“I’m thinking it’s time to go!” he called to Kriz, who needed no further encouragement. As she pushed the two levers the aerostat lurched forward, Clay finding himself forced back into his seat by the acceleration. The gap beyond the window widened to fill his field of view, then they were out, the shadows vanished to leave them in the light of the three sun-crystals.
Clay’s surging relief evaporated when the aerostat promptly tilted forward into a steep dive. The mountain tops disappeared to be replaced by the sight of the rapidly approaching ground. “Kriz . . .” he said, voice suddenly reed thin. Sigoral and Loriabeth were more vocal, both issuing loud and, in Loriabeth’s case, profanity-laden cries as the aerostat plunged towards the earth.
Clay watched Kriz’s hands dance over the controls, pushing levers and spinning wheels with feverish energy. The aerostat’s descent slowed, much more gradually than Clay would have liked, but within a few seconds the mountain tops swung into view once more as the craft settled into a level flight.
“The envelope was only six-tenths full,” Kriz explained over her shoulder, pulling back on the central lever to gain altitude. “We’re at full capacity now.”
Clay unclamped his white-knuckled hands from the edge of his seat, breathing deep as he undid the straps. “So,” he said, moving to stand at her side. “What now?”
Kriz eased back the two levers that controlled their speed, the aerostat slowing to a lazy drift as the landscape revolved beneath them. Seeing it from this height, Clay was struck by the similarity to Kriz’s crystal model in the trance, the central hub of the mountains surrounded by the vast circle of the artificial sea and the outer ring of dense forest. Much as he longed to be gone from this place, the scale of ambition and achievement it represented was staggering. Kriz’s people had truly lived in an age of wonders.
The shaft swung into view and Kriz steadied the aerostat into a hover, keeping it in the centre of the window. “We wait,” she said, her gaze fixed on the great monolithic rectangle. It seemed to blur around the edges as the tremors continued to assail it, a growing plume of dust billowing from the opening through which they had made their escape.
“It’s stood for centuries,” Clay said. “And yet a few tremors can bring it down.”
“It’s not the tremors,” she said. “The outer shell and the shafts were constructed from a crystal-infused compound. The strongest building material ever created, but reliant on a continual energy source to maintain its integrity. The interruption in the flow of energy from the fault-line has fatally weakened the whole structure.”
“Clay!” Loriabeth called, voice flat with urgency. He turned to find her and Sigoral staring through the gondola’s port-side windows, both with weapons gripped. “Seer-dammit,” Clay cursed softly, moving to Loriabeth’s side and seeing the dark, rapidly approaching cloud.
“Gotta be a hundred or more,” Loriabeth said, hefting her repeating rifle.
“Does this thing have weapons?” Sigoral demanded of Kriz, who shook her head.
“We never thought we’d need them.”
“What tremendous foresight your people had, madam,” the Corvantine observed with a bitter sigh.
Kriz ignored the jibe and pushed the accelerating levers all the way forward, the shaft looming in the window as the aerostat lurched into motion. Kriz angled the large central lever so that the craft swung to the right, steering them around the shaft in a wide circle.
“They’re still gaining,” Loriabeth reported from the port-side window.
“We need to open the hatches,” Clay told Kriz. “Can’t shoot ’em otherwise,” he added when she hesitated. Kriz pulled another lever on the panel and the gondola’s hatches all opened at once. There were four in all, two at the front and two at the rear.
“Lieutenant, take the starboard side,” Clay told Sigoral, having to shout above the sudden torrent of invading air. “Lori, cover the rear.” He hefted his own carbine, taking up position at the forward port-side hatch.
He took a firm grip of the edge of the hatchway before leaning out to cast his gaze towards the rear of the aerostat. The pursuing drakes were spread out in a ragged, undulating line. Clay raised his carbine, using the miniature telescope on top to survey the drakes. They were mostly Reds but here and there he caught sight of a White, flying higher and faster than the others. He put the range at perhaps three hundred yards, which his cousin evidently took as a challenge.
From the rear hatch came the rapid thump of Loriabeth’s repeating rifle followed by the sight of a Red spiralling down from the pack, one of its wings flailing as it vainly tried to catch the air with the other. Her success, however, didn’t seem to deter the others and Clay soon gauged the intervening distance to have shrunk to under two hundred yards.
“Hold still, dammit,” he hissed, aiming the carbine one-handed at a White. He could see the animal’s hide through the scope, mottled and sickly like the others, but its wings were still strong and powerful enough to draw it closer with every beat. His first shot missed as the beast veered left, but his next two struck home on the White’s neck, producing two satisfying crimson plumes, although the animal barely seemed to slow. His subsequent attempts to put a bullet in its head proved fruitless as the White swung high and low, neck coiling as it seemed to discern his intent.
Clay cursed and withdrew from the hatch, casting about until he caught sight of Kriz’s bomb-throwing gun lying next to her pack. She held to the steering lever with both hands, maintaining a tight circular course around the still-trembling shaft.
“How much longer?” he asked, bending to retrieve the bomb-thrower.
“There’s no way to tell. A few minutes, perhaps.”
Clay studied the shaft for a second. The dust that bloomed from the opening was growing thicker all the time and chunks of masonry were cascading down its sides. He tore his gaze away and turned back to the hatch, pausing as she reached out to flip a brass switch on the bomb-thrower’s stock. “Safety catch,” she explained.
Poking his head outside, Clay found the White was no longer flying level with the aerostat. It had closed the distance to fifty yards and ascended, wings sweeping in mighty arcs before flaring and twisting its body in preparation for a dive that would bring it close enough to cast its flames at the gondola. The bomb-thrower bucked in Clay’s hands as he pulled the trigger, the bomb leaving a thin vapour trail through the air as it arced towards the White, passing within a few feet of its torso before exploding a good distance behind.
Although uninjured, the blast seemed to infuriate the White, its jaws opening to scream out a challenge as it folded its wings and began its dive. Clay fired again, the White twisting in the air to evade the projectile, streaking down like a huge pale arrow.
A burst of fire came from the rear hatch, Loriabeth unleashing a stream of bullets that lashed the White from neck to tail. It abandoned its dive, wings flaring and flames gouting from its mouth less than thirty yards away. At that range Clay couldn’t miss.
The bomb exploded in the White’s chest in a cloud of black smoke and vapourised flesh. Its wings folded up and it plummeted towards the earth, flames still pouring from its mouth.
“Well,” Clay said, fixing his gaze on the remaining mass of drakes. “That’s one.”
He could hear Sigoral’s carbine chattering from the other side of the gondola, meaning the drakes were attempting to assail them from both sides. The bulk of the pack was less than sixty yards off now, Reds weaving through the air to avoid Loriabeth’s bullets whilst the Whites flew above. Clay aimed for the densest part of the pack and fired off three bombs in quick succession, grunting in satisfaction at the trio of explosions that sent several Reds tumbling towards the ground. But still the rest came on.