Alarm widened Books’s eyes, and she wished she’d kept her voice calmer. If he fumbled it and didn’t catch it before it smacked into the wall or slid down to the navigation cabin…
Books managed to catch the box before it struck anything.
“Thanks,” Amaranthe said. “Secure that, will you? And bring us a few sticks. And that lantern that’s sliding your way too.”
“I came back here to see what was happening, not get pressed into labor,” Books said, though he headed toward her.
“What’s happening is we need someone pressed into labor.” Amaranthe nodded toward the porthole in the door. “Maldynado’s swerving about isn’t helping much. They’re getting close.”
“Dead deranged ancestors,” Books whispered, staring at the hole.
Amaranthe doubted he could see details from across the cargo hold, but the black ship now filled the view. It blotted out the mountains and the sky with its bulk. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if it was bringing weapons to bear, but, even if it didn’t, the craft could probably destroy the dirigible simply by running into it. Like a steam tramper squishing a fly.
“Has it done anything yet?” Books was strapping down the box of explosives.
“It’s just following us,” Amaranthe said. “Getting closer and closer. Basilard, think we’re ready to open the door and test our blasting-stick slingshot?”
Our?
“You helped me construct it.”
It’s your idea.
“Basilard says we’re ready to go.” Amaranthe extended a hand toward Books. The dirigible tilted to the side, and her feet slipped. Only her fingers wrapped about the strut kept her from tumbling toward him.
“I can… read his signs,” Books said, his words broken as he focused on climbing on hands and knees up the slanted floor while he clenched blasting sticks in his fists. “That’s not what he said.”
The nose of the dirigible rose and the floor tipped the opposite direction so quickly it nearly hurled Books into the cargo door. Amaranthe and Basilard caught him before blasting sticks could fly from his hands. For a moment, the greens and browns of the wetlands were visible through the porthole before the craft leveled.
“That idiot,” Books growled. “I should be piloting. He’ll kill us before the enemy has a chance.”
Something flashed outside. Amaranthe and Basilard almost clunked heads as they leaned toward the porthole for a look. Maldynado had brought them within fifty feet of the ground. The tips of trees would claw at the dirigible’s metal hull if they dropped any lower. The other craft wasn’t quite as low, but it was far too close for Amaranthe’s tastes. A white beam shot out of the dome’s black belly. It sliced through the sky and tore into the earth below. Trees burst into flame or were hurled from the ground altogether. Marsh water boiled and erupted into geysers. The beam zigzagged across the ground with clumsy madness, and Amaranthe thought of a kid scribbling on the sidewalk with chalk.
“Why’s it shooting the ground instead of us?” Books asked.
Amaranthe thought of Sicarius’s explanation for the strange craft’s existence. If the original expedition had needed Admiral Starcrest and a genius code cracker from an enemy nation, maybe the technology was so foreign that the Forge people were struggling to work everything. Except they were having no trouble flying after her team in that monstrosity…
“I don’t know,” Amaranthe said, “but we better take advantage of the fact that we’re not a smoldering ball of flame yet.”
Even as she spoke, the beam zigzagged again, striking a stout cypress. The wood exploded beneath the power, or perhaps the heat, and shards flew everywhere. Flames erupted from the ten-foot-tall stump that remained.
“Good idea,” Books said.
“Let’s get this door open,” Amaranthe told Basilard.
“While we’re flying?” Books asked. “Is that wise?”
“Wiser than lighting a blasting stick in a room without an open door.”
Amaranthe unfastened a safety latch and tugged at the unlocking mechanism. It took several tries before she could muscle it loose. A smack sounded, as suction was broken, and the door dropped outward. It happened so abruptly that she might have followed, if not for Basilard. He grabbed her by the back of the shirt and kept her from falling.
Wind tore at her hair and clothing. The black craft loomed closer than ever, blocking out everything but a sliver of the ground where a swath of flames burned, devouring trees and undergrowth. The stink of smoke filled the cargo hold, and Amaranthe stumbled back, coughing.
Basilard waved at Books for one of the blasting sticks and pulled the slingshot back until his arms quivered. He nodded for Books to light the stick and place it in the center of the pouch. Books lit the fuse, then fiddled with the placement of the stick for so long that Amaranthe feared it would go off in the cargo hold. Basilard swatted his hand away and released the slingshot in time.
The blasting stick sailed through the doorway. With the black craft so close, it would have been hard to miss, but Amaranthe held her breath, not knowing what to expect.
The explosive disappeared in a starburst that filled their view and made her squint. She lifted an arm to protect her eyes from the brilliance.
“Get another one ready,” Amaranthe said before the smoke cleared. She doubted one would be sufficient.
The wind shredded the black-powder cloud. Nothing had changed. The great craft was still closing, with no hint of damage marring its inky hull.
“Did we hit it?” Books asked. “The stick must have exploded too early, before it struck the craft. We’ll try to time it better with this one.”
Amaranthe nodded, waving at them to ready another attack, but a heavy feeling plagued her gut. The blasting sticks might not be enough to damage the other craft.
Though Akstyr kept his eyes closed, he could feel Sicarius watching him with the intensity of a starving wolf. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of Akstyr’s face and dripped from his chin. He chastised himself for noticing. Concentrate, he told himself. He had to block out Sicarius, and block out the awareness of his body if he hoped to find the artifact.
It had left its spot beneath the emperor’s knot of scar tissue to burrow deeper. As Books had said, it was designed to hook to the jugular to deliver its poison if tampered with, so that must be where it had gone.
Akstyr imagined his senses were blood cells, able to navigate through the body with ease. Slowly, his consciousness drew closer to that main artery. Something alien brushed against his awareness. The device. Yes, it was there, attached to the jugular.
As he had started to do before, Akstyr coiled his mental energy, preparing to hurl an attack. He dared not loiter, because that thing must have already sensed a threat. One chance. That was all he had.
“It’s on his jugular,” Akstyr whispered without opening his eyes. “Right here.” He pointed at the emperor’s neck, directly over the artifact, and was careful not to touch the skin. “You’ll have to slice deep to get it out, but not too deep.”
“Understood,” Sicarius said.
Sespian heard, and he had to be terrified, but he kept his breathing calm. He continued to lie still, though his knuckles tightened where his hands gripped each other across his belly. A detached part of Akstyr observed that it was interesting that he could sense all of that with his eyes closed, but he forced the thought away, turning his concentration again toward the artifact.
He summoned all of his mental might into a tiny ball, targeted the artifact, and unleashed the coiled energy in a single blow.
At that moment, the dirigible shuddered, as if they’d hit something-or something had hit them. The disturbance affected Akstyr’s aim, and his mental blow glanced off the artifact instead of hitting it squarely. He kept his concentration and eased in closer, prepared to hurl another attack, if he had time. The artifact was frozen though. His blow must have been enough to stun it.
“Now,” Akstyr said, his eyes flying open. “Get it out.”