Not all the Lhaodagms fell, though. Answering fire rose from towers and turrets and alleys, alike. Fireballs, arrow storms, explosions, whirlwinds, clockwork creatures, lightnings, specters, and even a few scrawny griffons rose into the sky. As Peregrin flew past a hoisted spike, the air ahead flashed and popped as if with fireworks.
Beautiful, really, Peregrin commented nonchalantly as Josiah threw furious bolts of spell power. I wonder whether this date will become a fireworks celebration for them, or for us…
Up! came Josiah's frantic mind-call. Up! Up!
Peregrin then saw why. Above the capital building of Lhaoda whirled a huge, scythe-bladed windmill. The thing would chop them to pieces.
Peregrin spread his wings to swerve away. Just then, a fireball roared up from the street and flared into being right before the bird-lion. He shied from it, back onto his original path. The blades were a heartbeat ahead.
Peregrin blinked rapidly. The spinning blades before him seemed to halt. Now, to time it… and hope Josiah's defensive magics held.
He dived into the windmill. Josiah shouted in alarm. The griffon's eyes opened.
A blade whirred past his beak, so close that its trailing edge scraped a nostril. With his body bunched, the griffon soared through the open space. The next blade caught his haunch. It notched the magic shield and bit lightly into his golden pelt. The shield held, but the impact flipped rider and griffon over. The passing blade sliced loudly.
Tumbling in air, Peregrin struggled to right himself. Josiah clung on for dear life. Burning buildings and shattered walls flashed kaleidoscopically around them. Releasing a shriek of exertion, Peregrin steadied his course.
Josiah's fingers slowly eased from the saddle-horn. He straightened, took a breath, and began the gestures of a powerful spell. Two breaths later, the motions were done and the triggering word spoken. He pivoted in the saddle and sent twin blasts of radiance toward the center of the windmill. The bolts struck in accord, bursting the hub of the wheel.
Four scythe blades flew outward. One impaled the capital dome beneath it. Two more shot out laterally to mow down houses and citizens. The last whirled straight up, tumbled about its axis, and fell to become entangled in the gutted scaffold of the windmill.
Pull up, Josiah sent, gently this time. They had reached the end of the city and of their strafing run.
At the head of the griffon columns, Peregrin ascended into the furious storm. He breathed deeply. This was the moment to regroup, to prepare for another run.
Torrid rainwater pummeled the shields atop his feathers and fur. Peregrin's wings unfolded. Already the tension of battle was easing from them. Josiah hauled a new battery of spells into his mind.
Here, beyond the edge of the floating city, the storm was black and omnipresent. Whirling winds… endless night… popping ears… The violent darkness defied direction sense.
Feeling sudden vertigo, Peregrin began to bank back toward the city. A strong crosscurrent lashed the rain sideways. He deepened his angle into the gale. A warm updraft enveloped him. He continued his turn, rolling over.
His wings lost lift. Griffon and rider plunged.
Peregrin foundered. Each flap of his wings dragged them faster into the fall. One wing caught upon the chaotic air, but the other lashed emptiness.
Josiah clung tight all the while. Hands full of saddle and wand, he shouted spell fragments into the buffeting air. Useless.
They spiraled downward.
Downward… At last, Peregrin knew up from down. He folded both wings, nosedived, and then spread his plumage. Feathers found purchase, and he soared out of the dive.
He breathed deeply, calming himself. How far have we fatten?
Neither griffon nor rider could glimpse the ground. Peregrin glanced upward, seeing the city high above. Faint golden specks swarmed about it, griffons regrouping for another attack.
Sorry, Josiah, sent Peregrin.
It's a thunderstorm, the mage said, the worst skies for a battle.
The griffon was already straining his wings to rise toward the floating rock. / don't suppose you brought any levitation magic…
The mage's reply was slightly chiding. I'd not considered this possibility. Then he sent, Don't strain too hard. I imagine we're out of this fight.
The storm's already done half the battle for us, anyway. Another five miles in this squall and Lhaoda would be destroyed, with or without us, thought Peregrin.
Yes, the mage responded wryly. He seemed to consider as he repeated, Yes. Why haven't they steered clear ofit?
Perhaps they can't steer clear, Peregrin replied. Perhaps the storm has damaged their navigation center.
Josiah perched a hand above his eyes and looked upward at the shimmering outline. He gave a gasp, and sent the image in his eyes to Peregrin: the city was much closer than it had been moments ago. Peregrin could not have risen this far this fast.
The only explanation was that the city was falling.
Falling? We haven't done that much harm, the griffon responded. He sent back the view from his own, much sharper eyes:
Firelit billows of spray rolled around the edges of the city. The torrent was so strong that it added a deep thrumming drone to the cacophony of the storm. Falling.
Peregrin fought his way forward through the streaming darkness, struggling to get out from under the thing.
Our fliers wouldn't have slain the levitation council, Josiah thought. That's against all the treaties. There hasn't been such a massacre since… His thoughts trailed away as he assembled a quick casting and began the arcane gestures.
It's not in free-fall, Peregrin pointed out. His surging muscles bore them clear of the descending city. It hasn't capsized. Somebody's trying to hold it aloft.
Josiah finished the casting. A chill went through the man and continued on, into the bird-lion. It's not just somebody. It's everybody. Their whole levitation council is still alive. They're gathered at the center of the rock, trying to hold it in the skies.
Peregrin made a long, slow turn, just beyond reach of the sinking city. The rock filled half the black, stormy sky above. Tith Tilendrothael's griffon riders swarmed the enclave. Did the Lhaodagms deplete their spell banks? Is there a magic barrier, or a negating sigil, or something?
The mage shook his head. No, nothing like that. Magic is cascading from that rock, but it's being drawn away, straight down. It's as though the storm has carried them-carried us all-into a dead-magic zone.
The city filled the whole sky now. Peregrin shied farther back. In moments, the rock swept with ponderous and terrific motion down past them. The rolling gray mists at the margin of the city were larger than tidal waves and roared like cyclones. The enclave's black underbelly was replaced by a bright city in ruins-fire, lightning, smoke, bodies, rubble…
Stunned, terrified, Peregrin hovered in the churning storm and watched the receding city.
"If this is a magic-dead area, why did my scrying spell work? And our attacks and defenses?" Josiah wondered aloud. "And why are the cavalry still engaged?"
Griffons darted into and out of the ruins-birds plucking berries from a burning bush.
They're saving them, concluded Peregrin. They're pulling out as many Lhaodagms as they can before the thing hits ground. They'll be dragged down with it.
Peregrin tucked his wings, diving into a steep descent behind the plunging city.
Josiah crouched tightly against him and tucked his head beside the bird-lion's neck. He trembled, from cold or nerve or both.
The griffon plunged. Sodden paws trailed streams of water upward in their wake. Still, the city receded, agonizingly distant. Peregrin spread his wings and drove himself in its wake. He did so again. With each pulse of drenched feathers, the city grew gradually closer.