Ten crewmen, who moments before had been panic-stricken sheep, formed a ring around Ertai. They were armed with whatever came to hand-cutlasses, hatchets, crowbars, lengths of chain. Inwardly Ertai's heart raced. Outwardly he projected utter calm.
"Guests not welcome, eh?" he said. "You're making a mistake, Captain."
Greven waved aside his warning. "Go on, kill the runt. If any man fails to strike a blow, I'll have his ears cropped."
Ertai closed his eyes and summoned the deepest resources of his magical strength. Images of his far-off homeland flashed through his mind, and power flowed through him. Even with his eyes shut, he could see the auras of his attackers maneuvering to strike. Since they were so hot for his blood, Ertai decided to cool them off. He brought his battered hands up and projected a quick and dirty spell at the closest trio of sailors.
The deck seemed to come out from under them. They rushed forward, weapons raised, and in the next instant, their feet were where their heads once were. It was like trying to run on ice- their boots could find no traction.
Ertai half-turned and hurled three quick bursts at the next group of attackers. Crowbars and cutlasses flew backward out of their hands, some striking their comrades behind them. Then Ertai had to dodge a killing blow from a hatchet. He touched the hatchet man with a single finger, and at such short range the ambient force sent the man sprawling.
The hilt of a cutlass connected with the back of Ertai's head. Stunned, he staggered forward, stray magical energy escaping from his body. It condensed the air, creating an impromptu fog bank of ice and mist on deck. Ertai dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the foot of Predator's mainmast. If he could put a little distance between himself and his tormentors, he'd show them a thing or two.
Greven leaned one arm on the ship's binnacle and watched his crew fumble through the fog trying to find Ertai. Normally his men were accomplished fighters, but they seemed unable to come to grips with a single, unarmed child. It was the most diverting thing he'd seen in days.
Ertai reached the mast. He started up the iron rungs, then someone caught his heels and dragged him back. Having no time for proper concentration, Ertai flung the first spell he could think of-and the sailor grasping his feet disappeared under a sudden growth of hair. The man's eyebrows, mustache, beard, and the hair on his head exploded into a silky mat that completely covered his astonished face. He reeled away, unable to see or breathe through the hirsute mass. The man staggered blindly to the rail and somersaulted over it. Greven nodded and smiled in grim humor. The runt wasn't bad.
Ertai was running out of strength. He had a small reservoir remaining, but it wasn't much. He made a fist and flung a last magical gasp onto the deck ahead of the charging sailors. The dry planking splintered as thick green shoots emerged from the deck. Predator's crewmen, caught by the sudden garden of tendrils and vines, tripped and fell, piling up in a heap in front of Ertai. Gamely, a few rose from the tangle to advance again. A sergeant in the regular Rathi army, Nasser, reached the exhausted Ertai first. He raised his sword high.
"Hold," said Greven. Nasser froze. He looked to his captain, "He's spent. Chain him up. I'll take him back to the Stronghold."
"Yes, Dread Lord," Nasser said. His comrades fought free of the rapidly withering vines and seized Ertai. They took out their frustrations on the helpless young man by raining blows on his ribs and skull. Heavy hobnailed boots thudded into his side, forcing Ertai to curl into a protective ball.
"Fists only," Greven warned them. "I want a prisoner who can give me information."
Fists it was, and Ertai shrank under the merciless pounding. How could this have happened to him, the most talented student of Barrin's school, the most valuable recruit on Weatherlight!
Clearly something was wrong, deeply wrong, on the strange plane called Rath.
"Enough," said Greven. "Take him below." Nasser dragged Ertai's limp body away by his heels.
Greven set the rest of the crew back to effecting emergency repairs. As he walked the deck observing their progress, Greven noticed that the battle damage in the deck planking was gone. The wood was like new where Ertai's spell had hit it, and the renewal was slowly spreading outward from the initial spot to the rest of the deck.
Repairs by magic-now there was a useful skill. Greven looked back at the hatch where Nasser had disappeared with Ertai. The boy had talent, that was certain.
With a clap of thunder, the canyon portal closed.
The shock wave blasted down the ravine, hurling him to the ground. This fall, on top of the wounds dealt him by the cat warrior, Mirri, were too much. He tumbled and rolled across the abrasive ground, brush and rock tearing at his already ragged flesh. Weatherlight was gone. He expected to follow it shortly into oblivion. He no longer cared. Since Selenia's death, he was more afraid of life than death.
He spread his arms wide, feeling the wind tugging at his clothes. The warship chasing Weatherlight had been caught in the field of residual energy when the portal closed and did not look like it would be aloft much longer. Serves them right, he thought. Death was the proper reward for failure.
He closed his eyes and drew his arms and legs in close. This made him roll faster. He wanted to believe, after he smashed to bits on the canyon floor, that his soul would depart for some higher, better realm. If he could not be an angel, he could at least dwell among them for eternity.
Death eluded him. As the canyon widened onto the adjacent plain, the sound of the wind in his ears changed pitch. He opened his eyes. For the duration of one heartbeat he saw the jagged walls of the canyon in bold reliefboulders, gravel, the odd wire grass that was the predominant growth on Rath-then it was all blotted out by a pall of blackness that swallowed him whole. All sensation of movement ceased. He was adrift in an endless sea of ink, floating between nowhere and nothing.
Crovax.
"Who calls my name?"
You are needed, Crovax.
He twisted around, trying to see who spoke. There was nothing to see.
Is this death? he wondered. Is this the end of life?
It's the beginning of your life, Crovax.
The mysterious voice could hear his thoughts. Very well, answer me: Where am I?
You are suspended in a bi-planar field. It was necessary in order to save you.
What do you want with me?
Only to offer you a greater destiny than death.
And if I want to die?
You were born to command, Crovax. Generations of leadership have been bred into you. You've had some conflict, some personal loss. Will you abandon your destiny over these setbacks? Wouldn't you rather strike back at those who've hurt you than surrender your life as their victory?
Yes, I would. He repeated it out loud. "Yes, I would!"
Then fly, Crovax. Fly to your ultimate destination.
"Speak clearly, damn you. What am I supposed to do?"
Fly, Crovax. Will yourself to your destiny.
He felt stupid, but he imagined himself flying through the air, encased in a cloud of darkness. In the weird, visionless void, he did feel he was moving again. Was that a breeze on his face? Was it possible?
Good, Crovax. You will be there soon. I am waiting for you there.
Neither mountains nor walls were a barrier to him. Sightless, he hurtled like a shooting star through the darkest of night skies. He flew on, and the despair he'd endured shortly before gave way to anger, hatred, and a deep, gnawing emptiness.
When Ertai regained consciousness, he found he was below deck, his hands and feet chained around one of the ship's masts. A strong, regular pulsation, not unlike a heartbeat, echoed through the airship's hull. The throbbing was equal parts Predator's damaged engine and the pain in his aching head. The crew had not been easy on him. Ertai licked his parched lips and grimaced.