The skyship kept on spinning until the bard wrenched the lever again. Every hair on Clay’s body went rigid as the sail above him crackled with energy. The gyres roared to life, and the Glory straightened out as a wave of blue-white fire splashed by them on the left.
Gabriel stepped over Kit on his way to the pilot’s chair. He put both hands on Edwick’s slim shoulders. “Can you get us to the Threshold?” he asked.
“I can try,” said Edwick, “but we’re too slow to outrun that thing!”
“Too slow …” Gabe turned to survey the deck, then threw a questioning glance at Barret.
The frontman sighed. “Gods damn it. Dump the furniture.”
Out went the couches, the chairs, the chests crammed with clothes and armour. Out went the mattresses, the barstools, the bar. Matrick himself tipped the booze cabinet over the rail, wincing as he heard it smash.
Clay caught Ganelon sizing up Piglet. “Hey,” he said, drawing the warrior’s attention, “no.”
Ganelon at least had the grace to look ashamed.
They were out of the city now, racing east above the broad Dominion highway. The Threshold was directly ahead, a soaring black arch that straddled the road. And beyond that, across a wide, flat stretch of devastated farmland … a sight almost beyond comprehension.
Castia, and the Heartwyld Horde.
There were a pair of giants striding among the monstrous multitudes, and a whole mess of creatures Clay had never seen or couldn’t discern from this far away. The sky above the city swarmed as well: plague hawks and long-necked wyverns turned lazy circles beyond reach of the city’s formidable defences. Harpies, rot sylphs, bloodshot eyewings, and countless other flying atrocities frolicked among smoke and cloud.
The Horde didn’t just fill the horizon—it was the horizon. It was all there was to see, and for a moment everyone on board the Old Glory simply stared at it over the prow.
Nine hearts shared a scale with the leaden weight of fear, and even the stoutest watched the balance tip against them. And then Kit, whose heart weighed less than an orange rind, and whose head was sticking over the rail, called out, “The dragon—”
“I know!” yelled Gabriel.
“It’s right behind us!”
Leaning out as far as he dared, Clay saw that Kit was right: Akatung was practically on top of them, so close that when the dragon roared Clay could smell the metallic char on its breath. He turned his face into the wind, and there was Moog, standing beside the Threshold, pushing the keystone into place.
“Where am I going?” hollered Edwick.
Gabriel’s eyes were fixed dead ahead. “Straight through.”
They sped below the empty arch, and in the split second they spent eye-to-eye Clay could have sworn he saw the wizard wink at him. Glancing back over the stern, Clay saw the dragon duck beneath the arch just as the space below it shimmered like the surface of a soap bubble.
And then Akatung disappeared.
The Old Glory banked sharply. Clay could see, though not rationalize, a huge volume of water surging from the west-facing side of the Threshold. Moog was standing just wide of the torrent, frantically turning the keystone with both hands as though he were shutting off a valve—which, apparently, he was. The deluge ended as abruptly as it began.
Clay and a few of the others sighed heavily. Edwick was chuckling like a madman, and Gabriel, behind him, wore an expression of exhausted relief.
It was Matty who broke the spell of baffled silence with a joyous hoot. “Hells yes!” he bellowed. “Let’s hear it for plan B!”
Chapter Forty-nine
Immortality
There was a merman flopping on the wet earth. He gasped and gazed up at the sky, no doubt wondering where he was. He sputtered something at Clay and the others as they leapt clear of the dhow, but since none among them (not even Kit) spoke the liquid language of the mer-people, the poor fellow died, as so many of us do, without ever knowing the truth of why he was here.
Although the truth, in this case, was hard to believe.
Moog was beaming as they approached. “I opened a portal to Antica!” he said.
“What’s Antica?” asked Piglet. The boy had produced a mangled pastry from somewhere on his person and was scooping the cherry filling out with two fingers.
When both Moog and Kit opened their mouths to explain, Gabriel cut in. “There’s three of these things,” he said, gesturing to the arc of black stone above. “One here, another in Kaladar, and the last in a city called Antica, which is at the bottom of the ocean.”
Barret looked confused. “Antica? I thought that was—”
“It’s not.”
“So the dragon—”
“—had better be able to swim,” said Gabriel, before turning to Moog. “Is it ready?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Good. Show Tiamax how to use it. You’re coming with me. You too, Barret.” Vanguard’s leader nodded grimly. “The rest of you need to protect this portal, no matter what. It’s a good bet Lastleaf knows we’re here, and he might even guess we’ve got the key to Teragoth’s Threshold. He will come for it with everything he’s got, and if he succeeds—”
“He won’t,” said Ganelon.
Gabriel met the southerner’s gaze. It looked as though he would say more, but he only nodded.
They moved to the eastern side of the Threshold. Clay surveyed the land between there and Castia: blasted farmsteads, the burnt-out husks of storehouses, gently sloping fields turned to mulch by the tread of foot, hoof, and claw. The city was three, maybe four miles distant, surrounded on all sides by the enemy. From here Clay could barely make out flashes of flame and arcs of lightning as Castia’s defenders kept their airborne assailants from getting too near the city walls.
Moog inserted Teragoth’s keystone into the smooth black stone of the Threshold and pointed out to the arachnian which of the engraved runes signified their intended destination.
Tiamax scratched beneath one of his leather eye patches. “How did you know which of the two was Antica?”
Moog shrugged, and then answered with unnerving sincerity, “Lucky guess.”
Gabriel moved to stand before the portal, flanked by Moog and Barret. He smoothed his hair and rubbed a hand over his face. “How do I look?” he asked.
Barret grinned. “Old.”
Moog glanced over appraisingly. “Tired.”
Gabriel snorted a laugh. “Fuck you guys.”
Tiamax turned the keystone; the air below the arc shone with lucent colour, as it had just before the dragon had disappeared through it.
And then, a single, impossible step away, were the ruins of Kaladar, where every band in Grandual, every weathered merc and wannabe warrior, every man or woman looking to carve their name into history with a blade, had gathered for the War Fair.
Assuming they would be able to secure the keystone and open Teragoth’s Threshold, this had been the second half of Moog’s audacious plan. Everything now depended on what they were able to accomplish on the other side.
“Clay?”
Clay blinked, looked over to where Gabriel and the others were waiting. “What? You want me to come?” he asked.
Gabriel nodded. “I think I need you to.”
The War Fair was, as Barret had mentioned earlier, the biggest party in all of Grandual. For three days every third year, the hills around the ancient Dominion capital of Kaladar were home to half the warriors in the world. There were Kaskar berserkers draped in heavy furs, silk-robed swordsmen from southern Narmeer, swaggering Phantran pirates adorned with ink and gold, and bowlegged Cartean plainsmen all mingling, laughing, gambling, shouting, and quite often fighting with one another. The older mercenaries and established bands came to rub shoulders and swap stories, while young adventurers and new bands sought to make a name for themselves and, ideally, land a gig that paid.