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Rush had become accustomed to many unfamiliar sounds on the Embark. But a bone-chilling screech was not one of them.
While he settled into his new tasks aboard the ship, she made the several-hour flight to the Pinnacles. They began two weeks of searching. Back and forth across the peaks, always watching, combing for any indications of rebels. The king assigned several other airships to do the same in other areas, and occasionally Rush saw them on the horizon.
On that day, a week and a half into the voyage, Rush hunched over the hardtack he prepared in the galley. Before they even arrived in the mountains, he had tasted and grumbled about the food available on board, after which the current cook challenged him to make something better. Which Rush did, to the cook’s great irritation. Now most of the crewmen requested Rush make their meals.
When the sound broke through his concentration, his head shot up. Shouts came from above, though that was normal—Thaddeus was probably chastising some slacking crewman. But the voices were more urgent than usual. More…terrified.
Then he heard it.
“Dragon!”
Dragons. The old tales told of these. No one thought they existed.
Apparently, they did.
Rush bolted for the ladder. He grabbed the metal poles that ran up the front of the mast, passing through the crew quarters and popping into the open air.
Chaos reigned on the upper deck.
Soldiers across the deck, from railing to railing, brandishing muskets and yelling and pointing. An enormous beast—a wingspan of nearly the airship’s width, long neck stretching out, huge beaked head examining the crew—flew leisurely circles around the Embark. Rush stumbled back and shook his head. The world spun around him.
A firm hand clamped on Rush’s shoulder. He recoiled and twisted, raising his fists. Thaddeus stared down at him. “What are you doing up here? You’ll get yourself killed!”
Rush’s cheeks burned from his jittery reaction. He had fought in a real battle. Admittedly, he was perfectly useless and nearly died, but he fought. He should be more hardened than that.
“Don’t let me see you up here again.” Thaddeus shoved him toward the ladder and jogged away.
Rush considered obeying Thaddeus’ command. His legs wobbled. He squeezed his eyes shut. That thing was big.
He opened his eyes a crack, and they bulged at the sight before him.
The dragon no longer circled.
It dove to the deck, screaming and baring talons as it passed low overhead. Men scattered out of its path until only one target remained.
Rush stood, feet planted to the ground, watching it approach. Every muscle in his body froze.
At the last second, his wits returned, and he threw himself onto the deck. Talons whistled where his head was moments ago.
Rush remained on the ground while the others regrouped. Ropes couldn’t have bound him down any more than his fear did. Taunting retired military captains was one thing. Even fighting the raiders was conceivable. This? Myths were made of things like this.
The boy again pried his eyes open. The dragon circled the ship, waiting for an opening. Vance and Thaddeus, side-by-side, waved their pistols and roused the men. Their words finally lifted Rush from the wood; he scrambled to the ladder and paused halfway down to watch.
The dragon banked and sped toward them.
A line two soldiers deep and several wide formed. Though they fidgeted, they stood steady. When the dragon came into range, a volley of gunfire rang out. It screeched and dove below the ship.
Rush lowered to the next rung. Terror and duty warred in his head, and he paused. What should I do? To fight would be suicide. To run would be cowardice.
The dragon decided for him.
It rose above deck on the opposite side, pivoting to make another run at the combatants.
A couple of soldiers fired. The rest lunged aside—except for one man who stood and stared, as Rush had before. Talon wrapped around his body as the dragon glided to the other edge. Once in the open air, it flung the soldier forward into the blue void.
Something snapped inside of Rush. His hands strangled the ladder rungs, and a dark calm washed over him. Pulling himself onto deck, he darted to where the men regained their footing. He slipped a cutlass from one soldier’s sheath; the sliding metal rang. Rush’s growing rage propelled him toward the dragon, which flew back and forth across the area it had dropped the soldier.
When it glimpsed Rush—all alone with only a sword in hand—it turned. With a cry, it shot forward and stretched out its legs. Rush trembled but lingered. Thaddeus’ booming voice called him back; still, Rush remained.
The dragon glared at Rush.
It flexed its talons as it came within ten feet of him.
Rush angled the sword toward it.
This is what happens to all murderers.
He ducked.
The creature’s feet splintered the railing, and wood showered Rush. For only an instant, the scaly body hovered directly over him.
He thrust the sword into its chest with every bit of hatred he felt. A shriek burst from the dragon as it flew over the deck, sword lodged in its body. Stunned soldiers bolted away. It crashed through the railing on the other side and, with a final groan, tumbled over the side. A gaping hole in the wooden barrier remained in its stead.
Rush gazed at the gap, panting, while the thrill of battle drained from him. He crumpled to his knees, dropped his head into his hands.
Men gathered around him, thanking and congratulating him. Their words bounced off his ears. He only felt empty.
After the battle, crewmen scattered across the ship to repair damages. Rush became an instant hero, an unstoppable defense against the Pinnacles’ terrors. But despite all the words of lifelong gratitude, he considered himself anything but a hero.
During the dragon’s final charge, Rush had imagined it as Ward. He poured all his grief into that blow, expecting it would do something to ease the pain. Instead, guilt wracked him. Killing the dragon was noble. He’d saved the ship. Yet, something had awakened inside of him that he feared more than any beast.
“Captain!”
Rush paused his hammering and looked up. He had been assigned to repair the section of railing knocked out during the dragon’s death.
Captain Vance paced atop his quarters. He patrolled from one railing to the other, first observing the work on deck, then peering down at the mountains. When a blue-coated crewman called to him from deck, he spun around and leaned over the railing facing the bow. “What is it?”
The young man stood at rigid attention. His rural accent betrayed him as more of a farmer than a soldier. “We’ve spotted three airships docked in a canyon nearby.”
Rush perked up. Could it be?
Vance’s face grew grim. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Let us go see what rats’ den we have uncovered.”
The lieutenant nodded. “Sir.”
Vance followed the man across deck, past Rush, and into the ship. As Rush watched them go, his feet drifted after them. He glanced at the other men on deck.
They all worked away.
He dropped the hammer and wandered to the mast. Down he went, through the crew’s quarters and storage room, to his favorite place in the ship.
The watch deck.
An elliptical dome clung to the bottom of the Embark with a metal walkway extending through the center. Glass curved around them, giving a clear view of the Pinnacles for miles. Rush’s own disheveled reflection stared back at him as he took in the view. From this height, he could see why many of the first Arcians died here. The place was a barren, rocky wasteland.
His worn shoes made little sound as he came behind the huddle of people near the front of the dome. Vance and Thaddeus stood with several others, talking and pointing at something.
Rush tilted his head around them and caught a glimpse of their findings. He gasped.
A long chasm snaked between two mountains, and a stream glittered at the bottom. The water flowed from some peak in the distance into the crack, passing three airships squeezed between the canyon walls. It disappeared into a crevice in the rock face.
Rush stared. He would forever recognize the sky-blue ship that had attacked Hast.
He bounced on his toes. This is it! We found it! “When are we going to attack?”
Every head in the dome turned to him. He shrank back as Thaddeus fixed him with a withering glare.
Vance put a hand on the quartermaster’s shoulder and stepped out of the cluster. “Our orders are to scout for rebel presence. We were specifically told not to engage.”
Rush gritted his teeth. Not engage? How could they not engage? He could throw a rock to the doorstep of his brother’s killer, but he wasn’t allowed to engage?
Vance read his irritation. “Rush, we are not equipped for a full assault. To attack now could eliminate our chance to return with a proper war fleet.”
Thaddeus growled. “Just get back to work, boy. Let the adults talk.”
Rush clenched his fists. As they returned to their discussion, his anger rippled through the air like a swarm of bees. A thousand options flashed through his mind—tackling Vance, seizing the bridge, luring the rebels out and into a battle—but even in his desperate state he knew they wouldn’t work.
Snatches of conversation broke through to him.
“We should send a scouting party to ensure it is the rebels’ base.” Vance’s voice. “The king might have us all hanged if it is discovered to be a civilian settlement from the Landing days.”
Thaddeus gestured toward the chasm. “What civilian settlement has three airships docked outside? We should return to the Prince Nathaniel now and prepare to attack.”
“We must know it is the right place first. Lieutenant Bridger, please gather a few volunteers for the search. Meet me at the mast in fifteen minutes. The rest of you, prepare the ship. We may have to make a hasty exit if we are spotted.”
Lieutenant Bridger saluted. The crowd dispersed, filing past Rush and up the ladder. Vance remained and stared toward the hideout.
Rush straightened as the captain’s words sunk in. They had to land to send a scouting party. His desperate ideas changed direction, and he drifted away from the conversation. His thoughts already roamed the Pinnacles even as his body climbed to the upper deck.
The boy worked on repairs for a while but cast frequent glances at the men gathering behind him. Six crewmen, including Bridger, prepared to land, loading muskets and donning ammo bags. One man slipped a spyglass into his satchel.
The airship sunk closer to the Pinnacles every minute. She drifted through several clouds, painting the air with a chilly fog. Eventually, she drifted behind a mountain blocking the canyon from view and halted above the flattest location they could find. A rope ladder unfurled. The scouting party hiked into the mountains.
This whole ordeal so captured Rush’s attention that when Thaddeus shoved a metal jug in front of his face, he nearly tumbled backward over the railing he leaned on.
The quartermaster’s hand shot out and gripped Rush by his collar. Why did he always have to grab the neck? Rush’s legs turned to pudding and his heart raced from the close call, but Thaddeus only glared, unphased. “While we’re here, you might as well run to the river and fill a few of these.”
Rush clamped his teeth on his tongue while forcing his shoulders to droop. His pulse quickened again, but this time from excitement. Is it this easy? Nodding, he pushed off the railing, slung the strap on the jug over his shoulder, and trudged across deck.
There was no time to get his bag. Olive’s Bible and his few provisions would be lost. Guilt stabbed through him. He had never even opened the book once. Surely Olive would understand he had been busy.
Rush swung his legs over the ship’s side and climbed down the rope ladder, swaying in the mountain breeze. He shivered, wishing he had brought a coat from Hast.
He reached the bottom and dropped to the rocky ground. The Embark hovered overhead like it had outside Hast those eleven days before. Rush bit his lip and turned away, setting off into the wilderness. He would almost miss living with the crew.
As he trekked over boulder and dying bush, he thought. Should he head straight to the cave? Wait until Embark left? These questions only unearthed the flaws of his hasty plan. Did he really expect to walk in and take on the entire army himself? Rush batted them away like flies—he only knew he couldn’t return to the ship. To do so would be admitting defeat. It would allow Ward to ravage someone else’s town. And Lewis’ blood would forever cry from the ground.
The airship passed behind a mountain; Rush neared the stream. He might as well fill it before striking out into the wasteland. The mouth slipped beneath the current and bubbles popped to the surface as it filled.
“Hard at work, I see.”
Rush jumped, falling and plopping onto a rock. The jug slid from his hand, and water splashed across the bank. He spun around.
Lieutenant Bridger grinned at Rush. Five other soldiers stood around him, all wearing amused expressions.
His heart pounded as if they could tell his intentions. But they couldn’t. They only thought he was getting water for them, he assured himself. “I…uh…”
“Good lad. We’ve just finished downstream, you’d better follow us back. Wouldn’t want to be left here, eh?” He smiled.
“Oh…no. I don’t.”
“Come along, then. And bring some water with you, if you’d be so kind.”
Rush crouched and filled the jug again before joining the procession back to the ship. He breathed rapidly and his eyes darted around. His fingers toyed with the leather strap across his chest. Glancing down at the container he lugged, an idea flashed into his mind. No. I can’t do that. Or could he?
When the Embark came into view, he made up his mind.
Rush slipped the strap from his shoulder and clenched it with one hand. He swung it far behind him; it flew forward as his fingers opened.
The metal jug soared through the air—right into the head of a soldier.
And Rush ran.
Confusion broke out behind him as he shot away. He kept his eyes straight forward, watching the ground for pitfalls. Pulling off such a stunt and then getting caught simply would not do. After a few seconds, the yelling ceased, and pounding footsteps pursued.
The chase was on.
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