05 Dragon Blood: The Blade's Memory (30 page)

If he were dealing with another human being, he might have weaved around, expecting the other pilot to take evasive moves to avoid being found, but those unmanned fliers had used simple patterns, almost like machines obeying a punch-card program. He didn’t doubt that the vial of dragon blood attached to the control board gave the craft uncanny intelligence, but it couldn’t replace a human brain. He hoped.

The dark shape, its body almost identical to a one-man Iskandian flier, soared into view again. It was still flying south, in the direction of the capital, but at a higher altitude than Ridge had anticipated. He grimaced. If it fired from up there, it would have the advantage.

He pulled back on the flight stick, climbing at the same time as he carved to the side, knowing he needed to reach it but hoping to make a harder target as he closed. If it was a scouting craft, it might not be programmed to fire, but he couldn’t bet on that. It had twin guns mounted above the nose, and he squinted, spotting something else on its belly, something black and blocky.

“Seven gods, is that a camera?” Ridge thumped his hand on the side of the cockpit. His people were supposed to be developing an aerial camera, and he’d seen prototypes on dirigibles, but they hadn’t managed anything lightweight enough for the fliers yet. “Damned Cofah don’t need to worry about weight when they don’t have pilots,” he growled.

The bangs of a machine gun rang out like hail on a tin roof. Cursing himself for having been caught staring at that camera for too long, Ridge threw his craft into a barrel roll, then banked into a thick cloud. Belatedly, he decided there was probably no point in trying to hide from something without eyes. That dragon blood would allow the unmanned craft to sense him in the same way as Sardelle would.

Nonetheless, his swoops and rolls kept the bullets from striking him. As he came out of the cloud on the far side, he pulled up, climbing hard, hoping to rise above the enemy craft. Despite the fire, it had not diverted from its route to chase him.

“Must have more pictures to take,” Ridge grumbled and turned to chase it. He was
not
going to let it sail in and collect images of the capital, especially not when he had left the hangar door yawning wide open, where the empty interior would be all too visible.

“You are
not
going home,” Ridge announced, accelerating after the craft. “Or back to some mobile base.” It horrified him to think that a landing dirigible or carrier ship might be waiting fifty miles off the coast for its return.

He jammed one hand into his pocket to rub his wooden dragon figurine, then focused all of his concentration on the craft. The wind railed at his face, burning his cheeks as he struggled to catch it. He hated to think that the Cofah might have made a craft that was faster than his, but his was a two-seater and had a pilot. The other flier had nothing except the camera and the guns to weigh it down.

Ridge tilted his wings slightly to take advantage of wind gusting from the rear. He wasn’t sure if that was what helped, but he finally closed on the Cofah craft, cutting in on a diagonal approach rather than from straight behind its tail.

At first, it did not make any evasive moves, and he rested his thumb on the trigger for his machine gun, thinking he might get an easy shot. Then, as he pulled within range, it dropped down, spinning through the clouds. At the first dip of the nose, Ridge reacted. He cut the angle tighter and gained ground. Though he was still at the edge of machine-gun range, he fired, hoping for a lucky shot. He thought he clipped a wing, but that was not a vital target. He needed to take out that camera—and the vial of dragon blood powering the craft. The latter would be protected by armor, but he fired again, aiming for the body.

The craft veered again, but he clung to it like a leech stuck on a man’s ankle. Thanks to the crashed flier he and Sardelle had dissected, he had a good idea of where that vial should be. He swooped left and right as they dove, trying to hit the body from the side. His bullets riddled the fuselage. Smoke wafted from the tail of the craft. As its dive turned into a plummet, both craft dropped below the clouds, and the rocks of the Cauldron came into view. Ridge probably should have felt fear at the speed he was maintaining and at the rapid way those rocks were approaching, but the exhilaration of the hunt thrummed through him. He fired again to make sure that craft smashed into the sea, never to report back to its home. He would pull up well before he risked crashing himself. He glimpsed that camera on its belly and fired at that. It was knocked off, smoke rising as it flew away from the craft. Good. It could not be retrieved.

As he was about to pull up, certain the unmanned flier would crash, a massive boom rang out. A ball of orange flame exploded right above the sea. Startled, Ridge yanked on the flight stick. The shockwave slammed into the belly of his craft. He would have been bucked from his seat if not for his harness. As it was, the force of the blow rattled his teeth—and every nut holding his flier together. For several seconds, he had no control of the craft, and he envisioned his wings being torn off and the body tumbling into the sea.

Finally, the steering responded to him and he flattened out, skimming scant feet above the waves breaking below. Water sprayed the side of his face, and he gulped and glanced back. The flames had disappeared, leaving only bits and pieces the size of confetti floating on the surface. Unless he had struck the dragon blood vial and that had somehow caused that much energy to be unleashed, he couldn’t see how such a powerful explosion could have been the result of anything on the plane blowing up.

“Note to self,” Ridge said, ignoring the tremor in his voice. “The Cofah unmanned fliers are rigged to explode if it becomes clear their mission will fail.”

He wished he had foreseen that. He had very nearly been taken out by that trap. Even worse than death would have been being killed by something without a brain.

“Embarrassing,” he muttered and was suddenly glad he was out of Jaxi’s range. She would have had even more biting comments.

A creak came from the frame of his flier. Ridge sighed and veered toward the coast. He would need to land and make sure he hadn’t taken any serious damage. He looked around to get his bearings, then twitched in surprise. The whitewashed tower of the island lighthouse rose up less than a mile away.

Instead of heading toward the mainland, he veered in that direction. Had he been in his one-man flier, he could not have landed on the compact island—there was little more to it than the lighthouse in the center, a few tufts of grass in a small yard, and the rocks raising it up above the surf. But so long as his thrusters hadn’t been blown off in that explosion, he would have room enough to land this craft.

Ridge wiped droplets of water from his goggles and tried to determine if anyone was home. It had grown light enough that he could not see if a lamp burned in the lantern room, but a keeper ought to be on duty around the clock. A bunkhouse and storage area hugged the base of the tower. He thought he spotted a figure in the window—someone looking out toward him. In case he was correct, he offered a cheerful wave.

He swept around the tower once to make sure nobody with guns was waiting in the grass. If a kidnap victim was being held here, he would doubtlessly have guards. Not that he could go anywhere. The shoreline was barely visible from here, and nothing about the churning waves and sharp rocks said a swim would be advisable.

Not seeing anyone outside, Ridge activated the thrusters and lowered to the ground. The port side one gave a hiccup and only operated at half power. He gritted his teeth, trying to compensate and keep the flier level. A bevy of seagulls squawked and flew away.

“Critics,” Ridge grumbled, finally feeling his wheels bump against the ground. He came down hard on one side, but did not think he had done any more damage.

The door in the base of the lighthouse opened. Two big men with short hair, broad shoulders, and nondescript clothing walked out. One was missing an eye. The other had a nose that had been broken at least three times. Right away, Ridge knew two things. One, these were not lighthouse keepers, and two, this was the right place. What he didn’t know was how he was going to avoid being shot. Damn them—why couldn’t they have come out looking belligerent and thugly while he had been in the air? Now it was too late to turn the flier toward them and put his machine guns to use.

Chapter 13

Aware of the goons watching, Ridge climbed slowly out of his cockpit. Normally, he would have a pistol and a dagger as part of his flight uniform, but Therrik had been too busy shoving him against the bars to offer the use of a weapon for this adventure. Ridge might be able to come out on top in a physical fight with one of the big men, but both watched him carefully, the butts of their loaded rifles resting on the ground next to them. Those rifles were Mark 500s, the type of sniper firearm Lieutenant Ahn favored. Ridge hoped that didn’t mean these men were acolytes of her father, but he wouldn’t be surprised to find that Ahnsung was tied in with the kidnapping somehow.

“Either of you fellows have a wrench? Any mechanical skills? Got a small problem.” Ridge waved in the direction of the explosion, hoping they had seen it. If he was lucky, they might believe the aerial skirmish had brought him to this island rather than a search for the king.

The men exchanged glances, then looked back at him without responding. Ah, a friendly group of kidnappers.

He patted the side of his flier. “No wrenches? No beer, either, I suppose?”

“Early in the day for drinking,” one finally said. His voice was rough, as if he had been punched in the throat a few times in his life, as well as in his nose.

“It’s never too early in the day for a drink, especially if you’ve been shot at recently.” And if you’ve been up all night, Ridge added silently. He scratched his jaw and pretended to look at the men for the first time, then he squinted up at the lighthouse. “You two the keepers here? You sure you don’t have any tools? I took some damage when that other flier blew up. Need to check the thrusters. You probably noticed that wasn’t the smoothest landing you’ve seen.”

They looked at each other again. Maybe they shared a brain. Ridge kept his stance easy and offered an amiable smile whenever they glanced in his direction.

“No tools,” the broken-nosed speaker finally said. “Fix your flier and get out of here.”

Well, at least they weren’t shooting him outright. While he watched them out of the corner of his eye, Ridge pulled his tiny toolkit out of the cockpit. Even though he knew the contents by heart, he prodded at them, thinking in terms of finding something that would help him overcome those two. There wasn’t much, neither for tackling enemies nor for fixing the flier. The lightweight pliers, screwdriver, and wrench were about useful enough to pull a splinter out of the hull if necessary. He squeezed some patch tar out of its tube and rubbed it between his fingers. In theory, one could use it to plug a leak for the duration of a short flight.

He walked around the flier, checking out the thrusters and inspecting the rest of the fuselage while he stole glances at the men. They hadn’t gone back inside. They had walked over to the rocks to talk to each other, but they were definitely keeping an eye on him.

With the waves crashing below them, Ridge couldn’t hear many of their words, but he caught his name. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard the words “kill him” come out too. He hoped the entire sentence was, “He’s the brave and noble Colonel Zirkander, so we
can’t
kill him,” but he wasn’t going to bet on it.

Ridge hammered at the dented thruster housing while formulating a plan not to be killed. The only way he would have the advantage would be from the air. If he could keep those two from running back into the lighthouse, he should be able to shoot them down before they shot him. Maybe. He would definitely have better odds on that than on trying to overpower them from the ground, especially when he did not have a weapon. The problem would be keeping the men from running inside to the safety of the lighthouse. It was built from stone, and his bullets wouldn’t do much to damage the sturdy walls. Another problem was that they hadn’t actually done anything to him yet. Even though he was ninety-nine percent certain they had been placed here to guard the king, Ridge did not have proof of that. It would be nice if Angulus would pop his head out the door. Ridge wished he had Sardelle along to sense through the walls. He would even settle for her snarky sword.

Ridge pulled a few pieces of shrapnel out of his wings and decided that was all he could manage from here. The thrusters did not play a role once he was in the air, and he could manage another lopsided landing if he had to. He rubbed the patch tar he hadn’t used, his body heat keeping it from hardening. A thought popped into his mind. Perhaps he might patch something else on this island.

Without asking permission, Ridge ambled toward the lighthouse door. He forced himself not to run or hurry, though he worried they wouldn’t let him get close enough for his plan.

Sure enough, Broken Nose called out, “Where are you going? I told you, there aren’t any tools in there.”

“Need to use the lav,” Ridge said without slowing down, even though sweat was trickling down his spine. Both of those rifles swung in his direction. “You’ve got one of those in there, don’t you?”

“It’s not for visitors. Use a rock.” The man jerked his rifle toward the jagged black boulders that comprised most of the island.

“I’ve got to do more than piss.” The door was only five steps away now. “It’ll just take a minute, then I’ll head out.” Three steps. Two.

“Stop right there.” Both men jerked their rifles to the crooks of their shoulders and sighted along the barrels.

Ridge halted, one step from the door. “Easy boys.” He turned slowly toward them, his hands up. He kept his left fingers curled enough to hide the goo on his palm—and to keep it warm with his body heat, so it wouldn’t harden, not yet.

“You’ll go
now
.”

“You’re sure I can’t…” Ridge tilted his head toward the door.