George Martin - Songs of the Dying Earth

Three of the air cars swept in closer. Shiolko was having one of his sons run up the white and blue universal flag of parley when the three air cars fired narrow, intense beams of light at the Steresa’s Dream . Two sails and narrow circles of decking burst into flame, but Shiolko’s sons put out the fires with buckets of water in half a minute.

Four more air cars joined the first three, and they swept in closer on the port side, choosing to unleash their heat beams from only a hundred yards out.

“Fire,” said Derwe Corme. All seven of the Myrmazons triggered their blunt but powerful crossbows. They reloaded so quickly from their belt-quivers that Shrue could not see the actual motions. Together, the seven got off eleven volleys in less than a minute.

Bolts pierced the yellowed, brittle canopies of the ancient air cars and six of the seven, their pilots dead, plummeted down through the clouds to crash on the snowy peaks below. The seventh air car wobbled away, no longer under its pilot’s control.

The remaining five began to circle the Steresa’s Dream from half a league out, attempting to ignite the galleon’s wide, white sails with their attenuated beams.

Shrue glanced at the compressed-air harpoon gun, but Shiolko’s sons were too busy cooling the white-circled hot spots on the sails to man the clumsy weapon. Closing his eyes, Shrue raised both arms, turned his fingers into quickly moving summoning claws, and chanted a spell taught him a century earlier by a misogynist fellow-magus named Tchamast.

Out of the clouds to the northeast emerged a half-mile-long crimson dragon, its wings longer than the galleon, its eyes blazing yellow, its long teeth glinting in the sunlight, its maw wide enough to swallow all five air cars at once. Everyone on the Steresa’s Dream ceased their cries and motion until the only audible sounds were the flapping of the sails in their stays and the much louder flap-flap-flap of the giant dragon’s leathery wings.

The air cars turned clumsily and fled back toward the distant tower-city.

The dragon ceased its pursuit of the metal and plastic vehicles and turned its interest toward the Steresa’s Dream , its long, sinuous body undulating like a sea serpent’s as it flew between the clouds. Its yellow eyes looked hungry.

“The harpoon gun!” cried Captain Shiolko to his sons. “Man the harpoon gun.”

Shrue shook his head and held up one hand to stop the young men. Checking to make sure that the last of the air cars was out of sight, Shrue raised both arms again — the gray spidersilk of his robe sleeves sliding back — and made motions as if directing an invisible orchestra, and the dragon disappeared with a thunderclap implosion. The passengers applauded.

Later that evening, Shrue came up on deck to another round of applause. The passengers were watching a smaller, greener, but angrier version of his dragon trying to keep up with the sky galleon but falling behind as the wind came strong straight from the southwest, propelling Steresa’s Dream over and away from the last of the mountain peaks and their attendant clouds. Belching fire in the direction of the galleon, the smaller dragon turned back toward the clouds and high peaks.

“I think your first dragon was more convincing,” said Captain Shiolko as the passengers on deck again applauded the magician.

“So do I,” said Derwe Coreme. “This one seemed a tad…less solid. Almost transparent in spots.”

Shrue shrugged modestly. He saw no reason to tell them that the second dragon had been real.

They spotted their followers just after dawn. Shrue and Derwe Coreme were awakened by a son and — after receiving permission from Captain Shiolko — hurried up onto the quarterdeck to the aft railing. The captain, several of his sons, Arch-Docent Huǽ, Meriwolt, and several of the other passengers were sharing Shiolko’s telescope to study the dots flitting above the western horizon. The morning air was free of clouds and absolutely clear. Shrue’s own tiny telescope folded as flat as a monocle but it was the most powerful instrument aboard the Steresa’s Dream . The diabolist unfolded it and looked toward the horizon for a long moment, then handed the better telescope to the captain. “It’s the eleven pelgranes,” he said softly. “Faucelme has found us.”

“There’s one saddle empty,” said Derwe Coreme when it was her turn to look through the telescope.

“The apprentice seems to have gone missing,” said Shrue. “But you’ll notice that the two Purples are back and in their respective saddles.”

Derwe Coreme’s pale face lifted toward Shrue. “Then your daihak — KirdriK — has failed. If that is true…”

“If that is true,” said Shrue, “then we are all doomed. But it is possible that the two Purples we see here are projections of Faucelme’s. Of the Red’s, rather, since I believe that Faucelme himself has little or no autonomy any longer. They obviously think that our belief that KirdriK has been defeated would hurt our morale.”

“It certainly hurts mine,” squeaked Meriwolt.

Shrue put his long finger to his lips. “No one else need know about KirdriK’s battle with the Purples. Then, projection or no, the morale of our small band will not suffer.”

“Until Faucelme and his Red and Purples kill us,” said Derwe Coreme very softly. But she was smiling and there was a gleam in her eye.

“Yes,” said Shrue.

Captain Shiolko walked over to their group. He and the other crew and passengers knew only what Shrue had felt it necessary to tell them earlier — that there was a possibility of pursuit by another magician and his minions.

“They’re closing,” said Shiolko. “And unless Steresa’s Dream is blessed by stronger winds from the southwest, they’ll continue to close. Will they attack?”

“I think not,” said Shrue. “I have something they want, but what they want most is to reach the place to which Ulfänt Banderōz’s nose is guiding us. But as they get closer, I believe I can add a disincentive to any impulsive behavior on their part.” Shrue turned to the seven-foot-tall Arch-Docent Huǽ and the diminutive Mauz Meriwolt. “Would you two gentlemen be kind enough to accompany me below?”

Ten minutes later, Shrue reappeared on deck leading an eleven-foot-tall figure by the hand. The form was completely shrouded within the blue robes and black veil of a Firschnian monk. Shrue led the towering, if slightly unsteady, figure aft and set the monk’s hands on the railing.

“What if I have to move?” came Arch-Docent Huǽ’s muffled voice from approximately the chest of the tall monk. “You shouldn’t have to unless they attack,” said Shrue. “And if it comes to that, our little guise will have already been found out. Oh…but if either of you need to use the head, Meriwolt can guide you while one of us holds your hand, Arch-Docent.”

“Wonderful,” came a frustrated squeak from behind the veil.

Descending to their cabin, Derwe Coreme whispered, “What are the chances that the real KirdriK will be victorious and return in time to help us?”

Shrue shrugged and showed his long hands. “As I’ve said before, my dear, a battle such as this in the Overworld may go on for anything from ten minutes to ten centuries of our time. But KirdriK knows the importance of returning as soon as he is victorious— if he prevailed and survived.”

“Is there any chance that the daihak simply fled?” she whispered.

“No,” said Shrue. “None. KirdriK is still well and truly bound. If he survives — and either he or the two Purples must die — he shall return immediately.”