Siege and Storm (Shadow and Bone #2)(33)

“Just a little farther!” cried Sturmhond.

The Squaller let out a sob of effort, her arms trembling. The sails dipped. The Hummingbird continued to fall. Branches scraped the hull as we skimmed the treetops.

“Everyone get low and hold on tight!” shouted Sturmhond. Mal and I hunkered down into the cockpit, arms and legs braced against the sides, hands clasped. The little ship rattled and shook.

“We aren’t going to make it,” I rasped.

He said nothing, just squeezed my fingers tighter.

“Get ready!” Sturmhond roared.

At the last second, he hurled himself into the cockpit in a tangle of limbs. He just had time to say, “This is cozy,” before we struck land with a bone-shattering jolt.

Mal and I were thrown into the nose of the cockpit as the ship tore into the ground, clattering and banging, its hull splintering apart. There was a loud splash, and suddenly we were skimming across the water. I heard a terrible wrenching sound and knew that one of the hulls had broken free. We bounced roughly over the surface and then, miraculously, shuddered to a halt.

I tried to get my bearings. I was on my back, pressed up against the side of the cockpit. Someone was breathing hard beside me.

I shifted gingerly. I’d taken a hard knock to the head and cut open both of my palms, but I seemed to be in one piece.

Water was flooding in through the cockpit’s floor. I heard splashing, people calling to one another.

“Mal?” I ventured, my voice a quavery squeak.

“I’m okay,” he replied. He was somewhere to my left. “We need to get out of here.”

I peered around, but Sturmhond was nowhere to be seen.

As we clambered out of the cockpit, the broken ship began to tilt alarmingly. We heard a creaking sigh, and one of the masts gave way, collapsing into the lake beneath the weight of its sails.

We threw ourselves into the water, kicking hard as the lake tried to swallow us along with the ship.

One of the crewmen was tangled in the ropes. Mal dove down to help extricate him, and I nearly wept with relief when they both broke the surface.

I saw Tolya and Tamar paddling free, followed by the other crewmen. Tolya had the wounded Squaller in tow. Sturmhond swam behind, supporting an unconscious sailor beneath his arm. We made for the shore.

My bruised limbs felt heavy, weighted down by my sodden clothes, but finally we reached the shallows. We hauled ourselves out of the water, slogging through patches of slimy reeds, and threw our bodies down on the wide crescent of beach.

I lay there panting, listening to the oddly ordinary sounds of early morning: crickets in the grass, birds calling from somewhere in the woods, a frog’s low, tentative croak. Tolya was ministering to the injured Squaller, finishing the business of healing his arm, instructing him to flex his fingers, bend his elbow. I heard Sturmhond come ashore and hand the last sailor into Tamar’s care.

“He’s not breathing,” Sturmhond said, “and I don’t feel a pulse.”

I forced myself to sit up. The sun was rising behind us, warming my back, gilding the lake and the edges of the trees. Tamar had her hands pressed to the sailor’s chest, using her power to draw the water from his lungs and drive life back into his heart. The minutes seemed to stretch as the sailor lay motionless on the sand. Then he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he spewed lake water over his shirt.

I heaved a sigh of relief. One less death on my conscience.

Another crewman was clutching his side, testing to see if he’d broken any ribs. Mal had a nasty gash across his forehead. But we were all there. We’d made it.

Sturmhond waded back into the water. He stood knee deep in it, contemplating the smooth surface of the lake, his greatcoat pooling out behind him. Other than a torn-up stretch of earth along the shore, there was no sign that the Hummingbird had ever been.

The uninjured Squaller turned on me. “What happened back there?” she spat. “Kovu was almost killed. We all were!”

“I don’t know,” I said, resting my head against my knees.

Mal drew his arm around me, but I didn’t want comfort. I wanted an explanation for what I’d seen.

“You don’t know?” she said incredulously.

“I don’t know,” I repeated, surprised at the surge of anger that came with the words. “I didn’t ask to be shoved into the Fold. I’m not the one who went looking for a fight with the volcra. Why don’t you ask your captain what happened?”

“She’s right,” Sturmhond said, trudging out of the water and up the shore toward us as he stripped off his ruined gloves. “I should have given her more warning, and I shouldn’t have gone after the nest.”

Somehow the fact that he was agreeing with me just made me angrier. Then Sturmhond removed his hat and goggles, and my rage disappeared, replaced by complete and utter bewilderment.

Mal was on his feet in an instant. “What the hell is this?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

I sat paralyzed, my pain and exhaustion eclipsed by the bizarre sight before me. I didn’t know what I was looking at, but I was glad Mal saw it, too. After what had happened on the Fold, I didn’t trust myself.

Sturmhond sighed and ran a hand over his face—a stranger’s face.

His chin had lost its pronounced point. His nose was still slightly crooked, but nothing like the busted lump it had been. His hair was no longer ruddy brown but dark gold, neatly cut to military length, and those strange, muddy green eyes were now a clear, bright hazel. He looked completely different, but he was unmistakably Sturmhond.