Dragon Wing

27

Hugh and Alfred crouched at the foot of the stairs. They could hear the elves searching the ship; they heard the elf captain’s conversation with Bane.

“Little bastard,” Hugh muttered beneath his breath. Then they heard Bane scream.

Alfred paled.

“You want him, you better help rescue him,” Hugh said to the chamberlain.

“Keep close behind me.”

Clambering up the ladder, Hugh threw open the hatch. Sword in hand, he surged out onto the deck with Alfred right behind him. The first thing he saw was the elf hurling Bane over the side of the ship. Alfred cried out in horror.

“Never mind!” shouted Hugh, looking about swiftly for something to use as a weapon. “Cover my back—By the ancestors! No you don’t!” Alfred’s eyes were rolling up into his head. His face was ashen as he swayed on his feet. Hugh reached out a hand, grabbed him to shake him furiously, but it was too late. The chamberlain keeled over and landed on the deck in a pathetic heap.

“Damn!” Hugh swore viciously.

The elves were stiff and weary from their fight with the rebels. They had not expected to find humans on board a dragonship and they were slow to react. Hugh grabbed for the spar, just as one of the elf fighters attempted to reach it first. The Hand was quicker. Lifting it, he snatched it up with all the force he could manage and thwacked the elf across the face. The fighter toppled, striking his head against the hatch when he fell. Presumably he would be out for a while. Hugh dared not finish him off, for he had two other elves in front of him.

Elves are not particularly skilled swordsmen. They prefer the bow and arrow, which demonstrates skill and judgment, not merely brute strength—all they consider swordplay. The short blades elves carry at their sides are generally used for close fighting or to dispatch victims already wounded by arrows. Knowing the elves’ dislike for the blade, Hugh swung his sword wildly, forcing them to keep out of his reach. He edged backward—hopping from plank to plank—until he ran into the bulwarks, the elves pressing him, but not moving in to attack. Not yet. Whatever they lack in technique, elves make up for in patience and wariness. It was taking all Hugh’s waning strength just to keep the blade in his hand. The elves could see that he was sick and weak. Feinting, jabbing, they drained his energy. They could afford to wait until weariness forced him to drop his guard.

Hugh’s arms ached, his head throbbed. He knew that he could not hold out long. Somehow, this must end. Movement caught his eye.

“Alfred!” Hugh bellowed. “That’s it! Take them from behind!” It was an old trick, and no human fighter worth his codpiece would have fallen for it. As it was, the elven captain kept his eyes fixed on Hugh, but the other warrior lost his nerve and turned his head. What he saw was not a menacing human bearing down on him, but Alfred sitting up and looking about him dazedly.

Hugh was on the elf in a flash, slashing the sword out of his hand and bashing the warrior in the face with his fist. This move left him open to attack from the captain, but he couldn’t help that. The elf captain leapt forward to strike. His feet slipped on the slanting deck; the clumsy stroke missed Hugh’s heart and tore through the muscles of his sword arm. Hugh spun on his heel, caught the captain across the jaw with the hilt of the blade and sent the elf sprawling on his back on the deck, his weapon flying from his hand. Hugh sank to his knees, fighting dizziness and nausea.

“Sir Hugh! You’re injured! Let me help—” Hands touched his arm, but Hugh jerked away.

“I’m all right,” he snapped. Staggering to his feet, he glared at the chamberlain, who flushed and hung his head.

“I ... I’m sorry I let you down,” he stammered. “I don’t know what comes over me—”

Hugh cut him off, gesturing at the elves. “Toss this scum overboard before they come to.”

Alfred went so pale that Hugh thought he was going to faint again. “I can’t do that, sir. Throw a helpless man ... to his death.”

“They threw that kid of yours to his death!” Hugh raised his sword, holding it above the neck of the unconscious elf. “Then I’ll have to get rid of them here. I can’t take a chance on them coming around.”

He started to cut the slender neck, but a strange reluctance halted him. A voice came to him from out of a vast and horrifying darkness. All your life you served us.

“Please, sir!” Alfred caught hold of his arm. “Their ship is still attached to ours.” He pointed to where the remnants of the elven vessel nosed alongside the dragonship, the grappling hooks holding it fast. “I could transfer them back there. At least they’d have a chance of being rescued.”

“Very well.” Too sick and tired to argue, Hugh gave in with an ill grace. “Do what you want. Just get rid of them. What do you care about elves. anyway? They murdered your precious prince.”

“All life is sacred,” said Alfred softly, leaning down to lift the unconscious elf captain by the shoulders. “We learned that. Too late. Too late.” At least that’s what Hugh thought he said. The wind was whistling through the rigging, he was sick and in pain, and who cared anyway?

Alfred performed the task in his usual bumbling fashion—tripping over the planks, dropping the bodies, once nearly hanging himself when he became entangled in one of the wing cables. Eventually he managed to haul the unconscious elves to the ship’s rail and heaved them onto their own ship with a strength the Hand found difficult to credit in the tall, gangling man. But then, there was a lot about Alfred that was inexplicable. Was I really dead? Did Alfred bring me back to life? And, if so, how? Not even the mysteriarchs have the ability to restore the dead.

“All life is sacred. . . . Too late. Too late.”

Hugh shook his head and was immediately sorry. He thought his eyeballs must burst out of their sockets.

Alfred returned to find Hugh trying to knot a clumsy bandage around his arm.

“Sir Hugh?” Alfred began timidly.

Hugh did not look up from his work. Gently the chamberlain took over, tying the bandage deftly.

“I think you should come and see something, sir.”

“I know. We’re still falling. But I can pull us out. How close are we to the Maelstrom?”

“It’s not just that, sir. It’s the prince. He’s safe!”

“Safe?” Hugh stared at him, thinking the man had gone mad.

“It’s very peculiar, sir. Although not so peculiar, I suppose, considering who he is and who his father is.”

Who the hell is he? Hugh wanted to ask, but now was not the time. Sick and hurting, he made his way across the deck, whose movements were becoming more and more erratic as they drew nearer the storm. Looking down below, he could not repress a low whistle of amazement.

“His father is a mysteriarch of the High Realm,” said Alfred. “I suppose he taught the boy to do that.”

“They communicate through the amulet,” said the Hand, recalling his failing vision focusing on the boy clasping the feather in his hand.

“Yes.”

Hugh could see the boy’s upturned face, looking at them triumphantly, evidently quite pleased with himself.

“I’m supposed to rescue him, I suppose. A kid who tried to poison me. A kid who wrecked my ship. A kid who tried to turn us all over to the elves!”

“After all, sir,” replied Alfred, gazing at Hugh steadily, “you did agree to murder him—for money.”

Hugh glanced back down at Bane. They were nearing the Maelstrom. He could see the stinging clouds of dust and debris floating above it and hear the dull booming of the thunder. A cool, moist wind smelling of rain was causing the tail rudder to flap wildly. Right now, Hugh should be examining the snapped cables, trying to rig them so that he could extend the wings and regain the upper air before the ship drifted too close, before the winds of the storm could prevent them from rising. And the pounding in his head was making him sick.

Turning, Hugh left the rail.

“I don’t blame you,” said Alfred. “He is a difficult child—”

“Difficult!” Hugh laughed, then paused, eyes closed, as the deck canted away beneath his feet. When he was himself again, he drew a deep breath. “Take that spar and hold it out to him. I’ll try to maneuver the ship closer. We’re risking our own lives doing this. Chances are we’ll get caught by the winds and sucked into the storm.”

“Yes, Sir Hugh.” Alfred ran to get the spar—for once, his feet and his body all going the same direction.

The Hand dropped through the hatch into the steerage way and stood staring at the mess. “Why am I doing this?”, he asked himself. It’s simple, was the response. You’ve got a father who will pay to have his son not come back and another father who will pay to get hold of the kid.

That makes sense, Hugh admitted. All, of course, provided we don’t wind up in the Maelstrom. Looking out the crystal window, he could see the boy floating among the clouds. The dragonship was falling down to meet him, but unless Hugh could alter their course, they would miss him by over a wing’s length. Gloomily the Hand surveyed the wreckage, prodding his aching mind to function and delineate between the various ropes that were twisting and slithering across the deck like snakes. Finding those he needed, he untangled them and laid them out straight so that they could run easily through the hawseholes. Once the cables were arranged, he cut them loose from the harness with his sword and wound them around his arms. He had seen men suffer broken bones from doing this. If he lost control, the heavy wing would fly out suddenly, jerk the rope, and snap his arms like a twig.

Seating himself, his feet braced against the deck, Hugh began to pay out the line slowly. One length of cable ran swiftly and smoothly through the hawsehole. The wing began to lift and the magic to activate. But the cable on Hugh’s right arm remained limp and lifeless, straggling across the deck. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The wing was stuck, jammed.

Hugh hauled back on the cable with all his might, hoping to jolt it free. It did no good, and he realized that one of the exterior cables attached to his guide rope must have snapped. Swearing to himself beneath his breath, the Hand abandoned the broken cable and concentrated on flying the ship with one wing.

“Nearer!” Alfred shouted. “A little more to the left—or is that starboard? I can never remember. Port? Perhaps port? There, I’ve almost got him . . . Now! Hang on tightly, Your Highness!”

Hugh heard the prince’s shrill voice, yammering excitedly about something, the sound of small boots hitting the deck.

Then he heard Alfred’s voice, low and rebuking, and Bane’s defensive whine. Hugh pulled back on the cable, felt the wing lift, and the dragonship, aided by its magic, began to float upward. The clouds of the Maelstrom swirled below, seemingly angry to see the prey escaping. Hugh held his breath, concentrating all his energy on holding the wing steady as they continued slowly rising.

It was as if a giant hand reached out to slap them like an irritating mosquito. The ship dropped suddenly and sickeningly, plunging downward so fast that it seemed their bodies went with it but their stomaches and bowels stayed up above. Hugh heard a frightened shriek and a heavy bump and knew someone must have been thrown to the deck. The Hand hoped both Alfred and the kid had found something to hang on to, but there was nothing he could do about it if they hadn’t.

Grimly he held on to the cables, fighting to keep the wing up to slow their descent. Then he heard an ominous ripping sound and the eerie whistle that stops the hearts of all dragonship pilots. The wing had torn, the wind was rushing through it. Hugh paid out the line as far as it would go, opening the wing all the way. Although he couldn’t use it to steer, at least its magic would help cushion their fall when they hit the ground—if they hit the ground and if the Maelstrom didn’t rip them apart first.

Unwinding the rope from around his arm, Hugh threw it onto the deck. They hadn’t reached the Maelstrom yet, and already the wind was whipping the ship around. He couldn’t stand up and was forced to crawl across the planking, clinging to the cables and using them to pull himself into the corridor. Once there, he dragged himself up the ladder and peered out. Alfred and Bane were lying flat on the top deck, the chamberlain with his arm wrapped tightly around the boy.

“Down here!” Hugh yelled above the buffeting of the wind. “The wing’s split. We’re sinking into the storm!”

Alfred slithered on his stomach across the deck, hauling Bane with him. Hugh took a certain grim pleasure in noting that the child appeared to be stricken dumb with terror. Reaching the hatch, the chamberlain shoved the prince ahead of him. Hugh grasped hold of the boy none too gently, pulled him inside, and dropped him onto the deck.

Bane let out a howl of pain that was cut short when the ship flipped over, slamming him into the bulwarks and knocking the breath from his body. The motion sent Alfred plunging through the hatch headfirst, causing Hugh to lose his footing. He crashed down the ladder onto the deck below. The Hand staggered to his feet and made his way back up the ladder—or perhaps it was down the ladder. The ship was rolling over and over, and he had lost all sense of direction. He grabbed hold of the hatch cover. A rain squall hit the ship; water lashed down with the force of elven spears. A jagged bolt of lightning split the air near enough that the smell made him wrinkle his nose; the concussion of the air rushing back together nearly deafened him. He fumbled at the hatch cover—it was slippery and wet—and finally managed to yank it shut. Wearily he slid back down the ladder and collapsed onto the deck.

“You . . . you’re alive!” Bane stared at him in blank astonishment. Then his expression changed to one of joy. Running over to Hugh, the child threw his arms around him and hugged him close. “Oh, I’m so glad! I was so frightened! You saved my life!”

Detaching the clinging hands, Hugh held the prince at arm’s length. There was no doubting the sincerity either in the tear-choked voice or on the innocent face. There was no guile or deceit in the blue eyes. The Hand could have almost imagined that he had dreamed everything.

Almost, but not quite.

This Bane, so aptly named, had tried to poison him. Hugh put his hand around the boy’s white throat. It would be a simple matter. One twist. Snap the neck. Contract fulfilled.

The ship pitched and tossed in the storm. The hull creaked and groaned and seemed likely to fly apart at any moment. Lightning flashed around them; thunder boomed in their ears.

All your life you served us.

Hugh tightened his grasp. Bane gazed up at him; the child was trusting, shyly smiling. The assassin might have been soothing the prince with a loving caress.

Angrily the Hand hurled the boy away from him, sent him stumbling into Alfred, who caught him reflexively.

Stumbling past the two, heading for the steerage way, Hugh dropped to his hands and knees and heaved up his guts.