by Frank Tuttle
One was in flames. The other appeared to be intact, though the smoke billowing from the burning spaceship made it difficult for Meralda to make out much detail. She could barely make out the ship’s flying coil nacelles, though the glimpses she did get suggested both had survived the docking.
“Only two made it,” Mug said. “Poor devils. Mistress, the one that’s burning looks like a total loss. There she goes, the landing legs just buckled.”
As Meralda watched in horror, the gouts of smoke boiling from the stricken craft grew in volume, and flashes from the hull painted them briefly in crimson.
“I see people!” Mug shouted. “Lots of them, Mistress!”
“What are they doing?”
“Running, mostly. Some are carrying crates or stretchers.”
“How many?” asked Donchen.
“Sixteen or more, hard to tell through the smoke,” Mug replied. “But they’re people, not Mag.”
“Amazing that anyone survived such a journey,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “I do hope you have a persuasive argument prepared, Mage. They’re not likely to be very receptive to mere suggestion after suffering such a tragic loss.”
Before Meralda could speak, all of Mug’s eyes turned backward, and he sailed quickly to the rear.
“No no no,” he said, his high thin voice nearly swallowed by the wind. “Mr. Skoof. Please tell me again that the Mag can’t fly.”
Meralda turned and charged after Mug.
“Mug,” she snapped. “What is it?”
“I have never seen an airborne Mag,” replied Skoof, as he joined Meralda and Mug aft. His dome rose, rotated, and then fell. “Until now,” he added.
Mug’s tiny flying coils buzzed as he flung his birdcage around. “One would think you would know such an important, dare I say crucial, fact concerning these bloody insects. One would think enormous murdering flying bugs would have been fairly hard to miss, for one who has spent centuries observing this ancient tub.”
Skoof balanced himself on one spindly leg while the other two performed an elegant shrug. “I have not seen a craft fly since the fall of technology. Perhaps the Mag saw no need of taking to the air before now.”
Meralda forced herself to speak clearly and calmly. “Mug. How many, how far away, and how fast?”
“Thirty-two, a couple of miles back, and faster than us,” Mug said. His eyes danced and blinked. “Mistress, we have got to get aboard that spaceship.”
“Donchen,” Meralda shouted. “As fast as she’ll go, right now. We have company. With wings.”
The Matriarch leaped ahead, her fan’s faint whir becoming a roar.
“Don’t let them get close to the envelope!” Meralda shouted. She lifted the snout of her fire lance and aimed it directly at the gas bag and a trio of incoming Mag. “It won’t burn!”
“Are you sure?” asked Mrs. Primsbite, as she hauled her lance to bear on its swiveling mount.
“No.” The closest of the flying Mag, which resembled a monstrous wasp, dived toward the Matriarch. Meralda squinted and squeezed her trigger.
A gout of fire erupted from the lance. It raked the Matriarch’s envelope, incinerating the Mag and setting another aflame. The flaming Mag shrieked and fell, spinning and trailing dark smoke.
Meralda let go of the trigger. The Matriarch’s bag billowed and rippled, undamaged.
Mrs. Primsbite howled in pure exultation, and her lance spewed fire, and then Meralda raised hers again.
More Mag fell. Still, they hurled themselves at the airship, often into the very streams of fire that had just consumed their kin. Mrs. Primsbite shouted a steady stream of profanity, her eyes wild as she played her long, deadly shaft of blue flame into the flock of winged Mag.
Mug hovered over Meralda’s right shoulder, his eyes moving as he tracked approaching flyers. “Two to starboard!” he shrieked. “Three more aft!”
Mrs. Primsbite’s fire lance swung about, and Meralda’s, and within seconds five more winged Mag went hurtling toward the deck.
“More on the way,” Mug cried. “But they’re a few minutes back.”
Meralda sagged, panting, leaning over the rail. “We’re there,” she said, as the burning Hang airship came into view, perhaps a hundred feet below her boots.
“I’m circling, showing them the flag,” Donchen shouted. “They’ve seen us. If they have weapons, they haven’t brought them to bear.”
“Yet,” added Mug. All but a few of his eyes swiveled back, to the dark smudge in the sky that quickly grew blacker and larger. “You see that Mistress?”
“I do,” Meralda replied. She mopped sweat from her face with her sleeve. “That looks like more than thirty.”
“A lot more,” Mug said. He turned his blue eyes on Meralda. “Mistress, they number in the dozens. Maybe the hundreds. How much fuel is left in the lances?”
Meralda bent. She checked the mechanism, her face going pale when she realized the fire lance fuel was nearly a quarter gone. “Enough,” she said, rising.
“Sure there is. Better take us down, hope the Hang brought something more lethal than swords.”
“It appears my countrymen are indeed armed.” Donchen pointed to the Hang below. “I’m not familiar with the weapons. But they haven’t used them yet. Shall we descend, Captain?”
“Take us down,” Meralda called. “We’ll have to risk it. Everyone wave,” she added. “Donchen, talk fast. We don’t have time for lengthy conversations.”
Donchen nodded as he tossed a long rope overboard. “You’re not coming?”
“No. I’m going to keep our lances aloft, in case the Mag arrive early. Mug. Any revisions to your estimate?”
“None,” he said. “But I think I see another bunch in the distance.”
A crow whispered in Meralda’s ear. “We see another flock of the flyers approaching,” it said. “Their numbers are in the thousands.”
Meralda paled. Donchen saw. “I shall speak with appropriate urgency,” he said, gesturing toward the Matriarch’s wheel. She rushed to take it, barely glancing toward the burning wreck and the gaggle of Hang below.
“Do be careful while slaughtering monsters, won’t you?” Donchen said. He stole a quick kiss before gripping the rope and flinging himself out of the basket.
“You go too,” Meralda said, to Mrs. Primsbite.
“Oh no,” replied the spymaster, with a grin. “You can’t fly and fire. Also, I outrank you. I’m staying.”
“As am I,” Mug piped. “You need my eyes.”
Meralda scowled, but Mrs. Primsbite was already fussing with her fire lance, her back turned. Mug darted aft to fix his eyes on the growing cloud of Mag.
“I shall accompany Donchen,” Skoof said. He leaped nimbly atop the narrow rail. “Perhaps my presence will offer weight to his words. Farewell, ladies. Remember to lead your targets by a small margin.” Skoof dropped over the side, landing a second later with a muted metallic clang.
Meralda yanked the wheel and set her fan to full. The airship’s nose swung quickly about until the flock of Mag hove into view.
Even above the roar of the fan, Meralda could hear the Mag now. The sound of their wings was eerily like that of an agitated beehive – a roaring, high-pitched buzzing that grew angrier and louder with each passing second.
Meralda lit the pilot flame that burned at the maw of her lance. Mrs. Primsbite lit hers as well, and together they swung their weapons toward the approaching mass.
“I think they’re up to something, Mistress,” shouted Mug, his eyes straining forward. “I see a dozen big ones, hanging behind.”
“Big ones?” Meralda shouted. “How much bigger?”
“Oh, three times the size of the others,” Mug replied. “It would be insects. I always knew it would come down to bugs.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever said this to you before, Mr. Mug,” Mrs. Primsbite shouted. “But do shut up. We have a battle to fight.”
A pair of sleek black crows came plummeting down, swooping
beneath the Matriarch’s gasbag before spreading their wings and lighting on the rail. “Further surveillance seems pointless,” croaked one.
“More approach. The situation is clearly untenable,” said the other.
“Hush that kind of talk!” Mug yelled. “We’ve got a battle to fight! To the rails, ladies and crows. Time to give our guests a warm Tirlish welcome.” He swiveled his eyes back to Mrs. Primsbite. “Is that better?”
“Much,” she replied. Mr. Reardon yapped at Mug and began to race up and down the length of the basket.
Meralda stole a glance below. She saw Donchen standing in the center of the circled Hang survivors. Many trained what she assumed were weapons on him, though Donchen was anything but still. She saw him raise his arms, saw him stalk about as he spoke.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
“Too late, Mistress,” Mug said. As he spoke, the buzz of Mag wings grew loud and harsh. What had been a distant cloud of dark figures surged ahead, hurling themselves at the airship, their speed doubling.
Meralda put the Matriarch into a steep climb. The Mag surged up as well, their sleek black bodies turning as quickly as sparrows, their clawed limbs grasping in anticipation of the kill.
Meralda leveled the airship, braced the wheel with her body, and sent fire arcing across the sky. Mrs. Primsbite’s lance followed, and then the air around them was filled with hurtling Mag, some aflame, some raking the Matriarch’s bag with long obsidian claws.
Mug shouted one of Mrs. Primsbite’s words into the din and sailed out among the wheeling beasts, the crows in his wake. Two Mag collided as they each veered toward Mug, and Meralda was able to send one spinning down in flames, but then she lost sight of Mug’s cage as dozens of the beasts converged on her.
Meralda’s fire lance howled and spewed. She swung it wildly about, incinerating Mag by the score, but more swooped in to take the place of the fallen. Meralda saw Mrs. Primsbite’s lance swing past, time after time, it too sending Mag down in flames wake – but always, always, more Mag began to circle.
From below, a series of loud pops began to sound. Meralda saw a Mag jerk and then start to flop, wings going still as it fell. Another did the same. As the sharp pops from below grew more numerous, more Mag dropped, but then Meralda’s lance sputtered, and she realized her bottle of gas was half spent.
Meralda shoved the elevator lever, and the Matriarch swooped towards the deck. Mrs. Primsbite frowned, and opened her mouth to speak, but before she formed the words the airship’s basket was thrown up and to port. She dropped to her knees as Meralda clung to the wheel.
Mr. Reardon’s yapping lowered to a growl. An enormous, shiny bulk fell into the basket, extended its many fleshless limbs, and lunged at Meralda.
Meralda ducked. A head, like that of an enormous beetle, slammed into the airship’s wheel. Powerful black jaws closed around the metal, wrenching it from the basket without apparent effort. It spit out the bent wheel as it raised its eyeless head.
Mr. Reardon threw himself at the thing. It raked the basket with an extended foreleg, sending the little dog flying.
The Mag raised up, shaking a furious Mrs. Primsbite easily aside, and then it lunged again. Meralda rolled, but the basket was warped and bent, and she could see the Mag’s jaws widening as it aimed for her belly.
Meralda kicked, with both feet. The Mag’s sleek head fell upon her, teeth clacking. Meralda felt a sharp pinch and kicked again.
The Mag’s head, big as a bucket, rolled off her. Its body loomed over her for a moment, inky dark blood spewing from its carapace until it began to twitch and wobble.
Bone-white claws curled around the Mag’s body from behind. The corpse of the Mag was hurled away, revealing the jabberwock. Meralda’s mother, sword in hand, dropped from the jabberwock’s back to kneel by her dog.
Mr. Reardon whined and twitched. Meralda’s mother stroked his head and stood, her face a mask of fury.
“No one kicks my dog, or wounds my daughter,” she said, her voice icily calm. “Without paying a price.” She leaped astride the jabberwock’s narrow spine, her blooded sword raised. “Rise, daughter. Rise and fight!”
The jabberwock flung itself out of the basket, wings spreading until they caught air with a loud leathery snap. Meralda’s mother howled and brandished her blade, vanishing with the jabberwock as it swung back into the mass of Mag.
Mrs. Primsbite struggled to her feet. She took up her lance, re-lit the pilot flame, and sprayed the heavens with fire.
Meralda rose too, but a sudden stinging ache in her side sent her back to her knees. She gritted her teeth and stood. She fell against her fire lance, squeezed her trigger, and sent a Mag hurtling to the Hub.
The jabberwock dealt death, easily evading the streams of fire and the clutching talons of the Mag. As it flew, it grew, unfolding more and more hidden bones until it was the size of the airship. Mag fell around it, some sliced in two, some skewered on those bone-white wings, a few slashed by her mother’s furious sword.
The jabberwock sounded a long, exulting cry, a cry that chilled Meralda to the bone. It unfolded yet again, wings beating with the sound of infant thunder, and when it sang a second time, Mag began to fall untouched, hurtling toward the Hub as though dead.
Meralda’s lance hissed. The stream of fire halted, becoming a series of fiery coughs that brought down another pair of Mag before the pilot flame winked out and each pull of the trigger was met with a faint, dying hiss.
“I’m spent,” Meralda shouted. Her belly burned. A creeping numbness spread across her chest.
Mrs. Primsbite’s lance roared, sending another Mag down. Then it too began to cough.
“I’m taking us down,” Meralda gasped. Mrs. Primsbite nodded. She managed to dispatch another Mag before dropping her the end of her lance and pulling a pair of daggers from her skirts.
“You’re bleeding,” she said. Meralda had not realized she was gripping her right side, but as the spymaster spoke, she raised her hand. It came away bloody.
Meralda shrugged as a deep weariness settled over her. She put her bloody hand on the wheel and worked the rudder levers with her other.
Aft, the jabberwock put itself between the remaining Mag and the Matriarch. Meralda watched as the few airborne Mag fell, one by one. She thought she heard her mother’s voice, raised in a mixture of fury and triumph. Then Mrs. Primsbite joined her at the wheel.
“You’ll live,” said the woman, after a moment. She pressed a cloth tight to Meralda’s side. “Hold this there.”
Meralda nodded. Her vision blurred while her legs and arms grew heavy. “I don’t feel well,” she announced, sinking to the bottom of the basket.
Her eyes fell on the tiny form of Mr. Reardon, who lay sprawled and still at her feet. With great effort, she managed to scoop him into her lap.
He wiggled and whined, looking up at her and licking the blood on her hands.
From above, the jabberwock gave another sinister cry. “That’s the last of them,” Meralda heard Mrs. Primsbite say. “Until yonder bunch arrives.”
“Tell them we’re taking tea,” Meralda muttered. Her lips went numb, with her hands and feet. “I’ve had enough of this rude behavior.”
“Haven’t we all,” Mrs. Primsbite replied. The Matriarch’s descent grew more pronounced, and as Mrs. Primsbite threw a line over the side, Meralda drifted off to sleep.
24
“She’s coming around,” Mug said. Even before she opened her eyes, she smelled the tangy scent of ionized air created by his tiny flying coils. “Mistress! Wake up! We’re in the void. Everything is weightless.”
Meralda opened her eyes and tried to rise, only to find her arms were bound to a tiny, none-too-clean bunk in a cramped room that reeked of, she decided, unwashed feet.
Donchen pushed Mug’s cage gently away and floated into view.
“You’re flying,” Meralda said. Her head was clearing, but she had difficulty forming the words. She frowned and started again. “How ar
e you doing that?”
“We are aboard the voidship Yangzhou,” he replied. His right arm was bandaged just above the elbow, and his forehead sported a nasty dark bruise. “We’ve left the Hub. There is no gravity here.” His smile faded. “You were bitten by a Mag. Skoof believes he has neutralized the venom. Are you in pain?” He began to remove the scraps of cloth that bound her arms to the bunk.
Meralda’s hand, once freed, fell to her side. She realized her blouse had been removed, replaced by a man’s plain white shirt. Her hair floated in a wild halo about her eyes, and she found herself drifting off the bunk, lighter than a feather, her every motion trying to send her body twisting and moving. Only Donchen’s hands on her kept her from joining him in the air.
“We’ve left the Hub?” she asked, her words coming easily. “How?”
“Well now that’s a bit of a story, Mistress,” Mug replied. He sailed into view, his cage upside down. “But first we need to get some water down you. Skoof’s orders. Donchen, that drinking dingus, please.”
“Of course.” Donchen spun in place, one hand darting up as he twirled to catch a device floating near at hand. “You put this tube in your mouth,” he explained, proffering the glass and rubber cylinder to Meralda. “Then you squeeze the rubber bulb. It forces water into your mouth.”
Meralda took the device. She placed the tube between her lips and squeezed the end, swallowing the blobs of water that squirted out.
“Fascinating,” she said when the flask ran dry. She let go of it, and it simply hung there. “Mother? Mrs. Primsbite? That poor little dog?”
“Alive, alive, and alive,” Mug replied. “Your mother was wounded, but Skoof fixed her up too. Same for the pup. Skoof’s a deft healer, now that he’s got some of his powers back.”
“Powers? Back?” Meralda shook her head in confusion, sending her hair into a frenzied tide about her face. “Donchen. Start at the beginning, please.”
“Of course. Come, float with me. It’s a singular sensation.” He offered his hand, and Meralda took it, and suddenly she was suspended in mid-air, facing a grinning Donchen.
