Down below, Thoryn had landed cleanly. He shoved Mikaen at the Monger. “Get the prince into the skiff!”
Thoryn glared over at them. He swung an arm in their direction, the dagger still impaled in his shoulder, plainly ready to exact revenge on them. Then the man ducked and looked at the skies to his right.
Kanthe turned there, too.
From the mists, a huge shadow dropped into view. Its keel cut through the clouds. Dark barrels fell from its stern, blasting into fire below and sweeping toward the legion on the ground.
The Sparrowhawk!
Thoryn bellowed as he sprinted for the hunterskiff, “Go! Now!”
The order applied both to the legion and to the hovering craft. The skiff’s forges fired beneath it, spewing flames and smoke. It held off launching, letting as many men as possible reach the ship.
Thoryn hit the ramp and dove through.
A moment later, the hunterskiff blasted upward, nearly outrunning its own gasbag.
Kanthe pointed down. “Run for it!”
He feared the enemy might circle around for an attack. Then again, with a mortally wounded prince aboard, they might not risk it.
Still, Kanthe wasn’t taking any chances.
He leaped with the others as the Sparrowhawk swept low past them. Its stern door was already open, its bottom edge dragging through the flames.
Kanthe and the others ran for the ship, racing in its wake.
The ship slowed enough for them to reach the rattling deck. They leaped, rolled, and piled inside. Gasping, Kanthe clambered farther into the hold. He glanced back as the Sparrowhawk climbed. He remembered leaping off that same deck. It seemed another age, another prince.
He reached the deeper shadows.
A large furry shape stalked around them, panting, its tail slashing in agitation. He searched around the vargr with a frown, noting who was missing from the beast’s side.
Where’s Graylin?
* * *
“HOLD TIGHT!” DARANT shouted from behind his daughter.
Graylin gripped the hanging leather loop with both hands. Through the small bow window, he watched the warship’s balloon filling the world ahead. Then Glace punched both pedals and hauled on her wheel. The nose of the sailraft lifted, and flashburn flames burst from behind the open stern. The craft blasted skyward, using every last bit of fuel in its forges. The raft flew up along the rise of the balloon.
The mists below offered no refuge, especially with the bulk of the damaged warship being dragged through those clouds.
That wasn’t their plan anyway.
A few stray spears were shot at them, but they fell far short. By the time the hunterskiff had chased them out of the mists, the sailraft was already high above the warship’s boat.
“Get ready!” Darant called back.
The raft’s forges coughed and died. The flames sputtered beyond the stern. The craft arced high, evened its flight, then glided forward on momentum alone. The massive balloon passed below them. Their keel nearly scraped the gasbag.
Darant rushed back and unhooked the cask of the small firebomb from the wall where it hung. Graylin grabbed the other.
“Nearly there!” Glace shouted from her seat.
Graylin turned to the open stern. Their plan did not involve tossing these last firebombs down at the warship’s gasbag. Such an attempt would do no more damage than a couple of fiery pinpricks.
Instead, Graylin hauled the dangerous cask—already strapped in a net—over his shoulder. Darant did the same with his.
“Here we go!” Glace called to them as she rolled out of her seat. She kissed her palm and slapped the wheel, then ran toward them.
The sailraft drifted to starboard, heading toward a slide down the flank of the balloon. Glace joined them at the stern door. The air remained hot out the back. Below the open door, the draft-iron rudder glowed from its recent firing.
Graylin looked past those cooling forges to the sweep of balloon under them. As the sailraft drifted, its keel scraped through shreds of flapping fabric. A huge rip in the balloon opened up below them. It was one of the sections blasted by Darant’s earlier attack. The inner skeleton of the balloon was exposed. The inside was ribbed by broken scaffolding and festooned with tangled riggings.
Darant pointed down and to the left, to where the outermost fabric of the ruptured balloon remained intact and taut. It formed a long, scooping chute into the shadowy depths. The sailraft carried them over it.
Graylin turned to Darant. “You’ve done this before?”
The pirate smiled, revealing the lie. “There’s a first time for everything.”
Darant drew the strapped cask around to his chest and hugged it with both arms—then leaped out of the stern. He dropped feetfirst through the hole in the balloon and struck the top of the fabric chute. He bounced to his rear and slid away, laughter trailing behind him.
Glace followed with a whoop, her eyes shining brightly.
They’re both as mad as witches on henbane.
Still, Graylin gripped the door’s edge, hauled his own cask around in a one-armed hug, and jumped. With the sailraft’s keel dragging across the top of the balloon, the drop was barely higher than the roof of his cabin back in the Rimewood. Still, his boots hit the slick rubberized oilskin and took his legs out from under him. He sprawled on his back and slid down the steep chute into the depths of the balloon.
Ropes and rigging swept past him. He skated under thin bridges of walkways and spans of inner supports. The lower depths were thick with shadows. He cringed, expecting to strike some obstruction and be thrown high, but the steepness leveled out near the balloon’s bottom. Sunlight from above allowed him to spot Darant helping Glace up. They stood unsteadily on the springy, taut base of the balloon.
Graylin slid up to them.
Darant smiled and pulled him to his feet. “Can’t believe that worked.”
Graylin agreed, slightly dizzy from it all.
They had come up with this plan back on the Sparrowhawk. While the hunterskiff might have believed it had chased them into the warship, the huge ship had been their intended target all along. Graylin could not risk this massive beast hauling reinforcements to the cliffs.
Muffled shouts suddenly erupted outside the balloon. Cannons fired with sharp blasts, accompanied by thrumming twangs of ballista. Graylin shared a look with Darant. They knew what was being targeted. He pictured the death spiral of the sailraft past the starboard flank of the warship. Glace had sent it purposefully down that side to draw attention and hopefully convince those aboard that the threat had been destroyed.
“Over here,” Glace whispered, and drew them forward.
They reached a corner of the balloon. Through the sun-brightened fabric, a shadow loomed beyond it.
Glace glanced back to them. “That has to be one of the draft-iron cables.”
“Only one way to find out.” Darant pulled out a dagger. He shifted in front of his daughter and stabbed into the tough fabric. It took three strikes to pierce it.
Darant peeked through the puncture, then nodded approvingly at his daughter. He then set about carving out a squarish hole, one large enough for them to pass through.
Once done, Graylin inspected his handiwork. A draft-iron cable crossed past the opening, just out of arm’s reach, but close enough. Graylin peered below. If he was properly oriented, this cable should run down to the stern quarterdeck. Not that I can see it. The boat under the balloon still dragged through the mists, masking what lay below.