold on his blood.

“Did he?”

Nearby, fishing line twanged. Bone knitting needles flew like a swarm of retribution, followed by the shadow of a hooked fishing net. Caleb dove to the ground. Several of his raiders didn’t. Screams of pain were as thick as grease smoke.

“Run!” I ordered Maddock, grabbing his arm. He didn’t say a word but ran easily beside me as we headed for the jolly boat back to the Javelin. Screams from the injured needled my ears. It was nothing compared to the cries of the lost souls that haunted my heart.

“You’re Gifted. A doctor!” Caleb growled after me. I glanced back to see him pull a bone knitting needle out of his woolen long coat. “You should be here with me. Healing my crew!”

“I soothe people.” My words were razor sharp. “Not mad devils drunk on death. I’m a doctor, not a priest!”

Caleb was back on his feet as we reached the jolly boat. Maddock and I were the last to board. He climbed in first as I turned back to glare at the pirate.

“Rebekah!” Caleb yelled in a rage. “This isn’t over. I’ll take your crew, your ship… and you.”

For a moment I stood one boot in the jolly boat, the other on the pier. Llamhigyn y Dŵr shot out of the water on either side of us, then back down. They arced over the pier, the others, and me; touching none of us. I shot a look of righteous anger at Caleb.

“Do. Your. Worst!” I yelled back, fire throbbing in my veins. “As God is my witness… you’ll still fail,” I added in a low voice.

“Doctor!” Captain Vane called from behind me.

I gave the captain a curt nod, taking my seat aboard. A midshipman keyed the crank, which poured our small supply of sulfuric acid over the scrap iron in the chamber at the bottom of the boat. The gasbag’s silk expanded as the others rowed. Not quite halfway from the pier and the air, someone dropped our single, tiny sail.

The dinghy lurched into the air as I stared holes through torn smoke toward shore. I watched Caleb and his raiders grab the wounded, stumbling back to their own boats. Whipped by the loss and his own anger, they were coming after us. Portlethen Bay was safe for the moment, even if we weren’t.

I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Turning to my right, I looked up into Maddock’s concerned gaze. With a ragged sigh, I shook my head.

“It’s not over,” I said, words torn.

“No,” he said, looking up. “Not by a bit.”

Beyond our tiny gasbag, the HMS Javelin loomed into view. The last of the pitch-smoke boiled around her, but was fast bleeding away. She’d taken several hits but had held her own. Coming about was Caleb’s ship; a dirigible schooner. Light. Fast. Designed for hit-and-run, before boarding for blood.

“We’ll take them down or run them off,” Maddock said with steel conviction.

I nodded, pursing my lips as I glanced between the Javelin and the village of Portlethen Bay below. Lives that depended on us, and every minute we bought them.

“We have to,” I replied softly. “There’s no other way but to sail right through.”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. As time runs headlong into death, Rebekah and her crew make a mad dash for the nearby stone tower home of the fishing town. The tower home, an ancient keep, seemed sturdy enough, But there were two boats of pirates bent on shedding blood for profit. The landing party, hurt and outnumbered, scrambled to build anything to slow the pirates down as they escaped.

Meanwhile, Doctor Rebekah Thorne had an unusual idea or two…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Master against Commander is always a battle of blood and wits to the bitter end.

It’s been said the past is dead. Maybe that’s true. But there are times I think the past is a mad, clever revenant, wiggling loose from its shroud to torment the living. Especially when it’s a confounded air pirate trafficking in the recent dead.

The fact that the thief was a Mesmer, and my former fiancée, was just bitter icing on the rotten cake.

That damned man and his bloody business haunted me while I worked. Rancid fumes filled the narrow stone side room in Portlethen’s old keep. The kind that drew tears like a hundred angry skunks. Still, I discovered what I wanted to know in minutes. Which was good, since we had precious few of those to spend before we died badly.

It would’ve been faster if my patient had been a wee bit more cooperative.

“Steady,” I whispered. It was as much for my sake and Corporal Maddock’s, as it was for the Llamhigyn y Dŵr we had tied down. “I know this hurts, and someone grazed you with a shot, but you’re our only hope out of this mess.”

The Llamhigyn y Dŵr was frankly a sorry sight. The mottled gray-green frog-shaped beast was hunkered down under a tangle of old sackcloth and rope that Maddock had cobbled together. A bullet had grazed its upper back, though the beast hardly seemed resigned to its fate. It snapped and spat, slapping its bat wings against the tabletop over the indignity of being manhandled.

I hefted an old jar, sloshing the contents as if mixing a tonic.

“Maddock, I’ll need your hands,” I instructed. “Hold it down, but don’t hurt it. If this works, we’ll know quick enough.”

“Ma’am,” he replied, leaving his post by the door.

I poured the brackish mix onto one of the Llamhigyn y Dŵr’s legs—which I was surprised it actually had. None of the stories I’d heard mentioned the things had them. The creature’s charcoal tongue flicked twice before it belted out a low cry like a bagpipe getting stepped on.

Steam curled off a thick, tarry oil that slimed its skin. I quickly but gently wiped that off the leaper’s leg. It squirmed. Then, after a tuneless bagpipe bleat, it huffed and settled down. Its round eyes watched us warily while the rest of it deflated on the table into a puddle of tired animal.

I sniffed at the rag, screwing up my nose at it. “Oh, cogswaddle, that’s vile. This has to be a mix of rancid fish oil, quicklime, maybe pine tar, like I guessed. No wonder the beast is so limp. This is likely the most relief it’s had in days.”

Maddock studied the exhausted Llamhigyn y Dŵr with interest. “So that’s it?”

“Close enough. Keep it still while I clean it. No sense in letting it suffer any longer.” I talked while I quickly cleaned the water leaper to its exhausted delight. Along the way I hummed the haunting faerie tune I heard from its blood. “Caleb and his crew likely caught a batch of leapers, then kept them in his hold swimming in this cogswaddle swill on the way to drop them here. Probably used his Gift to catch them.”

“What?” Maddock started, which upset the water leaper. I hummed a bit more in earnest, and the leaper settled down, its bullet wound sealing closed. Maddock flushed. “His Gift? A Mesmer can do that?”

“Heard tales some Mesmers can.” I shrugged, wiping the last of the oil from the leaper’s skin. “It’s why they’re kept under close watch. Most go mad over their Gift. A few don’t. Then, there’s Caleb.” I slid a dark look at Maddock while I finished. “There’s barely any way to defend against a Mesmer.”

“God’s teeth,” the corporal whispered. A horrified look crossed his face as I saw him mentally chart a course on how much damage a Mesmer bent on greed could do.

Once done, I waved Maddock away and untied the animal. The Llamhigyn y Dŵr curled its feet under it, wings flat against its sides, with a contented look on its face. Its eyes were wary, but the beast looked for all the world like a contented, winged frog, willing to overlook recent indignities.

“Smug little bastard,” I chuckled, grabbing the clay jar with a foul-smelling mix I’d made of tallow, gear grease, and crushed bog myrtle. The jar went into the corporal’s hands. “Douse yourself with some of it, then pass it around. If I’m right, it’ll keep the water leapers at bay.”

He stared into the jar as if it were a pit of hell. “They can smell this?”

I dipped a clean rag into the jar, then waved it near the Llamhigyn y Dŵr. It wheezed a low bagpipe bleat, wearing an affronted grimace.

“Seems they can, just don’t ask me how. I’m a doctor, Corporal, not a farrier.” A muffled volley of shots slapped the air in the distance. I glanced up at the stone ceiling, then fixed Maddock with a stern look. “Shoo. We’re out of time.”

I quickly cleaned up after Maddock had left. Windows in a tower house were tall, narrow, and often high on the wall. I swapped stares with the water leaper. It seemed satisfied where it was.

“Fine then. Those windows are out of my reach, so I’ll leave the doors open when we leave. If you can, tell your flock or whatever they are, we don’t mean any harm. We just want to head back to our ship, taking the ones that hurt you with us.”

It softly bleated, followed by a tiny hiccup. I shook my head, then hurried after Maddock with my battered satchel.

In the great hall, Maddock and I dosed ourselves and our charges with my lotion. Given the blood, soot, and pain we’d been through, my bitter oil was a tiny improvement in the odor; just not by much. I had just enough time to make two jars of the rancid mix—one for us, the other for the locals. Shouts and the crack of shots against stone punctuated our work.

“Bloody hell,” a wounded midshipman swore, flinching at the noise.

“They’re close,” I replied with a sigh, then glanced at Maddock. “That everyone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I nodded, tugging at my waistcoat out of nerves. “Everyone up! We’ll need to move fast if we’re to dart around the buildings for the jolly boat.”

The older fisherman slowly stood, favoring his wounds as his grizzled beard split into a thin smile. “No, I don’t think so, but we’re much obliged, Doctor Thorne. If it’s all the same to you, we’ll stay here. Once you leave, the rest in town will hurry in and we’ll be boltin’ the place closed.”

I blinked, swapping an incredulous look with Maddock. Then reason caught up with me.

“You’ve had your share of pirates before then?” I asked.

He nodded. “Aye. Just not pirates and those… faerie things. That was a bit much.” He gestured to the second pot of tonic on a nearby table. “But with that? We can manage the beasts. That leaves the pirates; we know how to deal with them.”

I hated this with a passion. They were my patients, and I’d be leaving them locked up in a stone tower house while I’d be running through the bloody mess outside trying not to get shot. I pinched the bridge of my nose and nodded. Life didn’t play fair. God’s own truth, everyone knew that already. It was that life liked to ambush people unfairly that hurt the most; most never saw it coming.

“Fine. Just stay alive,” I told them. “Once we button all this up, we’ll be back and I’ll patch everyone properly.”

Naturally, that was when Captain Vane half-hobbled in through the keep’s entrance. Face pale and strained, sweat poured off the man’s brow like rainwater. I met his eyes but could already hear the drumbeat of his blood-song. The captain’s wounds had opened, and he was bleeding again; slowly, but bleeding.

“Thorne! Your pirate bastard and his lot have landed. They’re getting tangled by water leapers, but that won’t last long. It’s now or never. You have something?” he growled.

“Aye, Captain.” I hurried over with the jug and its foul contents. “A repellent of sorts. Similar mix. Smells like the dog’s breath, but it’ll keep the leapers back. We lather up, then escort the rest outside to the jolly boat.” I jerked a thumb back at the locals. “It’ll be just us. The villagers plan to lock themselves in.” At his dubious look, I shook my head. “No, it isn’t safe, but it’s the plan we have.”

Captain Vane took the jug, dousing himself with a hearty amount. “Then it’s what we have.”

Corporal Maddock, Captain Vane, and I helped our wounded out the front door. Locals ran from their homes to scurry inside as we left. Amid the chaos, I noticed our gray-green leaper friend take wing, shooting out the doorway on its way to the shore. For us, outside the keep was our special shore of hell.

Two pirate jolly boats rested against the shore. Given the dead pirates near them, Caleb and his bunch hadn’t expected Angwin’s boys to be such good shots. But the air pirate’s dirigible had laid into the ground with a spare broadside that churned dirt and sand into a smoking ruin. If grass wasn’t burning, it was fishing boats, small storage shacks, and more.

Smoke hung everywhere like a gray veil. Caleb and his bunch were moving slowly and carefully, using the columns of smoke as cover while trading shots with our Marines. Our brave few had stacked crates and more into makeshift barriers.

“Reload!” Lieutenant Angwin called. “Fire fast. Keep ‘em guessing!”

It sounded noble, if we weren’t outnumbered three to one.

A stray shot from one of the pirates bounced off Maddock’s metal skin. He didn’t seem to notice as he studied the rough path between houses toward the pier.

“It’ll be close, Doctor.”

I helped a midshipman limp into Maddock’s brawny arms. A glance at the battle while we half-ran confirmed his fears and mine. Caleb Rourke, resplendent in a fancy wool long coat, tailored trousers, boots, and all, was among the pirates to my left. A feral leer twisted his face when he saw me. I avoided his gaze.

“Confound that man! Close won’t do, Corporal.” I patted Maddock’s metal arm. “Help the captain get the others to the shore. Keep the buildings between you and the pirates.”

I ran for the keep.

“Ma’am! Wait!” Maddock yelled.

“Doctor Thorne!” Captain Vane yelled at the same time. I heard him swear, followed by, “Trust her, Corporal. She knows what she’s about.”

I paused only to wave them on. “Go! I’ll be right behind you!”

Whatever else they said was lost under another volley of gunfire.

I reached the main door of Portlethen Keep before the locals bolted it shut. Panting, I looked around, then grabbed the jar of repellent I’d made for myself and the crew to use. We’d left it behind once we were done with it.

“Doctor?” the older fisherman said in surprise.

“Still working things out. Stay put and lock up behind me,” I said, then ran back into hell.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. A surprise broadside against the Scottish shore, turned sand to smoking ruin, and nearly cost the Doctor Rebekah Thorne and the HMS Javelin her captain. But Fate had other plans.

Working fast, Dr. Thorne and Corporal Maddock helped carry the wounded to the supposed safety of the fishing shack. There, Rebekah went to work—saving lives and denying death a fresh and gruesome harvest. But the danger wasn’t past, not at all. Rebekah gives a name to their tormentor; one Captain Caleb Rourke. A thief and a scoundrel of the first order. Worse? The man she had been engaged to be married before he tried to rob her family blind. Rebekah warned the landing party that she suspected Rourke was up to his old, horrific tricks. Invent a disaster to harvest and resell the bodies as resurrectionists…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. There’s always a price, just sometimes it’s a little too high.

For the first time in his miserable life, Caleb Rourke didn’t let me down. I could already feel that pirate coming.

But his ego—and love of his own skin—meant he wasn’t in any hurry. Especially with riflemen aboard the Javelin eager to shoot the hot air out of him. Still, they’d have to spot the confounded man first. After all, Caleb was bravest when leading from the back.

“Soon. He’ll be here soon,” I told the others.

Maddock glanced toward the way out, then back at me. “How do you know? Is he hurt?”

I shook my head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I just… know.” Maddock’s frown deepened. I sighed. “It’s because of Caleb’s Gift.”

Captain Vane blew out a hot sigh, wincing as he touched the bandage over the burn on the side of his face. “Gifted or not, how long until Rourke and his cutthroats arrive? We’re in a bad spot and need solutions.”

Lieutenant Angwin peeked out the door of the shed. One look and his face turned sour.

“The Javelin and the air pirate are still at it. Looks like the pirates have fired off pitch-smoke. Given the cut of their hull, I’d give them twenty minutes at full sail to go from cloud-side down to the water.”

“Pitch-smoke?” Maddock murmured. “Isn’t that the hollow shot that spills out a pitch-based fog on what it hits?”

I glanced around, studying my patients for anyone showing fresh signs of poison or worse. “Yes. The same. Nasty, oily stuff. It won’t even have to hit the Javelin to blind them. That sticky fog will cling to her like a bad relative.”

“So, they mean to board the Javelin,” Maddock said, face somber.

“That, or raid the town, Corporal.” The captain ran a hand through sweaty, soot-stained dark hair. “This Rourke is a proper devil. Drops beasts so we wouldn’t risk anchoring the Javelin nearby. Makes us split our forces between land and air.” I watched the muscles of his jaw knot. “Doctor? You know this Rourke. Where will the bloody bastard strike next?”

I sighed, tugging at my waistcoat, then gave it a baleful glare. It was as much blood and dirt as it was proper Royal Navy blue—sort of like us. I glanced at the others. If ever there was a time for honesty and a helping of hot grit, it was then.

“Here. We’re vulnerable.” I waved a hand at the shack and everyone in it. “We’ve what? Three? Five able-bodied souls who can put up a fight?” My mouth in a tight line, I shook my head. “Caleb’s a scavenger and a thief. He goes for a victim’s soft spots so he won’t risk his own hide. If he gets us, I’d say he’ll blackmail the Javelin into giving up. Then the real horror begins.”

Lieutenant Angwin’s features went stiff with indignant rage. “Surrender? No Royal Navy ship would—”

I cut off his tirade. There wasn’t time. “… they might to save their captain.”

We all looked at Captain Vane, then at each other. A silence of the damned settled inside the small shack, rattled only by the sporadic cannon fire from the dirigibles overhead. Dust rained down from the ceiling, hazing the air. Then the world went strangely quiet. It felt like death waited nearby.

Captain Vane frowned, glaring upward. “Those pirates have to be coming about. Doctor? We can’t wait for you to figure out what those pirates have poisoned the leapers with. We need to move the wounded to that meeting hall.”

I glanced around. The captain was on his feet, but running? I wouldn’t put two farthings on it. Same for the others.

“Aye, Captain,” I replied with a nod, reaching for my satchel. “It’ll be slow going. We’ll need cover from the Llamhigyn y Dŵr and the pirates. I’ll need a hand with a couple here as well.”

Vane glanced around the shack, meeting hopeful, stern, and even a few worried looks. The last rumble from the cannons faded like distant thunder. He scowled.

“Angwin!” he growled. “You, and anyone else able-bodied, are with me. We’ll keep watch for the water leapers. A few careful shots will keep them at bay. Maddock?”

“Captain?” he replied, snapping to attention.

“Glue yourself to the doctor. Do what she needs and help keep these people alive.”

“Aye, Captain,” he replied, touching the brim of his hat.

“After that?” The captain breathed out a pained sigh. “I’ll be wanting ideas on how we can get the pirates out of this village before they burn it all down.”

With that, Maddock and I got to work.

The chaos from the battle had been a blessing in disguise; the noise and explosions hitting the ruined shore had driven the Llamhigyn y Dŵr farther away. They were still out among the waves near our dinghy, so a real threat. It just wasn’t one for the moment. Maddock helped me collect the worst of the burned and bitten, limping them out the door then north to the village’s meeting hall.

It wasn’t five yards, like the fisherman said, but more like twenty. The Common Hall was anything but common—it was the remains of an aged keep. One of the many tower houses scattered along Scotland’s coastline. Pitted gray stones formed a drafty square building with a pair of thick, dark wooden doors leading inside. Sadly, its defensive wall—what my family back in Ireland called a bábhún—was long gone. But still tall and strong against history, I suspected it defended against coastal raiders from another age. Now the old place needed to do that once more.

“How are they doing?” I asked Maddock as I helped the old fisherman, the last of our charges, onto a makeshift, narrow cot in the grand hall. Dim sunlight fought past clouds and pitch-fog to streak lines through the narrow windows high up along the walls.

Maddock raced out the front of the tower house. He stayed gone long enough that I worried and headed after him. I met him as he stepped inside, pushing one of the massive wooden doors closed. To my surprise, the man’s coat wiggled as if it had taken a case of nerves.

“Corporal, what in—?”

The Welshman stood at attention, skin a polished bronze, his Gift in full force. Both hands were firmly latched around a lump that resented its current lot in life.

“Doctor,” Maddock said, near-breathless. “Captain Vane has the others rigging bow-traps from fishing poles and line. Angwin’s idea. They’re crude spring-bows rigged to fire knitting needles, then reload once. Bone needles, I think. Handy idea, though I doubt they’ll survive the first reload. The Leftenant’s even rigged a gear-driven net thrower.”

I envisioned a volley of knitting needles at close range and grimaced.

“The Leftenant has a devious streak,” I admitted. “Any sign of the pirates?”

Corporal Maddock nodded, getting his breath back. “Yes, ma’am. They’ve dropped two jolly boats that are already at full sail, gasbags taut. The main ship’s headed back up to bother the Javelin. Looks like they’ll head in fast for water off the pier.” A worried look crossed his face. “Truth be told, the traps might be done before the pirates arrive, but the cutthroats outnumber us more than I want to say.”

A sudden thought struck me. “Maddock, where’s Captain Vane now?”

Maddock started to point out of reflex, but the wiggling lump wasn’t having any of it. A muffled bleat bolstered the complaint. “Out the doors and to the left. He’s left Angwin to secure fishing line in alleys to catch the pirates in the knee or neck.”

I hurried to the door. “Definitely a devious streak in that man—” Maddock’s coat-lump hissed before I heard the distinct sound of something slapping metal. I looked the tall, bronze Welshman up and down. “Maddock, what the devil do you have in your coat? Is that what I think it is?”

A dark metallic flush bloomed in the corporal’s cheeks.

“Yes, ma’am. Last I heard, you had an idea about what set the Llamhigyn y Dŵr off, and might give us a way out.” He shrugged, giving me a lopsided grin that was more endearing than it had a right to be. “So I went and nipped one for you.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or what. “God’s teeth. All right. Take it into a side room off the main hall. Find a way to leash the thing and keep it still. Also, give it something to eat that isn’t one of our patients.”

“Er,” he grunted. “Aye, Doctor.”

He raced off with his charge, while I tore outside hoping to offer Captain Vane or Lieutenant Angwin an idea that might buy us time. It also gave me a chance to check Captain Vane’s burns. The man took to stubborn as if it was a hobby.

Vane was nearby, overseeing the traps. He was tired, haggard, and looked in need of a week’s rest. But he was upright, and that was enough. As for my half-baked plan, he told me to talk it out with Lieutenant Angwin.

I found the lieutenant in front of a narrow gap between a pair of weathered storehouses, wood shedding flakes of green and white paint. He’d just finished setting one of the fishing-pole-turned-bow-traps, aiming the knitting needles down the alley. I ignored the morbid implications as I stopped next to him.

He stood up straight, eyes narrowed and wary. “Doctor?”

“Leftenant,” I replied.

Words caught in my throat before I launched into my explanation. For a moment, I took in the pier and shoreline before looking up at the pirate jolly boats. Their small gasbags were tight, with a single sail strained against the wind as they descended at a sharp angle.

Maddock wasn’t wrong. The angle was too sharp for a safe descent to the water. Caleb had his raiders coming in sharp and fast. He’d lose people, but my gut suspected he didn’t care. This was about overwhelming us with numbers, his Gift, and whatever else his raiders brought to bear. I looked from the pier to our own jolly boat and the water leapers.

A devilish grin tugged at me.

I pointed at the pier, locking eyes with the Royal Marine next to me.

“Leftenant? I know you see the angle Rourke’s raiders are using. If you’re game, I might have an idea to slow those confounded pirates down, buying us more time.”

Angwin glanced sharply at the pier and pirates, then back to me. He folded his arms across his chest.

“I’m listening.”

My grin returned in full force. I brushed loose hair out of my face, putting it back behind my ears, then tugged my waistcoat straight.

“Caleb Rourke is resourceful, devious, and Gifted. He’s a Mesmer. Some say Mesmers use their voice or a glance to muddle what people see and think; or so the stories go. Cloud people’s minds with utter cogswaddle. No one’s sure.” I raised a finger. “But the confounded man is a rank coward who only thinks of his own skin. Other people are there for him to use.”

Angwin’s face darkened, pulling into a deep frown. To his credit, he didn’t interrupt.

“So, we use that against him. I’ll bet you two farthings he’s aboard one of those jolly boats. If you or one of the others aims for him—but don’t hit—I promise you he’ll have his raiders change course. My guess? Right to the water, putting the Llamhigyn y Dŵr between them and us.”

Angwin studied the beasts, the water, and then the pirates. He gave me a skeptical look, but there was a glimmer of devious hope in his tired eyes.

“So you’re betting that the leapers will be as big a problem to the pirates as they are to us?” He nodded sagely. “I like it. Even if the leapers ignore them, they’ll still be a mess to sail through.” The hint of a dark grin touched his features. “You’ve a devious streak in you, doctor. Which one is this Caleb Rourke?”

I gestured to the pair of flying jolly boats.

“He’ll be the one in the back. Tall, with short dark hair that has an auburn streak in the front. Also, probably the best-dressed. Caleb fancied himself as some sort of penny nobleman.”

Lieutenant Angwin snorted.

“I’ll pass the word and see if we can trim his hair shorter with a rifle shot or two. Hopefully, those leapers will harass the bastards like a flock of horrible geese. With the seas as rough as they are today, this’ll buy us a good ten minutes more at best.”

“Good.”

I ran for the keep, leaving the others behind to turn Caleb’s plan into a proper nightmare. After all, I’d need every single minute to study that Llamhigyn y Dŵr Maddock caught to find a way past the leapers and to our jolly boat. Otherwise, Caleb would kill the others and get his hands on me again—which would be a fate worse than death.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. The captain’s orders had been straightforward; sail down to the fishing town and render aid where possible. Simple, until it wasn’t. The brazen beasts of Welsh legend attack in force. Swarms erupted from the water and diving at the landing party, teeth bared for locals and landing party alike.

Moving fast, Rebekah and Corporal Seith Maddock grabbed nearby survivors, and headed for shelter. After a pitched battle, Captain Vane and the others went to join them. Which was when the real trap was sprung…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Nothing like being a fish in a net when the fisherman’s a monster.

If ever there was a proper idea of how hell smelled, it was a broadside against a shoreline of people. There was rancid smoke and sweat. A tang of gun oil—from Maddock’s uniform most likely—along with the sharper stench of raw terror and burned clothing.

Then there was the blood. Oh, how it sang from pain—I nearly cried.

I put sanity in my vest pocket and threw open the shack door. Maddock instantly stepped out in front of me. Bits of glassed sand pelted the Marine, turning him bronze again.

“This way!” I yelled to the landing party. “To the fishing shack!”

It had been six and Captain Vane. Now there were three still walking, and three barely able to move. I closed my eyes over the seventh, as I saw his shade stand up from his ragged body.

“Barnes. I’m sorry,” I murmured, blinking back wetness from my eyes.

“Not your doing,” came the whispered reply. With a nod, the midshipman I’d barely met scattered into the wind and was gone.

The living crashed into the weather-beaten shack like an errant wave. I grabbed anyone who looked unsteady, hauling them to the nearest piece of floor or battered cot. Maddock stepped in behind the lot of us, a living door of metal blocking the last bits of flying debris as the latest cannon shot struck the shore.

It had been crowded in the hut, but now it was almost suffocating. The place hadn’t been made for so many occupants at once, and certainly not for any sort of medical shenanigans. A stink of smoke, powder, and sweat made an unholy combination with the scent of blood.

But I had work to do.

“Corporal, hand me the twine,” I snapped. “No, the green—”

His bronze hand passed over the colorful thread. Then he reached over to help me finish another bandage in a long line of them.

“Like this?”

I nodded. “Precisely like that.”

That done, I turned to the next in line; then the next after that. I hummed one blood’s song after another until it turned into a concert of wet injuries. Wounds puckered with each note, refusing death by inches under my Gift. Finally done, I sat back, feeling drained from using my Gift so much at once. Tension filled the shack to the brim, amplified by the distant rumble of cannon-fire—the Javelin was giving as good as she got.

That tension concentrated around a figure on the far side of the hovel. Not Captain Vane, he was still partly dazed from the explosions. This was the ranking Royal Marine who looked like a storm ready to blow. Red-faced and jaw tight, his hands were clasped behind his back as if inspecting troops.

“Begging your pardon… Doctor Thorne?”

The stress on the word ‘doctor’ felt like a slap. With nothing to save me from the impending moment, I stared holes into the man.

“Yes, Leftenant… Angwin is it?” I replied.

“Indeed.” He pursed his lips. “Is this,” he waved a hand at the shack and notably the villagers, “crucial at this moment? Surely we could prioritize who gets tended, given this is a forward fighting position—”

“Flummery!” I snapped, voice as sharp as a pistol crack. “What? Should we flip a coin, Leftenant? Issue lots?” Fists clenched by my side, I stood, tugging at my smudge and blood-stained vest; eyes blazing. He wanted rank to matter. I wanted people to live. “Before you go on about ‘keeping the beasts at bay’ or some other cogswaddle, look around!”

“You see here, madam—!” Angwin protested.

I slashed my hand in front of me, cutting off his protest. “We’re a landing party. Every hand and able soul is needed! You may hold rank, Leftenant, but unless you know how to use thread to do more than darn socks, stow that bilge! We’ll need everyone able to move if we’re to survive the next few minutes… and I don’t mean just the beasts!”

“Both of you, pipe down!” came a ragged voice of command from my left.

Captain Vane pushed up from his cot. Blue coat bloodied and burned; he was wounded, bandaged, but awake. Vane’s eyes flicked between myself and Angwin. The captain gave me the tiniest nod, then fixed a hard look on the Royal Marine.

“Leftenant,” Vane rumbled, his calm tone cutting over the noise as if it wasn’t there. “A word.”

“Captain,” the man stiffly replied, then huddled next to Captain Vane.

I turned away, giving them what privacy I could, and busied myself with counting supplies in my satchel. After that, I checked on my patients—save for Captain Vane—to steady my anger and nerves.

Finally, I eased open the door to peek outside. Overhead, the Javelin and the pirate dirigible swapped blows like street brawlers. Several others in the fishing town had done the same as I had. Townfolk conversed from their partly open doorways with each other—no one willing to chance the combination of water leapers and stray cannon fire. Maddock joined me at the door.

“Doctor? What did you mean about the beasts and surviving? Did you mean the pirates?” Even the worry lines in his forehead had worry lines.

I glanced up at him over my shoulder, then nodded, brushing loose strands of my dirty brown hair out of my face.

“Yes, I do.” The moment held its breath until it sighed. “Also, I’m fairly certain who the bloody bastard leading that pirate crew is. It’s the same one that devised a way to bring down the HMS Lewis Ross; the dirigible I was on when I first got my Gift. He was the man I was to marry, at least before he tried to swindle my family. One Captain Caleb Rourke of the Poseidon’s Pearl, late of the East India Trading Company. If my father hadn’t retired, he’d still be hunting the man.”

Maddock blinked, stunned as if hit on the head. “He caused the wreck of the Lewis Ross?”

I smiled ruefully. “Sounds like something out of the broadsheets, doesn’t it?” Slowly, I dabbed at the sweat and grime over my eyes. “Most of that’s a story for another time… but it’s still true. The Lewis Ross had moved in to help the HMS Providence when she signaled trouble. Something about a wild eel infestation. The captain took us in to help, thinking the report was cogswaddle—it wasn’t. It was a trap.”

“Captain Rourke?”

“The same,” I replied grimly. “That time, he let loose wild eels coated in a toxin on a fishing town. I recognized the oily, bitter stench in the air when we got here. The water leapers are coated with the same. Whatever it is, the stuff sends beasts into a frenzy. Still, the last time it was enough to distract both the Ross and the Providence. They never saw Rourke coming. He’s nearly pulled the same trick again today.”

I drew a deep breath, watching the air battle above us even as memories washed past. The occasional water leaper gave me the evil eye while jumping over the waves, but I ignored it.

“The Providence limped away to get help, but the Ross still went down, taking out part of a fishing town.” I gave Maddock another rueful smile as I softly beat a fist against the doorframe. “From there, I’m sure you know the rest.”

Maddock grunted; it spoke volumes. He backed that up with a quick, “Yes, ma’am. I’ve heard the stories about you.” Then he squinted, pursing his lips. “Why do it, though? What’s there to take?”

“The bodies.”

Maddock went as still as stone. I slid my tired eyes up to meet his.

“Captain Rourke and his bunch are resurrectionists. They create a disaster for the body count. Stokes the man’s reputation, and he turns a profit off the dead.”

“You said your father hunted Rourke?” Maddock asked, curiosity piqued.

I nodded. “Until he retired from the Admiralty, yes.”

Maddock’s eyes went wide.

“Wait. That Thorne family? Your father… you mean the Admiral Jaime Horatio Thorne?” he whispered at me. “You’re Hannibal Thorne’s daughter?”

“Yes, I’m that Rebekah Thorne. Not a story for now, though,” I murmured wearily. “Besides, Corporal, I’m not my father, nor he me. I’m my own person.”

Maddock opened his mouth to reply but nodded, then changed his tack. “What about the poison?”

I shook my head. “Makes some sick. Mostly it just irritates whatever poor beasts he’s scooped up and turned loose.”

As if on cue, the older fisherman keeled over to empty his stomach onto the floor.

“Confound it all!” I swore, grabbing Maddock by the shirtfront and dragging him with me as I ran across the room.

Maddock cleaned the fisherman’s face while I set to work with my Gift. Poison and open wounds were nothing alike. The blood resented the latter, but got into a confused panic over the former. I hummed the soft shanty in the fisherman’s blood, helping calm it down by giving a tune to follow.

A minute and a second poisoned patient later, I was back at the doorway for some air. Maddock joined me, keeping a wary eye on our group.

“Doctor?” He hesitated, as if sensing how delicate his next words were. “Why hasn’t there been some message about this Rourke? Especially since your father had been hunting him.”

I chuckled bitterly.

“Because the Admiralty would have to admit there’s a Gifted pirate on the loose, and what the confounded man’s been doing.” I clenched my jaw, then forced myself to relax. Idly, I waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure there are crews out hunting Rourke, but it’s easier to bury embarrassment than spread panic.”

I watched the battle overhead, then turned to stare into the shack. My thoughts churned over the view, position, and what might happen.

“We have to leave. Someplace better that’s more defensible and where I can work,” I murmured.

Nearby, Captain Vane had finished his conversation with Lieutenant Angwin. The younger officer looked more red-faced than before. He bristled at my words.

“You’re not in command,” he snarled. “That’s the captain’s choice… Doctor.”

Never had I wanted to punch a man so hard that his ancestor’s teeth would rattle. Fortunately, Captain Vane interrupted my visions of ancestral dentistry assault.

“Leftenant!” Vane growled. The feeble cot creaked as the captain pushed upright again, then slowly climbed to his feet. He fixed the lieutenant with a hard stare. “I trust you implicitly, Leftenant. You’re top at what you do, but this is far from normal for any of us.” Vane sighed, looked around the small room, then at me. “I’m well aware of the Lewis Ross incident. If Doctor Thorne has an idea, I want to hear it… and so should you.”

I let out a long, measured breath. “Captain? Leftenant? We’ve two problems—first, Captain Rourke will come calling. He’ll want you as a hostage so he can butcher the Javelin. So we need someplace more defensible with more room. It’d be better for me and the Marines.”

Lieutenant Angwin narrowed his eyes. He was still put out, but I saw the gears turning. Good.

“Long hall. Shuttered windows,” he said.

“Common Hall,” the old fisherman nearby said in a weak voice. “Short run from here. Maybe five yards north at worst. Built to stand up against the worst the North Sea gives out. Thick shutters. Double-thick doors.”

“It’ll do,” Angwin replied thoughtfully.

I nodded, relishing the cooperation, then held up two fingers.

“Second? The Llamhigyn y Dŵr. They’ll try for us the instant we leave. Corporal Maddock can defend us, but Shielder or no, he can’t be everywhere. So,” I rounded on Maddock, “get me one. Alive. I need to scrape off whatever Rourke is using to rile them. If I can figure out something that keeps them at bay, we can run for the Common Hall.” I shrugged. “Perhaps even find a way to get the leapers to turn on Rourke’s people.”

Captain Vane grinned. “Not to mention a snare or three for the bloody bastards to trip over. Good. Done. Make it so.”

I turned just as a dizzy feeling washed over me, then a faint melody—a song of blood.

“Wait. They’re on their way,” I said, staring off into the middle distance.

Overhead, the roar of cannons shook the clouds, easily heard over the roar of waves along the shore. Dust sifted down from the rattled roof. The broadsides had increased, joined by the faint crack of rifles.

“The pirates?” Captain Vane asked.

“Yes, Captain,” I replied softly, meeting his concerned expression. “Rourke’s coming. I can feel it.”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. The day had been like any other, which meant Doctor Rebekah Thorne was busy with the usual scrapes, bangs, or bruises from the crew. This didn’t count for the spectacularly deep gash one ensign earned by falling on the airship’s gear. But life took a strange turn when she felt a strange calling—an unnatural feeling that seemed to come from the fishing village below. At least, that’s what she thought…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Into the winged jaws of death, and the fickle fortune of fate…

Captain Alistair Vane’s orders had been crystal clear. First, sail the jolly boat down to Portlethen Bay and beat back the beasts. After that, figure out how they got there while treating the wounded. The latter was supposed to be my only part to play.

Simple. Until it wasn’t.

The Javelin’s dinghy touched down in the cold water by the town as chaos welcomed us with open arms. A swarm of Llamhigyn y Dŵr broke from the waves, attacking us before we were even tied off at the dock. Tangy salt spray and yells splattered the air.

“Leapers!” a Royal Marine yelled, ducking for cover.

The first pair of the mold-green, frog-things dove at us—mouths full of teeth gaped wide, black bat-wings flared as they dove. There were too many; far too many. It felt like a culling. Weak sunlight spilled past the clouds, rippling over the beast’s oily sheen.

A leaper streaked past a Royal Marine’s ear, nearly biting it off. A second tangled in the rigging, snapping at a startled midshipman. The beast yanked loose and shot upward, only to bounce off the dinghy’s inflated canvas gasbag with a wet smack. It ricocheted skyward, then cartwheeled into a dive back for the churning sea foam.

“God’s teeth!” a marine sputtered, clutching his weapon as a water leaper stole his hat.

“To the dock!” Captain Vane bellowed. “They’ll pick us off if we sit still!”

Marines surged out of the boat, myself and two midshipmen scrambling madly in their wake. The jolly boat rocked wildly, trying to throw us into the sea. Despite that, we invaded the dock before daring a look around.

Closer to town, I saw locals running for the shelter of their homes. Buildings nearest the water were the most at risk from leaper attacks. Two fishermen on the town-side of the docks flailed on the ground, water leapers latched onto an arm or leg.

I caught the captain’s eye. He glanced at the insanity near town and nodded.

“Do what you need, Doctor, we’ll give cover.”

I nodded back as another Llamhigyn y Dŵr shot through the air, jaws open for my arm. I slapped it between the eyes with my russet, canvas satchel. The stench of burnt fish oil made my eyes water.

The thing screeched with a sound trapped between a hiss and a pig’s squeal. Eyes rolling, it tumbled sideways off the dock into the water, leathery wings flailing. Another darted past my head. I turned to the nearest living thing that wasn’t trying to bite my head off.

“Corporal Maddock!” I barked at the man next to me.

The young, tall Welshman lunged for a nearby water leaper. He grabbed it where the wings met the body a second before the beast locked its jaws onto a midshipman’s shoulder. The leaper thrashed like a cat threatened with a bath, long tongue whipping out in irritation at having lost a meal.

Maddock avoided getting lashed by the tongue, quickly turned and slammed the beast against the weathered wooden dock twice. The Llamhigyn y Dŵr’s tongue lolled out the side of its mouth, bleating a yelp like an out-of-tune bagpipe. Before the beast returned to being a problem, the corporal pitched it into the bay as far as he could throw it.

“Ma’am!” he replied, gulping air as he shakily snapped to attention.

I reached into the dinghy, then shoved a banged-up, gray medical satchel into his hands.

“Corporal, you’re with me. Mr. McLaren had to stay aboard the Javelin. We need the wounded off the dock. Find a place with good shutters and a sound door.”

He glanced at the satchel in his hands, then touched his hat. “Aye, Doctor!”

We raced along the dock between the fallen bodies of fishermen. The Llamhigyn y Dŵr had bitten a horrid chunk out of the town, leaving a grisly trail behind. Water leapers flew at us with each step, eager to bring us down. Despite that, we yanked a pair of live fishermen away from the beasts, hauling them with us.

“Doctor! Fishing cabin ahead,” Maddock exclaimed. “Looks solid.”

It was a weathered fisherman’s shack near the shore, shedding blue paint from the sun and time. An old, tan fishing net was draped from the eaves against the nearest wall to dry. That would have to do.

“Make for the cabin! The one with the net!” I ordered.

Llamhigyn y Dŵr swarmed us—a storm of hissing teeth, dripping with hunger. I slapped away two of the wet beasts as I helped my charge along, a tawny-haired young man, barely old enough to shave. He limped beside me, pale from shock and blood-loss, hampered by a ragged bite on his thigh.

“Ugh,” he coughed, then gasped with a wheeze. “What are those things?”

“Llamhigyn y Dŵr,” I grunted. “Welsh water leapers.”

“Welsh?” He blinked, expression caught between confused and pain. “They weren’t here two days ago!”

“Shush. Explanations later. Hurry,” I said sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy muttered between clenched teeth.

Corporal Maddock and I hauled our charges to the weather-beaten shack. The corporal shoved open the door, then hurried inside with his wounded fisherman. I was two steps behind with the young man. The scent of long-stale fish, and cramped air eager for the shore, embraced us. Shouts and screams of pain nipped at our heels, blending with the stout, briny wind off the North Sea.

I glanced back at the rest of the landing party—they were in a bad way. It had become a fighting retreat from the jolly boat along the dock and into town. Captain Vane had rallied the marines he’d brought down with us. But it seemed there were two leapers for every person. That rang a bell in my mind, but I wasn’t sure why.

It also meant I never saw the Llamhigyn y Dŵr diving at me until the last moment.

I hissed in shock, throwing myself aside to get out of the way. The flying frog-beast hurtled at me, a double row of ivory-white shark teeth all-too-eager to nibble at my throat. My back hit the doorframe as Maddock shoved an arm between myself and the leaper.

“Confound it, Corporal, move!” I stammered, shoving both of us aside. At least, that’s what I tried to do.

Instead, I shoved, moving the corporal back a half-step before he froze. After that, it felt like I’d tried to push over a wall as the beast slammed into him. I yelled, then stared in disbelief. The water leaper’s teeth had shredded the corporal’s red woolen coat sleeve, but not his arm—that was metal. It wasn’t a clockwork prosthetic.

The man’s skin had turned a gleaming bronze.

He was Gifted, like me.

“Maddock… are you a Shielder?” I asked, studying him, wide-eyed.

The young man flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Two more water leapers joined the first, their bite forcing more of the corporal’s skin bronze to the neck. Shielders were one of the more durable Gifted with their metal skin. They tended to shrug off what hurt most anyone else. At least until it abruptly didn’t, such as getting hit with something hot enough to turn metal to slag.

Maddock flinched more from embarrassment than pain.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the corporal rumbled, bronze cheeks flushing dark. “Need to sort these three out.”

He stepped out of sight. After a series of teeth-rattling slams against the side of the shack, the corporal returned. He looked like a fidgeting bronze statue draped in a ragged Royal Marine uniform, mercifully free of water leapers on his arm. Quickly, he ushered me into the shack, casually shutting the door behind us as if he’d just come for tea.

I shook my head, rushing to clean the arm bite on the older fisherman with what vinegar I had—humming the blood’s tune as I worked.

“How long do you… er… stay bronze?” I finally asked the corporal, struggling with words as I treated the fisherman’s arm.

Maddock hurried over to be an extra pair of hands with the bandage.

“Too long if you ask me, ma’am.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Once it starts, it takes a bit to stop. Makes me heavy and slow, which I’m not fond of at all.”

“I can imagine.” The older fisherman hissed as I wrapped the bandage. “Here,” I thrust a small bottle at Maddock. “Cut open the boy’s trouser leg and dab the bite with this vinegar. I don’t want that leg to turn sour.”

He nodded, turning to the boy. The corporal was a tall rail of a man, easily over six foot, with squared shoulders to match. After a shy look at me, he slipped a hidden dirk from his boot, then went to work splitting bloody cloth away from the boy’s wound. I joined them as the corporal gently peeled the cloth aside, grimacing.

“Don’t fret, Corporal, I won’t tell a soul about your dirk,” I assured him.

Kneeling next to Maddock, I studied the wound. The boy’s blood was up—as anyone’s would after getting bitten—but he was a stout sort. I hummed a few bars of a lively jig, matching the tune I heard from his blood. When I noticed them staring at me as if I’d lost my mind, I cleared my throat.

“My Gift comes with a bit of music to it,” I tried to explain with a frustrated sigh and smile. “I’m a Bloodsinger. Now hold still, boy, while we clear that wound and set it right.”

The lad wasn’t sure to be in pain, confused, or terrified. Maddock took care of the startled and concerned part. I fought down rolling my eyes over their reaction and focused on my job. Vinegar first, then singing the blood to work; herbs and bandages quickly followed.

Maddock tied off the bandage as I wiped the blood from my hands, not that it helped. I’d accidentally splotched my waistcoat in interesting scarlet patterns; stray ends of my brown hair weren’t better off. But it was the price of the job. I handed the corporal a spare rag for his hands.

“We’d best check on the Captain and the others,” I said, heading for the door. “A Shielder. Corporal, how in God’s blessed teeth did someone with your Gift get assigned to an Aetheric Dirigible?” I asked, easing open the entrance.

A gust of North Atlantic wind, rich in salt air and rotten with dead kelp, greeted me. So did approaching shouts, punctuated by the pop and snap of flintlock weapons. Fortunately, neither of those came with a new round of water leapers looking for lunch.

“Not that I’m complaining,” I continued, “but when you change, wouldn’t you shift the ballast?” I asked.

The tall Welshman stood, plucked off his black felt hat to wipe his face and ash-brown hair with the rag.

“Yes, a little,” he admitted, giving the open door a pinched, worried look. “But I didn’t request assignment with the Javelin. Leftenant Angwin pulled favors to get me aboard. I was supposed to be reassigned to artillery, so a nobleman’s son could take my place in the regiment.”

“Pfui,” I growled, scrunching my nose at him. “Noble privilege, sometimes signed from birth to a modest rank for family status. Utter rubbish. Well, I’m glad you’re here.” I rubbed my eyes, grabbing the doorframe as I wobbled. Outside, the Captain and his marines had a field day with the water leapers.

“Ma’am? You well?” Maddock asked, looking more concerned than ever.

He walked over, but I waved him off. “It’s part of being a Bloodsinger. Everyone’s blood has its own song, and you hear them all in a fight. Not a confounded way to tune it out, either. I’ll be fine.”

Then, as soon as I said that, I wasn’t.

I grabbed the doorframe again as the world spun. Then I felt that same urge—a pull or call. It was identical to what I had felt aboard the Javelin. Something felt wrong… familiar, but wrong.

“Doctor Thorne!” Captain Vane shouted at me from the dock with a wide grin.

Despite an ugly cut through one sleeve and a new bruise on his right cheek, the captain looked more or less intact. His blue officer’s uniform was a mess, but so were the rest of us. He stalked down the dock for our fishing shack, followed by two battered midshipmen and four Royal Marines.

I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d not lost a soul. But the lot of them took a hard beating—or rather a sharp chewing—to clear the dock.

As they approached, one or two of the frog-beasts tried one last assault. But a knife, or shot from a flintlock, put an end to that nonsense. The others remained out of reach offshore, arcing out over the waves then back down again as they tossed greedy glares in our direction.

Captain Vane had lost his hat in the fight; not that he cared much. I’d known the square-built captain for years, and had him to thank for the post aboard the Javelin. Him losing that hat in a scuffle was as regular as the sunrise. The man ran a hand through his black hair, then scratched at his trimmed beard, glancing back at the leapers.

“I think we’ve got them on the run, Doctor.” He shook his head. “Wish we’d made it down sooner to save more than we did, but—”

Then the memory hit me. The oily sheen on the water leapers. A smell of burnt fish oil.

The leapers weren’t alone.

“No,” I muttered. “Captain—!”

The gray-white clouds overhead ripped the sky with fire. For a heartbeat, the wind stilled as the world held its breath. Then the air cracked like a slap. A hot broadside narrowly missed the Javelin’s keel, raining hot metal toward shore. Captain Vane and the others ran like mad for us until the ground erupted behind them.

It was air pirates.

Llamhigyn y Dŵr were bait. We were the fish, and I knew the bloody fisherman all too well.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Six hundred feet off Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Shakedown cruise of the HMS Dawn Javelin.

I’ve heard it said a cry for help at sea is the loneliest sound in the world. Hard lessons have taught me otherwise.

They’re more like a clean-cut wound. Some can be treated, others bandaged with care and hope. But then there are those that cut to the heart—the kind that make you wonder if the blade isn’t waiting to strike again.

We’d arrived off the coast of Portlethen Bay in Scotland—the third stop for the Javelin’s shakedown cruise as a hospital dirigible. It was the Royal Navy’s newest experiment of what do with an Aetheric Dirigible fleet that wouldn’t upset the rest of the water-based Admiralty. As the Fates would have it, there was already work to be done—such as patching up the crew against their own bad decisions.

I sighed, closing my notebook with a snap before setting it on a nearby counter. The current subject of the morning’s work, and my mild frustration, sat nearby in a wooden chair. My medical station aboard the Javelin’s bow wasn’t exactly small; it was only a bit wider than a pair of fish carts. But the tall man in the chair added bulk that seemed to shrink the room. Rigging pulled taut against sails and elongated canvas bag above, creaking in time with the subtle roll of the deck as the Javelin’s keel cut the clouds.

“Seaman,” I said, drawing out the word as I rubbed my eyes. “How in the bloody hell did you manage this? We’re in flight.”

Seaman Evan Riley frowned, giving the ragged cut along his forearm a bitter glare. It was a touch sharper than the look he spared me. I’d grown used to it, but it still made my hackles rise. The man was taller than most, broad-shouldered with a clean-cut look and a square jaw that made him the sort the Royal Navy favored.

He also had the sense to rein in whatever it was about me that bothered him. Probably because I was a doctor who had access to plenty of sharp knives.

“Ma’am,” he replied, tamping down his irritation. “Found one of the main gears the hard way. I was inspecting the foresail when I tripped and fell into an open gearbox for the canopy. Someone hadn’t stowed the rigging properly.”

I swapped a quick look with my assistant, Surgeon’s Mate Blake McLaren. Recently of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, he was a red-headed firebrand with a notion that rules existed for interpretation. But he was as bad a stickler as I was for keeping things stored in their proper place.

“I’ll get the purified vinegar,” Blake said, turning toward the cabinets.

“Thank you,” I replied, then grabbed some cotton and a small bottle of water to wash the wound.

It only took a moment to wash the blood from the wound, leaving an ugly, jagged tear. Most likely not the last Seaman Riley would see in his career. Blake handed me cotton, and I dabbed at the wound. Riley hissed low in his throat as I cleaned the cut, as the sharp scent of red wine vinegar sliced the air.

“Yes, it’ll sting,” I said dryly. “Might make a nasty scar that won’t have a good story to go with it. I’ll see what I can do about making it less obvious—provided you keep still.”

“No stranger to being stitched up, ma’am,” Riley replied, gripping the chair. “Ready when you are.”

I arched an eyebrow at him while Blake grinned.

“Never said anything about stitches,” I replied.

“Er… I don’t follow,” Riley said, worry dusting his words.

Blake quickly strapped the sailor’s limb to the arm of the chair with a stained leather strap. It didn’t improve Riley’s nerves.

“What…?” he sputtered.

Blake patted the man firmly on the shoulders, then stood on the opposite side of the patient from me.

“It’ll keep you from twitching,” he explained in his usual Scottish burr. “The less you twitch, the easier it is for Doctor Thorne to work on your wound.”

Riley’s eyes cut between Blake and myself.

“But it’s just a cut,” Riley protested.

I shook my head a little.

“It’s a deep gash that could turn sour, costing you the arm. Now be quiet and let me hear your blood.”

“Hear my… what?” Riley’s voice rose a half-octave.

Blake grinned—my assistant had a wicked sense of humor. I swore he loved this part most when people had to face my Gift in action. That particular shock and surprise wasn’t the highlight of my day, but I lived with it.

“Your blood. My Gift,” I said. “Now, be still.”

Slowly, I passed a hand over the jagged tear in his flesh. The blood stirred beneath my touch—restless, disobedient, and far too eager to run. It threatened to well up and trail over Riley’s arm at any moment. I wasn’t in a mood to let it.

My Gift stirred with a thought. The seaman’s blood sang back in reply—a soft melody, reminding me of an old, half-remembered sea shanty. I softly hummed along, the wooden creak of the Javelin’s hull in the background, as I brushed my fingertips over the wound, gentle as a spring breeze.

Gifts were new, having only appeared three years ago, if the Admiralty’s ledgers could be trusted. They weren’t common, and mine was rarer than most. A Bloodsinger.

Some claimed it was a curse, others a boon; a few called it dark witchcraft. I had enough problems in my life to borrow the baggage of those labels, so I simply tried to ignore them. Besides, it wasn’t like I asked to be Gifted in the first place.

Riley’s blood welled up under my fingers, rippling like the tide.

“Ah,” Riley hissed, face bunched from pain and no small amount of disgust.

“Shush,” I ordered.

His sputtering didn’t surprise me—most reacted that way. But I kept on, humming with the blood’s song, giving it weight and power. In reply, the blood neatly pulled the wound closed inches at a time.

As it did, Blake crouched down, using a cotton rag to catch the stray blood that inevitably leaked out. When done, it took nearly a minute, but I felt like I’d run a mile by the time I sat back, drawing a long breath.

“Done,” I said with a tight nod. “Not quite good as new, but you won’t lose the arm. Also, you’ll barely have a scar.”

Seaman Riley frowned at his arm as Blake unstrapped him. Once liberated, Riley slowly flexed his arm, testing the motion. The faint scar looked red and raw—after all, the body isn’t pretty when it heals. But the seaman’s wound now looked like a cut that had been healing nicely for weeks.

Blake appeared then with an ample supply of bandages and another grin.

“Unless you like pain, or want to attract the wrong kind of faeries, let’s bandage you up to get you on your way.”

Riley frowned harder, eyes still on his arm. He looked confused, surprised, and a little concerned. The first two made sense; while the last was the boil I wanted to lance. My chair groaned as I sat back, taking another long breath—bloodsinging was a bit draining—but also to set my line of approach.

“So, out with it.” I said, tugging at the front of my officer’s waistcoat. Royal Navy officers who roamed the seas below had to wear blue frock coats. We in the Aetheric Dirigible Corp were a bit more scaled-down for efficiency. “Still embarrassed over having slipped? Unnerved by the bloodsinging?” I paused before I ventured the last one. “Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m a woman officer, a surgeon, aboard a Royal Navy vessel?”

The tall seaman went a little wide-eyed as if he’d taken a hit to the gut. He pursed his lips, color fleeing his cheeks a little as he looked anywhere but at my face. Almost as if he desperately wanted an escape hatch to dive through.

“Well… I… er…” he stammered, then his words tripped over themselves onto the floor. “Begging your pardon, Doctor… ma’am. Women officers are fine, just a woman surgeon is a bit uncommon.” He blinked, face a concerned mask. “Much less one with a Gift like that—with the blood, I mean.”

I’d like to say I was surprised. The Gifted were highly prized, but carefully watched. The Royal Navy couldn’t care a whit if a Gifted was a man or a woman, only what they could do. Still, old dated stigmas in the Royal Navy ran deep.

Riley fidgeted in his seat when the silence stretched too long, but he had the discipline to wait until dismissed. I inclined my head, offering a thin smile.

“It’s quite all right, Seaman. My Gift’s a bit disturbing, but it’s all part of why the crew calls me ‘Banshee’ when I’m not looking, eh?”

Riley winced, while Blake coughed, covering a grin. Blake was the one who’d told me about the nickname. Obviously, Riley had heard it before.

“Yes… ma’am,” the big man replied, sounding a bit lost for what to say. “I doubt anything bad was meant by it…” his words stumbled to a confounded stop.

“Seaman Riley,” I said, sitting forward slightly with a smile. “It’s fine. We all serve at His Majesty’s pleasure in the Royal Navy—each to our own abilities. Just remember, while Captain Vane holds sway across the Javelin, this medical bay is my domain. You can trust that no matter what, I do everything in my power to keep my patients safe. Something to think about while you let that arm finish healing up.” I indicated the door with a nod. “Dismissed, Seaman.”

“Aye, Doctor.”

The man gave me a hasty salute, which I returned, before he scrambled out of the medical bay like all hell was hunting him. With Riley well and gone, Blake stopped hiding his grin behind a cough. I tossed a brittle look at him, then went about cleaning the chair and medical bay.

“Yes, I know, I could’ve been less barbed about that,” I said sourly.

Blake nodded thoughtfully, collecting the last bloody rags to wash.

“Oh, maybe a wee bit,” he replied airily. “You didn’t quite hit him like a hammer, but the man did leave sporting a few new bruises around the ego.”

I stopped scrubbing an errant bloodstain on the floor. It was Riley’s, so I heard the lingering refrains of the old sea shanty. Truth was, the blood was already in the cloth, so all I was doing was working on the wood out of frustration. The sway of the ship smoothed off a few rough edges of my nerves. I felt a soft rumble as the Javelin’s ballasts shifted to bring us to a drift.

Finally, I surrendered my wool-gathering with a sigh.

“You’re right; he didn’t deserve all of that. I’ll speak with him later. It’s just—” I sat back on my boot heels, pinching the bridge of my nose, “—confound it, Blake! I’ve heard the talk saying I’m a walking curse. I thought maybe taking a stand, one crew member at a time, would nip it in the bud.”

Blake set down his rag, turning to lean back against one of the tiny counters. Quietly, he folded his arms, staring at the stained wooden bulkhead across from him.

“That makes a bit of sense,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But would it work?” He shrugged. “Not sure. It’s an uphill climb against superstition, Doctor. You stumbled out half-alive and bleeding from the wreck of an Aetheric Dirigible. Then led the rescuers to anyone still breathing by singing to the dying among the wreckage—saying their blood called you.”

I stood up, tossing my spent rag into a nearby bucket.

“It’s when my Gift appeared. I can’t help how it took hold,” I muttered bitterly, putting my hands on my hips. “At least it kept those bloody resurrectionists at bay when they came hunting the dead and dying as the squall passed.”

Blake shook his head. “Oh, no doubt. You stumbling about covered in blood—and singing—sent them for the hills.”

“None of that means I’m cursed,” I complained.

A mischievous grin brushed his face. “That depends, Doctor. Those resurrectionists thought it bad luck you kept them from stealing any gold teeth!”

I would’ve replied, but the words caught in my chest. A hum trembled under my skin. Slow and quiet, it was a mournful song—lonely and wanting words it’d long forgotten.

“Blake,” I breathed, staring at nothing, “there’s trouble—”

“What?” Blake asked, narrowing his eyes.

Muffled shouts from on deck chased a tawny-haired Junior Petty Officer into view—Miles “Lifter” Perkins. He collided breathlessly against the doorway.

“Doctor Thorne! Mr. McLaren! The fishing town! There’s a problem…”

“Slow down, Mr. Perkins. Take a breath. What’s the trouble?” I asked, reaching for my stained, russet satchel.

“Water leapers hit the village. Several hurt,” the petty officer panted. “Captain’s taking a group ashore, and called for you both on deck.”

I blinked. “Leapers? You mean water leapers?”

Water leapers, or Llamhigyn y Dŵr, were nasty beasts. Giant frog-like nightmares with bat wings, they ambushed the unwary in packs, looking for a quick, juicy meal. Many a fisherman had gone missing to their appetite over the generations—especially since 1815.

The young man bobbed his head vigorously. “Aye, Doctor, I know.”

Blake’s scowl turned thunderous.

“Boil your head, Lifter, you can’t be serious. Here? In Scotland, on the coast? They’re Welsh freshwater problem.”

Lifter shook his head, raising a hand to hold off another outburst.

“Tell those Llamhigyn y Dŵr that. Lookout spotted five of the things leaping over the Portlethen Bay docks. Nearly took a man’s arm off.”

“Five?” I slipped on my satchel. “We’ll figure the why later. Get moving!”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

Just for a brief moment, close your eyes.

Feel that brisk chill in the air? A spray of water from the sea, before you rise up to touch the clouds. There’s the sound of waxed canvas creaking as the gas envelope fills to the brim. A pop as the wind catches the sails, pulling the ship forward. Wood creaking in the deck beneath your feet.

You’re moving—no, sailing—between cloudbanks as if charting a course to new undiscovered countries…

Only to hear a peal of thunder, feel a blast of smoke, realizing it may be pirates, or much, much worse—if you’re lucky.

These are the logs of the hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin. First of her class, she sets sail along the skies to help the infirm, sick, and giving aid to those in need.

Where the Blood Calls

Click for the Table of Contents

Blood Might Be Thicker Than Water, But Her Past Could Drown Them All

On the maiden flight of the Aetheric Dirigible, HMS Dawn Javelin, the crew responds to a cry for help from a Scottish fishing village.

Little did they know it wasn’t a simple mission of mercy.

As the Javelin’s captain and landing party are trapped in the village below, Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne faces a dire challenge in the sky. A tragedy from her past rises from the clouds to threaten ship and crew, testing loyalties, honor, and ingenuity.

In the end, it wasn’t a rescue—but a reckoning.

Buy Me a Coffee!

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.