He exhaled sharply. The big ship was slowing down. The other Federation warships were coming up from behind, preparing to offer help. It occurred to him that now was the perfect time for that attack Kellen Elessedil had been so anxious to launch, the perfect opportunity to destroy that ship and the weapon she bore. But the bulk of the Elven fleet was in flames, and the ships of Callahorn were still on the ground somewhere east.

He looked down at the flats, swarming with Federation soldiers, then at the Elven defensive lines. He remembered the faces of the men and women he had seen earlier, weary and disinterested. He remembered the lack of discipline, evident everywhere. He was not encouraged. The Elven airfield had been overrun, the remainder of the fleet fled north. If their ground defenses held through the night, it would be a miracle. An impossible miracle, he amended, without help from the Free-born allies. And in the end, it might not matter anyway. By week’s end, the Dechtera would be airborne again and would fly in support of the Federation attack, her terrible weapon primed and ready for use. What it had done to the Elven airships was nothing compared to what it would do to the Elven army.

The implications of his thinking did not escape him. The war on the Prekkendorran was about to take a disastrous turn, and he wasn’t sure there was anything that could be done about it.

They were flying over the captured Elven airfield now, heading west toward the besieged Elven lines. “Captain,” he called to Markenstall. The wind came up again in a sudden rush, tearing at his words. The veteran turned. “Can you fly us to where—”

He never finished. White fire lanced through the center of the airship in a searing rope of brightness that slammed the entire craft sideways with such force that Pied was thrown from the pilot box, catapulting over its railing. He caught a glimpse of the mast going up like a torch, the flames spurting skyward as the sails caught fire. Both railguns and crew disappeared into an explosion of sizzling light. The sloop lurched wildly, bucked, and began to drop.

“Markenstall!” he called weakly.

There was no response. His safety line was still attached to its ring inside the pilot box, but he was tangled so thoroughly in the rigging that he couldn’t move. He tried to lift himself to see what was happening inside the box itself and failed. There was blood on his face, warm and sticky, running down his neck and arm. He had thought them safely away from the Federation warship and her terrible weapon. He had been mistaken. Its range must be enormous. Even from the better part of a mile away, it had managed to fix on them. Even now, after the fact, Pied could not imagine it.