Nearby, his friends huddled in small groups—Trish, Sadina, and her mom; Dominic, Miyoko, and Jackie; Alvarez and Wilhelm; Carson and Lacey. Old Man Frypan stood apart and alone, his face unreadable as he peered up at their heavenly visitors.

Several minutes passed after the flying machines arrived, no further action, no sounds other than the overwhelming roar of their engines. A couple of the airships were indeed far larger than the others, cumbersome and clunky, their hulls almost like giant, dented globes—where the others were relatively flat, more streamlined for movement. Isaac waited along with the others, wondering what could possibly be in store.

“They’re called Bergs.” Minho had stepped close enough to say it directly into Isaac’s ear.

“I’ve heard of those.”

“I knew my people had such things, but . . . not this many.”

“How do you know it’s them?”

Minho pointed at a spot on the bottom edge of the airship—the Berg—that was directly above them. A simple depiction of a person had been painted there, neither man nor woman, raising their right arm, elbow bent at a right angle. A wide circle of red encircled the hand, which was open with fingers splayed as wide as possible. Jagged points rose above the circle like spears, maybe a dozen in all, making it look like the wall of an ancient fortress, or perhaps a crown.

“It’s definitely them,” Minho shouted, having pulled his head back. “It’s them and I think they let me go, followed me here. I’m . . . sorry. I don’t really understand.”

Isaac pointed at Letti, still prone on the ground. “Did it have something to do with her? Have you ever seen her before? Or him?” Now he pointed at Timon, gawking at the ship-spotted sky just as much as anyone else.

“Never.”

They might have talked more, but things changed as soon as the word came out of Minho’s mouth. The Bergs began to move, shifting their positions in a coordinated effort. The two spherical behemoths floated to the center of the group, the flatter, smaller ones creating a perimeter around them. The roaring sounds of the blue flames and the mechanical clanking of machine workings that Isaac didn’t understand—the noise of it all slammed into the tiny holes of his ears and pierced his brain. He thought of all the good times he’d had in the Forge, making such things as nails and hammers and plows. How outrageously primitive it all seemed now.