The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) (20 page)

46
Fly or Die

“Watch your altitude, Sky Chaser!” Fleer yelled in his ears.

Kite swore and pressed his boots down on the pedals. Snow-covered rocks hissed underneath the wings. The stormwing wasn't taking easily to her new master. Sometimes she wanted to launch him into the Undercloud, other times she was bent on tossing him into the snow. It was taking all his cold-numb concentration just to maintain this dangerous low altitude. But there were no second chances out here. One lapse in concentration, one tiny mistake, and he'd be joining Welkin.

Beyond the rocks the Lethe cut the horizon. A vast slick of steel-blue ice. Bands of ice-fog shifted over a surface hatched with snow-yacht tracks. On the far side, almost invisible in the gloom, lay the jagged range of the Wildemark.

Fleer drifted near the frozen shore, waiting for him to catch up. Kite brought the stormwing about, doing his best not to collide with her.

“The Phosphene's northwest by west three hundred degrees,” Fleer said, pointing. “Once we're in range she'll signal us.”

Kite brought out Welkin's compass watch but he didn't get chance to get his bearings. Thruster engines reverberated from shore to shore - the thundermoth.

Fleer swore. “I'll lead the bogey upstream,” she said, adjusting her goggles. “Wait until he's taken the bait then get across to the other side.”

Kite dragged his attention away from keeping his balance and stared across the ice. The distance seemed too far. He'd never make it alone.

“Fleer, I don't think -”

“Just remember what Welkin taught you,” Fleer said, cutting across him. “You can do this, Nayward. You
have
to. Go!”

Then in a swirl of ice-mist Fleer accelerated away, zigzagging upstream in the direction of the thundermoth. Watching her go he was struck by a sudden sickening fear that he might never see her again.

“Go, Sky Chaser!” she yelled in his ear.

Kite swore and kicked the pedals. The stormwing lurched onto the Lethe, rocking violently in a knife-edge crosswind. He veered to starboard, the wing skimming the frozen surface. Remembering his brief training, which now seemed all too full of gaps, he struggled to regain control. Again the stormwing was resisting him; refusing to accept this upstart with barely an hour of real flying experience in the Hangar Deck.

Engine noise clashed in the distance. Out of the corner of his eye - he didn't dare turn his head - he glimpsed deadly flickers, followed by the crack of shockcannons. He tried not to think of Fleer under attack. Valkyrie could take care of herself. All that mattered now was getting to safety.

The far shore began to take shape. Jetties and boathouses, memories of a kinder world, and ancient boats lay encrusted in the thick ice. Further still the crust of forest and low hills gave him renewed hope. Not far to go now. Fleer was right. He could do this...

Another thundermoth burst from the mist.

Kite veered out of its way, plunging into the ice mist. The thundermoth decelerated and yawed, aiming its shockcannons after him. Instinctively Kite dived for the surface of the frozen Lethe, a low angle of attack that gave him a violent burst of speed.

The first bolts flashed by, puckering the ice ahead of him.  He swerved to avoid the debris, and found himself heading downstream. Mimicking Fleer's tactics he swung to port and then to starboard, making himself a hard target. The thundermoth fell back but only for a second. Boosters burned. The nose-cone roared closer, shockguns with a clear shot. Kite didn't even have time to think. He just braced himself, expecting a sudden violent end. The air cracked. But again the bolt slashed wide of the wings.

Kite breathed hard, his heart hammering madly. That wasn't luck this time. That was a warning shot. The Corrector wanted him alive.

Once again the deafening bolts flung wide, trying to force him to surrender or die. Evasion wasn't going to work. He'd have to force the pilot on to the ice. Just as Fleer had done in Skyzarke.

Keeping parallel to the frozen shore Kite held his current course. He crouched and gripped the edge of the stormwing's deck with one hand stretching out the other out for balance.

One chance. That's all he'd get.

Closer and closer the thundermoth came, until the scratched nose-cone  almost close enough to touch. The Cloudtrooper was bent over his controls, face hidden by goggles and a breathing mask. Kite could almost sense the Weatheren's thirst for revenge.

Kite held his nerve, waiting for the right moment. Not yet. Not yet...

Now.

The airbrake shrieked. The stormwing slammed backward. Her underbelly scraped the thundermoth's cockpit, scoring lines on the glass and snapping the radio antenna. For a breath-held moment Kite had outwitted the Cloudtrooper...

Then the Helicoil stalled.

The stormwing lurched into a spin, caught in the thundermoth's turbulence.
Tunk tunk.
The airbrake pedals slapped uselessly against the deck. The Lethe see-sawed around him. He was flying on vapours.

Ice rushed up to meet him. Kite leaned back with all his strength, angling the underbelly to reduce the impact. The stormwing crunched down, tearing off panels of precious skymetal. For a moment he believed he could glide to safety. Then his boots were wrenched off the pedals. Helpless he spun in the air before he slapped onto the ice, the wind crushed from his lungs. Over and over he tumbled, the world spinning, until he came to a shuddering, gasping halt.

For a long time Kite didn't move. His ears throbbed with a high-pitched ringing. Every inch of his body burned. He was vaguely aware of engine noise overhead.

With great effort he pushed himself up. His body was weak, but as far he could tell nothing was broken. Snow and ice whipped around him. The huge fuselage of the thundermoth crunched down on the ice a short distance away. In the cockpit the Cloudtrooper had already begun to unbuckle his harness.

Kite swore. He twisted his head. The stormwing had come to a halt some twenty yards away. Smoke coiled from its vents, plates of skymetal lay scattered on the ice like moulted nailbird feathers.

“V-Valkyrie?” he croaked. “I'm down, over.”

Nothing. Not even the hiss of static.

Kite’s hollow legs gave way as tried to stand. Instead he began to desperately crawl toward the stormwing, clawing at the ice. Boots slapped behind him, rushing closer and closer. Kite panicked. He’d been arrogant and careless thinking he could match Fleer's skill. Now he was going to pay for his mistake.

Pain exploded in to his ribs. He cried out. Another boot thudded into his belly, crunching his guts. A leather fist punched the mask from his face, snapping the strap and spattering his blood on the ice. The Cloudtrooper hit him again and again. Soon Kite's ears rang and his vision began to fog. He thought he was going to die.

“There's no point in struggling, skyless,” the Cloudtrooper said, his hot breath near Kite's ear, his weight pressing his cheek to the burning ice. “No point in it at all.”

The Cloudtrooper searched his pockets. Kite had no energy to defend himself, even when Welkin's compass watch was taken from him.

“Target secured,” the Cloudtrooper said into his radio. “One of the Murkers and a stolen low altitude elevator, over. Affirmative. A damn Grey, a boy, over. Roger that, out.”

Kite scrunched his eyes shut, squeezing out the tears. He hoped Fleer had escaped. At least one of them would have made it back from Skyzarke alive...

Another airmachine approached. Kite twisted his head, grimacing at the pain in his nose. A white-hulled liftship descended from the low cloud, a golden Foundation eye on its bow. The liftship circled the thundermoth and came in to land a short distance away.

The Cloudtrooper grabbed Kite’s harness. “On your feet, Grey.”

A squad of Weatheren soldiers in white heavy-weather gear filed down the gangplank and took up sentry positions around the liftship. Following them came a thin, white figure - the Corrector. Turning up the fur collar of her winter coat she treaded carefully on the ice. And with her, like a silent shadow, came the Umbrella Man.

47
A Long Way From Home

“You are a long way from home, Kite Nayward,” the Corrector said.

The Umbrella Man had halted unsteadily on the ice a short distance behind the Corrector. His new face was set a shade between grim and unsympathetic. Kite shuddered at the memory of being chased across Dusthaven's containers, every inch between them a breath away from death.

Kite found his voice. “I could say the same thing of you, Corrector,” he croaked, more politely than he'd intended.

The Corrector lifted her chin, taking a moment to watch the snow tumbling around her. “The Hiemal is quite breathtaking,” she said. “We never see such extraordinary weather in Fairweather. The sun shines for nine hours each day, every day. Scheduled rain falls at 4am, gone by dawn. A light breeze on alternate days.”

“Must be tragic for you,” Kite said, shivering.

The Corrector laughed. “Indeed, sometimes I almost prefer the unpredictable nature of the Undercloud,” she said. “It's oddly thrilling being at the mercy of nature, instead of being its master. Even so, I had rather hoped to be home by now, rather than chasing you and your new friends the length of the land.”

The Cloudtrooper handed her the compass watch. “This was all the Grey had on him, sir,” he said.

The Corrector took it with quiet disdain, failing to hide her disappointment. Kite knew what she'd been hoping to find. If he'd had the energy he might have smiled.

“My grandfather was in the Cloudguard,” the Corrector said, opening the case. “A compass watch is a badge of honour, awarded to long-serving pilots. The golden eye always points the way home to Fairweather. Did you steal it from one the pilots you killed?”

Anger bubbled up in Kite’s belly, bursting through the pain and shock. “It belonged to a friend!”

The Corrector read the inscription inside. “
Presented to Alexander Welkin, Commander, Northern Air Wing, Zero Squadron. For exceptional valour in the Hiemal.
”

“Welkin?” the Cloudtrooper said, with barely concealed disgust. “One of Shelvocke's traitors from the Cold Bastion mutiny.”

“Welkin, yes, I remember,” the Corrector said, nodding. “Do you know what
Exceptional Valour
means, Kite Nayward? It means Commander Welkin was very efficient at killing Greys. I hope he wasn't a close friend.”

Kite said nothing.

With a tight snap the Corrector closed the case. “So, if you don't have the
item
then it must still be on the Phosphene,” she said. “The question is - what were you and your friends looking for in Skyzarke?”

Kite straightened his back, trying to look defiant rather than defeated. “I'll never tell you,” he said.

“They always say that at first,” the Corrector said, nodding to the Weatheren soldiers. “But I'm nothing if not patient. There will be plenty of time to tell me about your adventures when we rendezvous with the
Vorticity
. Take him on board.”

Two soldiers seized his arms and ushered him to the Corrector’s liftship, another followed with a shockgun aimed at his back. Kite had barely the strength to walk, let alone struggle. They marched on board the liftship and on to the deck.

Don't let them catch you, Kite Nayward.

Watching the Weatherens board the liftship Kite bitterly remembered Ersa's last words. But he had no force against shockguns and armour. He only hoped Fleer had escaped. At least one of them would have made it back from Skyzarke alive.

Somehow the air had grown colder and heavier. The ice-mist seemed to have thickened. The lowlands of the Wildemark and even the shoreline had vanished in the gathering mist.

Then something caught his eye.

A pale ball came skittering silently out of the mist and rolled unnoticed passed the Weatherens and under the liftship's bow. Kite blinked. For a confused moment he thought his bruised head had conjured it up. Then he heard a sharp crack from under the keel, followed by a chemical hiss. All at once plumes of steam began rising around hull.

“Thermite!” one of the Weatherens shouted.

The ice under the liftship seethed and spat like a boiling pot. The ferocious reaction spread, forcing the Weatherens away from the gangplank.

Hidden in the ice-mist something large and fast hissed by. Kite’s muddled senses sharpened into focus. He knew that sound.

The Corrector recognised it too. “The Watchers!” she said, stepping closer to the Umbrella Man. “To arms! We’re under attack!”

Another thermite ball came hissing from the mist. Then a second from the other side. One by one the balls cracked, spilling a hungry mustard-coloured powder that burst with a sudden hot light and began gnawing relentlessly at the ice under the liftship. One of the Weatherens slipped, sinking knee-high into the froth. He began screaming and clawing at his shin where the boot leather had dissolved away to reveal bubbling, blistering flesh. The pilot and his crew panicked and scrambled for safety. The Weatheren soldiers dragged Kite with them but before they could reach the gangplank there came a splintering crack and ice buckled under the liftship's haunches. The airmachine pitched, flinging them all against the bow rail.

Then a great silver bow cut the ice-mist. Kite gasped. It was the
Jadis
! The snow-yacht ploughed into the bewildered Weatherens, the runners breaking them apart like toy soldiers. Bolts from hastily aimed shockguns spat and fizzled in all directions, but the
Jadis
was too fast for them.

Kite watched in awe as Helka and her Askian crewmen hurled more thermite charges. A chemical white mist belched from the
Jadis
’ stern, blinding the enemy. The bad egg stink of sulphur soured Kite's nostrils. The mist blinded him. He could hear screams all around. Screams and moans and the hungry hiss of thermite still gobbling up the ice.

Blindly Kite grappled for the bow rail and seized it. He clambered over, kicking at a Weatheren who tried to grab him. He leapt from the bow, hoping to avoid the toxic thermite pools. The ice slammed into his boots, sending a raging jolt up his legs and into his ribs. Kite cried out, clutching his side.

Something darkened the mist ahead. Cloak torn to shreds and smouldering the Umbrella Man knelt in a scatter of shattered armour and broken bodies. Helka’s thermite had eaten half his mask revealing the naked skull beneath. In his bare metal arms the automechanical cradled the injured Corrector. She lay motionless, her face slick with blood. Dead or alive, Kite couldn’t say.

Slowly Kite began to back away. Something glinted near his boots. Welkin's compass watch. Kite snatched it up and when he was certain the Umbrella Man wouldn't follow, he stumbled blindly into the chemical mist.

Soon his eyes stung and his lungs grew heavy. Each breath like a poison. He coughed and coughed again. Through watery eyes he picked out a pale figure ahead of him - a Watcher. Dressed white as snow in skins and fur, face hidden by a hood, the Watcher stood over the Cloudtrooper corpse. Blood dripped from the ceramic sword in his hand.

One by one other Watchers stalked out of the mist. Brave men and women. The warriors from the High Hollows. Blades and clubs ready for battle. It was a scene Kite would never forget. A ghostly Askian army marching to meet the enemy - an echo of ages passed.

One of the women stopped and slowly approached him. Bone goggles and a furs hid her face, but she seemed familiar.

“H-Helka?” Kite said. “Helka Amberdawn is that you?”

The woman didn't reply, but Kite knew it was her. Helka seized Kite's arm and dragged him away from the battle. He'd never imagined the Askians as warriors. Now he would imagine them as nothing else.

Helka brought him to the damaged stormwing. There she let him go. “Go, Kite Nayward,” she said, and stalked back to join her brothers and sisters in battle.

“Thank you,” Kite called after her. Whether Helka had heard him or not  he couldn't tell. She had already vanished.

Biting on the pain in his ribs Kite set his goggles in place and locked his boots on the pedals. With a reluctant snarl the Helicoil responded, dragging her wounded wings aloft. The Lethe's deadly mist and echoes of battle fell away.

Kite soared in a swirl of relief and adrenaline. He was airborne once more. Consulting Welkin's compass watch he fixed his course based on Fleer’s instruction - 
northwest by west three hundred degrees
- and accelerated toward the thunder over the Wildemark.