When the two Cofah craft were committed to the search, flying side by side in the narrow canyon, Ridge switched from thruster to propeller power and took off after them. He stayed below them, putting himself in their blind spot, believing their inexperience would allow him to sneak up on them. Of course, he was gambling on inexperience due to the newness of the Cofah fliers. He couldn’t let himself get too cocky or make too many assumptions.
His nerves jittered as he crept closer. Coming in for the kill, as his old flight instructor would have called it. Except this wasn’t some slow-moving airship; these craft were much more maneuverable, something demonstrated by the way they glided up and around the contours of the snowy canyon, rock formations, bends, and sometimes dipping low to follow the frozen river meandering below, its banks just visible beneath the layers of white. Watching them was surreal; if the craft had been painted bronze instead of black, Ridge might have believed them to be from his own hangar.
His thumb massaged the trigger of the guns. Almost time.
The drumming of the propellers echoed off the canyon walls, his own melding with theirs. One of the pilots glanced back. Ridge didn’t think the man saw him, but he must suspect a tagalong.
Ridge angled his nose up, toward what should be the engine area of one of the fliers, and fired. He pounded several rounds into the rear of the craft before both pilots reacted. His target pulled up, doubtlessly intending to fly upside down, make a loop, and come down behind Ridge. Having performed that maneuver countless times, Ridge knew it well and he followed, but let himself pummel the second flier with rounds on his way by.
The Cofah pilot’s face was obscured by goggles and some kind of head wrap, but Ridge knew what the angry shaking of a fist meant. The man was yanking a pistol out as Ridge zoomed upward beside him. He better focus on his flying, or he would end up smashing into that rock formation coming up. Not Ridge’s problem. He corkscrewed upward, flying parallel to the canyon walls for a moment, then angled away in time to fire at the first craft. Bullets ripped into the hull near the cockpit, and the pilot ducked, his head disappearing from view. A ribbon of smoke flowed into the air behind his craft. It should already be done for, but Ridge circled to come in again to make sure—and to make sure the other pilot hadn’t figured out an effective attack, either.
He needn’t have worried about that flier—its distracted pilot had flown it into the rock formation. Or maybe the damage Ridge had done on the way by had stolen its ability to steer. Either way, he only had one flier to finish off, and he cut in mercilessly, targeting the engine again. The smoke streaming behind the craft doubled. The pilot was trying to land, but there was nowhere safe in the rugged canyon. His wing clipped a cliff wall, and the craft spun out of control, then bashed against the cliff again and tumbled to the snowy floor.
“Sir, the airship is veering away, but we’re having trouble with our—” Ahn grunted, cursed, and resumed, her voice tense. “If you have any suggestions on how to deal with the rockets, we’d appreciate it, sir. Duck is—” the screech of some projectile whistling near her cockpit drowned out the rest of the words, and she didn’t speak again.
“Ahn?”
Ridge zoomed for the top of the canyon, needing to see what was going on up there. Rockets? What rockets?
“Ahn, give me your status when you’re able. Or Duck or Apex.” He kept his voice calm, but their silence filled him with anxiety.
He twisted in his seat to look in all directions as he neared the top of the canyon. If he had dealt with two fliers, and the others were having trouble with one, that left one unaccounted for.
As soon as he crested the lip of the canyon, he spotted it. It was flying along the rim and zipped by so close, it almost gave him a haircut. The other pilot jerked in his seat, as surprised to see Ridge as Ridge was to see him. They were heading in opposite directions, and Ridge banked to turn back toward the other flier without hesitation. He expected the Cofah pilot to do the same, to want a fight with him, especially if he hadn’t seen what happened to his comrades in the canyon, but the man kept flying in the direction he was already going. Ahead of him, the three Iskandian fliers were playing cat-and-mouse with the other Cofah craft, weaving in and out around a pair of craggy mountain peaks. Ridge couldn’t understand how one lone enemy flier could be giving his people so much trouble, but he gunned his flier to gain ground on the craft that was now ahead of him. His people were in the sky still; that was enough for now. He would get the news later.
The pilot ahead of him jerked his arm and fired something large, much larger than a bullet or even a cannonball. The sleek oblong projectile leaped into the sky with such power, that a recoil coursed through the craft, making it shudder and buck. For a moment, the pilot struggled to bring his flier under control again. Ridge couldn’t understand what he had been firing at—the four craft darting around the peaks were too far ahead to hit—but he arrowed in, hoping to take advantage of the pilot’s brief struggle. A few more seconds, and the Cofah flier would be in range…
But the large projectile did the impossible. It curved off its trajectory, banking in the sky like an aircraft. By now, Ridge ought to expect the unexpected from these dragon-blood powered contraptions, but he found himself gaping in stunned disbelief anyway. Until the projectile—the
rocket
—arced a full hundred and eighty degrees and spun through the sky toward him.
“Anyone want to enlighten me on these new Cofah weapons?” Ridge asked, nudging the nose of his craft to alter his course.
“If you haven’t seen one yet, be glad,” Duck said, his voice quick, almost breathless.
“I’m seeing one now. It’s heading right for me and—” The rocket was adjusting course to keep him in its sights—if projectiles even
had
sights—and it had already closed half the distance. “Talk later,” he said, knowing he’d need his full concentration.
“Yeah,” came Duck’s response, grim and full of understanding.
Ridge made a more abrupt correction to his course this time, pitching downward. The canyon was still running along the craggy hills beside him, but he didn’t know the terrain and didn’t want to get himself stuck with a rocket on his butt. He headed straight for the ground, as if he meant to crash. He kept one eye on the terrain and one on the rocket, which was tilting toward the ground, too, toward him.
He brought his nose up before he hit the trees, though he came close enough that the air from his passing knocked snow off the boughs. The rocket arrowed toward him, its nose aimed straight at the front of his craft. The trees ended, and he dropped even lower, skimming along rock and snow. The rocket filled his vision, its black snub-nose as appealing as a viper’s fangs.
Ridge waited until the last second, timing it… timing it… and jerked the stick to the side.
The rocket tried to adjust at the last second, too, but it wasn’t quite fast enough. It darted past Ridge’s wing, so close he could have read the model number engraved in the side if it hadn’t been moving so fast. He expected it to hit the ground—that had been the whole idea—but he didn’t expect the cacophonous boom that filled the air, pounding at his eardrums even as the shockwave pounded his craft.
His flier spun out of control, the tail flipping over the nose twice, a wing cracking against the ground. Ridge was jerked around in the cockpit like a puppet on strings. His head slammed against the side, his leather cap offering poor protection. If not for the harness, he would have been thrown free. He almost wished he had been. He tried to regain his senses, to recover somehow and get the flier into the air again—or at least bring it to a stop before it destroyed itself, but the lip of the canyon loomed before him. He’d been flying so close, and he had turned in that direction… He was going in if he couldn’t bring the craft to a stop. And it was a long fall to the bottom.
Suddenly, his flier slowed and stopped striking the ground. It righted itself and rose into the air as if someone had snatched it from its mad tumble. Ridge knew that wasn’t
his
doing, but he was so disoriented that he couldn’t guess what was happening. He wasn’t even positive he was alive.
The flier came to a halt and floated over the lip of the canyon, the ground on one side and a fall of two hundred feet on the other. He hovered there. He hadn’t activated the thrusters, had he?
My apologies. I thought your maneuver would be sufficient. I didn’t realize the projectile would explode.
Jaxi?
Ridge touched his head, wincing at a lump already swelling beneath his cap. There was blood dripping down the side of his face too.
Are there other swords that speak into your mind?
I don’t think so. But I can barely remember my name right now, so I’m an unreliable source.
He twisted to look behind him, looking for the spot where the rocket landed. It wasn’t hard to find. A huge crater scarred the ground, with trees uprooted and thrown free all around the circular depression. He was lucky to be alive.
Remembering that he hadn’t shot down that flier before it launched its weapon, he jerked his gaze to the sky.
Where’s the other pilot? The Cofah?
His flier fell into the canyon.
Ridge, his mind still a knot of jarred confusion, could only ask,
What?
I should say his engine exploded, and then his flier fell into the canyon as a result of that. I wasn’t sure I could do that—dragon blood isn’t flammable, as I found out, but that oily stuff you put in the engines—what do you call it?—that
is
flammable. Very flammable.
If swords could cackle, Jaxi did.
We call it oil.
Ridge slumped. His head and body ached and he owed his life to a sorcerous sword. Not his skill or cleverness or… anything.
Remembering the rest of his people, who were also facing rockets, Ridge sat up straight. Self-flagellation would have to wait for later.
Can you help the others?
A second explosion shook the mountains before Jaxi responded. An orange blaze lit the sky like a small sun. Two bronze Iskandian fliers flew out of the explosion, heading in his direction. His fist clenched. Good. But the third? Where was the third? He didn’t see the Cofah craft, either. A small comfort if he had lost a squad member.
“Nice shot, Raptor,” Apex said.
“Thank you,” Ahn said. They both sounded exhausted. Harried.
“Duck?” Ridge asked.
“I’m here, sir,” Duck said. “Just escorting that Cofah flier into a nice mountainside back here. That black paint makes the hull look real good all smashed into the snow. Not sure that goat appreciated us a-visiting, though.”
“Visiting,” Apex said. “There is no grammatical reason to add extra letters or syllables to the word.”
“After what we just went through, you’re lecturing me on my word-making?” Duck’s craft finally came into view, flying out from behind the mountain.
“The goat asked me to.”
Jaxi, can you lower me to the ground? I need to see if this craft can be made airworthy again. I’m assuming I’d drop right out of the sky and into that canyon without your assistance.
His sudden ability to hover without thrusters would be difficult to explain to the others as well.
Correct.
Thank you for your help,
he added as his mangled flier floated to a flat stretch of ground and settled onto its wheels. Lopsidedly.
Sardelle would have been weepy and inconsolable if you’d died. I probably should have helped earlier, but these mechanical contraptions are beyond my experience. It’s also possible your comrades would have found it suspicious if the enemy craft spontaneously combusted before their eyes.
Possible, yes.
“Your flier isn’t looking good, sir,” Duck said. “My wing was clipped, too, and I’m a little wobbly. Should we land or try to catch the airship?”
“Is it still in sight up there?” From the ground, Ridge couldn’t see over the trees. “I was too busy crashing to see what it was doing.”
“Last I saw it, it was flying behind that peak over there. It probably kept going. So much for crashing it in here.”
Ridge sighed. So much for this whole mission. He should have taken his people’s role more seriously from the beginning. But how could he have anticipated these new aircraft and weapons?
“Sorry, sir,” Ahn said. “We should have split off and someone should have come to help you when we saw we only had one on our butts, but that one fired that crazy rocket…”
“Each of their fliers was loaded with two rockets,” Apex said. “Ahn discovered that her sniper rifle was ineffective for destroying them, but that the machine gun works. For the record, Duck and I tried to discover that, too, but our aim was imprecise.”
“My aim was perfectly precise,” Duck grumbled. “It’s not my fault the rocket kept moving out of the spot I was aiming at.”
“Find places to land,” Ridge said. “We’ll run checks and see who’s damaged and how much. I’m afraid this flier might not be airworthy again, not without an engineer and a box of spare parts.” Neither of which they had out here. He cursed softly. How was he going to get all of his people out if they were down a flier?
“Yes, sir.”
Ridge unfastened his harness and climbed down. His legs were shaking after the crash, so he was glad he had a moment to compose himself before the others joined him. He removed his cap and goggles and slumped against the side of the craft. An icy wind blowing off the mountaintops batted at his scarf. He shivered, his body slicked with cold sweat, as if he had run a marathon instead of simply sitting in a chair up there.
After the others landed, the buzz of propellers faded from the mountains. He considered the sun, hoping it would drop quickly up here and that his people would have the darkness of night to hide them while they did repairs. That airship, and possibly many of its friends, would be back before long.
The airship hasn’t left completely.