by Paul Collins
Fa’red gestured in the direction of a small shed that had branches and leaves growing out of its roof. Behind it was what appeared to be quite a large tent, which had been partly collapsed without the poles having been removed.
‘I call it an airliner,’ Fa’red announced proudly. ‘It flies through the air in a straight line, you see. Mordicar is only three hundred miles away as the magalel flies.’
‘That would be all very well if I were a magalel, but I happen to be a head of state with six hundred warriors and a very large entourage. Very little of that will fit into your “airliner”.’
‘But, my lord, how much of all that do you really require? I mean, when you walk into the temple at Mordicar, what will you need?’
‘Just what is in my saddlebags, I suppose. And the pentacle gem. Not to mention an army at my back when we reach Mordicar.’
‘Ah,’ Fa’red said. ‘I’ve had a battalion of your finest lancers rerouted from their duties in Passendof. So far as Bravenhurst is concerned, they are on training exercises.’
‘You presume too much, mage. Now, as for the other matter, Fa’red, my patience is thin-edged.’
‘Well then, Preceptor, I don’t think I can get you there for lunch, but I have packed what might be termed an in-flight meal, ha ha. Catchy name, don’t you think? Unstrap your saddlebags, then watch.’
Fa’red walked the Preceptor to his airliner. He opened the door to the shed, went inside, and closed it behind him. The Preceptor unstrapped his saddlebags and sat with them over one arm, but did not dismount. A minute later the branches began to be absorbed into the roof. Then the sides pulled up out of the ground and, abruptly, the shed stood up. This came as a shock to the Preceptor, who was not used to sheds that could seemingly stand up of their own accord. The tent behind the shed now began to spread out into two enormous wings that spanned at least five dozen feet. Finally, the shed turned on ten-foot legs with sixty-foot wings and appeared to stare at the Preceptor through a single, square glass eye. It began to lumber in his direction.
While the Preceptor was fairly broad-minded about peculiar, and occasionally quite intimidating, magical things, his horse was not. It had been trained to cope with things like being charged at by horses carrying men encased in armour and waving long and deadly weapons, carnivorous animals, deserts, flooded rivers, forest fires, and even ships in raging storms, but the airliner was considerably more than it could cope with. It attempted to turn and flee. The Preceptor wrenched its head back around with the reins. The horse reared, but failed to throw the Preceptor. It then put its head between its forelegs and bucked. The Preceptor rode the frenzied horse till it steadied.
Angered, the Preceptor raised his head in time to see a giant chicken’s foot come down beside him. He noted that the legs were bending and that the shed was descending. It stopped about a foot from the ground, then Fa’red opened the door.
‘The airliner at your service, Preceptor,’ Fa’red declared.
The Preceptor was offered assistance by a youth who introduced himself as Coster, the flight engineer. He pulled his arm away from Coster’s helping hand and glared at Fa’red. Then he walked over to the shed door, beside which stood a girl.
‘My name is Linnet,’ she said. ‘I’m the flight hostess. Have a nice flight.’
The Preceptor stepped into the shed, which smelled like a fruit market. Sacks, bags, and one enormous barrel filled the space. Up near the square window, two saddles had been strapped to the barrel. There were smaller square windows to either side of the second saddle.
‘Welcome aboard, Preceptor,’ said Fa’red. ‘Just climb into the saddle behind me.’
‘What trickery is this?’ the Preceptor demanded. Behind him, Linnet locked and bolted the door.
‘Magery, yes, trickery, no, Preceptor. My airliner has already made five flights, one of them in the complete, operational configuration.’
‘Would you please get into the saddle, Preceptor?’ said Linnet.
‘Have you flown in this contraption?’ the Preceptor demanded of Linnet.
‘Yes, Preceptor, only this morning.’
‘Very well,’ the Preceptor grunted. ‘You try my patience, Fa’red.’ Warily, he put a leg over the barrel.
Linnet showed him how to use the safety straps. ‘The handles on the walls to either side of your saddle are to hold on to when taking off and landing, or in rough weather.’
‘Rough weather?’ asked the Preceptor, apprehensively. ‘Fa’red, you’ve gone too far!’
‘Oh, but this is a very nice day,’ wheedled Fa’red.
The Preceptor turned and saw that the flight hostess was already astride her own saddle. She strapped herself in and gripped the handles to either side of her. Behind her Coster was also in position.
‘Are you ready, Preceptor?’ asked Fa’red, holding up the reins.
‘My saddlebags!’ exclaimed the Preceptor, hoping that he might have left them outside.
‘Strapped over the barrel behind you, Preceptor,’ called the cheery flight hostess.
The airliner began to walk with an unsettling, rolling gait. Looking past Fa’red, the Preceptor saw that the beast-device was facing the royal escort. Through the side windows he saw the enormous wings beginning to flap ponderously. Suddenly the airliner bellowed a mighty BUK BUK BUKCAW, causing the horsemen to scatter.
‘Perhaps a more dignified warning sound would be appropriate,’ suggested the Preceptor. ‘A trumpet fanfare, or the roar of some great predator?’
‘Later, please, Preceptor. We could have a major malfunction unless I really concentrate on this operation.’
‘Major malfunction?’
‘Come to a very abrupt stop, Preceptor,’ called Coster.
The Preceptor looked through a side window. The ground seemed to be moving past unnaturally fast. The shed shook with each mighty footfall, the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the wings sounded like the panting of an exhausted dragon – then the thudding of the feet stopped.
‘Is this a major malfunction?’ asked the Preceptor, his hands forming a death grip on the pommel before him.
‘No, Preceptor. We are in the air,’ called Fa’red, without turning. ‘Just locking the legs back into flight position.’
The Preceptor looked out the window to the right. Half the view was filled with the base of a mighty wing, the other half was a diorama of miniature trees, cattle, houses and hills. His stomach churned as they flew over the Preceptor’s assembled army, now scattering as though some aerial predator were about to attack.
The Preceptor closed his eyes. Oddly enough this made him feel better. Normally, not being able to see in times of danger would have been terrifying, but the view outside was so disturbing that the Preceptor could not bear to look.
Minutes passed. The great whooshing of the wings ceased. The Preceptor opened his eyes and glanced about fearfully.
‘The wings,’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘What’s happened to the wings?’
‘I have found an updraft at the boundary of Dragonfrost and the Garrical Mountains, Preceptor,’ said Fa’red, turning around. He looked quite relaxed.
‘Updraft?’ asked the Preceptor, uncomprehending.
‘A draft going upwards, like that which goes up a chimney above a fire. It lifts us without wearying the wings.’
They were at least a mile high, perhaps even higher, yet it was as if the Preceptor were standing on a carpet woven in the form of a map. He had to remind himself that he was flying amid the clouds. Stupefied, he was almost beyond fear.
‘The Garrical Mountains are off to our right,’ said Fa’red. ‘We will soon be over the border and above Baltoria.’
‘Baltoria?’ exclaimed the Preceptor. ‘But that is a hundred miles by road, a journey of four or five days.’
‘Ah, but we are travelling in a straight line, Preceptor. It is a mere sixty miles for us, and we are travelling at a rate of sixty or seventy miles per hour.’
‘Your art knows no bounds,�
� breathed the Preceptor.
‘Captain, sir,’ called Coster from the rear of the shed. ‘Cleared to shit.’
‘Proceed,’ Fa’red called back.
The Preceptor glared at Coster. ‘Can you not wait?’
‘It is for the wings and legs,’ explained Fa’red. ‘They eat in a strange way that I cannot describe without a prolonged lecture. The flight engineer purges the rather foul dregs at the bottom of the barrel, then adds a few sacks of chopped fruit and digestive juices to feed the wings.’
‘Cleared to feed,’ called Coster.
‘Proceed.’
The Preceptor turned to watch Coster open a hatch in front of Linnet. He emptied several sacks of chopped fruit and vegetable scraps into the barrel.
‘We are just a little south of a straight line between D’loom and Mordicar, Preceptor. The airliner will shit and feed again near the Marisa River, the city of Hez’ar, the Serpentire River, and over a forest on the approach to Mordicar.’
‘Hez’ar? There is a particularly rebellious and troublesome prince ruling that city,’ said the Preceptor.
‘Well, we could fly low over his palace during the act of venting, Preceptor.’
The flight hostess heated Fa’red’s two slices of pork pie over a tiny charcoal stove as they passed over the Marisa River. Fa’red and the Preceptor ate and shared the bottle of wine as they sat in their saddles. The toilet arrangements for the passengers were considerably more primitive than those for the wings and legs. Indeed, there would have been no arrangements had Linnet not thought to bring a potty aboard. This was used at the rear of the shed, while she held up her cloak as a modesty screen. The contents were emptied out while the flight engineer held the door open against the slipstream.
Hez’ar was near the halfway point in their flight. As they flew over the palace, the Preceptor insisted on working the release handle for the airliner’s purges. Once they had dumped the muck, Fa’red brought the airliner in low over the palace again, to show the Preceptor the cloisters. He laughed hysterically at the marble splattered with dark matter, and the people shaking their fists skywards. It was only after five return passes that the novelty of the sight wore off, and the Preceptor allowed Fa’red to steer for Mordicar again.
‘We spent a third of an hour circling the city,’ explained Fa’red, as the wings laboured to gain height again.
‘Your point? We are going so much faster than the poor fools on the roads that it does not matter.’
‘Not so, Preceptor. We only have a reserve of fruit, scraps and digestive juices to keep us in the air for a total of six hours. The trip is five hours under ideal conditions. We have wasted a third of an hour at Hez’ar, and now we are burning up precious reserves of wing food to gain height again. That will cost us, at least, another quarter hour in wing food.’
‘Leaving us half an hour of reserve, nearly.’
‘In perfect conditions, Preceptor.’
‘But conditions are perfect, Fa’red.’
‘They are here, Preceptor, but look up ahead.’
Through the inclined glass square at the front of the flying shed, the Preceptor saw what appeared to be a distant mountain range. It had a dark colour about it.
‘Mountains, Fa’red. You appear to be off course. There should be no mountains there.’
‘Thunderclouds, Preceptor. I have watched thunderstorms many times, seeking to broaden my knowledge of the non-magical world. The winds within a thunderstorm move the clouds very fast, and there is a great deal of lightning.’
‘I see,’ replied the Preceptor, detecting signs of panic from Coster and Linnet. ‘I suggest that we land while the weather is fine,’ he declared.
‘We are over rebel territory, Preceptor, and you have just been shitting all over the palace of the rebel prince. Even if we were over loyalist lands, what would your reaction be if you saw a shed with wings sixty feet across drop out of the sky and come running up to your camp on ten-foot-high chicken legs?’
The Preceptor tried to visualise the scene. ‘You’re right. A volley of armour-piercing crossbow bolts, followed by a volley of fire arrows.’
‘Quite so, Preceptor. The walls of the airliner are very thin because they have to be light enough for the wings to carry them. Crossbow bolts would pass right through. The shed is alive. But, although it is built of enchanted wood, it is still wood, and wood burns.’
‘Understood,’ the Preceptor grated.
‘I’m glad that you now appreciate our problem, Preceptor. I took the liberty of sending a few homing pigeons ahead to Mordicar, explaining that people need not panic if they see a shed with massive wings landing on thundering legs.’
‘By Black Quell’s beard! Did you see that flash of lightning?’
‘I did, Preceptor.’
‘What would happen if one such as that hit us?’
‘It is currently a mile and a half down, Preceptor.’
‘But – another one! No cloud has a right to move so fast. So, this is why birds fly for cover when a storm is coming. The Duke of Mordicar’s people had better know that if they shoot at something looking like this I shall have my men slaughter every man, woman and – why are those clouds green?’
‘Green clouds are a sign of hail, Preceptor.’
Seething at his unaccustomed impotence, the Preceptor sat back in his saddle. The clouds loomed ever closer.
‘Attention all crew and passengers,’ cried Fa’red. ‘We are soon to be flung about violently by the winds. Please secure all loose items, fasten your safety straps, grip your handholds, and pray to some god that tends to be nice to you more often than not.’
After a few preliminary bumps the Preceptor decided that perhaps the thunderstorm was not as serious as Fa’red had imagined. After all, Fa’red had only ever watched them; he had never actually flown through one. The airliner was bigger than any bird, after all, and – a wrenching twist threw the airliner sideways. It was some time before Fa’red worked out how to correct the craft again. After several more violent lurches, they suddenly dropped like a stone.
‘The wings are torn off!’ screamed Linnet.
Before closing his eyes, the Preceptor noted that a loose, empty fruit sack appeared to be floating weightlessly beside him. The sack dropped as if the shed had smashed into the ground, but it was soon apparent that they were still flying.
Coster’s feverish prayers and Linnet’s occasional shriek strengthened the Preceptor’s resolve to keep his mouth shut, and his eyes open. If there were an afterlife, he wanted to follow Fa’red into it and wreak vengeance upon the man. Outside the window, treetops streamed past, partly shrouded by hail. Then the airliner started climbing again.
‘Are we doomed?’ The Preceptor’s voice shook despite his efforts to steady it.
‘A downdraft, I think,’ said Fa’red. ‘It’s like an updraft, only down. Nothing to concern yourself with, Preceptor.’
The terrors of the storm began to take their toll. The Preceptor’s slice of pork pie began to sit badly on his stomach. It was with a perverse sort of satisfaction that he managed to throw up just as the storm put the airliner into a nose dive, covering Fa’red’s back with puke. Moments later they were pointed straight up again, and the mess was dripping back onto the Preceptor.
Gradually the violent wrenches graduated to firm wrenches, then heavy bumps, before dwindling to mild bumps.
‘Permission to unstrap, shit and feed, Captain?’ called the flight engineer.
‘Proceed. I’ll try to hold the thing steady.’
The timer was not the only guide to the strength of the wings. The flight engineer purged the barrel, but before he fed the wings he scooped up what was left with a long ladle. What he saw did not please him. The Preceptor watched as Coster emptied the remaining fruit, scraps and digestive juices into the barrel. After locking the hatch, he made his way towards Fa’red.
‘Sorry to report, sir, that the wings are doing poorly. They used up far more fruit fighting the s
torm than we had to give. I put in what was left, but I can’t say how long that will last.’
‘I can see the edge of the Bravenhurst grasslands down there,’ said Fa’red. ‘That means about fifty miles to go until we reach Mordicar. Go back and monitor the wing roots through the access hatch. Check for sweat and body temperature.’
The flight engineer reported that the wings were not just hungry, they were tired as well. Under his hand, the great muscles were bunching up with the beginnings of cramp. As Linnet did her best to clean up Fa’red’s back and the Preceptor’s front of puke, Fa’red locked the wings to let them rest in a long glide.
‘Should they not be flapping?’ asked the Preceptor, glancing through his portal.
‘They need a rest,’ said Fa’red. ‘And I need to get enough strength back into them to flap as we come in for a landing.’
‘But you just said that there were fifty miles to go.’
‘There are, but I have decided to take a chance and land. We can run along on the legs, perhaps all the way to Mordicar.’
‘We have plenty of chicken feed, Captain,’ called Coster from the back.
Fa’red unlocked the chicken legs and set them running. He strained to see through the glass square, and wished that he had some external wiper to clear away the rain. They were flying over rough, undulating fields when the chicken feet began to thud on the ground. They stumbled several times, but Fa’red managed to provide some support by flapping the wings briefly. Then they were on the ground, and travelling no faster than a horse at a canter. Fa’red steered the airliner onto a low hill to get his bearings – and they went through what turned out to be the roof of the headquarters of a regional cavalry garrison. Survivors of the calamity scattered in shock.
The airliner struggled out of the wreckage, and Fa’red set the controls to run as fast as the legs could manage. Unfortunately, due to the legs being cold and cramped, this was not significantly different to the speed of a galloping horse. The airliner ran through the local town, wings held high and flapping occasionally, while about thirty cavalrymen rode in pursuit.
