A gust of wind came up from below, hurling snow into the engine room.
“Great time for rappelling,” Akstyr muttered, hooking a lantern over his arm.
He stuffed the ex-pilot’s pistol into his belt. He doubted he’d need it, but if he got lost, he might need to shoot it off so Books could find him.
After checking the knot securing his rope, Akstyr dropped the coil into the darkness. It bounced and wobbled in the wind. He tugged gloves on and slipped through the hatchway, taking the rope in both hands. Wind battered him, rocking him and spinning him in the air. He inched his way down, squinting against the sideways snow dashing at his eyes. Though glass protected the interior of his lantern, the whipping wind found cracks between the panes, and the tiny flame bobbed and flickered. With his hands occupied on the rope, Akstyr couldn’t do anything about it.
Relief flowed into him when the ground came into view. The feeling doubled in intensity when his boots rested upon it. A scattering of snow brightened the dark rocks, and flakes were starting to stick to the metal tracks. All that mattered to Akstyr was that he was in the right place. The ledge supporting him was only ten feet wide, so it wouldn’t take much to block the railway.
Coldness numbed his fingers, and shivers coursed through him, so he hurried to unpack the bundles of blasting sticks. He lifted the lantern and walked along the cliff, hunting for a crevice in which he could thrust the explosives.
A light winked at the edge of his vision.
“What the-” Akstyr lowered his lantern and scanned the darkness farther down the railway. He saw nothing but white snow swirling against a black backdrop. Maybe he’d been imagining things. Who could possibly be out there in the middle of the night?
No one, he thought, but he shuttered his lantern anyway and resumed his search by hand. Trying to hide was probably pointless-lights burned behind the portholes in the dirigible above him-but Akstyr felt safer without the lantern dangling from his arm like a beacon. Or a target.
He found a likely crevice and eased the first bundle of blasting sticks inside of it. A gun fired, and he almost dropped the second bundle.
Akstyr pressed his back against the cliff, sucking in his belly. He hadn’t heard the bullet slam into anything nearby, but that didn’t mean people weren’t shooting at him.
A dog bayed, its deep voice echoing from the cliffs.
“Hunters?” Akstyr wondered.
It seemed like a bizarre thing to do at night, especially in a snowstorm, but he’d heard that was when rural bumpkins went out to get raccoons. Maybe the dog’s owner didn’t care about Akstyr or the dirigible. Maybe the person hadn’t even seen him. Either way, hurrying seemed like a good idea.
When no second shot came, Akstyr knelt again, slipping the second bundle of blasting sticks into the crevice. He removed his gloves, double-checked the placement, then started unwinding the fuse.
The dog let out another undulating bay. Akstyr paused. Was it closer this time? The bays echoed from the cliff and mountain walls across the ravine, making it difficult to discern the source, but he had a feeling the hound and its master were on the trail up to the pass.
When the dog stopped to catch its breath or scratch a flea or whatever dogs did, a man’s voice sounded in the silence. Someone talking. Distance jumbled the words, and Akstyr couldn’t understand them, but another man responded.
Backpedaling, Akstyr strung out the fuse as quickly as he could. Another shot fired. This time it clanged off the rock face above his head. He dropped to his belly and tossed his raccoon-hunting theory into the ravine. These people were after him.
Another rifle cracked, though Akstyr didn’t hear the bullet hit anything. The men had to be guessing at his location and hoping to get lucky. Or maybe they were drunk.
The dog bayed again, closer this time. Its deep booming voice made it sound big. Very big.
Assuming the men had to reload, Akstyr scrambled to his feet again. He thought about using his own pistol, but he only had the one shot, and he couldn’t see the men in the darkness. He returned to reeling out the fuse.
Books had measured out over fifty feet of it when setting things up for Akstyr. With guns firing in his direction, it seemed more like five hundred feet. He dared not cut it short though, not when he had to climb to safety before the explosives went off.
Finally, he reached the end. He hated to expose himself by opening the shutter of the lantern, but he had no choice. He unfastened the clasp and thrust the end of the fuse into the flame.
A gun fired, and the lantern was ripped from his hands.
Akstyr stumbled backward onto his butt. He snarled, prepared to spew out every curse he knew, but the flame had caught. Orange sparks danced at the end of the fuse.
Akstyr leaped to his feet and sprinted toward the spot where he’d left the rope. The snow had picked up, and he couldn’t see it. He tripped over a rock. Cursed ancestors, he could barely see where he was going.
Another shot fired, the bullet whizzing past his ear.
“Quit shooting at me, you ball-licking street-kissers!” As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt stupid. He felt even stupider when laughter floated up the trail. And that cussed dog was getting closer too.
Hands outstretched, Akstyr forced himself to ease along at a less reckless pace. He swatted only air though. Where was that ancestors-blighted rope?
The dirigible, you idiot, he told himself, and looked up. There. A square of light stood out against the dark hull. The rope dangled down from the hatch, swaying with the wind and disappearing into the darkness, but he could guess its final position now.
Akstyr jogged toward it. Something clacked behind him-dog claws on granite. Snarls and snapping teeth sounded, mere feet away.
A huge, dark shape barreled out of the darkness and leaped for Akstyr. There was no time to grab his pistol and shoot it. He jumped to the side and kicked out. The dog twisted in the air and would have caught him with those snapping teeth, but his boot connected. It was enough to unbalance the animal, but the dog was still snarling when it landed behind him.
Akstyr sprinted the last ten feet and found the rope. Ice and snow caked the cold twine, making the grip slippery and biting into his bare hands. He climbed with mulish determination and dared not look down to check on the dog.
“What’d he do?” a man shouted.
Fool that he was, Akstyr stopped. He’d only climbed a few feet and was far from safe, but if they put out the fuse, then all this would have been a waste of time.
The two rifle slingers had stopped on the ledge, and one crouched, staring at the flame zipping along the fuse. Both men carried lanterns, so Akstyr could make out faces and clothing; but he didn’t recognize either person, and neither wore the uniform of a soldier beneath his parka. There was no time to stop and ask who they were. He tightened his grip on the ice-slick rope with his left hand and pulled out his pistol with his right.
A shape blurred out of the darkness toward him. The dog.
His first instinct was to shoot it, but he hesitated, thinking he needed to save the bullet for the man standing over his fuse. His hesitation cost him, and the dog reached him, jaws snapping. Akstyr tried to dodge aside, but he couldn’t maneuver while hanging from the rope. Sharp fangs pierced his calf, slicing through clothing to gouge into flesh and muscle. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but the weight of the dog, hanging from his leg, almost tore him from the rope. New pain erupted in his shoulder as opposing forces pulled at him. Determination to hang on surged through him, but, even so, his grip slipped, and he inched down the rope.