Rath and Storm

by Peter Archer (ed) (retail) (epub)

  The golem shook his massive head. “I cannot understand it. This seems to belong here, but there is no proper place for it.” His fingers, delicate in their gestures, probed the engine assembly, while his other hand twisted the Skyshaper as if fitting it into an invisible port. “It must fit, Tomalan. But where?”

  Tomalan nodded sympathetically. “Yes. But perhaps it’s meant for a different kind of ship?”

  Karn looked at him unblinkingly. “No. It is part of the Legacy. And I know it belongs with this ship, just as the Legacy belongs with Gerrard.” He turned back to the engine and moved methodically along it, nearing the complex that housed the glowing Thran crystal that was at the heart of the ship. Then, suddenly, his hands seemed to slip, and he stumbled, almost falling. Tomalan fell back against the opposite wall as the ship gave a start and a drunken lurch. From the deck above came a general shout, torn from a dozen throats.

  “Attack!”

  Tomalan recovered his feet and rushed across the swaying deck to Karn. The golem had risen and without apparent haste was continuing the search the engine. Then came an even more violent start, as if the ship were trying to tear itself apart. Tomalan once again lost his footing and fell against the golem. His hands, clawing for support, grasped the Skyshaper.

  There was a click and a loud hum. A panel slid back, revealing a hidden recess. Karn looked at the fallen crewman.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Tomalan,” he observed quietly. “I believe you’ve just solved the puzzle.” He glanced about the engine room and turned back to his assistant. “You’d better get above decks. You’re more needed there.”

  Tomalan needed no second order. With a leap he was at the ladder leading upward. In a second more his head thrust above the deck level, and he emerged into a scene of steel and fire.

  The deck pitched beneath him, and he almost lost his footing again. At the prow, Hanna shouted orders, while crewmen rushed too and fro. Some few lay fallen on the deck; one, whom Tomalan recognized as a young riggings rat, was lying on his face near the mast, a pool of blood around his head.

  A dark shadow, a deeper blackness spread across the deck like ink. Tomalan glanced up and saw a sight he’d earlier tried to put out of his mind: the sleek, hulking shape of Greven il-Vec’s ship.

  Predator.

  There was a flash and a roar from the dark ship’s side. From its guns sprang long snaking lines tipped with steel bolts. Two of them hammered into Weatherlight’s deck, while one buried itself in the rail, binding the two ships together.

  Almost simultaneously, two sailors lifted cutlasses and slashed at the harpoon lines on the deck. The ropes parted. Then Predator pulled upward, and the remaining line went taut. Weatherlight jerked, and its timbers seemed to cry out to Tomalan. Another violent jerk from Predator hurled most of the smaller ship’s crew headlong. From deep within the bowels of Weatherlight came a sudden cry, as of a great beast in torment. Another jerk of the line. Tomalan could almost hear a faint echo of the manic laughter he’d heard in those first horrible hours when they entered Rath.

  The laughter of Greven il-Vec.

  Tomalan clenched his fists. That laughter, louder now, seemed to freeze his heart, to shred it, cut through it to the core of his being with a surgical indifference. In a frozen instant, he saw everything about him with absolute clarity. Hanna stood before him, her face streaming with tears of helpless rage, clinging to the ship she loved. And in that instant, Tomalan knew that he too loved the ship, that he could not let it die. With a cry, he drew his own cutlass and leapt forward to the rail. He raised the gleaming blade above him to cut the line. Dimly he heard another roar from above and felt a tremendous blow. He stared stupidly from a moment at the steel harpoon sticking through his chest. And in the instant before his heart burst and darkness claimed him forever, he brought his blade down in a whistling stroke that severed the harpoon line.

  Hanna shrieked as Tomalan was jerked from the ship’s deck by the line still implanted in his body. At the same moment, she saw that Predator’s cannons had planted other ropes in the smaller ship. She could see moggs on board Greven’s ship frantically cranking winches, trying to draw Weatherlight closer, to ready it for the killing blow.

  Clutching the rail, she yelled a frantic order to the steersman. In response, Weatherlight suddenly shifted and turned, pulling Predator behind it.

  All right, thought the navigator grimly to herself. If he wants to play this game, that’s just what we’ll do. She shouted further commands, as Weatherlight dodged and wove. Behind her she could hear goblin screams from Predator as it smashed into the Stronghold’s foundations. Cannon roared again, and Hanna realized that the larger ship had used its firepower to destroy a part of the Stronghold directly in front of it. She set her jaw, and stared into the dark air before her.

  * * *

  —

  The crystaline hum shifts upward an octave, two, three, then intensifies to an agonized shriek. The boards are trembling, and throughout the ship lights dim and flicker in mourning for a lost soul. Above the crying crystal can be heard the deep-throated roar of its foe as it falls back, leaps forward, pounces, and is dragged behind with the crack of a whip. The crystal murmurs in triumph, and now it seems to feel something else, something resting near it, not yet active but prepared to aid it, should need arise. The humming is more confident now; the ship laughs at its opponent as it twists and tears through the air.

  Far away the armies of the Vec, Kor, and Dal are assaulting the mighty fortress. The powers that hold Rath in sway slowly give way, stumbling back, staining the stone halls and stairways with their blood. And before the elven armies, Eladamri gives a cry of triumph as he sees victory in his grasp.

  * * *

  —

  Hanna saw the flash of fire above and behind her. For a moment she waited, cowering, for the blow from Predator’s cannons. Then, in growing astonishment, she realized that the flames were on the other ship itself. Tendrils of orange ran up and down Predator’s rigging. A goblin caught in the inferno blazed suddenly and fell shrieking into the abyss below. Looking at the scene, now lit with the ghastly light of blazing ship and burning moggs, Hanna thought she could see the dark form of Greven gesturing furiously, shouting orders to those of his crew still standing. Weatherlight veered again, dragging the now-captive Predator behind it. Then, suddenly, Hanna felt her ship leap forward, as if released from a great burden.

  She turned again. Greven’s goblins had slashed through the lines that bound the two vessels together. The ship was free.

  Even now Predator was falling behind. Hanna almost laughed aloud.

  An odd thumping sound came through the air, and she saw two ornithopters—clumsy flying machines—swoop up from Greven’s decks. Moggs clung desperately to the fliers’ delicate structure. Each had a bundle of round objects in his hand.

  Goblin bombs. Hanna’s heart beat hard and fast in her chest. Gerrard had told her what these devices could do. They could shatter Weatherlight once and for all. The battle was far from over.

  Hanna clawed her way along the deck and plunged onto the bridge. Here, too, was chaos: Sarmiane the steersman fought to control the vessel, other crewmen rushed about, shouting contradictory advice and instructions to him, while almost unnoticed, the green form of Squee shivered convulsively in a corner.

  Hanna grabbed Sarmiane’s shoulder and dug her nails into his flesh. He winced, but kept his eyes on the path of the ship.

  “Rise,” she snapped in an urgent whisper. “Climb faster than you’ve ever climbed in your life. Because if those ornithopters get too close, this will be all the life you’ll ever get.”

  There was a muffled squeal from Squee, and the other crewmen grew silent, drawing together behind Sarmiane and the navigator. Hanna reached to one side of the great wheel and flipped open a panel, revealing a small dial and a bewildering variety of switches and levers.

 
Sarmiane glanced at the array. “What’s that?” he grunted. “Never seen that before.”

  “It’s something new,” Hanna returned briefly. “Turn and face the ornithopters.”

  “What!” Sarmiane almost lost control of the wheel, and the ship lurched drunkenly to port. “Are you insane?” he shouted harshly.

  Hanna drew herself up. “That is an order, Mister! Don’t argue with me—just do it! Now!”

  Sarmiane glared at her for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Oh, well. It’s been fun. Stand by to come about!”

  Weatherlight turned, wind whistling through her rigging. Squee, flung from his hiding place, went rolling across the bridge and bounced into the wall. Hanna paid no attention. Her eyes were on the ornithopters, as she delicately turned the wheel this way and that. A small beam of light shot out from the center of the ship’s wheel and focused on the nearest ornithopter.

  “Sarmiane, try to hold us steady for a minute.” Her fingers were busy with the other controls. Then she flipped a lever, and suddenly, without a sound, the light beam intensified into a blinding flash. The lights throughout the cabin dimmed simultaneously, and the crew cried out as one man. Some turned their heads away, while others clutched their eyes, tears spilling between their fingers. Hanna alone seemed unaffected by the beam, though Squee, peeping cautiously out, also seemed not to mind its brightness.

  The ornithopter on which the light was focused wobbled violently, spilling its goblin pilot. He fell with a scream, and a second later the bombs he’d been carrying blew up as his body struck an outcropping of the Stronghold. The explosion shook Weatherlight, and Sarmiane almost lost control of the wheel. A few seconds later, there was a second, greater explosion, as the empty ornithopter ploughed squarely into the side of Weatherlight..

  Hanna felt her feet go out from under her. Her head struck something hard, and awareness ran away from her, like water dripping from a stone.

  She was asleep in her old bed at home. Her father was calling her name. No, no, it was her mother, long dead and nearly forgotten. “Hanna, Hanna! Time to get up! Come and have your breakfast, child!”

  “Hanna!”

  “All right, mother. I’m coming.” Hanna sat up, and immediately sank back down into the arms of Orim. Squee crouched before her, his wrinkled goblin skin next to hers. She could feel its dry, slightly scaly texture rubbing her arm, as he furtively stroked her. She smiled, and felt a wave of unexpected tenderness toward the little goblin. Then a wave of nausea swept over her, and she turned to one side, retching and choking.

  “All right, Hanna. That was a bad knock.” Orim’s fingers were busy pulling, poking, exploring Hanna’s head. She pressed carefully in several places, and the sharp pain and nausea receded, leaving only a dull, throbbing headache. Hanna looked up at her friend, then slowly, carefully, rose to a fully sitting position.

  “What’s happening? Where’s the other ornithopter?”

  Sarmiane, still at the wheel, glanced at her and smiled broadly. His eyes still seemed slightly glazed, from the effects of the light beam that had destroyed the one flier. “It’s still there, but a good ways back. I think we can outrun it, if we need to. But right now, it’s hanging back. Probably wondering what we did to its friend.” He paused a moment, and cleared his throat. “By the bye, what did you do?”

  Hanna shrugged off Orim’s protesting arm and got to her feet. “It’s a new weapon. I concocted it by jury-rigging the lighting system. I’ve experimented with it, but I never had to use it against anything before.” She brushed a hand against her aching, bruised forhead, feeling the place where she’d struck against the wheel casing. “As far as I can tell, it uses the same mana source that powers the lights on the ship. It just takes a tiny beam of light, focuses it, and makes it into a giant beam of light. The goblin on that ornithopter probably never knew what hit him. It must have been like staring into a thousand suns at once.”

  Sarmiane glanced behind him. “You want to use it against that fellow back there?” He gestured toward the distant ornithopter.

  Hanna shook her head wearily. “No. One time’s all it’s good for, at least for a while. It seems to need to recharge after every use.” She looked ahead. “Steady on, Mr. Sarmiane. Steady on.”

  * * *

  —

  The tiny crystal, calmer now, sends out its light to illuminate the recess where the golem, whose silver skin shines dully in its light, has placed the Skyshaper. The light caresses the new device, stroking it, kissing it, welcoming it on board. And yet at the heart of the tiny gleam’s warmth, there is a hint of adamant, one that will admit no challenge. The golem steps back in satisfaction, staring at his work. “Yes,” he whispers to himself. “Now it is complete.”

  * * *

  —

  “By the way,” asked Hanna, as Orim turned to leave, “how are Mirri and Crovax?”

  Orim stopped, her teeth worrying thoughtfully at her lower lip. She hesitated before speaking, and Hanna turned to look her full in the face.

  “Mirri is recovering. The wound was serious but not life-threatening. She will be fine, given time and rest. Crovax…”

  “What about Crovax?” Hanna asked quickly.

  Orim shook her head, as if puzzled. “Crovax has undergone certain changes. I do not understand them. He was not wounded, yet he sleeps as if he were. And he seems a soul in torment. He has called out several times in his sleep to Selenia. And whenever he calls her name, his face burns as if with fever.” She sighed. “I must go now. Others need my help as well.”

  She passed out of the bridge, and Hanna returned her attention to the murky way before them. Another crewman entered the bridge and stepped to her side.

  “M’am, with respect, Karn the golem says he’s got the Skyshaper in place. He’s not sure what it’ll do, but he says if you want to try it, he’ll figure out how to get it started.”

  Hanna hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No. Let’s wait. We don’t know exactly what help it will give us. Perhaps it’s better to wait until we’ve recovered Gerrard and the others. We may need it on our way to the Portal.”

  “Speaking of Gerrard,” Sarmiane broke in, “there’s the Gardens ahead, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Beside the ship as it rose past the Stronghold, a space suddenly opened, as the steep walls of Volrath’s fortress fell away. Below them, Hanna could see a series of terraces, on which trees and shrubs huddled together, seeming to shelter from the raging skies. She caught a glimpse of pools and streams of water flowing through the heart of the garden; paths and avenues wound through the greenery, looking incongruously domestic amid so much chaos.

  Weatherlight swept lower, its keel brushing the tops of the tallest trees. Hanna stared into the shadows, straining her eyes for a glimpse of Gerrard. She caught a flurry of movement and bent farther over the rail, ignoring the restraining hands of the crew.

  “There!” she cried, pointing.

  “Look out!” The cry came at the same moment from Sarmiane, as he wrenched the ship hard to port. The pursuing ornithopter had finally caught up to them and swept past in a flare of beating wings. Hanna caught sight of the mogg’s staring face, as he fought to control his machine. The ornithopter flashed into the distance, then swung around, readying itself for another pass.

  Sarmiane was having a hard time steering his own vessel. Despite his best efforts, Weatherlight bucked like a frightened horse. Hanna grabbed it, her slender hands over his larger ones, struggling to control the ship. In the stronger light over the gardens, she could see the damage the first ornithopter’s collision had done to her ship: the sails were full of holes, and parts of the aft hull appeared cracked and crumpled. The first midspar was entirely gone and the remaining spars on both sails were broken, hanging loose by a splinter. As Sarmiane lowered the ship toward the garden, it collided with trees, and Hanna shuddered to hear sounds of further tearing
along the hull.

  They were close enough now that the rest of the crew could see the figures racing toward them. A woman whose red hair streamed behind her helped Starke, who seemed to stumble as if blind. Behind was Gerrard, arm around a dark woman, staggering, dazed, but still alive: Sisay!

  But Tahngarth? Where was the minotaur? Surely he had found his way back to Gerrard. Hanna opened her mouth to shout a question to the bearded young man running toward the ship; then, suddenly, she saw the first mate of Weatherlight.

  He was climbing a tree, hand over hand, his beaded mane streaming behind him in the wind. Up and up he went, seemingly effortless. He grasped a high branch and swung his massive body onto it. The branch swayed and bent, but Tahngarth hesitated not a moment. He was at the highest point of the tree now, almost level with the deck of Weatherlight but some fifty feet away from it.

  Hanna heard the ominous beat of the ornithopter’s wings. In a flash, she saw what the minotaur intended. As the goblin steered the ornithopter toward the ship, Tahngarth jumped, an impossible leap for a man and a mighty one even for a minotaur. He landed full on the machine, and the ornithopter swayed and pitched from the unexpected weight. The goblin pilot spun around, looking for the source of the problem. The tiny flier jerked upward and suddenly the goblin was no longer on board. Tahngarth alone held on, pulling himself into the control seat.

  Hanna stared in amazement. The mogg had vanished completely. Had he fallen, or, no! She stared in fascinated horror.

  A protruding branch from a dead tree had plucked the mogg from his seat, pinning him neatly. His body writhed on the end of the point, arms and legs flailing in his death agonies. She heard his thin, dying squeal, and then the body went limp.

  Tahngarth was obviously having a great deal of trouble controlling the tiny ornithopter. He was unfamiliar with the controls, and the flier was unfamiliar with his weight. It bobbed and wove, dipping and rising. The minotaur was trying to twist the course of the flier about to bring it down near Gerrard. The ornithopter, though, was fighting back as if it were a living thing. It swept closer to Weatherlight, passing above it in a rush of wings. Hanna shut her eyes. She knew that any moment she would hear a cry as Tahngarth was hurled from his precarious perch into the trees. There would come a long, drawn-out scream, followed by the horrid crunch of a heavy body striking the unresponsive earth.