The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

His eyes flicked back to the fleet, under attack once more from the Federation killing machine. The Dechtera was moving after them, overtaking them one at a time, burning them out of the sky the way an archer might shoot down a flock of trapped geese. She shouldn’t have been able to do that, as big and cumbersome looking as she was. She must be powered by an abnormally high number of crystals, her stored energy capacity twice that of any other ship of the line. Some of the Elven ships were dropping toward the plains now, trying to use the enemy soldiers as cover so that they could not be fired upon from above. But the tactic wasn’t working. The weapon aboard the big ship was too accurate to be deterred by the threat of what a miss would mean. It simply took its time, burning away the Elven ships whether they fled or tried to hide.

He looked at Markenstall. “We have to do something, Captain.”

The older man nodded, but kept silent.

“Can you get behind that Federation ship? Can you come up at her from below?”

The veteran stared at him. “What do you intend to do?”

“Disable her steering. Use the railguns to damage her rudders and thrusters from underneath, where they can’t do anything about it without breaking off their attack and setting her down.” He paused. “We’re small enough that they might not see us coming in from behind.”

Markenstall thought a moment. “Maybe. But if they do see us, we won’t have a chance. Railguns are only good from close in. From more than fifty yards, we’ll be so much target practice.”

Pied glanced quickly at the skyline. The moon remained covered by clouds, the light still something between dusk and full dark. Off to their left, the Dechtera was hunting its Elven quarry like a big cat, stealthy and sure, striking with bursts of white fire that filled the night air with blinding explosions and the pungent, raw smell of ash and smoke and death.

“We can’t just sit here and let this slaughter continue,” he said quietly.

Markenstall adjusted the controls without a word, swung the Asashiel toward the enemy camp, and sent her skimming over the heads of the advancing Federation soldiers, who fired up at them with bows and slings as they flew past. But they slipped through the darkness unhindered and undamaged, and soon they were behind their target, staying low so that they would not be silhouetted against the horizon, approaching in a gradual ascent that kept them carefully masked from view.

But suddenly new airships began to lift off from the Federation airfield, fresh reinforcements setting out to lend support to the ground attack on the Free-born camp, their dark shapes like hunting birds as they swung about to place the sloop directly in their path.

“Captain,” Pied exclaimed with a sharp intake of breath.

Markenstall nodded. “I see them. Warn the men on the railguns.”

Pied left the pilot box in a rush, scuttling across the deck to Pon and Cresck, his safety harness dragging behind him, and alerted each of the crewmen of this new danger. He found himself wishing they had something besides railguns with which to work, but there was nothing to be done about that.

Moments later, he was back beside Markenstall. The night had gone black again, the moon disappeared once more behind the clouds, and the air turned brisk and chilly. Pied shivered in spite of himself, wishing he had thought to throw on warmer clothing.

He glanced out at the cluster of rising Federation airships. At least half a dozen were advancing in their direction.

“They’re gaining on us,” Markenstall announced. “I don’t think they see us yet, but they will soon enough. We can’t wait, Captain Sanderling. We have to take a chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have to gain speed and altitude both, get above the heavier air and into the wind and closer to that ship.” The other man paused. “We have to let them see us. If we don’t, they’re going to find us anyway. We don’t have time to be clever or cautious about this.”

Pied hesitated. He knew Markenstall was right, but he hated the thought of exposing the sloop when they had so few weapons with which to defend themselves. Once they were spotted, the other ships would be after them like cats after a mouse. That would give them only a single pass, barring a miracle, at their target.

“All right,” he said. “Do your best. But find a way to get us close to that ship.”

“Hold on,” Markenstall said, and he pushed the thruster levers all the way forward.

The Asashiel bucked and shot ahead; the mouse was in flight. They rose swiftly into the sky, abandoning the comparative safety of the darkness for the revealing light of stars and moon—for the latter was emerging from behind the clouds. Fresh illumination bathed the Prekkendorran in brilliant white light, revealing the hordes of attackers surging toward the Elven defensive lines. Already they were flooding the gap between the twin bluffs occupied by the Elves and their allies, breaking down the Elven fortifications and scrambling onto the airfield, where the last of the Elven airships were frantically lifting off. All across the battlefield, the remains of the destroyed ships burned fiercely, signal fires for the advancing army, encouragement for its soldiers. Pied saw the Ellenroh’s hull, a charred, smoking wreck at the center of everything.