Siege and Storm (The Grisha 2)

Mal and I followed, stepping gingerly onto one of the craft’s curved hulls. We picked our way across it and descended to the central deck, where a sunken cockpit was nestled between two masts. Sturmhond leapt down after us, then swung up onto a raised platform behind the cockpit and took his place at the ship’s wheel.

“What is this thing?” I asked.

“I call her the Hummingbird,” he said, consulting some kind of chart that I couldn’t see, “though I’m thinking of renaming her the Firebird. ” I drew in a sharp breath, but Sturmhond just grinned and ordered, “Cut anchor and release!”

Tamar and Tolya unhitched the knots of the grapples that held us to the Volkvolny. I saw the anchor line slither like a live snake over the Hummingbird’s stern, the end slipping silently into the sea. I would have thought we’d need an anchor when we made port, but I supposed Sturmhond knew what he was doing.

“Make sail,” called Sturmhond.

The sails unfurled. Though the Hummingbird’s masts were considerably shorter than those aboard the schooner, its double sails were huge, rectangular things, and required two crewmen each to maneuver them into position.

A light breeze caught the canvas, and we pulled farther from the Volkvolny. I looked up and saw Sturmhond watching the schooner slip away. I couldn’t see his face, but I had the distinct sense that he was saying goodbye. He shook himself, then called out, “Squallers!”

A Grisha was positioned in each hull. They raised their arms, and wind billowed around us, filling the sails. Sturmhond adjusted our course and called for more speed. The Squallers obliged, and the strange little boat leapt forward.

“Take these,” said Sturmhond. He dropped a pair of goggles into my lap and tossed another pair to Mal. They looked similar to those worn by Fabrikators in the workshops of the Little Palace. I glanced around. All of the crew seemed to be wearing them, along with Sturmhond. We pulled them over our heads.

I was grateful for them seconds later, when Sturmhond called for yet more speed. The sails rattled in the rigging above us, and I felt a twinge of nervousness. Why was he in such a hurry?

The Hummingbird sped over the water, its shallow double hulls skating from wave to wave, barely seeming to touch the surface of the sea. I held tight to my seat, my stomach floating upward with every jounce.

“All right, Squallers,” commanded Sturmhond, “take us up. Sailors to wings, on my count. ”

I turned to Mal. “What does that mean, ‘take us up’?”

“Five!” shouted Sturmhond.

The crewmen started to move counterclockwise, pulling on the lines.

“Four!”

&n

bsp; The Squallers spread their hands wider.

“Three!”

A boom lifted between the two masts, the sails gliding along its length.

“Two!”

“Heave!” cried the sailors. The Squallers lifted their arms in a massive swoop.

“One!” yelled Sturmhond.

The sails billowed up and out, snapping into place high above the deck like two gigantic wings. My stomach lurched, and the unthinkable happened: The Hummingbird took flight.

I gripped my seat, mumbling old prayers under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut as the wind buffeted my face and we rose into the night sky.

Sturmhond was laughing like a loon. The Squallers were calling out to each other in a volley, making sure they kept the updraft steady. I thought my heart would pound right through my chest.

Oh, Saints, I thought queasily. This can’t be happening.

“Alina,” Mal yelled over the rush of the wind.

“What?” I forced the word through tightly clenched lips.

“Alina, open your eyes. You’ve got to see this. ”

I gave a terse shake of my head. That was exactly what I did not need to do.

Mal’s hand slid into mine, taking hold of my frozen fingers. “Just try it. ”

I took a trembling breath and forced my lids open. We were surrounded by stars. Above us, white canvas stretched in two broad arcs, like the taut curves of an archer’s bow.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself from craning my neck over the cockpit’s edge. The roar of the wind was deafening. Below—far below—the moonlit waves rippled like the bright scales of a slow-moving serpent. If we fell, I knew we would shatter on its back.

A little laugh, somewhere between elation and hysteria, burbled out of me. We were flying. Flying.

Mal squeezed my hand and gave an exultant shout.

“This is impossible!” I yelled.

Sturmhond whooped. “When people say impossible, they usually mean improbable. ” With the moonlight gleaming off the lenses of his goggles and his greatcoat billowing around him, he looked like a complete madman.

I tried to breathe. The wind was holding steady. The Squallers and the crew seemed focused, but calm. Slowly, very slowly, the knot in my chest loosened, and I began to relax.

“Where did this thing come from?” I shouted up to Sturmhond.

“I designed her. I built her. And I crashed a few prototypes. ”

I swallowed hard. Crash was the last word I wanted to hear.

Mal leaned over the lip of the cockpit, trying to get a better view of the gigantic guns positioned at the foremost points of the hulls.

“Those guns,” he said. “They have multiple barrels. ”

“And they’re gravity fed. No need to stop to reload. They fire two hundred rounds per minute. ”

“That’s—”

“Impossible? The only problem is overheating, but it isn’t so bad on this model. I have a Zemeni gunsmith trying to work out the flaws. Barbaric little bastards, but they know their way around a gun. The aft seats rotate so you can shoot from any angle. ”

“And fire down on the enemy,” Mal shouted almost giddily. “If Ravka had a fleet of these—”