Where the Blood Calls 2: Dire Portents

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

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 Leanne Shawler ! 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!

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.