Alt Mer risked a quick glance over his shoulder at the Federation officers—risked, because if he started laughing at what he found, he would find himself in trouble he didn’t need. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The Commander and his adjutants were gripping the rail with white-knuckled determination, but no one was sick yet and no one was hiding his eyes. The Rover gave them a reassuring wave and dismissed them from his thoughts.
When Black Moclips was well away from the Federation camp and approaching the forward lines of the Free-born, he gave the order to unlock the ship’s weapons. Black Moclips carried several sets, all of them carefully stacked and stored amidships. Bows and arrows and slings and javelins were used mostly for long-range attacks against opposing crews and fighters. Spears and blades were used in close combat. Long, jagged-edge pikes and grappling hooks attached to throwing ropes were used to draw an enemy ship close enough to tear apart her sails or sever her radian draws.
The two dozen Federation soldiers who rode belowdecks during embarkation climbed up the ladder through the hatchway amidships and moved to arm themselves. Some took up positions behind shielding at the rails. Some moved to man the catapults that launched buckets of metal shards or burning balls of pitch. All were veterans of countless airship battles aboard Black Moclips. Alt Mer and his crew of Rovers left the fighting to them. Their responsibility was to the ship. It took all of their concentration to hold her steady in the heat of battle, to position her so that the soldiers could bring their weapons to bear, and to employ her when necessary as a battering ram. The crew was not expected to fight unless the ship was in danger of being boarded.
Watching the soldiers take up their weapons and move eagerly into position, the Rover Captain was struck by the amount of energy men could summon for the purpose of killing one another.
Furl Hawken appeared suddenly at his side. “Everything’s at the ready, Captain. Crew, weapons, and ship.” He shifted his eyes sideways. “How’s our stouthearted passengers holding up?”
Alt Mer glanced briefly over his shoulder. One adjutant had freed himself from his safety line and had buried his head in the slop bucket. The other, white faced, was grimly forcing himself not to look over at his companion. The pinch-faced Commander was scribbling in a notebook, his black-clad body wedged into a corner of the decking.
“They’d prefer it if we just stayed on the ground, I think,” he offered mildly.
“Wonder if they’ve got anything to report regarding the functions of their insides?” Hawk chuckled and moved away.
Black Moclips passed over the Free-born lines headed toward their airfields, the other seven airships spread out to either side. Two were Rover ships, the other five Federation. He knew their Captains. Both Rover Captains and one of the Federation Captains were reliable and skilled. The rest were marking time until one mistake or another caught up with them. Redden Alt Mer’s approach to the situation was to try to keep out of their way.
Ahead, Free-born airships were lifting off to meet them. The Rover Captain produced his spyglass and studied the markings. Ten, eleven, twelve—he counted them as they rose, one after the other. Five were Elven, the rest Free-born. Not the kind of odds he liked. Ostensibly, he was to engage and destroy any enemy airships he encountered, without sustaining damage to his own. As if doing so could possibly make a difference in the outcome of the war. He brushed the thought aside. He would engage the Elven airships and let the others bang up against themselves.
“Safety lines in place, gentlemen!” he called to his Federation passengers and crew, gripping the controls as the enemy ships drew near.
At two hundred yards and with an airspeed approaching twenty knots, he sideslipped Black Moclips out of formation and dipped sharply toward the ground. Leveling out again, then increasing his speed, he brought the airship out of her dive and into a climb beneath the Free-born. As he sailed upward on their lee side, his catapults began launching scrap metal and fireballs into the exposed hulls and sails. One ship exploded into flame and began drifting away. A second responded to the attack by launching its own catapults. Jagged bits of metal screamed overhead as Alt Mer spun the wheel sharply to carry Black Moclips out of the line of fire.
In seconds, all the airships were engaged in battle, and on the ground, the men of the opposing armies paused to look skyward. Back and forth the warring vessels glided, rising and falling in sudden tackings, fireballs cutting bright red paths across the blue, metal shards and arrows whistling through their deadly trajectories. Two of the Federation ships collided and went down in a twisted, locked heap, steering gone, hoods shattered, crystals drawing down so much power they exploded in midair. Another of the ships spun away from an encounter in a maneuver that lacked explanation and suggested panic. A Free-born vessel skidded into a Rover ship with a sharp screech of metal plates. Radian draws snapped loudly, sending both into slides that carried them away from each other. Everywhere, men were shouting and screaming in anger and fear and pain.
Black Moclips rose through the center of the maelstrom, breaching like a leviathan out of turbulent waters. Redden Alt Mer took her sideways and out from the pack in pursuit of a lone Elven ship that was maneuvering for position. Fireballs sizzled through the air in front of Alt Mer, but he slid underneath, tilting to bring his own weapons to bear. The Elf ship swung about and came at him. No coward, this Captain, the Rover thought with admiration. He banked left and rose sharply, the curved tip of his right battering ram taking off the top of the Elf’s mainmast and dropping her mainsail. The Elf vessel lurched in response, fought to stay level.
Black Moclips swung about, readying an attack. “Steady, now!” Alt Mer yelled, red hair flying behind him in the wind like a crimson flag.
But a second ship lumbered into view from his right, a Federation vessel with her bridge in ruins, her Captain nowhere in sight, and her crew frantically trying to regain control. Flames leapt from her decking amidships and climbed her mainmast with feathery steps. Alt Mer held Black Moclips steady, but all at once the Federation ship swung around, slewing sideways toward a collision. The Rover Captain hauled back on the steering, opened the hoods, and fed power through the parse tubes. Black Moclips surged upward, barely missing the Federation vessel as it passed underneath, pontoons scraping mast tips and tearing sails.
Alt Mer swore under his breath; it was bad enough that he had to worry about the enemy’s ships. Expecting to find the partially disabled Elven ship, he brought Black Moclips about and found the Federation ship he had just avoided instead. Somehow it had come back around and was sweeping right in front of him. He hauled back on the hooding controls, lifting away on the ship’s nose, trying to avoid it. But the Federation vessel was still slewing left and right. A burning brand, its captainless crew was desperately trying to tie off the radian draws before power to the crystals spilled her sideways. Sails were aflame and crystals were exploding and the Federation crew was screaming in fear.
Alt Mer couldn’t get out of the way in time. “Brace!” he roared to everyone who could listen. “Brace, brace, brace!”
Black Moclips struck the Federation ship just below her foresail decking, shuddered and rocked violently, and absorbed the blow through her rams. Even so, the force of the collision threw him into the controls. Behind him, he caught a glimpse of the Federation Commander and his adjutants flying sideways across the decking. The restraining harnesses brought the Commander and one adjutant up short, but the line securing the second adjutant snapped, and the unfortunate man pinwheeled across the deck, flew over the railing, and was gone. Alt Mer could hear him screaming all the way down.
“Captain!” he heard the Federation Commander howl in anger and terror.
But there was no time to respond. Two more of the Elven ships were closing fast, sensing that they had a chance to destroy their greatest enemy. Alt Mer shouted to brace for evasive maneuvers, and took the ship into a sudden, slewing dive that sent the Federation Commander and his remaining adjutant flying back ac
ross the deck in the other direction. One Elf ship dropped after him, and when it did, he took it back under the second, Black Moclips twisting and dipping in smooth response to his hands on her controls.
The Federation Commander was still screaming at him from behind, but he paid no attention. He took Black Moclips around and up in a tight spiral, missiles from his catapults firing into the Elf ships, which were firing back. Scrap metal took out the foresail of one and, in one of the luckiest shots Alt Mer had ever seen, damaged the steering rudders, as well. The ship lurched and fought to regain power. Alt Mer ignored it, wheeling on the other. Metal shards hammered into Black Moclips’ pontoons and upper decking, knocking her sideways. But her armor held, and Alt Mer swung right into the enemy.
“Brace!” he yelled down, jamming the controls forward to feed power to the crystals.
Black Moclips collided with the second Elf ship about halfway up its mainmast. The mast snapped as if caught in a high wind and toppled to the deck, bringing down sails and radian draws alike. Bereft of more than a third of his ship’s power, her Captain was forced to hood his crystals and take her down. Alt Mer held Black Moclips away, watching as both Elf vessels began to descend, rolling and slewing as they fought to stay upright, crews scrambling madly to reposition the draws. All around them, Free-born ships were descending, giving up the hunt. Four Federation ships were down, burning on the plains. Two of those still airborne were damaged, one badly. Alt Mer glanced earthward at the crippled Free-born ships and gave the order to withdraw.
Suddenly the Federation Commander was shouting in his ear, his pinched face red and sweating. He had freed himself from his safety line and dragged himself across the decking. One hand gripped the railing of the pilot box and the other gestured furiously. “What do you think you’re doing, Captain?”
Alt Mer had no idea what he was talking about and didn’t care for his tone of voice. “Heading home, Commander. Put your safety line back on.”
“You’re letting them get away!” the other snapped, ignoring him. “You’re letting them escape!”
Alt Mer glanced over the side of Black Moclips at the Free-born vessels. He shrugged. “Forget about them. They won’t fly again for a while.”
“But when they do, they’ll be back in the skies, hunting our airships! I’m ordering you to destroy them, Captain!”
The Rover shook his head. “You don’t give the orders aboard this vessel, Commander. Get back in place.”
The Federation Commander seized his jacket. “I’m a superior officer, Captain Alt Mer, and I’m giving you a direct order!”
Redden Alt Mer had put up with enough. “Hawk!” he yelled. His Second Officer was beside him in a heartbeat. “Help the Commander back into his safety harness, please. Make sure it’s securely fastened. Commander, we’ll discuss it later.”
Furl Hawken removed the almost incoherent officer from the pilot box, muscled him over to the aft railing, and snapped him back into his harness, pulling out the release pin in the process. He passed by Alt Mer on his way forward with a wink, tossing the Captain the pin. “Wish Little Red were here to see this,” he whispered with a grin.
Well and good to say so now, the Rover thought darkly, his hands steady on the ship’s controls, but it would be a different story when they landed. This wasn’t something the Commander was likely to overlook, and he doubted that a board of inquiry would back a mercenary against a regular. Even the appearance of insubordination was enough to have you brought up on charges in this army. The right or wrong of it wouldn’t matter, nor even the fact that on board any airship, like any sailing ship, the Captain’s was the final word. The Federation would back its own, and he would be reduced in rank or dismissed from service.
His green eyes scanned the horizon, west to where the mountains rose against the blue of the sky. The one good thing about being a flyer was that you could always be somewhere else by nightfall.
He thought momentarily of taking Black Moclips and heading out, not even bothering to go back. But she wasn’t his ship, and he wasn’t a thief—not just then, anyway—and he couldn’t leave Little Red behind. It was best to go back, pack up, and be out of there by dark.
Before he knew it, he was smelling the Blue Divide and remembering the colors of spring in March Brume.
He brought the ship down carefully, letting the ground crew haul her in and secure her, then walked back to free the Commander and his aide. Neither of them said a word or even looked at him. As soon as they were unhooked, they bolted from the ship as if scalded. Alt Mer let them go, turning his attention to checking the damage to Black Moclips, making certain steps would be taken to complete the necessary repairs. Already he was thinking of her as someone else’s ship. Already, he was saying good-bye.
As it turned out, he was a little too slow doing so. He was just coming down off the rope ladder onto the airfield when the Commander reappeared with a squad of Federation regulars.
“Captain Alt Mer, you are under arrest for disobeying a superior officer while engaged in battle. A hanging offense, I think. Let’s see who’s in charge now, shall we?” He attempted a menacing smile, but it failed, and he flushed angrily. “Take him away!”
Furl Hawken and his crew started off the ship, weapons already in hand, but Redden Alt Mer motioned for them to stay where they were. Slipping free his weapons, he deliberately walked past the Commander and handed them to the grizzled squad leader, a man with whom he had shared more than a few glasses of ale and knew well enough to call by his first name.
“I’ll see you tonight, Hawk,” he called back over his shoulder.
He paused suddenly to look at Black Moclips. He would never see her again, he knew. She was the best ship he had ever captained, maybe the best he ever would. He hoped her new Captain would prove worthy of her, but he doubted it. Whatever the case, he would miss her more than he cared to imagine.
“Lady,” he whispered to her. “It was grand.”
Then, looking past the Commander to the squad leader, he shrugged his indifference to the whole business. “Lead the way, Cap. I put myself in your capable hands.”
Whatever his thoughts might have been on the matter, the squad leader was smart enough to keep them to himself.
The flat-faced, burly line sergeant had been drinking at the bar in the back room of the company blacksmith’s for over an hour before he got up the nerve to walk over to Little Red. She was sitting alone at a table in the rear, clouded by shadow and the kind of studied disinterest in her surroundings that made it clear she was not to be approached. The line sergeant might have recognized as much five tankards of ale earlier, when his judgment was still clear enough to warn him against foolish behavior. But his anger at the way that she had humiliated him the night before, coupled with false bravado fueled by the quantity of his drink, finally won out.
He squared himself away in front of her, a big man, using his size as an implied threat.
“You and me got something to settle, Little Red,” he declared loudly.
Heads turned. A few soldiers rose and quietly moved for the doors leading out. The blacksmith’s wife, who tended bar for her husband in the midday, glanced over with a frown. Outside, in the sweltering heat of the forge, iron clanged on iron, and hot metal thrust into water hissed and steamed.
Rue Meridian did not look up. She kept her gaze steady and direct, staring off into space, her hands cupped loosely around her tankard of ale. She was there because she wanted to be alone. She should have been flying, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore and her thoughts were constantly on the coast and home.
“You listening to me?” he snapped.
She could smell the line sergeant, his breath, unwashed body and hair, soiled uniform. She wondered if he noticed how foul he had become while living in the field, but guessed he hadn’t.
“You think you’re something, don’t you?” Perhaps because of her silence, he was growing braver. He shifted his weight closer. “You look at me when I talk to you,
Rover girl!”
She sighed. “Isn’t it enough that I have to listen to you and smell you? Do I have to look at you, too? That seems like a lot to ask of me.”
For a moment he just stared at her, vaguely confused. Then he knocked the tankard of ale from between her hands and drew his short sword. “You cheated me, Little Red! No one does that! I want my money back!”
She leaned back in her chair, her gaze lifting. She gave him a cursory glance and looked away again. “I didn’t cheat you, Sergeant.” She smiled pleasantly. “I didn’t have to. You were so bad that it wasn’t necessary. When you get better, which you might one day manage to do, then I might have to cheat you.”
His bearded face clouded with fresh anger. “Give me back my money!”
Like magic, a throwing knife appeared in her hand. At once, he backed away.
“I spent it, all of it, every last cent. There wasn’t that much to begin with.” She looked at him once more. “What’s your problem, Sergeant? You’ve been drinking at the bar for the last hour, so you’re not broke.”
He worked his mouth as if he was having trouble getting words out. “Just give me my money.”
Last night she had bested him in a knife-throwing contest, although that would be using the word contest rather loosely since he was the worst knife thrower she could remember competing against. The cost to him had been his pride and his purse, and evidently it was a price he had not been prepared to pay.
“Get away from me,” she said wearily.
“You’re nothing, Little Red!” he exploded. “Just a cheating little witch!”
She thought momentarily about killing him, but she didn’t feel like dealing with the consequences of doing so, so she abandoned the idea. “You want a rematch, Sergeant?” she asked instead. “One throw. You win, I give you back your money. I win, you buy me a fresh tankard of ale and leave me in peace. Done?”
He studied her suspiciously, as if trying to determine what the catch was. She waited him out patiently, watching his eyes, the throwing knife balanced loosely in her palm.