#sheya

Sheya

Illustrator

artstation

“Drop your weapon!” a man with tassels on his shoulders cried. “Step away from-“ With a sudden roar of wind, a dark shadow slid across the intersection. Most of the soldiers gaped upward in surprise, but Aiden just smiled. A tiny platform, barely wide enough for one man to stand on, dropped down next to him, swinging on chains. “Time to go, my dear,” Aiden said, grabbing Sheya around the waist with his frozen arm and crushing her against his side. He stepped onto the little platform, then kicked the switch that started the pulley system. As they swiftly began to ascend, several of the soldiers began firing up at them. Most of the bullets fell short—one crashing through a window of a nearby house, another turning a chimney into an icy stalagmite. A bullet hit the platform, knocking off the corner and making the entire platform sway dangerously. Sheya cried out and gripped his shirt tightly, but Aiden just looped his sword-arm around one chain and looked critically at the ship floating above him. The bright red hull was scratched and dented in places, the holes it had sustained in the last battle patched somewhat haphazardly with pieces of scrap metal that Piper had found. It was sound, but not very nice to look at. Once they bought some more levinine, they’d have to see about a fresh coat of paint. On the deck of the ship, Den was rushing about, preparing the cannons. Aiden hopped off the platform as it rose up into the rigging, letting go of Sheya as soon as they landed on the deck. Sheathing his sword, Aiden took the stairs up to the poop deck in two bounds. “Cast off, Bertie! Get us out of here!” “Aye, Captain.” Sheya, who’d followed close on his heels despite the limp her frozen foot caused, let out a screech that probably could have been heard all the way down on the ground. Aiden whirled around, hand on his hilt again, but found her pointing with a trembling hand at the helmsman. Aiden realized belatedly that he probably should have warned her, but there had been no time with the pursuit. “Goodness gracious me.” “Just keep flying,” Aiden said, peeking down over the side of the boat as they soared over the roofs below. “Sheya, this is my first mate, Bertrand Thrisk. Bertie, meet Sheya.” He glanced at Sheya, who looked like she might pass out. Typical nobleman’s daughter. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Bertie said with a slight bow, pressing a hand against his finely embroidered doublet. Sheya looked faintly disgusted and made no reply, which she really had no reason for. Bertie’s attire was a little outdated—doublet and hose, with lots of lace at the cuffs and a stupid little hat that looked like someone had mashed a meat pie onto his head and left it there—but everything was meticulously cleaned and cared for. He was perfectly ordinary—except, of course, that Bertrand Thrisk was a walking, talking skeleton.