“Captain,” Drumundoon said suddenly, taking his arm.
A man was racing toward them from across the flats, one of his Home Guard. The man’s name escaped him, though he knew it as well as his own. He struggled to remember it and failed.
“Phaile,” Drum whispered, as if reading his mind.
Phaile reached them in a rush and saluted. “Acrolace has returned, Captain!” he exclaimed. His breath came in short, labored gasps. “She’s badly injured! She says you are to come right away!”
They broke into a run, Phaile leading the way. Pied didn’t bother questioning the man; Acrolace was the one he needed to see.
But the urgency of the summons frightened him.
They reached a cluster of Elves close to the edge of the bluff, just above the front of the Elven defensive line. Acrolace lay on the ground, the silver-and-black Federation tunic she had donned as a disguise stained and torn, her left arm ripped open all the way from shoulder to elbow. She was pale from loss of blood and rigid with pain. Her green eyes found his as he knelt beside her, and her fingers fastened on his wrist.
He bent close to hear her, his eyes never leaving hers. “What happened, Acrolace?” he whispered. “Where’s Parn?”
She shook her head. “Dead.” She swallowed thickly. “They have an airship …” She coughed, and blood bubbled on her lips. “Under heavy guard, no one allowed close. But … we got near enough …”
She trailed off, her eyes closing against pain or memory, he couldn’t tell which. When she opened them again, he squeezed her hand. “What did you see?”
“A weapon mounted on the deck. Big. Something new.” She inhaled sharply. “They’re waiting for us, Captain. They know … we’re coming. We heard them … say so.”
She gave a long, slow sigh, and her hand released its grip on his. A weapon, he repeated silently.
“She’s unconscious,” one of the Healers said. “Better so.”
Pied looked around quickly, trying not to panic. “Phaile,” he said, spotting his Home Guard messenger. “Find Commander Fraxon. Tell him I said to expect a Federation attack. Tell him it will be massive, a push to break all the way through our lines. Tell him it will come at any time and to have his Elven Hunters ready. Hurry!”
He stood up. “Drum, call up all elements of the Home Guard and place them on the airfield. They are to hold it at all costs. All costs, Drum. Until I tell them to stand down.”
His aide nodded, his long face as pale as Acrolace’s. “Where will you be? What will you do?”
Pied was already hurrying away, his determination etched on his lean features. “I’m going after the King,” he called over his shoulder. “This time he will have to listen to me!”
TWENTY
Pied Sanderling sprinted the length of the Elven encampment, bumping aside anyone who got in his way, knocking over equipment and stores, leaving in his wake a string of angry shouts and curses. His mind was already far ahead of his body, thinking of what he must do and how he must do it, aware of how futile his efforts were likely to be. A terrible certainty gripped him. He was going to be too late. No matter how quick he was, he wasn’t going to be quick enough. The disaster he had feared had come to pass, and all the failed warnings in the world would not be enough to persuade him it was not his fault.
Run faster!
He reached the airfield winded and flushed, and as he tore down the embankment toward the airships, he searched frantically for someone he recognized among the few who hadn’t gone with Kellen Elessedil. He found only a lone commander of a railgun sloop, a grizzled veteran named Markenstall. He barely knew the man, knew more of his reputation than of him. A brave man, dependable in a fight, a solid presence in the pilot box—that would suffice.
“Captain!” he shouted, rushing up to the older man. “Is your sloop fitted and ready?” He glanced at her name, carved into the stern. Asashiel.
Markenstall stared at him with a mix of surprise and doubt. Gray whiskers stuck out from the sides of his jaw, deep lines furrowed his weathered face, and his ears were tattered and scarred. He had the look of a man who had been in more than a few fights.
“Answer me, Captain!” Pied shouted at him.
The older man started sharply. “Ready and fitted as she can be, Captain Sanderling,” he growled.
“Good. We’re taking her up. Cast off.”
Markenstall hesitated. “Captain, I’m not authorized to—”
“Listen carefully to me,” Pied interrupted. “The King flies into a trap. One of my Home Guard nearly lost her life getting that news to me; another lies dead somewhere beyond our lines. I’m not about to let that be for nothing! There isn’t time to seek authorization of any sort. If you want to save the King and those who went with him, we must leave at once!”
He cast a quick glance south, where the sky had turned deep blue in the twilight haze and the airships his gaze had followed earlier had disappeared from view. The dusk was thickening, the last of the sunlight a dim glow below the horizon west, the first stars beginning to brighten in the sky north. East, the moon was a silvery crescent lifting out of the Lower Anar.
His eyes flicked back to Markenstall. “Captain, please!”
The veteran studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well. Get aboard.” He turned to a pair of sailors sitting nearby. “Pon! Cresck! Off your duffs and get aboard! Take in the lines and anchors! Prepare to cast off!”
The two crewmen and the grizzled Captain were skilled at making quick departures, and the Asashiel was airborne in minutes, swinging south with the wind, tacking swiftly out across the flats and beyond the Free-born lines. Pied stood in the pilot box with Markenstall while the crewmen manned the railguns to either side, breeches opened and loaded, triggers unlocked. No one mistook the foray for anything but what Pied was certain it was going to turn out to be.
“Mind if I ask what it is you intend to do with a sloop and two railguns?” Markenstall asked once they were winging out over the desolate front, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Pied shook his head. “Whatever I can.”
Ahead, the Federation lines were so dark they were virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding land. Pied thought he heard shouting, the sounds of sudden activity, but it was hard to tell with the rush of the wind and the whine of the rigging in his ears.
Then lightning split the darkness, brilliant and piercing, the bolt a horizontal rope stretched low and taut against the horizon. The bolt struck something that exploded instantly into a fiery ball, burning fragments pinwheeling into the darkness to fall like tiny firebrands to the earth. For just an instant, a cluster of airships was silhouetted against the brightness, masts and hulls stark and black.
“Shades!” Markenstall hissed. “What was that?”
Pied swiftly amended his earlier conclusion. It wasn’t lightning after all. Not riding that low and that straight.
Then it flashed again, and there was another explosion, this one more violent than the first, and again the airships were revealed, scattering in all directions now, angling away from the fireball like frightened animals. An earth-shattering boom reverberated through the night, the shock waves so powerful that Pied could feel them even through the deck of the sloop.
He knew then what it was. It was the weapon Acrolace and Parn had discovered in the Federation camp. The trap had been sprung; Kellen Elessedil’s airships were being destroyed, one by one. Pied was too late to give warning. He was too late to do anything but witness the consequences of the King’s ill-considered, rash behavior.
“Faster, Captain,” he said, catching hold of Markenstall’s wiry arm. “We have to try to help.”
It was a faint hope at best. There was little one airship could do to help another in the best of situations, which this most assuredly wasn’t, and his was likely the weakest airship aloft. But he had to get a closer look. He had to know what the Elves and their allies were up against. If the King didn’t get safely back, if none of them ma
naged to get back …
He forced the thought away, hating himself for allowing it to surface. But another firebolt erupted and another airship caught fire, the flames turning masts and rigging into torches that illuminated the whole of the night sky. Stricken, the airship wheeled away from the attack, trying to stay aloft, to seek cover. But there was no cover in the skies and no place to hide when you were burning. A second strike turned it into a massive fireball. It blazed brightly for a moment, then fell apart and disappeared into the dark.
“Shades!” Markenstall whispered again in shocked disbelief.
They were close enough by then that Pied could make out the vague shapes of the Elven airships as they wheeled this way and that to avoid the huge Federation airship that was in pursuit. Her name, emblazoned across her upswept bow, was the Dechtera. The terrible weapon was affixed to her decking; Pied could just make out its armored bulk. Even as the shape of it registered, the man-made lightning exploded out of it again, crackling with energy and power, a terrible bright lance through the enfolding night, burning everything in its path. It caught pieces of two ships this time, nicking the hull of one, boring holes through the sails of another. It was firing blindly, Pied saw, unable to distinguish its targets clearly in the darkness. The moon was behind a bank of clouds, and the starlight was still too thin.
The Elven airships might have a chance if they fled now, if they turned around, if they raced for the safety of their own lines.
Incredibly, they did not. Instead, they attacked. It was suicide, but it was exactly what Kellen Elessedil would do, refusing to quit a battle, ready to die first. He will get his wish here, Pied thought in horror. The Federation weapon was firing into the Elven airships as they drew near enough to distinguish, and they were exploding one after the other. The King was trying to ram the Federation ship, to damage it sufficiently that it could be forced down, perhaps even made to crash. He was intent on salvaging something out of this disaster, but he could not seem to recognize that it was already too late for that.
“What in the name of everything sane is he doing?” Markenstall whispered in disbelief, recognizing at once the futility of the effort.
Committing suicide, Pied thought. Trying to ram the bigger ship in the mistaken belief that by doing so he could still save his fleet. But he wasn’t even going to get close. Already, the Dechtera was firing at the Ellenroh, a series of short, sharp bursts that set the Elven flagship on fire in several places and brought down the foremast. Still, Kellen came on, his railguns raking the enemy’s decks. But the weapon that was destroying his fleet was protected behind heavy metal shields that the railguns could barely scratch. Another burst set the Ellenroh’s mainsail afire, and now the airship was lurching badly, her sails gone and one or more of her parse tubes damaged or blown away.
“No, Kellen,” Pied whispered. “Land her! Get her down now before she—”
A fresh burst from the Federation weapon rocked the big Elven flagship from bow to stern, striking with such force that it knocked her backwards. The Ellenroh shuddered and bucked, then exploded in a blinding ball of fire that consumed everything and everyone aboard.
In seconds she was gone.
Pied stared in stunned silence, unable to accept what he had witnessed. The King, gone. Kiris and Wencling, gone. The biggest warship in the Elven fleet together with every last one of the men and women who crewed her, vanished.
“Captain Sanderling,” Markenstall hissed in his ear, and he jerked around in response. “What do we do?”
The Dechtera had turned her attention to what was left of the Elven fleet—a handful of airships only, three of which were already settling onto the flats. The plains were swarming with Federation soldiers marching toward the Elven lines, a dark stain that spread like ink on old parchment. Thousands, Pied judged. He watched the damaged airships fall into the mass of charging men. He watched the men swarm up the sides of the ships and onto the decks. Then he quit looking.
His eyes flicked back to the fleet, under attack once more from the Federation killing machine. The Dechtera was moving after them, overtaking them one at a time, burning them out of the sky the way an archer might shoot down a flock of trapped geese. She shouldn’t have been able to do that, as big and cumbersome looking as she was. She must be powered by an abnormally high number of crystals, her stored energy capacity twice that of any other ship of the line. Some of the Elven ships were dropping toward the plains now, trying to use the enemy soldiers as cover so that they could not be fired upon from above. But the tactic wasn’t working. The weapon aboard the big ship was too accurate to be deterred by the threat of what a miss would mean. It simply took its time, burning away the Elven ships whether they fled or tried to hide.
He looked at Markenstall. “We have to do something, Captain.”
The older man nodded, but kept silent.
“Can you get behind that Federation ship? Can you come up at her from below?”
The veteran stared at him. “What do you intend to do?”
“Disable her steering. Use the railguns to damage her rudders and thrusters from underneath, where they can’t do anything about it without breaking off their attack and setting her down.” He paused. “We’re small enough that they might not see us coming in from behind.”
Markenstall thought a moment. “Maybe. But if they do see us, we won’t have a chance. Railguns are only good from close in. From more than fifty yards, we’ll be so much target practice.”
Pied glanced quickly at the skyline. The moon remained covered by clouds, the light still something between dusk and full dark. Off to their left, the Dechtera was hunting its Elven quarry like a big cat, stealthy and sure, striking with bursts of white fire that filled the night air with blinding explosions and the pungent, raw smell of ash and smoke and death.
“We can’t just sit here and let this slaughter continue,” he said quietly.
Markenstall adjusted the controls without a word, swung the Asashiel toward the enemy camp, and sent her skimming over the heads of the advancing Federation soldiers, who fired up at them with bows and slings as they flew past. But they slipped through the darkness unhindered and undamaged, and soon they were behind their target, staying low so that they would not be silhouetted against the horizon, approaching in a gradual ascent that kept them carefully masked from view.
But suddenly new airships began to lift off from the Federation airfield, fresh reinforcements setting out to lend support to the ground attack on the Free-born camp, their dark shapes like hunting birds as they swung about to place the sloop directly in their path.
“Captain,” Pied exclaimed with a sharp intake of breath.
Markenstall nodded. “I see them. Warn the men on the railguns.”
Pied left the pilot box in a rush, scuttling across the deck to Pon and Cresck, his safety harness dragging behind him, and alerted each of the crewmen of this new danger. He found himself wishing they had something besides railguns with which to work, but there was nothing to be done about that.
Moments later, he was back beside Markenstall. The night had gone black again, the moon disappeared once more behind the clouds, and the air turned brisk and chilly. Pied shivered in spite of himself, wishing he had thought to throw on warmer clothing.
He glanced out at the cluster of rising Federation airships. At least half a dozen were advancing in their direction.
“They’re gaining on us,” Markenstall announced. “I don’t think they see us yet, but they will soon enough. We can’t wait, Captain Sanderling. We have to take a chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to gain speed and altitude both, get above the heavier air and into the wind and closer to that ship.” The other man paused. “We have to let them see us. If we don’t, they’re going to find us anyway. We don’t have time to be clever or cautious about this.”
Pied hesitated. He knew Markenstall was right, but he hated the thought of exposing the sloop when they had so fe
w weapons with which to defend themselves. Once they were spotted, the other ships would be after them like cats after a mouse. That would give them only a single pass, barring a miracle, at their target.
“All right,” he said. “Do your best. But find a way to get us close to that ship.”
“Hold on,” Markenstall said, and he pushed the thruster levers all the way forward.
The Asashiel bucked and shot ahead; the mouse was in flight. They rose swiftly into the sky, abandoning the comparative safety of the darkness for the revealing light of stars and moon—for the latter was emerging from behind the clouds. Fresh illumination bathed the Prekkendorran in brilliant white light, revealing the hordes of attackers surging toward the Elven defensive lines. Already they were flooding the gap between the twin bluffs occupied by the Elves and their allies, breaking down the Elven fortifications and scrambling onto the airfield, where the last of the Elven airships were frantically lifting off. All across the battlefield, the remains of the destroyed ships burned fiercely, signal fires for the advancing army, encouragement for its soldiers. Pied saw the Ellenroh’s hull, a charred, smoking wreck at the center of everything.
You should have listened to me, Kellen, Pied thought. He closed his eyes. I should have found a way to make you listen.
They were approaching their target now. The Dechtera was right ahead of them, her bulk blocking out an entire section of the sky. She was huge, a flying platform supported by four sets of pontoons with cross-bracing running all along her underside. Three masts flew yards of light sheaths, radian draws feeding banks of parse tubes housing the diapson crystals that powered her, metal shields opening and closing in sudden bursts of converted energy as the ship maneuvered first this way and then that, bringing the deadly weapon mounted on the foredeck to bear. No one aboard seemed to realize yet that the Asashiel was tracking her, all eyes were directed forward to where another Elven ship was under attack, a rope of fire burning through her, sizzling and exploding wood and metal in a booming cough that rocked the sloop with concussive force. Burning bodies flew over the railings of the stricken airship, tumbling to the earth like stricken fireflies.