Gunmage-Chapter 13: A miscalculation

The air hung heavy with a thick, suffocating silence. Lugh and Captain Veyland moved like phantoms through the deserted ship, their footsteps muffled by the eerie quiet.

No words passed between them, their shared dread a tangible presence. The dim, red-tinged light filtering up from the churning sea below cast long shadows, painting the scene in macabre hues.

The ship was a ghost of its former self, littered with the remnants of its last moments—shirts still buttoned lying where their wearers had fallen, boots still laced, abandoned mid-stride.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with the unspoken horror, a chilling testament to the swift and silent demise of the crew.

It was a scene from the pages of a nightmare, a scene that told of unseen terrors.

Both ships, similar in design, offered no challenge to their movements. They didn't have to search long before they found the engine room.

Stepping through the doorway was like walking into a furnace. A wave of oppressive heat washed over them, a stark, almost violent contrast to the ghostly chill that had clung to them on the main deck.

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The engine room was a chaotic labyrinth of gleaming carbon steel components, massive pipes snaking across the floor, and hulking machinery that formed the heart of the warship.

The air throbbed with the power of the active engine. Lugh stood silently, his gray eyes flicking across the controls with detachment, while Veyland, his movements precise and economical, immediately set to work coaxing the boiler output to its maximum capacity.

His experienced hands moved quickly over valves and gauges, adjusting settings with the ease of a man who had done this a thousand times before.

The task was completed with surprising speed, and soon, they were back on the deck, their boots echoing on the wooden floorboards as they moved with a renewed urgency.

Their destination: the bridge. The engine, now roaring at full throttle, only accelerated their descent into the heart of the whirlpool. The ship shuddered and groaned, protesting the unnatural strain.

By the time they reached the wheelhouse, the ship had plunged into the middle layers of the swirling vortex.

The churning water rose in towering, menacing walls around them, the ship caught in the relentless grip of the maelstrom. Veyland, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the turbulent waters, gripped the wheel and turned it hard to port, attempting to cut a straight path through the swirling chaos.

The engine whined and screamed, its noise a deafening roar that filled the air, vibrating through the very bones of the ship.

It responded sluggishly, groaning under the immense strain, before beginning a painfully slow, agonizing climb up the face of the turbulent water.

The captain's face, calm and steady, betrayed nothing of the turmoil within. He was pushing the steam turbine to its absolute limit, flirting with disaster. If the boiler exploded, the consequences would be catastrophic—a fiery end in the heart of the storm.

Despite the ever-present danger, they couldn't stop. This was their only chance, a desperate gamble against the overwhelming power of the sea.

It was a long, tense struggle, each second stretching into an eternity, but finally, they pulled through. The vessel, battered and bruised, clawed its way free of the whirlpool's grasp.

Despite their narrow escape, there was no sign of relief, no hint of celebration on either of their faces. The one person who would have jumped with joy was dead. Lugh still didn't know his name.

Now that they had escaped the immediate threat of the whirlpool, the risk of accidents was minimal.

Their course was clear: follow a wide arc around the swirling mass of water and regroup with the rest of the fleet. It sounded simple enough, a straightforward task after their harrowing ordeal.

But in the next instant, a deafening boom ripped through the air, and the ship shuddered violently. Had the boiler finally given way? The thought flickered through Captain Veyland's mind, a cold fist clenching around his heart. But the next explosion, even larger, even more violent, threw them both off their feet.

This was no engine malfunction.

They were under attack.

Stumbling out of the wheelhouse and onto the bridge, Veyland snatched up a spyglass, his hands steady despite the tension in his shoulders, and peered through the lens.

Not far from them, looming menacingly against the stormy sky, was a battleship. Its deck was filled with a crew that moved with an unsettling, robotic precision.

They were entirely mute, their faces blank, devoid of any expression. No orders were shouted, no directions were given. Each crew member, like a cog in a vast, deadly machine, emotionlessly attended to their duties: aiming, firing, and reloading the cannons with chilling efficiency.

"Well, shit,"

Veyland muttered, his voice barely audible above the roar of the wind and the crashing waves.

It seemed the inhumans had evolved yet again, their capabilities expanding with terrifying speed. From wielding rifles with deadly accuracy, they had now progressed to flawlessly operating the complex machinery of the main battle cannons.

Veyland could easily imagine them ramming their crippled ship, executing a picture-perfect boarding operation with cold, calculated precision.

Imagine? No. That was exactly what was happening.

Even as he watched, the enemy ship began to close the distance, its bow aimed directly at their exposed flank.

He could try to outmaneuver them, but what would be the point? They had no one to man their own cannons; they would simply be sitting ducks, taking a relentless pounding without any chance to retaliate.

In short order, Lugh and Veyland would be nothing more than another footnote in the brutal, unforgiving war.

"Lugh,"

The captain called out, his voice flat, resigned.

The 14-year-old boy tilted his head in question, his red eyes unreadable.

"We're making a last stand"

Veyland said, his gaze meeting Lugh's.

"Let's find what we can use and gear up."

"Okay"

Lugh replied, his tone calm, almost detached. As if he had accepted his fate long ago.

The single-bolt rifles they carried wouldn't be enough this time. They needed something heavier, something with more firepower.

They descended the creaking metal stairs, their footsteps soft and deliberate, heading for the armory, located deep below the waterline, in the lowest levels of the ship.

"Alright, listen up"

The captain began, his voice low and urgent.

"We don't have much time, so I'm gonna teach you how to use this"

He picked up a heavy machine gun, its cold metal gleaming in the dim light.

"The bullets are belt-fed"

He explained, his movements quick and efficient.

"Watch closely"

He loaded the gun, the metallic clicks and clacks echoing in the confined space.

"Once it's in"

He continued,

"you pull back this lever"

He cocked the gun, the sound sharp and decisive, before continuing his instructions.

"When you shoot, aim for center mass"

He said, his eyes locking onto Lugh's.

"If it jams, tap the magazine, rack the bolt, and try to fire again. If the barrel starts smoking, hold your fire."

After delivering his concise instructions, he nudged his head in the direction of another machine gun, identical to the one he held.

"Now you try," he said.

Lugh followed his instructions with unsettling precision, his hands moving with an almost mechanical efficiency. Every step of the process was executed flawlessly, as if he had done this before.

Veyland watched in silence.

They were already moving to take up their positions when the captain suddenly halted, his hand raised, stopping Lugh in his tracks.

"It seems we've made a miscalculation"

He murmured.

In the next moment, he slumped to the floor of the armory.