9

Three imperial dreadnoughts had appeared in the sky over Freeport, demanding Arvendahl or any of his lordship’s associates. Pretty much everything happened in one awful rush after that. But the crew of the Falcon were too busy to spare the ensuing chaos a second glance. The raucous pirate-haven shut down at once, most of its people going to ground in whatever bolt hole they could evict someone else from. What followed was a mad, crab-like scramble for safety.

Some folk were panicked enough to try escaping through flight, launching their airships and skiffs from the mountainous side of that big, floating island. It didn’t work. The imperial dreadnoughts were too well positioned; one above, one each at the west and east shores. Smugglers and refugees trying to slip through that cordon were blasted out of the sky with powerful mage bolts or smashed to bits by the thunder and crash of massive crossbows. Called Korvins, the bows fired iron-sheathed quarrels the size of whole trees, reducing whatever they hit to pink mist and splinters.

Aboard Falcon, it fell out like this: Hallan took the helm with Achilles Murchison. Laurol and Villem (along with that sparking and murmuring sword) claimed amidships. The main hold was taken by Not-Jonn and Nadia, while Conn and Vorbol defended the prow. There was no time to spare for much of a speech. Varrick would surely have done it better, but…

“Speedy’s our home, now. All we’ve got left,” he said to the mortal, the half-elves and paladins. “We’re not just a crew, but a family. What my brother died to defend, I’ll fight to the last breath to save: this airship, and all of you.”

The crew gathered closer, nodding; their spirits raised by Hallan’s bold words and the paladins’ magic. Squaring his shoulders, their captain went on, saying,

“Once the trash gate opens, Falcon will separate. We’ll drop down with the rubbish and scavengers for a twenty-count. Then, once we’ve vanished into the clouds… Wizard, we’re going to need clouds… Falcon will come back together. Defend yourselves and your section until that happens, and Oberyn’s blessing on all of us.”

The sun was no more than a faint line of flame to their west by that point, already sinking from view. Floods of imperial troops poured out of the dreadnoughts, meanwhile, armed and ready for battle. There wasn’t much time left.

“Take your positions,” ordered the red-haired young captain. “Wizard, with me!”

As the crew raced off to their posts, Murchison followed Hallan. Could see that the youngster was an elf in his flower of strength on the outside… and a really scared kid deep within. Pelting after the captain, Murchison cleared his throat.

“Clouds. Okay. Cool, cool, cool. Yeah, so… there’s a weather-adept here in Freeport named Hurcan. Sort of a big noise in these parts. Half djinn, and one of the first guys I met in this place,” said the transported wizard, scratching his beard. “We’ll have to get off of his turf before I can stir up a dust-devil, much less summon the clouds.”

Captain Gelfrin drooped visibly, seeming almost ready to cry. Then, with a scowl and a fierce headshake, the elf pulled himself back together.

“Do your best, Wizard,” growled Hal, turning away to stride aft. “Speedy will drop with the trash till you’ve conjured some cover. Clouds, mist, anything.”

Speaking of the local big-noise, Hurcan now burst from his palace on the island’s north shore; clearly half-djinn, and seemingly made all of storm clouds, thunder and rage. At the same moment, a deep, throbbing gong belled out, warning all those below of the impending garbage dump. Hurcan ignored it.

Riding a captive tornado, he attacked the uppermost dreadnought, sweeping its troops off their gangplanks and lines like a scatter of chaff. With a wave of his blue-skinned arm, Hurcan next summoned a mighty gale, causing the airship to yaw wildly starboard. (Or so Murchison thought. That-a-way, anyhow.)

Right on time, Freeport unlocked its dump cavern. Huge wooden doors creaked apart, slamming wide open with a reverberating CRASH. Disgorged a rumbling torrent of garbage, rubbish and corpses, along with a very foul stench.

Now Falcon dropped away from its cheap low-end berth, falling directly into that putrid river. Came apart into four ragged chunks as it fell, hauling in masts and tanks to leave just the helm, midship, main hold and prow. They broke free with a painful splintering sound, trailing shorn cordage and brass like spilled entrails; linked by flickering manna.

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The pieces spun as they dropped. Disorienting, but useful, for their wobbling spin batted salvage crews, griffins and wyverns aside. Wind roared past, rattling clothing and snatching at hair.

The crew hung on as best they could through the plunge, given footing by Falcon’s magic. Fighting in freefall while clamped to the deck was no joke, but Murchison wielded his staff like a boss, defending Hallan when the kid was attacked from behind.

Somebody’s overripe lunch splattered on Murchison’s head… he had to stab a gibbering harpy with the pointy end of his staff… then the ship creaked and rocked as a heavy bronze wyvern landed on the taffrail with a jarring THUMP.

Clouds. He was supposed to be working on clouds, but no one ignores three tons of hissing, ravenous pterosaur (with blistering halitosis, to boot). As the wyvern spread its jaws for a flame-blast, Murchison whirled his staff around to the business end and snapped,

“Aguas!”

Water gushed forth, straight from the elemental plane and totally inexhaustible. The wyvern looked startled, at first. Then it panicked, swelling up like a scaly water-balloon.

Whipping its head aside on that long, snaky neck, the monster gurgled and screeched. Then it let go of the rail and fell backward, vomiting water. (That’s okay. Murchison vomited, too, not being a natural skydiver.)

As garbage and would-be scavengers rained down around them, the wizard finally dropped out of Hurcan’s reach. He started his sigil and chant in a hurry, coaxing moisture out of the sky.

Vapor gathered, along with a cluster of curious wind sprites. They’d been diving for prizes, and hovered beside him now, draped in torn clothing and ditched, unfence-able jewels.

“Don’t just fall there,” snapped Murchison. “Help me!”

The battle raged on, overhead, as mages from all three dreadnoughts joined forces to clamp Hurcan in a crackling magical cage. Working together, they pinned the cursing part-djinn between them, draining his manna as the airships pounded the city below. Tremendous distraction, that; providing more cover for Falcon’s escape. Not that they got away clean.

Up at the prow, a roaring orc and ferocious marine hacked a party of scavenging raiders to shreds. Not far from that, Not-Jonn and Nadia sent a score of dive-bombing griffins to their feathery ancestors with blade, bow and magic. In the tumbling midship section, the Sword defended itself, absorbing acts of villainy and heroism with equal gusto. Left Laurol and Villem with little to do besides stare, as the weapon drained Chaos and Order from every creature that blundered down onto the deck. They were lucky. On the other segments, crew and captain fought for their lives and their torn-apart ship.

“Wizard,” shouted Hallan, yanking his sword from the chest of a filthy harpy and booting her over the side. “How much longer?” He balanced on rigging and rails like a cat, completely unfazed by the airship’s spinning descent.

Murchison looked around, fighting airsickness. High overhead, Hurcan fought on, lashing at all three imperial ships with thunder and wind. Those below witnessed the battle in strobe-like flashes of lightning. The mortal wizard made a face, trying to convey ‘almost done’ without interrupting his chanting or sigils. It didn’t work.

High-elves weren’t much for facial expressions, anyway, and Hallan was busy skewering boarders. Not the best audience. Whatev. Murchison struggled along as all four sections of Falcon dropped like a pile of bricks. Got the last squiggle and dot burned onto the ether, almost shrieking the last keyword…

“Anka!”

And all at once there was fog. Not mist at all, but an absolute, muffling pea-souper; thick enough almost to bite down and chew.

“Done!” he shouted, scattering wind-sprites like autumn leaves. Couldn’t see Hallan… or much else past the end of his nose… but could certainly hear the young elf.

“Speedy, now!” called the captain, and Falcon responded. As Murchison braided himself to the rail, the airship’s pieces slowed their descent. Three other big segments loomed up through the fog, dark as boulders and dripping with moisture. The magic connecting them drew Falcon’s parts back together, shortening and tightening to bring those splintered segments into alignment.

All four pieces crunched into place, shaking the deck like they’d run aground on a mountaintop. Prow, main hold, midship and helm first locked back together then rattled and flexed, tossing the crew like dice in a cup.

Next masts extruded, rising like quills on an aerial porcupine. Tanks rolled out of their faerie pockets as Hallan called out,

“Hang on!”

…and Falcon performed a wild, creaking barrel roll in midair, just a few hundred feet over surging dark water. The last three scavengers were hurled to their deaths by the ship’s violent spiral, crashing down to sate Father Ocean.

Murchison clung like a burr to the airship’s railing as air, then water, then air again filled all his view. The wizard's stomach floated up into his mouth. Then Falcon righted itself and snapped out its steering fins, parting the fog like a knife blade. The elf seemed completely unruffled; one hand clamped on the rigging, one booted foot on the binnacle, looking around for pursuit.

High overhead, Hurcan was winning or losing his battle for Freeport. Here on deck, running footsteps announced the panting arrival of Laurol and Villem, Not-Jonn and Nadia, then Vorbol and Conn.

Hallan leapt down and embraced every one of them, counting heads in a voice that cracked only a little. All of his people were scratched, bruised and battered, but present. Still alive and still with him.

“A tot of grog for everyone, Laurol,” said Captain Gelfrin, after a bit. “Or just break out whatever’s left. It’ll be short commons till we reach the next port, but we made it. We’re free.”

Aye, that. With a fugitive ship, a much-reduced crew, and a sword of ill-omen aboard. On the run once again, but not without hope for tomorrow. Leaving Freeport behind, Falcon shot south; into the night and whatever came next.