He didn’t receive an answer. Not surprising. It wasn’t as if he were linked to the soulblade somehow, not the way its handler would be. Communication would always be per Jaxi’s whims.
Still, he had to try, in some hope that the soulblade would check in with him first.
Jaxi, if you can hear me, don’t hurt anyone on the ship, at least not the man in front of me. We need to know where the canister is and how much time remains on the countdown. We need—
The sky brightened behind Goroth’s vessel. And then it turned to flame.
Tolemek had been standing in the rowboat, half convinced he had to climb onto the ship with Goroth, but he stumbled back now, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the sudden light—and the heat. A man on the other side screamed. Splashes sounded—people diving or falling overboard?
In the rowboat and on the other side of the now-flaming cabin, Tolemek didn’t face the full intensity of the attack, but he scrambled to the far side of his little vessel, the heat forcing him to back up.
Jaxi, he tried again, his mind filled with that image of the soulblade—or maybe who the spirit had been before she turned into a sword—hurling streams of fire. Don’t kill them. I’m not just being sentimental. We need the location of the—
Rifles fired—the men on the boat shooting at whoever was attacking them. Shooting at something anyway.
A second fireball struck on the heels of the first. The crackling of flames and the snapping of wood rose over the clamor of the battle going on above the harbor. The heat seared Tolemek’s face. He was tempted to row away, to put distance between himself and the burning craft, but he had to find out where the canister was located.
Goroth was crouching, somewhat protected by the cabin, though flames were leaping from its roof and sides.
“Goroth,” Tolemek called, intending to offer the man refuge on his rowboat.
Throw the grenade, a voice in his mind ordered. Jaxi.
What? Tolemek stared down at the cylinder in his hand. Goroth had turned to face him. He couldn’t hurl a grenade at the man.
Sink the ship before these murderers cause any more trouble. If you don’t, I will.
Tolemek lowered his hand and stuck the cylinder back in the bag. I can’t. And you shouldn’t, either. We have to find out—
Goroth had his foot lifted to the railing, prepared to leap overboard, or perhaps to jump for Tolemek’s rowboat, but he was too late. Something struck the ship with the power of a bomb. It exploded from within.
The shockwave hurled Tolemek backward, almost knocking him out of the rowboat. As it was, he landed hard on his back, the air blasted out of him. The explosion lit the sky, and for a moment, the fliers and the airships were highlighted overhead, and he could see the faces of the men on one of the airships, none of them looking as afraid for their lives as they should have, given the fliers swooping all around.
Blinking, Tolemek pushed himself to his elbows. He stared at the spot where the sailing ship had been. There was nothing except flotsam now, boards burning on the dark, choppy water. Neither Goroth nor any of the other men aboard were anywhere to be seen, but something that looked like a severed arm floated by. Tolemek swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant... when he had chosen to walk away from his old friend, he hadn’t meant for it to end like this.
The black shape of a yacht rose from the water on the other side of the flotsam. It was wreathed in fog, the city lights hazy beyond it. Presumably Sardelle was somewhere on that dark ship and had been as much a part of that attack as her soulblade.
“What have you done?” Tolemek whispered. In a city of hundreds of thousands, how would he find that timer before it counted down to destruction?
Chapter 15
Cas watched Apex and Beeline on the runway before her, picking up speed as they headed for the edge of the cliff and the harbor beyond. She was inching along, waiting for the route to clear, and trying not to be alarmed by the rocking of the flier as gales swept across the butte, tugging at her wings. The snow flying sideways through her vision and sticking to her goggles wasn’t nearly as alarming as the wind. The fliers might appear to be made of bronze, but that was just a coating. They were as lightweight as the engineers could make them, with the machine guns and the pilots being the heaviest part of the load. Taking off without crashing was going to be almost as challenging as landing without crashing. The number of propellers on the bottom of the harbor attested to the fact that countless pilots had stalled the engines or run into other trouble even on normal days. The squadron didn’t usually fly at night, much less in storms. This was madness.
But the pirate ships had come into view, veering in from the north and angling toward the city. A massive dark shadow on the horizon had to be the outpost. The pirates were just as mad as the Iskandians for flying in these conditions.
Cas reminded herself that she had been eager to come out here—no one would have faulted her for staying on the ground tonight—and she tried to ignore the fact that her hands were already sweaty in her gloves. The flying had never come as naturally for her as the shooting—in flight school, she had thrown up more than once learning maneuvers with names like the zoom loop or the corkscrew—but she had never been scared of being in a craft, either.
“Might have something to do with the fact that you crashed last time,” Cas muttered.
“That you, Ahn?” came Zirkander’s voice... out of her pocket.
Her hand flinched, and the wings responded with a dubious wobble. Her pocket—that was where she had stuffed the little blue crystal.
“Uh, yes,” she said, regaining control of the stick.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” the colonel said. “I need you up here, second point. Wolf Squadron, we’re heading for the outpost. Lance, you and Tiger Squadron clean up the rest of the riffraff in the sky.”
The responding yes sirs came not only from Major Lance but from a dozen other mouths as well. Could everyone hear and speak to each other through those crystals? Wonderful. Cas made a vow not to talk to herself as much as usual. Before, the squadrons had always communicated with each other through hand signals and dips of the wings. She could see where this additional option would be useful, but it would take some getting used to. Nobody better start blathering in her ear—or from her pocket—when she was concentrating on a target.
She patted the side of the cockpit, hoping someone had thought to wedge a Mark 500 in there. She was the only pilot she knew of who used anything other than the guns mounted on the flier, but there were times when a sniper rifle was perfect for her. It wouldn’t be her rifle, lovingly zeroed to her eye, since that was at the bottom of the Seven Tides Strait, but it would do for the night. And, yes, there was the familiar outline of a Mark 500, strapped in as securely as she was.
Cas took a deep breath, drove the stick forward, and accelerated toward the cliff. As soon as the flier left the ground, the wind pummeled it, tearing at the wings as if they were frail kites. The nose sank, the choppy black waters below filling her view. Cas forced herself to ease back gently, making subtle movements, finding as much equilibrium as she could with the icy northern gale pushing her back toward the cliff. Snow blasted against her goggles and frosted her cheeks. It felt like they were flying at fifteen thousand feet instead of scant meters above the harbor. With the propeller roaring in front of her, she couldn’t hear the creaks and groans of the cables, but felt them through the stick, sensing the craft straining against the air currents. She skimmed above the water for a moment—the wind was calmer down there—then climbed up, angling for the position to W-83’s left, to join the others in formation above the nearest airships.
“Does anyone else think it was bloody inconsiderate of these pirates to attack during a snow storm?” someone asked.
People’s voices sounded tinny through the crystals, and Cas didn’t recognize every speaker immediately. She thought that was someone in Tiger Squadron.
“We’ll have to punish them for their impudence.” That must be Apex. Nobody else used words like impudence while concentrating on flying.
“Gonna be hard punishing anyone if my wings are scraped off all over the cliff. That wind is rough.”
Cas was glad she wasn’t the only one who’d had trouble. Even now, flying straight was a challenge.
“Please, Duck, you can barely make that takeoff when the conditions are perfect. It’s becoming obvious why Goat Squadron transferred you.”
“It’s not my fault so many cliffs and so much water are involved here. Everyone knows, a flier is meant to take off from a field. All you have to look out for then are the ostriches and llamas.”
“That’s one rural field.”
The chitchat was relaxing Cas, though she still wasn’t sure how she felt about having the mess hall conversations going on when they were on their way into battle. She used her scarf to wipe her goggles and looked toward 83. Zirkander glanced over his shoulder in her direction—to make sure she was there? Of course she was there. She wasn’t going to let him down by falling apart after one stupid little crash. That hadn’t even been her fault. The battleship’s guns never would have caught her if the engine hadn’t stalled. She gave him the two-fingers-up salute. She was ready.
“We’re going in,” Zirkander said. “Mission essential talk only from here on out. Speculation on what Duck was doing in that field there to attract all those llamas and ostriches will have to wait until we land.”
Cas smirked. She had started to mind the wind beating at her wings a little less.
“Masser, Blazer, Crash, you’re with me,” Zirkander said. “We’re gunning for the balloons. The new ammo is in, incendiaries every fourth round. I don’t care how reinforced that material is; it shouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ahn, you know your job. Take out the gunners and the brass. Thasel and Pimples, watch her back.”
“I didn’t notice much brass on the pirate captains’ hats,” Cas said.
“Then look for the ugliest brutes on the platform. Those are probably the leaders.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Everyone else, take your opportunities and watch our asses from above,” Zirkander said. “You know I don’t like having pirates sniffing around back there.”
“I’m not keen on anyone sniffing around my ass,” someone muttered.
“I might not mind the colonel’s archaeologist.”
That drew snickers from the men, but everyone knew to fall silent after that. Zirkander dipped his starboard wing twice, then led the way into a dive. They had reached a spot a couple of miles from the shoreline and were flying over the six parallel balloons of the outpost. Other airships dotted the nearby skies, some closer to the city, but Tiger Squadron was forming up to deal with them.
In the beginning, Cas followed Zirkander and the others, then she dropped lower for access to the massive platform. The ships that had been docked there the day before were all flying independently now, or had stayed out at sea, leaving this insanity for others to partake in, so she had little trouble seeing the guns, the propellers, and other key targets. The gunners would have little trouble seeing her too. Thasel and Pimples weaved behind her, trying to draw some of their attention.
Cas charged in head-on to start with, using the twin guns mounted at the front of the flier. The shots rang in her ears, even louder than the churning propeller. She targeted two grim-faced pirates crouched behind the giant gun mounted on the corner. They were aiming for her even as she blew rounds at them. One went down, but the other used the artillery weapon to hide behind. Shells shrieked past the cockpit, invisible in the night sky. She weaved unpredictably to make a harder target, then arced in, finding the angle to take down the second gunner. When he collapsed, she pounded the gun itself, followed by the propeller below it. Impressive streams of black smoke flowed from that corner of the outpost.
She was close enough to see faces on the platform—men with rifles waited, in addition to those manning other artillery weapons—when she pushed forward on the stick, diving below the outpost, almost scraping her cap off on the framework below. Guns fired behind her, her escort adding to the damage. Cas glanced back, making sure Thasel and Pimples had both dived below the platform too. They skimmed along the bottom behind her. Cas eyed the blocky shadows, the hint of pipes and vents, and wondered if any crucial targets might lie down there. But it was too dark to see much. And the colonel had given her a different assignment.
“Thasel, Pimples,” she said, still feeling silly for talking toward her pocket, “I’m going to parallel the outpost to look for the colonel’s brass. I’m pulling out my rifle.”
“We’re with you,” Thasel said, his voice calm, professional, and as humorless as always.
Pimples, on the other hand, responded with, “In other words, you’re going to be flying with your knee for the next five minutes, and we should stay back so you don’t crash into us. Thanks for the warning.”
Cas snorted but couldn’t come up with a suitable comeback, since it was essentially true. If she thought her flier was quaking in the breeze now, this would be a true challenge. And a challenge of her aim as well.
She had flown out from beneath the platform and circled back, gaining in altitude, so she could come in from above the balloons and not risk her craft until she was ready to start firing.
“Nice shooting, Colonel,” someone said.
Cas saw why the compliment had been thrown when she swooped back toward the outpost. One of those balloons had been damaged. More than damaged. Flames were leaping from a hole in the top, like a volcano erupting.
“Just demonstrating the new incendiary rounds,” Zirkander drawled.
“And lighting a real nice candle too. ’Preciate the light.”
When the squadron hadn’t destroyed any of the outpost’s balloons the day before, Cas had feared they might be reinforced somehow, so she was relieved to see the damage. The extra light might help her identify targets too. She unstrapped her rifle as she sailed in, paralleling the big platform. She wiped her goggles with her scarf one more time, clearing off a gray sludge made of snow and engine oil, then lifted her weapon, bracing an elbow on the side of the cockpit. She kept the stick as steady as she could with her knee and picked her targets. Gunner, gunner, ugly face bellowing orders, gunner—damn, clipped that one— and another ugly.
“Four o’clock, Ahn,” came Thasel’s detached voice at the same time as Pimples barked, “Look out, Ahn!”
His shout startled her, and her knee slipped. In theory, the flier was supposed to continue straight and level when there weren’t any hands on the stick, but the wind was blasting theories to dust tonight. Her craft pitched to the side alarmingly, and she almost lost her rifle. A stream of bullets screeched past her, several tearing into her upward-tilted wing. Cas jammed the rifle to the side of her seat and took the stick.
“You all right, Ahn?” Zirkander asked.
“Fine.” Cas righted herself, using the bottom of the outpost for protection, though the tufts of flaming material raining down on either side suggested it might not be a good hiding spot for long. “Apparently pirates don’t like being shot at.”
“Not just at,” Pimples said. “Shot dead. Another pass on the other side, and they won’t have anyone at the guns.”
“I’m sure they can find reinforcements,” Cas said, though she did intend to go back and attack the other side. By now, she had come out from under the outpost. She circled back, the lights of the city visible through a lapse in the snow. Interestingly, the big station hadn’t moved much closer. She spotted burning wreckage down in the harbor. One of the airships down most likely. Good.
“Somehow I don’t think they’ll get many volunteers,” Pimples chortled.
“Better not look so impressive, Ahn,” someone said, “or you’ll get kissed again when you and Pimples land.”
She shook her head, thinking of th
e kiss she had shared with Tolemek and hoping he was staying out of sight down there. She dug out her rifle and lined herself up for another attack. Another balloon was up in flames. Also good. Sinking the outpost would get rid of a lot of pirates at once, something sky and sea freighter captains would thank them for.
“Going in again,” she announced, then did so, propping her elbow on the side of the cockpit again. She could simply use the machine gun, like everyone else did, but she had always preferred perfect accuracy to flinging a slew of bullets and hoping to get lucky. Her father’s influence, doubtlessly. Besides, the delay from the synchronization gear that kept the bullets from hitting the propeller always irritated her. Everyone else said they couldn’t tell, but it was apparently her one thing to be hypersensitive about. She blamed her father for that too.
She eyed the city lights for a moment, wondering if he was home. His work took him out of the capital, and sometimes to other continents altogether, so she had no idea. If he was there, would he thank her if she and the other fliers were successful in keeping the pirates out of the city? He might not fear for his own life, unless bombs were dropped high up into the hills, but he had a lot of valuables at home that might attract looters. She wouldn’t hold her breath for a show of gratitude, though; he hadn’t sent one yet.
On her second pass at the outpost, she knocked out three more gunners and three gesticulating older men she hoped were captains giving orders. Nobody came close to hitting her flier. Between the flames from the balloons and the smoke wafting from propellers and other crucial areas, the outpost didn’t have much ability left to fight. It might have been different if Tolemek’s fog had blanketed the entire harbor and stretched up into the sky, but these pirates had been outmaneuvered from the start. Cas secured the Mark 500 again, then switched to strafing the remaining balloons with the rest of the squadron.
“That snake nest is about to drop out of the sky,” someone crooned.
“Don’t get cocky,” Crash said. “The weather’s getting worse. Just finish up so we can get out of here.”