Where the Blood Calls 5: Master and Commander

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

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 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.

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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.