Chapter 57
57
K ANTHE HELD HIS palms toward his brother. “Mikaen, please, you must listen.”
His brother ignored him and headed across the flat stone roof. Mikaen’s face showed no fear, no compassion, only malice. Each step seemed to shine his armor brighter.
Mikaen was followed by the huge Vyrllian Guard, a true crimson mountain.
Kanthe glanced back over his shoulder. Past the roof’s edge, the Monger still waited below. The giant carried a battle-ax in his rocky fists. More knights gathered down there, too. Beyond them, the black dagger of a hunterskiff hovered in a pall of smoke.
Kanthe returned his full attention on his twin. “You know I am no threat to the king or to your future reign. Surely you can’t believe that I aspire for the throne.”
Mikaen stopped with a shrug. “Maybe not now, but there’s no telling later. It’s better for the kingdom that any possibility of a challenge be eliminated. Why else did I go against our father’s wishes and plot your assassination?”
Kanthe went cold with his words. “What? Then the king—”
“Even now, our father wants me to bring you home. He bears an inordinate capacity of tolerance, maybe even love, for you.” Another shrug. “So, I will bring you home. Or at least, your head.”
Kanthe struggled to realign his world to his brother’s words. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, as he fought toward the truth, agonized by his own guilt for judging his father so harshly.
The king never ordered my assassination…
“I tried to have you eliminated once before, back in Azantiia, when you were carousing in the Nethers. My mistake. I should never have trusted thieves and cutthroats to accomplish such a task.”
Kanthe blinked in dismay, remembering being accosted in an alleyway after a night at the Point’d Blade. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“I now know better. Such a duty should have always been mine.” Mikaen reached over to the vy-knight. “Thoryn, your sword, please.”
The man refused with a crimson scowl.
The bright prince was not in the mood to argue. “Do so, or I’ll have the king take your head. To adorn a spike next to my brother’s.”
The Vyrllian eyed Kanthe up and down and rightly judged him to be no threat to Mikaen. The vy-knight withdrew a broadsword and passed it over. It was so heavy that it dragged his brother’s arm down. Mikaen tossed the blade toward Kanthe. It clattered over to his toes.
“Pick it up,” Mikaen ordered. “Let’s have one last game between brothers.”
Kanthe stared down. He had seldom ever touched a sword. When he had, it was in jest, certainly not with any intent to wield it. Swordsmanship was forbidden to a Prince in the Cupboard.
From the smile fixed on Mikaen’s face, his brother knew this, too. Mikaen only made this offer in malice, intending to make sport of Kanthe’s death. Or maybe he would claim later that the dark prince had attacked him, and in all his bright glory, Mikaen had to dispatch the traitor. Kanthe had to admit that it would make for a good story.
But I’ll not help you write it.
Kanthe lowered his arms. “No,” he said firmly, realizing this might be the first time in his life that he had denied Mikaen anything.
And the bright prince clearly did not like it.
Mikaen’s smile curled into a sneer. “So be it.”
His brother yanked free his own blade and stalked toward him.
Kanthe backed a step, nearly tripping off the roof. Anger flared inside him, stoking a rage that had been there his entire life. At being born second to this monster. At all the slights and insults and degradations he’d had to endure in Mikaen’s shadow, all so his brother could shine brighter.
And now here Kanthe was, being threatened by this same bastard.
He lunged and hauled the sword up with a bellow.
Swinging with both arms, Kanthe slashed at his brother. The shock of his attack momentarily dismayed Mikaen. Still, as his brother stumbled back, he knocked Kanthe’s blade away.
The vy-knight, Thoryn, came forward, but Mikaen shouted at his approach. “No! Stand back.”
Mikaen regained his stance, faced Kanthe, and lifted his sword higher in one hand. He motioned Kanthe forward with the other. “Let’s do this, brother.”
With his blood still on fire, Kanthe circled warily, still gripping the heavy sword in both fists. Mikaen lunged, passing easily through Kanthe’s attempt at a defense. The point of Mikaen’s sword plunged at his chest—only to be turned aside at the last moment and slice across Kanthe’s ribs.
A line of fire burst there.
Kanthe fell back a step. Blood welled, running down his flank in a hot river. He tried to attack, but the weight of his sword was unwieldy. Mikaen casually slapped his blade aside and, with a lightning-fast riposte, opened a new stream across Kanthe’s thigh.
Mikaen’s smile brightened. He plainly enjoyed toying with his younger brother. Clearly, Kanthe’s rage was no match against trained swordsmanship.
Kanthe tried battering wildly at his twin, hoping to force his way to the door, to perhaps make his escape back into the dark tunnels. Even this, Mikaen anticipated. He backed from Kanthe’s onslaught, letting him waste his strength. By the time Mikaen reached the door, Kanthe was gasping, barely able to lift his sword.
Mikaen flourished his blade. “I think you’ve learned who the true prince is here. I’ll make your death—”
A heavy swing of silver flashed from the doorway near Mikaen. His brother must have noted it out of the corner of an eye. He twisted and fell back—but not far enough. The edge of an ax slashed across his face, cutting deep, down to bone, from crown to chin.
Mikaen dropped his sword and clutched his face as if trying to hold it together. As he spun around, blood poured through his fingers.
Kanthe rushed toward him, reflexively concerned.
Screaming, Mikaen spun and tumbled away from the threat, knocking Kanthe aside.
Thoryn grabbed Mikaen.
Kanthe reached the doorway as Jace stepped out with his bloody ax. He was followed by Llyra, who flung an arm. A knife flashed. Thoryn twisted at the last moment and took the blade in his shoulder. Ignoring it, the Vyrllian charged with the prince and leaped over the roof’s edge.
Kanthe and the others followed.
Down below, Thoryn had landed cleanly. He shoved Mikaen at the Monger. “Get the prince into the skiff!”
Thoryn glared over at them. He swung an arm in their direction, the dagger still impaled in his shoulder, plainly ready to exact revenge on them. Then the man ducked and looked at the skies to his right.
Kanthe turned there, too.
From the mists, a huge shadow dropped into view. Its keel cut through the clouds. Dark barrels fell from its stern, blasting into fire below and sweeping toward the legion on the ground.
The Sparrowhawk !
Thoryn bellowed as he sprinted for the hunterskiff, “Go! Now!”
The order applied both to the legion and to the hovering craft. The skiff’s forges fired beneath it, spewing flames and smoke. It held off launching, letting as many men as possible reach the ship.
Thoryn hit the ramp and dove through.
A moment later, the hunterskiff blasted upward, nearly outrunning its own gasbag.
Kanthe pointed down. “Run for it!”
He feared the enemy might circle around for an attack. Then again, with a mortally wounded prince aboard, they might not risk it.
Still, Kanthe wasn’t taking any chances.
He leaped with the others as the Sparrowhawk swept low past them. Its stern door was already open, its bottom edge dragging through the flames.
Kanthe and the others ran for the ship, racing in its wake.
The ship slowed enough for them to reach the rattling deck. They leaped, rolled, and piled inside. Gasping, Kanthe clambered farther into the hold. He glanced back as the Sparrowhawk climbed. He remembered leaping off that same deck. It seemed another age, another prince.
He reached the deeper shadows.
A large furry shape stalked around them, panting, its tail slashing in agitation. He searched around the vargr with a frown, noting who was missing from the beast’s side.
Where’s Graylin?
“H OLD TIGHT!” D ARANT shouted from behind his daughter.
Graylin gripped the hanging leather loop with both hands. Through the small bow window, he watched the warship’s balloon filling the world ahead. Then Glace punched both pedals and hauled on her wheel. The nose of the sailraft lifted, and flashburn flames burst from behind the open stern. The craft blasted skyward, using every last bit of fuel in its forges. The raft flew up along the rise of the balloon.
The mists below offered no refuge, especially with the bulk of the damaged warship being dragged through those clouds.
That wasn’t their plan anyway.
A few stray spears were shot at them, but they fell far short. By the time the hunterskiff had chased them out of the mists, the sailraft was already high above the warship’s boat.
“Get ready!” Darant called back.
The raft’s forges coughed and died. The flames sputtered beyond the stern. The craft arced high, evened its flight, then glided forward on momentum alone. The massive balloon passed below them. Their keel nearly scraped the gasbag.
Darant rushed back and unhooked the cask of the small firebomb from the wall where it hung. Graylin grabbed the other.
“Nearly there!” Glace shouted from her seat.
Graylin turned to the open stern. Their plan did not involve tossing these last firebombs down at the warship’s gasbag. Such an attempt would do no more damage than a couple of fiery pinpricks.
Instead, Graylin hauled the dangerous cask—already strapped in a net—over his shoulder. Darant did the same with his.
“Here we go!” Glace called to them as she rolled out of her seat. She kissed her palm and slapped the wheel, then ran toward them.
The sailraft drifted to starboard, heading toward a slide down the flank of the balloon. Glace joined them at the stern door. The air remained hot out the back. Below the open door, the draft-iron rudder glowed from its recent firing.
Graylin looked past those cooling forges to the sweep of balloon under them. As the sailraft drifted, its keel scraped through shreds of flapping fabric. A huge rip in the balloon opened up below them. It was one of the sections blasted by Darant’s earlier attack. The inner skeleton of the balloon was exposed. The inside was ribbed by broken scaffolding and festooned with tangled riggings.
Darant pointed down and to the left, to where the outermost fabric of the ruptured balloon remained intact and taut. It formed a long, scooping chute into the shadowy depths. The sailraft carried them over it.
Graylin turned to Darant. “You’ve done this before?”
The pirate smiled, revealing the lie. “There’s a first time for everything.”
Darant drew the strapped cask around to his chest and hugged it with both arms—then leaped out of the stern. He dropped feetfirst through the hole in the balloon and struck the top of the fabric chute. He bounced to his rear and slid away, laughter trailing behind him.
Glace followed with a whoop, her eyes shining brightly.
They’re both as mad as witches on henbane.
Still, Graylin gripped the door’s edge, hauled his own cask around in a one-armed hug, and jumped. With the sailraft’s keel dragging across the top of the balloon, the drop was barely higher than the roof of his cabin back in the Rimewood. Still, his boots hit the slick rubberized oilskin and took his legs out from under him. He sprawled on his back and slid down the steep chute into the depths of the balloon.
Ropes and rigging swept past him. He skated under thin bridges of walkways and spans of inner supports. The lower depths were thick with shadows. He cringed, expecting to strike some obstruction and be thrown high, but the steepness leveled out near the balloon’s bottom. Sunlight from above allowed him to spot Darant helping Glace up. They stood unsteadily on the springy, taut base of the balloon.
Graylin slid up to them.
Darant smiled and pulled him to his feet. “Can’t believe that worked.”
Graylin agreed, slightly dizzy from it all.
They had come up with this plan back on the Sparrowhawk. While the hunterskiff might have believed it had chased them into the warship, the huge ship had been their intended target all along. Graylin could not risk this massive beast hauling reinforcements to the cliffs.
Muffled shouts suddenly erupted outside the balloon. Cannons fired with sharp blasts, accompanied by thrumming twangs of ballista. Graylin shared a look with Darant. They knew what was being targeted. He pictured the death spiral of the sailraft past the starboard flank of the warship. Glace had sent it purposefully down that side to draw attention and hopefully convince those aboard that the threat had been destroyed.
“Over here,” Glace whispered, and drew them forward.
They reached a corner of the balloon. Through the sun-brightened fabric, a shadow loomed beyond it.
Glace glanced back to them. “That has to be one of the draft-iron cables.”
“Only one way to find out.” Darant pulled out a dagger. He shifted in front of his daughter and stabbed into the tough fabric. It took three strikes to pierce it.
Darant peeked through the puncture, then nodded approvingly at his daughter. He then set about carving out a squarish hole, one large enough for them to pass through.
Once done, Graylin inspected his handiwork. A draft-iron cable crossed past the opening, just out of arm’s reach, but close enough. Graylin peered below. If he was properly oriented, this cable should run down to the stern quarterdeck. Not that I can see it. The boat under the balloon still dragged through the mists, masking what lay below.
Darant waved to Graylin. “We went first last time.”
Graylin scowled, secured his small cask, and jumped across the short space. He latched his arms and legs around the cable and slid down its length. He whisked into the mists and only spotted the deck at the last moment. He hit it hard, wincing at the bang of his landing. He kept low and dashed to the side. His eyes fought to adjust to the foggy gloom.
Still, no one seemed to be back here. Hopefully attention remained fo cused on the starboard side, where the sailraft had been demolished. Darant and Glace quickly joined him, landing far more deftly than him—but then again, they were both raiders of many ships.
Voices echoed through the mists, rising from the middeck. Fiery pools marked lamps down below.
Graylin pointed to the quarterdeck’s forward rail. They needed to climb down to the middeck and reach one of the hatches that led into the ship. With nods from the other two, Graylin led them to a narrow set of stairs and descended swiftly.
As he reached the middeck, he waved Darant and Glace toward a double set of doors into the ship. He kept low, guarding the others. Voices called through the mists. Shadows shifted out there.
Darant got the door open with a creak of hinges.
As a former knight, Graylin knew the layout of such warships and had sketched a rough map for the pirate, in case they got separated.
It was a good precaution.
A shout of alarm rose ahead of him. It spread to others. It seemed the legion here had adjusted to the fog far better than Graylin. A shape suddenly loomed before him, marking a giant Monger. Smaller shadows closed in on either side.
Graylin turned and shoved his cask at Glace. “Go. I’ll lead the others away.”
Darant didn’t hesitate and took off into the ship with his daughter. Praying the two hadn’t been spotted, Graylin dodged to the left and sprinted low across the middeck.
Boots pounded after him.
Then a thunderous clatter of hooves rose in front of him.
No…
Out of the mists, a huge black steed charged across his path, blocking him. Knights closed behind him, carrying torches and lamps, brightening the pool at the center of the deck. The rider dropped from his tall saddle, landed hard, and stalked forward.
Of course, the liege general had been drawn topside by the demise of the sailraft. The man had always been hands-on when it came to skirmishes.
Haddan drew closer. Not even the mists could hide the man’s scowl. “Welcome back to my ship.” He pulled his sword. “Now where did we leave off from your last visit?”