The Blood Storm Read online

  Ossifrage waved his shepherd’s crook at the airship, but instead of capsizing, it righted itself. Kneeling on the upper surface of the envelope, not dead like he should have been, was the black-robed cloudwalker Glede, also with a shepherd’s crook in his hand. His other hand was trying to staunch the bleeding from his arrow wound. It should have been deadly, should have killed him instantly, but obviously some magic was at work. I was not getting the hang of this mad world as quick as I would have liked.

  Even worse, Vorvolac, pale as a glow worm and a look of ecstatic starvation on his face, was standing next to him, unchained, wings unripped.

  Ossifrage shouted some rolling Old Testament curse at Glede, who shouted back. It being Hebrew, I only caught every other word, but it was terrible enough to make me wish that Abby had not been able to hear it.

  Foster shot an arrow at Vorvolac, and Glede raised his crook and made the arrow stand still in midair between us. Which was a lucky break, because Foster cried, “For Odin!” and the arrow started emitting mist. That, I think, was why we were not all struck down when the unblindfolded Vorvolac turned his hideous gaze upon us. We were invisible to him, and to the ship, for just a moment.

  I tried to shield Penny and Abby behind me, holding up the crucifix.

  The airship was turning, bringing her broadside weapons to bear. In the eyes of the giant bearded figurehead forming the prow of the ship, I could see the wrinkle-featured Enmeduranki looking like a gleeful sadist, his white hair in disarray where his tall hat had fallen, and the harsh-faced Anshargal looking calm and cold beside him, methodically giving commands.

  Horns and trumpets blew. The random firing ceased. Winged men, Panotii or Cruorbibitors or both, began falling out of hatches and bays along the belly of the great ship, thick and bright as autumn leaves. A dozen grapnels shot out from the ship again, hooking what remained of the balcony. Gun crews readied the death-lanterns and ballistae and cannons.

  The trumpets were not merely for the soldiers aboard the airship. All the way across the lake-sized cistern, in the light from the balconies of the townships built one atop the next like shelves, I could see now the mouths of huge weapons, looking as large as the gun Jules Verne once used to shoot Impey Barbicane to the moon, being cranked slowly into elevation. I saw catapults made of living metal, big enough to hurl a Learjet as a dart. Other weapons, protruding from blisters or pillboxes, were cranked into view, and pointed their muzzles our way. There was no spot anywhere in this vast interior space, none of the townships lining the walls, not in range of these massive guns and siege engines.

  Torchlight flared into view above, as massive doors high above our position were hauled up, or shutters or hatches banged open with the noise of iron gongs. On the balconies directly overhead, now visible, were steaming spigots hauled forward by teams of sweating slaves, or spouts of red-hot machines leaning over the brink above us, like the beards of giants hanging over a wall, ready to dump boiling oil or molten iron on us, careless of the remaining invulnerable cynocephali grinning and running down the acres of wall metal between them and us.

  I was petrified by the sight of it. The whole immensity of the Dark Tower was one big armed trap, the teeth of the snare, all pointed inward at us.

  Only Abby kept her wits: “Master! Take us through the gate now!”

  Ossifrage raised his crook. I think the cloudwalker in black was still blinded by Foster’s mist, because he did not stop us.

  A whirlwind snatched us all up, all the girls, me, Penny, Abby and Foster, and hurled us toward the dark sphere. I put my elbow in front of my face to block the wind, and held my unsheathed katana behind me.

  Above all the commotion, from the warship was coming a voice, tremendously amplified, of the Great King, Anshargal: “Open a hundred gates to Javan! No Undying can live an hour in the lands of the Host That Quaffs Lifeblood as Wine! I grant a city to who slays the foreverborn assassin girl, a treasure city to who ravishes the sea-witch! A kingdom wide and rich for the wind-walker's head! But an aeon for the Undying boy! I give you a world to save him from the blood-drinkers and bring him to me alive!”

  I fell into the surface. The uproar of battle was cut off as abruptly as if the soundtrack broke.

  “He must be found! Find him! For the mother of the Undying boy is none other than–”

  THE END

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