In the event, he found that he need not have worried. The Viviana had not long to live.
The first sign came that night.
Morlock was awake; Ambrosia was in trance. Deor had thought and thought and thought about what she had said to him earlier. So he nerved himself to stand up on his bench.
The moonslit snows below were bright as a skull’s teeth, ready to devour him if he fell.
He sneered at them and gently stepped onto the bench where Kelat was snoring. The boy didn’t waken.
Ambrosia was still sitting on the bench behind Kelat. Her closed eyes glowed eerily in trance. Even more eerily: she raised her right hand in greeting as he passed. Morlock couldn’t do that in rapture. If Noreê or Illion or any of the great seers of the Wardlands could do it, Deor had never seen it. But it was effortless for Ambrosia. He raised his own in reply.
“Excuse me,” he said gruffly, as he stepped past Morlock’s bench, and then he seated himself on the vacant bench behind Morlock.
Morlock was enjoying some dry bread, salted meat, and a mold-speckled slab of pale, crumbly cheese. He held his hands out to Deor, silently offering to share.
Deor took a piece off the moldy end of the cheese. They sat there, chewing and not talking. Deor enjoyed a good talk, but he had grown up among seven clans of dwarves whose notions of conversation more nearly approximated Morlock’s. And it was easeful to sit there, not saying anything because nothing needed to be said.
Then: something needed to be said.
Chariot shone brightly over the western horizon, and Horseman stood high overhead, eclipsed by Viviana’s bulk but adding its light to the world. Except for color, it was nearly as bright as day . . . and in this northern icescape there was little color to be seen.
So Deor saw quite clearly when a cloud of the fluttering things left the ice-forests below and arrowed toward low-flying Viviana.
“Morlock!” Deor shouted, and pointed.
Morlock looked, saw, stood. “Rouse Kelat and my sister, if you can.” He ran forward recklessly, drawing his sword as he went. He stood on the prow of the gondola, his sword, bright with reflected moonslight, in his right hand; his left hand grasped the rigging.
Deor followed with more cautious speed. His shout woke the already twitching Kelat. Deor turned to look at Ambrosia, wondering what to do. He feared to touch her, lest he be drawn into her vision. Also, he had to admit to himself, he simply feared to touch her.
She raised both her hands now. He took that to mean, Stop. I know what I’m doing. He didn’t doubt it. The Ambrosii always knew what they were doing. But they didn’t seem to ever know what the other was doing.
Deor turned to look outboard of Viviana’s gondola.
The flying things were nearer now, the nearest ones enough to see. They weren’t like birds—more like insects. They had great membranous wings that flapped so swiftly that they seemed to glow in the moonslight. Heads with many eyes, glittering like polished diamonds, turned on their narrow necks jerkily, as if moved by ill-made gears. Their long, curving bodies were filled with some dark sloshing fluid, clearly visible through the transparent chitinous plates they had for skin. They kept their long, spiny legs folded up over their great bellies, like self-satisfied club men after a good dinner. At the end of each broad tail was a long, glittering sting.
The foremost was heading straight for Morlock. Of course it was.
Deor watched, motionless, as the crystal beast arrowed in, swinging the fat weight of its body to direct the sting at Morlock. Then the dark fluid in its center seemed to boil, and a jet of it came out of the sting as it drove it to strike.
Morlock dodged the sting and its venom, if that’s what it was.
The dark fluid fell among the ropes. The ropes stiffened and shattered like glass.
Morlock slashed with Tyrfing and shattered the icy wing of the beast.
It tumbled away in the night, silent, strangely like Liyurriu, striking a few of its fellows and taking them with it as it went, but there were more, so many more.
Then all of Deor’s ancestors roared in his ears. He was a Theorn of Theorn clan, and his harven-kin was fighting for his life—for all their lives. So what if it was futile? So what if they all died? No dwarf lives forever.
He seized his axe and flourished it. “Ath, rokhlan!”
“Ath! Ath!” Morlock replied. He waved his sword at the moon in the west. “Khai, gradara!”
Deor leaped forward to stand beside Morlock on the prow, now swinging a little because of the shattered ropes.
Ambrosia spoke. “Ware impulse!” her toneless, entranced voice said.
Morlock and Deor had time to look at each other when the airship lurched forward.
They tumbled together back onto the empty bench at the front of the gondola.
There was a humming in the night: the Viviana’s propellers were spinning. Ambrosia was releasing the pent up energy of the impulse wells.
The cloud of icy insects was left behind, glittering in Viviana’s airy wake.
Deor, looking back, shook his free hand at them and shouted derisively.
Morlock tapped his shoulder and pointed ahead.
Another cloud of icy insects was rising to approach their prow.
“Gleh,” said Deor.
“Yes,” said Morlock. He jumped up on the bench and swarmed up a surviving rope using his feet and his left hand. As Deor watched, open-mouthed and uncomprehending, he swung Tyrfing with deadly force, shattering the keel of the airship and severing its fabric envelope. He climbed up onto the broken keel and slashed again and again. He shattered the glass furnace, scattering its long-burning maijarra coals among the ulken-cloth gasbags and the gondola. Gasbags were drifting away in the dark air.
“Deor! Kelat!” he called down. “Come on!”
Someone using Deor’s voice said, in a remarkably cool tone, “Come on and do what exactly, harven?”
“Grab a gasbag and ride it down to the ground.”
Of course. Of course. Deor looked about him sourly. Ambrosia was already swarming up the ropes. Kelat saw this and immediately followed suit.
The gondola was burning. The gasbags in the Viviana’s heart were afire. Ice-spewing crystal insects the color of moonslight were closing in on them from all sides. This was not the time to calmly discuss alternatives. If they had been just a little lower, Deor would have jumped, and to Canyon with the gasbags and Morlock’s kindly meant suggestion. But they were still high enough to kill a falling dwarf. Deor thrust the axe handle into his belt and climbed up the ropes. He grabbed the first gasbag he came across. (Was it a good one? How could he tell?) He kicked off from the Viviana and drifted away into the moonslit void.
He was the first away. Morlock was still busy hacking away at the airship’s shell. Ambrosia and Kelat were quarrelling about something. Irritably, Ambrosia seized a gasbag and drifted away from the dying airship. Kelat followed, gripping the seam of a gasbag with one hand, his sword with the other. Morlock at last grabbed a gasbag and kicked off.
The Viviana was now heeling badly, lit with internal fire in the bitter, night-blue air. Burning balloons were leaking from her wounded belly. The clouds of ice insects met her in midair and attacked.
Then, and only then, did Deor understand what Morlock had done. Abandoning the airship and scattering burning globes through the night air gave some cover for their escape.
Away from the glass furnace and the kindly tending of the seers, the bitter night air cooled Deor’s gasbag quickly. His descent became something more like a fall. Soon he let go of the balloon and tossed his axe well away from him so that he would not disembowel himself on impact. The bone-white ground leapt up at him, and he committed himself to the care of his ancestors.