“Good. Now get back up to the deck. Quickly!”
It was tempting to move slowly on the stairs if only to inconvenience Dah’mir. Once again, the heron stalked awkwardly in his wake, driving him onward with prods from his sharp beak. Every jab just stirred greater anger in Singe and he might have stopped and refused to move-he might even have tested just how tough a dragon in heron form was-if he hadn’t wanted to know as badly as Dah’mir what was happening at the mound.
The answer was obvious as soon as he reached the deck and peered over the side.
They were coming up fast on the Bonetree mound. Approached from ground level or along the river that ran nearby, the mound was an astounding sight, rising proud and massive from the flatness around it. From above, though, it just looked like a wart on the land-a wart painted angry red by the setting sun.
Spread out before it were hundreds of small shapes milling around in chaos. The raking light of the sun struck sparks from the blades of weapons shaken in the direction of the airship and Singe could just catch the faint whisper of war cries.
“Twelve moons!” he gasped.
“Orcs!” Vennet shouted from the helm. “Orcs, master! We can’t land!”
Dah’mir settled onto the rail close to Singe and glared down as if he were able to see every detail of the distant warriors. “Gatekeepers! How could they have-” His head came up and his acid-green eyes turned on Singe. “There was always one of you missing, wasn’t there?” he said in a hiss. “Geth was never in Sharn!”
Singe gave him an angry grin. “Aye!” he said. “But he’s probably down there!”
“He won’t be for much longer.” Dah’mir’s voice rose. “Vennet, keep the ship high while I deal with this.” He gave Singe another look and his eyes narrowed. “And kill our guest before he causes trouble. We have enough distractions now.”
Singe’s gut rose.
“But master-” Vennet began in protest.
“Just do it, Vennet!” Dah’mir screamed-and flung himself over the rail.
CHAPTER 22
His small dark form dropped rapidly, falling away from and behind the airship.
Then abruptly he was no longer small. A dragon’s form cut the air and a dragon’s powerful wings scooped at the wind. In just a few wing beats, Dah’mir caught up to the speeding airship, then surged ahead of her as the deck tilted and Vennet guided the ship higher into the sky. A roar burst from Dah’mir and he dived at the orcs before the Bonetree mound.
Singe couldn’t tear himself away from the terrible spectacle that unfolded below. The light of dusk that struck Dah’mir’s blackened copper scales turned him into a massive bolt of dark, unholy flame. The milling chaos of the orcs seemed to come together into order at the sight of the danger falling from above. Clumps of warriors condensed out of the madness, each standing firm. Dah’mir’s wings dipped and he turned, angling toward the largest concentration of the warriors, a massive cluster that stood before the entrance to the mound. Arrows rose in a small dark cloud to meet him, but the dragon ignored them.
His massive jaws opened and a gout of acid poured out to wash through the heart of the cluster as Dah’mir swept overhead. His wings tilted again, and he soared up once more-and in his wake, orc warriors turned on smoking ground and unleashed another volley of arrows. Around them, other orcs that must have been druids lowered their hunda sticks.
“Yes!” Singe shouted. “Yes!” When Dah’mir had revealed himself during the first battle before the Bonetree mound, he’d caught everyone by surprise. This time, the orcs were ready with Gatekeeper magic to turn aside his acid. Other magic shimmered as well. The air seemed to fold, and half a dozen eagles burst out of nowhere to pursue the dragon-gigantic eagles with wingspans of easily ten paces. Roaring in fury at an easy victory denied, Dah’mir whirled in the air. His jaws snapped at one eagle, caught it, and shook like a dog shaking a rat, then let the limp body drop to the ground below. He dived to make another pass at the orc warriors.
But Singe wasn’t the only one watching the battle. A scream of outrage near the stern of the airship dragged him back. He spun around.
Vennet stood at the ship’s helm, pushing the ship in a wide upward spiral though he leaned to see what was going on below. Singe’s movement brought his head up. For a moment, the two men stared at each other-then Singe reached inside himself and drew up one of the last spells remaining to him. Hot words of magic sprang from his tongue and his fingers flicked toward Vennet.
Quick as he was, Vennet was quicker and he had the entire airship to use as a weapon. Before the spell could take shape, the half-elf howled and spun the wheel.
The deck pitched hard to the side. Singe’s feet slid under him and he went staggering. Half-formed sparks scorched his hands as his concentration broke and his spell faltered and faded. Vennet spun the wheel back. Singe rolled the other way, almost falling this time. The loss of his eye made it hard to compensate for the rocking of the deck. His fingers scraped across wood as he tried to regain his balance.
Vennet’s laugh made a sound like breaking glass, another harsh sound in the assault on Singe’s ears. Dah’mir’s bellows. The screeches of the Gatekeepers’ summoned eagles as they died. Distant shouts from the orcs. A closer roaring of flame as the elemental bound to Mayret’s Envy burned with furious joy at the airship’s wild tossing and speeding ascent. Vennet’s hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes narrowed in concentration.
Singe knew something of the way airships were controlled. The real control wasn’t in how the wheel was turned-the wheel was just a prop, a remnant of more conventional waterborne ships. True control lay in the captain’s touch on the wheel and in his command of the elemental bound into the ring around the ship’s belly.
And at Vennet’s silent command, the elemental hissed and crackled like fire in an alchemist’s furnace. The angle of the ship’s climb became steeper and with it the angle of the deck. Singe clenched his teeth. No point wasting precious magic. He pushed off from the deck and dashed at Vennet, running with the cant of the deck instead of trying to fight it.
Vennet’s laughter turned into a curse. He pulled one hand from the wheel and thrust it at Singe. “Sweep him off my ship!” he commanded.
Singe was ready for the blast of wind this time. He threw himself to the side, out of the gale’s path, and felt only a swirling breeze as he rolled back to his feet and leaped at Vennet. The half-elf tried to draw his cutlass, but Singe hit him before he even had his free hand on the weapon’s hilt, carrying him backward and slamming him to the deck.
Vennet’s other hand jerked from the wheel as Singe tore him away. Obedient to the half-elf’s last command, however, the ship continued to climb. Both Singe and Vennet tumbled toward the ship’s stern. Vennet shouted and tried to tear himself away, but Singe held onto him, punching at him as best he could. The smell of rot was thick around Vennet, though, and the foul pus that oozed from his broken skin made it slick. Vennet jabbed a fist at his blind side and slid free as Singe’s grasp weakened for a moment.
But Singe had what he wanted. His hand was on the hilt of his rapier where it hung from Vennet’s waist, and as Vennet pulled away, the motion drew the blade from the scabbard. Singe staggered, found his balance, and thrust.
The point of the blade opened a long red gash along the side of Vennet’s left forearm before he could reach the wheel. The mad man gasped and recoiled, then his face twisted and he drew his cutlass. Metal rang on metal as he caught Singe’s next attack and turned it aside.
Singe fought with a frenzy that came on him like a second fever. He could already feel his strength fading, sapped by hunger and captivity. He needed to make every blow count.