Терри Брукс - Tanequil

Pied glanced over his shoulder. Their pursuers were closing on them, and he could see the frantic efforts of some of the crew to give warning to the men on theDechtera.

«Release!» Markenstall shouted.

Both railguns discharged in the same instant, sending a hail of metal shards into the underside of the Federation ship, the missiles striking with explosive impact. Pied had just enough time to see two of the parse tubes disintegrate entirely and the main rudder collapse, and then Markenstall was swinging the Asashiel away, speeding out from under the damaged enemy, a tiny gnat in flight from a giant bird. They emerged from beneath the warship's shadow into a sky awash with moonlight and were immediately exposed. The railguns on the decking of the enemy swung toward them, but Markenstall dropped the sloop below their angle of fire, skimming the flats once more, content to take his chances with the missiles fired from the foot soldiers.

But it wasn't over yet. A line of white fire sizzled past their mainmast, snapping off one of the spars, burning away wood and sail and knocking theAsashiel sideways.

«Brace!» Markenstall shouted automatically, grabbing onto the railing to keep upright. Reaching for the thruster levers, he jammed them all the way forward, then sent the sloop into a stomach–churning dive.

«We should have taken a shot at that weapon, tool» Pied snapped at the veteran.

The Captain righted their wounded vessel not fifty feet above the flats and lurched away from the deadly Federation weapon. Pied glanced over his shoulder. TheDechtera hung silhouetted against the moonlit sky. She was still moving forward, but he saw that her course was fixed and undeviating. At least one, and possibly both, shots from the sloop's railguns had done the job, — the steering was damaged, and the vessel was unable to come about.

He exhaled sharply. The big ship was slowing down. The other Federation warships were coming up from behind, preparing to offer help. It occurred to him that now was the perfect time for that attack Kellen Elessedil had been so anxious to launch, the perfect opportunity to destroy that ship and the weapon she bore. But the bulk of the Elven fleet was in flames, and the ships of Callahorn were still on the ground somewhere east.

He looked down at the flats, swarming with Federation soldiers, then at the Elven defensive lines. He remembered the faces of the men and women he had seen earlier, weary and disinterested. He remembered the lack of discipline, evident everywhere. He was not encouraged. The Elven airfield had been overrun, the remainder of the fleet fled north. If their ground defenses held through the night, it would be a miracle. An impossible miracle, he amended, without help from the Free–born allies. And in the end, it might not matter anyway. By week's end, theDechtera would be airborne again and would fly in support of the Federation attack, her terrible weapon primed and ready for use. What it had done to the Elven airships was nothing compared to what it would do to the Elven army.

The implications of his thinking did not escape him. The war on the Prekkendorran was about to take a disastrous turn, and he wasn't sure there was anything that could be done about it.

They were flying over the captured Elven airfield now, heading west toward the besieged Elven lines. «Captain," he called to Markenstall. The wind came up again in a sudden rush, tearing at his words. The veteran turned. «Can you fly us to where—"

He never finished. White fire lanced through the center of the airship in a searing rope of brightness that slammed the entire craft sideways with such force that Pied was thrown from the pilot box, catapulting over its railing. He caught a glimpse of the mast going up like a torch, the flames spurting skyward as the sails caught fire. Both railguns and crew disappeared into an explosion of sizzling light. The sloop lurched wildly, bucked, and began to drop.

«Markenstall!» he called weakly.

There was no response. His safety line was still attached to its ring inside the pilot box, but he was tangled so thoroughly in the rigging that he couldn't move. He tried to lift himself to see what was happening inside the box itself and failed. There was blood on his face, warm and sticky, running down his neck and arm. He had thought them safely away from the Federation warship and her terrible weapon. He had been mistaken. Its range must be enormous. Even from the better part of a mile away, it had managed to fix on them. Even now, after the fact, Pied could not imagine it.

He felt the sloop plunge earthward with sickening speed. He closed his eyes and waited for the impact.

It took Penderrin Ohmsford and his companions almost a week to navigate the maze of passes and defiles that wound through the Klu Mountains, although they did not again encounter the treacherous combination of mist and clouds that had very nearly prevented their initial escape from Taupo Rough. With Kermadec leading, steady and assured now in his choice of routes, they pressed on without needing to rely on Pen or Cinnaminson to find the way.

Nor did they see anything further of their Druid pursuers, although Tagwen was quick to point out, when the subject was raised, that not seeing them didn't mean they weren't out there. Once before they had thought themselves safe, only to discover how badly they were mistaken. If the Druids hunting them were doing so on orders from Shadea a'Ru, they were not likely to give up easily, the Dwarf insisted. But it was the use of the Elfstones that had brought Terek Molt and theGalaphile down on them in the Slags, Pen thought. As long as they were able to refrain from using the Stones, they should be able to keep Traunt Rowan and theBallindarroch from finding them here. After all, he reasoned, if the Druid and his cohorts had magic that would enable them to find the little company, they certainly would have done so already. That they hadn't shown themselves even once suggested they were hunting blind.

Nevertheless, as the little company pressed on through the mountains, Pen found himself glancing skyward periodically to make certain he was not making a mistake.

It was late in the day, the sun already sinking into the jaws of the peaks west, when they climbed through a particularly nasty tangle of switchbacks to a ledge that overlooked the broadest, darkest valley Pen had ever encountered. It was difficult to judge exactly how big the valley was, — from so high up there was no point of reference by which to measure accurately. Hundreds of square miles, perhaps? Even more? It sprawled in all directions, spilling out from its central cradle into passes and canyons like the fingers of a giant's spread hand. At its eastern end, farthest from where they stood, it simply disappeared into mist and twilight, so densely packed with trees and brush that its shadows overlapped to create the impression of a lake thick and black with deadwood and weeds.

Anything might live in a place that looks like this,Pen thought, and he shivered in spite of himself.

«The Inkrim," Kermadec announced, his voice flat and unemotional, a perfect match for his stolid Troll face. «Some say it is as old as the Races, and that the things that live there are older still. Some say there are things living down there that are as old as Faerie.»

«Trees and dirt," Atalan muttered from behind Pen. «Nothing we haven't encountered before.»

«And Urdas.»

Atalan snorted. «Savages.»

It seemed to Pen an odd comment coming from someone who looked vaguely like a walking tree stump, all bark and rough surfaces, as brutish and forbidding as anything that walked the Four Lands.

Kermadec must have thought the same. He looked at Atalan carefully. «Savages to us, but who are we to judge? In any event, I wouldn't be too quick to dismiss them. Urdas have lived in this valley since the destruction of the Old World. This is their ancestral home, and they regard it as sacred. Especially Stridegate. They will fight to protect it from outsiders. Like the Spider Gnomes on Toffer Ridge, they worship the creatures that share their abode, a symbiotic relationship, however one–sided, that influences their attitude toward intruders like us.» He paused. 'There are a lot of them down there, brother.»