The Rift Walker

by Clay Griffith

  Anhalt pulled out his own glass as Adele tapped Greyfriar, who was already scanning the sky with his preternatural vision. He saw two ships in the distance with gunports along the hulls to demonstrate they weren't merchant vessels. Their sails were full.

  “They're flying Equatorian flags,” Anhalt announced. “A forty-eight and a twenty-four. Hmm. The frigate isn't Imperial Navy. She's a privateer.”

  “Have they seen us?” Adele asked.

  Before he could answer, Captain Hariri leaned over the rail from the quarterdeck with a stern visage. “They have and are in hot pursuit.”

  “How could they know I'm on board?”

  “Likely they don't, but I imagine their orders are to intercept any ship that appears suspicious, at the captain's discretion. We are not on a common flight path, and we are a brig of war flying a merchant flag. So we are, therefore, suspicious.”

  “Can we outrun them, Captain?”

  “Let us hope so, Your Highness. We are crowding on all sail she will bear.”

  White canvas soon cracked from every yardarm. The minutes of frantic activity passed slowly. Adele moved to pace the quarterdeck, watching the imperial pursuers astern, trying to pretend they weren't growing larger in the sky. But they were. After an hour of the chase, it was clear they were gaining on Edinburgh.

  There was a distant boom, and Adele saw smoke belch from the bow of the Equatorian cruiser.

  “Are they firing on us?” she asked in alarm.

  “A warning shot,” Hariri responded. “They are politely requesting us to heave to. Soon they will shoot for our yards—our sails—if they have the gunners for it.”

  “What are our chances in a fight?”

  “Slim. We are outgunned by a great margin. And I note the cruiser is armed with the newest azimuth guns, one-hundred-ten pounders with perfect balance. They can sweep the skies high and low. Lovely things.”

  “And our guns?”

  Hariri smirked. “We'll count ourselves lucky if they don't explode when we fire them.”

  Colonel Anhalt said, “Highness, the danger is that those ships will fire on us, not knowing you are on board. You are in grave peril.”

  “What would you have me do, Colonel? Surrender myself?”

  “It would be safer. It will prevent you being injured, or worse.”

  Captain Hariri nodded in agreement.

  “And what of you, Colonel? Or Captain Hariri? Or Greyfriar? If I allow Edinburgh to fall under our pursuers' guns so that I may surrender myself, I will have no control over what becomes of everyone else. You said yourself that you are a deserter, as are your men, so you would fall under a court-martial. And let's face it, Captain Hariri would be viewed as a pirate. And Greyfriar kidnapped the imperial heir. Do you think I could convince my father or Senator Clark to go easy on him?” To say nothing of the fact that he is a vampire, Adele thought. “No, gentlemen, as far as I'm concerned, none of us is welcome in Equatoria. We shall live or die together.”

  The pirate captain was about to speak when the sound of another distant whoomp froze the quarterdeck in anticipation. After several seconds, a topsail on the port side ripped and several yardarms cracked into splinters.

  Hariri slapped his forehead in amazement. “Nice shot! Bad for us.” He turned to Adele. “We're coming into effective range. We can't stand under their guns. But I have an idea.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I won't like it, I'm sure. But do it.”

  Hariri laughed. “Very well. You might wish to hold onto something sturdy.”

  Adele seized the rail, while Greyfriar locked one arm around her and clasped a sturdy cable. As orders were shouted around the ship, the captain signaled to the binnacle. The air filled with the terrible roar of chemicals venting from the dirigible. The deck of Edinburgh dropped from beneath their feet. Adele felt air between her soles and the wood for a few seconds, but Greyfriar held her tight with steel-corded muscle. The ship plummeted as if the cables connecting the hull to the zeppelin had been cut. The wind tore through the sails, canvas ripping and yards bending with pressure.

  They were crashing! Adele panicked. Anxious memories of plummeting to the earth on Ptolemy crowded her thoughts.

  Suddenly they were surrounded by whiteness. Mist. Clouds. The air was wet, and the sky around them crackled with bursts of phosphor. A jagged trail of light struck a mast and traveled to the hull of the ship. Above their heads, the metal cage enclosing the dirigible sparkled with fairy fire.

  Over the bellowing wind, Adele heard Greyfriar laughing. His cloak swirled about both of them and he stared upward. He seemed perfectly at home in the chaos. His utter lack of fear was both disturbing and calming.

  Then Edinburgh dropped below the clouds. Rain and marbles of ice pelted the ship. Greyfriar pulled Adele back against him and wrapped his fluttering cape about her. Lightning slashed above them. The air below was grayish green and had a strange rolling texture. Then Adele realized she was looking at the tops of trees. A vast carpet of forest, unbroken for miles around.

  Over the drumming rain and wind came the roar of buoyant pumps refilling the dirigible. But the ship still dropped. The rain seemed to push it down toward the featureless green. Sails flapped loose, torn and tattered. Men shouted. Adele pulled up wildly on the rail as if that would help keep the ship aloft.

  Edinburgh shuddered with a great scraping and rustling, and many crewmen were knocked off their feet. It was only Greyfriar's strong embrace that prevented Adele from falling, but still they knocked into the rail and back again. Incredibly, lush green foliage reared up above the rail. She gasped. It was as if the trees had seized the ship and were dragging it down to consume it. They waited for the sound of the hull being crushed by the remorseless forest.

  Then the treetops fell back, snapping branches and dropping a carpet of leaves across the deck. The ship rose awkwardly back into the driving rain. They were flying free again.

  “Are you hurt?” Greyfriar asked, finally releasing his steadfast hold.

  Adele exhaled. “I'm fine now, but…two airship crashes in one year is enough to last me.”

  Captain Hariri called out to his crew, sending them to inspect the damage. Men climbed along the yards, trying to manhandle rebellious sails in the tropical deluge. Others dove below to check the hull for breaches.

  The captain crossed to Adele, accepting a passing backslap from Anhalt with a grin. “Now, that was an evasive maneuver.”

  “Well done, Captain—” Adele suddenly froze midword as a bulk dropped into sight less than a mile astern. It was the privateer.

  Hariri turned because of the princess's widening eyes. “No! That's impossible!”

  And a mile farther back, an even larger shaped lowered into view, trailing clouds. The Equatorian cruiser. But its massive dirigible was a ball of green fire, a victim of the storm. It appeared as a bright glow in the slate rain before the fire was swallowed up by the forest, and the great ship was gone.

  “My God,” Adele breathed. “All those men.”

  Hariri was already at the binnacle shouting orders over the thunder. Edinburgh lurched forward, crippled and foundering. The battered privateer frigate swung its bow to bring its flank to bear.

  Greyfriar grabbed Adele again and bore her to the deck before the distant broadside roared. Rails splintered, sails ripped, and masts shattered. The dirigible cage bent and cracked. Men screamed, torn by heavy shrapnel. The little brig's guns returned fire, sending smoke rising up and over the deck.

  Hariri leapt to the ship's waist and shouted back to Colonel Anhalt, “I'm serving out weapons. We've no chance of escape. Prepare your men for hand-to-hand combat!”

  “Go below, Your Highness,” Anhalt commanded Adele, and then he yelled to his men to fix bayonets.

  Greyfriar grabbed Adele's arm and pulled her to the companionway. She fought back against his iron hand as he dragged her below.

  “What are you doing?” she cried angrily. “I'm going to repel boarders with my me
n!”

  Greyfriar thrust the princess inside her stern cabin and shut the door behind them. He ripped the scarf from his face, and unbuckled his gun belt and swords. “There won't be any boarders to repel, if I can help it.”

  “What are you thinking? You're not thinking. You can't go out unmasked. What if you're seen?”

  He flung his cloak away and unbuttoned his tunic, revealing a plain white shirt. Then he pulled off his gloves and flexed the claws from his fingertips. He went to the stern gallery as another wave of shells crashed into the ship, shaking the deck, sending dust and debris over their heads. He threw open the large window and turned back to a stunned Adele with cold blue eyes. Wind and rain poured over him.

  “They won't have you today. I'll be back when their ship is crippled or there isn't a man left alive who will harm you.” He leapt into the storm, leaving Adele holding his hooded cloak.

  Gareth dropped away from the stern. No one should be able see a single figure in the sky washed near black with rain. The wind was strong, almost too strong. He rode the updrafts toward the privateer airship, which vomited another wave of red cannon fire. Edinburgh shuddered. More masts snapped, and the dirigible cage shattered. The privateer turned its bow to close on the crippled brig.

  In the strong wind, it was complicated for Gareth to reach the frigate. The sensation from the air that helped him navigate was almost overwhelming in his head. He didn't feel the wind so much as smell and taste it, sensing his way through the updrafts and avoiding the deadly wind shear. He could sense his location in relation to the ground far below and used that to focus his approach to the privateer.

  The frigate had three masts extending from both sides of the dirigible. Gareth swept past the starboard side and caught hold of a topsail with his claws. He began to shred the canvas, letting the wind find the tears and rip them further; then he tore lines loose and sent sails flapping wildly.

  Topmen moved unwillingly into the rain-soaked yards to attempt to repair the damage. They hadn't seen the lone figure slipping from one mast to the next. The privateer lost headway and slipped to starboard as damaged sails lost their bite.

  Gareth vaulted from the foremast to the dirigible cage. He quickly crawled over the vast egg-shaped metal mesh to where he could spy the port side masts. Men were already aloft, trying to furl sails to balance the ship and let it gain way again.

  Gareth launched himself at the masts again, shredding and tearing. He appeared only as a blur in the eyes of the privateersmen, who could barely credit what they thought they saw: a man slipping across the yards like a shadow in the lightning.

  With damage done, he fell from the masts and angled for the ship's hull. He landed hard on the wooden side and clung there for a second. To his left, above him, he saw cannon muzzles waiting. He crawled sternward and up toward the quarterdeck.

  Gareth rose to the rail and saw several men gathered around the binnacle. He had watched actions on Edinburgh enough to know that it was the standard airship control post. The brass pneumatic tubes and speaking tubes all ended there for communications to the tops and chemical deck. Airships had no wheel, as a rudder served no purpose. Navigation was a delicate feat of management, like a conductor with an orchestra spread in different parts of a vast concert hall.

  He crawled over the rail slowly, marking his targets—four men at the binnacle who were shouting and gesturing to the tops. Another stood forward with a spyglass trained on Edinburgh, which was slowly gaining distance on the privateer.

  Gareth struck. One man turned in time to look surprised before he died. Blood sprayed the brass pneumo tubes. The three others only had time to grunt in shock before claws raked them, opening their throats, flaying cheekbones clean of flesh. They smashed against hard metal, dropping to the deck. The man with the spyglass whirled and died too.

  The sound of struggle brought several men up the portside ladder to the edge of the quarterdeck. They saw a tall, pale figure kneeling with a blood-smeared face over their captain. He looked up with fierce blue eyes and came for them. Some fled, blocking others who wanted to fight. Men raced up the starboard companionway to the quarterdeck. They brandished cutlasses, axes, and pistols.

  Gareth rushed the mob. Bullets flew as he clawed guns from hands. Blades sliced the air. He blocked a cutlass deep in his forearm and had to smile at the shocked face of the sword's wielder. Vampires were not something these men fought often. He took an axe by the handle and threw it away.

  The crewmen seemed to move in slow motion. Gareth could sense their every action and block or dodge or strike to stop them. The captain's blood warmed him. He felt strong and fit. He took no great pleasure in hurting or killing these men, but he knew every one he stopped, and every minute he kept this ship foundering, gave Adele a better chance to escape. The privateer had attacked Edinburgh; Gareth felt no compunction to spare them.

  The ship rolled, and men sprawled with shouts of alarm. Gareth merely lightened and rose into the air. The deck tilted as the storm seized the ship and twisted it. With no orders coming, the topmen had no way to coordinate the sail load. The wind was spinning the directionless ship, threatening to flip it over. Men slid along the deck and tumbled over the side. Some toppled from the yards, falling into the endless air. The crack of masts could be heard even over the wind and screams of panicked men.

  Gareth saw Edinburgh vanishing into the storm. The privateer would take hours to recover, if she ever did. He drifted away from the lost ship and followed Adele's vessel.

  With time, Gareth crawled into the stern window of Adele's cabin. He found her sitting and waiting, her hands wringing his cloak.

  She stood up abruptly, her eyes taking in the blood. “Are you injured?” She moved toward him, covering his drenched form with the cloak.

  He held up his arm with the bloody gash, inspecting it curiously. “Not really.”

  “Running off like that with no help, you could've been killed.” But her fingers gingerly brushed his wounded arm.

  “If I hadn't gone, you could have been killed. I had no choice. There was little danger.”

  Adele shook her head in admiration, despite the desperate worry. He wasn't boasting. It was simply a fact. He was trained to be in the thick of battle. Clearly, he didn't believe he could be defeated. It was frustrating for her, but he was so sincere and without artifice that she couldn't be angry.

  There was a knock at the door. Gareth drew up his hood before moving into a dark corner. Adele called out to enter.

  Colonel Anhalt leaned in, noting the open stern window and the shadowy Greyfriar with brief curiosity. “Highness, the weather is breaking and there is no sign of the privateer. Luck was with us today.”

  Adele smiled. “Yes, it certainly was. Thank you, Colonel.”

  “That lake below us is Luta Nzige.” Anhalt pointed over the rail at a vast silvery sheet set amid a landscape of vibrant greens and reds. The air was wet, and the high clouds that surrounded the limping Edinburgh were again turning grey and sparking with lightning. “Some of our charts call it Lake Albert. And south of the lake are the Rwenzoris, the Mountains of the Moon.”

  Adele turned her brass spyglass forward, but any sight of the fabled mountains was hidden in white mist.

  “The highest peaks of the Rwenzoris are rarely visible,” the Gurkha colonel said. “They are almost always shrouded in clouds and ash plumes. This is a highly volcanic region. It is a mysterious place. In fact, it is said that a secret vampire kingdom is set high in those mountains.”

  Greyfriar regarded the man. “A kingdom?”

  “So they say. I've heard it from Katangan officers, and they believe it to be so. Not just scattered creatures, but a clan. They slink down when the weather allows, to steal babies to raise as food.”

  The swordsman joined Adele to study the shrouded mountains.

  “Is that true?” She intended the question for Greyfriar, who merely shrugged.

  Anhalt replied with a smile. “I don't know, Your Highnes
s. It's just what they say. But I do know that the snow on top of the mountains is the origins of the Nile. That is a proven fact.”

  “Amazing,” Adele breathed. “So far away.”

  Captain Hariri whistled sharply from the quarterdeck. “Your Highness, the tops report a Katangan forty-eight closing.”

  “Very well, Captain. When possible, signal to the Katangans that we wish to close and speak.”

  Within twenty minutes, Greyfriar joined Adele at the rail to watch the forty-eight-gun Ituri draw alongside, and said, “They may try to sequester you away from us—from me. Don't let them. It is in their interest to control this situation. Despite what you need from them, they also need something from you. That will make them stay their hand. But you are in charge. Never forget that.”

  His words filled her with confidence. Even with only a single company at her side, she felt as if she commanded an army.

  Due to the span of the airships' horizontal masts, the two ships had to stand off over 150 feet. Since it was far too windy to speak with megaphones, Edinburgh fired a line with a telegraph cable. The telegrapher waited at the binnacle, finger poised on the key, with Adele, Anhalt, and Captain Hariri at his shoulder. Greyfriar stood at a distance.

  Adele dictated, “Lieutenant, if you would, identify us as an Equatorian ship. Tell them that we carry Princess Adele, who wishes an audience with King Msiri.” As the telegrapher tapped the key, Adele smiled. “This should be interesting. Surely they're aware that I'm on the run and looking for a place to land.”

  Distant figures on Ituri began to scurry about, followed by telltale flashes from spyglasses on their deck. Adele stepped to the side so she could be seen. She even waved, prompting a laugh from Colonel Anhalt.

  The reply ticked in and the young telegrapher said, “It's in Swahili. Shall I read it for you?”

  “My Swahili is adequate, thank you.” Adele took the sheet of paper. When she could make out the telegrapher's scribblings, she said, “Ah. They want me to come aboard.”