“I’m in, Dreyak,” Rysha called, easing past the smoking sides of the hole she’d made.
“There are four of these things now,” Dreyak snarled, his voice coming from the far side of the treasure room.
“Was that a request for me to hurry?”
Angry bangs sounded almost as loudly and rapidly as machine gun fire, and she imagined him slamming his scimitar down on one of the constructs. Repeatedly.
Bullets fired, and the bangs halted.
Swallowing grimly, Rysha dropped to the floor in the dark, almost breaking her ankle on the logs she’d kicked in. The orange magical light from the other room did not stretch far into this new chamber.
Dust assailed her nostrils as she peered into the blackness. The chamber—vault?—couldn’t have been more than six or seven feet wide. She patted her way forward as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
Why hadn’t she thought to grab a lantern? Or bring one along?
“Because you’re a book hugger with no real military experience,” she grumbled.
A soft light came on ahead of her, and Rysha jumped back, afraid she’d triggered a trap. She aimed her rifle at it, clunking the stock on the wall in the narrow room.
But the light came from an orange crystal lamp on a dusty shelf, cobwebs stretching from it to the ceiling. A few dusty human skulls sat on other perches, some with bullet holes through them. The glow of the light also revealed a variety of weapons in racks on the walls. Dusty uniforms also hung on the walls, some Iskandian, some Cofah, and she also recognized the furry cloak of a Dakrovian warden. It had a cannonball-sized hole in it.
Rysha knew there wasn’t time to linger, especially when another round of gunshots came from the next room, but she paused to look at one of the Iskandian uniforms, this one with several bullet holes through the jacket and dark brown stains around them.
Her gut squirmed as she realized these were trophies, uniforms taken from slain enemies. Or perhaps people who’d simply gotten in the way during pirate raids. The nametag on the Iskandian uniform read Sharlott, and tarnished colonel’s rank pins marked the collar. She hadn’t heard of the man, but that didn’t make her hate the so-called pirate king any less.
She clenched her fist as she looked a second time at the skulls. Had they once belonged to the owners of these uniforms?
Though she seethed with quiet fury, Rysha forced herself to go to the weapons racks, looking for the telltale runes of the ancient chapaharii swords.
The blade collection was impressive—any war museum would love to have them—but she started to grow worried when she made it two-thirds of the way down the racks without finding anything magical. Most of the weapons came from the time after dragons had disappeared from the world, and the few that were more than a thousand years old were simple blades of bronze.
Three wooden boxes stacked on the floor against the rear wall caught her eye. The light from the lamp was dimmer back there, but she hurried, a gut feeling telling her they might be what she sought. She knew from her research that Kasandral was stored in an ornate wood and iron box when not in use, supposedly to keep it from influencing its wielder or anyone else around.
As Rysha reached for the first box, a long and thunderous crash came from somewhere above her.
Hells, was that the dragon? Attacking the fortress itself and not just people?
She tugged the top box off the stack and flicked open a latch that could have been locked but wasn’t. More crashes came from above, and the wood floor under her shuddered and bucked, as if she were in an earthquake. It didn’t sound quite like Kaika’s explosives going off, which should have come from below, but Rysha definitely found it ominous.
The box was empty.
She frowned, but at least the interior was promising, with a sword-shaped bed inside.
“Must be the one the pirate has,” she said, brushing dust out of her hair. And pieces of wood. She glanced up warily. Was the fortress in danger of collapsing?
“Ravenwood,” came a frustrated—and pained?—cry from the other room.
“Almost done, Dreyak,” she yelled. “Buy me two more minutes.”
She shoved the top box aside and tried to open the second, which was in a similar style to the first, with Middle Iskandian runes along the lid and sides. Later, she would take the time to translate them.
Unfortunately, this box was locked. Rysha groaned, having had fantasies of running out with one of the blades in hand so she could help with the dragon or anyone magical who opposed them. Carrying the box itself would have to do. Maybe she could thwack someone in the head with it.
She grabbed it and the other two as well, but the lock on the bottom one, the ancient iron old and rusty, fell open when she picked them up. The lid tumbled open, and a sword fell onto the floor, almost lopping off the toe of her boot.
Cursing, Rysha scrambled back. But she didn’t stay back for long. The blade flared to life, a faint pale green, and she knew she had what she sought.
She grabbed it, bringing all the command words out of her memory in case she needed them—she had no intention of letting some ancient sword control her in any way. An intense hunger emanated from it, and the sword acted almost like a divining rod, suggesting her hand turn toward the wall. The wall that separated her from Dreyak and those constructs.
Magical constructs. Did it want her to go destroy them?
“Gladly,” Rysha whispered, grabbing the full box and the two empty ones, and running awkwardly toward her hole. Knowing that the boxes themselves held some magic, she didn’t want to leave them behind.
She eyed the uniforms on the way by—five of them had belonged to Iskandians—and she vowed she would destroy more than clockwork guard dogs if she had the chance.
As she reached the hole she’d made, a booming snap came from the floor above. She imagined herself being buried by rubble even as she’d found what they sought.
But the ceiling didn’t collapse in her room. It collapsed in the next one, the one with Dreyak in it.
Wood sloughed down, along with a giant beam, and it fully blocked her hole.
• • • • •
Trip circled above the fortress, drawing attacks from the sorceress and yelling, out loud and in his mind, for the bronze dragon to stop attacking the structure. He seemed to be taking his frustrations out on it—maybe he thought he could defeat the pirate king by knocking his fortress out from under him. Which was not acceptable when Trip’s people were in it.
Telmandaroo, Trip cried in his mind, hoping Jaxi was still projecting his thoughts, please stop that. We must focus our efforts on the pirates.
They cannot fight from their lofty perch if their lofty perch is destroyed, the dragon replied, that same glee coming through in his words.
Jaxi, are Kaika, Rysha, and Dreyak still in there?
Yes. Both Dreyak and Rysha appear to be trapped.
Trapped? By what?
The floors are caving in under the dragon’s assault.
Trip groaned. Can you tell Kaika how to find them?
I shall attempt to do so. During my copious free time.
Red lightning arced from the sorceress’s sword, streaking through the night sky at Trip’s flier. Once again, the invisible barrier repelled it, but the lightning seemed to get closer than it had before. Was Jaxi growing tired?
Thank you, Trip said, turning so he could make another run at the pirate duo. Surely, the woman had to also be getting tired.
She is, but her sword isn’t, Jaxi said, irritation creeping into her words. I believe, from what I’ve experienced of his power, that it’s a very old soulblade. The sorcerer whose soul is stored within likely came from the time when dragons still roamed the world—the last time that happened, that is—and some mages had as much as fifty percent dragon blood in their veins. They were extremely powerful.
What does that mean for us? Trip fired, strafing the platform as he swooped low, tempted to try to mow those two down with his flier if not his bullets. Maybe seeing his entire craft arrowing for her would startle the sorceress, make her defenses falter. Are soulblades as powerful as the sorcerers were in human form?
Usually not quite as powerful, but it can be close.
The sorceress lifted her arms, and a surge of invisible energy slammed into Trip’s flier from below. It bounced him high into the sky, and lightning raced up after him.
The smell of something burning flooded his nostrils, and fear lurched into his heart as he realized some of that attack must have gotten through Jaxi’s barrier.
He glared over the side at the pair. Maybe the dragon’s plan of collapsing the fortress under them wasn’t a bad idea. But it had to wait until his team was out of there.
The sorceress was too busy looking in another direction to return Trip’s glare. She lifted her arms, this time aiming her soulblade at Duck’s flier. He’d snuck in low, maybe searching for sign of their people on the docks or the beach.
“No,” Trip yelled, and imagined himself hurling a mental attack at the woman, as he’d done with the dragon in the capital. He expected nothing, but hoped against logic, it would do something.
It was as if a battering ram slammed into her back. The woman flew from the platform, the sword slipping from her grip as she tumbled over the rope railing. The pirate king lunged after her, but he was too late. His fingers grasped at empty air, and the sorceress disappeared from Trip’s sight as she fell.
Did you do that, or did I? Trip asked.
You did. But pat yourself on the back later. She’s landed, and she’s still alive. And pissed.
Trip started to angle his flier down toward the beach, but Blazer spoke over the crystal.
“Focus on the pirate king while his ally is down,” she ordered. “You, too, Trip.”
Though he worried that leaving the sorceress alive to gather herself and come up with a plan was a bad idea, Trip obeyed, remembering that getting that sword was their primary objective. Their only objective in being here. He couldn’t help but want to avenge the deaths of all the Iskandians that had fallen to the pirate king’s raids, but that wasn’t their mission.
Trip led the way to the platform, heading in low and firing straight at Neaminor. If the bullets didn’t kill him, maybe Trip could knock his foe from the fortress. A five-story drop might take him out, even if it hadn’t killed the sorceress. The pirate king wouldn’t have his ally’s shield to protect him this time.
He did not, but to Trip’s surprise, Neaminor didn’t flee for cover. He stood in a fighting stance, glaring defiantly at the fliers descending upon him. As Trip fired, the man’s blade moved in a blur in front of him, deflecting bullets. Most of them. Trip was firing two guns at once, and as amazing as the man’s—or his sword’s—reflexes were, a couple of shots slipped past his defenses.
One clipped his shoulder, probably not hurting him much, but one sank into his thigh. The man screamed and ran toward the closest door. But the dragon alighted on the roof of the fortress right above it. Telmandaroo’s serpentine neck whipped down, his head smashing a huge hole into the platform in front of the door. Cutting off the pirate’s escape.
Trip had flown low, thinking to knock the man off the platform, but with the dragon in the way, he had to turn aside at the last second. Neaminor ran toward the railing. Trip thought he would leap over it, risking the fall—or trusting the sorceress to make it safe for him. Instead, he sprang onto one of the posts and then off it, his ability to jump enhanced somehow, as it had been earlier. He twisted in the air to catch the lip of Trip’s back seat as the flier skimmed past.
Trip let out an unmanly squawk of surprise as the abrupt weight tilted his craft sideways. He gripped the flight stick, jerking his wings left and right, hoping to throw the pirate free. Neaminor, still holding his green-glowing sword, hung from the flier by one hand.
“Trip, you seem to have picked up a parasite,” Leftie observed.
He, Duck, and Blazer all flew behind him, having let him take the lead in their attack formation.
“You have to be careful in tropical climates,” Duck drawled. “There are all manner of infestuous critters that’ll leap into a man.”
“Infestuous?” Blazer asked. “What school did you go to, Duck?”
“School of the wilds, ma’am. You know I was raised by wolves.”
Trip, doing his best to throw the pirate free of his flier, ignored the banter—and the fact that they all seemed amused by this latest development. Did they not realize how much of a threat Neaminor could still be? It wasn’t as if Jaxi or Trip could attack him.
Just in case he was wrong and magic could do something, Trip glanced back and tried to throw another mental attack. He wasn’t sure if he was in the right state of mind to make it work, as he’d been angry and frustrated both times it had worked before. Now he was just alarmed and frustrated.
No, our magic won’t work against him, Jaxi said. And that sword will pierce any barrier I erect. I recommend you not invite him further into your flier.
I didn’t invite him into it at all.
Happy to use brute force rather than magic, Trip pulled Jaxi from her scabbard and twisted in his seat. He lunged back while holding the flight stick with one hand, and he tried to slash the soulblade down onto Neaminor’s fingers.
Green flared around the pirate’s hand, and the soulblade bounced off something invisible without making a sound. No sound, but Trip felt the obstacle as reverberations ricocheted up his arm, making his elbow ache fiercely.
Nice move, genius, Jaxi said. I do hope you’ll buff out this dent you gave me later.
Trip knew Jaxi didn’t have any scratches or dents, as the magical blade seemed impervious to such, so he said nothing. All he did was pull the soulblade back and jam it into its scabbard again.
Still dangling from one hand, the pirate lifted his sword into view, the blade glowing even more luminously green than before, and hacked at the side of the flier.
Snarling, Trip rocked the wings violently a few more times, then took the craft into a loop. He would see how well Neaminor could hang on when up was suddenly down and vice versa.
Also, you could try hacking at his fingers with your utility knife, Jaxi said.
That would work?
He’s not shielded against everything, just magic. I assume the knife you use to cut sausage and butter your toast isn’t overly magical.
I haven’t asked it.
Now flying upside down, Trip didn’t go for the knife. He glanced back, hoping to see the pirate fall.
But the crazy man was still there, somehow having shifted his grip enough to hang from the tiny lip of the seat well. He glared defiantly, his eyes utterly wild rather than rational, some kind of crazy blood lust burning in them. The pirate pulled back his sword as he dangled, taking aim for a swipe that would lop off Trip’s head.
Trip threw the flier into a corkscrew, but it didn’t keep the pirate from attacking. The blade slashed toward his head, leaving a trail of green in the sky.
Trip ducked in time to avoid it, but felt the blade slice off some of his hair. An intense hatred emanated from the sword, a wordless promise that it would kill its handler if it had to, in order to bury itself to the hilt in Trip’s chest.
“Leftie, Duck,” Blazer said as Trip continued to corkscrew, “go down and finish off that damn witch.” Was the sorceress still attacking them from the ground? “Trip, I’m coming to help. Fly straight for a minute, and I’ll shoot him.”
“Shoot him? When I’m right next to him?” Trip winced at the alarmed squeak to his words. Pilots were supposed to be calm and collected in the face of death, damn it.
Neaminor swung at him again, once more trying to lop off his head. With reflexes fueled by gallons of adrenaline flowing through his veins, Trip yanked himself down as far as he could with his harness on. A screech sounded and sparks flew as the blade skipped off the back of his seat frame.
“I’ll tell you when to duck,” Blazer said, her voice containing the calm that Trip longed for. “I see you’re getting some practice.”
Trip, sensing that she wasn’t close enough to aim for the pirate yet, pulled back on the flight stick for another loop, twisting as the flier soared upside down. He still hoped he might dislodge the pirate. He was flying over the beach, well east of the fortress and hundreds of feet off the ground. The fall should kill him.
But Neaminor, his muscles charged by the sword’s power, still wouldn’t fall off. Defying gravity, he retained that one-handed grip and lashed out again at Trip.
Why don’t you shoot him? Jaxi asked.
It was hard to imagine that working—the man seemed superhuman back there—but Trip promptly ripped his pistol from his holster. There was nothing magical about these bullets. If Jaxi was right…
He turned in time to see the blade slashing for his face. He ducked, forced to let go of the stick, and the wind whipped at the flier, rattling the wings. Trip popped up and fired at the man’s chest.
Even with the flier lurching wildly and flying upside down, his target was close enough that he couldn’t miss. A bullet sank into the pirate’s heart.
Pain flashed in Neaminor’s eyes, but impossibly, he did not let go. He whipped the sword toward Trip again, wild, uncontrolled slashes.
“Get down,” Blazer ordered as Trip spotted her flier coming in from the side.
“Shit,” he blurted, and did his best to drop into his boots—a difficult prospect with his harness holding him in and with gravity pulling in the opposite direction.
Machine gun fire tore through the air, drowning out the drone of the propeller. Trip was aware of his flier tipping toward the ground, wings jerking erratically without his hand on the stick.
Fortunately, his senses told him the ground was still hundreds of feet below. While those guns fired, all Trip could do was stay as deep in his seat well as possible and pray. He’d never been much for prayer, but he sent a heartfelt one to each of the seven gods now.
The gunfire stopped.
“You’re welcome, kid,” Blazer said.
Trip poked his head over the lip of his seat and grimaced at the backrest that had been lopped off. But not seeing the pirate drove away any disgruntlement he felt about the damage to his flier. He lifted his head higher, leaning over to peer into the back seat, as if the pirate might be crouching down in it, ready to spring another attack.
But it was empty.
Trip let out a relieved breath and whirled back around to grasp the flight stick. “Easy, girl,” he murmured, silently apologizing for leaving the craft without his guidance.
“The proper response is thank you,” Blazer said, lifting an arm toward him.
She’d turned her flier around, pointing it back down the beach. They’d flown east far enough that the fortress wasn’t in sight anymore. Another few seconds, and he would have flown away from the island altogether.
“Thank you, Major,” Trip said, recovering his equanimity—and getting that alarmed squeakiness out of his voice. He was certain General Zirkander never squeaked during battle.
“That’s better. Go down and get that sword, will you? You’re lucky you didn’t fly out over the ocean, or you would have been swimming for it. When you’ve got it, join me back at the fortress. That damn witch is still alive and flinging attacks at our people while the stupid dragon watches. Maybe we can use the sword on both of them.”
“Actually, I don’t think I can, ma’am.” Trip peered over the side. He hadn’t been watching to see where the pirate had landed, and if the sword was still glowing, it wasn’t doing it in a spot where he could see it.
I can sense it, Jaxi said, but you are correct. Neither you nor I can touch it. The blade won’t allow it.
“What do you mean?” Blazer asked.
“I have Jaxi with me, and she’s very magical, so I won’t be able to carry the two weapons in my flier at once.”
Blazer heaved an aggravated sigh. “Fine, I’ll find it. You go help the others.”
Subtle evasion, Jaxi told him dryly. Will there be a point at which you share with the others that I’m not the only one in this flier that those swords hate?
Not voluntarily, no.
As unobservant as mundane humans are, if you keep successfully attacking unattackable foes, someone’s bound to notice that a dragon frolicked horizontally with one of your ancestors.
Frolicked…er. Someday, you’ll have to explain how that’s even possible. Trip’s mind boggled as he imagined one of the giant dragons somehow sharing a bed with a human.
Did you ever open a book at that university of yours?
Mostly technical manuals.
The education system these days is extremely disappointing.
Never mind, Trip said, weariness from the battle sinking into his muscles as he turned the flier toward the fortress. I’ll ask Rysha how it works. She’s read all manner of books, so I’m sure she knows. Now that he thought about it, he remembered Zirkander and Sardelle talking about shape-shifting during that meeting in the general’s office. It still seemed exceedingly odd to contemplate.
“Jaxi says she would be most delighted to guide you to it,” Trip told Blazer, feeling he should get Jaxi back for her derision. “I understand she very much enjoyed the last telepathic contact she had with you.”
Jaxi sent the sword equivalent of a glower into his mind.
Blazer swore.
