<u>16</u>


    The remains of the fleet…Vancora, Terroc, Deathstroke and Falcon… had put hard about. High over storm winds and raging abyss, they made half-speed for distant Milardin. But up-striking lightning and questing cyclones made the long journey a nightmare of constant watch and frantic repairs.


    The small, speedy Falcon suffered worst of all, having sustained the most damage and lost four/fifths of her crew. All but her young captain, Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick, and three half-elves were dead. A spare mast had been raised for manna and steering. The main tank, Hallan struggled to patch. He’d strung himself over the side with Chief Laurol, working to seal a long tear in the plating.


    Hanging there over a raging tempest, the determined young officer riveted sheet-metal held up by the magic and strength of the chief. Sarrit leaned over the rail, meanwhile, keeping watch with arrow and darts for attack. There were dragons and griffins at this level, too, and the keen-eyed marine had already brought down three of them.


    On the quarterdeck, Not-Jonn steered, cursed and hammered the instruments; alternately raging at Lord Oberyn and begging his aid. Not-Jonn was Falcon’s helmsman, down to one arm, but still in the fight... getting all the speed that he could out of Falcon''s struggling engines.


    The bodies of Captain Varric and the rest of the crew had been shrouded in canvas, then spoken over. They lay now in the captain’s cabin, for no one had the heart to heave their dead shipmates into the storm. They were going home. All of them.


    Over streaming, purple-dark cloud and forked lightning, young Hallan placed the last mithral rivet, then spoke a word of command.


    “Veyan!” he called out, raising his voice to be heard over gusting wind and the rattle of sail. “Mend!”


    Chief Laurol uttered some words of her own, adding her magic to the red-haired young captain’s. The patch-plate glowed red, seemed to alter and creep, then became flush with the damaged container. Just like that, manna stopped hissing and fizzing out through the seams, and the giant bronze tank became whole.


    Hallan hung there in harness, torn between crazy laughter and tears. Beside him, Chief Laurol was carefully putting up leftover rivets and patch-plating, tucking everything back into Falcon’s main pocket. Squinting at the repaired tank, she said,


    “Rare fine work, Sir. Himself ‘ud be proud.”


    …meaning Varric, the Captain, who’d died defending his ship. <u>Not</u> the High Lord. A bowstring twanged and an arrow hissed past them; parting Laurol’s white hair to bury itself in the eye of a swooping griffin. The monster uttered a bubbling screech, its great, beaked head whipped around by the force of Lancer Sarrit’s fine shot. The beast convulsed once, then spiraled, wings trailing, down to the hungry storm.


    Hallan nodded his thanks to Laurol and Sarrit, not trusting himself to speak. Rapped on the tank with one scratched-up fist, for luck and to signal Falcon to winch them aboard. One of the airship’s glowing blue eyes was on their side of the hull, helping keep watch. It remained level with Hallan and Laurol, as they were drawn back up and over the railing, to stand on the deck.


    ‘Repair effective,’ sent the ship, as Hallan shucked off his harness and line. She’d begun speaking to him, now that his brother… now that Captain Varric was gone. ‘Remaining manna preserved, absorption at quarter capacity, Captain.’


    Hallan nodded, feeling the airship’s spirit fit in with his thoughts. There was something of Varric still there and… that helped give him courage. Aloud, he said,


    “Aye that, Falcon. Thank you.”


    Sarrit had lowered his bow. The grizzled half-elf marine gestured forward, where Vancora, Deathstroke and Terroc were no more than tiny, glimmering dots.


    “They ain’t plannin’ ter wait fer us, Sir,” he grunted. “We’re on our own, looks like.”


    Hallan turned his head to watch the departing fleet. Swallowed hard, then squared his slim shoulders, seeming too wispy for all of that sudden braiding and metal.


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    “Let them go. We will continue repairs, and beat them to port, once ‘Speedy’, here is back to full power. I shall personally wave at His Lordship, as we fly circles around Vancora on our way in.”


    Sarrit and Laurol both grinned at him, the chief saying,


    “Aye that, Sir! I’ll wave, as well. Behind ‘is Lordship’s back, with only one finger!”


    Hallan should have admonished the Chief, but… but he’d been just about raised aboard Falcon, from cabin-boy to midshipman to… to captain. The crew were his people, his family, just like they’d been Varric’s. He managed a smile and said,


    “We’ll give the High Lord the salute he deserves,”


    …and then headed back up to the quarterdeck. There, Airman Not-Jonn was fighting the wheel and railing at heaven. He, too, had noticed the fleet’s desertion. Spat over the rail in response.


    “Guess ‘is Lordship ‘as better things ter do than stand by ‘is own people,” grumbled the helmsman, scowling darkly. Like the others, his light brown hair was tied back in a tail. Unlike the rest, his face was a network of scars.


    “It is the way of cowards to flee before trouble,” said Hallan, as Falcon meshed further into his thoughts. “We have all that we need, right here. A good ship, a fine crew and… and a captain who’s willing to learn whatever his people can teach him.”


    Falcon hummed, engine noise swelling from rattle to purr. On the instrument panel, power continued to build. As for the crew, well… they’d already loved him. He was their boy, and his blood had mingled with theirs on the deck, as they’d fought back-to-back, defending their vessel. There was nothing they wouldn’t have done for their captain.


    The sun was directly over the mast by then, and everyone deeply bone-weary. No time to sleep, though. Not with so few left to man Falcon.


    “Full rations and a tot of grog apiece,” ordered Hallan, adding, “We need it. I’ll take your place at the wheel, Mister Not-Jonn. Eat, rest as well as you can. Then, we’ll switch out. I…”


    It was then that a sparrow fluttered up from behind them, seeming almost to tumble in flight, so wild were those gusting, high-altitude winds. The small bird fought its way to the deck of the Falcon, where it landed on Hallan’s right shoulder.


    “Hullo,” said the young officer, startled. “Long way from home, aren’t you, little fellow?”


    The sparrow puffed out its disordered brown feathers. Its claws sank into the captain’s gold-braided epaulet as it smoothed itself down with its beak. Sarrit had already started below for some biscuit, dried meat and grog, when the sparrow hopped off of Hallan’s shoulder and onto the deck. There…


    Well, it changed forms; becoming a dark-haired, rumpled young wood-elf. Druid, from the look of him, one of the fugitives they’d set out to capture. His clothing was all askew, antler headdress drooping over one ear, cloak tangled around him, no belt, no boots, no blade and no laces. Nor was that all.


    At the wood-elf’s gesture and word… as Sarrit rushed back to join Laurol and Not-Jonn protecting their captain… a slew of others emerged from the druid’s travel-pocket. In just a few moments, an elven ranger, a tabaxi, a drow and a mortal wizard thumped down on the deck of the Falcon, rubbing their backs and stretching. With them came three diverse warriors (one was an orc) and a lovely blonde she-elf. Not just <u>one</u> fugitive. Nearly all of them. Here, now, onboard his ship.


    “Peace,” gasped the druid, as Hallan reached for the hilt of his sword. Extending a placating hand, trying to smile, the wood-elf croaked, “We mean no harm at all, Captain… good folk… we just…”


    The druid staggered. Would have fallen, but the drow and mortal together caught hold of their sagging comrade. That black-and-white tabaxi, meanwhile, stood with her face to the wind, fur rippling, ears pricked forward, golden eyes glowing. Turning once more to face Hallan, she bowed. A small golden monkey popped out of tattoo to hop on her shoulder, right before Hallan’s wide eyes.


    “An airship!” exulted the cat-girl, her voice all rumbling purr. “Not since my days on the Flying Cloud, have I stood on a deck! Captain, we have need of shelter and passage. Having escaped unjust pursuit and imprisonment, we would work as crew in return for your aid.”


    Hallan looked them over carefully, using Falcon’s insight as well as his own.


    ‘There is no darkness but sorrow and loss and exhaustion. They have been wrongly accused,’ said the ship, in his mind. ‘The dark-elf seeks vengeance, but the matter is personal. He, too, may be trusted.’


    Hallan nodded, accepting the airship’s magical judgment. Murmured,


    “Understood, Speedy.” Then, to the newcomers, he announced, “I am Captain Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick, of His Lordship’s cutter Falcon. These are First Mate Laurol, Mister Sarrit and Mister Not-Jonn, my officers. We have… we’ve come through battle and storm and could use a full crew. But, erm… But first, let’s get you lot fed.”


    Best news the tabaxi had heard all day, seemed like. She ducked her sleek head, rumbling,


    “Aye, Sir. These are Gildyr, a druid of Lobum… Cinda, a ranger of Far Peak, in Lindyn… Achilles, son of Murch, who is a wizard… three paladins of the Constellate, by name Arnulf, Nadia and Vorbol… Lady Meliara, an oracle… and myself. Salme, of Distant Sands Oasis, third heir. This little rogue is Cap’n, my friend and companion.”


    Hallan nodded, again. Nothing could erase what had happened or bring back the dead … but it seemed that Lord Oberyn had heard all the nagging and prayers, after all. Seemed like maybe he’d pulled off a bit of divine sleight-of-hand.


    “Welcome aboard,” said the captain; fearing to hope, lest he scare away shy, fragile luck.