At first it was difficult and seemed impossible. Generations of wizards long dead plus the boy’s own inherent skill and intelligence came to Bane’s aid. The trick was to banish reality, to convince the mind that its body did not weigh sixty-some rock, that it weighed nothing or less than nothing. It was a skill most young human wizards must study years to attain, yet Bane was having to learn it in seconds. Mother birds teach the young to fly by tossing them out of the nest. Bane was acquiring the art of magic in the same way. Shock and sheer terror jolted his natural talent into taking over and saving him. My flesh is made of cloud. My blood is fine mist. My bones are hollow and filled with air.
A tingling sensation spread through the prince’s body. It seemed as if the magic was changing him into a cloud, for he felt weightless and airy. As this feeling increased, so did his confidence in the illusion he was spinning around himself, and the magic in turn increased, growing stronger and more powerful. Opening his eyes, Bane saw to his delight that he was no longer falling. Lighter than a snowflake, he was drifting in the sky.
“I’ve done it! I’ve done it!” He laughed gleefully, flapping his arms like a bird.
“Concentrate!” Sinistrad snapped. “This is not play! Break the concentration and you lose the power!”
Bane sobered. His father’s words had not affected him so much as the sudden frightening sensation he’d experienced of growing heavier again. Resolutely he set his mind to its task of keeping him afloat among the wispy clouds.
“What do I do now, father?” he asked, more subdued.
“Remain where you are for the moment. The elves will rescue you.”
“But they tried to kill me!”
“Yes, but now they will see that you possess the power and they will want to take you to their wizards. That will lead you to their court. You may as well spend some time there before you return to me. You might gather useful information.”
Bane gazed upward, trying to see what was happening on the ship. All that was visible to him from his angle was the underside of the hull and the half-spread wings. The dragonship was still falling, however. Bane relaxed, floating in the air, and waited for it to come to him.
27
Hugh and Alfred crouched at the foot of the stairs. They could hear the elves searching the ship; they heard the elf captain’s conversation with Bane.
“Little bastard,” Hugh muttered beneath his breath. Then they heard Bane scream.
Alfred paled.
“You want him, you better help rescue him,” Hugh said to the chamberlain.
“Keep close behind me.”
Clambering up the ladder, Hugh threw open the hatch. Sword in hand, he surged out onto the deck with Alfred right behind him. The first thing he saw was the elf hurling Bane over the side of the ship. Alfred cried out in horror.
“Never mind!” shouted Hugh, looking about swiftly for something to use as a weapon. “Cover my back—By the ancestors! No you don’t!” Alfred’s eyes were rolling up into his head. His face was ashen as he swayed on his feet. Hugh reached out a hand, grabbed him to shake him furiously, but it was too late. The chamberlain keeled over and landed on the deck in a pathetic heap.
“Damn!” Hugh swore viciously.
The elves were stiff and weary from their fight with the rebels. They had not expected to find humans on board a dragonship and they were slow to react. Hugh grabbed for the spar, just as one of the elf fighters attempted to reach it first. The Hand was quicker. Lifting it, he snatched it up with all the force he could manage and thwacked the elf across the face. The fighter toppled, striking his head against the hatch when he fell. Presumably he would be out for a while. Hugh dared not finish him off, for he had two other elves in front of him.
Elves are not particularly skilled swordsmen. They prefer the bow and arrow, which demonstrates skill and judgment, not merely brute strength—all they consider swordplay. The short blades elves carry at their sides are generally used for close fighting or to dispatch victims already wounded by arrows. Knowing the elves’ dislike for the blade, Hugh swung his sword wildly, forcing them to keep out of his reach. He edged backward—hopping from plank to plank—until he ran into the bulwarks, the elves pressing him, but not moving in to attack. Not yet. Whatever they lack in technique, elves make up for in patience and wariness. It was taking all Hugh’s waning strength just to keep the blade in his hand. The elves could see that he was sick and weak. Feinting, jabbing, they drained his energy. They could afford to wait until weariness forced him to drop his guard.
Hugh’s arms ached, his head throbbed. He knew that he could not hold out long. Somehow, this must end. Movement caught his eye.
“Alfred!” Hugh bellowed. “That’s it! Take them from behind!” It was an old trick, and no human fighter worth his codpiece would have fallen for it. As it was, the elven captain kept his eyes fixed on Hugh, but the other warrior lost his nerve and turned his head. What he saw was not a menacing human bearing down on him, but Alfred sitting up and looking about him dazedly.
Hugh was on the elf in a flash, slashing the sword out of his hand and bashing the warrior in the face with his fist. This move left him open to attack from the captain, but he couldn’t help that. The elf captain leapt forward to strike. His feet slipped on the slanting deck; the clumsy stroke missed Hugh’s heart and tore through the muscles of his sword arm. Hugh spun on his heel, caught the captain across the jaw with the hilt of the blade and sent the elf sprawling on his back on the deck, his weapon flying from his hand. Hugh sank to his knees, fighting dizziness and nausea.
“Sir Hugh! You’re injured! Let me help—” Hands touched his arm, but Hugh jerked away.
“I’m all right,” he snapped. Staggering to his feet, he glared at the chamberlain, who flushed and hung his head.
“I ... I’m sorry I let you down,” he stammered. “I don’t know what comes over me—”
Hugh cut him off, gesturing at the elves. “Toss this scum overboard before they come to.”
Alfred went so pale that Hugh thought he was going to faint again. “I can’t do that, sir. Throw a helpless man ... to his death.”
“They threw that kid of yours to his death!” Hugh raised his sword, holding it above the neck of the unconscious elf. “Then I’ll have to get rid of them here. I can’t take a chance on them coming around.”
He started to cut the slender neck, but a strange reluctance halted him. A voice came to him from out of a vast and horrifying darkness. All your life you served us.
“Please, sir!” Alfred caught hold of his arm. “Their ship is still attached to ours.” He pointed to where the remnants of the elven vessel nosed alongside the dragonship, the grappling hooks holding it fast. “I could transfer them back there. At least they’d have a chance of being rescued.”
“Very well.” Too sick and tired to argue, Hugh gave in with an ill grace. “Do what you want. Just get rid of them. What do you care about elves. anyway? They murdered your precious prince.”
“All life is sacred,” said Alfred softly, leaning down to lift the unconscious elf captain by the shoulders. “We learned that. Too late. Too late.” At least that’s what Hugh thought he said. The wind was whistling through the rigging, he was sick and in pain, and who cared anyway?
Alfred performed the task in his usual bumbling fashion—tripping over the planks, dropping the bodies, once nearly hanging himself when he became entangled in one of the wing cables. Eventually he managed to haul the unconscious elves to the ship’s rail and heaved them onto their own ship with a strength the Hand found difficult to credit in the tall, gangling man. But then, there was a lot about Alfred that was inexplicable. Was I really dead? Did Alfred bring me back to life? And, if so, how? Not even the mysteriarchs have the ability to restore the dead.