War Wings

War Wings are gliders made of yak hide and wood. When the rider leaps from the airship he has no plans to return. He must fight his way onto the victim ship or spiral to the ground, riding thermals like a vulture. I sounded the alarm. Klaxon blared and lights flashed. They had seen us.

A warrior swooped down from the Mongol ship towards the Schöneluft. He drew his bow and loosed an arrow at us. “Too soon,” I thought, “you’re not close enough.” Strange thing to think; stupid of me. There was something odd about the arrow’s flight; the arc was wrong. Then it exploded, fiery shrapnel screaming into the envelope. I screamed a string of curses and leapt for Mein Herr’s rifle. I must have put the butt of it through the windowpane, for next I knew I had fired. The War Wing glided towards us still, as though its rider was alive. Then a current of air struck it sideways and it spun out of control, falling to earth like a broken deck chair heaved overboard. And that was it; I had killed a man.

Chef ran from the great room, yelling something in French. Useless, I thought. I scanned the sky for the next attack, opening the other tall side window so I would not be fool enough to break that one as well. Three more War Wings were soaring in. My first shot fell short. I did not want to let them get close enough to damage the envelope again. I waited, holding my breath. Bright yellow and red streamers whipped behind the frame of his gliding wing. I breathed out and squeezed the trigger. He fell. I aimed at the next man.

Chef ran back into the room.

“Les Grandmeres – zhe old ladies are patching zhe ship,” he gasped as he reached me, “Zhere is no fire, not yet.”

Not useless, then. I fired, missed, thanked him while I reloaded, and fired again. Missed! A Mongol arrow exploded, tearing into the envelope. I fired again – hit the blaggard at last and aimed for the third.

The great ship shuddered and the floor shifted beneath my feet. My shot went wild. I threw the rifle at Chef and pointed out the window. He took my place and began firing into the air. I’ve no idea if he was aiming or not.

I threw myself at the controls. Nothing responded. No lift, no balance weights, no ballast dump, nothing! We were lifting, though, and I couldn’t stop it. I slapped stupidly at the control panel for what seemed like minutes but was seconds, before the truth hit me.

“Gah! Damn you monkeys give me back my ship!” I lunged for the speaking tube, shouting incoherent demands in pieces of several languages. Still the airship rose. I scanned the sky again. Chef must have hit one of the attackers. One War Wing soared near, with five others newly launched behind him.

At last I saw the Boiler Chief’s plan. The War Wings were at the mercy of the winds. They could only chase the thermals. If we lift we may rise above their reach. Brilliant! Except … except that above the Wings is their master, the war ship of the Khan. How am I to fight that?

Nevertheless, the boiler room had seized control of the ship. The boiler chief had all our lives in his paws now, whatever was left of our lives. I grabbed my shotgun and ran to the hatch in the Schöneluft’s belly.