A Mantle Of Gold (The Kingfisher Histories Book 2)

by R. J. Louis

  He walks, letting the city swallow him. Moving across bridges and up and down great sloping ramps. Thunder has a friend here, a contact, she had mentioned. All he has to do is find him, convince the contact, Travis? Travil? That he’s not a bum, and get his help contacting The Kingfisher.

  Easy.

  * * *

  “What do you mean you’ve lost Lily?” Kendra asks, lines of stress wrinkling her face. “How did you lose her?!”

  “Have you met that lady?” Molly snorts. “She’s practically invisible when she wants to be.”

  “But where can she have—”

  “Uh, Kendra,” Rico straightens from where he stands, looking out over the hull towards the campfire below. “I found her. She’s um... making friends.”

  “Gods be damned,” Kendra hisses.

  “We’ve got a bigger problem,” Molly says, pointing further out. “Wyvern. Just slipped out of that crack in the ground.”

  “Shit. Is it coming this way?”

  “Might be making a wide circle,” Molly says, sighting along her hand at the beast. “Looks big too, real big.”

  “Alright. Molly, get downstairs, get us ready to move if we need to. Voyagers, prepare the cannons, if that wyvern gets too close, fire on it. If they’re attacking, there’s not much else we can do for Mudge and Jonas. Hopefully Thunder and Lily can talk some sense into the locals.”

  29 - A Vision of Something

  My pen stops scratching in the paper as I realise someone is watching me. I shake the page, letting the ink dry on the remembrances of Lincoln, and my home, the beginnings of my journey into the wooded wilderness and the first steps into the strange adventure I now find myself on.

  “What are you writing?” Artemis’s voice is cool, like early rain.

  “History,” I say honestly. “Recent history. How I came to be in Faerie Country, and perhaps, if I have time, how you and your captain rescued me.”

  “Why would you write that down? Surely it’s not very exciting. First I was in the jungle, then I got kidnapped and imprisoned, now I’m in a ship feeling out of place and alone. There, done.”

  “I write it because one day people might want to read it, and, luckily, I can see more than just the cold hard facts. Yes, from my perspective, it wasn’t very exciting. But from your crew, from you voyagers... There was a lot going on. I like to sit, and think, and I see all the pieces of the story unfold in my mind. Then I write it down, as best I’m able.”

  Artemis sinks into a squat, across from me in the small officer’s cabin where I have been writing. “This sight, tell me about it. How does it work?”

  “How does any divinity work?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question? Remember, I might be one of the few people out there who can actually answer that question with some knowledge.”

  “Oh no, I’ve done plenty of study. My power isn’t so special.”

  “But you can see anything.”

  “Not anything. I can see my story, laid out behind me.”

  “And ahead? Can you see the future?”

  “No,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “Not the future. Sometimes I think I might be able to see glimpses of my future. The shape of the story of my life. But... maybe that’s just delusional.”

  “So then why does Archangel want you?”

  “I wish I knew. I guess she must think I can see something important. Seth only knows what that might be.”

  “You can’t see anything... she mentioned a threat, on the Wrathhowl. You haven’t seen anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “What, you can see truth from lies now?”

  “I don’t need divinity to know you’re lying. I saw you looking out into the darkness. There is something out there, and you’re going to have to admit it to yourself, and to everyone else, before it’s too late.”

  “I... can’t. I won’t.”

  “You’re weak,” Artemis says coldly. “Scared and alone. You think you can just sit down here and write your little stories while the rest of us spill blood.”

  “What does it matter to you?” I ask, defiance making my blood run hot. “I know enough about you, Artemis. I heard stories about Illsyth’s revolt. I’ve seen the shape of your story.”

  “Then you should know what I can do,” Artemis says, standing. “And that I can make you do what I want, if I need to.”

  “I know you’re afraid to touch that power again. Not on this ship.”

  “So... you do see more than you let on.” Artemis glares. “Tell me what you see out there, you’re running out of time.”

  I pause, my breath catching in my throat. I remember the ship, for lack of a better word, it seemed alive, like a mesh between a vessel and some kind of giant, space-faring squid. Monstrous, and drawing ever closer.

  “I didn’t see anything,” I say finally.

  Artemis clenches his jaw, his perfectly symmetrical face a cold mask of anger, as he turns and stalks out of the cabin.

  * * *

  “Wyvern’s coming up on us, Kendra,” Jamala’s voice is tight. “It’s—” She pauses, pulls the spy-glass from her eye, and rubs the end of it with the bottom of her shirt. The whole process only takes a few seconds, and when Jamala looks up, the entire crew of voyagers on deck are staring at her. “Sorry.” She looks again. “Had to be sure.”

  “Be sure of what?!” Kendra asks, rubbing tension from her forehead. “Are we firing?”

  “Gods no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think it’s better if she tells you,” Jamala says with a quiet smile.

  “Ahoy there!”

  The age old cry of the fellow voyager has the crew scrambling to spot the other sky-ship. There is a brief moment of panic at how someone might have come so close unseen and unnoticed, and then Captain Thunder is flying alongside the ship on the back of a wyvern.

  “Ahoy there, Captain,” Kendra says, after a brief shocked silence. “Will you be... uh... joining us?”

  “I don’t really know how to steer this thing,” Thunder shouts across the wind as the wyvern drifts in slow circles around the rigging. “It’s actually quite invigorating!”

  “Are you sure that’s the captain,” Kendra asks quietly. “She seems oddly... happy.”

  “It’s her alright.” Rico waves at the captain as she flies past.

  “Well, far be it from me to doubt,” Kendra says with a grin. “Captain, you might want to head down there and relieve Lily from her vengeance mission.”

  “Vengeance?!” Thunder shouts, as she almost unbalances off the wyvern. “Damn that girl. I don’t knooooah—” her shout echoes into the distance as the wyvern drops suddenly.

  30 - “Rowk”

  The wyvern beneath Thunder hits the ground with a heavy thump, its feet scrabbling for surety in the shifting sand. She pitches forward as the great wings spread, slowing the slide as Thunder lets herself roll forward off the wyvern and onto her back in the sand.

  She stares up at the stars for a long, silent moment. Reality slowly comes creeping back in, and she draws a long, tight breath. She can’t be a carefree girl any more. Those days are long gone. The wyvern’s jagged beak enters her vision as it looks down at her. It narrows avian eyes, then says ‘rowk’.

  This too, is part of the test, the rowk seems to mean.

  And so she gets up, and gets back to work.

  Neyara stands beside a somewhat abashed Lily, and two other Solarii undo the rough bindings on Mudge and Jonas.

  “So,” the Solarii says, “How do you feel?”

  The question is unexpected enough to throw Thunder. She pauses, tasting the words on the tip of her tongue before she speaks. “Small.”

  “It passes. Until you get back up there.” Neyara grins. “It’s a good habit to get into. Good for the soul.”

  “I think sailing is going to be close enough for me.”

  “It wont ever be the same. Once you’ve felt the wind around you
, floating between the sand and the stars... you can’t turn it off.”

  “No.”

  “And you shouldn’t. The wyvern’s gift is not given lightly.”

  “All I did was to not attack it...”

  “Yes, and how often do you think that happens?” Neyara’s eyes are hard, but her smile softens them. “As reckless as stealing from the dragon was, you have at least shown that you don’t act without thinking.”

  “And that’s enough for you to let us go?”

  “What would it benefit us to punish you? To torture, or kill? Yes, we could do it, but isn’t it more useful to open your eyes?”

  “And it would cost you,” Thunder says, glancing at Lily, and then back at The Kingfisher.

  “Less than you might think,” Neyara says in a business-like manner. “Take your Windblade, look after it. The elements are fickle things, if you find one that listens to you, keep it close.” She hands Jonas back his sword, and then turns back to Erin. She pulls a small bone ring from one of her pockets, and holds it up. “For the rider.”

  “I like you, Neyara,” Thunder says, slipping the ring on her smallest finger, where it just barely fits. “I’m not sure if I should, but—”

  “But that’s the way of the world. I would ask you to think long and hard about what you do with the gold you have taken from Slagyrrn.”

  “Perhaps I’ll use it to bring balance to Rezir... of a sort,” Thunder says, looking to where the glimmering city would be if it wasn’t hidden by sand dunes.

  “Perhaps you will,” Neyara says. “Our lost siblings could use the reminder. Pandora’s light should shine on all, not just a chosen few. Now go, and remember the weight of the sky, and the freedom of the wind. Heavy is the head that wears the captain’s hat, but that does not mean it must be a burden.”

  * * *

  As The Kingfisher limps home, a little singed, a little more awake, so to does Wilhelm limp through Rezir. Not singed, but at the very least, awake. His head clearer than before, as a line of crackling light dissipates through his feet and into the ground, leading him forward. Path-finding is easy enough in the sky. But forcing the divine light of Talos into the ground so as not to alert or endanger himself or civilians... it takes concentration. Every ounce of his focus pours through him, pushing the lightning on when it would much rather travel elsewhere. The path of least resistance is no help to him.

  Because of this, he doesn’t see the signs until it is too late. He doesn’t even notice the broken glass in the window. He simply comes up against the shuttered door and pushes it open.

  Travil’s Tantalizing Treasures is a mess. Shards of cheap Rezirian off-cuts from two shattered windows litter the narrow aisles between broken shelves and torn pages. Wilhelm looks around, finally lifting his aching head up enough to see more than the pulsing light beneath his feet. He nearly faints as blood pounds in his ears. Dehydrated, and concussed, what will Patch say?

  He slumps, leaning against a relatively stable bookshelf, balancing and catching his breath. His ears ring loud enough to almost drown out the footsteps.

  Almost.

  He lets himself fall sideways, narrowly escaping a pair of grasping hands, fuzzy with dark hair, and attached to a heavy-set person wrapped in dark navy clothing, a matching cowl obscuring his face. Wilhelm slows his fall with his good arm, bracing against a bench crowded with ornamental jewellery. He turns, setting his one eye on his attacker

  “Trav—” Wilhelm begins, then stops himself as his brain catches up. Whoever this is, it’s unlikely to be Travil, given the state of his shop. Without another word, he turns and runs out the door, straight into the heavy arm of a second assailant.

  Already weak, it’s enough to send him toppling to the ground. The back of his head hits the hard stone floor and a bright bloom of pain reminds him of being knocked out earlier that night.

  Then it actually knocks him out, and he is carried away, slung over one heavy shoulder, just another drunk bum being escorted somewhere by gambling den security as the Dark Star’s indigo light rises over Rezir.

  Interlude: Wolves

  It begins like the small stones that precede an avalanche. This is not the tipping point, it is still a long way before the gentle patter of gravel turns into the thunderous rolling stones of a landslide, but that day is coming, and it is presaged by these small moments.

  In Lincoln, as the morning light filters through the city, teams of labourers work to shore up the broken buildings and shattered stone from the faerie attack. Under the eaves of an old building children play at make-believe. Their eyes are wide and their shouts gleeful and innocent.

  “Avast, ye scalawaggers!” One child yells, holding aloft a bent stick.

  “Narrroooo,” another howls, an exaggerated smile showing off vicious, if imaginary, fangs.

  A third child scrambles up, dirt staining his solemn face. “I don’t wanna be prisoners again. It’s my turn to be Kingfisher.”

  “Is not,” says the child with the bent stick. “I got Kingfisher’s stick. That means I’m Kingfisher, and you’re the wolves.” he gestures to the howling girl. “And you’re the prisoners. If you want to be Kingfisher, then you have to have the stick!”

  “Then gimme!”

  “Nuh-uh,” the play pauses, the magic scattering across the street like dust, before a tall, thin man walks through it. In his wake, flowers bloom a little brighter, bees buzz a little louder. He wears a crown of white leaves and flowers, and narrow spectacles.

  “What are you playing?” he asks. He’s too tall, but the children don’t seem to notice. Far more noticeable is the exciting glitter of his coat.

  “We’re playing Kingfisher and the Wolves, like what happened in the sky. My brother told me about it,” the stick-carrier and apparent leader of the group says.

  “I get to be Wolves cause I got the best howl,” the young girl says proudly.

  “But I WANNA BE KING—” the other child whines. “I’m sick of prison!”

  “Why don’t you both be people on board The Kingfisher,” the tall man says. “That’s the name of the sky-ship, after all. You can be the captain, Thunder,” he says to the boy with the stick, “and you can be the first mate, Mudge.”

  “Oh,” the two eager heroes’ mouths open and close as they parse this. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Wait!” The wolf-girl says. “If they’re both Kingfishers, then who are they going to save from me? They gotta have someone to save, so I can howl and try eat em.” She bares her teeth.

  “Oh that’s quite a simple fix,” the tall man says. “They can rescue me.”

  * * *

  On the shard of Zeal, in the shadows of a smog-filled landscape, lies the fort of Karak’tor. The pieces of the Wrathhowl have only just begun to arrive, shipped across the face of the Dark Star as quickly as possible by the Wolfpack Navy. In courtyards, and packed amphitheatres, Wolfpack Legionnaires train furiously in combat, marching formations, tactical manoeuvres, and more. In the middle of a heavy, squat building within the militarised fortress, an older Wolfpack soldier sits in a sterile medical bed. Bandages wrap his chest, and bruises colour his face, the dark purpling making his angry red eyes stand out even further. He feels weak, and old. His muscles tired, eyelids heavy. Still, he sits up when the Warchief arrives. Cyrus Bloodwash is a heavy-set man, a broad-shouldered hulking beast, with thick dark facial hair, deadly eyes and a ragged scar running down his cheek. He barks an order to the orderlies in the room, and then he and Admiral Archimedes Blitz are alone.

  “So, my pup is alive,” Cyrus says finally. “The bastard escaped.”

  “Yes, sir. He must have let the others take the fall for him. I know a few ended up in The Forge.”

  “Or dead.” Cyrus’s voice is harsh, and he heeds not the sharp wince of the man in the bed at these cold words.

  “Yes, or dead. And now he has my Windblade.”

  Cyrus laughs, a harsh braying. “Jonas has the Feathersword? You let him overpower yo
u?”

  “He shot me with a damned Skyhook, sir.”

  “He always was too clever. That’s his mother’s blood. It’s a shame. We could have used someone like him.”

  “The Wolfpack is stronger without him. His independence is too dangerous.”

  “Danger is what I wanted when I began this little experiment. Who knows, perhaps we can yet tame the Morningstar,” he scoffs, injecting the last word with bitter sarcasm. “If we can catch him.”

  “He’s found a pack of his own, and an alpha to follow. A woman. A Builder.”

  “Like seeks out like,” Cyrus says almost silently. “Tell me all about this ship... The Kingfisher, and her crew. The Table are very interested, The Khepri in particular won’t shut up about their apparent saviours. We must know our enemies.”

  31 - Mercy

  The sky begins to brighten over Flare as the great shard spins, the light from the star around which they orbit casting a pale pink light on the horizon that begins to deepen into a violet sky. Dust clouds scatter under the light as heat begins to seep into the sand. Aboard The Kingfisher, the crew work in tired silence as the rolling dunes beneath them begin to glimmer. Gold as the small hoard they have stashed in the cargo bay.

  As the city appears on the horizon, Captain Thunder stands surrounded by her officers. Rico has confirmed, for his part, that Wilhelm is still in the direction of the city, all they need do now, is break into the secure casino where Rishad is keeping him, break him out, and on the way, interrogate Rishad about Rico.

  Easy.

  “Surely if you pissed him off that much,” Mudge says, his arms resting across his chest as he blinks sand from his eyes. “He will want to take you in. So just let him know you’re back, and then wait for him to come pick you up. You go in, feign apologies, then we make our own way in and break you out.”

  “There’s a lot of unknowns there, not least of which is whether or not I come out alive or with all my fingers,” Thunder shivers. “There’s risk either way we swing this, but I’d rather be going in on my terms, ideally without him realising until I’ve got my pistol to his throat. Then we talk.”