Chapter 54
FROM HIGHRIDGE where they were waiting, silently, tensely since the moment the flare had gone up from the landing zone, Drake saw the stream of eerie green light tumbling down the Brother like a river through the Ziem mist.
Brander had done it.
He reached for the comm link in the control board of the rover, and turned it on for the first time since they’d stolen them. An empty, vacant hum came out of the system. He counted down the agreed-upon minute, when Brander would turn his on as well and test that it was down for certain.
The silence held. Not only were they without the concise, effective orders he had no doubt Major Paledan would have given were he here, they were without communications altogether. They couldn’t even call for help. A force would likely start for the Brother, to check on the communications, but the Sentinels would hold them back. And the miners, who had been greatly inspired by Samac Rahan’s sacrifice, would about now be circling the guards there, forcing them into the mine, preventing them from coming to the airlifter’s aid when it arrived.
Never would the Sentinels have a better chance to strike a crippling blow.
His mother was staring down the high valley. “One and two,” she said softly, counting down the signals from the lookouts all along the valley. He headed the rover along the ridge, toward the cannon emplacement.
“Three,” she said. He upped the speed, dodging the last of the thick forest. Then they were in the sparsely treed boundary.
“Four.”
He brought the rover to a sharp halt just inside the last line of trees. He could see the huge barrel of the fusion cannon looming above, over the mines. At his hand signal, the small force leapt out of the rover, readying weapons. He looked at his mother.
“You do not have to do this,” he said, although they’d been through this before.
“I know.”
“You are a healer. And we will have to kill.”
“Then I will remember what they did to you. Five,” she added.
He had no time for more, he could only accept, and believe. Compared with what he’d had to accept over the past weeks, this was little enough. He jumped out of the rover. She was on the ground beside him before he could offer her help.
“Six,” she said softly.
Thirty seconds. He signaled the men. Swung the long gun around, checked the load one last time. Realized he was barely breathing. Forced himself to breathe deeply, preparing to sprint. He heard the sound of the ship five seconds before it loomed out of the mist. The men tensed, but he held them with an upright fist. The craft adjusted course, upward. In less than a minute, it was hovering over the huge cannon mount.
The bottom hatch opened. The cannon sling unrolled. Four Coalition troopers rode it down. The temptation to strike now, while they were vulnerable, was great. Drake held. It was the cannon they had to destroy, and the only way to do that was to wait until it was free of the mount and vulnerable. He hoped to use the big airlifter itself; if they could take it down after it had lifted off, both it and the cannon would crash down the mountainside, destroying both.
He inched closer under cover of a low line of rock that jutted up in a line along the cliff edge. The other Sentinels spread out as planned under that same cover. One of them disturbed the nest of a muckrat, and the creature squalled and darted over the rocks. One of the guards spun around, firing before he could possibly have seen a target. On edge, Drake thought as the blast, low and wild, dug into the rock a bare yard past his feet.
He heard a laugh in the distance. The other troopers, mocking their companion for his jitters. He listened to the metallic sounds of them unfastening the cannon’s base from the mount, then fastening the lift cables. He inched upward to risk a glance.
The ground under his feet shifted. He realized the ledge had been undercut by that wild missed shot. It was crumbling. He grabbed for a small outcropping of rock. Got his hands on it a split-second before the ledge went. Heard the sliding, clattering as the crumbled rocks slid into the chasm. He was dangling from the side of the ridge, held only by fingers that were already feeling the strain.
He could hear the guards approaching, making no effort at stealth, in fact running. Closer. Closer still. They’d reach the spot where he’d been standing in seconds. And he was hanging here, helpless, an unmissable target. And even if they did miss, one shot would likely send the rest of this entire side of the ridge sliding down to the canyon floor, him with it.
He could only hope it took them, too. And then the others could finish the job he’d so ignominiously failed at—
A voice rang out, echoing off the rocks. “Pillagers of Ziem, you will hold!”
Drake’s breath caught. His mother. Or rather, the Spirit, for there was no doubt it was she who spoke. The running footsteps halted. He heard the scrabbling sound, as if they had skidded a little in their abrupt stop. Heard another, as if they had spun around. He had a sudden image of her, robes glistening white in the sun, fiery hair flowing in the breeze, and that voice. . . . Even Coalition troopers were not immune to the power of myth and legend and image, it seemed.
The outcropping he clung to began to shift. And there was nowhere to go. Nothing to grab. He was going down. He scrambled, as if he could overcome the pull of the entire planet by sheer will. He slipped farther. His brain was racing, gauging, calculating, looking for any way out. There was none. His mother’s risk had been for nothing. It was going to end like this, after everything. He—
Something hard, solid, and strong latched onto his wrist. His downward slip halted. He couldn’t even look up—his face was jammed against the rock. And then, slowly but steadily, he was pulled upward. And then he had the other arm back on solid ground. It was all he needed.
He regained his feet. For an instant, he stared at the man who had rescued him. Grimbald, probably the only man with arms long and strong enough to have done it.
“Thanks, Grim,” he whispered hastily.
“You are my lady’s.”
It was said in a voice more suited to the greeter at some elegant gathering. Someday, he was going to get the answers about their connection. But not now.
He spun and risked a look over the small ridge of stone they were behind. What he saw was so close to what he’d imagined that it startled him for the instant he could spare for such thoughts. The five Coalition guards were staring at her, practically gaping. To them, it must have seemed she had loomed up out of nowhere, magically.
Their backs were to the ship. And to the single guard they’d left behind.
He saw Pryl and the others, creeping up behind the five. They were sticking to the plan. Although the sudden appearance of the Spirit of the Edge had hardly been part of it. But it was working. Beyond his hopes. The armed men were frozen, as if she had indeed cast some sort of spell over them. It was three to the five, but he knew his Sentinels had never cared about the odds.
“I will take the last guard while you do what you must.”
Drake’s gaze flicked to Grimbald as he spoke. The man’s face was impassive, unreadable, but his tone had been final. Drake didn’t hesitate. He nodded. They edged their way right, to where the ridge dropped off, the last of the cover between them and the airlifter. The single guard appeared nervous, uncertain. Drake saw him shout something to the pilot of the ship. He appeared to listen to the answer, then shook his head no vehemently. The pilot must have called out something more, for the man turned to look up into the open hatchway.
“Now,” he ordered under his breath.
Drake barely had time to notice Grim’s limp didn’t slow him at all before the man did exactly what he’d said. The last guard was down. The sound of blasters came from behind them. The Sentinels’ battle with the five guards was on. He ignored it. He had to. The airlifter was already lifting off. The pilot’s orders were clearly to protect the cannon at all costs. Even if it meant leaving the guards behind.
He had one chance. One chance to end this now. If he failed, it was a near certainty that Kye would die doing what he hadn’t.
He launched himself. Caught one of the cables securing the cannon in the instant before it was out of reach. He could hear the fastenings straining as the airlifter rose above him. Slowly, but steadily. Once it cleared the ridge, it would swing around, head for the low valley, and Zelos. He had to get it done before then. He didn’t try to hide, had to hope the pilot was focused on getting out of the rocky terrain.
He blasted one of the cables. It parted. One corner of the cannon base sagged. The ship wobbled slightly as the weight shifted. He needed the other cable on the same side. But he couldn’t hit it from here. The cannon’s huge barrel blocked any shot. He was running out of time. He shoved the blaster back into the holster. Made a desperate leap and grab. Caught the rim of the barrel’s opening. For a moment, he hung there in space from the mouth of the weapon. The ground was falling away ever more quickly. He swung himself, driving with his feet. Nearly lost his grip. Second try, he caught the edge of the platform with his heel but slipped. Third the same.
It was no use.
But he could hit the cable from here.
The platform would drop, probably violently. The cannon itself might break free under its own massive weight. Either way, he’d likely go down with it. Looked like he was going to make that fall after all. He just had to hope he’d gauge it right and hit the rock outcropping, not go tumbling down the side of the mountain. Hitting the rocks would hurt, but he wouldn’t survive plummeting to the valley floor.
He let go with his right hand. Drew the blaster. Fired. In the same instant, the platform twisted as they cleared the rocks and the wind hit. Missed. His left hand was straining. The rim of the barrel opening dug painfully into his fingers. He ignored it. He only had to hang on long enough to make this shot. He aimed again.
A hit. The cable split down to one slender strand. It would give, he knew. But when? Over Zelos? Couldn’t risk it.
He fired again. The cable severed. The platform gave. In that instant, he doubled himself up, got one heel on something solid, he wasn’t sure what, and shoved off. Let himself fall. He caught one glimpse of the airlifter careening sideways, the cannon swinging wildly.
Then he hit the rocks and everything vanished.
KYE REGISTERED the lurch of the airlifter. She thought she’d seen someone jump, but she couldn’t be sure from here. Nor could she spend the time wondering, fearing it might have been Drake. She had a job to do. It was up to her to make sure the thing crashed. She saw the payload—that bedamned cannon—hit the side of the ridge. The airlifter struggled, tried to regain stability.
She had to see that it didn’t. No matter the cost.
Air rovers weren’t designed to be at this altitude; they were low-level flyers, but Brander had worked on them all and bought them enough altitude to fly at the Edge. And she’d spent the last two weeks, when she wasn’t honing in her range and accuracy with the long gun, pushing the little craft’s limits. She knew exactly how high she could take it and not lose maneuverability. It would be high enough. And her weapon was loaded with Brander’s special round. There was only one, so she didn’t dare miss.
She marked the airlifter’s position. Guessing at its course when it was careening around, its speed erratic, was difficult, but there was no choice.
“We have our mountains, our mist, and our knowledge and love of this place. Use them . . .”
She dove the little craft down into the mist, and under its cover, sped toward her best guess.
She popped up out of the mist a bare hundred yards behind the ship. Felt a spurt of satisfaction as she swiftly took in the situation. The airlifter was fighting its own cargo, side-slipping as much as it went forward. More importantly, the cannon had shifted, in fact looked as if it were about to break free. Her mind raced.
She calculated how much time she had before the ship got over the low valley. Was it enough? Could she get off a shot at one of the remaining cables, sending the cannon plummeting, and still have time to get clear? She desperately wanted to think so. She did not want to die now, especially now . . .
She quashed the thought. She couldn’t risk it. She had to take the weapon itself. She refused to think about it, slammed the door on the knowledge that the sight of it exploding would be the last thing she’d ever see.
The airlifter careened sideways once more. The cannon swung again. Slipped, held only by one of the surviving cables. The pilot was good, and managed to keep from slamming into the ridge. Barely. But he was wildly off course, dangerously close to the mountains.
“We have our mountains . . .”
An idea flashed in her mind and her breath caught.
She had to make a decision. Now. Swiftly, she checked the readouts on the terrain display. Calculated distance, trajectory, time. She need both hands to shoot, so keyed in her course. The autopilot politely advised her her choices were unsafe in the current terrain. She overrode it.
“Hold it,” she breathed to the unlucky airlifter. “Just ten more seconds.”
The airlifter steadied. Lurched again. Steadied again.
Now.
Her little craft shot forward. Straight at the ridge. She snapped the long gun to her shoulder. Sighted in with the ease of long practice. Let out her breath to still her body to the utmost. Nothing must throw off her aim, not even breathing. She waited.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
She fired.
And slammed the rover into max speed with her foot.
The rover shot forward. Her round hit the cannon. The world erupted into fire and sound and blast wave.
In the tiny fraction of a second before she was enveloped, that blast wave shoved her forward. And into the shelter of the ridge.
She saw the glow of the explosion, heard the crashing, tumbling rock. The air rover shuddered, but behind the massive wall of mountain, it stayed airborne.
She was alive.
It was done.