Page 189 of The Cradle of Ice

That could’ve been us.

Honoring the debt owed, Rhaif headed out. He waded through the shallows, hopping with his bad leg. He kept low and aimed for the cover of the smoke-shrouded beach. Fenn flanked one side. Kalder splashed along the other.

Rhaif watched the skies. No other sailrafts or slipfoils plied the mists or sped overhead with flaming forges.

The air had become the dominion of the raash’ke.

Off in the distance, one last vessel challenged that authority. The second enemy swyftship fired its cannons at the flock of raash’ke haranguing it. But the shot was wild, desperate. Its gasbag had been shredded down to a few baffles. It hung crooked in the sky. Dark shadows fluttered across its deck. Screams and cries echoed eerily over the water.

More raash’ke dove toward it, drawn by this sole torch in the sky.

Tinier black specks tried to wing away, abandoning the foundering ship.

Skrycrows …

But the raash’ke sped through them, nabbing them up. It seemed nothing was allowed passage through their skies.

Then—as if letting out one last gasp—one of the ship’s forges exploded, bumping the stern high. The fireball chased the raash’ke back for a hot breath, but as the blast rolled away skyward, the horde fell heavily back upon the ship. The last of the balloon was shredded. The back quarter of the ship was on fire. It spun a final wild turn, then crashed toward the sea, waving the shreds of its balloon in a trail of flames.

It hit hard, shattering across the water.

Still, the wreckage continued to burn, becoming a floating pyre to the dead.

Rhaif reached the shore and hurried into the smoke, followed by Fenn and Kalder. They ducked into the pall—and not a moment too soon. With the skies cleared of targets, the horde swept the mists and circled toward the glow of Iskar.

Rhaif cast one last glance at the ruins of their raft. It sat dark in the waters, just another shoal in this sea. He prayed it remained hidden and ignored.

“Let’s go,” Rhaif urged the others—and himself.

Before it’s too late.

* * *

RHAIF HOBBLED AND limped the last of the way, staying low in the smoky pall. His leg was on fire, his head pounded, and his lungs burned. He clutched a wet scrap of sailcloth over his mouth and nose, courtesy of the resourceful Fenn, who had gathered the bits before abandoning the sailraft and soaked them in the sea.

Rhaif wanted to curse the choking smoke, but it had kept them well covered. The only sign of the raash’ke was the occasional stirring of the black pall as their wings swept overhead. For now, the horde concentrated on the village, blanketing over the top, becoming a swirling black tempest lit from below. Even at a distance, their screams ate at his ears. Their louder bursts dizzied him.

Still, they’d made it—many others had not. While trekking across the beach, they had skirted around broken bodies, both villagers and Hálendiians. They also took a wide berth past the burning pyre of the crashed sailraft at the edge of the sea. Its flames briefly revealed a horrific sight. A raash’ke scrabbled out of its hold, dragging a screaming body, a survivor. Even still, the man tried to claw his way back into the flames, determined to burn to death versus being eaten alive. He lost that battle. The slavering crunch of bones chased their group farther into the smoke.

Rhaif slowed as they neared Iskar, wary, inspecting the way ahead. The village glowed fiery through the smoke. Its walls and outermost homes could be discerned through the haze. Firepots still flickered throughout.

He waved toward the Noorish corner of the village, where there were fewer flames—and hopefully fewer eyes. Fenn kept close as they skirted into the village’s outskirts. Kalder panted heavily, slinking low.

Occasional screams burst across its streets. Small hand-bombs exploded with sharp blasts. A bevy of crossbows twanged somewhere. Still, the raash’ke continued their piercing cries that ate through skulls and swooned the senses. Rhaif winced as they edged along the periphery of that strident dissonance. His feet wobbled, and his vision pinched from the noise. He rounded the last curve of the street, dragging a hand along a wall to keep upright.

Fenn gasped next to him and pointed. “There…”

Rhaif spotted the twin firepots that flanked a familiar doorway. The flames danced merrily, as if welcoming them back. But Floraan’s home—like all of Iskar—had not been spared. Its reed roof smoldered with embers and danced with flames. Still, they stumbled inside. Smoke filled the rafters. The heat was a stone oven.

Rhaif rushed to the cupboard near the home’s hearth. He yanked open the doors and rummaged through its contents. He quickly found the shield-helms with their lodestone-filled earpieces. He shoved one at Fenn’s chest. The navigator donned it, his eyes closing with relief. Rhaif did the same. The world mercifully muffled. His head cleared of its dizzying haze in a few breaths, though he could still feel those cries itching across his scalp.

Rhaif searched and found a satchel that clinked with small jars and bottles. This had to be the healer’s bag that Floraan had mentioned. He passed it to Fenn, who clutched it to his belly. The navigator’s face was pallid—at least what could be seen of it. Blood covered most of his face, running from under the binding across his gashed brow.

Kalder panted heavily, hoarsely. There had been no damp covering for his nose and mouth. The vargr’s eyes squinted against those awful cries.

Rhaif had already made a decision while crossing the beach. He voiced it now. “Fenn, get that satchel to Floraan. It’s Brayl’s best chance. I’ll look for some men and come as quickly as I can.”

“But—”