“I don’t blame you,” said Alfred. “He is a difficult child-”
“Difficult!” Hugh laughed, then paused, eyes closed, as the deck canted away beneath his feet. When he was himself again, he drew a deep breath. “Take that spar and hold it out to him. I’ll try to maneuver the ship closer. We’re risking our own lives doing this. Chances are we’ll get caught by the winds and sucked into the storm.”
“Yes, Sir Hugh.” Alfred ran to get the spar-for once, his feet and his body all going the same direction.
The Hand dropped through the hatch into the steerage way and stood staring at the mess. “Why am I doing this?”, he asked himself. It’s simple, was the response. You’ve got a father who will pay to have his son not come back and another father who will pay to get hold of the kid.
That makes sense, Hugh admitted. All, of course, provided we don’t wind up in the Maelstrom. Looking out the crystal window, he could see the boy floating among the clouds. The dragonship was falling down to meet him, but unless Hugh could alter their course, they would miss him by over a wing’s length.
Gloomily the Hand surveyed the wreckage, prodding his aching mind to function and delineate between the various ropes that were twisting and slithering across the deck like snakes. Finding those he needed, he untangled them and laid them out straight so that they could run easily through the hawseholes. Once the cables were arranged, he cut them loose from the harness with his sword and wound them around his arms. He had seen men suffer broken bones from doing this. If he lost control, the heavy wing would fly out suddenly, jerk the rope, and snap his arms like a twig.
Seating himself, his feet braced against the deck, Hugh began to pay out the line slowly. One length of cable ran swiftly and smoothly through the hawsehole. The wing began to lift and the magic to activate. But the cable on Hugh’s right arm remained limp and lifeless, straggling across the deck. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The wing was stuck, jammed.
Hugh hauled back on the cable with all his might, hoping to jolt it free. It did no good, and he realized that one of the exterior cables attached to his guide rope must have snapped. Swearing to himself beneath his breath, the Hand abandoned the broken cable and concentrated on flying the ship with one wing.
“Nearer!” Alfred shouted. “A little more to the left-or is that starboard? I can never remember. Port? Perhaps port? There, I’ve almost got him . . . Now! Hang on tightly, Your Highness!”
Hugh heard the prince’s shrill voice, yammering excitedly about something, the sound of small boots hitting the deck.
Then he heard Alfred’s voice, low and rebuking, and Bane’s defensive whine.
Hugh pulled back on the cable, felt the wing lift, and the dragonship, aided by its magic, began to float upward. The clouds of the Maelstrom swirled below, seemingly angry to see the prey escaping. Hugh held his breath, concentrating all his energy on holding the wing steady as they continued slowly rising.
It was as if a giant hand reached out to slap them like an irritating mosquito. The ship dropped suddenly and sickeningly, plunging downward so fast that it seemed their bodies went with it but their stomaches and bowels stayed up above. Hugh heard a frightened shriek and a heavy bump and knew someone must have been thrown to the deck. The Hand hoped both Alfred and the kid had found something to hang on to, but there was nothing he could do about it if they hadn’t.
Grimly he held on to the cables, fighting to keep the wing up to slow their descent. Then he heard an ominous ripping sound and the eerie whistle that stops the hearts of all dragonship pilots. The wing had torn, the wind was rushing through it. Hugh paid out the line as far as it would go, opening the wing all the way. Although he couldn’t use it to steer, at least its magic would help cushion their fall when they hit the ground-if they hit the ground and if the Maelstrom didn’t rip them apart first.