Terry Brooks - Antrax

“The witch might not see it that way.”

“The witch might not be around to find out.”

He grunted. “I wouldn’t want to bet my life on that. And I would be.”

“Tell her you had no choice. Or just leave her behind and sail home. This fight isn’t Federation business anyway. It’s between the witch and the Druid. It’s about something that doesn’t concern any of us. All Big Red and I care about is the money.”

He saw the lie in her eyes or heard it in her voice; she couldn’t tell which. But she knew he didn’t believe her. “What matters is that we’re different, Little Red,” he said. “You’re not a soldier; you’re a mercenary. I’m an officer of the line. I am expected to obey the orders I’m given, not change them to suit my mood. Nor am I allowed to change sides in the middle of an engagement. They call that treason.”

She studied him, letting the words hang in the silence. She saw his eyes flick briefly to where his weapons hung in their harness from a peg. “If you look that way again,” she said quickly, drawing his eyes back to her, “I’ll kill you before I have a chance to think better of it.”

She felt Donell Brae tense and immediately tightened her grip on his arm. “Don’t do it,” she warned.

Then footsteps sounded in the passageway outside, sudden and unexpected. Instantly, commander and pilot exchanged a second glance, this one filled with unmistakable meaning. “Commander?” a deep voice called out.

Donell Brae swung around quickly to grapple with her, but she was already moving. She knocked aside his upraised arm and hit him as hard as she could in the temple with the butt end of the dagger. As he went down, she leapt over him, intercepting Aden Kett in midstride as he reached futilely for his weapons. She slammed him back against the bulkhead and knocked him to the floor. Straddling him in fury, she pressed the dagger so tightly against his throat that she drew blood.

“Commander!” The knock at the door was rough and urgent.

“The only reason I don’t kill you here and now is that I think you are a decent man and a good officer, Aden.” Her face was so close to his she could see the terror reflected in his dark eyes. “Now answer him!”

Kett, pinned to the floor and gasping for air, swallowed hard. “What is it?” he called toward the door.

“The rets are coming back, Commander! One raft, just setting out from shore! You said to let you know!”

She put her free hand over his mouth, hesitating. She was losing control of the situation, and she had to turn that around immediately. First Aden Kett and Donell Brae try to attack her, and now the Mwellrets come back to the ship early. She hadn’t believed either likely to happen, and her miscalculations were threatening to undo her. If she didn’t act fast, all of her plans were going to fall apart. Trying to take over an entire airship and crew by herself was indeed madness, but that was what she intended. It had started out as a half-baked idea, a goal so far-fetched as to be all but impossible. But she thought now that it actually might be within reach.

She took her hand away from Kett’s mouth. “Tell him to wait a moment,” she whispered.

He did so. When he finished speaking, she rolled him over swiftly, pressed her knee into his spine, laid the dagger between his shoulder blades, and pulled his hands behind his back. Using a leather tie she carried in her belt, she fastened his hands securely in place. Then she rose, the dagger in hand again, and hauled him to his feet.

“Tell him to enter,” she whispered.

He did as he was told, and the crewman opened the door and stepped inside. He froze instantly when he saw her with the dagger at his commander’s throat and the pilot sprawled motionless on the floor.

“Not a sound,” she hissed at the crewman, making an unmistakable gesture with the dagger. She waited for his nod of agreement, then indicated Donell Brae. “Pick him up. Quick!”

Kneeling, the crewman pulled the unconscious pilot over one shoulder and stood up again. “Walk down the hall to the sleeping quarters,” she ordered him. “I’ll be right behind you. One sound, one wrong move, and your commander and your pilot and probably you, as well, are dead men. Tell him, Aden.”

Aden Kett grunted, feeling the dagger point dig into him. “Do as she says.”

They went out from the cabin and into the dimly lit corridor, the crewman carrying Donell Brae, and Rue Meridian following with Aden Kett. They wound silently through the airship’s lower levels toward the sleeping quarters forward.

When they reached the door to the sleeping quarters, she stopped them outside. She turned Aden Kett around so he could see her clearly. “Inside, Aden,” she ordered. “Stay put until I come down to let you out again. The door will be locked behind you, and I expect it to stay that way. If I hear anything I don’t like, I’ll set fire to the ship and burn her to the waterline with you and your crew still inside her.” She held his gaze. “Don’t test me.”

He nodded, a hint of fresh anger in his eyes. “You’re making a mistake, Little Red. The Ilse Witch is much more dangerous than you think.”

“Inside.”

She opened the door, let them enter, closed it again, and threw the locking bolt. She took an extra moment to secure it by wedging a dagger blade into the slide so it could not be pried open. The portholes cut into the hull to admit fresh air were not large enough for a man to crawl through. For the moment, at least, she had the commander and crew of Black Moclips trapped.

She went up the ladder through the hatchway to the main deck on the fly, found the last sentry at the aft rail, and went after him. She already knew he was too far away for her to reach before he saw her coming, but she went anyway. There was no time left for stealth. She had to hope he was all that was left of the crew. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the approaching raft and the bulky forms of the Mwellrets it carried, closing fast. She could feel the ache of her injured leg and side as she ran, a fresh tearing of her wounds, but she pushed aside her pain and quickened her speed.

The crewman turned at the sound of her approach, weapons lifting. She was too slow and still too far away!

Then abruptly, he crumpled to the deck, and Hunter Predd stepped from behind the mainmast, sling in hand.

“Cut the anchor lines!” she called, changing direction for the pilot box.

She heard muffled shouting, sibilant and angry, from the raft. She gained the box and sprang to the controls, drawing down ambient light from the single sail already set in place to keep Black Moclips aloft, throwing the levers to the parse tubes, opening them up all the way. The airship lurched with the infusion of power. She heard Hunter Predd cut the aft anchor line, then run forward to cut the bow one, as well.

Faster!

The Wing Rider’s sword rose and fell twice. Slowly, ponderously, Black Moclips rose into the air, severed anchor ropes trailing from her decking, arrows and javelins thudding into the underside like hailstones. The raft with its furious, helpless Mwellrets fell away and disappeared into the darkness.

She closed down the parse tubes and eased off on drawing down ambient light for power. The ship was an old friend and responded well to her touch. But maneuvering her alone was rough and uncertain. Without help, Rue Meridian could not manage a ship of that size for very long. She would need help, as well, with the dozen Federation soldiers she had trapped in their sleeping quarters below. She recognized the situation readily enough and knew that before long Aden Kett and his men would find a way to escape.

She slowed the airship to a crawl and brought her about, pointing her inland toward Castledown. Somewhere ahead, the Ilse Witch was hunting Walker, Bek was running for his life, and whoever still lived of the company of the Jerle Shannara waited for a rescue.