Darant pulled Graylin over to the old man’s side. “Hyck, show him what you showed me.”
Hyck nodded, checked through the eyepiece, fiddled with some adjustments, then stepped back. “That oughta do it.”
Darant waved for Graylin to look through the scope. “Hyck designed it.”
“That’s right, I did,” the old man said. “I may’ve had my alchymical cloak stripped off a me, but that’s their loss, I tell ya.”
Graylin bent to the eyepiece, trying to fathom what of the surrounding forest could be of interest. As he fixed his face and squinted through the lenses, he had to blink a few times to make sense of what he saw. He was not peering around or under the ship, but over the vast expanse of the mist fields. The clouds spread in a white sea.
Darant explained, “Hyck used tubing, both rubber and bronze—”
“Copper,” the man corrected, his breath smelling of rakeleaf and sour ale.
“And copper,” Darant concurred. “Plus, a complicated slew of lenses, and mirrors. The farscope’s eye can be cranked taller than the balloon, affording us a high view all around.”
Graylin barely heard this explanation, too shocked by what the farscope revealed. The white sea ran off into the distance and crashed into a dark shoal of churning smoke. At the center, a thick black column rose high into the sky, roiling and writhing in a fiery tempest.
A warship hung a league away, near the town’s mooring field.
But he ignored that threat, concentrating on the smoldering column. He knew it must mark the site of the earlier thunderous blast.
“Had to have been a Hadyss Cauldron,” Darant said, possibly noting Graylin’s shoulders drawing tighter to his ears. “I don’t imagine those bastards would’ve dropped a Cauldron without a good reason. Like maybe spotting a certain sprite of a girl.”
Graylin gripped the farscope. Fear made him lightheaded. “The others couldn’t have survived such a blast.”
“We don’t know that,” Darant said. “I’ve been to Havensfayre many a time. That place runs as deep as it stands tall. In some spots, even deeper than the reach of a Cauldron.”
Graylin stared over at him, praying the others had found one of those places. Still, he pictured the warship hovering out there. “We have to stop them.”
“Ah…” He clapped Graylin on the shoulder. “My little hawk has plenty of tricks, but it was never meant for long skirmishes. Attack and run, that’s the Sparrowhawk’s strength. We have only a few firebombs left, and our flashburn tanks are nearly empty.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Exactly what we’re doing. We wait like we planned, rather than running off with our pricks in our hands, challenging anyone with our cocky prowess. We have to trust the others will somehow break through that noose and signal us when it’s safe.”
Graylin clenched his fists and crossed his arms, crushing down the bellow building in his chest.
“Until then,” Darant continued, “we have to remain free and ready if that happens, to dive over, scoop them up, and get our arses out of here.”
“So, we wait,” he said bitterly.
“And not just for them,” Darant added, his voice rising sharply.
The pirate turned and hurried to the pair of bow windows. The shadow of a small skiff glided past the Sparrowhawk’s prow. It marked the safe return of the ship’s second sailraft. The skiff had clearly shaken loose the wolves in the mists beyond the Heilsa and had made it back to the rendezvous here.
Darant pressed both his palms against the bow glass, searching the passing sailraft. “Not a scratch on ’er,” he mumbled proudly.
As the raft lowered, its small window revealed its drover, a white-haired beauty with dark skin.
With a scowl, Brayl joined Darant at the window. “How come Glace got to wreak such mischief, and I was stuck here?”
Darant scooped Brayl to his side. “It’s only because I like her better.”
Brayl punched her father’s chest with a fist.
The pirate let his daughter go, his expression jubilant with relief. But that joy dimmed as he faced Graylin, plainly reading the misery written there.
Darant’s voice firmed with a promise. “If Marayn’s daughter is alive out there, we’ll reach her.”
Graylin stared past the man’s shoulder to the mists beyond.
That’s if she’s still alive …
* * *
DRESSED IN POLISHED light armor, Mikaen rode through the smoldering outskirts of Havensfayre. Two score of knights on horseback accompanied him, along with a battle unit of hardened Vyrllian Guards. The latter kept their steeds close to his, on order of the liege general. Mikaen resented the need for such a personal detachment, but it was the only way he could convince Haddan to let him ride out into the ruins of the town.
Still, even the liege general recognized the necessity for this sojourn.
Mikaen pictured the Tytan listing crookedly over the mooring fields. It hung like a mark of shame for all to see. The legion’s trek here had been meant in part to cast the prince of the realm, the future king of Hálendii, in a shining light. Though only an eighthyear in the Legionary, Mikaen had felt the many eyes of the knights and guards, even a few of the giant Mongers, looking upon him with far more regard, as if expecting him to pull a scepter out of his arse and wreak havoc on the kingdom’s enemies.
Instead, after he could do nothing to stop the cowardly attack upon the Tytan—confined to the forecastle the entire time—he found those same eyes now regarding him with glints of disdain.
Or maybe it’s just a reflection of my contempt for myself.
After the attack, he had done what he could to help with repairs. But hammering fresh planks over the holes blasted through the middeck did little to polish his luster.
Then the Pywll had crashed a Hadyss Cauldron into the center of town. The warship’s commander hadn’t even sent a skrycrow to Haddan asking permission to unload such a fearsome bomb. Such a dispatch was normally reserved for only the direst of circumstances. It was not to be wasted, especially as warships only had one Cauldron each. Mikaen had seen the one aboard the Tytan, strapped in the lowermost hold. The massive drum—as large as a small barn—was more iron than wood. It filled most of the space, hanging over a closed hatch that split the keel at midship.
Still, Mikaen understood why Brask, the Pywll’s commander, had unleashed his most potent weapon. Wryth had ferried over with the explanation when the warship returned to the mooring field. The commander’s brother had been killed by those below. The Shrive had also brought over word of a significant sighting—not only of the bronze weapon stolen from him, but also the possibility of a certain dark prince seen fleeing with it.
Kanthe …
If there was any doubt that his younger twin was fomenting an insurrection with a supposed half-sister, it was now dispelled.
Why else would Kanthe be here, meeting with those murderous thieves?
Upon hearing this, Haddan had ordered half of the Tytan’s forces to search the town and inspect the blast site. Mikaen demanded to go along, to be seen in his armor, saddled tall, going to confront where his traitorous brother was last seen.
Still …