by A. C. Cobble
“Well, obviously,” she muttered. “I meant the way their bodies turned, the size of them. It’s an awful coincidence if we come across two different breeds of lizard that big in the space of a week, don’t you think?”
Pettybone grunted.
She shrugged. “They’re of a size. The coloring seems the same, and they both breathed fire. The only difference was the wings. If I had to guess, I would say that the ones in Imbon had been recently hatched, probably when Governor Towerson opened the tomb, and last night, we faced the mature version. I think it could have something to do with why the natives were so desperate for an airship. What do you think?” The man didn’t respond, so she asked, “Where are the captain and the duke?”
“Below deck in the hold,” answered the first mate, his hands clasped anxiously in front of him. “With the sun up, and us still in the Darklands without a sturdy enough rig to make it back through that storm, they’re thinking it’s time to move forward.”
“Then why are they down there?”
“If we move forward, we’ll need every able hand,” said Pettybone. “If the injured can’t fend for themselves… The captain and the duke are deciding who has a chance, and who don’t.”
“Who don’t… Oh,” said Sam. “They’re going to… they’re going to make sure everyone with us can pull their weight.”
Grimly, Pettybone nodded. “A sailor’s life is a hard one, at sea or in the air. The crew knows the deal, but that doesn’t make it easy. About the worst day any sailor can imagine, being far from home, their mates deciding they can’t carry them any longer.”
“The worst day,” said Sam, glancing around the ruined deck and the arid terrain of the Darklands that spread all around them. “Can’t argue that. They’re in the hold, you said?”
Pettybone nodded and then turned back to his work on the deck.
Sam walked to the narrow stairwell that led into the hold of the airship. It was dark, the fae light globes that normally lit it shattered by the crew the night before. She descended, inhaling the copper scent of blood and the sickeningly sweet stench of burned flesh.
Unlike the stairs and the interior corridors of the airship, the hold was well lit. The fae, somehow still living, had swarmed inside, clustered unmoving near the ceiling of the space. Their glow was subdued, but there were enough of them that it bathed the area in a bright, multi-hued aura.
Blankets had been spread on the floor, and a dozen men lay on them. Half-a-dozen others moved between the injured, dispensing care and offering what comfort they could. Not a one of those was uninjured, but they were mobile, and they were capable of continuing on. They were the lucky ones.
Duke and Ainsley were huddled together in one corner of the room, shooting quick glances at the injured, debating fiercely.
Sam waited, not wanting to interrupt.
After evidently coming to some agreement with the captain, Duke walked slowly to stand at the feet of the injured.
Quietly, he said, “Every man who can stand and move on their own should get up now and make your way to the deck.” His voice was low, but everyone in the room heard what he said. Low sobs, moans, and muttered curses greeted his statement. “Those of you who cannot stand, I’ll see to it that your families receive their bonuses. What I promised you will go to them. They’ll be taken care of the best I’m able. I-I am sorry. We have to do this if any of us are to leave this place. I—”
Captain Ainsley placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Go now,” rasped Duke to the injured, his voice thick.
From the blankets, men began to struggle, biting back pained cries, forcing injured limbs and bodies to work. A few of them were able to stagger to their feet. More of them could not. Half of those thrashed painfully. The other half seemed to have accepted their fate.
Duke put his hand on his broadsword, watching as those healthy enough stumbled away. Some of the walking injured were supported by their peers who had been tending to them, shooting nervous glances at Duke to see if he would object.
His jaw set, his lips quivering, he was looking purposefully away from the stairwell where the injured struggled with the help of the slightly more hale. The man had a kind heart, Sam knew, but he was a Wellesley. He wouldn’t act out of malice, but he would make the hard decision to save the rest of the crew. He would give them all the best chance that they could have of survival, even if it meant deciding that some of them would not make it.
Captain Ainsley watched as the shuffling line of the wounded climbed the ladder and exited the hold. There were another five who couldn’t rise, who didn’t have the strength to care for themselves.
“I’m the captain,” murmured Ainsley. “It’s my duty.”
Duke shook his head. “It’s on my orders, Captain. I will do what is necessary.”
Sam stepped beside them. “You’re both honorable, trying to do the right thing for these men, but you have to consider the others as well.”
“The others?” asked Duke.
“The rest of the crew is going to resent whoever… whoever does this work,” said Sam. “As their captain and liege, neither of you should bear that burden when we’re in such a dire position.”
“We need their respect, and if I order something that I’m not willing to do myself…” worried Duke.
“You’re willing. The other injured saw it,” argued Sam. “Duke, you don’t need to do this.”
“I have to,” he challenged.
Sam looked into his eyes. “I will do it.”
“Sam—”
“Duke, First Mate Pettybone is on deck getting this airship cleared and ready to sail,” claimed Sam. “Ainsley can instruct the crew, but you’re the one who’s got to tell us where to go. You need to be there when the city, or whatever we’re going to find, comes into view. You and the captain are needed on deck. This task is mine.”
Frowning, Duke shook his head.
Sam glanced at Captain Ainsley and met her eyes. “It’s only going to pain you both to watch. You’ve made the right decision, but there’s nothing to be gained from witnessing it.”
Ainsley grabbed the sleeve of Duke’s coat and tugged on it. “She’s right. Come on, m’lord. We need your guidance above.”
Duke muttered further protests, but he let himself be pulled away. Sam could see in his eyes that he felt obligated to stay, but he didn’t want to. Of course he didn’t want to.
Sam watched as he and Ainsley disappeared up the stairwell. Duke was a good man. He knew what had to be done and didn’t shy from doing it. It was unfortunate, but they had to think of those with a chance to continue and jettison those who were still breathing but already gone.
It took a strong leader to make that decision, and it took an even stronger one to enact it. Sam thought it would have broken him, though, to kill wounded men under his command. It would be a waste to ruin such a good man on such a heinous act.
Blank-faced, Sam turned to the wounded and reached behind her back. She slid the tainted dagger from its hidden sheath.
“Ca-Mi-He,” she whispered, “carry them swiftly to the other side.”
After taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, she strode forward.
The first man was charred to a crisp, an unfortunate victim of the dragon’s fire. His right arm was blackened and motionless, and much of his face was singed meat. His eyes were open, though, watching her. He tried to move away, to fight back with his one good arm.
She knelt, pressing her leg down on his struggling limb. She promised, “It will be quick.”
Thrusting the sharp steel beneath the man’s chin and up into his skull, she watched the flicker of life fade from his eyes. The dagger was ice-cold in her hand as she moved to the next sailor, and in the space of two dozen breaths, she killed them all.
The Cartographer XII
The airship limped along, patched canvass and hastily nailed wood creaking alarmingly but holding in the gentle breeze.
“I don’t think it’
s enough to get us through the storm wall, m’lord,” said Ainsley, glancing back at the masts. “I could fix a little bit more canvass up there, but if we face another attack like last night…”
“Hold it,” said Oliver. “One of the dragons escaped. If it and its rider had friends, let’s keep something in reserve in case we need to, well, in case they burn these sails too.”
He didn’t comment on the corpses of the other dragons going missing. He didn’t mention that they were days away from the coast. They didn’t discuss that they wouldn’t have the water and the food to travel all the way back to Enhover and maybe not even to the Vendatts or the Southlands where they could find a safe harbor. Hells, he was finding it hard to even say the word dragon. That’s what the creatures had to be, though, even if everyone knew such a thing was a myth.
Ainsley shifted, kicking at the char on the foredeck and looking ahead. She stated the obvious. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives down there, m’lord.”
Oliver grunted. She wasn’t wrong.
The land ahead of them was ripped apart by thermal activity. Pools of glowing, molten rock were scattered like puddles in Westundon’s cobblestoned streets after a hard rain. Bubbling pots of boiling mud were mixed with swirling spots of vibrant color where minerals melted and combined. Steam rose from both small and large vents in the earth. Oliver had heard of areas like this, where the heat that was buried deep within the world rose to the surface. He’d even visited an area in northern Rhensar which was dotted with scalding hot pools. Even in winter, they could melt a block of ice in seconds. Imbon, they knew for certain now, and likely most of the Vendatts had been formed from such activity.
The difference was those places were isolated and quiet, or the thermal activity violent and rare. Here, a city-sized area appeared to be in constant upheaval, as if the world atop and the world below were in an unending battle, fire and heat consuming stone and air. It was an unpleasant reminder of the proximity between their world and the underworld that they’d all felt passing through the storm wall.
Surrounding the blackened, melted center of the place were giant pyramids. They were built of the same mud bricks that the villages were constructed of, except these bricks were far larger, and the structures rose ten stories high. The amount of effort to construct the things couldn’t have been any more than one of Enhover’s giant keeps, but they spied no roads, no rail, no sea access with which to transport the building materials. The small villages they’d passed didn’t appear as though they had nearly enough people to supply the labor for such gargantuan projects.
Oliver frowned, his fingers drumming on the railing.
“Well, wherever she went, Franklin’s Luck didn’t come here,” remarked Ainsley. “Or if they did, they didn’t stay.”
Oliver nodded.
“Maybe there’s another city somewhere else in this crazed land,” speculated Ainsley. “Could be people lived here once, before the place got burning hot. Maybe they moved the capital, took it somewhere more hospitable. I know I wouldn’t want to live in this awful desert. I know it sounds crazy given my chosen profession, but I like the grass beneath my feet. These folks’ve probably never felt grass like we have in Enhover. Outside of those fields by the river, there ain’t much more than scrub and twisted, stunted trees, but surely there’s somewhere in this awful land people would want to live.”
Not responding to the captain’s musing, Oliver looked up.
High above them there was a heavy bank of clouds. They’d been hanging there since the Cloud Serpent had first come over the horizon the day before, but it didn’t look like a drop of rain had fallen from the formation in weeks. Despite a steady breeze, the clouds weren’t moving.
“Captain,” said Oliver, “I’m beginning to think that cloud is not natural. Can you take us up into there?”
She blinked at him. “I don’t know if…”
“You and the crew steer. I’ll bring us up,” he said, not looking toward her.
His eyes were fixed on the giant formation above. Hanging over the boiling pools and the pyramids, it could have been some residue from the steam of the earth, but what if it was something else? If the Darklanders could call upon a storm wall that encircled their entire coast, then a simple stationary cloud did not seem too much of a challenge. The Imbonese had taken an airship for a reason, hadn’t they? They’d intended to fly somewhere.
Ainsley turned and began to address the crew.
Over his shoulder, Oliver called, “Captain, just in case, have the men assume battle stations.”
The airship rose smoothly, drifting toward the thick clouds on half-sail. The wind had quieted to nearly nothing, and Oliver thought it possible they would need to extend the sweeps once they entered the clouds, but for now, he wanted the crew on the cannons. After losing so many men the night before, they didn’t have the numbers to do both.
Cool mist surrounded them, enveloping them in a blind fog. He wrapped his arms around himself and frowned. Despite the burning sun that scorched the rest of the Darklands, it was cool, almost cold.
In the hold below, he felt the life spirits that imbued the levitating stones grow sluggish from the change in temperature, and perhaps something else. Mentally, he encouraged them, and they continued to ascend, the tiny droplets of water beading on his face the only sign they were moving through the still, opaque clouds.
He felt a stir in the air and demanded, “Ready, everyone, ready!”
From his feet, he picked up a rocket and stared into the mist.
Beside him, Ainsley did as well before whispering, “What are we looking for?”
He didn’t respond.
Long, quiet moments passed, and then they heard a powerful flap.
“Another of the lizards!” shouted Ainsley.
“Hold until you’ve got it in sight,” cried First Mate Pettybone. “No one fire until you know you’ll hit something.”
They waited. The booming flap sounded like a full main sail being filled with wind over and over again. The sound circled them, and the men turned, trying to follow the hidden motion. A crewman cursed, and Oliver heard a thump. He guessed it was Pettybone cuffing someone before they fired a deck gun at nothing.
“Show yourself or we’ll fire!” shouted Oliver, calling into the fog.
“Do they speak the king’s tongue?” wondered Ainsley.
Oliver shrugged. He closed his eyes, and a moment later, from below the decks, a swarm of brightly colored fae poured out. Oliver, reaching out to the minuscule creatures, encouraged them to fly out. The twinkling lights spiraled up around the mast of the airship, and then they drifted off higher, heading into the clouds where Oliver was directing them. He could feel something. Something big.
Finally, the swirling fae began to coalesce around a position. They’d found what he felt was there. It was fifty yards above them and almost two hundred yards ahead, well positioned to avoid the field of fire from their cannon.
A sudden gust of air blew into Oliver’s face, and the mist parted, revealing a massive lizard, its body twisting in the sky in front of them, its giant wings pumping steadily to keep it aloft. It was nearly twice the size of the ones they’d seen the previous night, far larger than the airship.
On its back, a hooded and masked figure rode. Unlike they ones they’d battled the night before, this one did not appear armed, but Oliver was not fooled. If they were attacked, it would not be from bows and arrows again, it would be the dragon itself, or sorcery. This was the reason the villagers bowed and trembled in fear. This was the true power in the Darklands.
Sam stepped up beside him, gripping her kris daggers, though what she intended to do with them was a complete mystery to Oliver.
He leaned forward, putting hands on the railing and peering at the figure.
A gloved hand moved up and tugged down the leather mask that guarded the flyer’s face. It was a woman, but from two hundred yards away, he could see few details. She sat straight up on the back of t
he flying beast. Black hair whipped in front of her face, blown by the power of her mount’s pumping wings. She brushed the hair aside, and it felt as if she was looking directly at him.
Without speaking, the figure tapped on the back of the lizard. The creature’s neck dipped lower and it surged forward, sweeping in a smooth arc carrying it below the Cloud Serpent and then off to the side where it wheeled and disappeared back into the clouds. Behind it, a stream of twinkling fae rushed in its wake.
“Raise more sail if you need to or run out the sweeps,” instructed Oliver. “Follow that… that dragon.”
Sam cleared her throat.
“What?” he asked her.
“You don’t think… Ah, that woman did not appear to be from the Darklands,” said Sam. “She looked… familiar, did she not?”
“Oh, hells,” gasped Captain Ainsley, covering her mouth with a hand.
Oliver turned to the captain and frowned. Glancing between Sam and Ainsley, he asked, “What are you talking about? You think that woman was from the Franklin’s Luck?”
“No, I… Ah…” stammered Sam. She glanced at Ainsley then back at him.
“What?” demanded Oliver, glaring at Sam.
Ainsley took advantage of his focus on the priestess and slipped away, giving brisk instructions to her crew.
Oliver took a step toward Sam and lowered his voice. “What is it?”
Pale-faced, Sam swallowed. “The katars, I think you ought to get them. Get them and be ready for anything. Duke, I mean anything.”
Before them, the fog parted to reveal an expansive city. It sat atop a giant, floating mountain. The edges were wreathed in verdant green forest, and in several places, they could see where streams poured over the sides, the water spraying in the light wind and then vanishing into the mist.
Beyond the forest, pale gray stone rose in distinct tiers forming buildings that seemed fashioned from the mountain itself. People moved about on the streets and in large open squares. They were clothed in dark robes with hoods pulled over their heads. There was little color other than the green of the forest and the black of the resident’s clothing.
