The glistercraft zoomed over the markets of New Undertown at top speed, Flett's hands slippery and sweaty on the controls, the three woodtrolls hanging on for dear life.
"We…we can't thank you enough, kind sir," gasped the largest woodtroll, one thick, hairy arm wrapped around the safety rail.
"Name's Flett Grayle," said Flett without turning around in his seat, focused as he was on leaving Great Glade's airspace. "What are you called?"
"I am Barkley Timberslice," he replied. "This is my wife Grenda, and our son Peatwood. I carved furniture out of felled trees on the outskirts of Southern Outer City, and sold it dirt-cheap. I was just successful enough to feed my family. Trouble is, being healthy is a curse down there. Those with any strength left in them are bound to end up in the slave market eventually. So it was with us. Family of fettleleggers next door jumped us in our sleep and dragged us to New Undertown, where they sold us for fifty gladers each. Course, now they've got enough money to eat for a couple months, they'll probably find themselves targeted before long. That's the way of things."
Flett shivered in horror. Beneath them, the markets abruptly were replaced by the factories of the Old Forest district. "Well, you'll never have to live in fear again. We're going directly to Omniphrax."
The thought made his chest swell with excitement. But he had little time to dwell on the idea before he noticed an unwelcome sight in the wing mirror.
"We've got company," he growled darkly, turning around to stare at three pursuing glistercraft, each captained by a pair of Freeglade Lancers.
He should have known it wouldn't be that simple. He had stood up to Xelius Pulnix himself, after all.
One Freeglade Lancer in each craft stood up, taking aim with glisterguns. "Hang on!" screamed Flett, banking sharply away, as three bolts of energy converged on the point where their ship's left glisterjet had been a second ago. Grenda shrieked in alarm, and Peatwood clutched the back of Flett's seat in a viselike grip. Keeping one hand on the steering stick, Flett returned fire, and miraculously he hit one of the oncoming vessels' jet-chambers. It exploded in a flash of white light, while the liberated glister streaked into the darkness with rainbow bursts. The Lancers screamed as they tumbled over the side of the listing craft and fell towards the factories below.
The other two ships regrouped and surged forwards as the wounded and now pilotless third craft dropped out of the sky and exploded against the wall of a foundry. Slowly gaining on Flett's vehicle, the Lancers redoubled their efforts to shoot him down. Flett swooped low and wove rapidly in between smokestacks. His pursuers didn't miss a beat, continuing to take aim whenever there was a clear line of fire between the great columns. Whenever this occurred, Flett shot up or down, then retaliated with some one-handed shots of his own. The recoil was agony on his wrist, but he did not let up.
"Flett!" bellowed Barkley in terror. "IN FRONT OF US!"
Flett whipped his head around just in time to see that they were headed directly for the curved side of a massive smokestack extending for hundreds of strides above them. Flett pulled back on the controls, and the glistercraft shot upwards at ninety degrees, nearly brushing the side of the smokestack. The woodtrolls hung on to Flett's seat for grim death. Above, Flett could see thick plumes of purple steam spewing from the top. Underneath, the two pursuing vessels twisted around and spiraled up the side of the smokestack.
At the last second, Flett pulled away from the oncoming wall of boiling vapor above. One of the enemy vessels broke away and followed. The second, however, didn't turn in time and flew straight through the emissions. When it was spat out the other side, the craft gently dipped and fell, its occupants slumped forward and their skin burned a raw pink. The vehicle slammed into a much slenderer smokestack, which buckled and began to fall, as fragments of the smashed glistercraft flew everywhere.
The remaining Freeglade Lancers doggedly continued their chase, even as Flett cleared the last factory and now flew over the canopy of the Deepwoods. The ship rose through the sky, almost directly above Flett, and a Lancer leaned over the side to take aim once again.
BOOOOOM!
Flett had gotten in a shot before the Freeglade Lancer had had a chance. Like the first ship, one of its jet-chambers had shattered, and the occupants were pitched overboard. But now the ship was headed directly for Flett's vessel, tumbling through the air, on a direct collision course. Flett reached for the steering apparatus…to find that it had been smashed to pieces. Evidently the Lancer's last shot had found its mark after all.
"We've got to jump!" screamed Flett. "It's our only hope!"
Barkley and Grenda didn't move. They merely sat there, rigid in their seats, paralyzed with terror. But Peatwood managed to gather his wits in the very nick of time. In unison, Flett and the young woodtroll dived from their seats while the air behind them exploded.
Miraculously, they managed to catch hold of an ironwood pine branch close to where they had bailed out of the glistership. The force of the landing knocked the wind out of them, and they lost their grip, only to land on the branch immediately below them, gasping, scraped, and bruised…but safe.
"M…mother," breathed Peatwood. "Father…"
Flett laid a hand on the woodtroll's shoulder. "I'm sorry."
Peatwood collapsed, heaving with horror and grief and fear.
"Let's see to it that they didn't die in vain," said Flett firmly. "We're alive. We can still make it to Omniphrax. But we have a long and treacherous journey ahead…"