Chapter 33
33
“H OW ?” R HAIF ASKED as he was marched at knifepoint down the Pony ’s central corridor toward his cabin. That one word held a number of questions: How could Llyra be here? How had she found him? What was her plan for them all?
Llyra kept behind him, keeping the point of her dagger at his left kidney. She had forced him out of the commons after collecting his basket of warm cheese and bread, which she carried in the crook of her left arm. She clearly didn’t want him attempting to use the basket as a weapon.
As he continued down the passageway, a stream of blood ran down his back and along the crack of his arse cheeks.
“How did you find us?” he asked, settling on this one question among the many rattling in his head. The last time he had seen the guildmaster she had been manning the blockade at the edge of the Boils.
“I nearly did not, not until the last moment,” she said with an irritating level of calmness. “Over the years, I had forgotten how shrewd and slippery you could be.”
“Years I lost because you betrayed me to Archsheriff Laach.”
She shrugged, dragging the blade higher, slicing deeper. “Such a betrayal served to further ingratiate me with Laach, a relationship that has served the guild well over the past two years.”
“Ah, then I should be grateful I was so helpful,” Rhaif said, almost respecting her ruthless practicality. He half glanced back at her. “But you still haven’t told me how you ended up here.”
“Back at the Boils, word reached me about a clutch of Klasheans leaving a whoremonger’s house, a place that backed against the one I torched. Only then did I recall a dark face hidden next to yours when I ran into you at Anvil’s gaols. I was so startled at the time I failed to add weight to that circumstance.”
Rhaif pictured both Pratik’s countenance and the flames dancing across the rooftops as they fled to the streets.
“Unfortunately, that word reached me too late, especially as a certain carriage had already slipped past my barricade. I only had time to mount a swift horse and dash after you. Gauging the time of night, I estimated you were trying to reach a wyndship. To stop you, I dashed headlong up Jagg’d Road toward Eyr Rigg.”
Rhaif remembered how long it had taken their carriage to climb that path’s switchbacks. Other horses had indeed swept past their foundering carriage, carrying lone couriers or late passengers.
One of them must have been Llyra.
“I ended up boarding the wyndship bearing the Klashean Arms, mistaking that for your destination.” The dagger point dug deeper. “From that ship, I watched a group of robed figures rush from a carriage and aim for a craft bearing the curled horns of Aglerolarpok. I cursed you so loudly that I’m surprised you didn’t hear me. Still, I disembarked and made it aboard here just before the mooring lines were tossed. And lucky I did.”
Rhaif pushed down the rise of guilt at the fiery destruction of the other ship. But it seemed more lives were to be laid at his feet.
“To search this ship unseen,” Llyra said, “I heeded your guidance. I followed a trio of Klasheans, broke into their room, and quickly dispatched them. I then borrowed a byor-ga to keep hidden.”
Rhaif briefly closed his eyes, wondering how much bloodier his hands could get. “And this unscheduled landing at Azantiia?”
“I sent a ship’s skrycrow diving toward the city last night, letting them know who was aboard. Word returned this morning, ordering the craft to land and prepare to be searched.” Llyra shifted closer. “And until that happens, I intend to make sure you stay put and never leave my sight.”
Rhaif had reached his cabin, recognizing he was defeated. But he held out one hope, and it lay beyond his door. He keyed it open and let Llyra shove him through. As she shadowed him inside, she kept hold of the neck of his robe and the blade at his back.
Pratik took a step toward him, his face lined with worry—then away again when he spotted the fully draped figure accompanying him. “What is this?” he asked, repeating the same in Klashean, mistaking Llyra’s identity: “Byr se quaan?”
Llyra ignored him and gasped instead at the sight of the cabin’s other occupant. She stopped Rhaif a few steps past the door’s threshold.
Rhaif used her momentary shock at the naked figure of bronze to speak. “May I introduce Shiya,” he said. “Shiya, this is Llyra hy March, guildmaster of thieves.”
Pratik took another step away, now recognizing the threat standing behind Rhaif.
Shiya cocked her head toward them, blinked once, then casually turned back to the window.
So much for a bronze warrior queen rushing to my rescue.
Outside, the ship tilted enough to bring the approaching mooring fields into view.
Llyra never loosened her grip on his collar. She rapidly collected herself. “Amazing. I had no idea the breadth of this wonder,” she muttered. “I see now why you stole it.”
Rhaif heard the avarice in her words and tried to bend it to his advantage. “It’s worth a king’s ransom. A ransom even more valuable if we split such a bounty two ways.” Pratik frowned at him, so he corrected himself. “Or even three ways.”
Llyra remained quiet, contemplating his suggestion, surely weighing her options. She could kill them all and try to abscond with the treasure on her own. But she had already overplayed her hand by alerting Azantiia. For any hope of stealing this prize, she would need their help. She could always dispatch them later. Of course, the easiest and safest choice would be to stick to her current plan and hand the prize over to the legions in Azantiia, where she would collect some meager reward for her service.
Rhaif glanced over his shoulder, trying to fathom what her decision would be.
She studied the bronze treasure. He knew it was one thing to passively formulate a strategy of accommodation when the prize was not standing right in front of you. But Shiya now blazed in the sunlight, a torch shining with the promise of riches without end.
Llyra’s stance firmed. “No…”
Rhaif wasn’t sure what she was negating. Still, the dagger had not plunged into his kidney. Her gaze flicked toward him, as if to explain further—then the world exploded below them.
They all swung toward the windows, though the knife never left his side.
Across the mooring fields, wyndships burst with great fiery eruptions. Shredded balloons flapped amidst flames and smoke. Neighbors ignited neighbors. The Pony reared from its approach, rolling away from the carnage.
As it turned, Rhaif spotted a lone swyftship darting through the fiery field, spitting tinier flames to maneuver. It looked like a mouse trying to escape a burning house. Only it wasn’t trying to flee. Tiny dark casks rolled out its stern and burst into flame. One barrel struck another moored wyndship, and a moment later, its balloon ruptured with a gust of fire. And still the swyftship sped across the field, sowing destruction in its wake.
Rhaif noted two details.
The tiny black flag flapping behind the craft carried the crossed swords of the Klashean Arms. He understood.
Here is the empire’s retaliation for what happened in Anvil.
He glanced to Llyra. Other skrycrows—like the one she had sent—must have already been dispatched from the ship last night and spread word throughout the city about the death and destruction in Anvil, reaching the ears of Klashean saboteurs imbedded in Azantiia.
He turned back, focusing on the other detail of the swyftship. Its path, crooked though it may be, aimed to the northeast, toward the fortified corner of the fields where the great warships were moored. Their mighty balloons, adorned with the sun and crown of Hálendii, loomed over the destruction, ripe targets for the attacking ship.
It sped toward them, but Rhaif knew such an effort was futile.
As the tiny craft raced toward the moored warships, a flurry of fiery spears shot from a row of ballistas, giant crossbows positioned across the field’s edge. The long bolts traced the air with flame and smoke. One steel point struck the Klashean swyftship and shattered it into splinters. Another ripped flames through its balloon, bursting it to ruin. The wreckage flew a quarter league onward before crashing to the ground in a skid of fire, never getting close to the berths of the colossal warships.
But the damage was done.
Half the city’s mooring fields burned, swathed in smoke.
Sadly, that was not the only harm.
Pratik tumbled back from the window as one of the ballistas’ fiery spears shot past him. It struck the Pony ’s balloon hard enough to shake the entire ship. They all looked up, waited a breath, then heard a muffled boom.
A ball of flame shot into view high above, rolling away into a wash of smoke.
The Pony canted to the side, spinning away from the fiery ruins blow, revealing a brief glimpse of the Bay of Promise—then tipped toward a crash.
As they were thrown forward across the cabin, Rhaif accepted his fate.
The destruction I wrought in Anvil has finally caught up with me.
He remembered a lesson taught to him once by his mother: Right your wrongs before they rightly wrong you.
I should’ve listened better.
The next lesson was not as eloquent.
Llyra grabbed him and shoved him toward the door. “Move your arse!”
P RATIK UNDERSTOOD THE woman’s order. He had flown enough wyndships to know her intent. She voiced it aloud.
“Make for the sailrafts.”
Pratik also understood her urgency. Time was limited to make their es cape. The small rafts were routinely used to ferry passengers or goods back and forth to the ground from the air, but they also doubled as a means of exodus in a foundering ship. He also knew the number of such skiffs was typically too few for everyone on board. Worse, the skiffs were all secured at the stern, across the breadth of the ship from here.
Rhaif ignored the guildmaster and called across the cabin, “Shiya, to me!”
Pratik turned, too. The bronze woman held her place at the window, her legs braced wide, one hand clamped to the window’s edge. She swung her gaze to Rhaif. The thief was the only one she truly heeded.
Still, Pratik reached and took her other hand. Her palm burned in his. The hues of her skin roiled with anxiety. He tried to tug her along with him, but she slowly turned back to face to the east, inexorably pulled in that direction.
Llyra cursed sharply, turned, and fled out the door. She abandoned them, plainly deciding her life was more valuable than any treasure. With the door left open, people fled past their cabin, bellowing, many only half-dressed. They all rushed toward the stern as the ship’s bow tilted more steeply.
Rhaif dashed over to the bronze woman. “Shiya, we must go. You may survive a crash, but we will not.”
She ignored him, continuing to stare toward the cliffs of Landfall.
Pratik still had hold of her hand. “Come with us now,” he urged. “I will take you where you want to go. This I swear.”
She turned to him. Her fingers tightened on Pratik’s fingers, as if silently holding him to his pledge.
“I will do all I can,” he promised.
She finally moved along with him as he headed toward the door.
Rhaif kept to her other side. “We must get to the last sailraft before it’s gone.” When they reached the hall, it was empty of people, just littered with abandoned cases, some spilled open, one shining with a splash of jewels. Rhaif pointed to the stern. “Shiya, get us to the stern of the ship.”
She gave a small nod and led the way, at first slowly, then gaining speed. He and Rhaif gave chase. The floor continued to tilt upward as cables groaned and the ship shuddered, throwing them side to side as they ran. Still, with the passageway empty, they quickly reached the commons at midship.
Unfortunately, a crush of people blocked the far side, bottlenecked in panic at the exit to the stern half of the Pony. Without slowing, Shiya bowled into them. She grabbed people by arm or nape and tossed them aside like stuffed dolls. It took an extra breath for the crowd to realize what attacked them: a towering naked bronze woman, fueled by the fires of the Father Above, her eyes blazing like furnaces. Screams of terror spread, sending people scrambling away, clearing the path.
She elbowed through to the far passageway. They followed in her wake, only to find the corridor ahead crammed tightly with passengers and crew. But those earlier screams had already drawn attention their way. The throng surged from the burning goddess among them. Some tried to climb over others. Most dove into cabins that were abandoned and left open to either side.
Shiya continued her charge through those that remained, leaving many broken and wailing behind her—which only encouraged those still ahead to desert the hallway.
Finally, they broke through to the stern hold. Screams and cries echoed across the cavernous space, piled to the rafters with roped crates and barrels. Several stacks had snapped their bindings and toppled, creating a broken landscape. Confounding the chaos, smoke choked the space, flowing in from the open doors at the back.
They fought toward the brightness. The stern deck had been cranked open to the skies. Flames and shredded flaps of balloon filled the skies outside. By now, the back of the Pony had been shoved up into the ruins of the airbag above as the bow sank. Another boom shook the ship and the Pony fell faster. The flames and scraps of the balloon momentarily whooshed higher, exposing the open sky.
Everyone lost their footing—except for Shiya.
“There!” Rhaif hollered, and pointed toward the open deck.
Shiya understood. She snatched Pratik and Rhaif by their arms and half dragged, half carried them up the last of the tilted deck. They reached the draft-iron stanchions, aligned across the opening, where the ship’s sailrafts were normally berthed.
Only two of the six were left.
One of the rafts took advantage of the opening and shot out the back of the ship, propelled by the same mechanism as the giant crossbows below. The small raft, which looked like an enclosed skiff, arced high into the sky—then a small balloon burst forth from a dome on top, catching the raft before it plummeted like a stone into the sea far below. Tiny jets of alchymical fire spat out its stern, guiding the craft away from the burning Pony.
Shiya aimed them toward the last skiff. Its stern door was still open. A few stragglers rose from among those sprawled on the floor. One tried to crawl into the sailraft, only to fall back, clutching his neck. He toppled to the side, revealing a hiltless blade impaled in his throat.
Pratik saw now that those draped on the ground behind that raft weren’t dazed.
They were dead.
A shout rose from inside. “’Bout time you got here!”
Shiya hauled them close enough to reveal Llyra crouched in the empty hold of the raft. She carried a short bloody sword in one hand and a silver throwing knife in the other. She hadn’t abandoned them, only fled in advance to secure one of the sailrafts and hold it for them at the point of her sword.
“In here now,” she ordered.
Shiya tossed them into the hold and followed inside. The only other occupant was a blue-liveried crewman, seated at the raft’s wheel and pedals. He gaped in horror at what had just boarded his craft.
As soon as they were all inside, Llyra pointed her dagger at him. “Go or die.”
Rhaif swung toward the pack of desperate people behind the raft. A few carried children on their shoulders. “Wait. We can take—”
The raft jerked forward hard, nearly throwing them out the stern door. Pratik managed to grab hold of a hanging loop of leather. Still, he lost his legs and hung breathlessly for a spell. Shiya had snatched Rhaif by the collar to keep him inside.
The skiff sailed high into the air, then tipped its nose downward.
Pratik still had not breathed—not until he heard a blast above. The balloon unfurled, snapped taut, and caught the plunging craft. Pratik’s weight slammed him firmly to the deck. He coughed with relief.
Through the open door, he watched the Pony plummet away from them, its balloon trailing smoke through the air. It finally crashed into the sea with a great flume of water. The flaming ruins of the balloon followed and draped across the waves, where it continued to burn.
Grateful to have survived, Pratik turned to Rhaif. The thief’s face was red with fury, directing his anger at Llyra, who had sheathed her sword but kept her knife in hand.
“We could’ve saved a dozen more,” he said savagely, waving a hand back at the ruins of the Pony.
“Maybe, but I had to account for the weight of your bronze treasure.” Llyra cast an appraising glance toward Shiya. “Her heft alone is surely that of several men.”
Regrettably, Pratik recognized she was right. The raft’s drover fought his wheel and worked his pedals, his brow pebbled with sweat. Even with just the four of them aboard, Shiya’s weight was clearly a problem. Viewed through the thin window in front, the skiff was slowly sinking toward the seas below. The drover pulled a lever near his knee and flames spat out the back, just under the open door behind them.
Pratik retreated from that alchymical fire.
“We’re not going to make it back to the coast,” the drover concluded with a grimace as he fought to slow their descent.
Pratik searched the seas. The crashing dive of the Pony had taken the wyndship well over the Bay of Promise. Worse, their escape had shot their tiny skiff even farther out to sea.
The drover used his maneuvering flame to turn them toward the distant coastline. Still, the raft sank lower toward the sea.
“We’re too heavy,” the drover warned.
“What did I tell you?” Llyra drew Pratik’s attention back. She had her sword out again, pointed at them. Its tip swung between him and Rhaif. “Looks like we must lighten our load.”