The Starless Crown, page 45
Mikaen had no interest in such details. He shifted over to Haddan, who stood beside a pilotman at the Tytan’s wheel. The liege general gazed out the tall windows with his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was its usual rigid stone.
Mikaen could hardly stand still. He searched the flashes of flame in the mists across the lake. He swore he could smell the burning alchymicals of that firestorm, but it was more likely just from the warship’s own flashburn forges. He heard their roaring through the hull of the Tytan. Smoke billowed into view as the warship seemed to be slowing, even swinging to the east.
“Why are we turning away?” Mikaen pointed ahead. “We should be going after them. Chasing those bastards down.”
“No,” Haddan said.
Mikaen scowled at the general. “We have them trapped. The Tytan can make short work of that swyftship.”
Haddan’s attention was not on the distant firestorm, but on the waters below. “We can’t know for sure that your brother or the others are even aboard the other craft.”
“Then why did they run when they saw us?”
Haddan shrugged. “Havensfayre is a major trading city. Not all that is traded there is lawful. The ship might have been fearful of being brought low and searched.”
“Still, is it not best to eliminate any chance of the others escaping?”
“You need not worry. My fleet of hunterskiffs will deal with whoever is aboard that other craft. But I do believe that you are right, Prince Mikaen. The enemy was aboard that swyftship.”
“Then why don’t we—”
“I said was aboard.”
Mikaen frowned.
Haddan grabbed his shoulder and forced his nose closer to the bow window’s glass. “What do you see down there?”
He shrugged in the general’s grip. “Water. Lake Heilsa.”
“If you hope to be a war king one day, you must learn to read signs, like a soother with a toss of bones.” Haddan pushed Mikaen’s nose until it was pressed against the glass. “Look at the ripples spreading across the smooth surface, parting to either side, as if a knife had been drawn across that lake.”
Mikaen understood, his eyes narrowing. “Or cut by the passing keel of a swyftship.”
“Before it raced off again,” Haddan added, letting the prince go.
“You think they dropped something—or someone—off down there.” Mikaen glared over at Haddan, but his anger was not directed at the general.
Kanthe …
Haddan sighed his agreement. “While those we hunt had been aboard that swyftship, I now believe they’re backtracking to Havensfayre.”
“What do we do?” Mikaen asked.
“We continue with the original plan. My men across the lake will bring down that swyftship and haul anyone who survives over for questioning. In the meantime, the Tytan will close the noose below. Once we reach the town’s mooring fields, we’ll offload our forces and scour Havensfayre, scorching our way from one end to the other.”
Mikaen glanced back to the marked-up map and acknowledged the wisdom of this dogged strategy. He forced his hammering heart to slow. “Plainly I still have much to learn.”
“You’re still young.” Haddan clapped him on the shoulder. “But fear not, with time I will forge you into a war king, one cunning and bold enough to challenge the gods.”
Mikaen straightened under his hand, accepting this truth—and another.
Before that happens, I must first rid the Crown of my brother, a bastard sister, and that accursed knight.
* * *
CROUCHED OVER THE wheel of the sailraft, Graylin raced his small skiff along the shoreline of the Heilsa. He stayed hidden in the mists, keeping the bright waters glowing through the fog to his right, using it to guide him around the lake.
Earlier, he had shot out of the back of the Sparrowhawk as soon as the swyftship had entered the mists on Heilsa’s far side. Darant had turned his craft sharply to the east, allowing Graylin to jettison to the west.
Darant’s larger craft had fired its forges with bright spirals of flashburn and lured the wolves in the clouds along his blazing trail, affording Graylin the opportunity to escape unseen. Once free, he sped the skiff—specially designed by the pirate with larger flashburn tanks for attacking sailing ships—and circled around the western shore of Heilsa.
He finally reached the blasted path left behind by the warship. He turned to follow, intending to close upon the larger ship in its wake. Still, he felt like a minnowette hunting a rockshark.
As he flew, his boots worked the pedals, firing the port or starboard flashburn forges to wing his narrow craft back and forth, from cool mist to hot smoke and back again. He only fired his forges when the skiff sailed over the smoky trail left by the warship. The conflagration below helped mask his raft’s tiny flames. Each fiery burst boosted him faster, so when he reentered the foggy mists, he could go dark and sweep silently through the cloud layer.
Burst by burst, he sped after his huge target. He was a weaving arrow, relentlessly aiming for the warship. Behind him, the hold of the sailraft was lined by two rows of wooden barrels, all on their sides and lined atop a slanted, oiled rack. The slope pointed out the open stern of the skiff. The alchymical-filled casks were held in place by ropes. His knees bumped against the levers to either side that would free those ropes and send a barrage raining out the back.
But first I have to reach that sarding gasbag.
Darant had warned him of the futility of such an attack, even offering to send one of his own crew on this attempt, a brigand who he claimed would be far more skilled at such a raid.
Graylin had refused.
I must do this.
He would not sacrifice another to settle the debt he owed Marayn’s daughter. He gripped the wheel harder. He had left Kalder with the pirate, so if Graylin failed here, he would have honored his word to the man. Darant would have the vargr promised to him.
But more than anything, his words to Marayn’s daughter were etched across his mind’s eye, as fiery as the path he followed. I abandoned you and your mother long ago. Hoping to lure the king’s legions away. I won’t fail you this time.
“And I will not,” he swore aloud.
He continued east along the northern shore of Heilsa, winging from smoke to mists, keeping the glow of the open lake to his right. Finally, the fiery trail smothered out, marking where the warship had drifted out over the water.
Graylin did not slow. He raced ahead until the brightness to his right was eclipsed by a dark shadow.
The warship …
He turned toward it with a spin of his wheel. His boots hovered over the flashburn pedals, but he held off slamming them down. Not until the last moment. He could not risk exposing his presence until then.
Still, his caution was to no avail.
High and to his left, a dark shadow shredded through the clouds, spiraling the mists in its wake.
Then Graylin’s sailraft shot out of the mists and over the sunny lake. The warship towered ahead. A cannon smoked from its port flank. Others fired with spats of flames. A barrage of black iron filled the sky.
Graylin realized several details at once. He had exited the clouds too low. The sailraft had come out even with the massive ship’s keel. Still, it was his low height that spared him now. The cannonballs shot over his craft and into the forest behind him.
He slammed both pedals. Fire shot out the skiff’s stern, shooting the sailraft forward. He hauled on the wheel, driving the nose up. He was thrown against his seatback, but he kept his legs braced to the pedals, never letting up on his burn.
The raft slipped behind the first salvo of cannon fire.
Before the legion’s forces could reload and firm their aims, he blasted toward the warship. The skiff climbed the levels of the huge craft. It grew to fill the raft’s windows. He passed the long row of cannons bristling from the hull. As he cleared the height of the rails, he spotted men racing across the middeck.
Graylin leaned over his wheel, craning upward. He still had to get above the balloon, a mountainous ascent that looked impossible. He held his breath, praying for the tanks of flashburn to hold out long enough until he could summit this gasbag’s peak.
But the cannons were the least of the warship’s armament.
Fiery spears suddenly lanced through the air all around him, shot from the line of ballista that fringed the deck rails. Smoky trails barred the skies all around.
He held his breath, never slowing.
He prayed to all the gods to grant him this one bit of salvation.
He was judged not worthy.
A spear of iron, trailing a swirl of flames, shot past his window. The raft jolted violently as the balloon was struck—then a whooshing blast of fire spun the skiff through the air.
As the raft plummeted, Graylin fought the whirl by releasing one pedal and keeping the other pressed hard. Fire died on one side and blazed on the other. The dizzying view outside slowed enough for him to catch stuttering peeks of the warship’s balloon rising next to him as his skiff spiraled downward.
He ground his teeth.
Before I die, I’ll do what damage I can.
He aimed the nose of his juddering raft at the open deck as it rushed up toward him. He shoved both pedals, firing all tanks. The kick of fresh flames drove his skiff toward the middeck, dragging the shredded ruins of his balloon behind him.
He watched men dash across the deck, running to either side.
The prow of his raft shattered through the portside rail and crashed between two giant ballista. The skiff’s keel skidded across the deck, sending the craft spinning like a flat rock across still waters.
Graylin hugged the wheel to hold in place.
Then the careening sailraft struck broadside into a giant draft-iron cable on the starboard side with a resounding clang. The skiff slammed to a stop, splintering in half. The impact threw Graylin from his seat. His head cracked hard into the hull, dazzling his eyes. He tried to stand, only to fall woozily to a knee.
Beyond the open stern, a wall of men raced toward him.
He fought upward again. This time, he yanked out his sword, determined to fight to his last breath.
For Nyx …
He lifted the silvery length of Heartsthorn—only to have the world spin. His legs wove drunkenly under him. He raised his blade and swung it down. It was all he could manage in that moment. He hoped it was enough. He then crashed backward into the raft’s seat. He tried to prop himself up, but the world went dark.
44
KANTHE KEPT THEIR group moving through the panicked chaos of Havensfayre. Wagons thundered down streets. Men on horseback whipped anyone in their way. Most of the crowd were simply townspeople carrying their lives on their backs. Many more cowered behind shuttered windows.
Bells clanged all around, cutting through the shouts and bellows.
Their group would have had difficulty wading against that tide, except for the large wet beast leading their way. Aamon’s hackles shivered in a tall threatening ridge. His muzzle was fixed in a rippling snarl, baring white fangs. The seas parted before his menacing growl, allowing them passage through the town.
“Where do we go?” Jace asked, voicing the question plaguing them all.
Frell glanced behind them. “We should settle that before long. Especially now that we’re safely into the depths of this town.”
Kanthe frowned at him. “We’re far from safe here.”
Moments ago, they had all heard the boom of cannon fire. They did not know what that portended, but the bombardment had pushed them harder. By now, smoke choked the air, darkening the mists. All around, flames glowed off in the distance, except to the east, toward the mooring fields. That was the direction most of the townspeople were fleeing, but Kanthe knew there was no safe passage that way. One or both of the warships would soon commandeer those fields.
“Then what do we do?” Jace asked again, gripping his new ax with both hands, sticking protectively close to Nyx.
Kanthe huffed, tired of just running. “Over here.”
He drew them all under the eaves of an abandoned shop, letting the crush of people sweep past them. He got them all huddled together, while Aamon guarded their privacy. All eyes were upon him.
Kanthe laid out their situation. “Knowing Haddan, once he has this place locked up, the legion will search the town, section by section, burning everything behind them to ensure nothing was missed. Afterward, if they don’t find us, they’ll sift those ashes.”
Jace’s eyes were huge platters. “Then where do we go? Where can we hide?”
Kanthe pointed ahead. “The Golden Bough.”
“Back to the inn? Why there?” Frell asked. “It seems a risky choice. I paid gold for silence when we were last there, but I fear such largesse will not extend if the entire town is burning.”
Kanthe laid out his points as quickly as he could. “We’re not renting rooms there, Frell. We sneak in and head straight down into the wine cellars.”
“The wine cellars?” Jace asked with a wrinkled brow.
“I checked the place out when you were all droning on and on about plans last night, plans that are plainly dashed. Where else would the drunken Tallywag of Highmount go to while away the night?”
Frell frowned at him, as if sensing his lie.
In fact, he had not gone down there to sample those dusty bottles. Instead, he went to canvass for a place to retreat to if the inn were attacked. After all that had happened, he saw enemies in every shadow now. Such fears had kept him sober and unable to sleep.
“The cellars are buried under the roots of the inn’s giant tree. It’s a maze down there. Not only does it delve deep, which could protect us from any flames that might be burning above, but there is a score of ways to slip out. A young fetcher in the red cap of the inn showed me two exits and pointed out several others. All for the cost of three brass pinches. A fee I’m now happy to have paid.”
Frell studied him for a breath, then nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”
Kanthe grabbed the alchymist before the man could turn away. “Plus, there is all that wine down there. We can’t discount the value of getting good and soused if worse comes to worst.”
Frell shook loose with a roll of his eyes and pushed Kanthe back toward the clamor of the crowds. “Let’s go.”
They set off again, only pausing here and there to nab someone and demand directions. Aamon encouraged their cooperation amidst the panic.
Finally, the gilded sign of the Golden Bough appeared. The sprawl hardly looked all that different than before. Several of the glowing windows in the giant trunk had gone dark, but the huge doors into the commons remained open. Jolly music flowed out, along with the usual bellows and bouts of laughter.
Though to Kanthe’s experienced ear, it all sounded far more drunken. Apparently, there were those who were already heeding his earlier advice.
To get good and soused as the world burned.
He led the others gallantly toward those people who shared his spirit—until a growl rose behind him.
He turned to find Nyx staring off into the smoky mists of the town. Her hand rested on Aamon’s side, which vibrated with tension. The vargr’s narrow eyes were fixed in the same direction. Both his ears stood stiff and tall, their bells pointing there, too.
Nyx cocked her head, as if listening to a song only she could hear.
Jace shifted closer. “What’s wrong?”
She answered without looking at her friend. “Something’s coming.”
* * *
GRAYLIN WOKE BACK into a world of panicked shouting, accompanied by thunderous blasts that nearly sent him back into oblivion. He fought against passing out. His head ached with every heartbeat. He used each throb to steady himself. Still, his vision was like looking up from a well. The noise was muffled by a roaring in his ears.
He grabbed the neighboring seatback and pulled himself up. Somehow he had kept his grip on his sword. He hauled Heartsthorn around. He finally understood why he was still alive, still free.
Before succumbing a few breaths ago, he had committed the only act he could. He had slashed at the stanchion rope that held the row of barrels atop the nearest sloped track. The casks, full of alchymical fire, had rolled across the deck, each fuse igniting as it brushed past a wheel of flint at the track’s end.
As he gained his feet, he watched a barrel with a longer fuse explode in a wash of fire, cracking the planks under it. Other pools of flaming oil already dotted the deck. Black smoke choked the ship, trapped under the expanse of the balloon. Deckhands fought the fires with pails of sand, while knights in light armor regrouped for an assault on the crippled sailraft.
Graylin knew he had only another moment before they would charge. Especially as a pair of giant Mongers joined the legionnaires, hefting huge iron hammers.
Knowing he dared not be trapped inside the broken raft, he stepped forward and slashed the rope securing the second rail of barrels. As the casks rolled away, sparking their fuses, Graylin followed after them. He stopped only long enough to lodge his dagger into the end of the track, trapping the last three barrels in place, with the foremost one’s fuse sparking. With no more time, he leaped out of the raft and rushed along the wake of the bouncing, bobbling barrels.
The knights ahead fled to either side with fresh cries of alarm.
Unfortunately, the Gyn held their ground and used their hammers to knock barrels away, sending them flying over the rails. The pair then came at him with a roar of fury.
One bashed at the last rolling barrel, only to have it explode on impact. His huge body was blasted high, covered in flaming oil.
The other Gyn reached Graylin and swung at him. Expecting such an attack, he dodged under the hammer and spun away—straight toward a cluster of knights who had their swords lifted at him.
He skidded to a stop to avoid impaling himself.
Thwarted from an easy kill, they lunged at him, but he danced back while a count ran down in his head. When that number reached zero, he leaped sideways and sprawled headlong across the deck.
