Page 59 of The Cradle of Ice
Kanthe followed. Once through the doorway, he found himself standing at the bottom of a vast, shadowy well. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the sky far overhead. Windowless walls rose tens of stories to a roofless opening. The stone floor lay cracked and overgrown with thistles and scraggly bushes.
In the center, a small wyndship hovered at the height of his waist. It was tethered in place at four corners, anchored by spikes. Four flashburn forges, two to a side, smoked and steamed, straining those ropes. A few men in light armor patrolled around the craft, testing its lines.
Kanthe gaped at the sight of the ship. He had never seen one in person, only schematics in nautical texts back at Kepenhill.
“A wingketch,” he whispered.
It was a unique Klashean design, smaller than a swyftship, but twice that of a hunterskiff. Its draft-iron keel swept into a prominent prow, creating a frozen wave of metal and wood. Curved windows, as tall as Kanthe, flanked each side, looking like the large eyes of an owl. Adding to that image were a pair of folded sailcloth wings, which gave the craft its name. Presently, the sails were reefed and tucked against the hull’s flanks.
Such vessels were said to be miraculously agile in the air, but their main purpose was far simpler. Kanthe stared up the throat of the well to the open sky. A wingketch’s role was similar to that of sailrafts, which were used to evacuate larger ships in case of emergencies. Only rather than diving downward to safety, wingketches were meant for quick escapes, to blast their passengers skyward and away from any danger below.
Like now …
Symon pointed toward a dropped door on the starboard side. “Everyone aboard.”
Kanthe drew alongside the man. “What about Frell and Pratik?”
Symon grimaced, stared at the moon overhead, then shook his head. “We can give them until the next bell. No more. Then we must begone.”
28
FRELL SCRAMBLED UP the ladder behind Pratik. They were nearly at the top of a row of shelves. Frell’s heart pounded in his ears, but it still didn’t silence the insidious chanting of the Venin, a chorus that drew inexorably closer. Already, he felt his will ebbing, his limbs growing leaden. Or maybe it was mere exhaustion.
The only boon was that the Venin’s approach had driven off the plague of bats. Frell’s skin bled from hundreds of bites and scrapes. But if they didn’t find some way out of this trap, they’d suffer a worse fate.
The imperial guards scoured toward them. All around, the slavering howls of war dogs threatened. And somewhere in the dark librarie, the Dresh’ri surely lurked, conjuring other alchymies to confound their escape.
Overhead, Pratik mounted the top of the shelf and rolled out of sight. Frell hurried after him but knew such a ploy would not save them, only buy them additional breaths to figure out what to do.
He reached the last rung and hauled himself up to join Pratik. Though his limbs tremored, the crinkle of parchment under his robes urged him onward. Before mounting the ladder, he had tucked away the pages he had ripped from the ancient tome, stolen from under the baleful eyes of the Shadow Queen sketched on the wall.
Pray I live long enough to read them.
Frell sprawled on his back, panting hard.
Pratik was already on his feet and pointed along the top of the shelf toward the only exit. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to slip past the encroaching line of guardsmen. Then drop behind them and make for the lift.”
“It’s surely under guard, too.”
“We must try,” Pratik insisted.
Frell knew the Chaaen was right. With a moan, he rolled to his stomach and gained his legs. Before he could take a step, a low growl rose directly below them, at the base of the ladder. It escalated into a howl.
Frell cringed.
A war dog.
Someone must have given the hunters my scent.
He pictured that damnable Zeng leeching his blood.
Frell stared over at Pratik, both momentarily frozen, likely with the same question in mind.
Can war dogs climb?
The answer came quick enough. The ladder shook and rattled. Its length hung from large rings of reinforced steel affixed to a rod at the top, made for sliding the ladder back and forth. There was no way to throw the ladder off and no time to hack through the wood.
“Hurry,” Pratik urged, and set off along the shelf.
