The Black King (Book 7) by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

the rain interfered with his ability to see below him. Blasse had grown silent too, aiming at the ship, his hands still shaking. Only Markos seemed to have any chance of hitting anything.
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “If we miss, there are others upstream who’ll get them.”
    Blasse nodded. He rested his elbows on the stone ledge before him, and that eased his shaking somewhat. Markos decided that was a good position, and did the same.
    The ship was moving into range.
    Other bird-Fey were flying above it, almost as if they were leading it forward, cawing and shouting. He couldn’t make out the words, not that he would have understood them if he did. He’d always made it a point not to learn the Fey’s cursed language.
    “How do we tell which one is him?” Blasse asked.
    Good question. For some reason no one had thought of it until now. And it was an important question too because they didn’t have that many arrows, and he didn’t know how long it would take before those Gull-Fey flew up to the bowl and tried to kill them.
    “Let’s shoot the guy who’s steering,” Markos said. “That’ll slow them down. If the half-breed is on the deck, the others’ll rush to protect him. If he’s not, he’ll come up fast and then we’ll get him.”
    Blasse nodded. They waited in silence for the ship to pull closer. Markos felt his stomach quiver, but his hands remained steady. The cry his father had made when they set fire to the house resounded in his memory. That and the laughter.
    The ship was in position.
    “All right,” Markos said. “Now.”
    He had the target in his sights. He pulled the arrow back and released it as Blasse did the same. They moved in unison, reaching behind their backs for another arrow from the quiver, threading it, and shooting before the first arrows had found their marks.
    They hadn’t needed the second shots. The first arrows both hit the Fey behind the wheel and he fell, startling those around him. Markos could hear the shouts echoing off the canyon walls. The few Fey lying oddly against the rail didn’t move—were they already dead?—but some of their supporters did.
    The men in the middle didn’t seem to move at all. But one, toward the front, looked up. He scanned the walls of the cliffs, and then his gaze stopped. The ship was directly below Markos when the man pointed to the hiding spot.
    Markos had another arrow lined up. So did Blasse.
    “That’s got to be him,” Markos said.
    “We have to be sure,” Blasse said.
    The bird-Fey were still moving forward but a few of the Fey on the ship had moved to the edge of the deck and were shouting at them, and waving their arms.
    “We don’t have time to be sure,” Markos said.
    And then it seemed as if God smiled on him. Two of the Fey grabbed the pointer’s arm and tried to pull him below deck.
    “You’re right,” Blasse said. “That’s him.”
    Together they aimed, and let their arrows fly.

 
     
     
     
    FIVE
     
     
    THE FIRST ARROWS killed the Captain. Gift had been standing beside Wave as one of the arrows went through his throat. The Navigators around him screamed and a few seemed to lose their concentration. Some of the Fey behind the Sailors ducked.
    Gift looked toward his left as two more arrows hit the deck. They had come from the cliffs. He scanned until he saw the bowl where his parents had negotiated the treaty that had united the Fey and the Islanders. He thought he saw movement.
    He pointed, and as he did, two Fey grabbed him, and tried to pull him backwards. He shook them off. The ship was out of control, heading toward the rocky shores.
    “You!” he said, shoving one of the people away from him. “Get the wheel. Get us on course.”
    “I don’t—”
    “Do it!”
    The man ran toward the wheel. The other was still holding Gift. He shoved the man away as more arrows flew, dangerously close.
    There was no way of telling how many archers stood above them.
    “We have to get this thing out of here,”