Chris Wooding, author of the thrilling novel Retribution Falls, returns to a fantastical world of spectacular sky battles and high-flying heroics for another epic adventure.
Deep in the heart of the Kurg rainforest lies a long-forgotten wreck. On board, behind a magically protected door, an elusive treasure awaits. Good thing Darian Frey, captain of the airship Ketty Jay, has the daemonist Crake on board. Crake is their best chance of getting that door open—if they can sober him up. For a prize this enticing, Frey is willing to brave the legendary monsters of the forbidding island and to ally himself with a partner who’s even less trustworthy than he is.
But what’s behind that door is not what any of the fortune hunters expect, any more than they anticipate their fiercest competitor for the treasure—a woman from Frey’s past who also happens to be the most feared pirate in the skies.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Review
“The Black Lung Captain is as good, and dare I say it, even better than the first. . . . Recommended wholeheartedly—I love this series!”—SFFWorld
“The Black Lung Captain met, and even exceeded, my expectations and proved that Chris Wooding can write a damned fine adventure novel with characters you’ll come to love. . . . Chris Wooding writes one hell of a novel!”—Walker of Worlds “The Black Lung Captain, like its forebear, is page-turning entertainment from start to finish, packed with aerial battles, chases, intrigue and hints of much bigger stories to come.”—SFX, 4-1/2 stars out of 5
Praise for Chris Wooding’s *Retribution Falls
“A far-flung adventure of stunning imagination and brilliant craftsmanship . . . as if Robert Louis Stevenson and Patrick O’Brian had teamed up to write a rollicking fantasy.”—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of Altar of Eden
“Picks you up, whisks you swiftly and entertainingly along, and sets you down with a big smile on your face.”—Joe Abercrombie, author of Last Argument of Kings “A fast, exhilarating read.”—Peter Hamilton, author of The Temporal Void “This is a wonderful book.”—New York Times* bestselling author Charlaine Harris
Darian Frey was a man who understood the value of a tactical retreat. It was a gambler's instinct, a keen appreciation of the odds that told him when to take a risk and when to bail out. There was no shame in running as if your heels were on fire when the situation called for it. In Frey's opinion, the only difference between a hero and a coward was the ability to do basic math.
Malvery was to his left, huffing and puffing through the undergrowth. Alcoholic, overweight, and out of shape. Pinn, who was no fitter but a good deal dimmer, ran alongside. Behind them was an outraged horde armed with rifles, pistols, and clubs, baying for their blood.
The math on this one was easy.
A volley of gunfire cut through the forest. Bullets clipped leaves, chipped trees, and whined away into the night. Frey swore and ducked his head. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself small. More bullets followed, smacking into earth and stone and wood all around them.
Pinn whooped. "Stupid yokels! Can't shoot worth a damn!" His stumpy legs pumped beneath him like those of an enthusiastic terrier.
Frey didn't share Pinn's excitement. He was sick with a gray fear, waiting for the moment when one of those bullets found flesh, the hard punch of lead in his back. If he was especially unlucky, he might get blinded by a tree branch or break his leg first. Running through a forest in the dark was no one's idea of fun.
He clutched his prize to his chest: a small wooden lockbox, jingling with ducats. Not enough to be worth dying for. Not even worth a medium- size flesh wound. But he wasn't giving it up now. It was a matter of principle.
"Told you robbing an orphanage was a bad idea," said Malvery.
"No, it was Crake who said that," Frey said through gritted teeth. "That's why he wouldn't come. You thought it was a good idea. In fact, your exact words were: 'Orphans don't fight back.' "
"Well, they don't," said the doctor defensively. "It's the rest of the village you've got to watch out for."
Frey's reply was cut off as the ground disappeared from under his feet. Suddenly they were tumbling and sliding in a tangle, slithering through cold mud. Frey flailed for purchase as the forest rolled and spun before his eyes. The three of them crashed through a fringe of bracken and bushes and ended up in a heap on the other side.
Frey extricated himself gingerly from his companions, wincing as a multitude of bumps and scratches announced themselves. The lockbox had bruised his ribs in the fall, but he'd kept hold of it somehow. He looked back at the moonlit slope. It was smaller and shallower than it had seemed while they were falling down it.
Malvery got up and made a halfhearted attempt at wiping the mud off his pullover. He adjusted his round green-lensed glasses, which had miraculously stayed on his nose.
"Anyway, I've reconsidered my position," he said, continuing his train of thought as if there had been no interruption. "I've come to believe that stealing from a bunch of defenseless orphans could be seen as a bit of a low point in our careers."
Frey tugged at Pinn, who lay groaning on the ground. He'd been on the bottom of the heap, and his chubby face was plastered in muck. "I'm an orphan!" Frey protested as he struggled with Pinn's weight. "Who were they collecting for, if not me?"
Malvery smoothed his bushy white mustache and followed Frey's gaze up the slope. The forest was brightening with torchlight as the infuriated mob approached. "You should tell them that," he said. "Might sweeten their disposition a little."
"Pinn, will you get up?" Frey cried, dragging the pilot to his feet.
Even with the moon overhead, it was hard to see obstacles while they were running. They fended off branches that poked and lashed at their faces. They slipped and cursed and cracked their elbows against tree trunks. It had rained recently, and the ground alternately sucked at their boots or slid treacherously beneath them.
The villagers reached the top of the slope and sent a hopeful barrage of gunfire into the trees. Frey felt something slap against his long coat, near his legs. He gathered up the flapping tail and saw a bullet hole there.
Too close.
"Give up the money and we'll let you go!" one of the villagers shouted.
Frey didn't waste his breath on a reply. He wasn't coming out of this without something to show for it. He needed that money. Probably a lot more than any bloody orphans did. He had a crew to look after. Seven mouths to feed, if you counted the cat. And that wasn't even including Bess, who didn't have a mouth. Still, she probably needed oiling or something, and oil didn't come for free.
Anyway, he was an orphan. So that made it okay.
"Everything looks different in the dark," Malvery said. "You sure this is the way we came?"
Frey skidded to a halt at the edge of a cliff, holding his arms out to warn the others. A river glittered ten meters below, sparkling in the moonlight.
"Er . . . we might have taken a wrong turn or two," he ventured.
The precipice ran for some distance to his left and right. Before them was a steely landscape of treetops, rucked with hills and valleys, stretching to the horizon: the vast expanse of the Vardenwood. In the distance stood the Splinters, one of Vardia's two great mountain ranges, which marched all the way north to the Yortland coast, thousands of kloms away.
Frey suddenly realized that he had no idea where, in all that woodland, he'd hidden his aircraft and the rest of his crew.
Malvery looked down at the river. "I don't remember this being here," he said.
"I'm pretty sure the Ketty Jay is over on the other side," said Frey doubtfully.
"Are you really, Cap'n? Or is that a guess?"
"I've just got a feeling about it."
Behind them, the cries of the mob were getting louder. They could see the bobbing lights of torches approaching through the forest.
"Any ideas?" Malvery prompted.
"Jump?" suggested Frey. "There's no way they'd be stupid enough to follow us."
"Yeah, we'd certainly out-stupid them with that plan." Malvery rolled up his sleeves. "Fine. Let's do it."
Pinn was leaning on his knees, breathing hard. "Oh, no. Not me. Can't swim."
"You'd rather stay here?"
"I can't swim!" Pinn insisted.
Frey didn't have time to argue. His eyes met the doctor's. "Do the honors, please."
Malvery put his boot to the seat of Pinn's trousers and shoved. Pinn stumbled forward to the edge of the cliff. He teetered on his toes, wheeled his arms in a futile attempt to keep his balance, and then disappeared with a howl.
"Now you'd better go rescue him," Frey said.
Malvery grinned. "Bombs away, eh?" He put his glasses in his coat pocket, ran past Frey, and jumped off the cliff. Frey followed him, feetfirst, clutching the box of coins. He was halfway down before he thought to wonder if the river was deep enough or if there were rocks under the surface.
Hitting the water was a freezing black shock, knocking the wind out of him. Icy spring melt from the Splinters. The sounds of the forest disappeared in a bubbling rush that filled his nose and ears. His plunge took him to the riverbed, but the water cushioned him enough to give him a gentle landing. He launched himself back upward, shifting the lockbox to one arm and swimming with the other. Only seconds had passed, but his chest was already beginning to hurt. He panicked and struggled for breath, clawing at the twinkles of moonlight above him. Finally, just when it seemed there was no air left inside him, he broke the surface.
Sound returned, unmuffled now, the hissing and splashing of the river. He sucked in air and cast about for signs of his companions. With the water lapping round his face he couldn't find them, so he struck out for the bank. The river wasn't fast, but he could still feel the current pulling him. He vaguely hoped Pinn was alright. He'd hate to lose a good pilot.
He hauled himself out, dragging the lockbox with him, which had inconveniently filled with water and was now twice as heavy as before. Jumping in the river had seemed a good idea at the time, but now he was sodden and cold as well as being dog-tired. He was beginning to think that getting lynched would be preferable to all this exertion.
Once he got to his feet, he spotted his companions. Malvery was swimming toward the bank with one hand, in great bearlike strokes. He was towing Pinn, fingers cupped around his chin. Pinn had gone limp, giving himself over to Malvery's strength.
Frey squelched along the bank to where the current had carried them and helped them both out. Pinn fell to his hands and knees, retching up river water.
"You rot-damned pair of bastards!" he snarled, between heaves.
"Oh, come on, Pinn," Frey said. "I've seen you take down four aircraft without breaking a sweat. You're scared of a little water?"
"I can't shoot water!" Pinn protested. He burped noisily and another flood spilled over his lips.
"There they are!" someone yelled from the clifftop. Bullets pocked the bank and threw up fins of spray from the river.
"Move it!" Frey scrambled away toward the trees. "It'll take them ages to find a way round."
He'd barely finished his sentence before the villagers began to fling themselves off the cliff. "We just want our money back!" an unseen voice called. "It's for the orphaaaaans!" The final word lengthened and trailed off as the speaker pitched over the edge and plummeted into the water.
"I'm an orphan!" Frey screamed, infuriated by their persistence. He'd done enough to deserve his escape. Why couldn't they just let him go?
His words fell on deaf ears. Angry faces broke the surface of the river and came swimming toward them.
"Don't those fellers give up?" Malvery complained, and they ran.
Description:
Chris Wooding, author of the thrilling novel Retribution Falls, returns to a fantastical world of spectacular sky battles and high-flying heroics for another epic adventure.
Deep in the heart of the Kurg rainforest lies a long-forgotten wreck. On board, behind a magically protected door, an elusive treasure awaits. Good thing Darian Frey, captain of the airship Ketty Jay, has the daemonist Crake on board. Crake is their best chance of getting that door open—if they can sober him up. For a prize this enticing, Frey is willing to brave the legendary monsters of the forbidding island and to ally himself with a partner who’s even less trustworthy than he is.
But what’s behind that door is not what any of the fortune hunters expect, any more than they anticipate their fiercest competitor for the treasure—a woman from Frey’s past who also happens to be the most feared pirate in the skies.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Review
“The Black Lung Captain is as good, and dare I say it, even better than the first. . . . Recommended wholeheartedly—I love this series!”—SFFWorld
“The Black Lung Captain met, and even exceeded, my expectations and proved that Chris Wooding can write a damned fine adventure novel with characters you’ll come to love. . . . Chris Wooding writes one hell of a novel!”—Walker of Worlds
“The Black Lung Captain, like its forebear, is page-turning entertainment from start to finish, packed with aerial battles, chases, intrigue and hints of much bigger stories to come.”—SFX, 4-1/2 stars out of 5
Praise for Chris Wooding’s *Retribution Falls
“A far-flung adventure of stunning imagination and brilliant craftsmanship . . . as if Robert Louis Stevenson and Patrick O’Brian had teamed up to write a rollicking fantasy.”—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of Altar of Eden
“Picks you up, whisks you swiftly and entertainingly along, and sets you down with a big smile on your face.”—Joe Abercrombie, author of Last Argument of Kings
“A fast, exhilarating read.”—Peter Hamilton, author of The Temporal Void
“This is a wonderful book.”—New York Times* bestselling author Charlaine Harris
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
An Escape-"Orphans Don't Fight Back"-
Pinn Flounders-Destination: Up
Darian Frey was a man who understood the value of a tactical retreat. It was a gambler's instinct, a keen appreciation of the odds that told him when to take a risk and when to bail out. There was no shame in running as if your heels were on fire when the situation called for it. In Frey's opinion, the only difference between a hero and a coward was the ability to do basic math.
Malvery was to his left, huffing and puffing through the undergrowth. Alcoholic, overweight, and out of shape. Pinn, who was no fitter but a good deal dimmer, ran alongside. Behind them was an outraged horde armed with rifles, pistols, and clubs, baying for their blood.
The math on this one was easy.
A volley of gunfire cut through the forest. Bullets clipped leaves, chipped trees, and whined away into the night. Frey swore and ducked his head. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself small. More bullets followed, smacking into earth and stone and wood all around them.
Pinn whooped. "Stupid yokels! Can't shoot worth a damn!" His stumpy legs pumped beneath him like those of an enthusiastic terrier.
Frey didn't share Pinn's excitement. He was sick with a gray fear, waiting for the moment when one of those bullets found flesh, the hard punch of lead in his back. If he was especially unlucky, he might get blinded by a tree branch or break his leg first. Running through a forest in the dark was no one's idea of fun.
He clutched his prize to his chest: a small wooden lockbox, jingling with ducats. Not enough to be worth dying for. Not even worth a medium- size flesh wound. But he wasn't giving it up now. It was a matter of principle.
"Told you robbing an orphanage was a bad idea," said Malvery.
"No, it was Crake who said that," Frey said through gritted teeth. "That's why he wouldn't come. You thought it was a good idea. In fact, your exact words were: 'Orphans don't fight back.' "
"Well, they don't," said the doctor defensively. "It's the rest of the village you've got to watch out for."
Frey's reply was cut off as the ground disappeared from under his feet. Suddenly they were tumbling and sliding in a tangle, slithering through cold mud. Frey flailed for purchase as the forest rolled and spun before his eyes. The three of them crashed through a fringe of bracken and bushes and ended up in a heap on the other side.
Frey extricated himself gingerly from his companions, wincing as a multitude of bumps and scratches announced themselves. The lockbox had bruised his ribs in the fall, but he'd kept hold of it somehow. He looked back at the moonlit slope. It was smaller and shallower than it had seemed while they were falling down it.
Malvery got up and made a halfhearted attempt at wiping the mud off his pullover. He adjusted his round green-lensed glasses, which had miraculously stayed on his nose.
"Anyway, I've reconsidered my position," he said, continuing his train of thought as if there had been no interruption. "I've come to believe that stealing from a bunch of defenseless orphans could be seen as a bit of a low point in our careers."
Frey tugged at Pinn, who lay groaning on the ground. He'd been on the bottom of the heap, and his chubby face was plastered in muck. "I'm an orphan!" Frey protested as he struggled with Pinn's weight. "Who were they collecting for, if not me?"
Malvery smoothed his bushy white mustache and followed Frey's gaze up the slope. The forest was brightening with torchlight as the infuriated mob approached. "You should tell them that," he said. "Might sweeten their disposition a little."
"Pinn, will you get up?" Frey cried, dragging the pilot to his feet.
Even with the moon overhead, it was hard to see obstacles while they were running. They fended off branches that poked and lashed at their faces. They slipped and cursed and cracked their elbows against tree trunks. It had rained recently, and the ground alternately sucked at their boots or slid treacherously beneath them.
The villagers reached the top of the slope and sent a hopeful barrage of gunfire into the trees. Frey felt something slap against his long coat, near his legs. He gathered up the flapping tail and saw a bullet hole there.
Too close.
"Give up the money and we'll let you go!" one of the villagers shouted.
Frey didn't waste his breath on a reply. He wasn't coming out of this without something to show for it. He needed that money. Probably a lot more than any bloody orphans did. He had a crew to look after. Seven mouths to feed, if you counted the cat. And that wasn't even including Bess, who didn't have a mouth. Still, she probably needed oiling or something, and oil didn't come for free.
Anyway, he was an orphan. So that made it okay.
"Everything looks different in the dark," Malvery said. "You sure this is the way we came?"
Frey skidded to a halt at the edge of a cliff, holding his arms out to warn the others. A river glittered ten meters below, sparkling in the moonlight.
"Er . . . we might have taken a wrong turn or two," he ventured.
The precipice ran for some distance to his left and right. Before them was a steely landscape of treetops, rucked with hills and valleys, stretching to the horizon: the vast expanse of the Vardenwood. In the distance stood the Splinters, one of Vardia's two great mountain ranges, which marched all the way north to the Yortland coast, thousands of kloms away.
Frey suddenly realized that he had no idea where, in all that woodland, he'd hidden his aircraft and the rest of his crew.
Malvery looked down at the river. "I don't remember this being here," he said.
"I'm pretty sure the Ketty Jay is over on the other side," said Frey doubtfully.
"Are you really, Cap'n? Or is that a guess?"
"I've just got a feeling about it."
Behind them, the cries of the mob were getting louder. They could see the bobbing lights of torches approaching through the forest.
"Any ideas?" Malvery prompted.
"Jump?" suggested Frey. "There's no way they'd be stupid enough to follow us."
"Yeah, we'd certainly out-stupid them with that plan." Malvery rolled up his sleeves. "Fine. Let's do it."
Pinn was leaning on his knees, breathing hard. "Oh, no. Not me. Can't swim."
"You'd rather stay here?"
"I can't swim!" Pinn insisted.
Frey didn't have time to argue. His eyes met the doctor's. "Do the honors, please."
Malvery put his boot to the seat of Pinn's trousers and shoved. Pinn stumbled forward to the edge of the cliff. He teetered on his toes, wheeled his arms in a futile attempt to keep his balance, and then disappeared with a howl.
"Now you'd better go rescue him," Frey said.
Malvery grinned. "Bombs away, eh?" He put his glasses in his coat pocket, ran past Frey, and jumped off the cliff. Frey followed him, feetfirst, clutching the box of coins. He was halfway down before he thought to wonder if the river was deep enough or if there were rocks under the surface.
Hitting the water was a freezing black shock, knocking the wind out of him. Icy spring melt from the Splinters. The sounds of the forest disappeared in a bubbling rush that filled his nose and ears. His plunge took him to the riverbed, but the water cushioned him enough to give him a gentle landing. He launched himself back upward, shifting the lockbox to one arm and swimming with the other. Only seconds had passed, but his chest was already beginning to hurt. He panicked and struggled for breath, clawing at the twinkles of moonlight above him. Finally, just when it seemed there was no air left inside him, he broke the surface.
Sound returned, unmuffled now, the hissing and splashing of the river. He sucked in air and cast about for signs of his companions. With the water lapping round his face he couldn't find them, so he struck out for the bank. The river wasn't fast, but he could still feel the current pulling him. He vaguely hoped Pinn was alright. He'd hate to lose a good pilot.
He hauled himself out, dragging the lockbox with him, which had inconveniently filled with water and was now twice as heavy as before. Jumping in the river had seemed a good idea at the time, but now he was sodden and cold as well as being dog-tired. He was beginning to think that getting lynched would be preferable to all this exertion.
Once he got to his feet, he spotted his companions. Malvery was swimming toward the bank with one hand, in great bearlike strokes. He was towing Pinn, fingers cupped around his chin. Pinn had gone limp, giving himself over to Malvery's strength.
Frey squelched along the bank to where the current had carried them and helped them both out. Pinn fell to his hands and knees, retching up river water.
"You rot-damned pair of bastards!" he snarled, between heaves.
"Oh, come on, Pinn," Frey said. "I've seen you take down four aircraft without breaking a sweat. You're scared of a little water?"
"I can't shoot water!" Pinn protested. He burped noisily and another flood spilled over his lips.
"There they are!" someone yelled from the clifftop. Bullets pocked the bank and threw up fins of spray from the river.
"Move it!" Frey scrambled away toward the trees. "It'll take them ages to find a way round."
He'd barely finished his sentence before the villagers began to fling themselves off the cliff. "We just want our money back!" an unseen voice called. "It's for the orphaaaaans!" The final word lengthened and trailed off as the speaker pitched over the edge and plummeted into the water.
"I'm an orphan!" Frey screamed, infuriated by their persistence. He'd done enough to deserve his escape. Why couldn't they just let him go?
His words fell on deaf ears. Angry faces broke the surface of the river and came swimming toward them.
"Don't those fellers give up?" Malvery complained, and they ran.
It was more luck than design that brought t...