by A. C. Cobble
Duke raised an eyebrow. “Learning fast?”
“I’m only partially saying that to shake more sterling out of you,” continued the captain. “I’ve been around a while, m’lord. I’ve flown with fresh hands on their first voyage, and I’ve flown with gnarled, old sailors who crewed the first airships. I learned a lot from those old-timers, not the least of which was to avoid anything that’s even got the whiff of sorcery. Enhover lost a lot of airships, and a lot of good hands, chasing across the Coldlands.”
“Airships went down?” asked Sam. “I was on an airship when Northundon was bombed. It was terrible, but none of the airships went down. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard…”
“Oh, they went down all right,” interjected Captain Ainsley. “Not over Northundon, you’re right. We surprised the bastards there. I mean over the Coldlands themselves. William Wellesley, your uncle, m’lord, led the push across the sea into the heart of that dark place. He aimed to eradicate any trace of the barbarians who’d sacked Northundon. It started well enough until they figured us out.”
“Figured us out?” asked Duke.
“I wasn’t more than a deck swab, then,” remarked Ainsley. “Wasn’t even listed on the crew manifest. My pa was the second mate, and he snuck me on board. When the captain found out, it was too late, so he put me to work. I-I was there. I saw what happened.”
Duke frowned at her. “The losses suffered on the ground were terrible, but I haven’t heard anything about losing airships in the Coldlands. I tried recently to find out more, but it seems most of the soldiers from that era are gone now.”
Captain Ainsley nodded. “Aye, that they are. Fell in battle or fell shortly after. Ain’t many left, I don’t think. All my pa’s old mates are dead. The rumor amongst the enlisted troops is that it was a final hex placed on those who stepped foot in the Coldlands. Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s something else. I don’t know why there are so few, but I know enough to keep my head down and not talk about my time over there. It was… it was a tough time until William and the other commanders figured out what was happening.”
“Tell us about it,” requested Duke.
The captain stood. “We’ve got four turns before we reach Derbycross. Mind if I have a drink to steady my nerves?”
Duke nodded. “Better make it three.”
The captain crossed to a narrow cupboard and quickly found a glass bottle filled with an amber liquor. Then, she spent several moments rooting around looking for glasses. “Sorry. I had one of the men unload my personal effects, and now I can’t find a damn thing in this room.”
Finally, she stood with three wide-bottomed copper cups and splashed a heathy pour in each of them.
Settling back down at the table, she began her story. “My pa joined the fleet after the initial battle in Northundon. I was happy to stow away with him. We had distant family there…” She shuddered, sipped at her drink, and continued, “In Northundon, the marines faced steel, fire, and the ghosts. Nothing that could touch an airship, though. All the fleet had to do was maneuver overhead and drop bombs or, if they couldn’t get directly over, hammer the bastards with the cannon as they sailed by. The marines couldn’t do much about the spirits the sorcerers had called, but the spirits couldn’t do much about the marines, either. Whatever the magic that binds them to our world, it seems they can’t fly.”
Sam nodded, sipping unconsciously at the drink the captain had brought her.
“In the Coldlands,” she continued, “we had to face the real might of their sorcery. They quickly figured out how to bring down our airships, so we had to back off. The battle on the ground dragged out for two more years. At the end, Enhover gained territory and killed a spirits-forsaken lot of Coldlands folk, but I’m not sure we won. Not in any sense that matters.”
“What do you mean? Of course we won,” responded Duke.
“That’s what your uncle told everyone,” remarked Captain Ainsley. “From above, running resupply routes for the troops on the ground, I’m not so sure.”
“Why couldn’t you use the airships as effectively?” queried Sam.
“They broke the bindings,” answered the captain. “You know—”
“I do,” said Sam, glancing at Duke.
“From what I understand, it’s quite difficult to do, but if you snap the binding that connects the spirit to an object… well, it can be rather unfortunate if you’re high above the ground in an airship. Instead of levitating rocks, all you got in the hold is rocks. It’s why we couldn’t just carpet the entire Coldlands in fire and why the Company won’t venture within fifty leagues of the Darklands. Our technology is only as good as our means of controlling it, and a talented sorcerer, or druid I suppose, can break that control.”
Thotham, startling them all, spoke up. “A powerful enough underworld spirit can have a physical effect in our world if it’s close enough. Sent into the hold of a vessel like this, it could sever the bindings as the captain mentioned or simply dump the water tanks all at once.”
Captain Ainsley nodded. “Aye, these airships are near invincible against conventional foes, but against a talented user of magic… anything is possible.”
“Perhaps we should revise our plan,” Sam said, glancing at Duke.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he began searching around the room until he found his worn-leather satchel, the one that contained his writing implements and maps. He flipped it open and began sorting through.
“What?” she asked.
The Cartographer XIX
“Here,” said Oliver as he pulled out a folded parchment and spread it across the table. “Derbycross is the name of the village, the surrounding land, and the Dalyrimple manor. With what Captain Ainsley just described, I think it’s too great a risk to swoop in and bombard the place. If Isisandra disabled the airship, we could come crashing down and suffer at her mercy, assuming we survived the landing. I don’t think we can just fly in like we’d planned.”
“Sounds good to me,” murmured Captain Ainsley.
“Look,” continued Oliver, “the manor is maybe a league and a half, two leagues from the town. If we arrived on the rail, we’d have to come through the village and then down that road. We’d be seen by any watchers Isisandra has in the place.”
“That’s true…” said Sam, looking at the map.
“But what if we use the airship as a distraction first?” he suggested, his fingers tracing over the map. “We could set down here and catch the rail. Captain Ainsley can continue on and lurk behind these hills. If Isisandra brought the airship down, Ainslely and the crew would be at minimal risk if they hugged the terrain. Isisandra would be forced to send her resources—”
“Which Ainsley would have no defense against,” reminded Sam.
Oliver frowned. “If we timed it just right…”
“I don’t know,” Sam frowned. She shook her head. “Duke, she’ll know where we are no matter what we do.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“If she has any material, she can scry for us.”
“Oh.” He slumped down, dejected, a wave of hopelessness washing over him.
“There’s only one way,” mumbled Thotham. “You want to face her. You have to go straight in. There’s no other way.”
The room was silent for a long moment as they sipped their drinks, looked at the map again, and came up with nothing.
Finally, Sam suggested, “Duke, perhaps you should stay behind with the airship. Thotham and I can go in. This is our purpose. You’re too important to risk on—”
Oliver laughed.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I’m the fourth son of the king,” said Oliver, “but I rule Northundon, which is nothing more than a pile of toppled rocks and ghosts. I don’t have any other official role in the government. The Company has a dozen cartographers, and every one of them works cheaper than I do. I’m not important, Sam. You are. You and Thotham are the only two we know of with the experience and knowl
edge to counteract what we’ll find in that place. You two are the ones who are indispensable. You two are the ones we cannot risk.”
“We have to risk—”
“The spear, girl,” rasped Thotham, interrupting his apprentice.
“No,” she said.
“You made your choice, girl,” responded the old priest, suddenly seeming more awake and pinning Sam with a glare. “We cannot attack from afar because of the possibility the sorceress could bring this airship down. Even if she couldn’t take us down, I’d advise against it because we don’t know who or what is inside. What if she isn’t there? What if hundreds of innocents are? A stealthy approach would have been ideal, but that won’t work now because you and the boy slept with her. That was your choice, your mistake. Now, it is time for me to choose.”
“We can contact Admiral Brach,” suggested Oliver. “He could be here in a few days with a thousand men. Surely, even a powerful sorceress cannot stand against that. We don’t have to do this alone.”
“Admiral Brach could certainly put enough men and airships into the field to defeat her,” agreed Thotham, “but what makes you think she’ll wait for them to arrive? We have reports her carriage passed through the village of Derbycross two days ago. How long before the girl thinks things over? How long before she decides to flee? We have no idea what kind of contacts she has, who would be willing to hide her or take her away from Enhover. It’s quite possible she’s preparing to flee now and only hasn’t left because she didn’t expect us to have access to an airship. Or perhaps she isn’t sure we’ve fully realized who she is. If Admiral Brach begins to muster the royal marines, all it will take is one ally left in Westundon, and she will vanish. Everything will have been for naught.”
Oliver winced at the old man’s assessment.
“You’ve both been foolish,” declared Thotham. “Learn from your mistakes. Do not compound them.”
“What do you suggest, then?” asked Oliver.
“We walk up to the front door. We kick it in, and we finish this,” declared Thotham.
The sails flapped outside of the cabin. They could hear the muted conversation of the sailors on deck, and the wind rushed by in a constant roar. Inside the room, though, it was quiet.
“Well,” said Oliver after a long moment, “I’m convinced.”
“Good,” said Thotham. “Now, if you could all leave, I need a nap. Wake me when we’re a half turn of the clock away.”
They waited until dark and then swept wide west of the village of Derbycross. On the horizon, it was a burning ember glowing on the black blanket of the landscape. Isisandra’s estate was invisible, hidden behind the folds of the rolling hills, which they hoped made them invisible to her as well. They knew where the place was from the map, and the closer they could draw without a direct visual path, the better.
Captain Ainsley brought the ship in low, hanging ten yards above the turf. The sailors helped toss thick hemp lines over the gunwales, and Oliver, Sam, and Thotham swung over the edge. Wrapping arms and legs around the rope, they slid toward the ground.
Halfway down, Thotham lost his grip and dropped, landing with a thump in the grass.
Oliver and Sam descended quickly and went to check on the old man.
“I’m all right,” he groused, getting slowly to his feet and brushing his robes off. How he could see any grass clinging to them in the dark, Oliver did not know.
When it appeared he was all right, Oliver said, “Let’s go.”
He’d memorized the map, though it was by an unknown cartographer, so the quality was suspect. Placement of an estate should be simple enough, though, so he hoped it was sufficient for them to find the manor. As they trotted across the grass, he saw there wasn’t much else out there, so even without the map, surely they’d stumble across it.
“What is that?” hissed Sam.
They paused, listening. Low sounds in the distance. Animalistic. Oliver gripped his broadsword but did not draw it yet. Light could reflect off the polished steel, so until they knew they were discovered, he would keep it in the sheath.
“That is the sound of sheep bleating,” groused Thotham. “Have you two never been in the country?”
Muttering to himself, Oliver started off again, leading the small party through the hills of Derbycross. Above them, the sky was shrouded in thick clouds. Around them, the hills were barely visible lumps, the black silhouettes merging with the black night. To their right, they could see the glow of the village, and when they crested a hill, they could see it in full. It was a small enclave with two dozen buildings, no walls, and only a scattering of lights just an hour after full dark. Country people, early risers. That or they couldn’t afford to keep the place lit.
A league northwest they hoped to find Isisandra’s manor. They would take their time scouting it from afar, if they were able, then plan the assault.
She was inside. Oliver could feel it, and based on their reports of the carriage trip, there were only a few men with her. The manor itself likely had only a small staff to maintain the place, as the family rarely visited. There was no need for the legions of servants who would fill the kitchens, clean up after the family, and wait on them. They expected eight or nine people inside the estate, no more.
It seemed a bit foolish, for three to be assaulting nine and one of those a sorcerer, but Sam and Thotham had displayed supreme confidence they would be up to the task. Oliver had seen Sam fight, so he was sure she at least could hold her own.
“It’s not mundane swordplay we need to worry about,” she had advised while they were back on the airship. “It’s what the girl is capable of.”
“Maybe she’ll be asleep when we arrive,” Oliver had said, hopefully.
“She’s a sorceress,” Thotham had reminded. “I know there haven’t been sorcerers around Enhover in years, but surely you’ve heard stories. What about those stories makes you think approaching at midnight is the way to catch a sorcerer unawares?”
Oliver and Sam had locked gazes and shrugged. The man was right, but they couldn’t very well swoop in on the airship in the middle of the day and hope no one saw them coming. Night belonged to the sorcerers, true, but it was also the only time to travel over the empty landscape around Derbycross unnoticed. They had to deal with the situation as it was presented.
Isisandra may be able to sense their presence, but she’d have to scry to do it. There was no point making it easy for any mundane sentries she might have in her employ.
The bleating of the sheep kept them company as they ranged over the open hills, until finally, Sam caught Oliver’s arm.
“There,” she whispered.
He followed her pointed arm as best he could in the dark and saw a pinprick of light in the distance. It was still a quarter league away, but it couldn’t be anything but the manor.
“If we can see her, she can see us,” warned Thotham.
“Do you have your amulet on, Duke?” asked Sam, her voice barely rising above the sound of the wind and the sheep.
He clutched at his shirt where a silver rune-etched hexagram hung. Sam and Thotham had claimed it would grow warm in the presence of underworld spirits, but now, it was the same temperature as his skin.
“Nothing,” he responded.
“I know there’s nothing right now,” hissed Sam. “I just wanted to check to make sure you had it and that you were paying attention. When we get in there…”
“Of course,” agreed Oliver.
“Let’s keep moving,” advised Thotham. “If she attempted to scry for you today, she’ll notice you’re closing on her position. Assume she knows we’re coming, and let’s not give her any more time to prepare.”
Oliver moved off again, crouching low then realizing it was almost pitch-black and standing upright again. His feet moved confidently on the gently sloped hills, the autumn-thin grass only coming mid-calf on his boots. He could hear Sam and Thotham moving behind him, their steps falling softly on the turf, their breathing even. There
was something…
“Look out!” he cried, pitching forward.
He felt the shape soar over him where his head had been moments before. Sam gave a startled cry, and Thotham grunted. An ear-piercing shriek broke the quiet of the night. Oliver scrambled, trying to draw his broadsword from a prone position. As the cries warbled, and the high-pitched shriek faded, he gave up.
“That was a big one,” remarked Thotham calmly. He added, “It’s safe, for the moment.”
Oliver stood, brushing himself off, straining in the dark to see what had leapt at him.
Her voice cracking, Sam asked, “What just happened? What was that?”
“Grimalkin,” explained the old priest. “Well, it’s certain she knows we are here now. That shriek could have been heard a league away. We should move.”
A small amount of light bloomed near his feet, and Oliver saw Sam had uncovered a tiny vial of fae light. It revealed a hulking, black cat that was dead at Thotham’s feet. The priest was leaning on his spear.
“How did you get that?” she wondered.
“I slipped it from your pack the moment the thing sprung at us and then kicked your legs out from under you. You didn’t seem prepared.”
“I-I don’t… There was no time,” stammered Sam.
“There wasn’t?” asked Thotham, glancing down at the cat. “We’re almost out of time for our lessons, apprentice, but there’s always time if you’re prepared. We’re approaching the only active sorceress known in Enhover over the last twenty years. You don’t think she’ll be ready for us? Every step we take, from here until it’s over, assume something will come at you. You do that, and you might survive this.”
Thotham spun the spear, the blood of the grimalkin flinging off into the dark of the night. Then, he stopped, pointing the sharp tip of the spear toward the manor. “Shall we?”
“Done with your napping?” asked Oliver.
Thotham chuckled. “I’m stretched thin, boy. Half gone, half here. I’m conserving what energy I do have for when I need it. When I don’t, no, I am not done napping.”
