by Terry Brooks
She lifted a finger and pointed it at him. “But none of that changes the fact that my sons are dead because of you. You failed them because you failed to out-think Kellen, something that should never have happened. You knew his propensity for rash behavior, for ill-considered action. You knew what he was like. Yet you reacted to the moment without thinking it through. You spoke your mind when you should have known better, and you got yourself dismissed from his service. No, don’t say anything! Nothing you say will help now. You were given responsibility for my sons! You let them die, Pied! You put them in a position from which they could not extricate themselves and then you put yourself in a position where you couldn’t help them. It would have been better for you if you had died with them. At least then I might be able to forgive you. That can never happen now. I can never forgive you for this. Never!”
He stood flushed and humiliated before her, the weight of the responsibility she was attributing to him immense and crushing and somehow inescapable. He knew he had done the best he could, but she made him feel as if that was not enough.
“So now you are the hero of the Elven army and my sons are dead,” she continued softly. “You have pretended to be Captain of the Home Guard when in truth you were relieved of your command days ago. Shame on you.”
He took a deep breath. “I did what I thought I needed to do to save the army. I didn’t choose to pretend at what I was; it was thrust upon me by circumstance and need. I don’t ask you to forgive me, only to try to understand.” He paused. “I will resign my position at once and let another take my place.”
“Oh, I think not!” she snapped at him. “Resign so that you can have the entire Elven army begging for your return? Resign, so that you can escape yet another obligation and another duty?”
He stared at her in shock. “It was not my intention—”
“Be quiet!” she snapped. He flinched at the force of her words. She froze him with her glare, with the bitterness reflected in her eyes. “Don’t say another word unless I ask for it. Not one word.”
His center went so cold that it might have been midwinter on the Prekkendorran instead of summer. He held her gaze and waited.
“You have won the hearts of my Elven Hunters,” she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “You have won them and now you shall see to it that you do not break them as you have broken mine. Vaden Wick tells me that a counterattack is planned for tonight. What is your part in it?”
“I will go into the Federation camp after darkness with a handful of my Home Guard and destroy the airship and its weapon.”
Now it was her turn to stare. “Do you really think you can do this?”
He shook his head wearily. “I will do it or die trying.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I will take that as a promise and hold you to it. But hear me. If you survive this, if you manage somehow to come back alive, if you are successful in your efforts to put an end to the threat of this weapon that killed my sons, I will put this entire business behind me. Neither of us will speak of it again. But your service to the throne is finished. You will resign your position as Captain of the Home Guard immediately. You may give any reason you wish so long as my name is not mentioned. You will pack your belongings and leave Arborlon. You may go anywhere within the Westland so long as I never have to see you again. Is that clear?”
He thought of their past, a wisp of a memory turned to frost in the coldness of her voice. “It is.”
She held herself very still. “It could have been different for us, Pied. If you had saved my sons as you had sworn you would do, it could have been different.”
He said nothing in response. There was nothing to say. She might even believe that what she said was true. But he didn’t.
She studied his face a moment longer, then held out her hand for him to kiss, turned, and went back through the tent flap. He stared after her, trying to decide how much of what had just happened was deserved. In the end, he guessed, it didn’t really matter.
Two hours later, he stood at the edge of the Free-born airfield looking out over the broad sweep of the Prekkendorran to where the fires of the Federation army were being lit against the growing darkness. Dusk had settled in, deep and gloomy on a night that promised clouds and mist. It was the weather Pied had hoped for, an unexpected gift. He was dressed in black, and Drumundoon was standing in front of him applying lampblack to his face.
“She has no right to blame you,” his young aide repeated yet again, scowling.
Pied held himself still as Drum’s fingers worked across his face. “She has every right.”
“She should be grateful you lived. If you hadn’t, she might have lost the whole of her army.”
“She isn’t looking at it that way.”
“Well, she should. She needs to distance herself from her emotions. She needs to exercise better judgment.”
“A mother can’t always do that.”
“A Queen can. And should.”
There was no satisfying him on the subject. He refused to consider any alternative but the one that favored Pied. Drum was nothing if not loyal. He had known of the entire conversation and confronted Pied with the whole of it minutes after Arling’s departure. He didn’t seem bothered in the least by the fact that if he had been caught eavesdropping, he would very likely have been shipped home in shackles. What mattered to him was that the Queen had done Pied an injustice that should be set right, and Pied did not seem inclined to do anything about it.
There were reasons for that, though Pied didn’t want to talk about them. He was sick at heart at what had happened to Kellen and his sons and dismayed by Arling’s response, even though he understood it and did not fault her for it. Mostly, he was weary. When the mission was finished, he did not want to continue as commander of the Elven army. Nor did he want to go back to being Captain of the Home Guard. Even if Arling had asked him to do so, a response he did not foresee, he would have refused. His sense of accountability for what had happened to Kellen and the boys weighed on him as if a tree had fallen on his shoulders. Nothing would ever be the same in his relationship with the Elessedils. He no longer belonged in the position of Captain of the Home Guard. He did not even think he belonged in Arborlon.
Drum would never understand that. So there was no point in discussing it with him. It was better if Pied simply presented it as settled and let time do the rest.
Drum stepped back, eyeing him critically. “You’re done. As good as I can make it.”
“That will have to be good enough,” Pied replied.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then Drumundoon stuck out his hand. “Good luck to you, Captain. I’ll be here when you return.”
Pied took his hand and clasped it tightly. “I count on that, Drum. I really do.”
He turned away and moved to where the Wayford was anchored, signaling to the other dark-clad figures scattered about that they were leaving. The Free-born ship was rigged for sailing and ready to fly, her captain already in the pilot box, her crew of six at the lines and anchor ropes. It was dark enough that they could lift off without drawing attention. If they flew east, into the darkness, they wouldn’t be seen when they turned south. After that, it would be up to fate and luck.
Pied climbed the rope ladder with the other twelve members of his tiny force, taking quick note of the flits that were stacked on both sides of the mainmast before turning to take a head count. As he did so, he caught sight of Troon, black-faced and black-clad like the others, levering one leg over the ship’s railing and pulling herself aboard. Breaking off his count, he went over to her at once, took her firmly by the arm, and drew her aside.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, trying to keep his anger in check.
She arched one eyebrow. “I think you can figure that out for yourself, Captain. I decided I didn’t want to be left behind.”
“You’ve just finished one mission. You’re not ready for another.”
“I’m rea
dy enough. I had time to sleep last night once I was inside the Free-born lines. I told you it wasn’t that hard. I slept today, as well.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want you doing this.”
“You left it up to the Home Guard to choose a dozen of us. I volunteered, and I was chosen. A Tracker might prove useful.”
“Well, I’m overruling the vote. You’re off.”
She stood her ground. “Because you are afraid I might not be up to doing what’s needed? Or because of something else?” She gave him a moment, then shrugged. “Anyhow, we’re already under way.”
Pied glanced around hurriedly. She was right. The Wayford was lifting off, anchor lines released, her sails catching the evening breezes, the ground falling away below. He watched in frustration as the Free-born camp disappeared into the gloom and the ship swung about to fly east, and then he looked back at her, scowling. “I don’t like it that you’re here. It’s asking too much.”
“Of you or of me?” She glanced into the rigging as if the answer lay there. “For my part, I gather I am asking less of you than some. I am only asking to come along and help in whatever way I can. I might not be getting many more chances to do that.” She looked back at him. “We’ve been friends a long time, Pied. Friends are supposed to stand by each other in difficult times. It seems to me, given how things have turned out for you, that standing by you just now is mandatory.”
He shook his head in exasperation. “Drum just can’t keep quiet about things, can he?”
“It’s the army. You know how it works. Word gets around. There aren’t any secrets.” She glanced down at her weapons belt, and then hitched up her pack on her shoulders. “I don’t like flying. I need to sit down. I’ll be ready when you are.”
He let her go; it was pointless to carry the discussion further because there was no reason to chastise her. She was there because she wanted to be. She was risking her life for him and for her comrades. It was hard to find fault with that.
They flew east until they had reached the far end of the Prekkendorran, then turned south and flew across the flats to the low mountains that buttressed the east end of the Federation lines. Slipping down the far side of those mountains, they got several miles behind the Southlanders, then turned west. In another hour, maybe less, they would reach their destination. It would not yet be midnight.
He glanced over at the flits. They were little gnats compared to the big ships of the line. But gnats were pesky and difficult to swat. Big ships would have trouble getting close to the Dechtera. Flits might have a chance.
A small chance, he thought.
He moved over to the railing and settled down to wait.
It was nearing midnight when the Wayford, skimming the tops of trees and hills south of the Federation lines, landed beyond a screen of woods that offered some small concealment from discovery. North, the horizon was lit by the glow of the Federation campfires, a dull yellowish coloring of the night sky. Pied disembarked with his company and began unloading the flits, weapons, and spare crystals for the return trip. A single crystal powered each flit, and the crystal had enough stored power for about two hours of use. After that, the flier was on borrowed time. Two hours would be enough to get them there, even given the necessity of evasive maneuvers. The spare crystal would get them back again.
If there was any getting back to be done.
When the group was assembled and the gear was checked and strapped in place, Pied told them what they were going to do and how they were going to do it. Once aloft, they would not be able to speak to one another; they would have to react on instinct. Knowing what they had to do and how they were supposed to do it was the framework that would hold them together. Acting as a team was what would keep them alive.
No one had to be told what the odds were of them succeeding. No one needed to speak of it and no one did.
“Remember that no matter what happens to us, that ship and her weapon have to be destroyed,” Pied finished. “If we fail, thousands of Free-born will die. Don’t let that happen.”
They strapped themselves into the flits, taking time with the fastenings and the lines, bunched together in the center of a clearing that gave them sufficient room to lift off. Then, one by one, led by Pied and Sersen, a Southlander who had volunteered because he knew the country, each flier opened the single parse tube containing the diapson crystal that powered the flits, and soared off into the night.
Shadows against a night sky both clouded and misty, they flew low to the ground in near blackness, the only light coming from ahead of them, where the Federation fires burned through the gloom. Barely able to keep one another in sight, they flew in as tight a formation as possible, following the lead of Sersen, who chose their path and kept them on track for their destination. Pied, locked away in a kaleidoscopic rush of wind and sweeping landscape, found he was surprisingly calm. He was going to his death, in all likelihood, and yet he was at peace. He wished he could hold on to the moment, could stay in it forever.
The fringes of the Federation camp came into view, and Sersen took them right, keeping them within the concealment of the dark, just out of view of the sentries stationed along the backside of the enemy army. The airfield lay farther down the line, cradled by a series of low hills occupied by hundreds of Federation soldiers. They would have to fly right down into the center of that cradle, and when they did so they would come under attack from every side.
Pied took a deep breath and watched the Federation fleet begin to take shape in the harsh glow of the fires that warded the airfield. He found the Dechtera at once; her huge bulk was unmistakable. The weapon was mounted on her foredeck, covered over with sailcloth. Dozens of Federation soldiers stood on her decks and on the ground surrounding her hull. Pied’s stomach lurched as he made a quick count and realized that they would be outnumbered at least thirty to one. Even without the rail slings on the surrounding hills and the soldiers manning them, even without the Federation camp being so close that it would take only minutes for an organized response to any attack, the odds his little force faced were insurmountable.
We’re not coming back from this, he thought suddenly. Not a one of us.
Then it was too late to think about anything. Sersen had started his dive toward the airfield, flattening himself to the framework of his flit, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Pied did the same, dipping his wings so that his flit nosed downward, gathering speed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others follow, one by one, a sweep of flits winging out of the darkness and into the light.
It took the Federation soldiers a moment to react, perhaps because they could not believe the audacity of what they were seeing. It was a moment too long. Before they could bring their weapons to bear, including the rail slings mounted on the decks of the airships and the grounds surrounding, Pied and his Elves were crashing into them like waves off the ocean against rocks. The Elves didn’t bother with controlled landings; they simply used whatever buffers were at hand—soldiers, weapons, supplies, and ships alike—to slow them down. Pied had just enough time to see Sersen sweep through the center of the airfield and another flit slam right atop the Dechtera’s main decking and the sentries who weren’t fast enough to get off her in time, and then he was down as well.
He skipped across the airfield in a series of bone-jarring bounces toward the nearest railgun, sending men leaping from his path, including the two who were assigned to man the gun. He had his straps off before the flit had finished its skid, leapt to his feet, and raced for the weapon. He got to it before the Federation soldiers could recover, swung it around on them, the crank already drawn back, and released the sling. Metal fragments sliced through the night with a hissing sound that ended in the death cries of the men in their path. Pied cranked back the handle once more, dropped in another load, swung the weapon toward a different group, and fired again.
Atop the Dechtera, two of the Home Guard fought hand-to-hand against a dozen soldiers surrounding th
e shrouded weapon. They held their own for several minutes before disappearing under the weight of their attackers. At the periphery of his vision, Pied saw a Federation-manned rail sling blow apart a flit that was trying to land, flinging its rider against the side of an airship, broken and lifeless.
Too many of them, too few of us.
Pied reloaded the rail sling and swung it toward the Dechtera. Fixing on the remnants of the Federation defenders still aboard, he released the sling and cut them apart. He was bringing the railgun back around when the first dart caught him in the shoulder, knocking him back. A second buried itself in his thigh a moment later. He was too exposed, standing out in the open. Worse, he was too far from the target.
Ignoring the pain of his wounds, he bolted for the Dechtera, leaping onto her rope ladder and hauling himself aboard so quickly that he bumped into the last of the defenders, a man who was crouched behind the railing, trying to hide. Pied killed him with one swipe of his long knife and broke for the weapon forward. Arrows and darts whistled past his ears, invisible killers. Elves had commandeered two of the railguns on the next ship over and were firing at clumps of Federation soldiers trying to reach the Dechtera and Pied. Another of the Home Guard, small and quick enough that it might be Troon, raced toward the airship with burning brands that streamed sparks and fire like comet tails and flung them onto the big ship’s decking where they burned, wild and fierce.
Pied reached the mysterious weapon and yanked off the sailcloth. A ten-foot-long barrel connected to a broad rectangular box sat atop a swivel. Cranks jutted from the swivel, clearly meant for maneuvering the weapon into firing position. Strange rods bored holes into the sides and back of the box. Pied snatched up an iron bar from off the deck and began smashing the hinges of the box, the ping of arrows and darts ringing in his ears as they bounced all around him. Sersen appeared beside him, blood streaming from a head wound, picked up a second iron bar, and began hammering at the casing from the other side. Behind them, the Elves from the next ship over abandoned their positions and scrambled aboard the Dechtera, fighting their way through smoke and flames to the aft port and starboard rail slings, swinging the deadly weapons around to face the Federation soldiers rushing to stop them.
