The Seventh Magic (Book 3)

by Brian Rathbone

  Still distant, the Noonspire created a similar display. In the daylight it had looked like a smoky black crystal engulfed within the land itself. Now it towered above the Jaga, gleaming in comet light. The glossy surface reflected the skies, shifting like a rainbow of fire. Oranges, reds, and yellows made it appear as if it were engulfed in a massive conflagration. Even from a distance, the power was unmistakable. He'd been warned Aggrezjhon and Murden would soon have the power to free themselves, but seeing the Noonspire somehow risen from the depths, he had to wonder if they weren't already powerful enough. Mael had escaped his prison, or at least Sinjin presumed. The height of power was coming, and the future of all the people on Godsland were at stake.

  The Cathuran maps indicated thousands of comets would crowd the skies during the Istran Noon. Large comets would sometimes come very close. At these times, it was said Istra sent great bursts of energy. Sinjin just hoped they didn't burn up in her bounty. Already the air was thick with energy. What it would be like in fifty years was unimaginable.

  Riding what warm air he could find, Valterius took them higher. Despite ample light, the landscape lacked contrast. Rather than rich color and texture, it was shades of blackness, making individual shapes difficult to distinguish. Higher they went and Sinjin began to notice a pattern below. The closer they got to the spire, the darker the land grew. It was as if the center of the swamp had dried up and did not reflect the light in the way the moisture-laden vegetation did, or Sinjin realized, something waited there, covering up the swamp, ready to ambush anyone foolish enough to come close. The truth came far too late.

  Like any other illusion, it burst when recognized. The land crawled with life, large and small; at least some of it looked small from above. Masterfully carved stone blocks that hadn't been there before now radiated from the Noonspire's base. Much of the surface was glossy and slick, but some areas revealed lighter-colored stone with irregular texture, like an enormous sculpture. Reaching toward the clouds, the Noonspire dominated the landscape.

  Thinner and colder, the air became more difficult to breathe as Valterius took them higher, putting space between them and the prison. Near the megalithic crystal's tip, a facet reflected orange light tinged with greens and blues, setting it off from the world around it. Inside, Sinjin saw a raging battle. His mother's spirit tugged at him, pulling him closer. Then it was as if something else grabbed a hold of him. Downward they spiraled, Kendra's shouts unintelligible. No words survived the cacophony.

  Dragged lower against his will, a primal insult to any flying creature, Valterius bellowed in rage. From the ground came a great barrage of projectiles, many leaving a trail of fire behind and casting even brighter light on the horrific scene. What must have been thousands of feral dragons leaped into the sky at once, many with hooded riders on their backs. Sinjin's blood went cold. Valterius avoided attacks as best he could, but their flight path was no longer fully under his control. Stronger the attraction grew until it became apparent they were being pulled to the ground and not into the top of the crystal as Sinjin had thought. Howling madness waited to consume them. "Just get us pointed at the sky!" he shouted to Valterius. The dragon did not immediately respond. "Give us all the thrust you've got, Strom!"

  It was soon apparent Kendra had given a similar command because she and Brother Vaughn flashed past. Kendra got three shots off with a light bow before she and Gerhonda were lost from view. Sinjin cursed, wishing his wife were someplace safe. Then the thrust pushed him back into his seat, the leather saddle creaking under the strain and the straps tightening around his body. He sucked in shallow breaths, unable to bear the pain of breathing deeper. The distance it put between them and the spire was worth it. Though he was moving away from his intended destination, Sinjin was pleased. When they dropped past the peak of the spire, he knew in his heart something was wrong, that he needed to go into the top, just as his mother had.

  It was almost as if she said the words to him, and he took comfort from being close to her, even if they might as well be in two different worlds. It didn't matter. She needed him and he was there. She, too, was there for him. He was both in need and needed at the same time. This was the true nature of his life. Weakness revealed strength. The feeling of connection with his mother was cut off then, the fires within glowing anew. A great battle raged, and he hoped she fared well.

  Ferals crowded the skies above, and projectiles ranging from arrows to entire tree trunks filled the air below. The gap was closing, no matter their speed, and Valterius was once again forced lower.

  "We've got a problem!" Strom shouted. "Give me the bow."

  Sinjin turned to see a feral flying in their wake and gaining on them, three hooded, dark-robed figures on its back. Before he could hand the bow back to Strom, a spiral web of red lightning struck with ferocious intent. Valterius reeled and Sinjin lost his grip on the precious weapon. In his effort to save the bow, Strom diverted all his attention. Though he did manage to grab it, it left him in an awkward position, and all thrust had ceased. This, the feral had not expected. The gigantic dragon sailed forward, carried by momentum and the propulsion hooded riders continued to produce. The delay cost them.

  Ducking its head, the feral narrowly avoided being struck in the eye by Valterius, but those atop his back were not so fortunate. Two were knocked free, sent spinning into the air. The third clung to the feral's tail. The impact sent a shock of pain along Sinjin's side. He was relieved to see no dragon behind them, but when he turned to look ahead, he nearly fainted from fright. Before them reared a massive feral dragon, claws extended and bearing a rider of equal proportion.

  This alone would have been a startling sight, but hooded figures held in the giant's grotesquely oversized claws terrified Sinjin. One launched a column of spiraling air that tore at his dragon's wings. The other sent red and orange fire, searing Sinjin's very soul. Strom recovered and applied the thrust, putting some distance between them and the feral-mounted giant. Howling in anger, the giant shifted his grip to the hooded form's lower body, twirled the figure three times overhead, then threw the dark sorcerer with all his might.

  The hooded figure flew with single-minded intent, not crying out or flailing in the air, but instead preparing a single, lethal attack. Focused solely on Sinjin, the figure held clawed fingers out before it, and a ball of darkness rimmed with fire formed. With a single shot, while still providing thrust, Strom sent a knife of fire into the dark hood. Sinjin tried to determine what kind of creature the dark sorcerer was, but it fell away soundlessly, revealing no more.

  Pounding on his dragon in frustration, the giant forced more speed from his mount. The feral cried out and thrust forward, ready to take out its pain on them. This time the giant threw the remaining hooded figure like a spear. Claws outstretched and forming a sharp point, Sinjin thought it might simply impale them, but instead a blinding white pulse no larger than a firefly raced toward them. It pierced Valterius's wing membrane, and Sinjin experienced physical pain at his mount's cry. Favoring his right wing, Valterius sent them into a spiral. The hooded figure flew past, and Sinjin did not see where he went, though he did see another flash of light strike Valterius in the tail.

  "He's been hit!" Sinjin yelled through gritted teeth. Strom made no response, the continued thrust the only evidence he still lived. More feral dragons took off from around the Noonspire, almost all bearing giants. Unerringly they flew toward Valterius. They had been marked. It also occurred to him they might sense the sword or recognize him. That thought alone made him quail. Soon after he was busy ducking river stones and whole trees.

  Raked by roots still wet from the swamp, Sinjin reeled. Leaning hard to one side, the straps all that held him in, Sinjin saw the dragon-riding giant snatch a ballista from the ground. The soldier who'd been loading the weapon hung on for his life. When the giant held the ballista high, the mud man reached up, grabbed the trigger string, and yanked. A mighty thump announced the sharpened tree truck now sailing over their heads. Had
it not been for something slamming into the giant and exploding, the bolt would surely have landed on its mark. As Valterius continued to spiral, Sinjin tried to locate the source of the attack. A familiar, albeit deeper and louder, thumping accompanied a scaled-up version of the bumblebee that streamed black smoke and fire out the back. At the controls, grinning like a fool, was Kenward Trell.

  Chapter 14

  The key to flying is avoiding going entirely too fast in entirely the wrong direction.

  --Kenward Trell, inventor and airship captain

  * * *

  Rhythmic thumps from the stinger's exhaust were drowned out by the strange sound Kenward's air pressure–powered repeating weapon made when fired. His vessel might be a dangerous mixture of compressed air, flammable liquids, and powdered explosives, but on a good day, those things should remain isolated from each other. Opening the valve forced air into the stalk weed shafts, which ejected explosives-filled walnut shells at high velocity. The effect was a devastating weapon that looked as if it might self-destruct at any given moment. Looks did not determine how well something flew, Kenward told himself. Sometimes it was better to appear weak. A ship that appears invincible might inspire an enemy to throw everything they have at it.

  Many of his walnut shells missed their intended target, and some exploded in midair. Kenward just hoped they all made it away from the stinger before they detonated. Those that did strike worked exactly as intended, creating fear and chaos in dragons and giants alike. He had to remind himself to watch the skies around him since there were so many other aircraft and dragons to avoid. Jessub Tillerman sliced between Kenward and the dragon harrying Valterius. A brief hesitation was all that prevented Kenward from shooting Jessub's growler. A feral soared close behind, and Kenward reacted, pulling his weapon release wide open. The air rang with a foreign phong, phong, phong followed by random detonations.

  Some walnuts did little more than annoy those they struck, but the others made up for it. Time slowed while he passed through the madness surrounding the Noonspire. Bringing the stinger back around, Kenward had a full view of aerial chaos. Wings, explosions, and lightning surrounded stingers and growlers. The Kraken's Ghost loomed in the distance, Fasha's ship well hidden elsewhere.

  After pulling his straps tight, Kenward Trell opened the fuel-air mixture valve full stop. The thumps grew in frequency and amplitude, the speed giving the good captain a thrill like nothing else he'd ever known. He'd flown at speed atop a dragon, but he'd had no control. This was in every way a superior experience, save one. Tapping on the glass face of the fuel gauge, Kenward hoped it malfunctioned. He'd used most of his air firing the weapons, which meant he would have little pressure remaining should the main engine run short on naphtha. Learning from the ancients changed things so quickly, they hadn't quite perfected everything yet.

  Jessub and Gret flew alongside, each able to fly for long periods of time without any need for fuel or compressed air. The growlers did have air tanks, but those capable of flying them without could refill them in flight. As much as Kenward hated relying on the gifted, they had their advantages. Feral dragons and those riding them did not take kindly to the flyby and were in pursuit. Kenward just needed to get back within what he called the Ring of Fire.

  Tapping the glass once again, he shrugged. It would either be enough or it wouldn't. The ferals gained, and already Gret was under fire. "Don't wait on me," Kenward said. "I'm taking a shortcut!" Reaching down with his left hand, Kenward pulled a lever he hadn't been certain he'd ever have the guts to use. If he did nothing, the dragons would catch them; it was either fly or bail out. Given that choice, Kenward decided to fly. With a yank, he pumped the rest of his compressed air through the pitch-fired thumper engine. The result sent him hurtling through the air at uncontrollable speed, his flight path leaving a squiggly line of black and white smoke.

  Left behind, Jessub and Gret had plenty of speed to outrun the dragons, or at least he hoped they did. The growlers depended on thrust from Istra's power, which was not granted in equal measure. Gret was a good bit faster than Jessub, though he had greater control over his landings. Kenward was still working on those. Soon landing became his highest priority since the Kraken's Ghost moved toward him at an unbelievable rate. Reaching down, Kenward was about to ease the compressed-air valve closed when the pulse engine winked out, going dark and silent. No thump came from the compressed-air backup since Kenward had used it to get his burst of speed. He came in fast and low.

  Pulling back on the flaps, Kenward stood the stinger on its tail, using the wings themselves as brakes. The deck of the Kraken's Ghost came up fast but provided plenty of room for error, which turned out to be a good thing. Not reacting quickly enough, Kenward let the stinger's tail strike the deck before he had leveled out, which sent the nose crashing downward. Thankful they had taken the time and materials to spring load the skids, Kenward still bit his tongue during the rough landing.

  Jessub, Gret, and the rest of their flight, or at least those who'd returned, must have made it within the Ring of Fire because the Kraken's Ghost showed her teeth. With scaled-up versions of what the stinger and growlers carried, the Ghost fired melon-sized shot with a terrific report. The sound alone was a weapon that struck fear in approaching ferals. Ballistae fire sent flaming bolts through the air, marking the Ghost's air space.

  Farsy ran to Kenward's side. "Are you hurt?"

  "No, but it's pretty ugly out there. Fuel me up, load me heavy, and pack the air tanks full. I almost didn't make it back." Farsy looked at him as if he were daft. Then his old friend shook his head. "And load the bay with some of the big shot this time."

  "You've bent up the landing gear," Farsy said.

  "Hit it with a hammer a couple of times if that's what you have to do, but get me back in the air!"

  Frowning, Farsy did as Kenward asked but clearly didn't like it.

  * * *

  Watching Kenward and the others go, Sinjin hoped they had the sense to stay away. No matter how much he appreciated their help, the darkness was too powerful here. Valterius was out of the fight. Wounded, the valiant beast carried on as best he could. Strom kept the thrust low to prevent the air from thrashing the regal dragon too much. The sky above them thick with ferals, it was as if Kenward and the others hadn't been there at all; like a keel moving through water, the darkness simply rushed back in.

  Gerhonda took the fight to the ferals against all probability. Sinjin's wife carried one of the larger light bows, and Brother Vaughn wielded a glowing orb. How the monk snatched dragons from the sky and dashed them on the armies below was a mystery until smoke and debris made the spiraling vortex obvious.

  "Look," Sinjin shouted, pointing. He didn't know if Strom heard until dragons descending on them folded like moths in a hurricane. The ancients' orbs were truly mysterious, complex, and dangerous objects. For now they worked in their favor, but such tools might later haunt them. The herald globes were perfect examples of useful implements turned powerful weapons.

  A deep growling filled the air a moment later, and three more aircraft like the one Jessub had been flying soared past. Sinjin watched as Gwen opened fire on nearby ferals, continuing to force them lower. Rings of mist rolled through the air after each projectile left the stalk weed shafts, only to be ripped apart by the wind. Some walnuts had little apparent effect, while others exploded with concussive force. Throwing his arm against shards of walnut shell knifing through the air, Sinjin watched the aircraft roar past, staying in tight formation. Ferals reached for them--not quickly enough.

  Gerhonda soared in close, given breathing room by Gwen and the others. "We've got to get him out of here," Kendra said.

  "Might be too late," Sinjin said. His wife glared at him. "Maybe with help . . ." If aircraft kept ferals off their tail, they might have a chance. No matter how fast, nimble, and well armed, it was unlikely. Gerhonda used her wing to lend Valterius support. He whined. Gwen and her companions made pass after pass, turning back when
their fuel, air, or munitions were exhausted.

  As soon as they departed, Kenward returned, his aircraft still belching fire. Flying in low, he yanked on a lever beside his seat. Nothing happened. Kenward shook the aircraft back and forth--still nothing. Executing a tight turn revealed explosives-filled melons stuck together and jamming the bomb bay. Still Valterius spiraled downward as if in a trance, only at a slower rate because of Gerhonda's aid. Twice Sinjin lost sight of Kenward but then saw the flying machine far too close to the ground and taking heavy fire from below. Approaching an armed fortification, Kenward pulled up sharply, arrows sticking out of his aircraft. The force dislodged the two explosive melons, whose irregular size made them perhaps less than perfect for the task. When they struck the ballista, though, they worked just fine.

  The blast sent a wave of destruction across the plain, leaving a circle of devastated landscape. If not for cover fire from the other two aircraft, Kenward Trell would never have made it away from the fight, yet he flew on. Sinjin wished him well and tried to figure out what to do next. So far he'd had little choice in the matter and even less understanding of what was expected of him. Gripping the sword, he clenched his teeth. Perhaps landing in the area Kenward bombed would buy them a few brief moments, but it seemed suicide.

  "I need to get back to the top of the Noonspire," he said. "Valterius is wounded. I need Gerhonda to take me." It was a painful admission, and Valterius whined, looking back at Sinjin.