by Terry Brooks
“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 few 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.
Pied made a quick, agonizing survey. Only three Elven airships remained aloft of the twelve or so that had started out. The fleet was decimated.
“Quick, Captain!” he hissed at Markenstall. “Before we lose any more!”
The Asashiel was right below the Dechtera now, and Markenstall angled her to the port side, away from the approaching vessels that by now had surely spied them, giving his crew a chance to position the railguns where they could do the most damage. He, too, knew they would only have one pass. The big ship was moving forward in a slow, steady line, a fresh target already in sight, still oblivious to them. They were going to have a clean shot at her underside. The men on the railguns had swung their weapons into position and were sighting down the long barrels, waiting patiently.
Pied glanced over his shoulder. Their pursuers were closing on them, and he could see the frantic efforts of some of the crew to give warning to the men on the Dechtera.
“Release!” Markenstall shouted.
Both railguns discharged in the same instant, sending a hail of metal shards into the underside of the Federation ship, the missiles striking with explosive impact. Pied had just enough time to see two of the parse tubes disintegrate entirely and the main rudder collapse, and then Markenstall was swinging the Asashiel away, speeding out from under the damaged enemy, a tiny gnat in flight from a giant bird. They emerged from beneath the warship’s shadow into a sky awash with moonlight and were immediately exposed. The railguns on the decking of the enemy swung toward them, but Markenstall dropped the sloop below their angle of fire, skimming the flats once more, content to take his chances with the missiles fired from the foot soldiers.
But it wasn’t over yet. A line of white fire sizzled past their mainmast, snapping off one of the spars, burning away wood and sail and knocking the Asashiel sideways.
“Brace!” Markenstall shouted automatically, grabbing onto the railing to keep upright. Reaching for the thruster levers, he jammed them all the way forward, then sent the sloop into a stomach-churning dive.
“We should have taken a shot at that weapon, too!” Pied snapped at the veteran.
The Captain righted their wounded vessel not fifty feet above the flats and lurched away from the deadly Federation weapon. Pied glanced over his shoulder. The Dechtera hung silhouetted against the moonlit sky. She was still moving forward, but he saw that her course was fixed and undeviating. At least one, and possibly both, shots from the sloop’s railguns had done the job; the steering was damaged, and the vessel was unable to come about.
He exhaled sharply. The big ship was slowing down. The other Federation warships were coming up from behind, preparing to offer help. It occurred to him that now was the perfect time for that attack Kellen Elessedil had been so anxious to launch, the perfect opportunity to destroy that ship and the weapon she bore. But the bulk of the Elven fleet was in flames, and the ships of Callahorn were still on the ground somewhere east.
He looked down at the flats, swarming with Federation soldiers, then at the Elven defensive lines. He remembered the faces of the men and women he had seen earlier, weary and disinterested. He remembered the lack of discipline, evident everywhere. He was not encouraged. The Elven airfield had been overrun, the remainder of the fleet fled north. If their ground defenses held through the night, it would be a miracle. An impossible miracle, he amended, without help from the Free-born allies. And in the end, it might not matter anyway. By week’s end, the Dechtera would be airborne again and would fly in support of the Federation attack, her terrible weapon primed and ready for use. What it had done to the Elven airships was nothing compared to what it would do to the Elven army.
The implications of his thinking did not escape him. The war on the Prekkendorran was about to take a disastrous turn, and he wasn’t sure there was anything that could be done about it.
They were flying over the captured Elven airfield now, heading west toward the besieged Elven lines. “Captain,” he called to Markenstall. The wind came up again in a sudden rush, tearing at his words. The veteran turned. “Can you fly us to where—”
He never finished. White fire lanced through the center of the airship in a searing rope of brightness that slammed the entire craft sideways with such force that Pied was thrown from the pilot box, catapulting over its railing. He caught a glimpse of the mast going up like a torch, the flames spurting skyward as the sails caught fire. Both railguns and crew disappeared into an explosion of sizzling light. The sloop lurched wildly, bucked, and began to drop.
“Markenstall!” he called weakly.
There was no response. His safety line was still attached to its ring inside the pilot box, but he was tangled so thoroughly in the rigging that he couldn’t move. He tried to lift himself to see what was happening inside the box itself and failed. There was blood on his face, warm and sticky, running down his neck and arm. He had thought them safely away from the Federation warship and her terrible weapon. He had been mistaken. Its range must be enormous. Even from the better part of a mile away, it had managed to fix on them. Even now, after the fact, Pied could not imagine it.
He felt the sloop plunge earthward with sickening speed. He closed his eyes and waited for the impact.
TWENTY-ONE
It took Penderrin Ohmsford and his companions almost a week to navigate the maze of passes and defiles that wound through the Klu Mountains, although they did not again encounter the treacherous combination of mist and clouds that had very nearly prevented their initial escape from Taupo Rough. With Kermadec leading, steady and assured now in his choice of routes, they pressed on without needing to rely on Pen or Cinnaminson to find the way.
Nor did they see anything further of their Druid pursuers, although Tagwen was quick to point out, when the subject was raised, that not seeing them didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Once before they had thought themselves safe, only to discover how badly they were mistaken. If the Druids hunting them were doing so on orders from Shadea a’Ru, they were not likely to give up easily, the Dwarf insisted. But it was the use of the Elfstones that had brought Terek Molt and the Galaphile down on them in the Slags, Pen thought. As long as they were able to refrain from using the Stones, they should be able to keep Traunt Rowan and the Ballindarroch from finding them here. After all, he reasoned, if the Druid and his cohorts had magic that would enable
them to find the little company, they certainly would have done so already. That they hadn’t shown themselves even once suggested they were hunting blind.
Nevertheless, as the little company pressed on through the mountains, Pen found himself glancing skyward periodically to make certain he was not making a mistake.
It was late in the day, the sun already sinking into the jaws of the peaks west, when they climbed through a particularly nasty tangle of switchbacks to a ledge that overlooked the broadest, darkest valley Pen had ever encountered. It was difficult to judge exactly how big the valley was; from so high up there was no point of reference by which to measure accurately. Hundreds of square miles, perhaps? Even more? It sprawled in all directions, spilling out from its central cradle into passes and canyons like the fingers of a giant’s spread hand. At its eastern end, farthest from where they stood, it simply disappeared into mist and twilight, so densely packed with trees and brush that its shadows overlapped to create the impression of a lake thick and black with deadwood and weeds.
Anything might live in a place that looks like this, Pen thought, and he shivered in spite of himself.
“The Inkrim,” Kermadec announced, his voice flat and unemotional, a perfect match for his stolid Troll face. “Some say it is as old as the Races, and that the things that live there are older still. Some say there are things living down there that are as old as Faerie.”
“Trees and dirt,” Atalan muttered from behind Pen. “Nothing we haven’t encountered before.”
“And Urdas.”
Atalan snorted. “Savages.”
It seemed to Pen an odd comment coming from someone who looked vaguely like a walking tree stump, all bark and rough surfaces, as brutish and forbidding as anything that walked the Four Lands.
Kermadec must have thought the same. He looked at Atalan carefully. “Savages to us, but who are we to judge? In any event, I wouldn’t be too quick to dismiss them. Urdas have lived in this valley since the destruction of the Old World. This is their ancestral home, and they regard it as sacred. Especially Stridegate. They will fight to protect it from outsiders. Like the Spider Gnomes on Toffer Ridge, they worship the creatures that share their abode, a symbiotic relationship, however one-sided, that influences their attitude toward intruders like us.” He paused. “There are a lot of them down there, brother.”
