Rhaif glanced over his shoulder, trying to fathom what her decision would be.
She studied the bronze treasure. He knew it was one thing to passively formulate a strategy of accommodation when the prize was not standing right in front of you. But Shiya now blazed in the sunlight, a torch shining with the promise of riches without end.
Llyra’s stance firmed. “No…”
Rhaif wasn’t sure what she was negating. Still, the dagger had not plunged into his kidney. Her gaze flicked toward him, as if to explain further—then the world exploded below them.
They all swung toward the windows, though the knife never left his side.
Across the mooring fields, wyndships burst with great fiery eruptions. Shredded balloons flapped amidst flames and smoke. Neighbors ignited neighbors. The Pony reared from its approach, rolling away from the carnage.
As it turned, Rhaif spotted a lone swyftship darting through the fiery field, spitting tinier flames to maneuver. It looked like a mouse trying to escape a burning house. Only it wasn’t trying to flee. Tiny dark casks rolled out its stern and burst into flame. One barrel struck another moored wyndship, and a moment later, its balloon ruptured with a gust of fire. And still the swyftship sped across the field, sowing destruction in its wake.
Rhaif noted two details.
The tiny black flag flapping behind the craft carried the crossed swords of the Klashean Arms. He understood.
Here is the empire’s retaliation for what happened in Anvil.
He glanced to Llyra. Other skrycrows—like the one she had sent—must have already been dispatched from the ship last night and spread word throughout the city about the death and destruction in Anvil, reaching the ears of Klashean saboteurs imbedded in Azantiia.
He turned back, focusing on the other detail of the swyftship. Its path, crooked though it may be, aimed to the northeast, toward the fortified corner of the fields where the great warships were moored. Their mighty balloons, adorned with the sun and crown of Hálendii, loomed over the destruction, ripe targets for the attacking ship.
It sped toward them, but Rhaif knew such an effort was futile.
As the tiny craft raced toward the moored warships, a flurry of fiery spears shot from a row of ballistas, giant crossbows positioned across the field’s edge. The long bolts traced the air with flame and smoke. One steel point struck the Klashean swyftship and shattered it into splinters. Another ripped flames through its balloon, bursting it to ruin. The wreckage flew a quarter league onward before crashing to the ground in a skid of fire, never getting close to the berths of the colossal warships.
But the damage was done.
Half the city’s mooring fields burned, swathed in smoke.
Sadly, that was not the only harm.
Pratik tumbled back from the window as one of the ballistas’ fiery spears shot past him. It struck the Pony’s balloon hard enough to shake the entire ship. They all looked up, waited a breath, then heard a muffled boom.
A ball of flame shot into view high above, rolling away into a wash of smoke.
The Pony canted to the side, spinning away from the fiery ruins blow, revealing a brief glimpse of the Bay of Promise—then tipped toward a crash.
As they were thrown forward across the cabin, Rhaif accepted his fate.
The destruction I wrought in Anvil has finally caught up with me.
He remembered a lesson taught to him once by his mother: Right your wrongs before they rightly wrong you.
I should’ve listened better.
The next lesson was not as eloquent.
Llyra grabbed him and shoved him toward the door. “Move your arse!”
* * *
PRATIK UNDERSTOOD THE woman’s order. He had flown enough wyndships to know her intent. She voiced it aloud.
“Make for the sailrafts.”
Pratik also understood her urgency. Time was limited to make their es cape. The small rafts were routinely used to ferry passengers or goods back and forth to the ground from the air, but they also doubled as a means of exodus in a foundering ship. He also knew the number of such skiffs was typically too few for everyone on board. Worse, the skiffs were all secured at the stern, across the breadth of the ship from here.
Rhaif ignored the guildmaster and called across the cabin, “Shiya, to me!”
Pratik turned, too. The bronze woman held her place at the window, her legs braced wide, one hand clamped to the window’s edge. She swung her gaze to Rhaif. The thief was the only one she truly heeded.
Still, Pratik reached and took her other hand. Her palm burned in his. The hues of her skin roiled with anxiety. He tried to tug her along with him, but she slowly turned back to face to the east, inexorably pulled in that direction.
Llyra cursed sharply, turned, and fled out the door. She abandoned them, plainly deciding her life was more valuable than any treasure. With the door left open, people fled past their cabin, bellowing, many only half-dressed. They all rushed toward the stern as the ship’s bow tilted more steeply.
Rhaif dashed over to the bronze woman. “Shiya, we must go. You may survive a crash, but we will not.”
She ignored him, continuing to stare toward the cliffs of Landfall.
Pratik still had hold of her hand. “Come with us now,” he urged. “I will take you where you want to go. This I swear.”
She turned to him. Her fingers tightened on Pratik’s fingers, as if silently holding him to his pledge.
“I will do all I can,” he promised.
She finally moved along with him as he headed toward the door.
Rhaif kept to her other side. “We must get to the last sailraft before it’s gone.” When they reached the hall, it was empty of people, just littered with abandoned cases, some spilled open, one shining with a splash of jewels. Rhaif pointed to the stern. “Shiya, get us to the stern of the ship.”
She gave a small nod and led the way, at first slowly, then gaining speed. He and Rhaif gave chase. The floor continued to tilt upward as cables groaned and the ship shuddered, throwing them side to side as they ran. Still, with the passageway empty, they quickly reached the commons at midship.
Unfortunately, a crush of people blocked the far side, bottlenecked in panic at the exit to the stern half of the Pony. Without slowing, Shiya bowled into them. She grabbed people by arm or nape and tossed them aside like stuffed dolls. It took an extra breath for the crowd to realize what attacked them: a towering naked bronze woman, fueled by the fires of the Father Above, her eyes blazing like furnaces. Screams of terror spread, sending people scrambling away, clearing the path.
She elbowed through to the far passageway. They followed in her wake, only to find the corridor ahead crammed tightly with passengers and crew. But those earlier screams had already drawn attention their way. The throng surged from the burning goddess among them. Some tried to climb over others. Most dove into cabins that were abandoned and left open to either side.
Shiya continued her charge through those that remained, leaving many broken and wailing behind her—which only encouraged those still ahead to desert the hallway.
Finally, they broke through to the stern hold. Screams and cries echoed across the cavernous space, piled to the rafters with roped crates and barrels. Several stacks had snapped their bindings and toppled, creating a broken landscape. Confounding the chaos, smoke choked the space, flowing in from the open doors at the back.