“All life is sacred. . . . Too late. Too late.”
Hugh shook his head and was immediately sorry. He thought his eyeballs must burst out of their sockets.
Alfred returned to find Hugh trying to knot a clumsy bandage around his arm.
“Sir Hugh?” Alfred began timidly.
Hugh did not look up from his work. Gently the chamberlain took over, tying the bandage deftly.
“I think you should come and see something, sir.”
“I know. We’re still falling. But I can pull us out. How close are we to the Maelstrom?”
“It’s not just that, sir. It’s the prince. He’s safe!”
“Safe?” Hugh stared at him, thinking the man had gone mad.
“It’s very peculiar, sir. Although not so peculiar, I suppose, considering who he is and who his father is.”
Who the hell is he? Hugh wanted to ask, but now was not the time. Sick and hurting, he made his way across the deck, whose movements were becoming more and more erratic as they drew nearer the storm. Looking down below, he could not repress a low whistle of amazement.
“His father is a mysteriarch of the High Realm,” said Alfred. “I suppose he taught the boy to do that.”
“They communicate through the amulet,” said the Hand, recalling his failing vision focusing on the boy clasping the feather in his hand.
“Yes.”
Hugh could see the boy’s upturned face, looking at them triumphantly, evidently quite pleased with himself.
“I’m supposed to rescue him, I suppose. A kid who tried to poison me. A kid who wrecked my ship. A kid who tried to turn us all over to the elves!”
“After all, sir,” replied Alfred, gazing at Hugh steadily, “you did agree to murder him—for money.”
Hugh glanced back down at Bane. They were nearing the Maelstrom. He could see the stinging clouds of dust and debris floating above it and hear the dull booming of the thunder. A cool, moist wind smelling of rain was causing the tail rudder to flap wildly. Right now, Hugh should be examining the snapped cables, trying to rig them so that he could extend the wings and regain the upper air before the ship drifted too close, before the winds of the storm could prevent them from rising. And the pounding in his head was making him sick.
Turning, Hugh left the rail.
“I don’t blame you,” said Alfred. “He is a difficult child—”
“Difficult!” Hugh laughed, then paused, eyes closed, as the deck canted away beneath his feet. When he was himself again, he drew a deep breath. “Take that spar and hold it out to him. I’ll try to maneuver the ship closer. We’re risking our own lives doing this. Chances are we’ll get caught by the winds and sucked into the storm.”
“Yes, Sir Hugh.” Alfred ran to get the spar—for once, his feet and his body all going the same direction.
The Hand dropped through the hatch into the steerage way and stood staring at the mess. “Why am I doing this?”, he asked himself. It’s simple, was the response. You’ve got a father who will pay to have his son not come back and another father who will pay to get hold of the kid.
That makes sense, Hugh admitted. All, of course, provided we don’t wind up in the Maelstrom. Looking out the crystal window, he could see the boy floating among the clouds. The dragonship was falling down to meet him, but unless Hugh could alter their course, they would miss him by over a wing’s length. Gloomily the Hand surveyed the wreckage, prodding his aching mind to function and delineate between the various ropes that were twisting and slithering across the deck like snakes. Finding those he needed, he untangled them and laid them out straight so that they could run easily through the hawseholes. Once the cables were arranged, he cut them loose from the harness with his sword and wound them around his arms. He had seen men suffer broken bones from doing this. If he lost control, the heavy wing would fly out suddenly, jerk the rope, and snap his arms like a twig.
Seating himself, his feet braced against the deck, Hugh began to pay out the line slowly. One length of cable ran swiftly and smoothly through the hawsehole. The wing began to lift and the magic to activate. But the cable on Hugh’s right arm remained limp and lifeless, straggling across the deck. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The wing was stuck, jammed.
Hugh hauled back on the cable with all his might, hoping to jolt it free. It did no good, and he realized that one of the exterior cables attached to his guide rope must have snapped. Swearing to himself beneath his breath, the Hand abandoned the broken cable and concentrated on flying the ship with one wing.
“Nearer!” Alfred shouted. “A little more to the left—or is that starboard? I can never remember. Port? Perhaps port? There, I’ve almost got him . . . Now! Hang on tightly, Your Highness!”
Hugh heard the prince’s shrill voice, yammering excitedly about something, the sound of small boots hitting the deck.
Then he heard Alfred’s voice, low and rebuking, and Bane’s defensive whine. Hugh pulled back on the cable, felt the wing lift, and the dragonship, aided by its magic, began to float upward. The clouds of the Maelstrom swirled below, seemingly angry to see the prey escaping. Hugh held his breath, concentrating all his energy on holding the wing steady as they continued slowly rising.
It was as if a giant hand reached out to slap them like an irritating mosquito. The ship dropped suddenly and sickeningly, plunging downward so fast that it seemed their bodies went with it but their stomaches and bowels stayed up above. Hugh heard a frightened shriek and a heavy bump and knew someone must have been thrown to the deck. The Hand hoped both Alfred and the kid had found something to hang on to, but there was nothing he could do about it if they hadn’t.
Grimly he held on to the cables, fighting to keep the wing up to slow their descent. Then he heard an ominous ripping sound and the eerie whistle that stops the hearts of all dragonship pilots. The wing had torn, the wind was rushing through it. Hugh paid out the line as far as it would go, opening the wing all the way. Although he couldn’t use it to steer, at least its magic would help cushion their fall when they hit the ground—if they hit the ground and if the Maelstrom didn’t rip them apart first.
Unwinding the rope from around his arm, Hugh threw it onto the deck. They hadn’t reached the Maelstrom yet, and already the wind was whipping the ship around. He couldn’t stand up and was forced to crawl across the planking, clinging to the cables and using them to pull himself into the corridor. Once there, he dragged himself up the ladder and peered out. Alfred and Bane were lying flat on the top deck, the chamberlain with his arm wrapped tightly around the boy.
“Down here!” Hugh yelled above the buffeting of the wind. “The wing’s split. We’re sinking into the storm!”
Alfred slithered on his stomach across the deck, hauling Bane with him. Hugh took a certain grim pleasure in noting that the child appeared to be stricken dumb with terror. Reaching the hatch, the chamberlain shoved the prince ahead of him. Hugh grasped hold of the boy none too gently, pulled him inside, and dropped him onto the deck.
Bane let out a howl of pain that was cut short when the ship flipped over, slamming him into the bulwarks and knocking the breath from his body. The motion sent Alfred plunging through the hatch headfirst, causing Hugh to lose his footing. He crashed down the ladder onto the deck below. The Hand staggered to his feet and made his way back up the ladder—or perhaps it was down the ladder. The ship was rolling over and over, and he had lost all sense of direction. He grabbed hold of the hatch cover. A rain squall hit the ship; water lashed down with the force of elven spears. A jagged bolt of lightning split the air near enough that the smell made him wrinkle his nose; the concussion of the air rushing back together nearly deafened him. He fumbled at the hatch cover—it was slippery and wet—and finally managed to yank it shut. Wearily he slid back down the ladder and collapsed onto the deck.