Free The Spell of Undoing by Paul Collins

experienced fighters. If he won this bet, he would have two hundred extra hands on deck, plus an even larger number of small-time crooks who would probably feel comfortable working under Verris.
    And if he lost, well, they would have another guild on Quentaris but a fighting force just the same. Of course, he would have to put up with Verris as some kind of equal, but really he quite liked the man. He would never admit it, but he had a grudging respect for the man who stole from the rich and, just as often, gave half of it to the poor.
    Bellgard scowled at himself. He must be getting soft.

    Verris and Borges looked out over the portside battle ments. Verris mused that he would be much happier when they drew close to the cloud bank, for in truth he needed Tolrush to attack. And with that thought in mind, he had marshalled his forces.
    Overhead, within easy reach of his signal, was a clog – a small wooden cabin attached by rope to a crane high above, one of several upside machines used to swing sky sailors quickly from one mast or spar to another, in case of emergency. Verris had managed to commandeer three such cranes. With these, his combined fighting force of roughly three hundred men and women could be swiftly deployed to any point on Quentaris’ perimeter.
    Bellgard had found out, of course, and had grumbled and harrumphed a lot, but even he saw the wisdom of it. Fighters need to be where the fighting is thickest, and quick smart too.
    ‘You think they'll fight, if it comes to it?’ said Borges gloomily. For him, no cloud ever had a silver lining. There was nothing at the end of the rainbow except grief. And if bad things could happen, they would.
    Verris laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, man. I'm sure there'll be half a dozen disasters, enough to please even you.’
    Verris produced a spyglass and scanned the horizon. Still nothing. He looked ahead towards the cloud bank. They were making good time. If Tolrush was anywhere about they would surely try to stop them before they could vanish into what amounted to thick fog.
    An hour later, there was still nothing. In another hour they would be into the clouds. Verris frowned. He wasn't sure how long he could hold together his followers, only some two hundred of which were actually his. The others were a motley collection of petty thieves, muggers and highwaymen short on work; he had convinced them to leave the Venerable Lightfingers’ guild and join his well-paid cause.
    Only action could turn such a mixed group into a cohesive fighting force.
    ‘What's that?’ said Borges.
    Verris pressed the spyglass hard against his eye. ‘Where –?’
    Borges pointed from aft to port. ‘Now will you look at that,’ he said.
    Behind them and a thousand feet above, a dark menacing shape bulged silently from a high cloud. It was long and narrow, and at the front two huge grappling arms opened and closed like pole-cutters. Verris whistled thinly through his teeth as he studied it through the spyglass.
    ‘It's seen a lot of action, by the look of it,’ he said.
    As it slid fully into view, Borges paled. It looked like some demon ship or, as he said afterwards, a ship of the dead.
    High overhead, lookouts in one of the several crow's nests began tolling a warning bell. The alarm spread. People rushed from indoors and scanned the sky, shading their eyes. The alarm had only been sounded three times before, twice when the city had been under attack by aerial creatures, and another time when a grim mountain-top castle had opened fire on them with ten-inch cannons. As terrifying as these were, there were few casualties and little damage, though the cannon balls and grapeshot – totally unknown weapons to Quentarans – had ruined the great canvas sails which afterwards had to be carefully patched up.
    Despite these earlier false alarms, word quickly spread that this time was different.
    ‘No doubt about it,’ said Verris. ‘It's Tolrush all right.’ He handed