Dragon Airways (18 page)

After a brief rest, Joren and Brick resumed their climb, wanting to reach the deck at the same moment. They had spent their entire lives working together, and Brick was grateful for their ability to communicate using few if any words. There had been many times over the years he'd lamented working in a confined space with someone who knew his every weakness. Now he understood just how much his father had taught him. Without that knowledge, he'd never have been able to help save the people of Sparrowport. His father had done his part, no doubt, but it had been Brick who'd rallied the people and come up with a plan. Why the people had chosen to follow his lead, he might never know, but it gave him a sense of pride. Never would he take credit for what the people had done to save themselves, but it was clear his voice had given them direction, purpose, and focus.

It had been Joren's skills that had produced the long gun—skills he'd passed along to his son. He deserved as much credit as anyone, but he was content to let Brick take a leadership role. Even now, his father had followed him to the airship and joined in what might turn out to be complete folly. He had no idea what they were going to do next. There had been no time. Bravery was perhaps about doing what needed to be done in the moment without considering the consequences. If he'd waited to determine the best course of action, he would likely have missed his chance. Only time would tell if his impetuous decision would make him a hero or a martyr. Either way, he'd done what was right.

Riette was among the strongest people he'd ever met, even if she'd always thought herself weak. When her mother died, she'd taken over the family business and kept them from losing what they had. Then her father was called to war. Brick had heard the tales of his bravery and his presumed demise, and he wasn't sure he would have been so brave, even while hanging from a rope suspended above his homeland.

Joren struggled with the climb, and Brick found himself waiting for the sake of his father. No one knew what awaited them on deck, and surely they would be more effective together. Brick suspected that was the only reason his father had come at all. Neither were trained fighters, though both had been in their fair share of scuffles. Defending Riette and Emmet alone had provided Brick with more than a few bruises and scars. It had been his muscles that had gotten him through. No matter how much he'd hated having to work the forge in his childhood, the work had made him stronger than steel. While the other children had played, he'd endured the heat and had become as tough as an anvil. Remembering Joren saying those exact words, Brick smiled in spite of his current circumstances. A single glance told Brick his father was ready to make one final effort to reach the deck.

No matter their plans, Brick got there first. Before pulling himself over the rail, he looked about and saw no one. With a final grunting effort, he hoisted himself aboard. A moment later, he grabbed his father's wrist and helped him over the rail. The older man's chest heaved from the exertion, and he placed a finger over his lips. Brick nodded. He held both hands out to his father, palms first, indicating they should rest for a few moments before proceeding.

After what felt like an eternity, Joren regained his breath and nodded to his son, a look of such pride in his eyes, Brick grew misty eyed. His father was a man of strength—both physical and of character—but he'd never been one to issue easy praise. To know he'd gained his father's respect was overwhelming, but this was no time for sentimentality. Riette and Tuck needed him. He'd just met the boy, but already Tuck had a special place in the smith's heart. Anyone who cared for Riette and Emmet was all right in his judgment.

After a nod from his father, Brick looked around, surprised to see no one on the ship. The deck itself was far narrower than a seafaring ship, surrounding a deckhouse that protruded from the bottom of the giant canvas-covered latticework filled with lighter-than-air gasses. Brick understood something of the construction, having salvaged parts from downed airships to create the weapons used to defend Sparrowport. They weren't far from the galley, and that was where he headed first. The airships had moved out over the water and continued heading east. Brick could only assume they would make for the Firstland and deliver the prisoners to Argus Kind. He was determined not to let that happen.

Before reaching the galley, they passed the weapons hold. Holding up a finger, Brick motioned for his father to keep watch. The door opened with a creak. Brick was immediately met with force. Only a fool left powerful weapons unguarded, and the Zjhon were not fools. Two men in light armor waited within. The first swung a heavy cudgel at Brick's head, while the other made for a handle in the wall that Brick presumed would sound the alarm. Ducking beneath the cudgel, Brick lunged at the second man. After passing the first, Brick turned and shoved him hard in the back, sending him toward the deck where Joren waited. Only the man's scream becoming softer and distant told Brick he would cause them no more trouble. The second man closed his hand around the lever. Brick punched him in the face with all his might. Moments later, the second man went over the rail without a sound.

It didn't take Brick long to find what he was looking for. Stored in crates filled with wood shavings, clay spheres rested, evenly spaced. Gently Brick grabbed two, knowing how potent these weapons could be. Plenty had been dropped on Sparrowport. Though lacking the potency of the massive bombs used to demolish the bunkers, these would be more than sufficient for his purposes.

Luck was with him. Laughter and song emanated from the galley. These soldiers had been spared battle and were headed home. Their celebration would meet an abrupt end. Without any hesitation, Brick yanked the portal open and threw the clay spheres in, slamming the rounded, metal door shut. The weapons detonated with concussive force, most of which was contained within the galley. It took all his strength to yank the twisted portal open again, and smoke clogged the air when he did. At least a dozen soldiers were scattered around the galley in various states of disarray.

Joren charged in first, no longer willing to watch his son fight alone. In a short time, they tossed the stunned, semiconscious soldiers overboard. Surprise was no longer on their side, and the two men made their way to the wheelhouse in wary silence. Brick counted down on his fingers before yanking open the portal. The instant he stepped across the threshold, the pilot opened fire. Pain erupted in Brick's chest, but he ignored it. Still able to breathe and move, he thanked the gods the man was armed with only an air pistol, which lacked the punch of larger weapons. Before his father could say a word, Brick grabbed the pilot and threw him out of the wheelhouse like a hay bale. Joren tried to catch the man but failed. Instead, the pilot went overboard with the rest of the crew.

Sitting down hard, Brick pulled his shirt open and looked at the blood running down his chest. The stinging grew worse as he examined the wounds—two small, red holes in his pectoral muscles. Wincing, he squeezed on either side of the first hole, and a metal pellet emerged. After doing the same with the other, he allowed his father to clean and dress the wounds.

"I think I'll live," Brick said.

"You were well named, m'boy. You're thicker than a brick."

After grinning at his father, Brick winced when he stood. That was going to sting for a while.

"As proud as I am of you, my son, sometimes you just don't think."

Looking at the array of controls before him, Brick didn't have to ask what the older man meant. Throwing the pilot overboard might have been a mistake. He had no idea how to fly this ship, and any mistakes could prove fatal. "I wonder what this lever does," he said.

Joren shook his head.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Pain cuts deeply. Through healing, we grow stronger.

—Marim, hedge witch

* * *

Never had Emmet felt so lonely. Barabas and Dashiq were both unconscious. Berigor held them in his claws, which was far from a comfortable way to fly. Overwhelming emotion was crippling, but the people he cared about most needed him. His heroes had not given up, and neither would he. After taking a deep breath, Emmet placed his hands on Dashiq's neck. Unlike the times he had helped Barabas send healing energy to the dragon, Emmet was in complete control. He moderated the flow, dictated the cadence, and applied the intent, whereas before he'd been but a participant, feeding energy to the existing flow. Now he conducted a magnificent orchestra. All his life, magic had been missing. Like craving a specific food when the body is deficient, magic had called to him. Now he'd found it. Going back would be impossible.

His was the curse of the magic user born after the magic had gone. Only scraps remained—beautiful, delicious scraps. Beneath him, the saddle pulsed with power. The stones were streaked, milky white, and he knew when they went all white, the magic would be forever gone—or at least for two thousand years if the tales were to be believed. The scale of it frightened him. His actions would impact the availability of magic and power for future generations. The saddle and its stones were not his to use as he pleased. Still, he let himself fall into the energy, suspended on the vibrations. It was not for himself he did this, but deep down, he had to admit he relished the experience.

Leaving one hand on Dashiq, Emmet reached forward and placed the other on Barabas. The man did not move, but life force pulsed within him—weak and erratic. Focusing his intention, he let the energy flow through him. He was the conductor. His body warmed and no matter how he wished to send all the energy his friends needed, he could not. Like a wick, he would burn out. Instead, he drew lesser amounts of energy and crafted it into structured waves of intent. Equations revealed themselves in his mind, showing the true nature of the world and the energy surrounding him; he could feel it.

Dashiq was fading, her pain deep and irreversible. Emmet did his best to comfort her, but it was not enough—would not be enough. She was still there, but he didn't know for how much longer. The passage of time had long been the bane of Emmet's existence, and he found himself surprised when Berigor bellowed, about to lower them to a rocky shoreline.

Emmet recognized the place from his first journey to the shallows. No matter how the bigger dragon tried, he could not gently place Dashiq on the rough landscape. Showing she was once again conscious, Dashiq lowered her claws and absorbed the short fall. Barabas, too, showed signs of being awake and alert; his hands fumbled at the straps. Before Emmet reached him, the older man rolled out of the saddle and fell to the ground. By the time Emmet undid the belts and climbed down, Barabas had hauled himself up and retrieved his walking stick from within the saddle.

When he reached the dragon's eye, Dashiq issued a moan ending in a mighty woof. The burst of air made Barabas take a step back. Letting out a low, squealing moan, she closed her eye and nuzzled him. The two stood in a quiet embrace for some time. Inspecting the saddle, Emmet found it distressingly chalky and white—all over, especially around the seats. Along the outer edges, a few stones retained some luster and clarity. He'd done what he could do to heal his friends, and he felt it better to leave the remaining power be, although it called to him.

Berigor landed nearby, and Keldon approached. "I'm sorry I did not arrive sooner."

The apology was enough to express his understanding of the situation. They were in trouble.

"The shallows?" Emmet asked.

Barabas nodded, never opening his eyes or releasing his embrace with Dashiq. It was the dragon who finally broke the bond between them and pulled her head away. She looked down to Emmet and he approached. Briefly she nuzzled him, appreciation and love exuded through the bond. She was so weak. It pained him to see her so and knowing the flight to the shallows was too much to ask. It had taken days from this place the last time, and she'd been in far better health. She would likely perish before reaching the shallows; it was something no one wanted to say. The dragon turned her head to the side so Emmet could see the metalwork comprising much of her jaw and facial structure. There, set into a complex mechanical orifice, rested Azzakkan's Eye—still glossy and slick and pulsing with power all its own. Dashiq pushed her head into his hand, and his fingers came to rest on the release. Scales lining the eye socket rotated outward in succession, until Azzakkan's Eye dropped into his palm, still warm.

The power emanating from the glassy sphere was completely unlike what was stored within the saddle's stones. Where he had drawn raw energy from those stones and crafted it into the form he desired, the energy from the eye was already a symphony of structure and architecture; Emmet could do nothing to improve on that masterwork.

No one spoke.

The choice was Emmet's—the decision his. He did not hesitate. His destiny was upon him, and he owed it to his sister and Tuck and Barabas and Dashiq. Approaching Berigor, he passed Keldon, who remained silent. The man had perhaps learned from his own mistakes. The warrior Emmet had first met would never have let him reach for his dragon's eye. Now, though, he watched in cautious silence while Berigor gazed down on Emmet. The larger dragon had to turn his head all the way to one side for the small boy to reach. Again the mechanism released the glass eye into Emmet's palm. The two looked similar, and perhaps some would find them difficult to tell apart, but for Emmet, it was unmistakable. The one Berigor had just returned to him was a poor imitation of the real thing. No power emanated from it. It had been largely cosmetic.

Reaching up, Emmet inserted Azzakkan's Eye into the socket. The mechanism issued a series of clicks, each scale rotating back into place, securing the eye. Berigor shook his head and took a step back. A moment later blue flames danced along the rims of his nostrils.

"Easy, boy," Keldon said. "Not certain you know what you've just done, young man. Berigor has always been . . . spirited . . . and he's still young. But I also thank you. He, too, is far from healed. Azzakkan's Eye will help him."

As if to answer the words, Berigor snorted, his nostrils flaring.

"She can't fly," Barabas said, and the words came out like nails being driven into his heart. "But she doesn't want to be carried either. She is well enough to get airborne and grab Berigor's tail."

Keldon nodded. "Here are some rations. It's just some dried fruits, meats, and cheeses."

"It's most welcome," Barabas said.

"There really is no time to waste, then," Keldon said before climbing back onto Berigor. The look on his face told Emmet what he needed to know. Al'Drakon felt the magic just as he had. It would take some getting used to. Already Emmet felt cold and bereft of the energy the Eye exuded. No matter how he tried, he could not imagine a wizard skilled enough to craft glass, metal, and magic into a work of art, yet the evidence was overwhelming. Someone had once achieved this level of mastery and created the artifact. It was both humbling and enticing. Given the opportunity, he wondered what else he might learn to do and create. Trying not to let the fact that so little magic remained in the world terrify him, Emmet imagined the things of which he might be capable.

Before he mounted, though, Emmet approached Dashiq with the glass eye. The dragon calmly refused it, pushing him back toward the saddle. Barabas gave him a boost, and soon Emmet was bathed in the ambient glow of the last vestiges of energy remaining in the saddle. Berigor and Keldon alighted, and Barabas strapped himself in.

Never had Dashiq struggled so hard to get herself into the air, but she was still alive, and it was in her very nature. After several long and torturous moments, she gained the skies and skimmed over the waves. Berigor appeared before them in what felt like a short period of time; Emmet was never truly certain. Dashiq grabbed on to his mighty tail and wrapped hers around his. The bull dragon trumpeted. Magic poured over them all as Berigor drew deeply from Azzakkan's Eye for the first time. The metalwork in his face blazed brightly, exceeding even what Dashiq had achieved. When he moved his head, the metalwork flexed and moved, molten and reacting like normal flesh and bone.

The air changed pitch when Berigor leaned into the wind, using it to send them ever faster until their hair flew straight backward and their cheeks flapped.

"No more!" Keldon yelled.

Faster still Berigor flew.

Even lacking synchronicity, Emmet knew time was not on their side. Judging by how many stops it had required, he surmised it had taken weeks to reach the shallows the first time. Speed was called for, but there were limits.

Ducking down behind Barabas, Emmet enjoyed some of the rations Keldon had provided. Twice he tried to share with Barabas, and both times the man refused. Emmet worried about him. The man had become something of a father figure. Emmet's own father wasn't coming back, and Barabas had much to teach and share. The uncertainty of the near future gnawed at him as he ate, and it didn't take long for his appetite to fade. It was probably for the best. Who knew how long they would have to live on the rations they had with them?

Getting low in the saddle, Emmet found a spot where the wind wasn't so bad, and soon he slept.

* * *

Traveling by airship, especially one of such quality, might have been a pleasure under far different circumstances. Constructed of richly grained hardwood, a mountain of the finest brass, thick taupe canvas, and miles of heavy line, the airship
Dominance
was a monument to design and achievement. However, no matter how elegant the lines or how thick the polish, she was first a machine of war. Occasionally strong winds caused the ship to bob and turn, the rigging creaking under the strain, but her flight was for the most part steady and smooth.

The farther they got from Sparrowport, the less likely rescue would be. Riette had no way to know if Emmet, Dashiq, and Barabas were still alive. The order in which she thought of them was not lost on her, but already she missed them all. The questions running over and over through her mind threatened to drive her mad. Everything was wrong. Everything was broken. Quite possibly everyone she loved was dead—save one. Being imprisoned in the same cabin as Tuck was all that kept Riette from utter despair.

"They'll come for us," Tuck said. "You know they will."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Riette admitted. Neither needed to say more on the subject. Both understood why they had been captured.

"There's a chance we can escape," Tuck said softly. "There are parachutes and jumpsuits aboard. I've seen these ships crash, and the crew don't hardly never go down with the ship."

"We've got to get out of this room first."

The cabin itself had obviously not been designed as a prison, which could potentially work to their advantage. It was a long voyage, and the Zjhon would have to feed them to keep them alive. Each time would present an opportunity. Few things had been left in the cabin for their comfort, but Riette began to inventory the items they might use to their advantage.

"We might could throw the blankets over the poor sap who brings our food," Tuck said barely above a whisper. "And then we can hit 'im."

"With what?"

Tuck shrugged and raised his fists. Riette wouldn't say it to him, but she didn't hold out much hope for taking on armed guards. Deep wooden benches for sitting and sleeping lined the walls. Not much else presented itself, in spite of a thorough inspection. With nothing more than blankets to arm themselves, the odds of escape were impossibly small. Still, it was at least some hope, and it was perhaps the only way they could get out of this without endangering those they loved. It was the unspoken truth that drove them both. Words were not required. Emmet would be proud.

"No matter what happens," Riette said. "I'm glad we're together."

"Me, too," Tuck said. "If things had been different—" His voice caught and he left the words unspoken.

Perhaps it was the time spent with Barabas and Dashiq, but Riette needed words less and less to communicate. Between her and Tuck, things were just understood, which frightened her like nothing else. She cared for him. Everything else she'd ever cared for had been taken from her. It was a thought that brought tears to her eyes. If not for the cabin door opening, she might have said more.

Burly men in full armor entered the room as if they feared the two young people. The woman they now knew was named Casta Mett followed them into the cabin.

"I hope you're comfortable," she said with a wicked smile. There was no warmth in her eyes. "We've brought you some refreshment." The woman did not wear a coat, and she rubbed her arms. "It's cold in here. I hope you've not been uncomfortable. We wouldn't want our passengers to be unhappy, now would we?"

Riette and Tuck said nothing, both knowing her concern was far from genuine. The woman took pleasure from torturing them with her words.

She smiled at their sour expressions. "Don't worry. Barabas will come for you." This was the first time a smile reached her eyes. It was out of place and made her even less attractive. "Who knows? Maybe even your brother will come. We'll be ready and waiting for them when they arrive; you can be assured of that. And once we've disposed of them, we'll have little use remaining for you. At which point, you'll be free to go, of course." The wide grin she now wore made it clear the words were not true.