Jarka Ruus

EIGHTEEN

«Safety lines don't come loose for no reason at all," Khyber Elessedil whispered, poking him in the chest to emphasize her point. «They don't get put away with one end left unattached, either.»

Outside, the wind hammered and the rain beat against the wooden hull of the Skatelow as if to collapse it to kindling.

«I thought that, too," Pen answered, shaking his head. The cold feeling wouldn't leave him. It had found a home, deep inside, and even being down in the companionway and out of the weather didn't ease its chill. «But I couldn't argue about it with him, because he was right—I hadn't checked it.»

They were huddled together in his tiny cabin, talking in low voices and casting cautious looks at the closed door as they did so. Creaks and groans filled the silences, reminders of the precariousness of their situation. Overhead, they heard the heavy boots of the Rover crewmen as they moved about the decking, making sure the airship didn't break free of her moorings. They had landed only minutes ago in the lee of an oak grove at the edge of Paranor's forests, anchored about five feet off the ground while they rode out the storm. Gar Hatch had come below immediately and taken Cinnaminson to his cabin. Ahren and Tagwen were in the Druid's quarters already by then, the Dwarf sicker than Pen had seen a man in some time.

Khyber frowned. «It doesn't matter what he says anyway. The point is, we know how he feels. I doubt that he cared all that much whether you went over the side or not. A fall would have been an unfortunate accident, but accidents happen. Carelessness on your part, he'd say, exactly what he warned you against earlier. He doesn't have to answer for your failure to listen. But saving you works even better. It lets him make clear to you how vulnerable you are. He's made his point. Now you know for sure not to come near his daughter anymore.»

She paused. «You do know that now, don't you?»

He sighed. «Stop trying to tell me what to do, Khyber.»

«Someone has to tell you! You don't seem capable of figuring things out on your own!» She scowled and went silent, and they both looked away, listening to the wind howl across the decking. «I'm just trying to keep you from getting killed, Pen.»

«I know.»

«What was Cinnaminson trying to tell you when you were bringing her down? Did you find out?»

«Just to be careful, to watch out for myself, that's all.»

«She knew. She was trying to warn you.» Khyber shook her head. «I wish this trip was over. I wish we were rid of these people.»

He nodded, thinking at the same time that he wished he were rid of everyone but Cinnaminson. It didn't seem fair that a simple friendship should put him in so much danger. He still couldn't quite bring himself to believe it, although he had no illusions about what Gar Hatch might be capable of. Khyber was right about what happened topside. He might never know if Hatch intended for him to go over the side, but he knew for certain that he had been warned.

«Well, the trip will be over soon enough," he muttered, suddenly bone weary and heartsick. «Probably nothing else will happen now anyway.»

Khyber exhaled sharply. «I wouldn't bet on it.»

Although he didn't say so, Pen guessed he wouldn't, either.

* * *

The storm passed around midday, the winds dying down and the rain ending, and the Skatelow resumed her journey east. By then, she was above the Jannisson Pass, leaving Paranor and Callahorn and sliding north along the foothills fronting the Charnals and the Eastland. The weather turned sultry, and the skies were clouded over and gray for as far as the eye could see. Water birds soared overhead from the mountain lakes and rivers, white flashes against the gloom, their cries eerie and chilling. Far to the east and south, the departing storm clouds formed a dark wall splintered by flashes of lightning.

Except for the still–airsick Tagwen, everyone was back on deck by then, looking out at the distant mountains, catching the first glimpses of their destination. It was another day's journey to the Lazareen, but Pen felt a shift in his thinking anyway. His time with Cinnaminson was growing short, for after the Lazareen there was only another day's flying before they left the airship. He marveled that only yesterday it seemed as if they had all the time in the world, and now it seemed that they had almost none. Part of his attitude was fostered by what had happened earlier, but even that wouldn't have discouraged him entirely, had they had another week to spend together. But he could do nothing to prolong their journey's ending, could change nothing about parting from Cinnaminson.

They flew up the corridor leading off the Streleheim toward the Malg Swamp, a misty flat smudge across the landscape on their left, the terrain in dark counterpoint to the rolling green foothills on their right. Gar Hatch took the airship lower, trying to avoid the heavier mix of clouds and mist that layered the sky with a thick ceiling between swamp and mountains. As they neared the Malg, the water birds disappeared, replaced by swarms of insects that defied winds and airspeed to attack the ship's passengers in angry clouds. Gar Hatch swore loudly and took his vessel up until finally the insects dropped away.

Pen spit dead gnats from his mouth and wiped them from his nostrils and eyes. Cinnaminson appeared next to him, moving over from the pilot box with unerring directional sense, never wavering in her passage, and he was reminded again of how, even blind, she seemed able to see what was going on around her.

He was about to ask her what her father had said to her in his cabin, but before he could do so, he heard something in the cry of a heron that winged past so close it felt as if he could reach out and touch the bird. He looked at it sharply, hearing in its call a warning he could not mistake. Something had frightened the bird, and that did not happen easily with herons.

He scanned the horizon, then saw the dark swarm of dots soaring out of a deep canyon cut into the rugged foothills.

Birds, he thought at once. Big ones. Rocs or Shrikes.

But they didn't fly like birds. There was no wing movement, and their shapes were all wrong.

They were airships.

«Captain!» he shouted over to Gar Hatch and pointed.

For a long second, the big man just stared at the shapes, then he turned back with a dark look on his face. «Cinnaminson, get below and stay there. Take the other young lady with you. Penderrin, come into the pilot box. I'll need you.»

Without bothering to wait for a reply, Gar began shouting at the Rover crewmen, both of whom jumped in response. Within moments, they were hoisting every scrap of sail they could manage, a clear indication that whatever was coming, Gar Hatch intended to run from it.

Cinnaminson was already descending through the hatchway, but Khyber was having none of it. «I'm staying," she declared firmly. «I can help.»

«Go below," Ahren Elessedil ordered her at once. «The Captain commands on this ship. If I need you, I'll call. Stay ready. Pen, let's find out what is happening.»

Be careful, Khyber mouthed silently to the boy as she disappeared from view.

Together, Pen and the Druid hurried over to the pilot box and climbed inside. Gar Hatch was setting the control levers, readying them for when the sails were all in place. He scowled at Pen and the Druid as if they might be responsible.

«Put on your safety lines," he ordered. «Check both ends of yours, young Penderrin. We've no time for mistakes here.»

Pen held his tongue, doing as he was told, buckling himself into his harness and testing the links. Ahren Elessedil did the same.

«Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it, making these runs," Gar Hatch growled. He nodded toward the approaching dots. «Those are flits. Single–passenger airships, bothersome little gnats. Quick and highly maneuverable. Gnome raiders use them, and that's who those boys likely are. They want to bring us down for whatever we've got aboard. They'll do it, too, if they get close enough. I wouldn't worry normally, but that storm took something out of the Skatelow. She's faster than they are when she's working right, but she's down in her power about three–quarters and I haven't the time to do the work necessary to bring her back up again until we reach the Lazareen.»

«We can't outrun them?» Ahren asked.

Gar Hatch shook his head. «I don't think so. If we get far enough ahead of them, they might lose interest. If they know the ship, they might fall off. If not …»

He shrugged. «Still, there's other ways.»

He yelled at the crewmen to make certain they were ready, then shoved the thruster levers all the way forward. The Skatelow shuddered with the sudden input of power from the radian draws and shot ahead, lifting skyward at the same time. Hatch worked the controls with swiftness and precision, and Pen could see that he had been down that road before. Even so, the flits were getting closer, growing larger and beginning to take on shape. Pen saw the Gnomes who were crouched in their tiny frames, faces wizened and burnt by wind and sun. Gloved hands worked the levers that changed the direction of the single–mast sail, a billowing square that could be partially reefed or let out to change direction and thrust. At present, all sails were wind–filled, catching the light, powering the flits ahead at full speed.

Pen could already see that the Skatelow had no chance of outrunning them. The angle of attack and her injuries from the storm didn't allow for it. The flits would be on them in moments.

«Penderrin, lad," Gar Hatch said almost calmly. «Do you think you know enough by now to take the helm and keep her running full out?»

The boy nodded at once. «I think so.»

«She's yours, then," the Rover said, stepping aside. «You look like you might have fought a battle or two in your time," he said to Ahren. «How are you with rail slings?»

They went out of the pilot box, safety harnesses trailing after them, and worked their way across the deck to either side of the mainmast. A Rover crewman joined each of them, and in teams they began to set up the rail slings, pulling the catapults out of storage bins and setting the pivot ends into slots cut into the deck. Pen had never seen a rail sling before, but he understood their function right away. Built like heavy crossbows, they sat on swivels that could be pointed in any direction over the railings. A hand winch cranked back a sling in which sat a missile the size of a fist. When the sling was released, the missile hurtled out into the void, hopefully striking something in the process.

Hitting a moving target with one of those weapons while flying in an airship was virtually impossible, unless the target was huge, in which case no damage was likely to occur. But used against a swarm of targets, like the flits, a rail sling might have some success. Miss one flit and you still had a chance at half a dozen more. The rail slings were barely in place and loaded when the first of the flits reached them. The flits by themselves were useless as weapons, too small and fragile to ram a larger vessel or to shear off a mast. The Gnomes' intent was to sever the radian draws or rigging or to shred the ambient–light sheaths. They did this by using poles with razor–sharp blades bound about the business end.

In seconds, the flits were everywhere, coming at the Skatelow from every direction. Pen kept the airship steady and straight, knowing that this offered Gar Hatch and Ahren Elessedil their best chance at bringing down their attackers. The rail slings were firing by then, and a few of the tiny ships went down, sails holed or masts shattered, plummeting earthward like stricken birds. One either miscalculated or failed for some other reason and crashed into the Skatelow's hull, shattering on impact. Another became tangled in the bigger ship's rigging and crashed to the deck, where its pilot was seized by one of the Rovers and thrown overboard.

But the flits were inflicting damage on the Skatelow, as well. Several of her rigging lines had already been severed, and one radian draw was frayed almost to the breaking point. The mainsail had a dozen rents in the canvas, and the flit that had become tangled in the rigging had brought down several spars. The Skatelow was still flying, but Pen felt the unevenness of her effort.

When the frayed draw finally snapped, he switched off power to the crystal it fed and transferred what remained to the others. But the airship was shaking and bucking and no longer responded smoothly.

«Hold her steady!» Gar Hatch bellowed angrily.

Another flit whipped past Pen, the pole and blade sweeping down at his head, and he barely managed to duck away from it. Sensing the ship was in trouble and its crew unable to do any more to help her or themselves, the raiders were growing bolder. One good strike on one more essential component, and the vessel would not be able to stay in the air. She would fail quickly, and then she would be theirs.

They were deep into Northland country by that time, flying close to the Malg, and mist had closed about them in a heavy curtain that reduced their vision to almost nothing. The flit attacks seemed to materialize from nowhere as they winged out of the haze and then disappeared back into it again. How the Gnome pilots could find their way under such conditions was beyond Pen. He was struggling to see anything.

«Take her up!» Hatch shouted at him.

He did so, lifting her nose into the soup just as a Gnome raider came right across the bow. The flit simply disintegrated, but pieces of it ricocheted everywhere, severing lines forward and starboard and cutting loose the flying jib. The Skatelow slewed sideways in response, and Pen could no longer make her do anything. Gar Hatch abandoned his rail sling and clawed his way back across the deck to regain the controls.

In the midst of that chaos, with the Skatelow beginning to fall and the flits attacking like hornets, Ahren Elessedil stepped away from his rail sling, stood at the center of the airship's deck, and raised his arms skyward, his robes billowing like dark sails. For a moment he stood without moving, a statue at rest, eyes closed, head lifted. His face was calm and relaxed, as if he had found peace within himself and left the madness behind.

Then his hands began to weave like snakes and his voice to chant, the sound low and guttural and unrecognizable as his.

Gar Hatch had hauled himself into the pilot box and taken over the controls from Pen with an angry grunt. His hands were flying over the levers and wheels, but when he looked up long enough to catch sight of Ahren Elessedil, he froze. «What in the name of sea salt and common sense is the man doing?» he demanded.

The boy shook his head. He knew. «Saving us," he answered.

Behind them, Khyber had come out on deck, grasping the hatchway frame to hold herself steady, and was shouting at her uncle in disbelief.

Gnome raiders, bladed poles lowered to skewer him, were darting at the Druid from all directions. But try as they might, they could not get close enough to do so. Mist obscured their vision and gusts of wind knocked them aside, the mix roiling faster and faster, taking on the shape of a massive funnel. Heads began to turn in response. Aboard the Skatelow, the Rovers were shouting. Astride the flits, there wasn't the time or energy to spare for it. The mist and wind had become a deadly whirlpool surrounding the airships and then closing on them.

Ahren Elessedil's arms were stretched above his head, as if he sought to grasp something that was just out of reach. The funnel cloud of mist and wind continued to tighten. It caught the outermost flits and engulfed them. One minute they were there, fighting to stay aloft, and the next they were gone. The rest tried to flee, banking their tiny ships in all directions, seeking a means of escape. Some came right at the Skatelow and Ahren Elessedil, but they could not get close enough to strike at either. One by one, they were plucked from the sky by the funnel. One by one, they disappeared until all were gone.

The Druid lowered his arms, the mist dissipated, the winds died, and the whirlwind vanished, as well. Not a flit remained in the sky. Everything was the way it had been before the attack, the air hazy and gray but calm. The Skatelow sailed on, wounded but able to continue. In the distance, a sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds.

Ahren Elessedil walked back over to the pilot box and beckoned to Pen. «Let's help clear the decks and put away the rail slings," he said. He glanced at Gar Hatch. «Odd weather we're having, isn't it? No one would ever believe such strange things could happen. A man would be crazy even to suggest it.»

Pen smiled inwardly. The Druid knew something about giving warnings, as well. Which was a good thing, he supposed, since now everyone aboard knew what he was.