05 Dragon Blood: The Blade's Memory

by Lindsay Buroker

  Chapter 13

  Aware of the goons watching, Ridge climbed slowly out of his cockpit. Normally, he would have a pistol and a dagger as part of his flight uniform, but Therrik had been too busy shoving him against the bars to offer the use of a weapon for this adventure. Ridge might be able to come out on top in a physical fight with one of the big men, but both watched him carefully, the butts of their loaded rifles resting on the ground next to them. Those rifles were Mark 500s, the type of sniper firearm Lieutenant Ahn favored. Ridge hoped that didn’t mean these men were acolytes of her father, but he wouldn’t be surprised to find that Ahnsung was tied in with the kidnapping somehow.

  “Either of you fellows have a wrench? Any mechanical skills? Got a small problem.” Ridge waved in the direction of the explosion, hoping they had seen it. If he was lucky, they might believe the aerial skirmish had brought him to this island rather than a search for the king.

  The men exchanged glances, then looked back at him without responding. Ah, a friendly group of kidnappers.

  He patted the side of his flier. “No wrenches? No beer, either, I suppose?”

  “Early in the day for drinking,” one finally said. His voice was rough, as if he had been punched in the throat a few times in his life, as well as in his nose.

  “It’s never too early in the day for a drink, especially if you’ve been shot at recently.” And if you’ve been up all night, Ridge added silently. He scratched his jaw and pretended to look at the men for the first time, then he squinted up at the lighthouse. “You two the keepers here? You sure you don’t have any tools? I took some damage when that other flier blew up. Need to check the thrusters. You probably noticed that wasn’t the smoothest landing you’ve seen.”

  They looked at each other again. Maybe they shared a brain. Ridge kept his stance easy and offered an amiable smile whenever they glanced in his direction.

  “No tools,” the broken-nosed speaker finally said. “Fix your flier and get out of here.”

  Well, at least they weren’t shooting him outright. While he watched them out of the corner of his eye, Ridge pulled his tiny toolkit out of the cockpit. Even though he knew the contents by heart, he prodded at them, thinking in terms of finding something that would help him overcome those two. There wasn’t much, neither for tackling enemies nor for fixing the flier. The lightweight pliers, screwdriver, and wrench were about useful enough to pull a splinter out of the hull if necessary. He squeezed some patch tar out of its tube and rubbed it between his fingers. In theory, one could use it to plug a leak for the duration of a short flight.

  He walked around the flier, checking out the thrusters and inspecting the rest of the fuselage while he stole glances at the men. They hadn’t gone back inside. They had walked over to the rocks to talk to each other, but they were definitely keeping an eye on him.

  With the waves crashing below them, Ridge couldn’t hear many of their words, but he caught his name. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard the words “kill him” come out too. He hoped the entire sentence was, “He’s the brave and noble Colonel Zirkander, so we can’t kill him,” but he wasn’t going to bet on it.

  Ridge hammered at the dented thruster housing while formulating a plan not to be killed. The only way he would have the advantage would be from the air. If he could keep those two from running back into the lighthouse, he should be able to shoot them down before they shot him. Maybe. He would definitely have better odds on that than on trying to overpower them from the ground, especially when he did not have a weapon. The problem would be keeping the men from running inside to the safety of the lighthouse. It was built from stone, and his bullets wouldn’t do much to damage the sturdy walls. Another problem was that they hadn’t actually done anything to him yet. Even though he was ninety-nine percent certain they had been placed here to guard the king, Ridge did not have proof of that. It would be nice if Angulus would pop his head out the door. Ridge wished he had Sardelle along to sense through the walls. He would even settle for her snarky sword.

  Ridge pulled a few pieces of shrapnel out of his wings and decided that was all he could manage from here. The thrusters did not play a role once he was in the air, and he could manage another lopsided landing if he had to. He rubbed the patch tar he hadn’t used, his body heat keeping it from hardening. A thought popped into his mind. Perhaps he might patch something else on this island.

  Without asking permission, Ridge ambled toward the lighthouse door. He forced himself not to run or hurry, though he worried they wouldn’t let him get close enough for his plan.

  Sure enough, Broken Nose called out, “Where are you going? I told you, there aren’t any tools in there.”

  “Need to use the lav,” Ridge said without slowing down, even though sweat was trickling down his spine. Both of those rifles swung in his direction. “You’ve got one of those in there, don’t you?”

  “It’s not for visitors. Use a rock.” The man jerked his rifle toward the jagged black boulders that comprised most of the island.

  “I’ve got to do more than piss.” The door was only five steps away now. “It’ll just take a minute, then I’ll head out.” Three steps. Two.

  “Stop right there.” Both men jerked their rifles to the crooks of their shoulders and sighted along the barrels.

  Ridge halted, one step from the door. “Easy boys.” He turned slowly toward them, his hands up. He kept his left fingers curled enough to hide the goo on his palm—and to keep it warm with his body heat, so it wouldn’t harden, not yet.

  “You’ll go now.”

  “You’re sure I can’t…” Ridge tilted his head toward the door.

  “No.”

  Ridge sighed and lowered his hands. “Look, I’ll pay not to use the rocks.” He dug in his pocket with one hand and, holding his breath, stuck his other hand out and leaned against the door, flattening the patch tar to one of the hinges.

  He had barely touched the metal when a shot rang out. He jumped and skittered backward. Belatedly, he realized it had been a warning shot, the bullet burrowing into the ground at his feet. Both muzzles were pointed at his chest now, so he didn’t try to approach the door again.

  “Let’s kill him,” the heretofore silent one said. Ridge had liked it more when the man hadn’t been speaking.

  “It’s gods-blighted Zirkander, you idiot. We can’t shoot him.”

  “I can.” Silent grinned unwholesomely.

  Ridge hadn’t managed to cover the hinge with as much of the patch tar as he had hoped to, but at least it was sticking. Hands spread, he stepped away from the building. “All right, I’ll go.”

  The pair of muzzles followed him as he crossed the small lawn back to his flier. This time, he didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t rushing. When he reached the craft, he couldn’t pull himself into the cockpit quickly enough. He fired it up, relieved when the propeller and both thrusters roared to life, the crystal glowing intensely from its casing as it poured magical power into both components of the craft. There wouldn’t have been room for a typical wheeled takeoff.

  From the higher position, he knew all of his actions wouldn’t be visible to the men on the ground, so he slumped down slightly and peered up at the top of the lighthouse, toward the windows in the lantern room. He wasn’t truly expecting to see anyone, but his heart lurched up into his throat. The familiar broad features of King Angulus looked down at him through the glass. Angulus didn’t wave—it looked like his arms were pulled behind his back—but he was standing up and definitely alive.

  A surge of certainty filled Ridge, the belief that his plan was right. He took off, staying low in the cockpit so the goons wouldn’t be able to target him easily. Unfortunately, the flier wasn’t impenetrable to bullets, so he could be shot through the lightweight hull, but this was a risk he had to take. Being in the air bolstered his confidence somewhat, as did the fact that he had machine guns, versus their pump-action rifles. They shouldn’t have more than ten shots each.


  “Not that ten shots couldn’t kill a man,” Ridge muttered as he rose.

  He soared toward the clouds, pretending he meant to fly off, that the guards would never see him again. He glanced back and spotted them lowering their rifles and walking toward the door. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out how to pry off the patch tar, so he had to discombobulate them before they did. Besides, they would have less cover out in the open.

  Ridge banked, the sky tilting, then the ocean and the island filling his vision again. Even though he had shot countless enemies during his career, his heart hammered with dread and fear at the idea of shooting people on the ground, Iskandian people. But they had chosen their fate. He had to harden himself to that.

  First, he rubbed his dragon figurine for luck. Then, like death itself, he swooped down, thumb on the trigger. The men realized what was happening immediately. One sprinted for the door, while the other dropped to one knee to shoot. Ridge slumped as low as he could while still being able to see his targets. He aimed for the shooter first, unleashing a round of ammunition.

  A bullet slammed through his windshield, passing so close to his head that he nearly lost his cap. Hells, maybe these were some of Ahnsung’s people. He zigzagged in the sky, trying to make himself a more difficult target while he continued inexorably downward. He kept firing, twin streams of bullets hammering the ground as he sought the plane he needed, the angle that would allow him to hit the men. But they were sprinting around now, doing a good job of avoiding his run, and there was no way to pivot the guns without turning the craft.

  Another bullet slammed into the hull under the cockpit. He had no idea if it made it through, but imagined it wedged into his seat cushion.

  One of the men shouted. He was pulling at the door latch. Ridge allowed himself a grim smile. Maybe that would teach him the folly of denying a man use of the toilet.

  The men stopped firing as his flier neared the ground. Ridge wobbled the wings, hoping they would think he had been shot and was out of control. Indeed, they must have believed the flier would crash right into them. They abandoned their rifles and raced for the rocks overlooking the churning water. He peppered the ground with bullets before pulling up at the last second, the grass stirring from the wind the flier created.

  He rose quickly, gaining altitude, then turned so he could make another run. The men were scrambling down the rocks. One leaped into the water. Ridge angled downward again, speeding straight toward them. The second one shook his fist and yelled obscenities that Ridge could not hear over the wind blasting past his ears. Fists and obscenities were far less worrisome than bullets. Ridge fired again, his rounds slamming into the rocks all around the man. He leaped from his perch, splashing into the water. Both men disappeared under the surface.

  Ridge swooped past the island again, giving the all-is-right hand signal to the lighthouse windows. This time he didn’t see the king. Was there someone else inside guarding him? Someone who had yanked him into some room after seeing his comrades assaulted? Ridge would have to prepare himself for another fight when he landed, but he made another pass before heading back to the lawn. He spotted the guards swimming toward the distant shore. Judging by the uneven strokes, neither was a natural, and one must have been hit, because he was paddling with one arm. Ridge couldn’t muster any sympathy for them, not when they had been holding the king hostage.

  After making sure they were heading away from the island, he brought his flier down again. He hopped out before the propeller had stopped spinning and raced to the dropped rifles. He would go in armed this time.

  With one of the rifles slung across his back and the other in his hands, ready to fire, he ran to the door. He was about to pull out his knife to pry free the patch tar when the door flew open so forcefully that it was like an elephant had kicked it.

  Half expecting an army, Ridge aimed the rifle and wished he had some cover to hide behind. The grass swaying at his calves would not do much to stop bullets.

  But only a single unarmed figure strode out of the lighthouse. Iron shackles hugged the king’s wrists, though the chain that should have bound them together had been broken, the ends dangling. His usually short and tidy hair had grown shaggy, and a few weeks’ worth of beard had sprouted on his usually clean-shaven jaw. Though unwashed, he did not appear gaunt or injured, aside from some bruises on the knuckles on his right hand.

  “I’d hug you if you weren’t aiming a gun at my chest,” Angulus said.

  Ridge hastily lowered the weapon and snapped up a salute. “It’s just as well, Sire. I think there may be a rule about soldiers hugging kings. Impropriety and all.”

  “I think that’s only if the soldier is doing the hugging.”

  “Oh? If I were a king, I wouldn’t mind hugs, especially from female soldiers.”

  Had General Ort been there, he would have kicked Ridge under the table—or under the grass—and warned him not to be so familiar—or lippy—with their liege. But Angulus didn’t seem offended.

  “I bet.” The king looked toward the waves breaking to the north. “That was a Cofah flier?”

  He had seen the battle? Ridge held back a grimace. He would have preferred not to have witnesses for his nosedive into an explosion. “An unmanned one powered by dragon blood, yes, Sire. It had a camera.”

  Angulus’s jaw clenched. He scanned the gray sky, as if more fliers might sail out of the clouds at any moment. “You came here alone?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Is the rest of your squadron defending the city? I assume there are more Cofah out there.”

  “Ah, it’s not my squadron at the moment. Why don’t you climb in, Sire? I’ll tell you what’s been going on while we head back.”

  Angulus sighed. “I’m not going to like this story, am I?”

  “I didn’t when I got back from the Cofahre mission. Perhaps you’ll be a less discerning audience.”

  “That the mission where you misplaced your commanding officer?”

  Ridge had hoped the king might have forgotten that detail. “Uhm, yes, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Such as that you didn’t like Colonel Therrik?”

  “Such as that Colonel Therrik is an ass.” Ridge almost felt guilty saying that when Therrik had been the one to let him out of jail. The ease with which he had escaped the base suggested that it hadn’t been a trap, as hard as that was to believe.

  “But a loyal ass,” Angulus said.

  “I’ve… come to realize that, Sire. Do you, ah, know who kidnapped you, by chance?”

  The creases at the corners of Angulus’s eyes deepened. “My wife,” he said tightly. “She didn’t approve of the heinous outbreak of witches in the city. Her words.”

  “Witches? Sardelle and… Tolemek?” Thanks to the conversation he had eavesdropped on before the Cofahre mission, Ridge knew the king was already aware of Sardelle, so he didn’t worry about mentioning her. He figured Angulus had put the pieces together on Tolemek too.

  Angulus nodded. “Yes.”

  “Tolemek may be even more offended than Sardelle at being called a witch. Witches are girls, aren’t they? I admit I’m still a neophyte when it comes to magic.”

  Angulus slanted him a look the Ridge could not read. “My wife even suggested that you might be a witch.”

  “I’ve been told I don’t have a drop of dragon blood in my veins. But either way, I’d prefer to be considered a wizard. Or a warlock. Something with manly connotations. Or male ones at least.”

  Angulus sighed. “My willingness to use Tolemek may be what really riled the queen up, but your woman’s presence in the city got her antsy too. She’s always hated any hint of magic, any hint that it might come back into the world and be more prominent. As paradoxical as that was.”

  “Oh? Why is that?” Ridge stopped below the cockpit, wondering if he should offer the king a boost up. Angulus was stocky, strong, and in his forties, so he ought to be able to handle climbing up, but it seemed like the
re might be some rule about making one’s king clamber into a flier on his own.

  Angulus jumped, caught the lip of the passenger pit, and pulled himself up easily. The flier creaked as his weight settled into it. He was a big man and never would have made the qualifications to be a pilot. With their combined weight, it would be a slow trip back.

  “It’s not widely known,” Angulus said, giving Ridge a long assessing look. Wondering if he could share some secret with a mouthy pilot?

  Ridge could keep secrets, but he didn’t want to be seen as nosy or pry into something he shouldn’t know, so he pulled himself into the cockpit and belted himself in. He spotted the two guards sitting on a wet rock about a quarter mile from the island. It might have been his imagination, since it was hard to see details at that distance, but he thought one was pointing at a black triangular fin cutting through the water. He hoped so. Those two deserved sharks.

  “Her mother was a witch,” Angulus said after such a long pause that Ridge had given up the conversation as finished.

  “What?” He twisted in his seat.

  “She thinks I don’t know. Her mother knew potions and had a few magical tricks, nothing like your Sardelle, I don’t think, but enough.”

  “Sardelle is from another time,” Ridge said, though discussing her with the king made him uncomfortable. Even if he had originally mentioned her name, he still had a sense that he should do his best to keep people from knowing what she was. Still, if anyone could make it acceptable for her to stay in the city—to stay with him—Angulus would be the person.

  “Yes, I read Captain Heriton’s report. Anyway, Nia’s mother used her skills to convince my first wife to commit suicide. You remember that?”

  “I remember the suicide, Sire, that the papers said she walked off one of the castle towers and fell to her death. It was almost twenty-five years ago, wasn’t it?” Ridge had been fifteen then, and Angulus wouldn’t have been much older. Nineteen? Twenty? He had been prince at the time, his own father still alive and ruling; Ridge remembered that.