Or she had, if it was the Ilse Witch returned.
He cursed his ignorance, the witch, and a dozen other imponderables as he flew the airship inland toward the mountains. He would have to turn south soon to stay within his bearings. He could not trust to the shorter overland route. Too much danger of losing the way and missing Little Red and the others. He could not afford to do that, to leave them abandoned to these things that gave pursuit.
A sharp whang! cut through the rush of wind as the amidships radian draw off the port railing broke loose and began to whip about the decking like a striking snake. The Rovers, still crouched in their fighting pits, flattened themselves protectively. Spanner Frew leapt behind the mainmast, taking cover as the loose draw snapped past, then wrapped itself around the aft port line and jerked it free.
At once the airship began to lose power and balance, both already diminished by the loss of the forward draws, now thrown off altogether by the breaking away of the entire port bank. If the lines were not re-tethered at once, the ship would circle right back into the enemy ships, and they would all be in the hands of the walking dead.
Redden Alt Mer saw those eyes again, milky and vacant, devoid of humanity, bereft of any sense of the world about them.
Without stopping to consider, he cut power to the amidships starboard tube and thrust the port lever all the way forward. Either the Jerle Shannara would hold together long enough for him to give them a fighting chance to escape or it would fall out of the sky.
“Black Beard!” he yelled down to Spanner Frew. “Take the helm!”
The shipwright lumbered up the steps and into the pilot box, gnarled hands reaching for the controls. Redden Alt Mer took no time to explain, but simply bolted past him down the steps to the decking and forward to the mainmast. He felt exhilarated and edgy, as if nothing he might do was too wild to consider. Not altogether a bad assessment, he decided. Wind, wild and shrieking in his ears, whipped at his long red hair and brilliant scarves. He could feel the airship rocking under him, fighting to maintain trim, to keep from diving. He was impressed. Three draws lost,—she should already be going down. Another ship wouldn’t have lasted this long.
To his left, the entangled draws snapped and wrenched at each other, threatening to tear loose at any moment. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Their pursuers had drawn closer, taking advantage of their troubles. The Shrikes were almost on them.
“Keep them at bay!” he shouted down to the Rovers crouched in the fighting pits, but his words were lost in the wind.
He went up the foremast using the iron climbing pins hammered into the wood, pressing himself against the thick timber to keep from being torn loose and thrown out into the void. His flying leathers helped to protect him, but even so, the wind was ferocious, blowing out of the mountains and toward the coast in a cold, hard rush. He did not look behind him or over at the draws. The dangers were obvious and he could do nothing about them. If the draws worked loose before he got to them, they could easily whip about and cut him in half. If the shrikes got close enough, they could rip him off his perch and carry him away. Neither prospect was worth considering.
Something flashed darkly at the corner of his vision. He caught just a glimpse as it whizzed past. Another whipped by. Arrows. The enemy vessels were close enough that longbows could be brought into play. Perhaps the Mwellrets and walking dead were not proficient with weapons. Perhaps some small part of the luck that had saved him so many times before would save him now.
Perhaps was all he had.
Then he was atop the mast and working his way out along the yardarm to where the renegade draw was fastened topside. He clung to the yardarm with numb, bruised fingers, his strength seeping away in the frigid wind. Below, upturned faces shifted back and forth as men fired arrows at the approaching Shrikes then glanced up at him to check his progress. He saw the worry in those hard faces. Good, he thought. He would hate not to be missed.