Chapter Nineteen

"They were searching for us," Rebeke said. "While we were out here, they were in there, hunting for Beacon!"

She was right. The ships coming out of the darkness veered to the sides in surprise. They'd gotten orders to fly back to stop Beacon but hadn't expected to run into it so soon. For a few confusing minutes, chaos reigned. Both groups of ships broke up, swarming in all directions. Nomad's stomach tried to crawl up his esophagus as Rebeke dove toward the ground. The radio became a barking frenzy of questions and orders.

"To the east!" Contemplation's voice cut through it all. "Gather to the east. Make into the darkness and follow the Beacon!"

Rebeke veered that way, their engines burning a strip of ash through the plants beneath them, which whipped at Nomad's legs. He craned his neck, expecting to see weapon fire above. But there was practically none. Just a sharpshooter blast here and there.

He reminded himself that they didn't have guns mounted on their ships. Instead he saw a couple of enemy vessels bracket a blue-striped Beaconite ship and lock on either side, like they were docking. Soldiers leaped from the Cinder King's ships, rushing the Beaconite's cockpit.

Before he'd found his Torment, he'd lived on a world without firearms. Back there, they'd engaged in a more personal, brutal kind of combat—the kind where you were forced to watch the other fellow die as you found the most efficient way of separating his blood from his body.

This conflict felt more like naval warfare on his homeworld: no cannons, no artillery, just ramming and boarding. It was cumbersome, but it made sense here, since capturing a ship was among the most constructive things you could do, simultaneously shrinking the enemy force and enlarging your own. In addition, the Cinder King's military strength relied on the Charred, who were most effective in close-up combat.

Nomad, the knight says, look up, fifty degrees to your left.

He followed the directions to a ship bobbing in the air, beleaguered by a large enemy ship locked onto it—and that enemy ship was boosting away from the darkness at full thrust. Like many of the Beaconite ships, the captured one was more a flying house than a military vessel, and it couldn't counter the enemy ship's greater power. It was being towed away.

That's the one that we met the Greater Good in, the knight notes to the squire's confused lack of understanding.

"Damnation. You sure?"

Unfortunately.

"Don't suppose these people know to separate their command staff on different vessels, do they?"

Seems like the sort of thing you only learn from sad experience…

He sighed as Rebeke wove and dodged. The enemy ships ignored him; they were after larger prey, bearing more people.

Well?

"Thinking," Nomad said, "on whether or not it's too late to go back to the Cinder King and take him up on his offer."

I'm glaring at you right now.

"You don't have eyes."

Which is why I have to explain it.

Nomad sighed, then tapped Rebeke on the shoulder and pointed at the ship in question. She looked in time to see two Charred leaping onto it, their open-fronted robes rippling as they soared. He lost what Rebeke said next to the wind, but her expression was horrified.

"Get me close!" Nomad shouted. "And be ready to pull me out in case I need it. Try not to get captured this time!"

She nodded, pulling up in another jarring maneuver. Unfortunately a fleeing Beaconite vessel roared across their vector. Many of them were doing a good job of avoiding capture—that was something they had experience with. Still, Rebeke had to bank sharply left and then right to get back on track toward the Greater Good's ship.

He noted another vessel coming up to their right—between him and the command ship.

"This is your fault, Aux," he muttered.

Rebeke belatedly saw she was on a collision course and veered to the side. He used the momentum to launch himself straight off the back of the cycle, hitting hard on the ship coming their direction.

He glimpsed confused people in the cockpit as he rolled across their deck, then barely got purchase and threw himself out over an expanse, almost missing the side of the Greater Good's ship as it was towed in the other direction. He heaved himself up onto its deck, which was maybe ten feet across.

The enemy ship was still docked on the other side, hijacking the command ship's own thrust, piloted by one of the white-coated officers. The woman saw him, eyes going wide. She frantically fumbled with her rifle.

Her ill preparation gave him a chance, so he dashed across the deck and tried to tackle her—but of course, his Torment decided that would be too easy. It froze his muscles, sending him tripping in an embarrassing mess on the deck.

"That is storming annoying," he muttered, barely getting Aux up as a shield in time to block the rifle shots.

Didn't you have an idea to deal with that?

"Yes, but it will take time to put together," he said, backing away from the rifle fire. He eventually got even with the command ship's front window—but that had been covered by a blast shield. As the officer stopped to reload, he formed Auxiliary as a crowbar and got the cover off in a single heave, sending the metal panel clanging to the deck. Then he threw himself shoulder first at the window behind it.

And bounced off.

"What is it with these people and their windows!" he said, this time throwing Auxiliary through first as a large barbell.

Don't know, the knight replies as he smashes through the window with ease. Must be you.

Nomad grunted as bullets blasted the wall beside him, then hurled himself through and came up in a roll to his feet, out of sight of the riflewoman. Inside here, though, the two Charred from earlier were terrorizing the three Greater Good, who had pulled back to the far side of the room behind an overturned table. He saw their wizened heads peeking out as he stood up dramatically before the broken window. And wished to Damnation itself that he had any idea what to do next.

At least now the Charred turned their focus on him. They came in together, armed with batons. Fortunately the Cinder King took people captive so he could use them to make sunhearts, which explained his preference for batons instead of swords.

Unfortunately there were two of them, and they were fast. They descended upon him in a flurry of blows and growls, forcing him to block with a shield in a series of quick exchanges. He couldn't even try to force them back without being frozen by his own stupid soul, so he went full defensive—never a good way to win a fight. He had to ignore when they overextended their attacks, and he couldn't punish their frenzied barrage, which otherwise would have left them open to counterstrikes.

Instead he took hits on the arm, then the side, then a devilish crack on the head that sent him stumbling into the corner, vision swimming.

The knight hopes that his beleaguered squire has a plan.

"I've got one," he muttered, blocking another set of blows, then barely shoving himself out of the corner to escape being pinned there. "I jump back out the window. Maybe the Beaconites don't really need the help of these old ladies."

Of course, the knight says. Leave them without leadership and without supplies. That will work out well, I'm sure.

The two Charred—fueled by their Investiture, thus needing no pause for breathers—backed him into the other corner, beating him with relentless attacks.

Nomad? Auxiliary's voice was the same monotone as always. He couldn't manage anything else. Yet Nomad thought he could sense his friend's concern by the lack of a quip. This is going to require a lot of healing. I'm barely keeping your body moving…

A moment later the door slammed open, and the enemy pilot—the woman with the white coat—came in to help the Charred, rifle held at the ready. Well. That would do.

Nomad took another mean hit to the shoulder as he forced his way out of the corner. That left him open, though, and one of the Charred rushed him from behind, slamming him into the pilot. It wasn't his fault, therefore, that the collision sent her tumbling—and the Torment liked it when he kicked her gun away. No need for that.

From there, he made certain to keep the attention of the Charred, giving them a challenging smile—but swaying on his feet, tempting them with his weakness. In return, they redoubled their efforts, pounding on him, getting around his shield—all too easy in a fight of two against one. They hit him with a series of blows that caused him to lower the shield and expose his face to—

One of the Charred's heads exploded.

The other froze, then spun as Contemplation—standing in front of the table—unloaded shot after shot into his chest. She strode forward, black-dyed hair tumbling around her stocky figure, firing until she dropped the second Charred in a mess of smoldering embers and burned flesh.

Nomad dropped to his knees, gasping for breath as Contemplation pointed her rifle at the pilot, who raised her hands in response.

"Glad you can shoot," Nomad muttered.

"Did my share of hunting as a youth," the old woman replied. "Haven't held a rifle in years. Why did you kick it to me instead of grabbing it yourself?"

"Personal challenge," he said, flopping back onto the ground, eyes squeezed closed at the cumulative pain of his wounds. "I hate hogging the glory. Maybe one of you could get out there and shut down the ship pulling us the wrong way?"

He lost track of the next part. He didn't fall completely unconscious, but he retreated into himself as his body healed. He sensed they'd done as he'd asked because the ship started moving the right way again. He dragged himself to the corner and convalesced quietly there.

Over the next hour, he listened with half an ear as Confidence—the tall, spindly one—directed the escape operation from the radio. Auxiliary healed him, but quietly warned that he was under nine percent Skip capacity.

Sometime in there, Rebeke joined them. The light through the broken window grew dark as they fled.

He bore the pain with closed eyes. His body could take a great deal of punishment, thanks to the Torment's gifts. But even he needed a breather now and then. Especially after taking a beating that would have killed anyone else.

Still, he paid enough attention to hear worry in Confidence's voice as she directed the others. It seemed many of the Beaconites had escaped—and with their Beacon itself, they could guide everyone. But they were pressed and harried by the Cinder King's forces, who made them veer away from the path they wanted to take.

From what he gathered, they were forced to swerve to the south, entering a different "corridor" entirely. That was, so far as he understood, the local way of talking about certain latitudes. Each band of latitude was a corridor, with no actual geographic features to distinguish them—except that going too far north or south was dangerous.

Well, at least they had escaped. At least they were alive. Who cared if they were in another corridor? It couldn't be that bad. Could it?