Besides the three ships that seemed to be making good their escape, there were only two Other vessels left below. Dybo had just one glider left: the Tak-Saleed, Novato’s original flyer, salvaged from the waves and rebuilt after its first flight. It was smaller and less sturdy than the others, and Dybo had hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but there was no choice. His arm came down in a chopping motion again, and the Tak-Saleed soared over the cliff’s edge. The glider shuddered visibly as it rose higher and higher, and Dybo thought briefly that it was going to fall apart. The pilot seemed to be having some trouble with the harness that controlled the prow — it had been seizing up in tests, but Dybo had been assured that the problem had been corrected. The prow oscillated left and right, causing the ship to waver in its flight. Soon, though, the pilot had the craft under control and she swooped out over the waves, overshooting the armada, then executing a turn and sweeping back in.

In the meantime, one of the remaining sailing ships had been taken care of. Another ship, engulfed in flame and completely abandoned, had careened into it, the second ship having been unable to get out of its way in time. Not only had the impact ripped open both ships’ hulls, but both were now burning brightly.

The Tak-Saleed was completing its final run, but its pilot had been too intent on the spectacle below. Dybo shouted, "Look out!" but there was no way for anyone to hear him over the wind. He watched in horror as the rickety Saleed collided in midair with the Jal-Tetex. For a brief moment he thought they were going to just lightly touch, but no, the Saleed crumpled, its wings folding up into a corrugated mess, the wooden slats of its undercarriage snapping like twigs. For its part, the Telex’s left wing snapped off and began spiraling in toward the waves while the rest of the ship was pushed sideways through the air for several beats by the force of the impact with the Saleed. The Saleed had been carrying four bombs. Two dropped free of the ship, their amphora shape providing little air resistance as they fell. They hit the waves and simply kept on going down. Moments later, the two aircraft crashed into the water as well. Dybo dipped his head in silent prayer. Surely the two pilots were dead.

But no — a green form was slicing through the waves. One of them still lived; it looked like Quetik, the pilot of the Saleed. Her airship had impacted not far from the one intact Other ship, but Quetik wasn’t swimming toward it. Nearby was another ship whose decks showed sporadic fires but whose sails had not yet burst into flame; Quetik’s tail whipped through the water, propelling her toward that vessel.

Three Others on the intact ship tried to fire at her; the big cylinders couldn’t be aimed that fast, so they were using handheld tubes. Through the far-seer, Dybo saw Quetik gulp air, then dive beneath the waves. When he next caught sight of her, she was climbing up a rope ladder dangling over the side of the burning boat, a ladder its crew of Others had used to escape into the water. Moments later, she was on the deck.

Quetik used her jaws to chomp through a rope tying off a boom. The sail swung around, and the ship swung, too. She then found the massive tiller and threw her shoulder and back against it, pushing, pushing, steering the ship. The neighboring Other vessel, the only one in the harbor still intact, was desperately trying to turn as well, but its options were limited; the harbor was full of ships aflame. The fire on the deck of Quetik’s ship was spreading, and — there! — it leapt onto the sails. But the ship was moving under inertia and a good wind now, and Dybo watched as the inevitable collision played itself out, the burning ship ramming into the one remaining target vessel. Flame spread to the intact Other ship, and Dybo saw Quetik slump to the deck of the one she was on, perhaps overcome by fumes.

And then the air was ripped apart by another deafening blast. This last ship, too, had had holds full of blackpowder. The explosion tossed wooden boards and bodies high into the air. Quetik had completed her objective at the cost of her life.

The sun had set by now, but the harbor blazed more brightly than at high noon as the thirty hulks below continued to burn wildly. Ships had drifted into the wooden docks by now, and the docks, too, were aflame. The three Other ships that had fled earlier were sitting on the horizon; they’d have to be dealt with separately.

Surviving Others were straggling onto the rocky shore far below, but with no weapons they presented little threat to the twenty-five Quintaglios who had been waiting on the beach for them to arrive. Dybo left them to their business.

*30*

Pal-Cadool and several butchers were riding atop their running-beasts. That they were skilled in handling animals was clear: the runningbeasts were terrified of being crushed under the giant feet of the thunderbeasts, and yet they moved with precision, responding to the gentle tugs on their harnesses, the subtle proddings with heel spurs into their bellies, and their riders’ shouted instructions — shouted, because they had to be audible over the deafening footfalls of all those thunderbeasts.

The thunderbeasts hadn’t liked being driven at first, and Cadool’s team had lost several excellent members: slaps from massive tails had literally flattened them against the rocks, or sent them flying through the air, every bone in their bodies shattered when before they hit the ground. But eventually even animals as stupid as these realized that the riders had been driving them toward lush forests, filled with hamadaja trees, their favorite fodder. And now they accepted herding with reasonable passivity. Why, Cadool had lost only one handler so far today…

But, unlike the last several days, today the thunderbeasts were not being driven toward fresh trees. Cadool’s team was now riding in rough circles around the five giant animals whose heads were held dizzyingly high overhead, and whose tails were lifted so high off the ground that rider and runningbeast had no trouble galloping beneath the endless tubes of muscle and bone and flesh.

The thunderbeasts had an advantage that Cadool had forgotten in planning the drive. Although from the ground the next valley was invisible, from the vantage points of the thunderbeasts, whose eyes were held twenty times higher up than were Quintaglio orbs, they could plainly see over the low hills, and could see, and perhaps even smell, the vast tracts of succulent vegetation. Everything would be lost if they went that way.

Cadool was screaming at the lead thunderbeast, trying to get it to turn and go the other way. Two more riders were shouting out as well. Faster and faster they ran around the group of five beasts, hoping to draw their dull attention away from the nearby forest.

"Come on!" shouted Cadool. "This way! This way!"

At last the lead thunderbeast — the bull male of this herd — tipped its long neck down, the great expanse of it slicing through the air with an audible whoosh, and its head, about the size of Cadool’s torso, loomed in at ground level, coming up behind Cadool’s runner, and letting out a yell of its own. The sound reverberated as air was pumped through the tunnel of its throat. Its breath stunk of plants. But by the time it had come down to ground level, it had likely forgotten what it had been looking at a moment before. Cadool continued to ride in a circle, and the neck, an impossibly huge snake, sliced through the air to follow. The peg-like teeth could do little harm to anything except foliage, but Cadool’s mount plainly did not like having the thunderbeast’s head floating behind it. It bucked. Cadool moved his hands across the back of the runner’s skull, calming it. At last, the thunderbeast’s neck was pointing in the direction Cadool wanted the animal to go. He stopped circling and, with a cry of "Latark," headed out through the gully between two steeper hills. The bull male began to lumber on, and the others — three females and a juvenile male — fell in behind, although one of the females kept looking plaintively back at the vast tracts of uneaten treetops behind them.