To Steal a Moon Page 15
“Falón, remain with the bridge officers until I return,” he ordered sternly. The captain followed his commander to the lift and the two noblemen descended through the center of the warship in silence.
When the lift doors opened onto the wide expanse of the landing platform on the lowest level of the ship, the agitated noise and bustle of hungry beasts and men anticipating a succulent meal filled the stale air. The saurs were already being led down the open ramps to swarm the portal center where the crew of the Shraal would have its first feeding.
The warlord swaggered ahead of Ninta down the steep grade of the ramp into the bright, hot Maian daylight. The fresh sting of salt sea air assailed the captain’s senses as they descended. The stream of disembarking saurs and their Torg keepers gave the two tall Drahkian lords a wide berth as they eagerly scurried to begin their hunt.
Biak stopped midway down the ramp and glanced briefly at Ninta over his shoulder. “Quite an improvement over the solar domes of Galah. Feels good to be out of those damned heatsuits.”
“Yes, Lord.”
Biak stood for several minutes surveying his new domain. Ninta waited patiently, giving his eyes the necessary time to adjust to the harsh light of the small world.
The sight before them was impressive. The colorful buildings of Aracari were low-slung and almost all one-story, so the gray sea beyond the city was plainly visible from their high vantage point on the ramp. The charcoal warship discs hung in suspension above the city and the small specks of the transports could be seen, slowly making their way to the ground to release their ravenous cargo.
In spite of the heat, a shiver stole its way up Ninta’s spine as he watched the activity out in the city in front of them. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong.
Biak sensed his surge of fear and shifted his head to give the captain a long, probing look between narrowed lids. Turning back to the scene spread out below, the warlord stood for several minutes, watching and listening.
The wailing howls of the saurs running through the streets of Aracari rose on the salty breeze. But there was no screaming. There should have been screaming—lots of it.
Biak moved down the ramp, slowly at first, and then broke into a run as he hit the pavement of the landing pad. Ninta flew after him, following close on his commander’s heels as a wave of panic rolled through his entire frame.
Heading straight for the nearest building, Biak stopped long enough to peer through the small glass door before running on around the building to the next window and the next. They tore through the landing field facilities at break-neck speed and raced out into the streets of the closest quarter.
Torgs and saurs roamed aimlessly from house to house, bashing in doorways and windows, screeching their displeasure. The cacophony of murderous frustration was deafening.
The warlord froze. The bottom of Ninta’s stomach dropped with a sickening rush.
Aracari was empty.