Graylin hugged the wheel to hold in place.
Then the careening sailraft struck broadside into a giant draft-iron cable on the starboard side with a resounding clang. The skiff slammed to a stop, splintering in half. The impact threw Graylin from his seat. His head cracked hard into the hull, dazzling his eyes. He tried to stand, only to fall woozily to a knee.
Beyond the open stern, a wall of men raced toward him.
He fought upward again. This time, he yanked out his sword, determined to fight to his last breath.
For Nyx …
He lifted the silvery length of Heartsthorn—only to have the world spin. His legs wove drunkenly under him. He raised his blade and swung it down. It was all he could manage in that moment. He hoped it was enough. He then crashed backward into the raft’s seat. He tried to prop himself up, but the world went dark.
44
KANTHE KEPT THEIR group moving through the panicked chaos of Havensfayre. Wagons thundered down streets. Men on horseback whipped anyone in their way. Most of the crowd were simply townspeople carrying their lives on their backs. Many more cowered behind shuttered windows.
Bells clanged all around, cutting through the shouts and bellows.
Their group would have had difficulty wading against that tide, except for the large wet beast leading their way. Aamon’s hackles shivered in a tall threatening ridge. His muzzle was fixed in a rippling snarl, baring white fangs. The seas parted before his menacing growl, allowing them passage through the town.
“Where do we go?” Jace asked, voicing the question plaguing them all.
Frell glanced behind them. “We should settle that before long. Especially now that we’re safely into the depths of this town.”
Kanthe frowned at him. “We’re far from safe here.”
Moments ago, they had all heard the boom of cannon fire. They did not know what that portended, but the bombardment had pushed them harder. By now, smoke choked the air, darkening the mists. All around, flames glowed off in the distance, except to the east, toward the mooring fields. That was the direction most of the townspeople were fleeing, but Kanthe knew there was no safe passage that way. One or both of the warships would soon commandeer those fields.
“Then what do we do?” Jace asked again, gripping his new ax with both hands, sticking protectively close to Nyx.
Kanthe huffed, tired of just running. “Over here.”
He drew them all under the eaves of an abandoned shop, letting the crush of people sweep past them. He got them all huddled together, while Aamon guarded their privacy. All eyes were upon him.
Kanthe laid out their situation. “Knowing Haddan, once he has this place locked up, the legion will search the town, section by section, burning everything behind them to ensure nothing was missed. Afterward, if they don’t find us, they’ll sift those ashes.”
Jace’s eyes were huge platters. “Then where do we go? Where can we hide?”
Kanthe pointed ahead. “The Golden Bough.”
“Back to the inn? Why there?” Frell asked. “It seems a risky choice. I paid gold for silence when we were last there, but I fear such largesse will not extend if the entire town is burning.”
Kanthe laid out his points as quickly as he could. “We’re not renting rooms there, Frell. We sneak in and head straight down into the wine cellars.”
“The wine cellars?” Jace asked with a wrinkled brow.
“I checked the place out when you were all droning on and on about plans last night, plans that are plainly dashed. Where else would the drunken Tallywag of Highmount go to while away the night?”
Frell frowned at him, as if sensing his lie.
In fact, he had not gone down there to sample those dusty bottles. Instead, he went to canvass for a place to retreat to if the inn were attacked. After all that had happened, he saw enemies in every shadow now. Such fears had kept him sober and unable to sleep.
“The cellars are buried under the roots of the inn’s giant tree. It’s a maze down there. Not only does it delve deep, which could protect us from any flames that might be burning above, but there is a score of ways to slip out. A young fetcher in the red cap of the inn showed me two exits and pointed out several others. All for the cost of three brass pinches. A fee I’m now happy to have paid.”
Frell studied him for a breath, then nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll go.”
Kanthe grabbed the alchymist before the man could turn away. “Plus, there is all that wine down there. We can’t discount the value of getting good and soused if worse comes to worst.”
Frell shook loose with a roll of his eyes and pushed Kanthe back toward the clamor of the crowds. “Let’s go.”
They set off again, only pausing here and there to nab someone and demand directions. Aamon encouraged their cooperation amidst the panic.
Finally, the gilded sign of the Golden Bough appeared. The sprawl hardly looked all that different than before. Several of the glowing windows in the giant trunk had gone dark, but the huge doors into the commons remained open. Jolly music flowed out, along with the usual bellows and bouts of laughter.
Though to Kanthe’s experienced ear, it all sounded far more drunken. Apparently, there were those who were already heeding his earlier advice.
To get good and soused as the world burned.
He led the others gallantly toward those people who shared his spirit—until a growl rose behind him.
He turned to find Nyx staring off into the smoky mists of the town. Her hand rested on Aamon’s side, which vibrated with tension. The vargr’s narrow eyes were fixed in the same direction. Both his ears stood stiff and tall, their bells pointing there, too.
Nyx cocked her head, as if listening to a song only she could hear.
Jace shifted closer. “What’s wrong?”
She answered without looking at her friend. “Something’s coming.”
* * *
GRAYLIN WOKE BACK into a world of panicked shouting, accompanied by thunderous blasts that nearly sent him back into oblivion. He fought against passing out. His head ached with every heartbeat. He used each throb to steady himself. Still, his vision was like looking up from a well. The noise was muffled by a roaring in his ears.
He grabbed the neighboring seatback and pulled himself up. Somehow he had kept his grip on his sword. He hauled Heartsthorn around. He finally understood why he was still alive, still free.
Before succumbing a few breaths ago, he had committed the only act he could. He had slashed at the stanchion rope that held the row of barrels atop the nearest sloped track. The casks, full of alchymical fire, had rolled across the deck, each fuse igniting as it brushed past a wheel of flint at the track’s end.
As he gained his feet, he watched a barrel with a longer fuse explode in a wash of fire, cracking the planks under it. Other pools of flaming oil already dotted the deck. Black smoke choked the ship, trapped under the expanse of the balloon. Deckhands fought the fires with pails of sand, while knights in light armor regrouped for an assault on the crippled sailraft.
Graylin knew he had only another moment before they would charge. Especially as a pair of giant Mongers joined the legionnaires, hefting huge iron hammers.
Knowing he dared not be trapped inside the broken raft, he stepped forward and slashed the rope securing the second rail of barrels. As the casks rolled away, sparking their fuses, Graylin followed after them. He stopped only long enough to lodge his dagger into the end of the track, trapping the last three barrels in place, with the foremost one’s fuse sparking. With no more time, he leaped out of the raft and rushed along the wake of the bouncing, bobbling barrels.