I do not own Storm Hawks, or Deltora Quest/shadowlands/dragons books by Emily Rodda.

CH 2

THE STRIKEFLIER

the Seven Hells-the seven levels of the Amihawkian afterlife in the spirit word. The worst of mortals are sent there, to different levels depending on the severity of the criminal acts they performed in life (acts necessary for sentence are-willing mass murder, practicing dark magic, sadistic killing.)

Ai-word in the Deltoran language that generally means, 'hey' 'hi,' 'look,' or can be simplified as a term just meant to attract attention.

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Brendon had never felt quite so ashamed before. There had been plenty of tricks played on him, courtesy of Lehvahk, mostly. But his mistake could cost them enough to plunge them into a dire money predicament.

The half blizzarian half dragon teen did the only thing he could think of and went back to the ship. His shirt and jeans were damp with sweat. Despite his current guilt, an image of the Strikeflier's air conditioning wound its way into his head.

He took off the hat covering his backswept white horns as he entered the ship. The half in half lineage thing had always been a sore point for him. Despite the heat, he'd decided to wear the hat.

Sighing in exasperation at Lehvahk's foolishness and his own failing, Brendon ran a hand through his hair, blonde streaked with brown, tied back in a simple tail. He needed someone to talk to, but his only option wasn't too great. Or one he would prefer.

Trying to loose dust from his gray fur, he walked wearily into the bridge. Just as the mage had figured, Takar was there, working on the vents with Scout in tow. The kerion was grumbling to himself, occasionally giving Scout an order. The dog sized lizard like creature scuttled off. The visorak soon returned with a wrench in his mouth.

Takar had always reminded Brendon strongly of a lion, with a shaggy mane such a dark brown it was nearly black, and partly covered his eyes. He had the broad feline muzzle and large pointed ears signature of Kerions. Lighter brown fur covered the rest of him. The black trench coat had always lended the pilot intimidating air, even when it was currently discarded as a result of the current heat. He was wearing his usual green t-shirt and gray pants and a leather belt and shoulder sash. Green rune circles glowed by the pilot's smaller repair gadgets, and occasionally Takar would summon one into his hand. His tail flicked in agitation as something sparked.

All of the team practiced some kind of magic. Fearon and Somra favored Combat Magic, the enhancement branch that made their own natural capabilities stronger, and granted them new ones through their weapons. Brendon was a mage, a spellcaster who used ice, fire and arcane to get things done. He much preferred it to getting up close and personal, since his bony build and lack of muscle didn't make for a good defense or offense. He wasn't entirely sure what Lehvahk used, but he'd done things that seemed too questionable to be normal. The only problem was neither Brendon, Lehvahk himself, or anyone else knew if it was some form of magic or dumb luck.

Takar's magic was the third branch of Combat Magic-controlling tech. The smaller it was, the farther away he could influence it. Enhancing the Strikeflier's engines and weaponry with his own power was another trick the pilot had pulled off. Granted, not much, since it seemed to be a draining cast.

Despite his notably strong abilities and skillful piloting, Takar had to be the most unfriendly person Brendon had ever met. He never seemed to want to carry out a conversation or meet their eyes. He constantly seemed to bear a brooding expression and was infamous for pessimistic comments. And Takar and Fearon had never seemed to get along very well at all, since a fight always tended to spark between them frequently.

It was usually Brendon himself or Somra who broke it up. He didn't enjoy it. Especially since Takar always gave him a look like he wanted to flay the mage alive afterward, and Brendon was never entirely sure he was safe from that. Takar seemed even more dangerous than Somra in her most ferocious mood swings, except he was like that all the time. Brendon didn't think he'd ever seen a genuine smile on the pilot's face.

Takar was an enigma. That was the best word the mage could think of. So was Fearon. They both seemed to keep secrets, and as two enigmas, one was always trying to pry the truth from the other. Such a thing always deteriorated into a fight.

At least on this ship.

Brendon sighed and slumped down onto the bridge's built in couch. It had never been the most comfortable thing-thinly padded, blockily rectangular. The bridge was generally ragtag, with glowing circuits showing in several spots by the controls, several handmade additions, and bent pipes. It reflected the age of the Strikeflier-the small airship carrier would be celebrating it's 212 th anniversary soon.

The ship was the only thing their pilot seemed to trust. He was remarkably dedicated to it. No one minded such vigilance when it came to maintenance. The Strikeflier was infamous and famous for several reasons-being the fastest airship on record, even now, and packing a unusual amount of firepower for being so small.

Then, of course, it had gone more than two centuries strong. The scholarly side of Brendon had always been fascinated by that.

Takar shut the vents, one on each side of the bridge door. He began to throw tools loosely into his toolbox. "What are you back here for? The books bore you already?"

Brendon shook his head and threw his hands into the air. "No! I'd never get tired of those. But, well…" Groaning, Brendon decided to confess. "Lehvahk took my share of the money. I think he stole it from me when I was reading…" he finished with a guilty sigh.

The pilot didn't react too much at first. He froze for several moments, then threw his tools back into storage with an audible clang.

The mage drew back with a slight flinch as Takar looked over his shoulder at him. The red eyes under the pilot's long bangs were blazing with anger and clear annoyance. "Why in the Seven Hells would you let your guard down around that bonehead?"

Brendon grimaced. He'd been mentally preparing for this. "Well, it's not like Lehvahk was supposed to be with me. I never imaged he could slip away from Somra or Fearon...especially not both of them."

Takar grunted, seeming to except the explanation. "Slippery little bastard loves to mess with us. Only one place he could have gone now."

Uncomfortably Brendon leaned away from Takar. His tone of voice had shifted to a lower, darker baritone. Standing and locking the access panel, Takar slowly paced in Brendon's direction.

He thought of standing up. But by then Takar had braced one hand on the back of the couch, above Brendon's own bony shoulder. He'd leaned close enough so that there was only a scant three inches between their noses.

Despite all that was logical in him, Brendon felt threatened by the look of dark humor in Takar's eyes. It was obvious that on some sadistic level, he was finding the whole thing pretty funny.

The pilot continued to talk. "He'd have gone to gamble. Most of our money-gone after his frivolous activities. And guess whose fault it will be."

Brendon gulped. "Mine?"

Abruptly Takar withdrew. He crossed his arms, his eyes hidden behind his hair again. The only way to read any emotion was Takar's posture. It looked somewhere between regretful and apologetic, although Brendon had absolutely no way to be sure. "I'd start devising what you'll say when the entire disaster is over."

Brendon groaned. The mage didn't like being blamed for things, no one did. But for the mage, the extra pressure tended to weigh him down more than necessary. It was more guilt to carry, even if only for a few days.

"Yeah...thanks for the pep talk."

The bridge door hissed open and closed, and Brendon was alone save for Scout. He sighed. Yep. Takar had definitely not lifted his spirits at all. He'd bogged them down with his odd and depressing antics-as Brendon had expected.

At least he had Scout. He smiled wanly as the visorak leaped up next to him. Then he began to pet the fire red creature, all the while trying to think of ways to let his error come across as less disastrous-and less embarrassing.

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Lehvahk was having the time of his life. The brown furred blizzarian had darted from slot machine to slot machine in the manner of a ping pong ball for the first few minutes, eagerly trying his luck. So far he had lost more money than gained, but he didn't care. The sharpshooter knew he never cold have gotten actual permission to come here and have some real fun. So the only real solution had been to slip the money away from Brendon. Just being in the Inn, wonderful architecture and aesthetics in all, made it worth it.

The strategist mage could be very oblivious to the world when around books. It had to come from being the nerdy time.

Then he came across a door. Lehvahk instantly stopped in place, leaning sideways to peer in. The brown furred Blizzarian's blue eyes brightened when he saw the polished game tables, laid out in a gorgeous room.

The ceiling was higher and longer than any other room he'd ever seen, at least forty feet high. Lehvahk could only guess the length-possibly something like sixty yards. Gold and silver star patterns inlaid the ceiling, rich brown beams supporting the indigo walls and lighter ceiling. The whole thing complimented the tables in a way that tempted the sniper even more.

He rubbed his hands together. Lehvahk dusted off his white shirt with the green skimmer logo, then waltzed in, hoping to look confident and sophisticated. He continued until he spotted a likely table.

The occupants looked fairly easy to trick to him. A hawktor, wiry and skinny like the desert trees outside, was one. The bird man was raking his sharp nails through his thin hair and the rangy crest of feathers atop his head. A grumpy looking felisar snarled, throwing down his cards. He said something illegible to the leader, a big varon with eyes of flint and a gray complexion. The varon flipped his greasy hair and snarled back with a rude gesture. The felisar's tail lashed, his ears flattening. The entire group was dressed in baggy, stained clothes and bore matching tattoos.

Any sane person would have seen that if the trio was tricked, it could end very badly for them when said trio found out. But Lehvahk didn't usually have a knack for being sensible, and he made no secret of it. The sharpshooter strutted up to the table, completely immune to the stares of the occupants-killer stares that should have warned him off.

Instead Lehvahk beamed at them, slapping his hands on the game table. "Who's ready to play?"

In his pocket he could feel the pack of cards. He was expert at this.

"Go fish," the hawktor muttered.

"You shouldn't have told him that, Lemming!"

"Well too bad, it's out!" Lemming cackled loudly. He fell backward off his chair and continued laughing on the floor. "Hehe! You're awful at keeping secrets, Cresy. So awful, even I could beat you at it!"

"Name's Crewfy, dolt!" the stone gray varon slammed his fist against the table. The cards shuddered in the aftermath of the miniature earthquake. "GET IT IN YOUR DAMNED HEAD, OR-"

"Well then, guess it's settled." Without further ado Lehvahk delivered himself into a chair, sniggering at the gray varon's name. Crewfy, seriously? What kind of name was that?

Lehvahk figured the dude's mom had been either very intoxicated or just crazy to name him that.

"Ai, who said you could invite yourself in?" the felisar hissed. His ragged fur was matted on one side of his face, and the glaring yellow eyes were more than a little bloodshot. "This is our game."

"One extra player adds to the fun, right?" the words rolled of the tongue like quicksilver. Congratulating himself for his wit, Lehvahk snatched himself a new pile of cards.

The first part of the game went much as he had planned it. The marksman would simply substitute a unfavorable card in a lightning quick grab from his pocket.

Yes, it was all going nicely. Until Scraggly Fur (Lehvahk had no better name for the felisar, since he hadn't heard his name mentioned) noticed his card trick.

"Now, now." Scraggly Fur rose slowly, grinning wide enough to show all his teeth. Lehvahk froze in place, realizing too late he hadn't hidden his bait and switch well enough.

Crewfy's eyes glowed with ghostly light. He rose until he was staring down at the now quivering sharpshooter.

No, Lehvahk just felt cold in here. He didn't tremble. That was a little kid thing to do. He kept telling himself that, even with the little smidgen of logic saying he couldn't be cold in a desert city casino.

He did the reasonable thing. Lehvahk made a fast as hell, calm retreat. His cards scattered behind him as he went, along with most of his money. He tossed a bottle of machine grease over his shoulder as he went. The liquid spilled into Crewfy's eyes as he lunged. The big varon ran into the table and crashed down atop it, fumbling to get up.

"GET BACK HERE!"

The bellow was enough to cut through the loud din of the Champion Inn. Then people began to yell and scatter as the two henchman tore through, their boss following with a face painting of machine grease.

The grease was a 'gift' so graciously donated by Takar. Or rather, Lehvahk had politely borrowed it. So what if the grouchy helmsman didn't know?

Lehvahk pushed and shoved as he ran. He charged into a group of tittering female humans, all wearing pink boas. Feathers flew everywhere along with purses, but Lehvahk was much more concerned with staying alive. He ran on with a few pink feathers sticking out from his hair. He heard a second commotion as Scraggly Fur, Lemming, and Crewfy passed the now very offended ladies.

Lured by the promise of sunlight, Lehvahk didn't realize where he was running until he found himself on a flat expanse of sand. A blast of fire and a opposing bolt of light made him yelp and run awkwardly through a cloud of steam. He realized belatedly that he had stumbled into a the middle of a battle between two people, a shaman and a druid respectively. Both parties drew up short at the unexpected presence of a fifteen year old blizzarian suddenly running into the middle of their fight.

Lehvahk made it to the edge amid the awkward silence. Then he hopped the low wall surrounding the arena and made a dash for a door marked, 'alley exit. Workers only.'

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Half hoping he had thrown his pursuers off, Lehvahk glanced over his shoulder.

Not so. His pursuers had clearly known were they were going better than he had. They had run around the edge of the arena, avoiding the battle completely. Roars rang out and attacks shot this way and that as the battle resumed. The sharpshooter paled at the sight of the approaching thugs and tried the doorknob.

It wouldn't open. Frantically Lehvahk did the only thing he could think of. He shot the lock with his handgun and barged through it.

Given better circumstances, he'd have picked the lock. But he was running for his life and the thugs had already gotten a mere ten feet away. One tiny handgun-small enough for his pocket-wasn't enough.

The dingy Rithmere alley had only three ways of escape-the long run to either the right or left end, or the single rickety fire escape.

Fire escape it was. There wasn't any time to get to either end of the alley, as proven by the pounding of feet coming closer.

Lehvahk had just made it up to the first landing of the fire escape when the door burst open a second time. A rush of air heralded the arrival of Lemming. The hawktor jumped and made a messy landing on the rail of the fire escape, causing Lehvahk to yelp and jump back, handgun already out.

Lemming already had a knife out. His sneering grin showed all the bird man's yellowed teeth. He inched toward the sharpshooter, a hungry look in his eye.

Lehvahk turned the handgun and banged Lemming on the head with the hilt. He just managed to keep his arm from being sliced open and jumped, grabbing the next landing. He hauled himself onto it just before Crewfy's fist closed around his leg.

Breathing hard, Lehvahk got to his feet. He could already see Lemming bracing to jump. His heart beat fast with terror.

Then a seeming miracle occurred. Lemming jerked with a howl, clutching his upper arm and a green blue blur shot past him. The attacker landed nimbly, whirling and catching Crewfy under the chin with a kick. A second lash sent him tumbling backward into a pile of old recycling.

Lehvahk felt like singing. The newcomer was Fearon, black hair long as ever and narrowed eyes glaring. One sword was out, the red tinge of blood on the serrated edge. He was radiating the aura that even Lehvahk shrunk from-a cold and ruthless one, like Fearon had become a living, deadly blizzard.

Lemming was still squawking and cursing. Dancing on the rail, he lunged at Fearon. The swordsman didn't even look behind him as he thrust a elbow back, hitting Lemming in the collarbone. In one swift grab he had yanked the dagger from the hawktor's hand. Then, with a almost casual ease, he nudged Lemming off the side of the fire escape.

There was a thud and even more cursing. Peering tentatively down, Lehvahk cracked up laughing at the sight of Lemming and Straggly Fur hopelessly tangled up on the dirty concrete of the alley.

"You little sword carrying b-" it was Crewfy again. And he sounded even angrier than when he'd first been cheated. Lehvahk wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing.

"Bastard? Yeah, you may well call me that." Fearon's tone was remarkably flat. "But you're one too, even more than me. And guess what, bastaredei?"

Fearon leaped down from the fire escape. He landed catlike, blade out to one side, and studied Crewfy with his orange-yellow eyes. "Hurting my friends is a very bad idea. Like...if you keep trying, a 'pay for it with blood,' kind of bad idea."

Crewfy seemed to be trembling. Lehvahk squinted down at him. He didn't just seem to be trembling-he was trembling. And the terrified anger in the big gray varon's twisted expression sealed the deal.

"F-fine," the gray varon grated out. "But I'll just fight you instead. I'm not scared of a little shrimp."

Crewfy drew his fist back.

Fearon only spoke three slow words I response. "You should be."

The cold tone was practically the embodiment of winter. The temperature in the muggy alley seemed to drop forty degrees. Crewfy didn't seem to notice.

He just continued to charge, face twisted in a scowl of mixed fear and anger.

Fearon banished all hampering thoughts from his mind. He focused solely on the vulnerable spots on his target. It didn't matter that he was bigger-Fearon was faster.

The swordsman dodged Crewfy's fist fast enough to become a streak of black, gray and blue-green. The thug's blow slammed into the fire escape rail, bending it enough to shatter the old iron. By that time Fearon had already made his move, drawing his sword and making a line of scarlet across Crewfy's chest.

The big varon drew up short in astonishment. He went slightly pale at the graze, shallow but bleeding steadily. "You-you-"

"I could have killed you. All it would have taken was a few more inches. And I have plenty of ways to make my strikes stronger through magic." Fearon gazed steadily back at the thug's terrified eyes, sword leaning on his shoulder. He knew very well he was in control of this situation now, even more than he had been a moment ago. He was aware, too, that both of Crewfy's lackeys were watching the proceedings from below, and Lehvahk from above. "I can go in there and find the person who runs the Champion Inn, and tell him you nearly strangled someone just because he upset you a little by cheating at cards."

Crewfy inched in the direction of the ladder. "Uh...ah uh. I think...no way am I staying near you! C'mon, boys, lets get away from this wackjob little bastard!"

Just like that Crewfy had rushed past him. He paused briefly at the entrance to the alley, and shouted back a seemingly random comment. As meaningless as it seemed, the words and tone sent shivers up the swordsman's spine. "By the way, you have quite the interesting shadow, Redskye."

The teenage varon felt his heart skip. How had the stranger known his last name?

And were his eyes turning silver?

Before Fearon could be sure of anything, the group of thugs bolted. Fearon stayed perfectly still, seeing them vanish with uncanny speed into the crowd and pondering why a seemingly normal being would have silver eyes...reminiscent of the gods.

With a grin Lehvahk scrambled back down the ladder to stand beside him. Fearon snapped out of his stupor and yanked Lehvahk back out of the alley and down to his skimmer by the arm. He didn't particularly want to hear any excuses just yet. He could sense Lehvahk was unnerved by his silence, but that was fine. It would help in making him realize his mistake.

Fearon twisted the skimmer handlebars of the biplane motorcycle hybrid vehicle. The engine roared as he shot out of the alley, launching the skimmer into flight mode.

Once they were soaring above the streets past the tall buildings, Lehvahk did speak. "Hehe...thanks for getting me out of trouble."

"Who says you aren't still in trouble?" Fearon replied caustically. From the stricken gulp behind him, it seemed the message had at least partially gotten through.

He heard Lehvahk grumble. Instead of bothering to talk more, Fearon let his mind wander some. Rithmere had provided him with some strange occurrences-the shop had been a stroke of luck, but the shadow, the silver eyed thugs-they didn't sit well with the leader. Somehow, he felt the things were going to come back at him.

And Fearon hated not being sure of how or when.