Closer. Closer still. At last, Dybo raised his left hand, just like a hunt leader about to give a command. As he did so, the three metal bracelets he wore that indicated his rank slid down toward his elbow. And then, at last, he brought the hand down in a chopping motion, signaling the attack.
The Lub-Kaden, one of the small fleet of gliders built based on Novato’s plans, swooped over the edge of the cliff, sailing high above the ships below. The glider resembled a wooden-frame replica of a giant wingfinger, with a wide triangular canopy and a small hollow undercarriage containing a Quintaglio lying on her belly. The pilot could steer the ship by moving her tail; a harness connected it to the glider’s pointed prow which could move left or right on hinges.
The pilot did much better today than Novato had done a few kilodays ago when she had become the first Quintaglio to take to the air; this female had no trouble staying on her planned course, and she could keep airborne for an extended period, taking advantage of the upcurrent as the wind blowing against the cliffs was deflected toward the sky.
Dybo could see the tiny yellow beings on the deck pointing upward. He hoped it was in astonishment; flight was so new to the Quintaglios, he was betting that the Others hadn’t yet discovered it. Indeed, Novato hadn’t been able to work it out until she had actual bird specimens to work from, and they could only be found in the blue ark, something the Others had no access to.
Dybo could see some Others trying to maneuver the heavy weapon tubes on their decks, hoping to aim at the airship swooping above. But these tubes weren’t designed to point that far overhead; their rear ends butted into the deck before they could swing that high.
Some Others were firing their handheld sticks up at the flyer, too, but so far, no shot had connected.
The Lub-Kaden was circling now over the lead ship. Dybo watched as the first bomb dropped from its central chassis: a heavily weighted ceramic container, divided internally into two parts by a wall, each section containing a different chemical. When the container hit the deck of the ship—which it did now—the ceramic shattered and the chemicals mixed, bursting into flame.
Dybo watched as a ring of fire widened on the sailing ship’s foredeck and soon began climbing the mast. Fire touched the triangular lead sail, and the whole thing went up in flames. Several Others dived into the water, but their big weapon tubes and supply of other devices on this ship would soon be lost.
The Lub-Kaden was now over a second ship. It dropped another ceramic canister, but this one missed, plunging beneath the waves. The pilot circled around again and dropped her third bomb. This one actually hit the top of the mast, and fire spread down the triangular sail in a widening path toward the deck.
Dybo made a chopping motion with his arm again and a second glider soared off the cliff. This one, the Irb-Falpom, sailed straight and true farther out from the docks, toward some of the ships in the rear. In a beautifully executed arc, the glider dropped bombs in rapid succession onto the three farthest ships. They started to burn slowly but persistently, and soon yellow beings were trying to get away in lifeboats or by swimming.
From a nearby ship, one of the Others had scrambled up to the lookout’s perch atop the mast and was carefully aiming his weapon tube. He squeezed off three shots. One missed completely. The second tore an insignificant hole in the leather covering of the Irb-Falpom’s wings. But the third hit one of the ceramic bombs directly. A chain of liquid fire dribbled downward from the craft toward the waves, but enough had splashed up as the canister blew open to set the whole glider ablaze. Burning brightly, like an apparition from one of the sacred scrolls, the glider pilot bravely took aim on an Other ship and let her flaming vessel plow into its decks, the fragile glider breaking apart like kindling wood as it skidded along, finally smashing into the base of the foremast. Within moments, the Other ship was engulfed in flame.
A huge explosion split the air. Dybo brought his hands to his earholes. Below, a giant ball of fire was expanding upward, and thick smoke was everywhere. One of the ships must have been carrying a supply of blackpowder, and the fire had set it off all at once.
Three Other ships had turned now and were heading out of the harbor, desperately trying to get away.
Dybo launched a third glider, the Sor-Denkal, but it failed to catch the wind properly, and, spinning wildly, it spiraled down toward the waves. As it hit the surf, one of the Others’ big weapons blew it and its pilot apart, sending a huge spray of water onto the Quintaglio docks.
With another chop of his arm, a fourth glider, the Jal-Tetex, took to the air, swooping out to drop a series of bombs.
Meanwhile, the Lub-Kaden had bombed four more ships; the water was now thick with flaming timbers and yellow backs swimming for shore. The glider swooped up once more, catching the air current perfectly, and swung around to drop the last of its bombs in a neat series—plink! plink! plink!—onto three more boats. The pilot then swung her glider back in a giant arc that swept her over the cliff tops, buzzing Rockscape before coming in for a smooth landing on an open field.
Besides the three ships that seemed to be making good their escape, there were only two Other vessels left below. Dybo had just one glider left: the Tak-Saleed, Novato’s original flyer, salvaged from the waves and rebuilt after its first flight. It was smaller and less sturdy than the others, and Dybo had hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but there was no choice. His arm came down in a chopping motion again, and the Tak-Saleed soared over the cliff’s edge. The glider shuddered visibly as it rose higher and higher, and Dybo thought briefly that it was going to fall apart. The pilot seemed to be having some trouble with the harness that controlled the prow—it had been seizing up in tests, but Dybo had been assured that the problem had been corrected. The prow oscillated left and right, causing the ship to waver in its flight. Soon, though, the pilot had the craft under control and she swooped out over the waves, overshooting the armada, then executing a turn and sweeping back in.
In the meantime, one of the remaining sailing ships had been taken care of. Another ship, engulfed in flame and completely abandoned, had careened into it, the second ship having been unable to get out of its way in time. Not only had the impact ripped open both ships’ hulls, but both were now burning brightly.
The Tak-Saleed was completing its final run, but its pilot had been too intent on the spectacle below. Dybo shouted, “Look out!” but there was no way for anyone to hear him over the wind. He watched in horror as the rickety Saleed collided in midair with the Jal-Tetex. For a brief moment he thought they were going to just lightly touch, but no, the Saleed crumpled, its wings folding up into a corrugated mess, the wooden slats of its undercarriage snapping like twigs. For its part, the Telex’s left wing snapped off and began spiraling in toward the waves while the rest of the ship was pushed sideways through the air for several beats by the force of the impact with the Saleed. The Saleed had been carrying four bombs. Two dropped free of the ship, their amphora shape providing little air resistance as they fell. They hit the waves and simply kept on going down. Moments later, the two aircraft crashed into the water as well. Dybo dipped his head in silent prayer. Surely the two pilots were dead.
But no—a green form was slicing through the waves. One of them still lived; it looked like Quetik, the pilot of the Saleed. Her airship had impacted not far from the one intact Other ship, but Quetik wasn’t swimming toward it. Nearby was another ship whose decks showed sporadic fires but whose sails had not yet burst into flame; Quetik’s tail whipped through the water, propelling her toward that vessel.