The knights ahead fled to either side with fresh cries of alarm.
Unfortunately, the Gyn held their ground and used their hammers to knock barrels away, sending them flying over the rails. The pair then came at him with a roar of fury.
One bashed at the last rolling barrel, only to have it explode on impact. His huge body was blasted high, covered in flaming oil.
The other Gyn reached Graylin and swung at him. Expecting such an attack, he dodged under the hammer and spun away—straight toward a cluster of knights who had their swords lifted at him.
He skidded to a stop to avoid impaling himself.
Thwarted from an easy kill, they lunged at him, but he danced back while a count ran down in his head. When that number reached zero, he leaped sideways and sprawled headlong across the deck.
The knights, momentarily baffled, paused—when the last three casks inside the sailraft’s hold exploded. The blast shook the entire ship, jolting the deck, sending men flying. The skiff shattered, casting out fiery spears in all directions, even into the balloon overhead.
Knowing the tough skin of a warship’s balloon, he did not expect the slivers to do any true damage. Still, the barrage scattered a wide swath around him. Men screamed, some on fire, others speared clean through or peppered with shards.
Graylin felt stings in the backs of his thighs and shoulders. Still, he gained his legs, ready to bolt for one of the open doors that led down into the depths of the ship. He hoped to hide below and perhaps do more damage.
He aimed for the closest hatch, an open door in the forecastle, but a larger set of doors heaved open next to it. More knights piled out. Amidst them clambered a lone stallion, draped in black armor, saddled by a rider bearing a lance.
Graylin knew that rider, even with the man’s features shadowed under a helm.
Haddan sy Marc.
The liege general had only been a commander back when Graylin had been banished. Still, he knew the cold cruelty of that man. Haddan had been the one who had broken his arm during the gauntlet of chastisement, before Graylin was exiled. Most other knights, pitying him, had only whipped, punched, or nicked him as he passed under their onslaught. Haddan had smashed his upper sword arm with a hammer, shattering the bone into pieces.
Haddan now intended to do far worse. The general spurred his steed hard, kicking the stallion into a thunderous gallop, and lowered his lance. Knights closed behind Graylin, cutting off any retreat.
So be it.
Graylin lifted Heartsthorn, bracing a leg back.
Then the entire warship bucked as a series of explosions ripped overhead. Everyone, including Graylin, was thrown flat. Only the stallion kept its footing, rearing up and dancing on its hind legs. It crashed back down with its rider still saddled and gripping his lance.
Graylin rolled to a low crouch, searching overhead, wondering if the raft’s fiery splinters had actually pierced and ignited the mighty gasbag. But the underside looked intact. Farther overhead, smoke billowed, and flames trailed from the crest of the balloon.
Then a huge iron-spiked barrel came bouncing down along the flank of the balloon. It finally struck with enough force to impale itself in place—then exploded with a great gout of flame, ripping a hole in the side of the balloon. The force buffeted the entire warship, swinging the huge boat under it.
Graylin stumbled toward the rail, trying to keep his feet.
Haddan roared and charged his stallion across the teetered deck, refusing to lose his target, intending to spear him clean through.
Rather than continuing to fight the slant of the slope, Graylin turned and raced down it. He held out one hope. Overhead, a shadow glided out of the smoke above the fiery balloon. It was the underside of a sleeker craft.
The Sparrowhawk.
He also spotted a rope ladder unfurl from an open hatch. It draped along the side of the balloon, then swung free as the swyftship cleared the gasbag. The Sparrowhawk turned and dropped lower, bringing the end of the ladder closer.
Graylin ran toward the portside rail as the huge warship began to swing back the other way, canting the deck up under him. He fought the steepening slope. The clatter of hooves grew thunderous behind him. At any moment, he expected the point of a lance to pierce his back.
But he safely reached the row of abandoned ballista, lunged between two of them, and leaped to the rail. He catapulted himself off the top and dove headlong through the air. He aimed for the swaying rope ladder. He clutched Heartsthorn in one hand and stretched out his other arm.
He quickly recognized he would fall short. Luckily, Darant must have distrusted the strength of Graylin’s legs and rolled the Sparrowhawk, swinging the ladder to meet him.
Its length struck him in the face.
He managed to hook his free arm through the lowermost rung and caught himself, but just barely. He struggled his sword back into its sheath and snatched his other arm to secure his hold. As he did, the Sparrowhawk heaved upward and around, running for the clouds.
The ladder swung and twisted in the air, as if trying to throw him off, but he clung tightly. He looked up at the keel of the swyftship.
How is it here?
A glance across the lake showed blooms of fire still flashing in the mists. He remembered Darant’s claim about the expertise of his brigands. He pictured the Sparrowhawk’s second skiff racing through those clouds, haranguing the enemy. Whoever was out there must be tricking the wolves into chasing their own tails, a ruse that must have allowed Darant to escape and circle around the other side of the lake, coming upon the warship from the other direction. Once here, Darant must have decided to take advantage of Graylin’s crash and make a run at the larger ship.
As Graylin spun in the air, he caught glimpses of the warship listing crookedly over the lake. He spotted the dark shape of a stallion, dancing back and forth furiously. Higher up, a good portion of the balloon puckered and smoked from the swyftship’s attack. The remainder of the gasbag seemed to be holding. He knew the balloons of warships were compartmentalized with fireproof baffles. It would take more than a rain of fire from a single swyftship, even one with the talons of the Sparrowhawk, to bring down a warship.
Still, the damage was done.
Before Graylin was swung into the clouds, he watched the huge craft limp in the direction of Havensfayre. It continued to drift lower. To reach the town’s mooring field, the boat would have to be dragged across the treetops, sustaining even more damage along the way.
But would it be enough? Would it buy Nyx and the others time to hide, maybe even limit the legion’s ability to burn the town with a crippled warship grounded at its mooring field?
He could not know, but he was certain about one thing: That wasn’t the only ship prowling these white seas.
As Graylin was pulled into the clouds, a horn echoed through the mists, rising from the foundering craft and calling to its twin.
Despite their meager victory, Graylin recognized a hard truth.
Such a ruse will not work a second time.
FOURTEEN
WHISPERS OF THE OLD GODS
As to the gods of the Kethra’kai, there are onli foure, each heralding the foure aspects of nature, the foure roots of the Oldenmast. There is the wraithlike Vyndur, of the cloudes & windes & airy hights. Then the mercuriale Vhatn, of rain, stremes, & lakes. And girthsome Jar?vegur, of loam & mulch & rok. Finally, the tempestuous Eldyr, who is both the flame of the warme hearth & the inferno of fiyri ruin. But neath those four, far deeper than even the reache of the Oldenmast’s roots sleep their olden gods—whose names the Kethra’kai do not spake, lest they dare waken them.