Page 233 of The Cradle of Ice

“I chose X’or for more reasons than just its luxurious baths.” Tykhan turned to Saekl. “So far, you’ve proven yourself adept with both wingketch and arrowsprite. How would you like a greater challenge, one with considerable risk?”

Saekl’s eyes gleamed, reflecting the blood-red waters.

“Then we must hurry. A collision is about to happen, and I have no idea how it will end—or the rubble it will leave behind.”

87

RHAIF QUAKED AND shivered in the bone-numbing cold. The Sparrowhawk’s hold was dark, lit by a handful of firepots that cast little light and only deepened the shadows—and hid the monsters down here.

All around him, wings flapped and brushed against one another, sounding like corpses rubbing their leathery hands together. Sudden hisses and sharper keens spat through the howl of the winds. Worst of all were the flashes of bright fangs reflecting the firelight. They flickered in the dark, poisonous and deadly.

I’ve had nightmares tamer than this.

So far, the raash’ke had kept to the depths of the hold as Rhaif and Graylin rolled the barrel toward the winds screaming across a rent in the hold. Perde followed them with his broken arm slung across his belly and a lantern raised in his other hand.

Rhaif truly wished he hadn’t suggested this plan.

Even Graylin rumbled under his breath, “This is madness.”

“I never said it weren’t,” Rhaif answered.

“Are you sure you mixed it right?”

“Taste it and find out.”

Rhaif stared down at the large barrel, strapped in iron, with a flitch-soaked twist of cloth sticking out of its corked bunghole. He had spent a half-bell mixing together the refined flitch, a full cask of cannon powder, and a bucket of their remaining flashburn. It was the same recipe he had used to make the bomb that had chased the Hálendiians out of Iskar’s lodestone chamber. Only this was on a far grander scale.

They finally reached the hole torn through the hull. The winds pelted them, the air felt like ice, even when sucked through the scarves wrapped around their faces. The thick gloves and fur-lined coats did little to hold back the cold, which cut to the bone. He swore his eyeballs would freeze solid before they were done with this task.

Graylin abandoned him with the barrel and slipped around it to the ragged hole in the hull and peeked out. He glanced for less than a breath. When he turned back, ice had crusted his scarf, turning it into a solid mask.

Graylin hurried back and yelled in Rhaif’s ears, “The door is right below us!”

Rhaif nodded, his teeth chattering—and not just from the cold.

Graylin crossed to Perde and collected the lantern. “Let Darant know we’re ready and to call down when the others are.”

Perde slipped into the darkness, his shape becoming a slightly blacker shadow. The big man crossed to a highhorn tube and pressed his lips to it. He called up its baffling to let the captain know they were in position.

Perde then returned.

By now, Graylin had the lantern open and protected its flame from the winds by crouching on the leeward side of the barrel, right next to the fuel-soaked twist of cloth.

Rhaif and Perde joined him.

“Maybe the bomb will blast open the door all by itself,” Perde suggested.

“I’ve seen the thickness of the smaller copper doors,” Rhaif answered. “This monster? It’ll be like a kitten swiping at a milk wagon and expecting it to tip over.”

“What if it were a really strong kitten?” Perde challenged him. “Or it were really hungry, say?”

Rhaif gave up. “You make solid points.”

Darant finally called down, his voice echoing through the highhorn. “On my mark!”

The captain counted down from five.

On three, Graylin lit the cloth, brightening the space with a flare of flames. Rhaif winced at the glare.