Delia hurriedly replaced the silver plug in the crystal sphere. “I’d hoped to test it first… to leach no more than a drop or two of blood into the mekanicals.”
Tylar crouched beside her. “We don’t have the time.”
Delia licked her lips, taking a deep breath.
Tylar reached over and gathered her hands in his. Her fingers were ice cold. He warmed them by squeezing tightly. “You were Meeryn’s servant. She gave you her deepest trust and so do I.”
“But-”
“Let the Grace flow.”
Delia nodded, her gaze firming. “Everyone hold on to something secure.”
Tylar climbed into the pilot’s seat and waved for Rogger to sit.
Delia reached to the plunger that controlled the flow. Her eyes glanced at Tylar, questioning. One last chance to change their minds.
He gave her a nod.
She pulled the plunger.
The blood- his blood-drained down the bottom of the sphere, feeding into the mekanicals. The effect was immediate. As the fresh flow met the residual alchemies, the mica tubes flared to a brilliance that blinded, white hot and searing.
“Oh, no…” Delia mumbled, slamming the plunger home again with the heel of her hand.
White fire exploded outward, tracing the rib cage of mica tubing, passing over their heads, under their feet, sweeping back toward the stern. Tylar tasted the power on the back of his tongue, felt its heat on his skin.
“Hold tight!” he choked out.
The lines of fire converged upon the tapering stern and slammed together. The Fin reacted as if kicked. It bucked forward, throwing them all back.
Half-turned, Tylar’s neck jolted. He used his handhold on the Fin’s wheel to pull himself around. His ears rang. He stared through the window.
The blood-fired craft had taken flight-or so it seemed. It skimmed the surface of the black sea, riding atop the twin fins that ran along the belly of the craft. The Fin struck each shallow wave with a shuddering impact, rattling teeth. Tylar tried to slow them, to eke out some measure of control with the wheel.
No response.
Like a bolt from a crossbow, they shot across the seas, as straight as a marksman’s aim.
The target loomed ahead.
The lead corsair.
Its bulk swelled into a planked wall before them, filling the world.
Tylar yanked the wheel to the right and left. It made no difference. They were headed for a deadly crash.
Rogger grumbled behind him, “Now this is much better…”
“Forget the wheel!” Delia cried out. “You have no rudder. The Fin’s tail is out of the water!”
Her words awakened Tylar to his mistake. He had only been thinking port and starboard, right and left. In the ocean, there was also up and down. He shifted his feet to the floor pedals.
Ahead, the flank of the corsair rushed toward them, ready to slam them from this world.
Tylar shoved both pedals down to the floor. The Fin dipped its nose and dove down into the waves. The waters, lit by the moon and the fire lamps, swallowed them away, shining a deep aquamarine. Bubbles blew past as the craft sailed deep, descending toward the darker waters.
But escape still eluded them. A monster blocked their path, a black behemoth. It was the submerged keel of the corsair.
The Fin dove steeply, but their speed and proximity blurred their chances of ducking cleanly under it.
The view went murky. Tylar held white-knuckled to the wheel.
The wheel! He had forgotten! Now submerged, the rudder was back in the water.
With a sharp twist, he rolled the vessel to starboard, swinging low the fin protruding from the top of the craft.
And not a moment too soon.
The port side struck a glancing blow against the keel as it passed beneath the corsair. But they cleared it. If the Fin had remained upright, the ironwood keel would’ve cleaved the top fin as surely as any ax, shattering open the tinier vessel.
Free now, they swooped deeper into the darkening waters.
No one made any joyous sounds, too raw with their fright.
Tylar used the moment to test their controls. Wheel and pedals responded with the lightest touch, whetted by their speed. He stopped their descent. “We’ll have to turn around, sweep back,” he mumbled, more to himself than to his companions. “We’re heading south. We need to go north.”
Delia rolled out of her seat and checked the glowing tubing. The white-fire brightness had already faded. She ran a finger cautiously along one of the mica channels. “Cracks. Everywhere. The pure blood is too raw, too volatile. It sheds its Grace violently, burning up quickly.”
Tylar noted the controls growing sluggish.
“But will the mekanicals last long enough for us to reach safe haven?” Rogger asked. “Somewhere solid enough to plant our feet upon?”
“We must let the tubes cool,” Delia said, “then proceed more slowly from here. Only leach blood in drop by drop. I wasn’t sure how much would be necessary to fuel the Fin. Now I have some idea.”
Tylar swung the Fin around, gliding upward into the moonlit waters. Ahead pools of brighter water marked the corsair’s lamps. He aimed for them.
Rogger noted his course. “Are you daft, man? Where are you going? Circle around them.”
Tylar ignored him and continued toward the fleet. He aimed for one ship. It lay ahead of the others. He owed someone a debt. He wouldn’t leave these seas without settling the matter.
He sailed the Fin up to the pool of light surrounding the lead ship, then ducked into its shadow. He raced under the keel to the bow. Once there, he kept pace with the ship and gently guided the Fin upward, surfacing just under the prow.
“Take the controls,” he ordered Delia. “Just keep us steady.”
He climbed past Rogger-but not before relieving the man of his dagger. He crossed to the Fin’s stern and unhinged the hatch. He opened it enough to pop his head and one arm out.
Death scented the salt air, gagging him with its immediacy. His target hung overhead, limned in lamplight. Close enough to touch one of the dangling feet. Grayl’s boots were missing, most likely stolen by one of Darjon’s crew. His body appeared sorely used.
Tylar cocked his arm and threw the dagger with all the skill of his training. The blade flew true, slicing cleanly through the rope holding the captain aloft.
The captain had died because of him. He would not leave the man to be picked at by seabirds and to bloat in the sun. Tylar owed him at least this. A burial in the salt of the sea. An honorable resting place for one of the plowers of the Deep.
The body fell heavily into the waves, sinking rapidly away.
The missing body would not go long unnoticed.
Tylar dropped down, reaching out to slam the hatch.
The arrow pierced his outstretched wrist, striking completely through and into the Fin, pinning his arm down. The shock struck him before the pain.
Over the rail, a ragged scrap of darkness swept over the stars, skirting the risen moon. It swooped toward him.
Darjon ser Hightower.
A trap.
The Shadowknight landed on the back of the Fin, cloak swirling, his eyes aglow with Grace. He seemed more ghost than man, fraying at the edges as the night ate the lines of his form.
He spoke no words, had no hesitation. As soon as he landed, his sword swept for Tylar’s throat.
Tylar ducked as low as he could, but his arm remained pinned outside, keeping him from escaping below. His
