by Terry Brooks
“Keep your voice down!” she hissed.
Behind them, Gar Hatch stood in the pilot box. Pen shot him a quick look, but he didn’t seem to notice the boy. His eyes were directed forward, toward the horizon.
“You’re being unreasonable!” Pen hissed back at her. “We’re just friends!”
She started to reply, then stopped herself. Her face softened, her anger faded, and she nodded slowly. “All right, Pen. Let’s drop the matter. What right do I have to tell you how to behave, anyway? Ask my family how well behaved I’ve been. I haven’t the right to lecture you.”
He sighed wearily, looking out over the bow toward the approaching night. “I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I should just stay away from her. I know that.”
Khyber put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “But you can’t and you won’t and I don’t have the right to ask you to do so. I wouldn’t want you telling me what to do if our positions were reversed. But I worry, anyway. I don’t want you disappearing over the side of the ship one night just because you smiled at this girl once too often. Everything we’re doing depends on you. We can’t afford to lose you. Just keep that in mind when you’re thinking about how pretty she looks.”
He exhaled sharply. “You don’t have to worry about that. I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s part of the reason I like being with her. She helps me forget for a little while.”
They didn’t say anything for a long time as they looked out at the skyline, listened to the cries of the seabirds and the hum of the ship’s rigging. The western sky had gone shadowed and gray with the setting of the sun, and the first star had appeared in the north.
“Just be careful,” Khyber said finally.
He nodded, but did not answer.
The fourth day of travel dawned gray and sullen with storm clouds layered all across the northwest horizon, roiling and windswept as they bore down on the Streleheim. Pen came on deck at first light to find Gar Hatch and both Rover crewmen hard at work taking down the sails, tightening the rigging, and lashing in place or carrying below everything that might be lost in the blow. Cinnaminson was standing in the pilot box, her face lifted as if to taste the raindrops that had begun to fall.
He thought at first to go to her, then decided against it. There was no reason to do so, and it would call needless attention to his infatuation. Instead, familiar enough with what was needed to be able to help, he went to help the crewmen secure the vessel. They glanced at him doubtfully as he joined them in their work, but said nothing to discourage it. Behind him, Ahren and Khyber appeared, as well, standing in the hatchway, stopped by a wind that had begun to howl through the rigging like a banshee.
“Get below!” Gar Hatch bellowed at them. His gaze shifted to Pen. “Penderrin! Take Cinnaminson down with them, then come back on deck! We need your strong back and skilled hands, lad! This is a heavy blow we’re facing down!”
Pen dropped what he was doing and raced at once to the pilot’s box, slipping precariously on decking slick with dampness. He heard Cinnaminson shouting at him as he reached her, but her words were lost in the shrieks and howls of the wind. Shouting back that everything would be all right, he took her arm and steered her out of the pilot box and over to the hatchway, bending his head against the sudden gusts that swept into him. Again, she tried to say something, but he couldn’t make it out. Ahren was waiting to receive her, and Pen turned back at once to help the beleaguered Rovers.
“Safety lines!” Gar Hatch roared from the pilot box, where he had taken over the controls.
Pen found one coiled about a clasp on the mainmast and snapped the harness in place around his waist. The Skatelow was dropping swiftly toward the plains as Gar Hatch sought shelter. The Rover Captain had to set her down or she would be knocked out of the sky. But finding a place that would offer protection from the wind and rain was not so easy when it was impossible to see clearly for more than a dozen yards.
The sails were down by then, so the boy hurried forward to secure the anchor ropes and hatch covers. Rain began to fall in sheets, a deluge that soaked Pen in only seconds. He had not worn his weather cloak on deck, and his pants and tunic offered no protection at all. He ignored the drenching, blinking away the torrent of water that spilled out of his hair and into his eyes, fighting to reach his objective. Still descending toward the plains, a stricken bird in search of a roost, the airship was shaking from the force of the wind.
Pen had almost reached the bow when the other end of his safety harness whipped past him like a snake, shooting out through the railing and over the side. It took him a moment to realize what had happened, that it had somehow come free, and his hesitation cost him his footing as the snap of the line jerked him off his feet. He went down on his back, his hands grasping for something to hold on to as he began to slide toward the open railing, skidding on rain-slick decking, unable to stop himself. He had only a moment to wonder how the line had come loose before he was tumbling over the side.
He would have fallen to his death if he had not caught hold of one of the stanchions, and even so, the effort of stopping himself nearly dislocated his arms. He hung helplessly over the side, legs dangling and arms stretched to the breaking point. For a second, he thought he would not be able to hold on. The airship was lurching and heaving as the wind whipped at it, and it felt as if everything was about to let go.
“Penderrin!” he heard Gar Hatch scream.
He looked across the decking through the rain to where the Rover Captain stood braced in the pilot box with a coiled line gripped in both hands. Catching the boy’s eye, he gave the line a heave that sent it flying all the way forward and across the railing, not six feet from where Pen hung suspended. Working the line with both hands, Gar Hatch whipsawed it back and forth across the railing until it fell over Pen’s shoulder.
“Grab on!” the big man shouted.
The boy hesitated. There was no reason for his safety line to have come loose unless someone had released the locking pin. The man best in position to do that was the one offering to help him now. If he wanted Pen dead, all he had to do was wait for him to grab the line, then release it. Pen would be over the side and gone. Was that what Gar Hatch intended for him? Was he incensed enough about Cinnaminson to kill Pen?
The airship shuddered violently, and Gar Hatch was thrown to one side in the box. “Hurry, lad!” he cried out.
Pen released his grip on the stanchion, one hand at a time, and transferred his weight to the rope the big man had thrown him. As he hung from it, the line the only thing keeping him from tumbling away, he experienced a terrible certainty that he had made a mistake and was going to pay for it with his life.
Then Gar Hatch began to haul on the rope, and Pen felt himself being lifted back over the side of the vessel and onto the deck. In seconds, he was back aboard and flat on his stomach as he crawled toward the pilot box, his heart still in his throat.
Gar Hatch extended his hand over the side of the box and pulled him in effortlessly, dark eyes glittering. “There, now! Safe again! That was close, Penderrin! What happened to your line? Did you check to see that it was secure at the masthead before buckling in?”
Pen had to admit he had not. “No. I didn’t think there was any need.”
“Haste is a dangerous enemy aboard an airship,” the Rover Captain declared, tucking his chin into his beard. “You want to be careful how you go, especially in weather like this. Good thing I was watching out for you, lad.” His eyes narrowed. “Good thing, too, I decided you were worth the trouble of saving. Another man with another daughter might have thought otherwise. You want to remember that.” He gave Pen a none-too-gentle shove. “Down you go with the others till this is over. Better think on what I just said while you’re there.”
Pen made his way out of the pilot box and across the decking to the hatchway, a cold place opening in the pit of his stomach. Behind him, he heard the Rover Captain laugh.
Eighteen
“Safety lines
don’t come loose for no reason at all,” Khyber Elessedil whispered, poking him in the chest to emphasize her point. “They don’t get put away with one end left unattached, either.”
Outside, the wind hammered and the rain beat against the wooden hull of the Skatelow as if to collapse it to kindling.
“I thought that, too,” Pen answered, shaking his head. The cold feeling wouldn’t leave him. It had found a home, deep inside, and even being down in the companionway and out of the weather didn’t ease its chill. “But I couldn’t argue about it with him, because he was right—I hadn’t checked it.”
They were huddled together in his tiny cabin, talking in low voices and casting cautious looks at the closed door as they did so. Creaks and groans filled the silences, reminders of the precariousness of their situation. Overhead, they heard the heavy boots of the Rover crewmen as they moved about the decking, making sure the airship didn’t break free of her moorings. They had landed only minutes ago in the lee of an oak grove at the edge of Paranor’s forests, anchored about five feet off the ground while they rode out the storm. Gar Hatch had come below immediately and taken Cinnaminson to his cabin. Ahren and Tagwen were in the Druid’s quarters already by then, the Dwarf sicker than Pen had seen a man in some time.
Khyber frowned. “It doesn’t matter what he says anyway. The point is, we know how he feels. I doubt that he cared all that much whether you went over the side or not. A fall would have been an unfortunate accident, but accidents happen. Carelessness on your part, he’d say, exactly what he warned you against earlier. He doesn’t have to answer for your failure to listen. But saving you works even better. It lets him make clear to you how vulnerable you are. He’s made his point. Now you know for sure not to come near his daughter anymore.”
She paused. “You do know that now, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Stop trying to tell me what to do, Khyber.”
“Someone has to tell you! You don’t seem capable of figuring things out on your own!” She scowled and went silent, and they both looked away, listening to the wind howl across the decking. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed, Pen.”
“I know.”
“What was Cinnaminson trying to tell you when you were bringing her down? Did you find out?”
“Just to be careful, to watch out for myself, that’s all.”
“She knew. She was trying to warn you.” Khyber shook her head. “I wish this trip was over. I wish we were rid of these people.”
He nodded, thinking at the same time that he wished he were rid of everyone but Cinnaminson. It didn’t seem fair that a simple friendship should put him in so much danger. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it, although he had no illusions about what Gar Hatch might be capable of. Khyber was right about what happened topside. He might never know if Hatch intended for him to go over the side, but he knew for certain that he had been warned.
“Well, the trip will be over soon enough,” he muttered, suddenly bone weary and heartsick. “Probably nothing else will happen now anyway.”
Khyber exhaled sharply. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Although he didn’t say so, Pen guessed he wouldn’t, either.
The storm passed around midday, the winds dying down and the rain ending, and the Skatelow resumed her journey east. By then, she was above the Jannisson Pass, leaving Paranor and Callahorn and sliding north along the foothills fronting the Charnals and the Eastland. The weather turned sultry, and the skies were clouded over and gray for as far as the eye could see. Water birds soared overhead from the mountain lakes and rivers, white flashes against the gloom, their cries eerie and chilling. Far to the east and south, the departing storm clouds formed a dark wall splintered by flashes of lightning.
Except for the still-airsick Tagwen, everyone was back on deck by then, looking out at the distant mountains, catching the first glimpses of their destination. It was another day’s journey to the Lazareen, but Pen felt a shift in his thinking anyway. His time with Cinnaminson was growing short, for after the Lazareen there was only another day’s flying before they left the airship. He marveled that only yesterday it seemed as if they had all the time in the world, and now it seemed that they had almost none. Part of his attitude was fostered by what had happened earlier, but even that wouldn’t have discouraged him entirely, had they had another week to spend together. But he could do nothing to prolong their journey’s ending, could change nothing about parting from Cinnaminson.
They flew up the corridor leading off the Streleheim toward the Malg Swamp, a misty flat smudge across the landscape on their left, the terrain in dark counterpoint to the rolling green foothills on their right. Gar Hatch took the airship lower, trying to avoid the heavier mix of clouds and mist that layered the sky with a thick ceiling between swamp and mountains. As they neared the Malg, the water birds disappeared, replaced by swarms of insects that defied winds and airspeed to attack the ship’s passengers in angry clouds. Gar Hatch swore loudly and took his vessel up until finally the insects dropped away.
Pen spit dead gnats from his mouth and wiped them from his nostrils and eyes. Cinnaminson appeared next to him, moving over from the pilot box with unerring directional sense, never wavering in her passage, and he was reminded again of how, even blind, she seemed able to see what was going on around her.
He was about to ask her what her father had said to her in his cabin, but before he could do so, he heard something in the cry of a heron that winged past so close it felt as if he could reach out and touch it. He looked at it sharply, hearing in its call a warning he could not mistake. Something had frightened the bird, and that did not happen easily with herons.
He scanned the horizon, then saw the dark swarm of dots soaring out of a deep canyon cut into the rugged foothills.
Birds, he thought at once. Big ones. Rocs or Shrikes.
But they didn’t fly like birds. There was no wing movement, and their shapes were all wrong.
They were airships.
“Captain!” he shouted over to Gar Hatch and pointed.
For a long second, the big man just stared at the shapes, then he turned back with a dark look on his face. “Cinnaminson, get below and stay there. Take the other young lady with you. Penderrin, come into the pilot box. I’ll need you.”
Without bothering to wait for a reply, Gar began shouting at the Rover crewmen, both of whom jumped in response. Within moments, they were hoisting every scrap of sail they could manage, a clear indication that whatever was coming, Gar Hatch intended to run from it.
Cinnaminson was already descending through the hatchway, but Khyber was having none of it. “I’m staying,” she declared firmly. “I can help.”
“Go below,” Ahren Elessedil ordered her at once. “The Captain commands on this ship. If I need you, I’ll call. Stay ready. Pen, let’s find out what is happening.”
Be careful, Khyber mouthed silently to the boy as she disappeared from view.
Together, Pen and the Druid hurried over to the pilot box and climbed inside. Gar Hatch was setting the control levers, readying them for when the sails were all in place. He scowled at Pen and the Druid as if they might be responsible.
“Put on your safety lines,” he ordered. “Check both ends of yours, young Penderrin. We’ve no time for mistakes here.”
Pen held his tongue, doing as he was told, buckling himself into his harness and testing the links. Ahren Elessedil did the same.
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, making these runs,” Gar Hatch growled. He nodded toward the approaching dots. “Those are flits. Single-passenger airships, bothersome little gnats. Quick and highly maneuverable. Gnome raiders use them, and that’s who those boys likely are. They want to bring us down for whatever we’ve got aboard. They’ll do it, too, if they get close enough. I wouldn’t worry normally, but that storm took something out of the Skatelow. She’s faster than they are when she’s working right, but she’s down in her power about three-quarters and
I haven’t the time to do the work necessary to bring her back up again until we reach the Lazareen.”
“We can’t outrun them?” Ahren asked.
Gar Hatch shook his head. “I don’t think so. If we get far enough ahead of them, they might lose interest. If they know the ship, they might fall off. If not . . .”
He shrugged. “Still, there’s other ways.”
He yelled at the crewmen to make certain they were ready, then shoved the thruster levers all the way forward. The Skatelow shuddered with the sudden input of power from the radian draws and shot ahead, lifting skyward at the same time. Hatch worked the controls with swiftness and precision, and Pen could see that he had been down that road before. Even so, the flits were getting closer, growing larger and beginning to take shape. Pen saw the Gnomes who were crouched in their tiny frames, faces wizened and burnt by wind and sun. Gloved hands worked the levers that changed the direction of the single-mast sail, a billowing square that could be partially reefed or let out to change direction and thrust. At present, all sails were wind-filled, catching the light, powering the flits ahead at full speed.
Pen could already see that the Skatelow had no chance of outrunning them. The angle of attack and her injuries from the storm didn’t allow for it. The flits would be on them in moments.
“Penderrin, lad,” Gar Hatch said almost calmly. “Do you think you know enough by now to take the helm and keep her running full out?”
The boy nodded at once. “I think so.”
“She’s yours, then,” the Rover said, stepping aside. “You look like you might have fought a battle or two in your time,” he said to Ahren. “How are you with rail slings?”
They went out of the pilot box, safety harnesses trailing after them, and worked their way across the deck to either side of the mainmast. A Rover crewman joined each of them, and in teams they began to set up the rail slings, pulling the catapults out of storage bins and setting the pivot ends into slots cut into the deck. Pen had never seen a rail sling before, but he understood their function right away. Built like heavy crossbows, they sat on swivels that could be pointed in any direction over the railings. A hand winch cranked back a sling in which sat a missile the size of a fist. When the sling was released, the missile hurtled out into the void, hopefully striking something in the process.