3

  As for Prince Nalderick, His former Imperial Highness was left stunned and heartsick by all that he’d witnessed at Five Points. His grandfather was dead. Ildarion had bowed himself under the fated sword then straightened, driving its blade through his own body. Thus sheathed, its hilt could be grasped, and it was… by a monster of Chaos from another plane. It had ripped the sword from Ildarion’s body, leaving the emperor with a hideous wound… but maybe not an incurable one.

  Only, the former exile… this Alexion… had beheaded Ildarion. Ending the emperor’s suffering, or advancing his own shaky claim to the throne? Tough to say, but Derrick wasn’t inclined to be trusting.

  His father, Prince Korvin, had died in the brutal struggle that followed; torn limb from limb by a hell-storm of razor-edged tentacles. Nalderick’s armor and flesh were spattered with Korvin’s blood and Ildarion’s. Dad and Grandfather, gone.

  This ought to have meant that he was now emperor, except that Korvin had an older brother, banished for some crime too awful to even be hinted at. But there at the end, Ildarion had relented, ending his oldest son’s exile and returning his stripped-away name.

  Just like that, Nalderick was no longer a direct heir to the throne. Instead, this criminal was, together with his half-blood offspring and grandchildren. In less than a day, Nalderick had lost everything that mattered: his family, future and rank.

  Or nearly so.

  As the battle to reclaim that awful sword shifted off-plane, Derrick had saved what he could. He’d scooped up the badly hurt Lady Sheraza and gathered his loyal people. Next, the prince had withdrawn, first leaving that bloody and smoldering plaza, then heading for the one bit of hope that he maybe had left.

  Majesty.

  The imperial dreadnought was still moored at the top of its high, mithral tower. It shone like a beacon in Derrick’s need-vision, pulling him out of Five Points and away from a throne that was no longer his… unless he made a fight of it.

  The airship was actively searching for him, its dry, quiet voice repeatedly calling:

  ‘Prince N? Prince N?’

  Nalderick listened and followed. What else was there to do? He kept to the alleys and byways, not answering Majesty until he reached the base of its lacy mooring spire.

  “We’re here, Madge,” Derrick whispered, shifting Lady Sheraza’s slight weight to free a hand for climbing the stairs. Solara, Scander and Prentiss were with him as well; all of them armed and defending his back.

  Scander had deployed a swarm of buzzing and clicking orichalcum wasps to circle them all and keep watch. Under that, Solara’s magical shield was a tattered and flickering thing, but it had saved Derrick’s life many times back in Five Points. Meanwhile, Prentiss had only a battered sword and her brave, loyal heart.

  “Captain,” he said to her, half turning at the base of the stairs. “This is your ship, and I am a prince in name only. I have no authority over…”

  The officer bowed low, then straightened once more. There were tears in her stern brown eyes, and plenty of blood on her uniform.

  “Sire,” she said to him, “I served your grandfather, as I mean to serve you. Majesty welcomes the true heir and liege!”

  Solara and Scander chorused agreement, the beautiful sorceress and brisk little halfling drawing close in support. He was their prince, and there weren’t any questions.

  Nalderick took a deep breath and then nodded. He hadn’t committed to anything… yet. Had not breathed a word of sedition or treason… so far.

  “Thank you,” he replied in a low, hoarse voice. “This will not be forgotten, so hear me all powers and…” gods, he’d been about to say, but the gods were no more. “So hear me all powers and peoples,” Nalderick finished, sending a ripple of oath-bond shivering off through the air.

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  Afterward, he turned and started up the stairs, moving at nearly a run. Sheraza needed a healer and Nalderick needed space; somewhere to think, lie up and make plans. He raced up the spiraling stairway, taking the glassy steps two at a time, using mage-hand to hold Sheraza steady. Being an elf, he was quite slow to tire, despite his own sluggishly leaking wounds.

  Scander injected the mooring tower with a load of artifice magic, causing the structure to come half alive. It shuddered and glowed, spouting tendrils up top like mechanical dandelion seeds. Then the tower’s steps began to spiral mechanically upward, helping the fugitives climb. Not fast enough to throw them off, but enough so the rising sun seemed to tipsy dance through the smoke of the burning City.

  Distant screams, the roar of a million fires and clamoring war-bells… everywhere, war-bells… came near to drowning out Nalderick’s breathing and rough, pounding heart. Karellon burned. The gods were no more. Magic was fading and his grandfather’s throne had just been stripped from the last true Valinor prince.

  Question was: what did he mean to do about it?

  The moving staircase made its last turn, depositing Nalderick, Sheraza, Scander, Solara and Prentiss at the base of Majesty’s gangway. The mighty dreadnought hung lightly at anchor, shining in the few spears of light that were able to pierce all that smoke, dust and Chaos.

  ‘Prince N,’ said the ship, inside of his mind. ‘Welcome back. Your crew and officers are assembled on deck.’

  "Aye, that. Thank you, Madge."

  Doubtless, the airship was talking to Prentiss, too, for the officer pursed her thin lips and nodded, glancing at Nalderick.

  “My prince,” she said, saluting, “the first officer and a few of the crew ask permission to leave the ship and your service. Orders, Sire?”

  Derrick sighed, swallowed hard and then nodded.

  “Let them go. Pay them off from the ship’s account and let no one stand in their way. They have a right to serve whomever they choose. If… when… I return, it shall be as the rightful heir, not as a tyrant.”

  Captain Prentiss smiled proudly.

  “And that, Sire, is why we are yours,” she said, “Body and soul, come what may.”

  Nalderick straightened his shoulders, taking a fresh grip on Sheraza. She, too, was an orphan, robbed in one awful stroke of her family and realm. But that wasn’t why he loved her.

  “Right. Let’s go,” Derrick ordered, turning to stride up the ringing gangway. Pipes skirled and whistled. Cannons boomed mage fire, twenty-one times.

  Most of the airship’s company were arrayed in a series of squares on the inspection deck, but nine (less than he’d feared) stood off to one side in a worried huddle. Leftenant-commander Byrd was among them. He was a distant cousin of Derrick’s, with family and friends in Karellon. As Nalderick came aboard, the tall young officer kneeled and offered his sword.

  “Sire,” he began, in an anguished voice, “I can no longer…”

  “Enough. You have no need to explain, Leftenant-commander,” said Nalderick, cutting Byrd off. “You must follow your heart and your loyalties. Take what is yours and leave here in peace… and may our next meeting be a better one.”

  Byrd looked up, scanning the prince’s face. But there was no deceit or scorn in Nalderick’s warm green eyes. Instead, lit by occasional sunlight and wreathed in smoke, Nalderick looked like his grandfather, seeming every inch royal and strong.

  “Aye, Sire,” said Byrd, rising to re-sheath his blade. “And at your return, you’ll find true friends waiting to stand at your back, with as many as we can quietly raise.”

  “I never doubted it, Cousin,” said Nalderick.

  The two young elves clasped hands. After that, in peace and friendship, Leftenant-commander Byrd departed the airship, taking with him eight more of the crew. Once they’d gone, Derrick handed Sheraza to Scander, who set up a mobile clinic on deck. The halfling surgeon would heal her, and all of the rest who’d lined up for his care.

  Nalderick was injured, having taken a score of sword-cuts and one or two burns. He didn’t show it, though. Rather than slump to the deck or join the line waiting for Scander, he turned to address the assembled crew. Looked over hundreds of faces that shone with fierce love and loyalty… and didn’t feel worthy, at all.

  “I thank you for staying,” he said, in a voice that Solara magically amplified. “And I promise you this: that each of your lives shall matter as much to me as my own, from captain to cook to deckhand. You are my kingdom, now. My people, my realm. I will fight for you as I would for all Karandun. My oath on it.”

  Elves, as a rule, do not cheer aloud or applaud. What they do is to glow, and everyone present did, now. Only Scander could not bathe the deck with magical light. Instead, Clunky (his homunculus) rose in the air, sprouted arms and whirled overhead, clapping and venting shrill steam. Nalderick squared his broad shoulders, absorbing manna and love.

  “So be it,” he told them. “We cast off at once to seek our fortunes and come back in power. Captain Prentiss…”

  “Aye, Sire?” responded the officer, saluting crisply.

  “Make a fire-dousing run over the City, then set a course for Okuni. In the land of my mother’s people, we will decide on our next move. To the future, Prentiss… Majesty… all of you.”

  “You heard His Highness!” shouted the captain. “Fall out! To your stations, move!”

  And they did, as Majesty’s enchanted mooring lines vanished, and its engines roared back to life. The mighty dreadnought backed away from its tower, then heeled grandly south. Other vessels were moored up, nearby, their crews lining the rails. Some just saluted with cannon and pipes. Dart and Invincible cast off to join Majesty.

  It wasn’t only a trio of airships that left Karellon that day, though. Later (tracking a magical wake that a blind, drunken orc could have followed) another vessel took flight; this one sleek, black and terribly dangerous.