“Don’t worry. Who knows? Might not be my time yet.”
Another burst of gunfire exploded from behind them. Taya glanced out and saw Cristof getting to his feet, holding his side.
Another body was sprawled on the stairs, and a third young Alzanan was descending, his hands raised high over his head.
“I surrender!” he cried out in a quavering voice. “Please don’t shoot!”
She recognized him, too. Tazio, the bookworm.
“Keep us on course,” she ordered, and walked back out to her husband. “Is he the last one?”
“I think so.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing sweat and the general’s blood. “How are we doing?”
“The pilot’s bleeding to death but holding the wheel. I’m going to get bandages so I can patch both of you up.” She turned to Tazio. “Is anyone left up there?”
“No, ma’am. There are two soldiers in back, the engineer and another gunner for protection, but otherwise….” the youth scanned the bloodstained, bullet-riddled gondola with a shocked expression. “This is all of us.”
“You’d better be right.” She turned him around and marched him back up the stairs in front of her. Nobody was waiting for them. She cuffed his wrist to the pole next to Neuillan’s and General Credero’s corpses, found a box of medical supplies, and took it back downstairs.
An explosion rocked the ship.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Taya ran into the control room. The pilot was swearing as he worked the controls. Cristof was standing by the front window, shouting for field glasses.
“Gunner’s lenses,” the pilot snapped in Alzanan, pointing. Taya grabbed the strange-looking heavy goggles and handed them to her husband. Cristof eased them over his glasses and turned to the windows, adjusting the focus.
Another explosion boomed around them, and a distant rattle of gunfire. Something moved at the bottom of the window. Taya looked down. One of the Alzanan ships appeared at a lower altitude, ponderously swinging about.
“We’re being fired on from the mountainside,” Cristof reported, his voice tense. “Sounds like mortars.”
Heavy guns rattled. The dirigibles were firing back, maneuvering so the gunners could fire from the gondola windows.
“Lictors,” her husband added, pulling back from the window when his goggles’ lenses hit the glass. “They must have moved fast to get to this pass.”
“Maybe they used one of those pneumatic trains.”
“Do you want me to take us out of range?” their pilot asked in Alzanan.
“Move us so we can fire on that dirigible,” Taya directed, pointing.
“You want me to help you fire on my people?”
“I’m going to aim at the envelope. I swear on the Lady, all I want to do is force them down. The sooner this ends, the sooner we can get you to a hospital.” And Cristof, too, she thought, shooting her husband a concerned glance.
The Alzanan snarled but complied.
“The lictors have rifles, but I don’t think any of their shots are coming close,” Cristof added.
“I’m going to try to stop a dirigible,” Taya said. Rushing into the gondola’s main room, she yanked down the windows in front of the three still-mounted guns. The noise level in the cabin rose as wind whistled inside, buffeting her wings. Their pilot was easing them into a slow, turning descent, and the other dirigibles appeared to be hanging sideways in the air.
Taya shoved the rear-mounted starboard gun forward on its rails, found the locking mechanism, and kicked it closed. Another set of hands-free gunner’s lenses hung off one of the locker handles. She pulled her flight goggles down around her neck and replaced them with the Alzanan set. Everything was fuzzy. She fumbled with the focus wheel until the enemy ships leaped into view. Number Two was directly ahead.
Perfect. She aimed at the snarling bear’s head and fired.
Dark holes tore into the silver fabric as hot brass flew around her, some of the shells ricocheting and hitting her. She shifted the heavy, rattling gun, watching bullets trace a line in the envelope, and then eased back on the firing lever.
Her arms ached and her ears rang. She pushed the gunner’s lenses up and wiped her face, smelling gunpowder.
Number Two fired back.
Taya hit the ground as bullets burst through the wooden gondola walls in a shower of splinters. Her wings rattled as broken wood struck them.
She’d been firing to disable. The other ship was firing to kill.
Rays of sunlight streamed through the new holes in the gondola.
“They should have made these things out of metal,” she said, shakily, to nobody in particular. She faintly heard Cristof shouting. She waved a hand to reassure him that she was all right, then wiped her face to make sure she was. A thin streak of blood smeared her hand.
She pulled down the lenses again. Number Two didn’t show any signs of spinning downward. She remembered what Cristof had said about penetrating to the gas balloons.
She aimed and fired once more. This time, as soon as she lifted her thumbs, she rolled to one side and flattened herself.
Several seconds later — a long time, by her count — the Alzanans returned fire.
When they stopped, she looked outside. She’d done more damage to Number Two’s envelope, but either their ship or her own had moved. She didn’t have a good shot anymore.
Running in a low crouch, she returned to the control cabin. Cristof was steadying the pilot, who’d slumped over the wheel.
“Was he shot?”
“He fainted.”
She straightened the pilot in his chair and checked his wound. The bullet had entered the left side of his stomach.
Cristof handed her the bandages from the medical supplies.
“Can you wake him up?” he asked.
She pressed the fabric to the man’s side.
“Are there any smelling salts in there?”
Two loud explosions made them both look up. Trails of smoke wisped past the window.
Cristof unearthed a small brass container labeled sal volatile. Taya uncapped it, waving the damp wire loop embedded in its cork under the Alzanan’s nose.
The pilot groaned, his eyes opening.
“Hold this,” she ordered, putting the man’s hand over the bandage. She pulled out the bottle of morphine and rapidly fixed a dose.
“We need him awake,” Cristof warned.
Taya ignored him, plunging the needle into the Alzanan’s arm. She only had a half-dose; at best it might dull the pain.
Her rough bandaging job wasn’t going to help the pilot much, either, but it was the best she could do. She’d only been trained in emergency first aid.
A bullet pinged off the window next to them, cracking it. All three looked out and saw dirigibles Two and Three lining up in front of their ship. Alzanan soldiers were manning the guns.
The pilot grabbed the wheel. “Time to go.”
They began a slow, heavy turn. The thick windows in front of them made snapping sounds as the cracks and stars left by enemy gunfire began to spiderweb across the glass panes. Taya grabbed Cristof’s arm and tugged him toward the cabin doorway.
Seconds later, bright bursts of light flashed from the enemy ships, and the weakened window glass sprayed backward out of its frame. The pilot turned and threw his arms over his face. Taya and Cristof were knocked off their feet as the wind that shrieked through the broken windows slammed their counterweighted masses into the back wall. The ship shuddered. Somebody began shouting incoherently through the speaking tubes.
Taya grasped her husband’s coat. Even with his pockets full of lead and brass, the rescue vest made him too light for safety. He struggled to his feet, wrapping his gloved fingers around the struts of her armature. The pilot laid prone in a puddle of blood and broken glass. Taya only ha
d to glance at his bullet-riddled body to know he was dead. She felt an irrational surge of grief for the man.
“Taya!” Cristof shook her. “We have to go! The engines have been hit!”
The shouting abruptly made sense— one of the engineers in back was warning the control room that the engines had been struck and were on fire. Taya let Cristof pull her out of the cabin and back to the gondola door.
“What about—” she looked up the stairs, where Tazio was handcuffed.
“No time!” Cristof threw open the doors. “Out! Before we blow up!”
“But—”
He grabbed the keel of her armature, screwed his eyes shut, and threw himself backward out the door.
Wind whistled past her ears as they fell. Shocked, Taya grabbed her husband’s arms, afraid he might lose his grip.
“I — hate — falling,” he said in a strangled voice. His face was pale, the wave castemarks on his cheekbones standing out like brands. His gray eyes opened and locked onto hers, as though he were afraid that if he looked away, she’d vanish and leave him alone in midair.
“It’s okay.” Her heart pounded as she gathered her wits. He’d forced them out to save them. The ship was going to explode.
She let go of one of his arms and caught a strap from his rescue harness that was whipping against her side. First things first. She snapped it to her armature.
“Even if you let go of me, you’ll float,” she reminded him.
“I’m not letting go of you.” He closed his eyes again. “You can start flying any time, please.”
She found the strap on the other side of his harness, digging it out from between them and snapping it into place. Then she scooped out the ammunition in his coat pockets, letting it fall in a glittering stream of lead and brass.
“We’re linked. Loosen your grip.”
“Taya….”
Well, he didn’t have to loosen his grip. She twisted her arms into her wings. They were in no immediate danger; the cliffs and hills were still a long way away. Number One was getting smaller above them, bright orange flames licking out of its aft gondola as the engine burned. The two vessels in front were rising to avoid it, and a third, behind, was turning to increase the distance between them.
Taya spread her arms, shifting them into horizontal flight. At once she realized that even though Cristof’s weight was all but zeroed out, he had no way to support himself on the horizontal. Some of the straps on his harness were probably meant to help, but she didn’t have time to sort them out, and she was getting tired.
Up or down? Back to the ships or down to the cliffs? The cliffs beckoned, even though she knew they should keep harassing the ships.
Number One exploded with a deafening boom.
The sudden burst of air and thermals buffeted them to one side. Taya’s weariness was swept away in a surge of adrenaline.
“Look out!” Cristof shouted. Taya shot a quick glance up and saw burning detritus soaring through the air. The whole ship was coming down on them in bits and pieces.
Up. She needed to go up, above the burning wreckage.
“Don’t move!” she shouted, straining to ride the chaotic thermals. Ash and embers swirled around her like snow as she propelled them up through the periphery of the explosion, avoiding the burning skeleton of the ship that was breaking into fiery pieces as it fell. She headed for the nearest dirigible, remembering Lieutenant Amcathra’s advice— one of its blind spots was directly below it.
But she’d forgotten about Number Five. As she pulled above the fireball, she heard distant gunfire over the growl of ship engines.
“Scrap!” They were a small target, but if someone got lucky, Cristof was between her and their bullets. She twisted around, fighting to put her back to the dirigible, even as she felt him ripping open a pocket on her leg.
“What are you doing?”
“Shooting back!” he shouted, pulling out her flare gun and the extra cartridge. He pulled himself higher on her keel and threw an arm around her neck. “Before they hit you.”
“Don’t— watch my wings!”
“Just hold me here a minute, love.” He raised his other hand, which was gripping the weapon, to enclose her in an awkward embrace. “…never pierce an envelope from here….”
The flare gun spat next to her ear and she heard the missile whistle away. She continued bearing upward, even though it was impossible to see anything with Cristof’s hair and coat collar flapping in her face. The straps of his rescue harness tugged on her armature as he shifted, his hands moving behind her head.
“Would you stop that?” She gauged their distance to Number Four. She wasn’t sure what they were going to do when they reached it, but at least it would provide some cover.
“Give me a minute.” He paused. “Damn!”
He shifted, and she heard another spit and trailing whistle.
“Barely deserve the name ‘gun’….” her husband grumbled, opening his hand. The empty flare gun gleamed in the sunlight as it fell.
“I hope the army didn’t want that back. Could you move your shoulder out of my face?”
“I— yes!” He slid down and gave her a triumphant grin, his glasses askew as he clung to her keel. “It went right through the gondola window. That’ll keep them busy.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How could her husband be so enthusiastic about hurting people?
“We still have to get above Number Four,” she said.
“I have an idea.” One of his hands tightened on her armature as the other straightened his glasses. Then he dropped his hand to her belt, twisting her second bomb free. “How fast can you fly us up?”
“You’ll never be able to light that while we’re flying.”
He looked at it, then her, crestfallen.
She craned her neck up and saw the signal flags flapping below Number Four’s gondola. Inspired, she shifted direction, angling toward them.
“If I hold us under the gondola and act as a windbreak, could you light a match?” she asked.
“I could try.”
“You’ll have to let go of me.”
He swallowed, his eyes flickering to the narrow leather straps that bound them together.
“I— all right.”
“When I get near the flags, grab the lines or the support poles. It doesn’t matter which, but hold us in place until I can slide my arms out of my wings.”
“How counterweighted are you?”
“To about ten pounds.”
“Good.” He carefully slid the bomb into his coat pocket and tugged on the security straps. “I can manage that.”
It was like maneuvering through the wireferries in Tertius, except her courier’s pack had never been as long and ungainly as Cristof. She twisted once and overshot, Cristof’s gloved fingertips brushing against the edge of a crimson flag. Gritting her teeth, Taya backbeat and tried again, worried that even though they were below the gondola’s windows, Numbers Five or Three might spot them.
With a jar, she was caught short. Her wingtips scraped against the bottom of the wooden gondola. Cristof winced as she pulled her wings in with a jerk. He grabbed a flag and pulled them up to one of the lines, closing his right hand tightly over it. She locked her wings in close and wriggled her arms free to grab the line with him.
For a moment they rested chest-to-chest, panting. Sweat ran down his face and his pulse pounded in his neck.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“If my nerves ever settle, I’ll let you know.” He mustered an unsteady smile. “Did the other ship blow up?”
She bobbed up to look past him.
“It’s descending. There’s smoke coming from the rear gondola. You must have damaged the engines.” She was relieved. At least one ship had been defeated without killing everyone on board.
/> “Good.” He took a breath, looking up. “We need to move backward, under the hatch.”
Awkwardly, moving hand over hand as they were buffeted by the strong air currents that swept under the gondola, they drew themselves beneath it.
“Where did you put the matches?” he asked.
“Left waist pocket. No, my left.”
He fished the tin box out one-handed and scrutinized her for a moment, his gray eyes wandering over her armature. Then he released the line, tensing as he bobbed against the straps that connected them.
“You’re zeroed out,” she reminded him. “You’re doing fine. You must be getting over your fear of heights.”
“Not in this lifetime.” He pulled out a match and struck it against the locking mechanism that sealed her armature keel. Flame burst up for a second before being blown out. Pungently scented smoke tickled her nose. He tossed the match away. “Could you shift a little to the right?”
She angled around. He pulled out several matches and put them between his teeth. Then, bomb in one hand, he struck a second match and thrust the fuse into its flame. No luck. A third. Failure. A fourth. The cord crackled and caught.
Cristof dropped the match and grabbed her shoulder, pulling himself up and throwing his elbow into the trap door. Taya risked a glance as it slammed open. She caught a glimpse of someone’s started face and then Cristof bobbed over her again, lobbing the bomb as far back into the gondola as he could.
She released the flag line and thrust her arms into her wings as they dropped. Cristof grabbed his glasses with a yelp, his free hand locking around her keel. She spread her arms and beat down as hard as she could, angling them up and away. Twenty seconds, moving slower this time because she was ascending and fighting the drag of a second body… but up was safer than down. She threw everything she had into lifting them higher.
Then she heard the explosion, first one and then a second.
She knew what to do this time. She had a sense of how long the thermals would buffet her, and for once she wasn’t worried about being scalded by falling rubbish. She kept them as steady as she could and rode out the percussion.
Clockwork Lies: Iron Wind (Clockwork Heart trilogy) Page 35