At first he fought this, but then he saw something on the view-board that caused him to stop. A clawlike object hanging in the sky not so far from him, a gondola dangling below on cables. The other airship was following, concerned about the state of its sister ship, no doubt.
"Good of them," Morlock remarked to no one. It was time to put his plan into action, clearly. He spun the wheel until the other airship was dead center in the view-board. Then he cranked the levers for the lens on the front of the barrel, until the impulse light striking the prow was as bright as it could be.
"What are you doing?" screamed the steersman.
It didn't seem to be a rhetorical question, so Morlock answered it. "I am going to ram that ship."
There was a dark bird perched in the shredded fabric of the airship. Her name, for that time/place, was Mercy. Near her, in the storm outside, was a dark indistinct cloud: a manifestation of Death.
"Nothing for you to do, on a night like this," Death signified.
"Or everything."
"I visualized that War would be manifest here."
"War enjoys experiencing the losing side of a conflict. He is savoring the outliers' suffering through his most direct manifestation."
"You have visualized this?"
"Yes. Also, he told me that he would."
Morlock's insight was sensitive enough that he felt their presence, though he did not see them or perceive their symbology. Their presence troubled him without his understanding it. But he didn't let it shake his intent.
Unfortunately, the other airship's crew seemed to realize he was intending to attack them. The ship swung around and fled before the wind.
Morlock was the worst sailor in the world. His former wife, who was possibly the best sailor in the world, often used to tease him about this. But even he knew that a stern chase was a long chase.
"God Avenger," swore Morlock.
Death and Mercy symbolically shielded themselves from the name of this alien god.
Morlock felt a brief respite, though he didn't understand why. He held his course, straight on the tail of the fleeing airship. If nothing else, he had broken the air attack on the outlier settlement. And there was still a chance he could ram the other airship. It all depended on what happened when they flew over the city.
The jagged rising outline of Wuruyaaria swelled on his view-board. Morlock's neck was sore from bending back and looking up, but he didn't want to take his eyes off the thing. If the other airship turned port or starboard it would have to strike against the course of the wind and would lose speed. That would be his chance to gain on it.
The other airship flew over the werewolf city without turning. Either its port was further north, or they didn't want to risk losing headway.
Mount Dhaarnaiarnon loomed beyond the mesas and cliffs of Wuruyaaria. The moon-clock did not show on the view-board, presumably because it wasn't relevant to navigation. But the ragged edge of the volcano's crater was unmistakable.
The other airship flew on into the rolling hills north of Mount Dhaarnaiarnon. Morlock was sure now that he had them running scared.
War manifested himself as a shadow in the shape of a sword. The other gods greeted him with polite symbology.
Morlock became more uneasy, though he did not know why.
The two airships flew on into the dying north. The storm behind them had faded. Even the gods were silent.
In the quiet, Morlock heard a voice speaking an angry command outside the airship.
The werewolf crew of the gondola were obviously making a bid to regain control of the airship.
Morlock coldly considered his options.
He could use the moonstone to attack the werewolves with impulse light. But he would lose speed that way; the other airship would have a chance to change course and escape. He didn't want that.
He examined the barrel containing the moonstone. He found, as he expected, that there were mirror-bright slats that could be used to cover the lenses.
With the moonstone entirely cocooned in mirrors, its impulse forces would be perfectly balanced. It would no more keep the ship aloft than an ordinary stone would.
Morlock dropped the mirror slats over the lenses. The great chamber of the airship went dark and seemed to deflate.
"No!" screamed the monstrous steersman in the sudden dark. "We'll all be killed!"
Morlock put his right shoulder against the barrel holding the moonstone and pushed. There was a long slow moment when nothing gave-then a splintering crack and the barrel fell off the platform to the floor of the great chamber.
Morlock jumped after it, not using the wings to slow his fall.
At that, his fall was almost too slow. The steersman had floundered around the platform's base and was doing something to the barrel.
Morlock drew his sword and stabbed the steersman several times. It fled, shrieking.
Morlock hooked his wooden glove onto a handhold on the barrel and clamped it tight. Then he stabbed with his sword at the fabric under his feet, sawing away at it.
Soon a jagged tear opened up. He sheathed his sword, pushed the barrel through the opening, and fell with it into the night.
The whole airship was sagging downward in the air; Morlock found himself suspended in midair between the collapsing airship and the gondola below. The cables around him were dense with distorted werewolf shapes, all screaming in anger or panic as they felt their craft failing.
Morlock flipped open one of the lens covers.
The impulse light from the moonstone dragged him, dangling from his wooden glove, away from the falling airship on a wild course into the empty night.
He tried to steady himself by grabbing the other side of the barrel with his right hand. But the radiant impulse light blinded him; he could see nothing in the darkness. One time he almost smashed into the ground, saving himself at the last moment by going into a sickening tumble. By pure chance he came out of it headed upward rather than downward.
He scrabbled desperately at the lens controls to try to diminish his speed, but the barrel was simply not intended to be dirigible by itself; he could not set a course, and every moment he held onto it he risked being smashed against the ground or some obstruction.
He released the clamp from his wooden glove. The barrel spun away, flashing into the darkness.
Morlock scrabbled to get his wooden glove fixed in the grip for his left wing, then gripped the other wing with his right hand. He went into a glide, found the horizon, aimed himself away from the ground, and started pumping his wings with arms and legs.
When he knew he was stable and some distance away from the ground, he looked around to take his bearings.
Not so very far away, he saw the other airship, coming around to the aid of its ruined sister. There was light coming from the ports of its gondola, but he didn't see archers or burning arrows. No doubt they were on the other side, looking out for survivors from the ship Morlock had destroyed. No one seemed to be looking his way.
He was tired, very tired. But he was not dead yet, and this seemed like too good a chance to pass up. He banked into an intercepting course.
The surviving airship was sinking slowly toward the ground. In the dark woodlands Morlock saw glimmers of fire: the ruin of the first ship's gondola, perhaps.
Morlock flew straight on without dropping. By the time he reached the surviving airship, he was just over its motive chamber. He landed atop it. Balancing carefully, he drew his glass sword and drove it deep into the fabric, and again, slashing with the bitter blade until the rift was large enough for him to enter.
This chamber was the twin to the other airship, right down to the distorted steersman on the moonstone platform. The steersman was aware of him, and swung the bright lens about to try and strike him with impulse light. But the carriage of the barrel was not designed to tilt so far. Morlock flew directly to the platform.