Rath and Storm

by Peter Archer

  * * *

  —

  As Weatherlight steadied in the roiling violet-gray clouds of Rath and began to lose altitude, shying away from the sky’s destructive, lightning-laced fury, Predator dropped upon it. Greven himself fired the first shot from Predator’s main gun. A blinding, blue-hot flash of energy exploded outward and slammed hard into the smaller ship. Even from a distance, and even amid the whirling, thundering winds of Rath, Greven could hear Weatherlight tremble at the weapon’s touch. Greven knew then that his victory was at hand. The shouts of Weatherlight’s human crew finally bridged the violent span of the sky, and Volrath’s commander ordered his moggs to gather.

  Weatherlight was damaged and confused, and Predator came in fast. The distance between the two ships closed; Greven didn’t have to bother giving the order to cast the grappling hooks. Vhati il-Dal snapped a command and the ropes shot through the gray sky to their target. Greven laughed, and Vhati looked up sharply. Greven stared at his first mate, estimating just how far Vhati might go to destroy him.

  “Stay behind,” snarled Greven to the mate. “Leave the fighting to those who have the courage for it.” And with those words, he leaped through the air toward the enemy ship. His moggs followed him.

  A few of the goblins in the front ranks either overestimated their ability to jump or underestimated the distance still separating the two ships. Fully a dozen of them fell to their deaths. Greven snorted irritably at the waste and the stupidity. It was a good thing he’d brought so many of them.

  Crews of slavering moggs pulled hard on the ropes and dragged Weatherlight, resisting feebly, closer still. Now a wave of moggs were able to jump the distance easily.

  The battle was joined by Weatherlight’s crew, who immediately started falling back, pushed at the front of an advancing tide of creatures that had no qualms about standing astride their fallen comrades to press the attack. Weatherlight was soon awash in blood and moggs.

  A thin human with a shock of blond hair and some ridiculous tabard lofted a gnarled staff into the air. Greven’s skin crawled with the magic that suddenly coursed through him. The spine that Volrath had grafted to his body bristled with static and made Greven itch. The sensation drove the commander forward.

  Weatherlight twisted violently on its ropes like a gaffed fish, and a few moggs, no more than a half dozen, were bucked to their deaths. The wizard’s feeble magic couldn’t pull his ship away. It couldn’t stop the tide of red-dripping green flesh that was having its way with Weatherlight’s crew. Only in retrospect, as Predator got under way with a full cargo hold did Greven remember that glimpse of the flowing silver figure that in some bizarre form of honor or misplaced pity, refused to kill the drooling moggs that swarmed it like mosquitoes with steel blades.

  Through all this initial assault Predator’s guns had kept up a constant barrage. When Greven was satisfied that the moggs had things as well in hand as a mob of moggs was ever likely to, he shouted the cease-fire order across the gulf. Vhati il-Dal echoed the order, as he was trained to do, but it sounded hollow, as if he were mimicking his captain. Greven knew then that, one way or another, Vhati il-Dal would never see Volrath’s Stronghold again.

  * * *

  —

  For the rest of that battle’s events Greven put Vhati il-Dal out of his mind. He knew part of his strength as Volrath’s commander was his single-mindedness, fueled by his master’s torturing spine. But by the time he’d regained Predator, swept back to his ship in the receding tide of moggs, he knew it was time to kill his first mate.

  Below his craft, Weatherlight was losing altitude fast, and Greven resisted the urge to watch it fall. He went fast and straight to Vhati il-Dal. The mate, in an unexpected show of courage, stood waiting for him.

  “It ends, Vhati,” Greven told him, in a voice like mountain snow—smooth but unrelenting, permanent, and cold.

  Here ends the Tale of Greven

  “Gerrard died.” Ilcaster put his head in his hands and groaned. “Why

  do heroes always have to die?”

  “Did I say he died?” snapped the master.

  “Well, no, but—”

  “But me no buts. You have made a deduction unsupported by evidence, a sign of ill-thinking and careless logic. Does Tramian Spaldath not say in the forty-third book of The Foundations of Concise Thought, as Expounded by the Sages of Lat-Nam from the Second Millenium—”

  “Master!” interjected the boy.

  “What? Don’t interrupt me. I never saw such a boy for interrupting. What is it now?”

  “Your robe is on fire!”

  In the energy of his perjoration, the master had brushed against the candle, and the flame had run up the seam of his tattered gown. The librarian leaped up with a shriek, beating himself with his gnarled hands. Swiftly Ilcaster smothered the flames and gently led the old man to his seat again.

  “Won’t you sit quietly, Master, and tell me more of the story? I promise I won’t interrupt again.”

  The librarian glared at him but relented and continued the tale. “Very well. Where did I leave off?”

  “Well, Master, Greven had just hurled Vhati il-Dal over the side of Predator.”

  “Ah, yes. Now I remember. We have several accounts of what happened next, and some of what we know can be reasonably deduced from the careful correlation of these stories. If we compare these different versions—”

  “Yes, Master, but what happened?”

  Ilcaster clapped his hand across his mouth as the words left it. The old man, one finger lifted in a hortatory position froze, glaring at the boy. There was a painful silence, during which a high, damp wind whirled and shrieked outside, rattling the windows, and bringing with it a rich smell of running water.

  “As I was saying,” growled the librarian finally, “if we compare these different versions, we learn that the fallen angel Selenia, floating in the air far below Predator, saw Vhati fall to his death. She did nothing to aid him, having business of her own to report to Greven.

  “What neither she, nor Greven, nor indeed many of the members of Weatherlight crew had observed was that as Predator pulled away from the smaller ship, Tahngarth the minotaur, with a shout of rage, clasped a trailing rope and hauled himself hand over hand up to the hull of Greven’s ship. Hanna caught a glimpse of his figure as Predator hove out of sight, and she breathed a silent prayer for his safety.”

  “So,” observed the boy, “now both Tahngarth and Karn were aboard Predator.”

  “That’s right. But at least at this point, Greven knew only about Karn, taken prisoner by the moggs. Tahngarth intended to rescue his friend the golem, though how he expected to get them away from the ship is more than anyone can guess.

  “Now meanwhile, as Greven il-Vec thinned the ranks of his own crew and Tahngarth searched the lower decks of Predator for Karn, Hanna and Mirri were eagerly seeking some sign of what had become of Gerrard. Predator, of course, had gotten clean away, carrying with it Karn and those parts of the Legacy Weatherlight’s crew had stored in its hull after so many years of painstakingly collecting them. Badly damaged, the ship spiraled down into the thickly shadowed forest, crashing through the canopy and coming to rest amid the muck and swamp water beneath the Skyshroud.”

  “Could they relaunch the ship?”

  The scholar shook his head. “Not without considerable work. Hanna set the crew to their tasks, repairing the hull and tallying their losses. Meanwhile Orim was busy tending to those wounded in the fight. But amidst all this activity the navigator’s thoughts were constantly on the ship’s missing captain.”

  “Any sign of him?” Hanna asked Mirri and Crovax. She felt sure that she had kept her voice steady, but Crovax turned from his position at the railing and gave her an appraising look.

  “No. But then I don’t see how he could have survived that fall, Hanna. Even if he did, we wouldn’t be able to…” />
  “I agree with Hanna,” Mirri cut in without turning from the railing. “We must land to fix the ship. I would like to give him a decent burial if we can find him down there.”

  Hanna joined Mirri at the railing, looking at the dense treetops poking through the ever-increasing mist. “Visibility is low, and Weatherlight isn’t in very good shape. Not only are we descending quickly, but I’ve checked the Thran crystal. Those moggs cracked it extensively when they tried to pry it loose. Without the crystal, we won’t be able to shift off of this plane once we’ve found Sisay. We have no choice but to land here and attempt to repair the ship.”

  “Do you see what I mean about the superiority of sorcery over artifacts, Hanna?” came a voice from behind. The wizard adept Ertai moved into position next to her, his expression even smugger than his words. “Because we are dependent on that crystal to move between planes, we find ourselves stuck in an untenable position,” he observed. “If you had had the patience to allow me to develop my magic so that we could make a direct translation to Rath we would not be marooned here now.”

  Flashes of past lectures that her father Barrin had given her while she was growing up passed through the navigator’s head. Grief for the loss of Gerrard mixed with the anger that her father’s arguments—now put forward by his pupil—always brought to the fore.

  To prevent Ertai from seeing that his words flustered her, Hanna mentally counted to three before replying, “When you come up with a sorcerous way to shift between planes, come talk to me. Until then, please continue helping Orim with the wounded as Mirri asked you to earlier. We have very little time before we land.”

  “Be assured that I will,” Ertai said, sauntering back toward the healer. “No doubt I can show her a more efficient way of healing…” His voice passed out of hearing.

  “That one must always have the last word,” Mirri commented while scanning the forest below. “For him and for your father, sorcery is the final answer to everything. Yet this ship and the Legacy clearly indicates otherwise.” Mirri turned to Hanna with a grim expression. “How soon before we land?”

  Orim’s voice momentarily cut through their conversation. “No, no!” she exclaimed. “You two should carry him by the shoulders and feet! And watch out for that wound on his arm!”

  Hanna, Mirri, and Crovax looked over to where the healer was directing Ertai and other crew members in moving the wounded belowdecks. Ertai’s smirk was gone now, replaced with concentration as he levitated a wounded crewman just after the mishandled one. “Mind his head,” Orim warned the young wizard. Ertai frowned briefly and then adjusted the crewman’s position in the air.

  Both Hanna and Mirri turned away from the spectacle at the same time. Although Hanna was startled at Mirri’s support of her just now, she decided to answer the cat warrior’s question before she commented on the reference to her father. “Within two minutes or so, Weatherlight should be able to handle a decent landing.” She turned to Crovax. “I’ll need you and Mirri to help me ready the ship for landing. Without Tahngarth or Gerrard here, we’re a bit light on command crew.”

  “Two minutes?” the nobleman exclaimed. “So soon? How are we going to break through those trees? They’ll break us, most likely!”

  “If we don’t choose to land in two minutes, the ship will breach those trees not long after that anyway. I should be able to maneuver the ship into a better landing position—with your help.” She hoped that the ship could withstand some amount of rough travel through the dense treetops. “I’ll need you and Terrance to stand lookout and tell me what adjustments, if any, I need to make while I’m steering.”

  “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Crovax muttered before walking off.

  Hanna turned back to Mirri. “Thank you for your support, Mirri. It couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  The cat warrior shrugged. “It was necessary. Besides, I’ve watched you long enough to have faith in your judgment and abilities. Now, what can I do to help?”

  Once again, Hanna was startled at Mirri’s unconditional support. She must have changed during the time she and Gerrard were absent from the ship. Before the moment could leave, though, Hanna seized control of it. “Mirri, can you help gather the rest of the crew that isn’t wounded and have them stand ready to hack at tree limbs on the way down? That forest canopy is so thick that even my best efforts will still leave us with a lot of branches to deal with. Can you also send someone up to me to help in the bridge?”

  “I shall do so.”

  Hanna ran up to the command center of the ship, pushing aside thoughts of Gerrard. Concentrate, she told herself. Think about how to approach this landing. She narrowly avoided walking into Squee, who was running past her from below decks.

  “Squee! Where have you been? We thought you were dead!”

  The goblin paused but still looked around as if searching for something. “They’re gone? No more moggs?”

  “No more moggs, Squee,” Hanna reassured him. “Why don’t you go help Mirri or Starke? We have to land soon.”

  The goblin nodded and then scampered off toward the cat warrior. As she continued toward the bridge, she heard Squee ask Mirri about Gerrard’s whereabouts. For a moment, sorrow almost overwhelmed her, and she felt tears coursing down her cheeks. Then, with a heavy sigh she brushed them away. There would be time for grieving later.

  The navigator opened the door to the area that held all of the steering and navigating equipment that guided Weatherlight through her journeys.

  “You need my assistance?” came Ertai’s voice from behind her.

  Hanna turned toward him and noticed that he seemed very preoccupied. She was startled for a moment at his presence; then she realized Mirri must have sent him to the bridge to help with the landing. Despite his arrogance, the young wizard could be useful to her.

  “Yes. I need to set up our descent. If you could aid me, it would go much more smoothly.”

  Ertai nodded briefly, still distracted. “Yes, I am sure it would. Though I should think your limited abilities as a navigator would be sufficient to crash-land a ship.”

  Hanna ignored the comment. “First of all, keep an eye on Terrance and tell me if he directs us to make any adjustments.” She gestured at the windows that looked out over the foredeck of the ship. “Watch him closely: This is going to be tricky, if we’re to avoid puncturing the hull. Then, when I tell you to do so, adjust those knobs over there.” She pointed to a bank of controls to the left of the wheel.

  “Have you ever had to do something like this before?” Ertai asked as he stared out the windows.

  Hanna changed a few of the settings, turning knobs and punching buttons before answering. “Not really,” she admitted, as she set the approach vector. “With any luck I’ll finally find out exactly how the controls on this panel work….”

  Ertai was sufficiently startled to half turn toward the blonde navigator. “Find out?” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say you don’t know what all these things”—he gestured to the array of protuberances around them—“all these devices do?”

  “…Making my knowledge of this particular station almost complete,” the navigator finished calmly. She stared out the window, nudging the wheel this way and that. “My training in artifact studies at the Argivian University, along with some good instincts in matters dealing with artifacts, has been of great help in learning about this ship, but the fact is no one on board Weatherlight, not even Sisay, knows all about this ship. Sometimes it seems as if it’s changing beneath our feet, finding new ways of doing things.”

  Hanna turned toward Ertai, who was staring at her, looking as astonished as it was in his nature to be. “My experience has led me to believe that the purple lever with the iridescent markings allows the ship to make controlled falls. In past tests with this knob,” she continued, “the ship seemed to fall for a limited distance. Over time, I changed
the setting and pushed in the knob to see what happened. Depending on the setting of the lever controlling the ‘wings’ and the marking on the purple knob, the ship drops straight down at a certain speed for a certain distance.”

  Ertai’s eyes never left the window. His hands moved this way and that, relaying signals from Terrance, who stood on the far forward deck, leaning over the rail, watching the tree tops as they drew ever closer.

  “So Weatherlight still holds some mysteries for you?” the young wizard asked.

  “Quite a few, actually. I’ve discovered a lot of them, but just when I think that I completely understand something, I find out that some other knobs, levers, or buttons have more of an impact on the one I’m testing than I originally thought.” Hanna shrugged. “I think I’ve got enough of an understanding of this particular knob to use it to bring the ship through the canopy of trees to the land below with minimal damage. Hold onto something, just in case,” she added with a half smile.

  Now that she had set the ship for a straight course instead of the spiraling one that they had been on, the navigator moved over to stand by Ertai at the control station.

  “During my time on board Weatherlight,” she told the young man, “I’ve discovered what most of the controls on the navigation and command stations do. However, my understanding of the station that deals with plane-shifting is not as complete.” She pointed to a panel to the right of the central command area. “Since the Thran crystal is damaged, this is dark.” The command panel, however, seemed to be in good working order. Hanna lifted a long tube and blew into it, preparing to make an all-hands announcement. “Is the crew ready?” she asked Ertai.