Despite coming without crashing doors or machine guns firing, the gambling hall falling into darkness was equally shocking to the guests.

  The soft lighting, the alluring electronic twinkle of casino games, the opulent surroundings, all suddenly fell into an abyssal darkness, made all the worse by the lack of windows.

  Screams rang out again. The guests began milling every which way, groping and feeling in the absolute gloom. Before long, those blessed with nature-granted night vision could start to distinguish a few objects. Rouka was the first. One of the benefits of being a Child of Night was the ability to more easily see in darkness. The scientific explanation was that since Lunists tend to live more nocturnal lives, they adapted to darkness faster, yet Rouka knew it was a gift from Mother Kirous.

  He saw the panicking mass of people stampeding towards where they remembered the exits were. His own men, who had yet to fully recover their own vision, pushed back randomly, trying to keep some semblance of control.

  Severin aimed his sawn off upwards and fired. The cannon-like report of the weapon had a near hypnotic effect on the crowd. In an instant, the disjointed symphony of terrified screams ceased, being replaced by timid whimpers and quiet sobs.

  Severin was barely visible, yet all were looking at him. Somehow, even through the absolute darkness, they could make out his slender, barbed-wire like frame.

  “Lights. Two.” He said simply. On either side of the hall, two small trench flashlights in chest carriers turned on. They weren’t particularly bright, but it still made the hostages shield their eyes from the sudden shift from utter voiding darkness.

  If the sudden intervention of whatever force disabled the lights surprised or perturbed him, the silver wolf’s ice blue and coal black eyes showed none of it. He merely tilted his head in the universal sign of canine contemplation.

  “Mister Blue…” The bull who’d blended in as a guest lowered his pistol and turned to his commander. The rectangular flashlight in his breast pocket bathed the room in light as he regarded the wolf.

  “All the lights and electronic machinery failing points to the main transformer being disabled. It’s either a few mechanics playing heroics, or the filth have gotten here faster than we anticipated. Either way, I believe we ought to entertain our unexpected guests. Take your men and cut off the approach from the guest rooms. Mister Red…” he turned to another of his subordinates.

  A fidgety lynx wielding two long-barreled pistols, both with small spike bayonets, all but jumped at the utterance of his pseudonym. He twirled his massive handguns, his showcase of skill more a nervous tick.

  “Do the same for the main approach via the East Wing staff areas. If it’s a boarding team we’re dealing with, that’s their most likely route.”

  The lynx nodded with gusto, or rather banged his head up and down like a man under electric shock. He waved at two equally fidgety-looking wildcats, trailing the pistol barrel across their torsos, finger on the trigger. They followed suit.

  “Now… Mister White.”

  The massive polar bear did not turn, keeping his wicked curved blade by his side, the high-caliber lever pistol not even unholstered. It was, however, clear that the question regarded him, even without the namesake.

  “You and your men are to patrol the exterior walkways. Try and get visual confirmation of the ship that boarded us. If you see any air filth… see if the Constabulary taught them how to fly.”

  The scarred bear nodded wordlessly and walked off, four men following behind. Four followed the bull. Severin was left with six guards, still more than enough to cut off all avenues of escape and dampen any thoughts of further rebellion against them.

  Tyras kept one hand on Achlos’s shoulder, the other keeping the SMG aimed around the large shield. Rafil took up the rear, walking backwards should any threats from the many rooms and maintenance tunnels they missed turn up. Their vision was a narrow, dark green world, fuzzy and unfocused. The tint of the night scopes was seaweed green, adding to the nauseating impression that they were underwater. They had sufficiently trained to tolerate most of the shortcomings of the nascent technology, but it was still disorientating. They followed the narrow maintenance corridor, a door labeled “Engine Room 1” before them.

  “Hold.” Tyras whispered. The trio stopped. Tyras drew on his Forte to look beyond the door. Four maintenance workers were gagged and tied to a solid pipe running across the wall. One of them, a stocky boar, was beaten unconscious. Tyras noticed one of the other workers, before prostrate and languorous, suddenly tense up and scuttle away from the door opposite as much as his bindings allowed. Drawing on his Forte only a fraction more, he saw why: four pirates were approaching from the corridor opposite.

  Tyras quickly weighed up his possibilities: if he waited for the pirates to cross the room, it would have been a firefight in a narrow, coverless corridor. In that instance, skill and tactics went out the window, and it was a senseless bloodbath until only one side was left standing. They had Achlos’s shield for cover, yes, but it did not cover them entirely. And the bullets could have easily ricocheted off the metal walls and cut them apart.

  The next option was to meet them in the engine room. A lot more cover, and a flash-bomb would have all but guaranteed a clean firefight, but there were civilians in the middle. A quick-thinking pirate would have taken a mechanic hostage, or turned them into collateral damage with a wild burst. Not to mention that the problem inherent to airship engine rooms is that they house the devices keeping the bloody thing afloat. He’d heard of some cases of airships in the War blowing their own engines and Ventus tanks when boarded, but Tyras had not yet reached that level of desperation.

  He’d promised Rhodika to return to Ignisdava tomorrow in time for supper, and being trapped in a burning wreck may have hampered those plans.

  Finally, he decided on the safest middle ground. “Get inside and take cover. Attack them with blades on my signal.” With that, he slung his SMG and drew his pistol. He replaced the magazine with one loaded with subsonic ammo, marked with white tape. He screwed a long, fat brass suppressor on the muzzle. The damned thing was longer than the gun itself.

  They quietly entered the engine room. Tyras rushed to hush the workers, who instantly looked up at them with terrified eyes. The lion pointed to the Constabulary markings on his shoulder, gesturing again for them to remain quiet.

  Tyras positioned himself in an alcove between a warm, growling engine and a thick pipe. He was just thin enough to do so, even with the bulky armor and battery pack. He drew his shorter Dekinais dagger in lieu of his Gladius. Achlos set his shield down and took cover behind a tool locker, the only object in the room wide enough to cover the large moose. Rafil did something utterly unexpected: he removed the binds from a wolf hostage approximating his build and ushered him to hide behind the engine. He then took his place, locking his hands together behind the pipe as if he were bound. In the darkness, his weapons and armor were not immediately visible.

  The door finally opened, the four pirates entering. The long, fierce snout of a shotgun entered first, followed by two craft-made SMGs of pipes and sheet metal, and a revolver. The rear man was a bull, the rest were canines, though their identities were concealed by crude metal masks.

  The pointman’s eyes fell on the hostages. Rafil did not flinch. The canine outlaw squinted, then left them alone. He had the rough shape of the hostage he remembered. That was enough.

  Tyras quickly made a plan: the ones with the submachine guns were the biggest threat. In such confines, even a single poorly aimed burst could cut down half the room.

  The shotgunner walked on, his scattergun aimed low and ready, like Tyras had been trained to in the Legion. The one with the revolver was the officer.

  Pointman, two assaulters, one officer. Standard small unit.

  These weren’t just pirates; they were trained soldiers.

  He’d take out one assaulter and the officer. Without the officer, any unit’s effectiveness was at least halved.

  The shotgunner looked down, noticing Achlos’s shield. He frowned. It did not resemble anything in particular in the utter gloom, yet it was something that hadn’t been there before. He stopped. The rest followed suit. They did not ask him why: they knew something was awry.

  Tyras wasted no more time. He raised his pistol, aimed for the SMG man’s helmet, and fired. The muffled boom echoed through the room, the suppression making it sound like a sledgehammer crushing rock rather than a gunshot. A metallic ding, like hail against a tin roof, combined with a sickening squelch, like someone stomping rotten fruit. He fell like a sack of cement, almost collapsing the man before him.

  The bull officer turned around, his face stained in his comrade’s viscera. The hue of the night scope made it seem like he’d been splattered with spinach soup. The subsonic ammunition did not generate sufficient energy to cycle the next round, making Tyras’s pistol little more than a paperweight. A three pound steel paperweight.

  Tyras lunged, the steel of his dagger flashing, his other hand tightening on the gun. The pirate raised his revolver. Tyras pistol-whipped him over the wrist, the crunch of bone accompanying the clatter of the fallen gun. The burly bovine growled in pain, yet his own knife was already in his hand. He jabbed at his taller opponent with fury, forcing Tyras to retreat a step.

  Tyras dodged, using his pistol to parry as he readied the dagger. The man clearly had some experience in knife fighting, and he had at least 20 kilos on the feline. Quite the advantage.

  Seeing an opening, Tyras shoved the blade away with the gun, lunging with his own. Silver flashed in the green hue as it opened his foe’s throat. The keen blade went in like a spoon into a soft boiled egg. Warm fluid dripped down Tyras’s hand. Not enough of an advantage.

  He heard the man choking on his own blood and felt him gripping his killer’s arm futilely. He was spared the grisly visage, as blood spurted on his night scope.

  The sounds of struggle subsided. Using his Forte to see through the slime, he saw that Achlos and Rafil both killed their opponents, Achlos driving the blade into the back of his opponent’s skull, while Rafil dodged, caught the arm, then stabbed him in the armpit repeatedly.

  “Checking.” Tyras said, not a hint of exertion in his voice as he wiped his scope.

  “Alright.” Achlos replied.

  “No injuries, sir.” Rafil said, wiping his blade on the dead pirate’s coat.

  Tyras nodded. “Let’s keep going, we’re almost at the-” Muffled gunshots were heard from the opposite side of the ship. There was a long moment of silence amongst the trio, each dreading the worst. The gunshots had already subsided.

  Tyras popped open the portable telegraph on his wrist.

  “Team 2. Report. Stop.”

  Kiah and Eldar moved on through the painfully narrow staff hallways. It was a good thing they were both of slighter builds. Kiah kept her Forte open. She could feel every piece of machinery pulsing through the ship.

  Disabling power had cut off much of the flying behemoth’s life force. Yet even so, beyond the notice of anyone, hundreds of mechanisms chugged along to keep the ship afloat and moving. She could feel the liquid Ventus being burned into buoyant gas powerful enough to keep the 10.000 ton behemoth afloat. Four engines the size of small houses whirred away, running on their own emergency batteries. The ventilation system likewise soldiered on, providing the terrified hostages, the pirates, and the new boarders life’s basest necessity. When Tyras had destroyed the main transformer, the telegraph used the last of its power to send multiple distress signals before it too died.

  The Golden Cornucopia was asleep, not dead. Like an unconscious castaway adrift on a raft, it appeared prostate and limp, yet her body was performing thousands of processes to keep them alive.

  Her Forte, in many ways, had been a curse. It took her a long time to learn to shut out the thousands of useless mechanical processes around her. Every time a door was opened, a lighter flicked, a tram passed by, she knew it. More than that, she felt it. It made growing up a chore. It was like her body was extended for dozens of meters in either direction. When her father had first taken her to his factory, she passed out from sheer sensory overload. Her family had been obliged to move to the countryside, where the most advanced piece of machinery was the local mill.

  But as she grew up, she learned to shut most of it out, focusing only on the machinery pertinent to her. When she commanded her tank, she didn’t just command it. She was her tank. She felt every piston, every gear, every bullet futilely bouncing off her steel skin. She wasn’t a meter-sixty, 50 kilo doe. She was a five meter long, fifteen ton steel monster with a 70mm bite.

  Now, however, she was the meter-sixty frail lapin. Her bite consisted of an SMG that was just a bit too on the heavy side for her. The night scope she was wearing was distracting. It was one of the most advanced pieces of machinery she’d interacted with. From what she understood, it wasn’t so much a scope as it was a viewing device. It converted infrared light into visible light. It then took a snapshot and projected the image onto a canvas inside the apparatus, multiple images per second, like a moving picture show.

  It was an impressive piece of kit, but one that had dozens of tiny other devices within it. Which she all felt whirring, projecting, moving, all to serve her the slideshow of seaweed green surroundings. She was normally good about shutting out nearby mechanical processes, but it was more difficult when it was literally glued to her head.

  Eldar took point, his long, narrow arms and higher point of view making him more suitable for pieing corners.

  They entered the kitchen area. Slabs of meat, cheese, vegetables and other base products were laid out half-cut on counters. Several pots were boiling idly, water spilling over the brass lids and filling the air with the thick stench of burnt soup. A few finished dishes of lobster, whole chickens flanked by meticulously arranged salads, and cakes stood waiting on the main counter, the chef’s art never to be tasted.

  In the far corner, a fellow rabbit lay dead, slumped against a wall. He’d been the head chef, judging by his attire. A strange skill for a herbivore, given all the meat dishes. He was tall for his species, and a large cleaver was still tightly gripped in his brown, bloody paws.

  Her species had an undeserved reputation for cowardice, yet of all the staff, it seemed he was the only one who’d attempted to fight back, and paid the ultimate price. She averted her eyes easily. She was used to death. Too used, perhaps.

  “You think they’ll let us get some snacks after we save them?” The borzoi asked, his eyes hovering widely over the assorted rare meats, his snout twitching at what must have smelled heavenly for him. She groaned.

  “Dolnayu, can you take your bloody mind off your stomach? We have a job to do. I swear, you canids are worse than swine when it comes to gastronomical epicurism.”

  He sniffed again. She was about to continue scolding, when she noticed he was no longer looking at the appetizing comestibles. He was sniffing the air.

  “Someone’s coming.” He whispered. She nodded. Tyras had instructed them to maintain stealth for as long as possible. Looking around the kitchen, she spotted an alcove between two shelves. Deep enough for Eldar to hide in, wide enough to allow movement. She pointed at him, then at the alcove. The dog moved without question.

  She chose the walk-in freezer as her spot. The power cut had mercifully disabled it, yet she still suppressed a shiver as she took cover, keeping the heavy metal door ajar.

  After a few more seconds, the other kitchen door burst open. In leapt in a lynx wearing a light chestplate, landing on a table. Two intricate revolvers swept the room in twin arcs. His chest-mounted flashlight bathed the room, momentarily blinding her night scope. Two more felines rushed in, each armed with pistol carbines. Their quick, snappy movements mirrored that of their leader.

  The lynx looked under tables, flung open cabinets, giggling to himself the entire time. He jumped as he saw the chef’s body, and upon realizing he was dead, laughed and mockingly kicked the rabbit in the face. Kiah’s hand tightened on her weapon and she grit her teeth. She controlled her hatred to a manageable fire.

  “Anger is good. Anger helps you act decisively. It is like a fire; keep it low, it will warm you.” Tyras had said. “But if you let it turn to rage, it will burn you up.”

  She looked across at Eldar’s hiding spot. She saw the brass scope on his face nod in an unspoken plan.

  Reaching into her webbing, she retrieved a flash-bomb. At first glance, it resembled a standard stick grenade, except that the head was glass, making it resemble a strange lamp. Designed specifically for Scout Raiders during extreme close quarters engagements in trenches, bunkers or buildings. It was recognized that oftentimes, a room-clearing device without the blast radius of a grenade was needed. Not only for the protection of the users, but also to avoid the destruction of enemy intelligence or to aid in capturing high value targets alive.

  She unscrewed the cap, lit the fuse by tugging the cord, and threw it. The flash bomb had a three second fuse. She used her Forte to turn it to a one second fuse.

  The stun grenade exploded in midair, generating 11.000 lumen for a split-second. The blast, while minor, still sent shrapnel of glass and metal tearing into the pirates’ unprotected flesh. The pirates screamed in pain and confusion, clutching their eyes.

  Kiah and Eldar leapt from their hiding spots, guns aimed for the pirates.

  “Weapons down! Nice and slow!” She ordered. It seemed that only the lynx had recovered his hearing, as only he lowered his dual revolvers, still growling in pain. She reached for a pair of manacles as Eldar was handling the other two, clasping one wrist. She was about to reach for the other, when suddenly she found herself on the floor, jaw throbbing. Her SMG was launched to the other side of the room.

  “Fuckin’ grass-muncher!” The lynx half-growled, half-laughed. She felt spittle land on her face. She tried crawling away, but he pinned her, his half-manacled hand holding the other half of the cuff like a brass knuckle. His golden tooth glinted through her night scope.

  “Kiah!” Eldar shouted, fighting off his two attackers, unable to get to her.

  Throwing panic aside, she focused on the handcuff. Just as he raised his steeled fist, she made the closed manacle tighten. There was a click, and he growled in pain as the cuff tightened as far as it would go.

  With a heave, she kicked both legs into his chest, sending him flying into a pile of crockery.

  Eldar swung his weapon’s butt into one pirate’s face, his snout splitting open with a wet crunch. The other jumped on his back, dagger drawn. Eldar caught his wrist and flipped him on the ground. A solid slam from his fist was enough to knock him out cold. The other, however, was still conscious. Semi-awake, still prone, he reached for his sidearm, aiming it at the back of Eldar’s head.

  “No!” Kiah screamed. The gun clicked uselessly. Her Forte jammed it almost without thinking about it. Eldar snapped around as the pirate desperately tried racking the slide of his pistol. The taller canine snatched it away almost casually, and slammed it into the side of the pirate’s head with a cackle.

  As she watched her friend beating the two pirates senseless, something at the back of her mind pulled an alarm bell: she’d forgotten of her own opponent!

  She didn’t look. Only about five seconds had passed since she’d kicked him away. He’d have been stunned but not out. By her estimation, she had three more seconds.

  One second. He’d get up, gun drawn. She went for her own sidearm with trained ease. Two seconds. The gun barrel would swing in her direction. At this range, he’d scarcely need to aim. Three seconds.

  She saw the revolver’s shimmering bayonet aimed right for her, scarcely two yards away. She was just a few centimeters off. She had no time to apply her Forte either.

  A gunshot reverberated around the metallic room. Her ears hurt and rang. She was not dead.

  The pirate’s revolver was now away from her, a dark spot flowing with black-green liquid shown through her night scope. Her sidearm finished the short trajectory for the final pirate’s body and she squeezed off a trio of shots, adding to Eldar’s onslaught. Their combined assault all but tore him to shreds.

  And just like that, the fight, such as it was, was over. It hadn’t lasted ten seconds. Eldar was by her side in a second, helping her up.

  “Are you hurt?” He asked, his huge eyes scanning her for any injuries.

  “I’m fine.” She patted his arm comfortingly. “Let’s keep mo-”

  A rapid clicking in their earpieces brought them both at attention.

  “Team 2. Report. Stop.”

  The polar bear’s scope scanned the horizon. The benefit of the Golden Cornucopia floating over international waters to escape any local gambling laws was that the law could only come from one direction. They were just off the North-Western coast of Osnya. To the South was the formerly Lunist Kingdom of Alexandrios, now occupied by the Osnyan Legion. They were still busy dealing with crime and the occasional insurgency on ground level, so it was doubtful they could spare anything. And to the West was the Vetiti Ocean. Almost 4000 miles of nothing but dark, stormy waves that no ship dared cross until the Fourth Era.

  A long sigh escaped the bear’s lips. He had always held a fascination for the ocean. Even since he was a cub, he devoured every single book about ocean travels that he could find, real or fictional. Growing up at the same time as the advent of the Heliographical Instants, later known as “photographs”, he was able to travel the world via those black and white pieces of paper.

  He’d been one step away from applying for the Navy. Then the War began. He was one-and-twenty, healthy, and a Class IV polar bear who could carry a mortar like smaller Sapiens could carry rifles. His name was among the first to come up in conscription.

  And even in the trenches, swimming in mud and blood and offall, killing invaders with rifle, blade and bare paws, his mind was amongst pearly waters, mysterious islands and cawing seagulls.

  The closest he’d ever come to his much-coveted sea had been when his unit was being redeployed to the Foakmon Mountains. They’d taken the railway along the Kalas Coast. And there, in a stuffy, overcrowded cattle car repurposed for troop transport, he’d smelled the sea. That was it. He’d smelled the sea…

  One would perhaps think that given his new profession, he’d have opportunities to travel. But Captain Severin said they still had work to do in Osnya. The ursine chuckled at the irony.

  He’d fought for Osnya for eight years. Spent two years as a cripple before recovering. Four wandering aimlessly from town to town. Then finally, two as a what the newspapers called “pirate”.

  All the time growing to hate the nation he’d once proudly served, as much as he hated the former invaders. Before realizing that it wasn’t the Lunists, or the Fakonans, who were the issue. They were both merely carriers of a plague that had already existed for thousands upon thousands of years.

  It didn’t take particularly long to spot them. The dark purple stream of purpurkrumb smoke was stark against the midnight sky and greyish clouds. His time in the military, as well as his induction into aerial piracy, enabled the former soldier to immediately recognize them as corvettes.

  The bear calmly dropped his scope and walked over to the telephone attached to the wall. He knew that they were still powered by emergency batteries.

  “Two corvettes approaching, South-East.” He said casually, replacing the receiver.

  We are fine. Three hostiles down. Stop.” The clicking in his headpiece said. Tyras breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Plan same. Pincer maneuver. Stop.” Tyras clicked back, then covered the telegraph transmitter again.

  There was no more resistance for either approach. Tyras led his team on. They had left the cramped maintenance and staff corridors, now in the more open areas accessible to the public. Bare brass and metal was exchanged for plush velvet and breathtaking purpurs. They were in a smoking lounge, judging by the harsh scent of expensive tobacco. A massive painting of the goddess Norcossa raining gold upon cheering crowds took up an entire wall. The lining of the furniture seemed to be real gold.

  The sheer decadent luxury almost averted one’s eyes from the four dead guards sprawled out in bloody heaps.

  Tyras looked on in the next room using his Forte. It was the main gambling hall. More dead guards littered the pristine carpet, blood splattered over the gold-lined wallpaper. Dozens of guests were on the ground, heads covered in terror. Amongst them were five pirates.

  Wait… only five? By his estimates, there must have been at least ten left. He pushed his Forte. There were more pirates on the walkways. They were all looking in a single direction… to an Air Police fleet.

  “No, no!” Tyras snarled. “Light-damned idiots! I told them to stay back and wait!”

  “This is the Osnyan Air Constabulary!” The powerful bugle horn on the head corvette roared. “You are to immediately release the hostages, and head on the roof with no weapons and your hands up! Unidentified vessel; land, leave your weapons on the ground, and await boarding and processing!”

  Severin grit his teeth. This was a far more aggressive response than they were expecting. Then again, they were responding to their bloody prince getting kidnapped. Officially, it was unknown he was here. It’s what Severin was counting on. He hadn’t expected that fucking bat to escape and announce the authorities this quickly.

  Thankfully, like with everything else, he had a contingency plan.

  “Keep moving, you fucking silver spooned pansy!” He kept the sawn off barrels in the small of the prince’s back.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done!?” The prince screamed indignantly. “My father will move Heaven and Horti to rescue me! And if you’re dumb enough to kill me, you’ll be begging for death until- Argh!” Severin jabbed him in the kidneys. The temptation to pull the triggers was so great, that he’d surreptitiously removed the shells from his weapon while his men were dragging the hostages away.

  “You and your father are about to receive a lesson in powerlessness.” Severin growled lowly, moving the barrels up to the tiger prince’s skull. He took great glee in his whimpers as he felt the cold steel kissing his skin. “Like he made so many watch their loved ones killed or raped at the hands of his barbarian legions… so shall he watch the wretch he calls a son broken down and cut apart… piece by piece.”

  Severin noticed his weapon trembling. He remembered his mother’s screams as three Osnyan soldiers punched and kicked her with savage fury. He remembered her muffled pleas, their horrific laughter that dragged on for hours after they forced her into the barn…

  They were on the upper deck now. An explosion rang out and echoed through the narrow brass hallways as one of his men opened the door. An orange fireball lit up the night, bathing the airship like sunlight. The wolf captain noted with glee that one of the police corvettes had taken a direct hit from his own ship. The crew who were unlucky enough to be upon walkways were atomized, flaming limbs and chunks of flesh falling through the night clouds. However, the corvette was still standing. And there were two of them.

  As the pirate airship was busy with one corvette, the other flanked around in a textbook maneuver. The pirate ship, built out of parts of other crashed airships and airplanes, and overloaded with weapons and armor, was slow to turn. The second corvette shot its twin 45mm cannons into the ship’s vulnerable rear armor. Chunks flew as the ship shuddered. The damaged corvette realigned itself, and more crew ran on the damaged walkways. Four of them went for the two Maxim guns that were left, one gunner and assistant for each, and opened up on the pirate ship. Their fire was deadly accurate, as it swept wide arcs across the ship, shattering windows, killing what few pirates were on the walkways, and suppressing. Clearly veterans, Rouka thought bitterly.

  Rouka’s own ship was undermanned, most of them having boarded the Golden Cornucopia. They knew the risks, and accepted them.

  The second corvette approached further, almost at point blank range. Its main cannons roared again. The shells easily tore through the vulnerable rear hull, reaching the engines and Ventus tanks.

  An explosion tore through the entire scrap-built ship like a giant golden sword, the pressure wave almost knocking Severin off his feet. Shrapnel rained upon the casino ship, chunks of hull raining like hail upon the deck. The Ventus leaked out of the ship in great, purple flames as it fell like a brick, its buoyancy lost.

  His men and the hostages watched in awe. Prince Comdus was first to break the silence, with a roaring laugh.

  “Hah! There goes your toy ship, you bastards! You might as well turn those guns on yourselves now, because my father-” Severin did not even bother striking him again as he pushed him on.

  The hostages, five of them, were led out on the deck. The pirates spread them so that no one from either ship could fire without risking the hostages’ lives. A floodlight bathed the deck. Good. They could now see that their beloved prince was amongst the hostages.

  Rouka held out a hand. A brass loudspeaker was placed in his paw.

  “Osnya… this is your future.” he held the stubby shotgun against the prince’s head. “Such as it is. You have taken away the future of so many. Here and abroad. You claim to fight for freedom, for a good life not only for those inside of your cities, but also outside it. You pride yourselves on not wishing for your civilization to be all-encompassing, but allowing the people within your borders to choose where and how to live, whether that be in the safe concrete cocoon of cities, or in the open range alongside Stateless enclaves.

  But we both know that you live less and less by your philosophy. It has been reduced to a rallying cry. “Freedom!” you cried, as you murdered and raped those who chose to live outside your faith. “Nature is holy!” you thump your chest, as the poisonous smoke of your factories blot out the Sun you claim to worship.

  Osnya, and the world, must pay for its greed, its evil and its tyranny.”

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  He nodded to one of his men, a deer clad in crimson armor, a four-barreled large bore hunting pistol in his cloven hands. He giggled lowly as he grabbed one of the hostages, a capybara in an opulent green suit. His wife screamed as he was dragged away from her.

  Keeping himself behind the line of hostages, he pressed the barrel into the terrified man’s head, and fired. The remaining hostages screamed, some attempting to flee. Guns fired in the air and a few rifle butts slammed into bellies calmed them down.

  Prince Comdus fell to the floor, vomiting and sobbing.

  The deer pirate picked up the smaller dead herbivore and unceremoniously dumped him overboard.

  “All police, including those currently on this ship, are to retreat and leave us be!” Rouka’s powerful voice roared across the air. “You shall receive instructions on the ransom for the hostages, especially your beloved prince. You have five minutes. Every five minutes, two more hostages shall be killed… at random. This means that the prince is as likely to eat a bullet as any of the commoners here. And that probability shall grow exponentially with each hostage you allow to die. Special treatment for royalty does not apply here.”

  “Murderers! You scum-sucking, worthless worms!” The capybara woman screamed, swiping futilely at the deer pirate. He could only laugh.

  “Oh, I can make you join your husband, milady.” He dragged the barrel across her face in an almost erotic manner. She flinched in disgust, yet looked him dead in the eye.

  “One hostage only first.” The wolf captain said flatly. “That was the deal.” He opened his shotgun, reloading the shells.

  “Aw, come on, Cap’n!” The deer chittered cruelly, like a child tormenting a sparrow. “She clearly misses her ol’ man! It’d be a shame not to-” The rest of his sentence was lost as eight steel pellets turned his head into red chunks across the floor.

  “When I give an order, it is not a suggestion.” Severin said flatly, holstering his shotgun.

  Comdus whined again, hugging his legs against his chest, a steaming puddle that hadn’t been there before growing beneath his loins. Severin picked him up roughly by the collar, half-dragging the heavier mammal as he covered himself with him.

  “The clock is ticking!” The pirate captain bellowed out, before disappearing once again within the guts of the raided ship.

  Tyras watched the spectacle helplessly, relaying the events to his squad. The explosions and sound of twisted metal of the brief air battle shook the ship. The pirates’ only means of escape had been seemingly cut off, yet they were more in control than ever.

  There were still emergency biplanes they could use for their escape, and if they took Prince Comdus hostage, no one could have dared shoot them down.

  The team leader grit his teeth. He could feel Achlos and Rafil look at him for guidance. He was a seasoned trench raider. He’d fought for eight years in the bloodiest and bitterest war the world had ever known. He’d hunted down the best warriors the Empire of Night had to offer through twisting trenches, rubble-strewn streets and treacherous mountains. But in all those situations, aside from the rare rescue mission, enemy soldiers was all he had to worry about.

  But now, one false move, and the crown prince of Osnya would die. And this was their first mission…

  “We clear the gambling halls and secure the guest cabins.” He decided. “They will be unable to reach the emergency biplanes that way.”

  Tyras opened up the telegraph controls on his wrist again. “ECHO” he transmitted.

  “ECHO” was heard back in his brass ear nub. He nodded to Rafil. He quickly placed a tube charge on the door. Tyras readied a flash bomb, partially unscrewing the nub. He looked through the door one more time to ensure no hostages were close to the double doors.

  He already had the next message prepared.

  “SUNSTORM”

  With a thought, Rafil heated the explosives to the point of ignition. In a fraction of a second, the charges detonated, massive chunks of wood flying like scythes through the massive hall. Tyras threw the flash bomb the moment the doors shattered. On the opposite side, Eldar had kicked the door down, allowing Kiah to throw a flash bomb of her own.

  The explosion had launched one of the pirates straight into a piano, the others shielding their eyes. The two stun grenades went off almost simultaneously, allowing the splendor of the dark gambling hall to shine again for a split second.

  The guests screamed as they covered their eyes and groped around blindly. However, the room was too wide for the flash to completely stun the pirates, who now turned to Tyras’s group, guns raised.

  Muzzle flashes lit up the room, appearing as momentary starbursts on the operatives’ green night scopes. With their eyes still burning, and the pitch-black room, the pirates’ accuracy was appalling, only a few shots ricocheting off Achlos’s massive shield as the team advanced. All their attention was drawn to Tyras’s squad. Eldar’s kick had been little more than a pop, allowing him to slip in unnoticed.

  Eldar rushed in, overturned a Blackjack table for cover, and let loose a short automatic burst. The 6.5mm rounds made short work of a coyote pirate’s plate armor. Another pirate dove into cover from the deadly barrage.

  A woman screamed in pain as a stray shot from the hijackers found her shoulder. Tyras winced. They needed to finish this quickly.

  Snapping his SMG to his shoulder, he aimed around the shield using only the front sight, single shots to avoid further collateral damage. The front sight hovered over a terrified guest, then a figure holding a rifle.

  The carbine barked thrice, the recoil almost null, two shots to the chest, one to the head. The heat from the barrel disturbed the night scope slightly. Through the haze, he saw a revolver aimed his way.

  A hammer-like blow to the chest knocked the air out of Tyras, and he struggled to remain upright. With a growl of pain, he snapped off several shots, forcing the pirate who shot him to take cover behind an overturned table. With his Forte, Tyras saw the pirate perfectly through the table. With a single shot to the head, the threat was down.

  The pirate knocked down by the explosive breach, a ram wearing a ship guard uniform, got up, forcing the injured hostage up, grabbing her by the throat as a shield. Unable to safely shoot, Tyras drew his sword and rushed in. He was about to swing, when a blur of movement slammed into the criminal.

  Kiah had launched herself at the fiend, his head and torso covered like a father carrying a toddler. She knocked him down with sheer momentum despite her petite build. The far larger ram grabbed at her throat in an attempt to launch her off. There was a sound of tearing flesh, followed by a scream, as Kiah stabbed his palm through. His attention drawn to the white-hot pain of his hand, it was easy for the rabbit to knock him out cold with her carbine’s butt.

  Scanning around for more targets, Tyras found the final hostile: a thylacine, his weapon on the ground, hands up. The hostages were surprisingly not stampeding for the exits, most of them prone, covering their heads and whimpering. The one good thing about the pirates’ rough treatment was that it had made the hostages thoroughly cowed and obedient.

  His chest throbbed, yet the bullet had flattened harmlessly against the steel plate. A bruise at worst.

  The pungent smell of burnt cordite hung in the air. The tinny sound of casings rolling against well-polished hardwood. The moans of the wounded and dying.

  It was over.

  “Police! The situation is under control!” Tyras called out. Rafil approached the surrendering outlaw, grabbing his arm and twisting him down and away from his weapon. The pirate grunted in pain as the manacles clicked.

  After ensuring her adversary was thoroughly apprehended, Kiah rushed to the injured hostage, a red fox in a burgundy dress, soothing her and treating her wound.

  “They took some more prisoners and rushed them upstairs!” One of the civilians said. “When they did that earlier, they took five and only four returned! And Prince Comdus is among them!”

  Tyras nodded, a rather unnerving gesture for a face covered in steel plating devoid of expression. The commander turned to the shield bearer.

  “Achlos. Leave your shield here, and board Borsas on the closest walkway. I’ll signal him to meet you. Fly him to the undamaged Air Police vessel and requisition a rifle. Make sure you have a good view of the upper deck.” Tyras cocked his head, and Achlos could almost see a smirk beneath the protective steel.

  “I know the heights your marksmanship can achieve, and this shall be a far easier shot than the Dark Zone.” Tyras whispered so only he could hear.

  Achlos chuckled. Stiletto’s assassination now felt like a lifetime ago. It had only been a few months, yet it had been in another life. Another world.

  With a quick salute, the moose set down his shield and rushed for the outer deck.

  Achlos ran through the corridors, his large bore handgun sweeping the corners. The Nyteri-made Khudur pistol was an ugly thing. It more resembled a steel brick with a wooden grip than a functional firearm. It needed to be this bulky to handle the monstrous .480 cartridge it fired. And to house the complex feed system. For such a powerful round, a conventional pistol action was not feasible. Instead, it functioned via a rotating bolt and a gas system, like an automatic rifle.

  It was not a pretty weapon. It was not light. It was by no means subtle, it could rival machine guns in its sheer bark. But whatever it hit, it went down. And light cover like small trees or light concrete were no issue.

  He reached the exterior maintenance walkways. A spiderweb of steel across the superb airship, allowing repair crews to access any troublesome area at any time. He already saw Borsas, his bright green scales glinting in the pale moonlight. The dragon carefully hovered level with the walkway, giving the moose an expectant look.

  Achlos holstered his weapon and took a deep breath. He’d never much been fond of dragons. He always found it strange how his Osnyan allies damn near worshipped the beasts. Tyras’s training had been the first time he’d ridden a dragon without feeling like he was losing his lunch. But that had been with his entire team. He’d be alone now.

  “Uh… good dragon… nice dragon…” He timidly said. Borsas gave him an unamused look, and gestured his head to the saddle with an impatient grunt.

  “R-right.” He put one foot on the railing…

  And was promptly knocked to the steel floor by an immense force. Something slammed into Borsas. Something massive that sunk its claws into the dragon’s flank with a gehlish caw.

  When he came to, he realized he had a massive feather clutched in his cloven hand. Three griffins were attacking Borsas, claws and beaks slashing at him. Each was smaller than the dragon, but powerfully built. Their improvised-looking armor and saddles gave no question as to their origin: they belonged to the pirates.

  Borsas fought ferociously. His claws slashed at the avian closest, gouging its armor and slamming it against the ship’s flank. A jet of acid erupted from his maw, arcing across the other two opponents. One was caught in the corrosive splash and flew haphazardly, screeching terribly as his flesh was eaten away. The giant bird fell through the sky in a mournful, tortured shriek.

  The other, however, smartly dodged around and latched onto Borsas’s back. Claws and beak tore out chunks of flesh, and the dragon roared in horrific pain.

  “Get off him!” Achlos growled, drawing his pistol. The struggle between Borsas and the griffins was too chaotic to shoot without risking injuring the dragon. The moose took in a deep breath and focused his Forte.

  Time slowed to a crawl. Borsas was slashing and biting at the Griffin he’d struck earlier, who’d by now recovered. The one on his back advanced, tearing through harnesses and saddles, going for the vulnerable neck.

  The pistol was raised in half a second, yet to Achlos, it felt like an entire minute. He watched as the front sight slowly aligned itself with the rear sight. The white bead was right over the griffin’s head. His Forte allowed him to hear the click of the firing pin striking the primer, then the ignition, sounding more like calm waves against sand than an explosion in slow motion.

  The handcannon jerked violently into his wrist, then upwards, the gun’s roar eclipsing even that of the beasts engaged in mortal combat. A lesser round may not have even gone through the thick skull, but the .480 slug shattered the beak, then tore through the cranium in a devastating tumble. The griffin suddenly went limp, but it was still clawed into the dragon’s back, like a dead tick. Achlos fired into one of its forepaws, all but severing it. Borsas shook himself to be rid of it.

  Distracted by the grim results of his handiwork, Achlos did not notice the final avian flanking him.

  A claw the size of his head, slashed at his armor. Metal screeched as it was twisted and torn, and Achlos felt the very tips of the griffin’s razor sharp claws cut at his belly. Unable to focus anymore, his Forte dissipated, the world sickeningly speeding back up.

  He fell with a holler of pain, his gun dropped and clattering across the catwalk. He reached for it, yet it was too far away.

  The beast tackled him before he could get up. A merciless gold and black eye stared into his soul like a corrupted sun. The bloodied beak was mere inches from his head, a droplet of the dragon’s blood splashing his visor. Borsas growled in worry and flapped to him, but he was too far away…

  Suddenly, the griffin went rigid. He got up off Achlos, and simply flew away. Achlos blinked. He touched himself as if to ensure he was still whole. He got up and quickly retrieved his firearm. Looking back, he saw Eldar on a walkway on the other side of the ship. He remembered the borzoi’s Forte of communicating with ferals. It seemed like it was a more useful power than he’d thought.

  “You did that?” Achlos asked rather dumbly.

  The lanky canine nodded with a wide grin.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That what he was doing was simply not nice. It’s amazing how ferals are more receptive to such admonishment than sapiens…” The dog muttered. “Now, go! The bastards are already on their way to the upper deck with other hostages!”

  Achlos nodded and saluted, jumping onto the torn saddle without further hesitation.

  The hostages were once again forced at gunpoint to climb to the upper deck. It was already bathed in spotlights from both police ships. Severin smirked. All the better for the authorities to witness the beginning of the end of their beloved order. He knew that it was standard practice for police airships to take pictures of ongoing situations so as to retain evidence after the fact. Every newspaper in Osnya, and the world, would have images depicting the final moments of the cowardly prince.

  Once again, the civilians were placed in an arc ahead of the pirates, preventing any marksmen from targeting them. The polar bear once again handed his captain the megaphone.

  “I see that you believe this to be some elaborate practical joke,” He sneered. “I give you the opportunity to back out, to save lives, and what do you do? You covertly dispatch your thugs to assault my men in a cowardly surprise attack! I do not know why I expected any less…”

  He allowed one of his men, an old lion outlaw, to have the honor of being the one to end the future emperor of Osnya. Prince Comdus had been reduced to quietly sobbing like a toddler who’d expended all his energy in a wailing hysteria, yet his anguish was not yet extinguished.

  “P-please…” the tiger heir begged. “My father will pay anything to get me back! T-this is all about money, isn’t it? If you k-k-kill me, not only will you all get killed, you’ll lose the biggest payday you could ever-” Severin was unable to resist the urge to strike the whelp once again. He swung the sawn off’s barrels into his shoulder like a billy club, feeling with satisfaction as the bone popped. The blood-curdling scream of pain that followed made some of the pirates and civilians alike cover their ears.

  “You are even dimmer than I thought,” The wolf growled. “You and your people. You still think we are doing this for money? There are far easier and more lucrative ways to earn a living. We are not doing this for money, for the thrill, or even for some great revolutionary ideology to replace your empires. I used to ascribe to the latter… but that is a mere stopgap. A handover of power to another entity that only leads to the same result eventually.

  “It is beyond your capacity of comprehension, as are most things. But your death will be the start of the world throwing off their chains, your blighted empire first. Be joyful, for it is the highest honor a wretch like you could hope to achieve.”

  He stepped aside and allowed the old lion to do the deed.

  Achlos pushed and shoved his way through the air cops, running towards the armory. With the earlier excitement, the door was already opened. Most of the weapons had already been retrieved, yet a good selection of long rifles remained. There were several scoped rifles as well, yet he ignored them. They were no more than two-hundred meters from the hijacked ship. He hardly needed a scope at such a distance. Furthermore, the moon was bright tonight, and electric lights were reflected by the police ship’s steel hull in all directions. The tiniest scope glint could give him away.

  He went for a Raplumbis-21. An old, but reliable and deadly accurate bolt action rifle. Osnya had started the War with it, but it was quickly replaced by the shorter and faster Tarbus Autoloading Rifle. Yet as a sniper, Achlos had always preferred the older model. The longer barrel, while a liability in the trenches, ensured complete burning of the powder, offering superb accuracy and minimal muzzle flash. The manual action also retained a better sight picture than an automatic; the bolt slammed backwards only when he said so.

  He grabbed the rifle and two ammo clips; if he needed more than ten rounds, the situation had already gotten way out of control. He loaded the enbloc clip as he walked to the deck. A number of air constables were looking at the unfolding scene with blanched expressions.

  “He’s gonna kill him,” One of them, an old bulldog, muttered. “We’re watching our prince get murdered and can’t do a bloody thing about it.”

  Achlos did not bother responding. In fact, he refused to acknowledge the existence of the chattering officers around him. He took in a deep, steady breath, filling his lungs to their limit. He held his breath for four seconds, then exhaled again. Again, he breathed in and out as he crouched down, resting his rifle on the railing.

  There were no pirates. There were no civilians. There was no crown prince seconds away from getting blown away. It was just him, nine pounds of wood and steel perfected for the purpose of death dealing, and shoot and no-shoot targets.

  His heart rate was not a hair over 60 a minute. He set the range to 200, and looked through the V-notch open sights. He danced the bead front sight over the head of the pirate threatening the prince. There were five pirates in total. Two were an immediate threat to the prince’s life; the lion and a cougar right next to them, carbine held lazily in the royalty’s general direction. The leader had backed off behind the screen of civilian human shields.

  Threats first, then the leader, then the rest. Five shots, five kills. He’d been against worse odds.

  He emptied his lungs and held his breath. Almost subconsciously, he activated his Forte. From that distance, he couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn he saw the lion cocking the revolver pressed to Prince Comdus’s head. He waited for one heartbeat to finish, then fired before the next could begin.

  Achlos was able to watch the bullet be propelled forward, like a smooth metal arrow. The lion’s grey mane was soaked in a halo of crimson as his cranium exploded. He stood upright a second more, as if unsure if he was dead or not, before he fell like a ragdoll. Before the body made contact with the floor, Achlos racked the bolt back and forward in a lightning fast, well-practiced motion. His sight picture had barely moved, and he readjusted in a fraction of a second.

  The pirates jumped from the gunshot, looking at their dead comrade. The cougar cursed and aimed at the prince. Not wasting time to line up another headshot, Achlos fired as soon as the bead was over his target’s heart, and he felt his own heart pause between beats again. The smaller feline flew back and over the railing from the powerful round tearing into him. He racked another round, searching for targets.

  By now, the pirates had seen two of their comrades die in less than a second. They reacted in slow motion to Achlos’s eyes, running to cover. It was clear now that the mere presence of the hostages was no longer sufficient leverage.

  Achlos took aim at another, a tall otter, who was running for a steel crate.

  Another heartbeat, another kill.

  He racked the bolt again, searching for the final two targets. He saw the wolf captain and an armored bear run to the hatch, their backs turned. He took aim again, determined to make short work of the captain. Except that despite his final companion running in slow motion as expected, the wolf seemed to be moving at normal speed.

  “What the frozen Gehl?” Achlos asked out loud, his voice distorted and elongated by his Forte. Worst of all, his speech disturbed his sight picture. Cursing, he readjusted and fired.

  Despite the disruption and the wolf’s unnatural speed, the bullet would have killed him. Had it not been for the bear moving to cover him, and the round striking the tough armor instead. The behemoth visibly lost his footing, yet the heavy armor had blocked the round. Instead of trying to stop, the bear allowed himself to fall forward, out of sight.

  “Shit!” Achlos spat. He felt a dozen pair of eyes upon him, dumbstruck.

  They had all just watched him take four accurate shots at an extended distance in the space of three seconds.

  Prince Comdus was alone on the deck, still curled up like a frightened cub, shaking and weeping.

  “What in the devil’s arsecrack are you looking at!?” Achlos admonished, ignoring the headache forming from Forte strain. “The VIP is safe, rappel down and secure him!”

  “Don’t stop, Rafil!” Tyras ordered as he ran down the corridor, firing a long automatic burst to keep the pirates’ heads down.

  Immediate threats dealt with, Tyras ordered Eldar and Kiah to help secure the upper deck and ensure the Prince’s safety. Meanwhile, he and Rafil chased after the final surviving pirates, who were in the process of making a run for the emergency biplanes on the lower levels.

  Four hostiles ran for cover into the loading bay. One wasn’t quick enough, and Tyras unloaded a short burst into his chest, killing him instantly.

  Looking down at the top-loaded magazine, he saw through the witness holes that only the ten round marker still had a shell casing visible through it. Rafil flanked to the left, Tyras took the right.

  Looking through a crate with his Forte, he saw exactly where the pirate was. And that the crate was empty. Not even bothering to aim, he fired the final few rounds through the thin cover. The carbine roared out the final ten rounds, sprawling the outlaw dead on the ground.

  As Tyras retrieved a fresh mag, the final pirate sprang out. A bighorn ram, towering head and shoulders over him, swung a fire axe with vengeful fury. Tyras dropped his SMG and rolled under the terrible weapon. The axe struck empty air where the lion’s neck had been a second ago.

  As he rolled, Tyras drew his dagger and plunged it into the giant’s tree-like thigh. A roar of pain and hatred echoed through the room as steel tore flesh. Getting up, Tyras kicked at the wound, sending the colossus to his knees with an earth-shaking slam. The bovine reached for the dagger slung on his chest, but before he could attempt a riposte, Tyras sunk the blade into the side of his neck to the hilt.

  Gunfire on Rafil’s side ceased, the terrible wet hoarking of the dying being the sole sound. The dagger was yanked out, and the pirate fell forward in a wooly, bloody heap.

  “Clear.” Tyras breathed out, wiping his dagger on the ram’s armor.

  “Clear.” Rafil confirmed, clicking a fresh magazine into place. Tyras did the same.

  Only the leader and a single henchman were left. And they were escaping right through the corridor before them.

  “Let’s go, we can cut them off!” Tyras ordered, running through the warehouse and kicking open the double doors at the end. He found himself aiming at the backs of the final lawbreakers.

  “Stop where you are! Not another step!” He snarled, keeping the SMG shouldered. The two men, the wolf captain and his massive bear companion, did as ordered. They stopped and their hands slowly raised above their heads. The bear had a polearm-like weapon upon his back. It was a Falx, that terrible curved blade that had battled the Augustans and terrified the Lunists in mountainous guerilla warfare.

  It looked painfully familiar.

  The two pirates slowly turned towards their captors. The pirate captain was wearing an improvised faceplate, two different colored eyes barely visible through dark slits of cold steel. The other one had his appearance laid bare.

  Tyras lowered the weapon with a gasp. Despite the full face shield and night scope he was wearing, he saw that those familiar pensive grey eyes recognized him as well.

  Or rather, eye singular.

  “Skad?” He breathed out. Rafil glanced at him, yet his discipline prevented him from further inquiry.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” Skad said in that soft voice. That soft, contemplative voice that seemed to belong to a smaller, gentler man than the titanic warrior that wielded it. “I never thought we would see each other again.”

  Tyras tried with all his powers not to breathe audibly, yet it was a futile gesture. He opened and closed his mouth, a million questions fighting for dominance, not a single one prevailing.

  However, there was one that stood above all the rest.

  “Why?”

  Why, indeed. Or perhaps rather, ‘how?’. How had his honorable, brave, wise companion fallen in with these brigands?

  “I suppose I could ask you the same thing, Lieutenant. Why did you leave me to die to that abomination? Why did you choose to go on a fool’s errand, all to hunt down a unit that would have had no effect on the outcome of the war?”

  Tyras was glad all his friend could see was a featureless shield of steel and brass tubing, for he felt tears pricking his eye. That fateful night came back to him. A rash decision to hunt down a Lunist unit that had escaped encirclement, who were suspected of massacring dozens of Osnyan prisoners, both military and civilian. The disastrous assault, and the too late realization that it was a trap. The monster’s dead, purple eyes staring into his soul…

  In the middle of this whirlwind of memories and traumas, Tyras hadn’t noticed that Skad was slowly taking baby steps towards him.

  The polar bear may have been borderline elephantine, yet he moved so fast that Tyras barely had time to perceive motion before he felt like a boulder had been dropped on his head. He flew backwards, mask dented, visor and night scope shattered. Through the haze of pain, he saw Rafil raise his weapon, yet the pirate captain closed the distance impossibly fast.

  Quite literally, impossibly fast.

  He couldn’t even see the blow that knocked Rafil down.

  His training finally trumping shock, Tyras drew his pistol and fired. It had been a wild shot, and it shattered a dead lamp. Readjusting his aim, he struck the bear in the shoulder as he and his new master turned the corner. He heard a grunt of pain, yet knew that his former comrade could take far more punishment than that.

  “Think of who you’re serving, Tyras!” He heard Skad cry out as a door slammed. Tyras sprang to his feet and helped Rafil up.

  “A Speed Forte,” Rafil coughed. “LIttle bastard has a-”

  “I noticed!” Tyras yelled, running after their targets.

  They burst into the hangar just in time to see one of the emergency biplanes falling out of its latch, and gliding its way across the night sky, the engine buzzing mockingly as the near-assassin of the prince and the man he’d thought his slain friend escaped.