“Why do they hold back?” said Skylar to Endrick as the two paused to rest a moment. “More than half their forces have not engaged.”
“Frightened, no doubt,” replied Endrick. “Or they’re just exhausting our strength.”
“But their own men are being slaughtered.”
“Lose one, kill a dozen.”
Skylar was about to respond when Endrick pointed toward the enemy lines. He turned just in time to see the battle cannons spring back to life, bombarding the battlefield with heavy blaster fire. Skylar’s face froze with horror, for everywhere the cannon’s blast struck an explosion rent the spot, sending the bodies of a dozen soldiers hurtling through the air.
“They’re killing their own men, too!” cried Skylar.
“At least they don’t discriminate,” replied Endrick. “Come on, or we’ll be one of them.”
Already the captains were signaling the retreat back to their barricade, and the Haladrian soldiers were fleeing for their lives.
“We have to do something about the cannons,” insisted Skylar. “Otherwise the battle is lost.”
“Yes, and I foolishly left my cannon-destroyer at home today. Come on, Skylar!”
His stout companion was urging him with a strong hand to fallback. Skylar resisted, his mind scrambling to find a solution to the problem. One came into his head. Without giving himself a chance to realize how dangerous it was, he sheathed his sword, cast aside his shield, and took hold of his jetwing.
“Are you insane!” shouted Endrick, as he realized Skylar’s intentions. “You can’t—”
But Endrick’s words fled away as Skylar’s jetwing shot him into the open sky.
For a few blessed moments Skylar felt the freedom and rush of exhilaration that only flying could give him. The feeling was short lived. Once the enemy registered what he was, the barrage of blaster fire came in full force. It assailed him like a wind-swept hail storm. Scarcely able to think, he barrel rolled, dove, rose, banked to and fro—any movement he could think of.
It’s no good, he realized, I’ll never make it.
He was about to pull up and gain altitude before turning back, when another idea stuck him. Swerving far right, he maneuvered a swift dive straight toward the ground.
Closer.
Closer.
He could almost distinguish the individual grains of sand.
Closer.
Now!
Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, he pulled up as hard has he could.
He opened his eyes, still alive, and flying mere centimeters above ground. Blaster fire struck the earth around him, spraying him with sand, but they didn’t hit him. He inched lower. He could have almost reached out his tongue and licked the sand. He’d never flown so low.
The rightmost cannon loomed directly in front of him. Its stilts providing a partial shield between him and the soldiers on the frontline. It was closer now—seventeen meters away.
Almost there.
Eight meters.
Almost...
Three meters.
A little more.
Now!
Immediately he pulled up, sending him shooting up the side of the tower. A fresh volley of blaster fire assailed him. Letting up on the throttle, he prepared to alight on top of the blaster cannon. A meter away from his target, a blast struck his left thruster, knocking it free of his grip and sending him flailing in the air.
Careening upwards, he collided with the cannon’s side, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Instantly, gravity caught hold of him. Desperately, he grabbed at the cannon’s body, trying to find some grasp. But there was nothing, nothing. He was falling.
The metal hull of the cannon slipped past his bruised fingertips in a blur. He felt himself lose contact, as he descended rapidly. For a split second the terrifying sense of free-falling paralyzed him. Then something solid struck the palm of his right hand. Like a mechanical claw, his hand clamped on with a death grip. For a moment he dangled by one hand, before he was able to latch on with his other. A handle, or foothold, had saved him, a single u-shaped bar protruding horizontally from the cannon’s underside.
As he hung there, trying to catch his breath, heart beating out a desperate rhythm, he took quick stock of his situation. The storm of blaster fire directed at him had all but ceased. Perhaps because they feared hitting the cannon. The handle he clung to was part of a series of footholds spaced at intervals along the cannon’s base. Having few other options, he reached out and took hold of the one just to his right.
Thus he moved around from the side of the cannon to its rear, his hands tired and white-knuckled from the exertion. At the rear he discovered another set of handles, leading upwards. Quickly, he scrambled up.
Uncertain of his exact plan, he peaked his head over the cannon’s edge and peered into the back of its gunner’s cockpit. The gunner, unaware of Skylar, continued firing at the fleeing Haladrian troops—Skylar’s troops, his comrades, his father.
Sudden rage swelled in him. Pulling himself up another step higher and drawing his sword, he made to strike the gunner before the man could pull the cannon’s trigger again. Sword raised in one hand, his resolve faltered. It would be so easy. Yet he couldn’t do it. It would be murder, the gunner never having a chance.
A cry of anger rose from his throat.
“Stop firing or I’ll let my sword fly!”
Startled, the gunner whirled around to see Skylar standing over him, sword upraised. A sneering smile soon replaced the gunner’s look of astonishment.
“What’s this?” he jeered. “Does Haladras send boys to fight its battles? I’ll teach you to wish you’d stayed home with your mummy.”
With unexpected speed, the gunner produced a blaster, leveled it at Skylar, and fired. Skylar moved quickly, too, and the blast only grazed the side of his left arm. Unhesitatingly, he brought his sword down upon the gunner’s arm. The blaster fell to the floor, as the gunner let out a cry of pain. With his uninjured hand, the gunner struggled to grab the blaster. Skylar moved swifter, snatching it up and tossing it over the side.
“You little...”
The gunner’s face screwed up like a goblin’s. He lunged forward to grab Skylar and knock him over the edge. Skylar dodged. Stumbling, the gunner fell headlong over the side. Skylar shot out his hands and caught the gunner by his boot. It was no use, though, the boot slipped through his fingers.
For a moment Skylar just stood there, breathing heavily, trying to recover from the shock. The body of the gunner on the ground below did not stir. Was he dead? Skylar’s stomach churned to think of it.
Pulling himself away from the side, he sat down in the gunner’s chair and went to work at the controls. The blaster cannon proved simple enough to operate. He soon had it rotated and aimed at the second cannon. Pressing the blaster trigger, he let loose a stream of blaster fire. His aim was true, the cannon exploded and collapsed in a fiery heap.
Cheers and hurrahs rose from the Haladrian line. And soon they were charging again back toward the empire’s frontline, swords raised and spirits rekindled.
Skylar had little time to celebrate. A dilemma now faced him. His jetwing was destroyed. He had seen a small group of imperial soldiers rush to the base of the stilts, no doubt to regain control of the cannon. Within moments they would be upon him. He was trapped.
“They won’t get it back without a fight,” he said aloud. “Or without retribution.”
Taking hold of the controls again, he turned the cannon toward the enemy troops and put his finger to the trigger. He paused. Krom’s words came into his mind, “Created by a coward to achieve wicked purposes.” He groaned. Why must honor come at such a price? Leaving off the trigger, he stood and drew out his sword.
With swift downward strokes, he struck the controls over and over, until nothing remained but a mangled pile of metal and sparking wires. Then he jumped to the rear and prepared to make a stand against the ascending foes.
The first soldier was a
fool and reached his hands onto the top ledge to pull himself up. Skylar struck at them with the flat of his blade, sending the soldier falling back and colliding with his companions following up the ladder. Skylar smiled, believing that he might be able to hold his little tower. His smile soon faded, however, when the tower shuttered violently. He looked below. They had given up on regaining the cannon. They were now out to destroy it, ramming its base with a large transport.
Boom.
The towered shuddered more violently.
Boom.
What to do? He looked about frantically for something, anything.
He felt the tower begin to tilt. Farther, farther. The bending metal squealed in protest. It was falling.
Crouching on the floor of the cockpit, he grabbed onto the gunner’s chair and held on fast.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SKYLAR MOANED AND forced his reluctant eyes to open. For a moment he just lay there, gaze fixed on the blurry ceiling above him. He was alive. How, he did not know. Alive, nonetheless. But what of the battle? Was it over?
He attempted to sit up, but fell back, his left side jabbed with pain.
“Easy now, my boy,” soothed a voice which sounded anything but soothing. He knew that voice...from a dream, another life. “Quite a fall you had. Lucky you are to be alive.”
Skylar slowly turned his head. His eyes met with the crooked teeth and hooked nose of Dr. Beezin, the Cloud Harbor physician.
“The battle,” said Skylar anxiously, “what of the battle?”
“Over,” answered a different voice, deep and familiar.
Despite the pain and Dr. Beezin’s caution, Skylar raised himself a little in his bed. Krom had just entered the tent, looking customarily serious.
“Over and won,” he continued. “The empire has retreated back to Ahlderon.”
“Won!” said Skylar, scarcely able to believe it.
“Yes, thanks to you, and to Allega.”
“Allega? But how did they—”
Skylar broke off. Krom held out his hand toward the tent’s opening, as in stepped a man he never expected to lay eyes on again. The man doffed the leather cap from his bald pate, which he bowed rather awkwardly. Skylar gaped at him, confused and dumbfounded.
“Begging you pardon, your majesty,” said Grüny Sykes, the moody captain of the Luna, “but, I make it a common practice...policy, you might say, to eavesdrop on all my passengers. Helps to pass the time.”
“So, you knew who we were, but you didn’t say anything?” said Skylar.
“I didn’t know one of you was King Athylian. I knew you must be Prince Korbyn. Why else would Morvath be after you? I’m not so daft as I look. No, I didn’t want you ‘specting I knew anything. As soon as I dropped you off here, I went straight to Allega. A real devil of a time I had seeking an audience with Rowvan. All numbskulls, to be sure.
“Forgive my saying so, your majesty, but it was a downright foolhardy thing you did not going directly to Allega.”
Skylar bowed his head.
“I’m sure Krom agrees with you.”
“You did what you believed was right, Skylar,” said Krom. “No one can fault you for that.”
Looking up, Skylar caught Krom’s gaze. In it he detected a hint of respect—something he rarely sensed from Krom. With a slight turn, Krom broke off the gaze and addressed the doctor.
“Is the prince well enough to leave his bed?”
“As well as anyone newly missing his right leg can be.”
“What!” cried Skylar, jerking away his bedcover to see his leg. He sighed and leaned back in his bed. Still intact.
A high-pitched chuckle escaped Dr. Beezin.
“Gets them every time...”
Skylar shook his head and felt foolish at being tricked again by the same prank.
“No,” went on the doctor after he’d had his laugh, “he’s well enough. A few scrapes and cuts, one nasty bruise on his side—physically, that’s all. More fortunate than many, he is.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Krom. “Skylar, we must go to your father. He desires to speak with you. I can help you walk if you need.”
“My father?” said Skylar in reply. “Is he hurt? Where is he?”
“Come, Skylar. Time may be short,” was all Krom replied.
They found Endrick, Captain Arturo, and a tall regal figure with a mane of white hair and beard all standing solemnly around Athylian’s bed. Skylar’s mother, too, was there, mopping the brow of his father with a cool rag. She smiled at him when he entered, but her eyes were red from crying. For a moment he simply stood there taking it all in, his eyes gravitating involuntarily to the lifeless body on the bed.
“Is he...” he said, swallowing the last word.
“The king yet lives,” said the tall figure.
Holding out her hand his mother beckoned for him to come nearer. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder—Krom’s hand. It seemed to say, do not lose hope.
Timidly, he approached the bedside, near where his mother knelt nursing Lasseter’s wounds. Not until he stood at her side and felt her warm hand clasp his own did he find the courage to truly look upon his father.
He looked as pale as a corpse; pale as the bandages wrapped around his head and chest. The only color, spots of blood seeping through to the surface. His eyes were shut. If not for the faint up and down motion of his chest as he breathed, Skylar would have believed him dead.
“What happened to him?” he asked.
“A cannon blaster,” replied Captain Arturo, “struck near him. The explosion killed everyone around him instantly. Some heavy shrapnel from shattered swords and shields hit him squarely in the chest. A few smaller pieces struck his head.”
“But he’ll recover, won’t he?”
Skylar’s voice sounded pleading, like a child’s.
“Dr. Beezin has done all he knows to do, Sky,” answered his mother. “All we can do now is pray and wait.”
She squeezed his hand gently.
“He does wish to see you. I’ll try to rouse him again.”
She leaned forward, putting her mouth next to Athylian’s ear and gently whispered, “Lasseter...Lasseter, can you hear me? Skylar is here.”
At first he remained unresponsive. But then his eyelids began to twitch and then his eyes slowly cracked open. Skylar leaned forward so that his father could better see him. Two green eyes looked up at him, accompanied by a brief smile.
“My son,” he said in a throaty whisper. “My son...”
“Yes, Father, I’m here,” said Skylar, fighting to keep his voice from quavering.
“My son, we won...we won.”
“Yes, we won. It’s over. Now you can rest.”
“No, it’s not over. You must continue the fight. Tarus must be deposed. The command...I leave it to you.”
“No, Father. The command is yours. You’ll be well soon. You must.”
Athylian’s eyes closed for a moment, as if to say no. Skylar did not speak, but furrowed his brow, his face filled with anxiety. Instinctively, his eyes shifted to his father’s chest. Still breathing.
“I tried to tell you,” said Athylian again, his eyes re-opened, his voice sounding even weaker. “Your sister...I believe...yet lives.”
“She does!” cried Skylar. “How come...where is she?”
“The Tors kidnapped her the day your mother was killed. You must find her. Promise me you will.”
Skylar nodded his head furiously. “Yes, I promise—I will.”
“G-o-o-d,” breathed out Athylian as though it were his last breath. But the king spoke on. “One more thing…” With evident pain, Athylian lifted his left hand and pointed to something behind Skylar. Turning, Skylar saw the tattered, old gray cloak his father had always worn draped over a chair. Handling it as though it were a priceless gem, he brought it to the bed.
“Inside the left breast,” his father instructed.
Skylar put his hand inside the cloak and fumbled around until he discovered a
small pocket. From it he drew out a palm-size leather pouch—one he’d seen before.
“The limbreath?” said Skylar, not entirely questioning, for he seemed to know. His mind flashed back to that strange encounter with Mansyl Magorik, the old apothecary.
His father nodded slowly.
“Use it in your hour of greatest need.”
“You keep it, Father. For you shall live to use it someday.”
“No, my son.”
Skylar swallowed a lump in his throat and fought back a tear.
“Tell me what I am to do with it, then.”
But Athylian did not respond. His eyes were closed again, his chest heaving almost beyond notice. He waited. But those green eyes did not open. His chest ceased heaving.
“Father,” cried Skylar, tears already welling up in his eyes. “Father!”
The king did not reply.
“Father!” he pleaded, his tears wetting the bed sheet. And then he broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, his entire body shaking. The warm arms of his mother embraced him. He scarcely felt them. All he could feel was grief. He wept on, not caring that those proud and noble men saw. For his father was dead; like Grim, gone forever.
It seemed much later when the last tear drop dried on his cheek. Sometime since, his body had ceased convulsing. When he looked up, Captain Arturo and the white-maned figure were gone. Still holding him tightly, his mother remained.
Turning his head mechanically, he looked upon the face of his father. Dead. The truth hit him like a swift kick to his stomach. Dead.
First, Grim. Now his own father—his newly-dicovered father. Why had he not hugged his father when he had the chance?
Fresh, hot tears roiled in his eyes.
“Why!” he yelled aloud. “Why...”
None answered.
Skylar turned toward the entry. Silently, Krom still stood by, his expression inscrutable.
“Is this what we fought for? Is this what we won? Death,” cried Skylar bitterly.
“Have you so quickly forgotten your father’s own words?”
Krom’s tone bore no edge of reprimand or defense. He spoke the gently reminder of master to pupil.
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