* * *
At first, Ridge had the airship in sight as he streaked across the sky, the wind tearing his eyes and scraping his cheeks raw. Then he saw the smaller balloon on the ground inside the fort, the bald Cofah troops striding across the courtyard in their crimson uniforms and cloaks. One distinctive white-haired figure at the center of their formation stood out. Ridge didn’t know who he was—or why his own people weren’t shooting those intruders—but had a feeling he was responsible for that fire that had been raining from the sky. Another sorcerer.
“Would have been nice if headquarters had had a clue about this ship,” he muttered, tipping the flier’s nose down to dive for that formation.
He fired, but realized the problem immediately. The bullets bounced off before striking the men. He adjusted his targeting, thinking he would blast a few holes in the ground next to the Cofah and see how well their invisible shielding protected them from heaving earth at their feet, but his finger froze on the trigger. Someone was crumpled on the ground in the doorway of the admin building. Sardelle.
Ridge swallowed—had she been shot retrieving that sword? Or had the shaman done something to her?
Necessity made him pull up, and she disappeared from his sight. Rage and fear formed a lump in his throat, and he almost missed the significance of a blast from overhead, a cannon firing. At him. It blazed past the cockpit, missing his wing by inches.
Ridge turned away from the fort, knowing he was all-too-well-lit by the fire and lanterns below. He aimed for high sky, though he kept the airship in the corner of his eye. If their sorcerer protector was on the ground… maybe they would be more vulnerable to attack now. He had already done some damage. If he could bring the ship down, the Cofah would be stranded, sorcerer or not. As much as he wanted to tear into the fort to protect Sardelle, he never should have fired into the courtyard to start with. He risked hitting his own men that way. This was the more logical attack.
“I hate logic sometimes,” Ridge said, the wind stealing his words. Not that there was anyone there to hear them.
Once he was above the airship again, and they couldn’t target him so easily, he veered in close. He strafed the oblong balloon, delivering dozens of small holes. With luck, the bullets might chew up the frame inside too. Unfortunately, those little holes wouldn’t bring the craft down anytime soon.
Something streaked out of the dark sky and slammed into the front of the cockpit. He jerked back. The owl, he realized at the same moment as its unworldly shriek blasted his ears.
He banked hard, trying to hurl it off the flier. If not for his harness, he might have hurled himself out. The cursed magical bird hung on, its wings beating around the cockpit, keeping Ridge from seeing anything clearly. He glimpsed the balloon of the airship, approaching quickly. He tried to pull up, but that giant owl was either pushing down on the nose somehow or it weighed as much as another person.
Something rolled against Ridge’s foot as he twisted and turned, trying to buck the owl free.
“What now?” he growled.
Then he remembered Bosmont’s comment. Since he needed to duck a slashing talon anyway, he bent down and patted around his feet. He grasped something that felt like a cannonball. That didn’t make any sense. He slapped at the switch that uncovered the crystal in the back, and light blazed forth.
The owl squawked and let go, flapping off to the side of the flier.
“Ten layers of hell, if I’d known it hated light, I would have tried that first.” Ridge didn’t give a whit that the glowing crystal would make him an easier target for the airship, not if it kept that demon bird away. He needed to see what his engineer had given him too. It was lighter than a cannonball, even if it had the same shape, and a wick stuck out of the top.
“Not a wick, idiot, a fuse.” Ridge laughed. Bosmont had made him some bombs.
His first thought was that a bomb dropped onto the top of that balloon would definitely rip a big enough hole to bring the airship down. But the owl veered in again, its huge wings blotting out the stars. The light of the crystal might have startled it, but it had recovered.
“Let’s see how he likes bombs.”
Keeping one hand on the controls, Ridge unfastened the lid of the storage box next to his seat, and fished out the flashlamp used for lighting emergency flares. He thumbed the trigger on the side, and flint snapped against steel, producing a tiny flame. He jammed the bomb between his legs to hold it and hoped Bosmont knew what he was doing and that it wouldn’t go off prematurely. He waited before lighting it, knowing it would take a lot of luck to catch that owl. From the length of the fuse, he judged he would have about four seconds before the bomb exploded.
The creature had disappeared for the moment. Maybe it knew what he intended. Ridge craned his neck in all directions and up, knowing death often came from above in aerial fights, and he was rewarded. He spotted the owl diving down at him from above, plummeting for a kill.
Ridge lit the fuse, grabbed the bomb, then waited, counting. The flier shimmied and jerked, needing two hands on the controls, especially now that it had taken damage.
“Just give me one more second, girl,” he muttered.
He threw the bomb at the owl, as it extended its talons to grip the top of the cockpit again, or maybe to grip the top of Ridge’s head. Whatever its intent, having a metal ball hurled at its face altered its plan. Ridge expected the bomb to strike it and bounce off—he was hoping he had timed it so it would explode before it bounced far—but the owl reacted by snapping its beak down. It caught the bomb in its mouth.
Ridge fought the urge to gape in surprise, instead taking the flier down, knowing he had to put distance between himself and that bomb before—
It erupted with a great flash of orange and yellow, and with a boom that rivaled that of the cannons firing below. The shock made the flier buck, but Ridge got away before any shrapnel hit him. For a moment, feathers filled the sky, as if a pillow had exploded.
Ridge blew out a relieved breath but went straight to his next target. The airship. He felt around with his foot. Hadn’t Bosmont said he had packed a couple of those little gifts? To keep Ridge warm? Yes, there was another. He fished it out, setting it in his lap again. That would never cease to make him nervous, but nobody had thought to mount a bomb holder in the cockpit.
The flier fought him, and he didn’t know how many more runs he would have, but he angled it skyward again. If he could take out the airship, surely the men below could do the rest. Sorcerer or not.
As he climbed, Ridge peered into the fort, wondering about Sardelle, wondering if…
This time, he did let his mouth fall open in a gape. Sardelle was on her feet in the middle of the courtyard, her sword blazing with an intense golden light that had to be hurting the eyes of anyone nearby. Except for that white-haired man in the furs… He was facing her, his hand outstretched, some sort of red mist pouring from his fingers. Ridge had no idea what was going on—or who was winning—and as much as he wanted to help her, he was glad to be far above. He would much rather deal with the airship than magic.
Around Sardelle and the enemy sorcerer, Cofah warriors were engaged with the fort defenders in close combat. Ridge’s people had numbers and ought to have the advantage, but someone had opened the mine doors, and miners were streaming out, pickaxes in hand. There was no telling which side of the fray they would join. With that balloon on the ground, they would have to see an escape opportunity. They might simply brain anyone they crossed and sprint for freedom.
Ridge jerked his gaze from the courtyard and touched the bomb in his lap. He had to finish his part before worrying about the chaos below.
Balanced on the Blade's Edge (Dragon Blood, Book 1) Page 27
