Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [111]
“There’s our vessel, Bek,” Walker announced softly, his voice gone distant and soft.
Even without being told, Bek knew which of the airships the Druid was talking about. The ship in question was so different from the others that his eyes were drawn to it immediately. Its profile was low and sleek, and while it did not appear less formidable as a fighting vessel, it had a look of quickness and maneuverability that the others lacked. Its twin masts were raked and its cabins were recessed deep into the decking both fore and aft, adding to the long, smooth look. Its elevated pilot box sat amidships between the masts. Several sets of fighting ports were built into the pontoons, which curved upward at both ends like horns and were fashioned as battering rams. Other sets of fighting ports were integrated into the deck railings, which were slanted inward to provide maximum protection against attack. The airship had a dark and wicked look to it, even at rest, and a shiver went down Bek’s spine as he imagined it in motion.
Men were swarming all over its decking, some working on sails and lines, some carrying aboard supplies and equipment. On this morning, it was the center of activity, with preparations for its voyage long since under way.
“If you wait here, I’ll send someone over to put you to work,” Walker said. Without waiting for a response, he moved away.
Bek stood looking at the shadowy form of the airship, trying without success to imagine what it would feel like to fly in her, to have this strange vessel as his home. He knew a journey of the sort they were planning would take weeks and probably months. All that time, they would live and travel aboard this ship. Thirty men and women, confined in a small, constantly moving wood-and-iron shell, adrift in the world. It was a sobering image.
“She’s a striking lady, isn’t she,” a voice broke into his thoughts.
He glanced over as the speaker came up to him, a tall man with long red hair and clear green eyes and dressed in a wild combination of black leather and bright scarves. “She is,” Bek agreed.
“You’d be Bek Rowe?” the man inquired with a grin, his manner open and friendly and immediately disarming. Bek nodded. “I’m this lady’s Captain. Redden Alt Mer.” He stuck out his hand in greeting, and Bek took it. “You’re to be my cabin boy, Bek. You can call me Captain or sir. Or you can call me Big Red, like nearly everyone else does. Have you sailed before?”
Bek shook his head. “Not really. On the Rainbow Lake once or twice and on rivers and streams in the Highlands.”
The tall man laughed. “Goodness, they’ve given me a cabin boy with no sea legs at all! No experience on open water or free air either, Bek? What am I to do with you?”
Bek grimaced. “Hope for the best?”
“No, no, no, we can’t be relying on hope to see you through.” He grinned anew. “Are you a quick study?”
“I think so.”
“Good, that will help our cause. This morning is all I’ve got to teach you what I know before we set out, so we must make the most of it. You know about airships, do you?”
“A little.” Bek was feeling foolish and slow, but the tall man was not unkind or intimidating.
“You’ll know everything by the time I’m done.” He paused. “A few words of advice to begin with, Bek. I’m a Rover, so you know two things right off. One, I’ve forgotten more about airships than other men have learned, and with the crew of Rovers I’ve chosen to serve under me, I can see us through anything. So don’t ever question or doubt me. Second, don’t ever say anything bad about Rovers—not even