8

Earlier, Kaazin (a Drow of mixed and rejected lineage) had abandoned one set of soft, worthless day-spawn to highjack another. His transport and associates made no difference to Kaazin, so long as he held to his course… And something drew him quite strongly to the Flying Cloud. Not the short-tempered crystalline witch behind him, either. She was a receiver of sorts; just the focus for somebody’s mind, hidden somewhere aboard that sleek, deadly pirate ship. He could sense their connection.

Kaazin played along. Allowed himself to be herded up the misty gangplank between Falcon and Flying Cloud, staying just ahead of the glass-construct’s sword point. She might have given instructions. He didn’t bother to listen, any more than he looked back at the smaller ship and its fluttering, soft-hearted paladins. He was done with that lot, and they could look to themselves. Or not.

Up and across the gangplank he strode, using mage-sight to scan his surroundings. Trying to, rather. The Cloud was well warded, proof against most kinds of magic surveillance. Well enough. He had other methods, and it was wisest not to seem dangerous. Yet.

The link between the two airships dissolved as soon as Kaazin and ‘Glassy’ stood braced on the Cloud’s tilted deck. Bright sunshine shone on a surprisingly barren ship. Wind whistled past tanks and rigging, drawing music from guns that were maintained by magic and fired by swarms of small, assembler-type constructs. As the rail closed up behind Kaazin, a pair of ribbed wings snapped out of the Flying Cloud’s sides, sending a powerful jolt through the vessel.

The pirate ship lifted away from the cutter, rapidly widening the gap of open sky between them. Far below lay the ocean; gem-blue, streaked with long ripples of white. Aboard ship, masts rose and shimmering sails appeared as the tiller shifted to port. All of this happened efficiently, silently. Kaazin saw no crew and heard no orders from Glassy. Well, elven captains could speak with their ships telepathically. He’d seen it on Falcon. Maybe the same thing was happening, here.

“Get below,” snapped the captain. “Follow that line on the deck, and don’t try to fight me. You are being watched by more eyes that you know, Drow.”

Always just ‘Drow’, as if that was all there was to him. All that mattered to anyone else, at least. Kaazin refused to correct her. Why bother?

A glowing line had appeared on the polished wood deck at his feet. A yard wide, shining pale green, it ran from his spot at the rail to an open hatch further amidships. Kaazin looked around as he started forward, taking note of the airship’s general layout and armament.

The wind freshened when Flying Cloud soared up and away from the Falcon. Kaazin’s ice-pale hair whipped backward, hopefully striking and blinding his ‘captor’. Though he suspected that she did not see as he did, and not through those blank, crystal eyes of hers.

His guideline passed between lashed equipment and back-swept masts, ending up at an oval hatch on the deck. Bright sunshine outside made it seem very dark within, leaving Kaazin with no sense at all of what lay below.

“Down!” ordered Glassy. “You’ll see daylight again when we reach Port Imperial, if you survive the trip, Drow. Alive or dead, makes no difference to me. His Majesty’s justiciar ‘ll pry out your secrets, and we get paid regardless.”

If they reached Port Imperial, at all. If she was more than a coral-and-weed festooned statue buried in mud by this time tomorrow. But Kaazin held his peace and his tongue. Turned around to start down the ladder-well. Too proud to climb (and possibly needing his hands for defense), he simply leapt. Invoked web-line first, attaching a sort of spirit strand to the hatch rim and then ballooning down like a spider.

Below deck, it was close, warm and noisy; filled with an unceasing hum that at first set one’s teeth on edge, but soon became mere background detail. He’d encountered much the same aboard Falcon. More important was the sense of recent tragedy; of bloody death that left stains on the ether where crewmen had messily perished. Interesting.

From inside, the passageway wasn’t dark at all. (At least, not when his vision adjusted.) Not to one raised in the Under-Realm. The guideline provided some light, as did a row of dim red lanterns affixed to the bulkheads.

Kaazin hit the passage floor like a cat. Then he rose and phased his web-strand half out of sync with the plane. Doing so hid it completely from Glassy and Cloud. He could still access it, though; would be able to retrace his path, even if blinded.

He was devious. Expected trouble and met it willingly, blade in hand. (And when had he ever been wrong, except for the one time he’d let himself trust?) His weapons were tucked away in deep faerie pockets. Not a Drow magic, so perhaps unexpected. (The other half of his parentage had its occasional uses, as well.)

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Keep moving,” snarled Glassy, when Kaazin slowed at the intersection of another tight passage, this one rife with perpetual-motion engine noise and an oily smell. Good to know where Cloud’s heart lay, and how to stop it from beating. Almost, he smiled. Picked up the pace, tracking that glowing green line to a hatch with a barred window and spoked dogging-wheel.

“Inside!” Glassy commanded. To Kaazin’s ear, she sounded young, a little afraid and trying quite hard to conceal it.

He turned a bit to look at her. Said nothing aloud, as that wasn’t his way. Just memorized, scanning swiftly for weakness of stance, handedness, blindsides. Found what he needed.

The hatch creaked open behind him. Kaazin stared at his ‘captor’ an instant longer, then ducked on through, sending shadow in, first. That alternate-self detected no more than a very small cell with a wall-mounted seat and a bucket. Not the worst accommodation he’d stayed in. Being half Drow and half something nobody wanted to see, Kaazin had become an expert on prison.

Recalling shadow, he entered that closet-like cell. Did not look back as the hatch slammed and dogged itself shut behind him. Did listen closely instead to the particular music of its lock clicking over. Memorized that, as well. The hatch had no physical key, but only a coded dial. That made things simpler.

Follow instructions. Stay quiet. Give no trouble at all, until the moment arises to strike. A strategy he’d learnt to live by and usually followed in this second chance at revenge. Before everything changed, he’d chosen the path of his mother’s vile people, remaining a low-ranking Drow and a slave raider. This time, he’d tried to aid one who didn’t deserve it. One he fully intended to hunt down and kill.

Not from a cell, though. With little to go on but a face and an alias, plus a few scattered hints at identity, what Kaazin chiefly needed was fast, well-armed transport. He needed the Cloud, and he intended to have her, long before they reached Port Imperial’s murderous chief justiciar.

Time passed. Kaazin sat himself down on that hard, wall-mounted seat while two meals of water and ship’s biscuit were served through the food slot. Not at all hungry, he spent the interval preparing, sending shadow forth to scout out the corridor. Looked for guards (there weren’t any) and for fellow prisoners (none of those, either).

Shadow could not travel further than twenty-five feet from Kaazin, but it could penetrate walls, flow into locked chests, and enter sealed rooms with ease. Seeking this way gave him a definite sense of desertion. There was no crew at all, and no sign of Glassy, either, unless that slick, rounded object… just at the edge of his reach… was part of the crystalline pirate.

He waited until a tamed assembler-construct removed his second meal tray, counted backward from a hundred, then went to the hatch. Sent shadow into the door’s locking mechanism, in there among its pins, gears and cylinders. Simple enough arrangement, to his psychic “touch”.

Next used mage hand to turn the dogging wheel’s dial a few times, hearing and feeling it rattle and click; searching for the code he’d heard earlier. And… yes. There. Two to the right, three left, five right, seven left, then eleven short taps to the center pad.

He tried once again, just to be certain, then scrambled the lock and checked the passage both ways with shadow. Next, Kaazin opened his cell, padding out like a displacer beast leaving its lair; low, quiet, lethal.

No alarm sounded, but he covered himself in darkness and silence, anyhow, drawing Winter out of its faerie pocket. Then, sword in hand, Kaazin went hunting.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, back in Milardin, Vancora had flashed all of the correct approach signals, then glided up to her usual berth on the giant’s staircase… alone. Of all the fleet which had set off from the city, only the flagship reached port again, without Lord Arvendahl, manned by a skeleton crew.

Sera was first off the airship, in the best uniform she could cobble together from everyone’s lockers and faerie pockets. The half-elf was met at the end of the gangplank by a squad of armored Marines, led by their grim elven officer. A very large, very quiet crowd had gathered; among them her husband, Loren. He held Sache high to see mummy, but Sera had no time to go to them, nor even to wave.

The Marine officer stepped forward, looking her up and down, briefly. Gave her just a quick glance of those luminous sapphire eyes. Then,

“Where is Lord Arvendahl?” he demanded, clearly strained and impatient.

Sera bowed. Had her respectful gesture returned as a flick of his long, graceful hand. She took a deep breath and rose, saying,

“I do not know, my lord, and I daren’t conjecture. He was with us until late last night. Then he opened a gate and ported away.” ‘After crippling Vancora’, she didn’t add. Not here, in front of that restive and sorrowful crowd. Surely, they’d felt the deaths of their loved ones. Didn’t need fury piled onto that.

The auburn-haired officer’s beautiful face hardened.

“The rest of the fleet follows anon?” he pressed. For just an instant, meeting his gaze, Sera sensed that he’d had someone aboard one of those missing vessels. She broke eye contact and bowed once again, murmuring,

“I’m terribly sorry, my lord. We…”

“Enough,” he cut in, voice a whiplash snarl. “You will explain to the council, Aerrior. Summon your crew.” Then, to his squad, “Leftenant, have your men fall in. Form an escort.”

“Aye, milord!” barked a concerned junior officer. This younger elf got the marines into position as their commander fought to control his expression, struggled to keep himself standing erect.

…but the word was already spreading like fire through plains grass, from those on the dock to those further back. Very soon after that, all through the city. The fleet was lost, and Lord Arvendahl fled. Over a thousand had perished, leaving nothing at all between them and a furious sea.