Two pairs of boots—all he could see from below—ran toward him. He started to roll out on the other side, but Wreylith’s red maw came down, and hot steamy breath mingled with the smoke and flowed under the weapons platform.
He’d managed to get himself trapped and almost laughed at the foolishness of his choice to climb out of the river. He might end up captured by Syla again.
Then a snap sounded. Fabric? A buckle? Both? One of the straps that held the weapons platform in place had broken, and the great marble structure skidded across the slanted deck toward the railing.
“Lift it off!” Syla called from above.
Was she talking to Wreylith? Vorik, rolling to stay underneath the platform, doubted even the powerful dragon could lift it by herself.
Another strap snapped, and flapping sounds erupted from above. Wings beating and stirring smoke, the dragon leaped into the air as her perch skidded toward the railing.
“Aunt Tibby!” Syla cried.
Was she still on the platform? Afraid he would be crushed, Vorik risked scrambling out from underneath. He rose in time to see a blazing silver ball shoot from the top of the platform. At first, he thought himself the target, but the aunt must not have wanted to hit the ship. The projectile slammed into a man—one of Vorik’s men—in the middle of a sword fight with a Kingdom soldier on the dock. The magical sphere incinerated him with a blinding flash of silver light.
Horrified, Vorik turned toward the platform, his sword raised. Tibby hung on to one of the posts, her hand planted on the mark on its side, her gaze as determined as her niece’s as she looked at Vorik. He had no doubt that he was her next target. Aware of the way those projectiles could follow a dragon—or a person—he was sure he wouldn’t escape a second attack.
But thunderous snaps came from below, and the deck quaked under Vorik. Itmorethan quaked. It gave way, and the weapons platform lurched, then plummeted downward. More wood snapped as it fell, and Tibby disappeared along with the entire structure. The deck also gave way under Vorik. Though the purchase under his feet dropped, he managed to leap awaybefore it disappeared entirely. Using his dagger like a climbing pick, he caught a portion of the deck that remained intact.
As more people fled the sinking ship, Vorik pulled his way up the slanted deck and grabbed on to a solid portion of the railing. Flames burned all around him, black smoke choking him, but he could see that the weapons platform had disappeared and water bubbled up from below. Most of what deck remained was covered in water, and even as he watched, a mast snapped, wood and sail falling to cover the giant hole the weapons platform had fallen through. Vorik had a feeling it had broken through the hull and now lay on the bottom of the river, where the ship would soon join it.
He should have felt triumphant at accomplishing his mission, but a distressed cry came from above.
“Aunt Tibby!” Syla still rode Wreylith’s back as the dragon circled.
Wings flapping so hard that smoke swirled and Vorik felt their wind from the railing, Wreylith hovered, briefly more like a hummingbird than a dragon, and snapped up the broken mast, tossing it aside. Then Wreylith plunged her head through the hole. But dragons were not hummingbirds, and her belly slammed against the wheelhouse. When she landed, unable to find a solid perch, more deck gave way. Wreylith lifted her head without finding the aunt and roared in frustration. As more of the ship broke underneath her, the dragon roared again and flapped her wings to fly upward.
Syla flattened her hand to her spectacles and surprised Vorik by diving off Wreylith’s back and into the hole.
“Shouldn’t be surprised,” he muttered to himself, but would Syla have a chance at finding her aunt? Even with normal vision, it was hard to see underwater, and how would she swim without losing her spectacles?
Vorik released the railing, letting gravity take him toward the hole, and sheathed his weapons before he plunged into the water. He’d only meant to sink the marble structure, not kill the aunt, and what ifSyladied?
As the chilly water enveloped him, the thought horrifying him, he swam downward. Wood from the hull or broken deck snagged him, and he struggled to see through the wreckage. Something with more give brushed his hand, the material from Syla’s dress. She was right beside him, clinging to a beam and trying to make her way deeper, but a pack strapped over her shoulder must have made it more difficult to maneuver. It had caught, and she couldn’t pull it free.
As Vorik unfastened it for her, he spotted the white marble of the platform, half blocked by the broken hull. Leaving Syla, he swam downward. Even with daylight above and fires burning all around the ship, the water was murky, full of disturbed silt. If the marble had been black, he never would have seen it, but he reached it, his fingers brushing the cold stone. But where was Tibby?
He swam under the canopy of the weapons platform, checking the posts, but she wasn’t clinging to them. His lungs started to burn, and he expected Syla must have returned to the surface for air, but she showed up beside him, hands groping, her face twisted in distress.
He patted her arm, having no idea if she recognized him or knew he was helping, and tried to point her upward. Movement to the side caught his attention, and he didn’t wait to see if Syla took his suggestion. He spun and peered through the cloudy silt, glimpsing the movement again. There was Aunt Tibby, still alive and trying to pull herself out from under a section of the hull. The wrecked ship had settled on the bottom of the river.
With powerful strokes, Vorik arrowed toward her. If his lungs were burning, Tibby had to be close to drowning. Hereached her, gripped her under the armpits, and pulled. But the entire weight of the ship seemed to be on top of her. Losing precious air bubbles, he pulled again, but even he wasn’t strong enough.
Lungs now crying out for air, he drew his sword and hacked into the wood around her. He’d created this awful situation, and he had to save Syla’s aunt. If he didn’t… Syla wouldn’t forgive him. She might not forgive him for this anyway, but sinking the weapon had been understandable. Sinking a fifty-something woman who wasn’t even a combatant? No.
After sawing pieces from the hull, he was able to pull chunks away. Muscles heaving, he finally freed Tibby. Again, he grabbed her under the armpits. He kicked as powerfully as he could, angling away from the ship and the docks, hoping to come up away from the fighting. And hoping Tibby was all right. She kicked feebly, trying to assist him, so at least she was still conscious.
When they broke the surface, she gulped in so much air that she inhaled water too and coughed and coughed. Vorik swam toward a beach upriver from the fiery docks. Smoke bathed the surface, and he hoped no enemies would spot him, but the sounds of fighting had dwindled anyway. If Tems had obeyed his order, the stormers were departing.
As Vorik paddled Tibby to the bank, he peered back through the smoke, trying to spot Syla. He sensed Wreylith in the air, but she was flying toward the palace. Distant booms came from there. Had Syla found a safe spot and sent the dragon to help there? Lesva might be making her move at that very moment.
As soon as Vorik made sure Tibby was secure on land, he ran back into the river, diving and swimming toward the hull. He had to make sure Syla was all right. And the thought crossed his mind that, with the dragon distracted elsewhere, this might be his opportunity to kidnap her.
He swam around the wreck and burning wood in the water until he sensed… yes, there she was. Though a human’s power wasn’t as significant as a dragon’s, hers was strong enough—bright enough—for him to detect. And then she coughed, guiding him further, and he swam around the wreck to spot her clinging to a burning piece of a mast tangled in a torn sail.
“Syla,” he called, swimming toward her.
Her spectacles hung around her neck on a strap, and she peered blearily at him but rasped with recognition, “Vorik.”
