Arrows flashed up at the diving birds. Pirin threw out one last Shattered Palm, driving the arrows to the side or shattering them, like he flew through a snowstorm of inky flakes. Gray tucked her wings, and the other three bombers did the same. Wind whipped around his face as he and Gray made a nearly vertical dive.
The first pilot released her bomb too early. It fell into the water ahead of the delta-gate and detonated, sending up a splash of water but nothing else. She didn’t pull up in time and smashed straight into the close portcullis, shearing her bird’s wings off and tumbling to hostile waters below.
There was no time to signal, and Pirin himself didn’t know the best time to drop a bomb. He held his dive.
At the last possible moment, only feet above the water, they ordered their gnatsnappers to spread their wings. The fluttering kicked up a wake of water and sent plumes of mist out in all directions.
Before they lost any speed, the other bombers released their payloads. One bomb smashed into the wall of the delta-gate harmlessly. It collided before its runes could detonate it.
Pirin opened his arms at the same time as the last pilot released her bomb. It flew out of his hands and raced toward the gate. Both were straight on target. The runes flared golden yellow, and as soon as the bombs came in contact with the portcullis, they detonated. A fiery explosion big enough to rip a battleship in half tore a hole in the center of the portcullis.
Pirin ignored the rest of the spectacle. He slammed his mask back on and pushed up with a gasp of wind, buoying the remaining bombers and lifting them over the delta-gate. Lighter, now, they could evade the vastly reduced horde of enemy birds.
“Return to the fleet!” he called through the windstone. “We’ll distract them until help arrives.”
“Understood, your majesty!” one pilot replied. The three survivors veered off and fluttered back to the fleet of duelling ships.
Pirin and Gray circled around, climbing higher to draw off as many gate-defending birds as he could. As a by-product, it gave them a perfect view of the gate: under its own weight, the portcullis collapsed into a steaming heap of rubble and flotsam. It washed out into the bay, then out into the ocean—not a serious impediment to ships.
“While we’re at it,” Pirin said, “why don’t we make the fleet’s approach a little easier?”
What do you have in mind? Gray asked. Some sort of fire? I’d love to breathe fire…
“Not fire, but I’ve got a quarter-core of pure Essence left,” Pirin said. “I think we could deal with some archers…”
Now you’re talking! She added a few audible, gleeful chirps afterward.
As Pirin and Gray made passes back and forth across the wall, knocking over crossbow platforms and putting out flaming cauldrons with gusts of wind (no more flaming arrows), the distant fleets drifted closer. The Sirdian warships outnumbered the Aerdian guardian fleet, and beyond that, they’d had the element of surprise.
It wouldn’t last for long, and once they deployed the river barges, the fleet would have to retreat north once more, but for the time being, they had the upper hand.
When the last enemy birds stopped harrying Pirin and the first of the Sirdian battleships approached the defenseless delta-gate, Pirin cut off all his techniques and rested back in his saddle.
“Call it a job well-done?” Pirin asked.
It was an acceptable amount of carnage, yes. Gray let out a soft, breathy warble. But I think more’s to come…
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Myraden and Kythen marched across a field of dry late-summer grass and shrubs. She held her head low and hoisted her pack higher up on her back as she walked side-by-side with her bloodhorn. Mountains loomed to the left, their snowy peaks threatening the coming of winter in the Plainsparan lowlands, but they were too far away to provide any shadow in the heat of the summer.
To the right, nothing but hilly, grassy flats. The coast was invisible, and they hadn’t seen a river for days.
Ahead…some distance away (she hadn’t been keeping close track of the time) was the border between the Seisse peninsular and Plainspar. She watched for rising smoke or columns of dust, anything to signal a border city.
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Even though both nations were occupied vassals of the Dominion, travel on land was often restricted. The lowliest, those who couldn’t afford airships or birds, passed border cities. They’d become less of a security measure and more of a rest stop for weary travellers.
After marching from central Ostanor and across the vastness of Plainspar, she was looking forward to a rest. Enhanced body or not, such long-distance travel took a toll.
At noon, a tendril of smoke reached up toward the clouds, and hope blossomed in her aching soles, but it was just a simple farmhouse. There were plenty of those dotted around Plainspar.
It was the Mainland. There was little true wilderness anymore, especially not in Plainspar. What wasn’t farmland had been scoured clean by ranched cattle and sheep. Technically, she was crossing a ranch right now.
The sun hung directly overhead, its rays beaming down through the dusty sky. Being a Northern Sprite, she was born to resist the cold, not to survive the summer heat. Sweat poured down her forehead, and had it not been for her enhanced healing, she would’ve been covered in sunburns.
She glanced back over her shoulder at the distant, black silhouette trailing behind her, jealous of his ability to wear a frock coat in the middle of the summer, and called, “How much farther? By your estimate?”
The Red Hand trekked along, using his sheathed sword as a walking stick. He held his head low as well and grumbled under his breath. Finally, he called, “Now you speak?”
She’d had a hard enough time convincing him to venture across the land with him, and had she not previously studied with him, she was sure he would’ve rejected her. Instead, he’d silently nodded. Over the past few weeks, she’d pieced together bits of what he wanted. That meant returning to Seisse—his homeland.
“You were the one giving me the silent treatment,” she called back, raising her voice over the whipping, arid winds.
“I still don’t trust you,” he shouted. “And you have yet to explain why you need me.”
“I need a teacher. You can help me advance to Wildflame.”
“Why should I? We are sworn enemies, and you know it.”
Myraden slowed her pace slightly, allowing the Red Hand to catch up to her and Kythen.
I’m not sure if I agree with this plan either, said Kythen. Though I doubt I need to repeat myself again and again.
“You can read my mind,” she whispered to Kythen in Íshkaben. “My intentions are as plain as they get.”
Once the Red Hand was closer, she said, “You trained under Nomad, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Then you understand. His methods might work for some, but arcane advancement is as much in your head as it is…in your soul and spirit. That, you taught me in our short time together. Nomad’s methods will not work for me. I will not advance in time, and Pirin will have to face two Unbound Lords alone.”
“That sounds acceptable.” The Hand planted his sheathed sword down with renewed intensity, parting the loose summer soil.
“That you will…train me?” It seemed too easy that he’d just…change his mind. With that. For her goals.
“That Pirin dies.”
Myraden shut her eyes slowly and sighed. “You will not get anywhere from hunting him. Not anymore. Are your old habits taking over?”
“I don’t care about your quest or your nation.”
Myraden shut her eyes. “And the Dominion? You gave up your rebellion and joined the Dominion. What was it? They would bring about an era of greater peace, where none would have to suffer as Seisse had?” She shook her head, opened her eyes, and kept walking—she’d fallen behind slightly. “But they are only living in peace if you do not look around.”
“I want peace for myself. I am a mortal man, and I am aging. As the end draws nearer…I long to go home, to relax, and have nothing to do with the rest of the world. Even if it’s just a wisp of peace, I’d take it.”
Myraden snorted. “Then throw aside that glove, bury your sword, and forget you ever lived.”
“You think yourself wise,” the Red Hand muttered. “But it’s not so easy. You can tell yourself so, but…” He stopped, turned around, and raised his sword. He tapped her gently in the center of the chest with the blunt end of the sheath. “You know it’s not true. You’re still struggling, and no one would say you’re at peace.”
“As long as the Dominion remains, I cannot be at peace,” Myraden snarled. “They killed my father.”
“I thought I killed your father,” the Red Hand said mockingly.
“I thought that long ago, no longer. I was naïve.”
“You still are.”
Myraden grunted. “Would a little naïvity hurt you? What if you could make a difference before you went off to be ‘at peace’?”
“I will not abandon my role until there is someone to fill my shoes. There must be another Red Hand.”
Myraden narrowed her eyes with disgust. “You think I could do it? You do not know me as well as you think.”
“I propose a test.” The Red Hand pulled his sword away and kept walking. “In the bordertown, there’s an old Seissen shrine. It’s been long since abandoned, monks deserting, the like. A Blaze-equivalent beast has taken up residence in it, last I heard. Show me what you’ve learned and how far you’ve advanced since we last met. If you can defeat the demonling, you’ll have proven your ability.”
“You would train me?”
“I would do everything in my power to help you advance to Wildflame.”
She snorted. “Then I agree, but...why now?”
“I have plans for you.”
She pursed her lips and pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, but regardless of his motive, she had no other choice. She’d keep an eye out for traps, for her potentially being used, and keep her wits to herself.
“How far to the shrine, then?”
“We will arrive by sunset, assuming your beast can keep up.”