“Hold still, dammit,” he hissed, aiming the carbine one-handed at a White. He could see the animal’s hide through the scope, mottled and sickly like the others, but its wings were still strong and powerful enough to draw it closer with every beat. His first shot missed as the beast veered left, but his next two struck home on the White’s neck, producing two satisfying crimson plumes, although the animal barely seemed to slow. His subsequent attempts to put a bullet in its head proved fruitless as the White swung high and low, neck coiling as it seemed to discern his intent.
Clay cursed and withdrew from the hatch, casting about until he caught sight of Kriz’s bomb-throwing gun lying next to her pack. She held to the steering lever with both hands, maintaining a tight circular course around the still-trembling shaft.
“How much longer?” he asked, bending to retrieve the bomb-thrower.
“There’s no way to tell. A few minutes, perhaps.”
Clay studied the shaft for a second. The dust that bloomed from the opening was growing thicker all the time and chunks of masonry were cascading down its sides. He tore his gaze away and turned back to the hatch, pausing as she reached out to flip a brass switch on the bomb-thrower’s stock. “Safety catch,” she explained.
Poking his head outside, Clay found the White was no longer flying level with the aerostat. It had closed the distance to fifty yards and ascended, wings sweeping in mighty arcs before flaring and twisting its body in preparation for a dive that would bring it close enough to cast its flames at the gondola. The bomb-thrower bucked in Clay’s hands as he pulled the trigger, the bomb leaving a thin vapour trail through the air as it arced towards the White, passing within a few feet of its torso before exploding a good distance behind.
Although uninjured, the blast seemed to infuriate the White, its jaws opening to scream out a challenge as it folded its wings and began its dive. Clay fired again, the White twisting in the air to evade the projectile, streaking down like a huge pale arrow.
A burst of fire came from the rear hatch, Loriabeth unleashing a stream of bullets that lashed the White from neck to tail. It abandoned its dive, wings flaring and flames gouting from its mouth less than thirty yards away. At that range Clay couldn’t miss.
The bomb exploded in the White’s chest in a cloud of black smoke and vapourised flesh. Its wings folded up and it plummeted towards the earth, flames still pouring from its mouth.
“Well,” Clay said, fixing his gaze on the remaining mass of drakes. “That’s one.”
He could hear Sigoral’s carbine chattering from the other side of the gondola, meaning the drakes were attempting to assail them from both sides. The bulk of the pack was less than sixty yards off now, Reds weaving through the air to avoid Loriabeth’s bullets whilst the Whites flew above. Clay aimed for the densest part of the pack and fired off three bombs in quick succession, grunting in satisfaction at the trio of explosions that sent several Reds tumbling towards the ground. But still the rest came on.
“Clay!” Kriz called, her voice almost immediately drowned out by a loud roar, too vast and deep to be a drake’s cry. He swung himself back inside, finding Kriz staring at the shaft which now seemed to be wreathed in dust from summit to base.
“It’s happening,” she shouted above the roar, which he realised was the sound of the shaft breaking apart. “We need to close the hatches!”
He nodded, setting the bomb-thrower down and moving to the rear of the gondola. “Leave it, cuz,” he told a sweat-covered Loriabeth, teeth gritted as she unleashed another salvo at the encroaching drakes. She was so intent on her work he was obliged to clamp a hand on her shoulder and drag her back from the hatch. “Looks like we’re about to get out of here,” he explained in response to her aggrieved glare before turning to Sigoral. “Lieutenant, time for a cease-fire.”
Sigoral glanced over his shoulder, nodding as he lowered his carbine. The Red must have used the momentary distraction to latch onto the underside of the gondola, rearing up to thrust its head through the hatch just as Sigoral turned to face it. Clay dove forward as the beast’s jaw gaped wide. He caught the Corvantine about the waist, pulling him aside as flames cooked the air. Sigoral let out a scream as Clay bore him to the deck, high and childlike in the agony it conveyed, and mercifully swallowed by the rapid thud of Loriabeth’s repeating rifle. Clay looked up in time to see the headless Red tumbling free of the gondola before Kriz closed the hatches.
A fiery ache in Clay’s foot drew his gaze to the patch of flame eating at his boot and he spent several frantic seconds stamping it out. Looking up he saw Loriabeth clutching a writhing Sigoral, smoke rising from the ruined flesh around his right eye. Clay fumbled for his canteen of Green and held it to Sigoral’s mouth, forcing the liquid past his clenched teeth as he continued to struggle. He gradually calmed as the Green found its way down his throat, banishing much of his pain, a calm that was short-lived as Clay tipped the last of the canteen’s contents over his burns. Skaggerhill had once opined that Green could take the infection from burns but had only a marginal effect on the scars. Loriabeth held Sigoral tight as he thrashed, a torrent of what Clay assumed to be profanity issuing from his mouth in harsh Varsal.
“No way to talk in front of a lady, Lieutenant,” Loriabeth told him, continuing to hold on until the Corvantine’s shudders subsided.
Clay looked around, hearing a thunderous pounding assail the gondola’s hull. The drake were swarming the aerostat, Red after Red crowding the windows, clawing and biting to get at the meat inside.
Clay dragged his gaze away and helped Loriabeth get Sigoral into one of the seats, his cousin strapping him in before turning her attention to his wound. “Can you open it?” she asked, peering at the mottled flesh around his eye. Sigoral grunted and choked down on a scream as he forced his eyelids apart.
“Is . . . it there?” he rasped. “Can’t see . . . through it.”
“Looks whole,” Loriabeth said, sounding more confident than she looked. “Probably be fine in time. Just the glare of the flames.”
Clay left her to tend him and moved to the front of the gondola. “He’ll live,” he told Kriz.
She didn’t seem to hear, her gaze fixed on the shaft. The drakes hadn’t yet reached the front of the gondola and they had a clear view of the great structure’s final moments. The gondola appeared to be completely sealed so Clay watched the spectacle unfold in eerie silence. The whole structure gave a final shudder as a thick rain of shattered stone fell from above. Incredibly, it stayed upright for several seconds, swaying back and forth until another tremor sent it toppling over like the trunk of a giant, limbless tree, trailing dust as it fell. Clay moved closer to the window, watching the shaft slam down onto the mountains below, shattering along its length all the way to the shimmering flatness of the lake where it birthed two huge waves. Clay moved closer to the glass for a better look, fascinated by the sight of the waves sweeping across the distant shore, then reared back as a Red butted its head against the window.
The beast hissed at him, wings thumping in excitement as two of its companions landed close by.