The Black King (Book 7) by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page A

Gift said. “Get those people off the deck. They need to help the Sailors. Make sure the Navigators are working—and all of you, call to the Gull Riders.”
    An arrow hit the man Gift had been yelling at. The tip protruded from the man’s stomach and he looked at it, stupidly, as if he couldn’t believe it was there. Then he fell to his knees, and watched the blood run with the rain across the deck.
    Arrows landed near Gift, and he suddenly realized he was the target. The man he had directed to the wheel was trying to turn it, but not doing a very good job. Gift hurried toward him, figuring that as long as he moved, he was not in any danger.
    Skya had come on deck. Gift cursed softly. He didn’t want her here. He hurried to her, put his arms around her, and pushed her toward the deck house.
    “They’ll kill you,” he said.
    She raised a single eyebrow. “Looks to me like someone is trying to kill you.”
    The man was still struggling with the wheel and the ship was losing momentum. If no one did anything, they’d be stuck here, easy targets for the archers above.
    Skya saw it too, and went for the wheel, but Gift held her back. “Wave died there.”
    “We’ll all die here if someone doesn’t do something.”
    Some of the Fey on deck were shouting for the Gull Riders. The Sailors were still in position, two of them with arrows in their backs.
    Gift shoved Skya toward the stairs. “Get the Nyeians. One of them can steer.”
    She started to protest, but he shoved harder. He went for the wheel himself, but the man shook his head. “I’m getting it!”
    The ship was listing to one side. A wave came up over the deck, washing the man with the arrow through his stomach overboard. One of the Fey women—a young one—screamed.
    Arrows were spraying the entire area around Gift. One of them hit a Navigator who collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
    Then Skya was back on deck. She grabbed Gift and flung him aside as if he weighed nothing. She held him underneath the overhang. “If you die, we all die. You’re staying here.”
    One of the Gull Riders landed, and skidded across the wet deck. He ended up near Gift’s feet.
    It was Ace.
    “Find them,” Gift said. “Find whoever is shooting those arrows. Who sent them. Why they’re here.”
    Ace nodded and flew off. Gift watched for a moment. The rain was coming in at an angle as the wind picked up. The drops were spattering his face, making it hard to see.
    They weren’t shooting any more. They were waiting for him to come out.
    On the deck at least a dozen Fey clutched wounds and moaned. A Nyeian came up the stairs at a run, saw the devastation and started down again.
    Gift grabbed him by his ruffled shirt.
    “You’re going to steer us out of here.”
    “There’s no steering,” the Nyeian said. “We’re sideways.”
    “Fix it.”
    “I’m not good—”
    Gift shoved him forward. The Nyeian stumbled, and then staggered toward the wheel. He moved the Fey who’d been trying to steer, glanced nervously at the cliffs, then used his scrawny arms to turn the wheel the other direction.
    Arrows rained down, one hitting the Nyeian. He fell back, screaming.
    “They’re not going to let us out of here,” Skya said.
    The Gull Riders were flying toward the cliffs. The arrows had stopped again. Apparently the archers were conserving ammunition.
    Gift knew how to resolve this, but he didn’t want to. It meant costing a life. But he had a shipload of people—and an entire country—to think about.
    “You!” he said to one of the Fey holding up a Sailor. It was a man, about his height. “Come here.”
    The man did. Gift pulled him into the deckhouse.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Rudolfo.”
    A young man, named in the Nye tradition. His lower lip was trembling.
    “Do you believe in the Empire?” Gift asked, the words sounding strange to him.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “We’re going to die if we stay here.”
    “I know that, sir.”
    “What are you doing?”