This is a fan translation of Cold Shores (Холодные берега) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy author Sergei Lukyanenko. The novel is the first in the Seekers of the Sky (Искатели неба) duology.

Chapter 4

In Which I Decide Which Death Is More Fun, But I Don't Like Any of Them

If only the Gray Vests weren't here. We'd leave into the hills, and no guards would have time to get to where the flare had been fired. But now… it was like hiding in a far corner during a fire in order to get fried a little later.

If there was a fire, it was time to run. Even if you had to run through the fire, as long as it didn't get bigger.

I pulled off a thick green jacket from the guard and put it on instead of mine. I found nothing useful in the pockets. Mark's search of the other guard revealed three small copper coins and another flare. No food, no map… then again, why would they have a map, they'd been living on the Isles for years and knew every nook and cranny.

We didn't take the lantern, dousing it instead so as to not make our enemies' job easier. I commanded, "Let's go. Enough dawdling."

Mark looked at me in askance. I sighed, "No, not into the mountains. We're going to the port. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"To a ship?"

"Let's go, we have no time to argue!"

I had a rough idea how the guards had set up their posts. Just in case, I assumed the worst-case scenario: when officers were running around and foaming at the mouth, the commandant was slapping everyone left and right, and sergeants were kicking their soldiers' behinds to move faster. The grid would be a dense one, but not enough to keep us from sneaking past. It would be nice to notice another post, so that we walked calmer…

We moved away for about a hundred meters when boots pounded past us while we were hiding in an alley. Four men were running, fortunately without a dog, two of which were holding lanterns, whose bright beams were sweeping the ruins. I approximated the direction, the time, and we turned right. Just in time, as we just barely managed to avoid another squad. These did have a dog. Fortunately, their excitement had been transferred to the dog, so it didn't smell us.

It was about to get difficult. When they found the bodies, they'd go berserk. We had managed to get out from the most dangerous area, and the snare had closed on empty. Lights were visible in windows here and there. At least no one was walking the streets, everyone was hiding behind thick doors… fearful of escaped convicts. Meaning us. I kept glancing at Mark. In the dim light, his face looked pale, but his lips were pressed firmly, and his eyes were alive. He was holding himself up well. I decided that there was no need to worry about him too much.

We were almost at the port, when flares soared up with a screech from the outskirts. Three red ones, then a yellow, and another red.

"They're using the military code," I whispered to the boy. "Means, 'Patrol lost, enemy not found'."

Mark said nothing.

"Wait here," I told him. "If you hear noise… well, noise is fine. But if ten minutes pass after the noise, and I'm not here, then leave. Go anywhere you want, may the Sister help you. I'll resist for a little bit, but then I'll tell them everything, sorry."

The boy nodded, and I continued on my own. He had a good hiding place, behind thick columns that supported a semicircular balcony, in complete darkness. They wouldn't bother searching there and wouldn't see him by accident.

I was planning on finding a ship that was about to leave port and figure out how to get to it. Our only hope was to hide in the hold and come out at sea. Maybe then we'd be able to make a deal with the captain. I had a stash on the mainland, keeping it for a rainy day, but there was no rainier day than this.

Except all of my hopes crashed and burned once I got to the waterfront and looked at the port. My heart dropped down to my heels and beads of sweat appeared on my forehead.

The entire port was surrounded by bright lights. They'd placed carbide lanterns right on the ground, with two soldiers sitting at each one, plus several patrols were walking around. The ships in the harbor had extended their ropes to their full lengths, and were also illuminated, like on the House ruler's naming day, and the sailors were all on deck.

They weren't hiding in the least. They hadn't surrounded the port to catch us. They knew that a tiny fish could find a big enough hole in any net. They were scaring us away from the port. Giving us a clear signal: don't come close, it won't work.

"Patron Sister…" I whispered. "Why do you punish me so? Am I the worst person in the world? Do I not honor the testaments?"

The Sister remained silent. Either she didn't want to help or couldn't. As the saying went, the Sister helped everyone, but some were helped more than others.

It seemed that I was now one of the latter.

Two dozen crazy plans appeared in my mind over the next minute, but all of them turned out to be insufficiently crazy. There was no way to slip past. None. I couldn't crawl on the ropes, couldn't swim along the shore, couldn't pass by wearing civilian or guard clothes.

It was the end.

There was no way to get to port, and tomorrow a ship of the line would enter port… and the fun would begin. The highborn would step onto the shore in their vests made from gray metal that could even resist bullets, get their horses out, which were used to mountain and swamp terrain. They'd force all the locals out of their homes and would comb the island with dogs…

Groaning a little, I went back. What was going on? Why such commotion, such fervor? And why was the commandant prepared to give up the glory of our capture as long as someone got us? As if this was about keeping his head instead of honors.

Mark was waiting for me under the balcony. He took a silent step towards me, grabbed my hand, and pressed against me for a moment. I felt his pounding heart. He'd been worrying.

"Not good," I said honestly. "The port is surrounded, we can't pass. There are as many guards as there are fleas on a dog. Plenty of dogs too… We're done, Mark. I guess we shouldn't have made waves… people can live in the mines too."

"What if we hide in a house?" Mark asked.

"A delay. Nothing more than a delay."

We were standing in the darkness, pressing our heads together and whispering. Two unlucky fugitives who'd managed to get their hands bloody in the meantime.

It was time to feel sorry for ourselves.

"It's fine, Ilmar won't be taken so easily," I said, not even to Mark, to myself.

"Are there many soldiers in the port?"

"Very many."

"And the city's surrounded?"

"Tightly."

"Then who's at the fort?"

I peered into the boy's eyes. They were angry and stubborn.

"I have no idea if there are gliders here. Especially long-distance ones."

"There's at least one. How else would the garrison have learned who I am?"

Closing my eyes, I tried to remember whether I'd seen a fast military clipper in the water. I didn't think so. This meant no one could've caught up to us by sea.

"There's a fairy tale about a fox hiding from a dog in its kennel. Even if there's no glider there, we can still hide in the fort. They won't bother looking for us there."

This was so insane that I liked it.

"In fairy tales, people climb to the sky on a beanstalk!" I grunted.

But out of everything we could do, the fort seemed to be our only chance. Even if a tiny one.

"Let's hope we make it there by sunrise," I said. "How's the leg?"

"It hurts, but not too much. Don't worry, Ilmar, I won't slow us down. I can run if I have to."

"You'll fly if I need you to."

I gave up.

Maybe once the fort had been an unassailable fortress. Ushakov Pasha himself besieged the Isles, and a real battle took place here. But now that the fort had no need to fear a siege, so only walls along two sides remained, and the rest had been torn down for easier development; it simply served as a huge stone barracks for three hundred guards. And now, when almost all of them were running around the city and guarding the port, it was ridiculously easy to get inside.

There was, of course, a post on the road that led to the cliffs. Three recruits were sitting in a circle of light produced by a lantern and playing cards. My eyes shot up from such carelessness. Were they also trying to scare us off, just like at the port?

We went past them easily, on a steep slope overgrown with honeysuckle. An even breeze was blowing, the bushes were rustling so loudly that we could've ridden past on horseback without hiding. We again came out onto the road, which was well made, stone, wide. And then I was struck by doubt. A post wasn't a patrol, it didn't need a dog. The dogs were running around the island. That I understood. But why such sloppiness, during an alert, right under their superiors' noses? I left Mark alone once more and went ahead.

Right. There was another post. Two soldiers and an officer — I saw the glint of a slug-thrower's barrel in the darkness. I spent half an hour watching them, the sky was already beginning to brighten, until I was certain I could get past them too. They relaxed by morning and even started to nod off. I went back to get Mark, and we quietly snuck past the sentries.

What time was it? Probably five in the morning. We had another good hour, thanks to the sky being covered in storm clouds. And then it would be over. Sunrise, soldiers would begin to return to the barracks, and then we'd be caught.

"The glider pad is behind the wall," I whispered to Mark. "Let's see if we can find something, then we'll look for a place to hide. Maybe we'll manage to steal some food…"

Mark wasn't listening. He was looking at a fork in the road: one path led to the fort itself, to the barracks and the commandant's house; the other ran to the even pad on a cliff where gliders landed. He was as tense as a guitar string. The kid wouldn't last long like this.

Then again, I wasn't made of iron either.

"Let's try it, Ilmar," he said quietly. "I swear, I'll be able to get the glider in the air."

"And land?"

"I have to."

I hadn't decided anything yet. Hiding in the fort was madness, but it was the right kind of madness, totally appropriate for Ilmar the Slick. But to trust a boy promising to lift off in a glider, I'd never be able to drink that much.

But why not look for a hiding spot on the glider pad?

"Let's go."

There were no posts anymore. It seemed they really were all in the city, since they weren't protecting a place like this.

Then again, why bother guarding gliders? Who could control them but highborn flyers?

The pad was big, taking up as much space as the fort itself. And they'd put a lot of effort into it, as the rock was more even here than in front of a count's palace. I couldn't feel my own feet, it was like I was walking on ice. Except, unlike ice, my soles were sliding, the stone was even but rough. How many convicts had been cursing their fate while poking at the granite with a pick and a crowbar, crawling around on all fours, polishing and smoothing?.. There were a few buildings at the edge of the pad, closer to the fort. We gave them a wide berth.

There really were gliders here. Three of them. Two smaller ones, covered by tarps, and one big one without a tarp. Mark immediately pulled me towards that one, and I followed obediently. I was curious… even if I was going to die, I'd like to take a look at one of the greatest marvels in the world.

The glider looked like a bird. A huge bird that had spread its wings and then froze, unwilling to take flight. I was getting timider with each step. It seemed that the giant body was about to shudder, turn the sharp beak of the cockpit towards us, and produce a mocking screech. I didn't even notice that I'd started whispering a prayer to the Redeemer, repenting all my sins and promising offerings.

Mark was moving forward.

I calmed down a little only right next to the glider. It was no more alive than an ox cart. The wings turned out to be made of wood, thin crisscrossing planks, covered by thick glossy, as if waxed, fabric. All that was painted by big bright aquilas and other emblems. In front was a small glass cockpit. The tall forked tail was also made of wood and fabric, all that was quivering in the wind and producing a thin, plaintive wail. A long tube, gripped by gray metal rings, was attached under the cockpit. The glider was being held by thick ropes, otherwise it would've rolled off the edge of the cliff on its small wheel long ago.

"Long-distance," Mark said. "It's a long-distance glider. That's how they found out, Ilmar. I told you they were going to send a glider after us… we got lucky, our ship beat it here."

"The Sister must like you." I felt I had to say something right and lacking in mysticism. To rid myself of this irrational fear of the glider.

The boy was already climbing into the cockpit. I peered inside and saw two wooden seats, so flimsy I had no idea how they hadn't broken yet, and some kind of levers, pedals, and pull ropes in front of the forward seat. There were several dials on the board: a mechanical clock, something that looked like a barometer, a compass, and something else. The hands and numbers on the dials were covered in phosphorus and were glowing mysteriously. Everything was glazed, only the ceiling was made of tightly stretched fabric, but it also had a small window in a wooden frame.

Mark sat in the chair and looked around. Then he reached into the Cold and handed me the lighter.

"Give me a light, Ilmar. Just be careful, the glider burns like a match."

I did as he asked. The lighter heated up quickly, the silver burned my fingers, but I ignored the pain. Mark was examining the controls carefully.

"Put it out," he said finally.

He leaned back in the seat, which was actually comfortable due to his short stature, and sighed.

"I can try. Getting cold feet, Ilmar?"

I finally began to realize that the kid was being serious. He really was planning on lifting the glider into the air and flying to the mainland.

Sister, talk some sense into the fool! From here to the mainland! Over the sea! Not even every flyer could manage that!

"Ask me that again when it's time to dry my pants!"

Why had I said that? I ought to slap Mark upside the head and go look for a hiding place!

"Then give me some more light."

I obeyed, even though the lighter was still hot. In the meantime, Mark reached under the seat. After searching for something these, he shook his head. He bent back and searched the other seat. He looked under the dial board, while I moved the lighter to stay with his face.

"No charts," Mark said quietly. "That's a problem. No charts and…"

He stared at the control board. I followed his gaze.

Dials, levers… A round hole with two steel pins sticking out of it.

"And no fuse…" Mark added wearily.

"No flying."

"Not to the mainland, no."

"Then let's go, now!"

"Hold on."

Mark slipped out of the cockpit. He threw a hopeless glance at the other gliders and shook his head. Then his gaze became hard again.

"We need a flyer. Let's go, Ilmar."

A flyer?

That I did like.

No, I didn't trust Mark, he couldn't fly a glider. But if I placed the knife at a real flyer's throat and make a firm demand…

"Dawn is breaking," I reminded him. "Going to the fort—"

"A flyer wouldn't go far from his machine. We should look in those houses."

Yeah, right, a machine! Pieces of wood and canvas. I'd seen real machines: a steam pump that evacuated water from a mine, an arms factory's main machine with a hundred belts that turned tools.

Now those were machines. A boiler the size of a carriage. A dozen stokers feeding it coal. Roaring steam, spinning wheels. Bronze connecting rods moving, glistening with oil.

But the glider, even though I wasn't superstitious, the thing looked more like witchcraft…

And yet I was obediently following Mark. He had a good head on his shoulders, and right now his naïve bravery was more useful than my caution.

Two of the structures were without any windows, large enough to fit a glider. Mark walked past them without even giving them a glance. The third one was just a house, neat but small. Maybe for the service personnel, or maybe for the guards. Would a highborn flyer really spend a night in a place like this? He'd likely take the best room in the fort, kicking the commandant out of his own bed…

Mark pulled on the door and looked at me helplessly. Right, kid. Locked?

I reached out a hand. He gave me the dagger without a word, getting the lighter in return.

"Light," I whispered.

Now it was Mark's turn to illuminate, while I worked. The lock was cheap and simple. I turned the mechanism without even knocking out the key sticking out from the inside. I tugged on the door and realized there was also a latch.

The latch wouldn't give. And there was no slit to shift it with the blade.

"No way?" Mark asked with just his lips.

"Why does a man have a head?" I asked just as quietly.

"To work less with his hands."

"What about the hands? So as not to think where you shouldn't…"

I took five steps back and gave the house another once-over.

No, there was no way this place had a strong latch. No one could've expected this house to be able to survive a siege.

Getting a running start, I struck the door with my shoulder. Rolling inside, I leapt to my feet. Mark, clever boy, ran inside to provide illumination. An ordinary person wouldn't find any use from such a tiny tongue of flame, while I was able to make out cabinets, a rough-looking bench, a tub of water, and a second door. I kicked the door, and it flew open.

Someone was definitely living in that room. I heard rustling and a frightened yelp. Mark was already looking in behind me. I felt the movement more than I saw it, leapt, pressed down with my weight, felt for the throat, and pressed the dagger to the skin. The person froze in fear. It really was frightening to wake up with a knife at one's throat.

"Find the lamp!" I shouted. Mark dashed around the room, the lighter went out. He yelped after running into something. "On the table!" I added in a calmer voice. The room clearly had no one else in it, so a few extra seconds wouldn't make a difference.

Finally there was the sound of dinging glass, then a wick hissed as it lit. It was a kerosene lamp, not a carbide one…

I looked at my prisoner.

Damn!

It was a young girl, not a flyer.

Groaning in annoyance, I removed the knife and sat on the edge of the bed. The girl pressed herself against a wall, pulling the bedsheet up to her chin. She was pretty. Blonde, with a fashionable Russian-style braid, white skin shining on her soft bare shoulder.

"Don't be afraid," I said. I glanced at Mark, who was staring at the girl, clearly enchanted. "No luck, kid."

The girl sobbed.

"Where's the flyer?" I asked sternly but without any roughness.

"He went to the fort… got summoned by the commandant…"

She had a pleasant voice. A hussy, but one not yet used up, still fresh and seductive. Didn't smoke or sleep with soldiers. The commandant must have tried really hard to please a highborn flyer.

"How long ago?"

"Not long… there was a noise…" She sobbed. "Don't kill me, kind people, by the Redeemer, don't kill me. I'll make you both feel good, I know how…"

"Thanks for the kind words." I smiled gloomily. "When your head is in a noose, you don't really think about fun. Quit whining, I won't hurt you."

Mark finally pulled himself away from staring at her bare shoulder and started walking the room, as if sniffing something out. He peered into the wardrobe, then dashed over to the couch by the wall and lifted blue rags in his hands.

"Ilmar, a uniform!"

"Right." This time my smile wasn't peaceful in the least. "So, has the flyer gone to see the commandant in his birthday suit?"

"He threw on his cloak…"

The girl burst into tears as much as Mark the previous day. Kids and women always had wet eyes…

"Ilmar, take a look," Mark said very calmly.

I didn't figure it out immediately. And when I did, I had to blink a few times before I believed it.

"Listen here, girl," I asked. "Does your flyer wear a skirt?"

It was as if I'd been struck by a flail!

I hadn't even noticed the girl swing her fist at me from under the bedsheet. Such strength… such skill… I flew back two meters from the bed. I was lying on the floor, although I hadn't dropped the dagger, and couldn't get up.

And the young woman—I couldn't in good conscience call her a girl anymore, as the pain was too great—was standing at the foot of the bed. Naked, beautiful, and quick, as if she hadn't just been sleeping. One glance at me, and she dashed over to Mark. The boy was frozen in place, probably staring; he must not have seen naked women before. He was going to get it now. Except such a blow would likely knock him out…

Mark slipped away. At the last moment, as nimbly as the woman. He swung the skirt, threw it onto her head, and jumped away to the wall. The woman flew into the window, miraculously not breaking the glass. A moment later both were standing in strange positions, and both looked funny doing it: I'd never seen a child who knew Russian Abo before, and a naked woman in the "cocky rooster" stance was just hilarious.

"Don't resist, boy," the girl said through gritted teeth. "You won't get away."

He said nothing, either saving his breath or trying to catch her move.

I shook myself off and started to get up.

"Haven't had enough yet?" the woman asked without turning. "Relax, thief, we're not hunting you."

Maybe not, I believed that now. Except when hunters were chasing a bear, a random fox wouldn't be left behind either.

"Face against the wall and spread your legs," I said. "Don't worry, I won't screw you… I'm not even going to hit you."

I got what I wanted. She turned to face me and went on the attack. Such fury! Like one of those southern savages that mud wrestled at the circus… except her fighting was much scarier. Russian Abo was a nasty thing, since it had been invented to kill, not for self-defense.

That was what I'd been thinking when I was egging her on. Getting hit by a good Abo blow could be fatal. But catching an Abo practitioner on the offense was immensely satisfying.

She ran into my fist; I had longer arms, and the Patron had granted me plenty of agility. I followed that up with a full set of moves, from a sweep below the knee to a groin strike. Obviously, it had been meant for a man, except she felt it too.

Forgive me, Sister, but I'm sure you can see that this is a wild beast, not a woman!

I sat on her stomach, as if I was planning on raping her, pressed her down tightly, and said to Mark, "Throw her rags here. Just check the pockets first."

The boy obeyed. I peered into the woman's face, then nodded in satisfaction. All the certainty was gone from them.

Had she really believed that she could beat a man in a straight-up fight?

"Get dressed… flyer," I said, getting up. Quickly, before she came to her senses and got me with the same blow I'd struck her with. "Don't disgrace yourself in front of the boy."

Mark grinned. He was still excited from the fight, but his eyes kept darting over to the naked body.

"And you turn around," I told him. "No need to shame the girl, you're not a murderer…"

"As if there's something I haven't seen there," Mark bit back, but he did turn to face the window. The glass reflected everything, but I didn't argue. The girl was far too dangerous and needed to be watched constantly.

Sobbing—she was starting up that old thing again, except I was wise to it now—the girl got to her feet. She looked me in the eye, "You turn away too!"

I burst out laughing, and she started getting dressed without another word. Her feminine charms were the last thing on my mind right now. Many got caught with girls, especially immediately after escaping from a labor camp. They lost their minds and were prepared to force themselves on the girls, or to steal as much as they could in order to make enough to get a girl.

"We need something from you, flyer," I said. "If you give it to us, we'll tie you up but leave you alone. If not… then I'm sorry, but you won't be able to handle the pain anyway."

She was silent, fastening her sky-blue tunic. Flyer uniform was like parade clothes. Blue silk, copper buttons, white lace fringes. Even the warm stockings matched, made of white and blue fur. The insignia on the uniform was unfamiliar, flyer-style, shaped like silver birds. It probably looked far too pompous on men, but it suited her just fine.

"We need a chart," I went on. "You know which one. And also… a fuse."

Marked turned around and nodded.

"So what?" the girl said calmly. With her clothes on, she had her confidence back. Maybe we ought to have kept her naked to keep her off-balance…

"Think about it, my heavenly friend." I walked up and grabbed her hand tightly. "Don't even think about fighting, or I'll break your arms. And quit arguing. Give us the chart and the fuse."

The girl chuckled scornfully.

"What's your name?" Mark asked sharply. Again using the same tone of voice as with the guards.

She jerked and answered without much enthusiasm, "Helen."

"Roman?" I asked just in case. As if a highborn flyer could have kept her old roots. "Well then, Helen, you don't have a choice. Do what I'm telling you, and you'll live."

"Life without honor is worse than death."

"True. Except dishonoring you wouldn't take long."

Helen shrugged. She was standing with her back straight, like a true lady before a guilty servant. Except she had to be hurting everywhere.

"Having a yard dog crap on you isn't shame. Shame is wiping the dog's behind."

"Is that so?" I was getting angry. "We're just yard dogs to you? You're about to find out why dogs have teeth…"

"Ilmar…"

Mark walked up to us and shook his head, "She's hiding the charts and the fuse on her Word. She's not going to give them to us. Flyers are taught to handle any pain… look at her shoulders, there should be marks from needles."

Helen flashes her eyes in anger.

"So what do we do, kid?"

I knew what, of course. To take a dive off the cliff, we'd die easier and faster."

"Take her to the glider."

"You won't get far, Mark. No fuse, and you don't know the charts."

Helen didn't seem to doubt that the boy would be able to get the glider into the air. I made a mental note of that but said nothing. I pushed the girl and made her walk ahead of me, holding her hand.

What was my mysterious companion planning?

If she wasn't afraid of pain, if there was no way of bribing her, and if it was easier to move a cold rock to pity than her…

We were walking to the glider in utter silence. Things weren't good, it was already light out, they'd be able to see us from the fort walls, two convicts escorting a highborn flyer. There was no way out.

Mark picked up the pace near the glider and leapt into the cockpit first. He explained, "I don't know if you can hide the entire glider in the Cold, flyer, but now it won't work."

Helen said nothing.

"Cut the ropes, Ilmar!" Mark ordered.

Without releasing Helen, I moved around the glider. I cut the ropes keeping it in place. The glider began to shake in the fresh wind. The flyer grimaced painfully and glanced at me. Squinting, I shook my head, as if to say, "Don't even think about it."

She decided against starting a fight. We returned to the cockpit, where Mark was doing something. Turning levers, pushing pedals, pulling on handles. The glider jerking as if alive, the ends of the long wings were quivering, the tail was moving left and right.

"You're going to destroy the machine and die yourselves," Helen said.

"Maybe," Mark agreed. "But I'm going to try. I don't have a choice."

Was he trying to scare the flyer with the possibility of crashing the glider? I'd seen heroes who were prepared to give their lives for their faithful horse…

Helen glanced at me, "He won't fly with you. He'll be too scared. This is certain death."

Mark looked guilty. I said nothing. It was suddenly empty and cold in the pit of my stomach, and I wanted to look away.

"Sorry, Ilmar. But you're not going to force me to stay, are you?"

"No, I won't," I agreed with relief. "Each of us chooses his own death."

"What do you say, Helen?" Mark asked mockingly.

"You won't even move from the strip!" She moved forward ad gripped the back of the seat.

"I will. The wind's good. It's far to the water, maybe I'll have time to straighten out. There's an upstream, right?"

"You still won't make it!"

"I'll try," Mark said. There was such firmness in his voice that I knew right away that he would fly. Maybe not for long, but he would.

"I'm with you, kid," I said with numb lips. "The end is still the same."

"Give me the fuse and the charts," Mark demanded.

"You don't have the flight hours, not even every ace can reach the mainland!"

"Of course, Helen the Night Witch… I'm no match for you. But I'm still going to try."

When he called her the Night Witch, a shadow passed over the girl's face. A mix of pride and doom.

"Don't do this, Mark. Remember honor!"

"My honor is with me, Captain! Worry about your own."

That was something. A woman at the rank of captain.

This meant that I had something to be proud of, having managed to overcome a highborn officer. The officer's gender was irrelevant, as far as I was concerned.

"You'll crash…" Helen muttered. "Crash, crash…"

She jerked, shook off my hand, and I decided not to restrain her. She had no intention of killing Mark; on the contrary, she was worried about his life. And the idea of the boy dying in a crash was scaring her more than her own fate.

"Sit behind me, Ilmar," Mark… Marcus told me. "And you, Helen, take a look at how your bird can fly."

Pushing the girl aside, I climbed into the rear seat. Sister, Sister, bring me back to my senses, what am I doing? To live for just one more hour… to greet the dawn and meet death with a weapon in my hands… The thoughts in my mind were flying about like singing crickets in a cage, my hands were shaking, beads of sweat appeared on my face. But I still got into the cramped cage of the cockpit, crouched on the second seat, sliding my legs under the flyer's seat on the slatted wooden floor.

"Three people definitely won't make it," Helen said in a dead voice. "Have him get out. I… I'll fly."

Mark turned around.

So what, I was supposed to die? Was fate protecting the bastard boy, not me? Was he supposed to fly away from the Isles of Sorrow on the glider, and I was supposed to be left holding the bag?

Mark smiled widely with his dirty face. He winked, and the fear that he was going to leave me behind once again gave way to the terror of flying.

"The three of us will fly, Helen. And don't argue."

Without waiting for a response, he climbed over to me, sat down on my lap, and shifted to make himself more comfortable.

The flyer Helen, the Night Witch, was looking around with a resigned look. As if hoping to see a group of soldiers that were going to rush the fragile glider and keep it from taking off.

But there was no one on the pad.

"Redeemer…" she whispered. Then she looked up at the sky and climbed into the front seat resolutely.

Mark and I went quiet. We still weren't entirely certain whether she'd accepted her fate.

There was a blast of cold air. A small iron cylinder appeared in Helen's hands. Without looking, she jammed it into the empty slot on the control panel.

Mark slumped on my lap. He started breathing quickly, as if he'd been holding his breath out of tension.

Another gust of cold air, there was the rustling of paper, and Helen pressed several sheets to the side glass and secured them with a spring clip. Then she said, "This is death. No one has flown to the mainland with so much cargo. Even on a Falcon."

"Why don't you try, Helen? I believe in you," Mark said without any mockery.

Well, at least I wouldn't die alone. We'd all be standing before the Redeemer together, trying to account for our sins.

Helen was working with the levers in front of us. It seemed that Mark had already done everything necessary, as her hands kept pausing halfway.

"Hold on," she said finally and pulled on something.

Something roared behind me. I turned around in terror.

"Don't worry, Ilmar, it's a rocket booster, to help us get some speed, it would be difficult to lift off without it," Mark said hurriedly. "Just don't move, don't rock the glider."

The roaring was getting louder. Though the rear window I could see smoky fire come out from the glider's tail. I hoped we wouldn't catch fire… but they always flew like that… so it had to be made well…

The glider shuddered and began to roll forward. Very abruptly, so the wheels probably had brakes, which Helen had just released.

"Save us, Redeemer!" the flyer exclaimed.

I closed my eyes and began to pray to the Sister. I had no idea who Mark was praying to. Maybe no one. Except he was also scared, having gripped me and burying his face in my chest.

"Don't be afraid…" I whispered, keeping my eyes closed. How had he been planning on flying the glider if he was scared so much? Or was he just pretending to bring me back to my senses with his fear, to keep me from thrashing about and breaking the fragile cockpit?

Opening one eye, I saw us rushing towards the edge of the cliff. I also saw flares soaring up above the fort. They'd noticed us and realized what was happening.

Too late, though.

The sea appeared under us.

This was it…

Or not?

The glider was shaking, convulsing, the "rocket booster" Mark had mentioned was roaring behind us. Was that stupid-looking barrel with rings really a rocket? Like in that story about Baron Munchausen flying to China on a rocket…

The sea was rushing past under us and didn't seem to be getting any closer. On the contrary, we kept rising. Helen was frozen in front of us like a marble statue, her hands gripping the levers.

I opened my other eye and glanced at Mark. He smiled weakly, and I could see him mouth, "Don't be afraid."

That little brat! He wasn't scared at all, just trying to keep me calm!

"Thanks," I said, hoping that he heard me.