Terry Brooks - Morgawr

“Spanner!” he shouted down at the shipwright.

Spanner Frew had seen them, as well. He looked at Redden Alt Mer and shook his wooly black head like an angry bear.

Then the Jerle Shannara was past the second ship and lifting above the others, and Alt Mer brought her all the way around and headed her inland, out of the fray. The enemy ships gave chase at once, coming at her from all directions, but they were strung out along the coastline and too far away to close effectively. How had they found her in the first place? he wondered. For a second, he considered the possibility of betrayal by one of his men, but quickly dismissed the idea. Magic, possibly. If whoever commanded this fleet could enslave Shrikes and make the dead come alive, he could find a band of Rovers easily enough. It was more than likely that he had used the Shrikes to track them.

Or she had, if it was the Ilse Witch returned.

He cursed his ignorance, the witch, and a dozen other imponderables as he flew the airship inland toward the mountains. He would have to turn south soon to stay within his bearings. He could not trust to the shorter overland route. Too much danger of losing the way and missing Little Red and the others. He could not afford to do that, to leave them abandoned to these things that gave pursuit.

A sharp whang! cut through the rush of wind as the amidships radian draw off the port railing broke loose and began to whip about the decking like a striking snake. The Rovers, still crouched in their fighting pits, flattened themselves protectively. Spanner Frew leapt behind the mainmast, taking cover as the loose draw snapped past, then wrapped itself around the aft port line and jerked it free.

At once the airship began to lose power and balance, both already diminished by the loss of the forward draws, now thrown off altogether by the breaking away of the entire port bank. If the lines were not retethered at once, the ship would circle right back into the enemy ships, and they would all be in the hands of the walking dead.

Redden Alt Mer saw those eyes again, milky and vacant, devoid of humanity, bereft of any sense of the world about them.

Without stopping to consider, he cut power to the amidships starboard tube and thrust the port lever all the way forward. Either the Jerle Shannara would hold together long enough for him to give them a fighting chance to escape or it would fall out of the sky.

“Black Beard!” he yelled down to Spanner Frew. “Take the helm!”

The shipwright lumbered up the steps and into the pilot box, gnarled hands reaching for the controls. Redden Alt Mer took no time to explain, but simply bolted past him down the steps to the decking and forward to the mainmast. He felt exhilarated and edgy, as if nothing he might do was too wild to consider. Not altogether a bad assessment, he decided. Wind, wild and shrieking in his ears, whipped at his long red hair and brilliant scarves. He could feel the airship rocking under him, fighting to maintain trim, to keep from diving. He was impressed. Three draws lost; she should already be going down. Another ship wouldn’t have lasted this long.

To his left, the entangled draws snapped and wrenched at each other, threatening to tear loose at any moment. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Their pursuers had drawn closer, taking advantage of their troubles. The Shrikes were almost on them.

“Keep them at bay!” he shouted down to the Rovers crouched in the fighting pits, but his words were lost in the wind.

He went up the foremast using the iron climbing pins hammered into the wood, pressing himself against the thick timber to keep from being torn loose and thrown out into the void. His flying leathers helped to protect him, but even so, the wind was ferocious, blowing out of the mountains and toward the coast in a cold, hard rush. He did not look behind him or over at the draws. The dangers were obvious and he could do nothing about them. If the draws worked loose before he got to them, they could easily whip about and cut him in half. If the Shrikes got close enough, they could rip him off his perch and carry him away. Neither prospect was worth considering.

Something flashed darkly at the corner of his vision. He caught just a glimpse as it whizzed past. Another whipped by. Arrows. The enemy vessels were close enough that longbows could be brought into play. Perhaps the Mwellrets and walking dead were not proficient with weapons. Perhaps some small part of the luck that had saved him so many times before would save him now.

Perhaps was all he had.

Then he was atop the mast and working his way out along the yardarm to where the renegade draw was fastened topside. He clung to the yardarm with numb, bruised fingers, his strength seeping away in the frigid wind. Below, upturned faces shifted back and forth as men fired arrows at the approaching Shrikes then glanced up at him to check his progress. He saw the worry in those hard faces. Good, he thought. He would hate not to be missed.

A Shrike swept past him from above, screaming. Its talons snatched at his back, and the flying leathers jerked and tore. A wash of pain rushed through him as the bird’s claws ripped into his skin. He wrenched himself sideways and nearly fell, his legs losing their grip so that he was hanging from the yardarm by his fingers. The sail billowed into him like a balloon, and he lay across it, gathering his strength. While he was buried in the sail, another Shrike swept past but couldn’t get close enough. It banked away in frustration.

Don’t stop, he told himself through a haze of weariness and pain. Don’t quit!

He crawled back up on the yardarm, then dragged himself to its end, swung out from the spar, and slid down the length of the midships draw to where it had tangled in the aft, his boots clearing the lines as he descended. Battered and worn, but still clinging desperately to both stays, he hollered out to his crew for help. Two of them leapt from the port fighting pits and were beside him in moments, taking hold of the draws and hauling them back toward the parse tubes from which they had broken loose, ignoring the diving Shrikes and the hail of arrows from the pursuing ships.

Redden Alt Mer collapsed on the deck, his back burning with pain and wet with blood.

“That’s more than enough heroics from you, Captain,” Britt Rill growled, appearing out of nowhere to take hold of one arm and haul him to his feet. “Down below for you.”

Alt Mer started to object, but his throat was so dry he couldn’t get the words out. Worse, his strength had failed him completely. It was all he could do to stand with Rill’s help. He glanced at the other and nodded. He had done what he could. The rest was up to the ship, and he would bet on her in any race.

Belowdecks, Britt Rill helped him off with his flying leathers and began to wash and clean his wounds. “How bad is it?” Redden Alt Mer asked, head bent forward, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped, and the whole of him knotted with pain. “Did it sever the muscles?”

“Nothing so bad, Captain,” the other answered quietly. “Just a few deep cuts that will give you stories to tell your grandchildren, should you ever have any.”

“Not likely.”

“Be a blessing for the world, I expect.”

Rill applied salve to the wounds, bound him up with strips of cloth, gave him a long pull from the aleskin strapped to his waist, and left him to decide for himself what he would do next. “The others will be needing me,” Rill called back as he went out the cabin door.

And me, Alt Mer thought. But he didn’t move right away. Instead, he sat there on his bed for several minutes more, listening to the sound of the wind outside the shuttered windows, feeling the movement of the ship beneath him. He could tell from its sway and glide that it was doing what it should, that power was back in sufficient amounts to keep it aloft and moving. But the battle wasn’t over yet. Pursuers with magic enough to summon Shrikes and command the walking dead would not give up easily.