Of Steel and Steam

by Pauline Creeden et al.

  Whelan waved him off and shook his head.

  "Not for me, thanks," he said. "I'm not one for laurels, and the last thing I want attached to my name is the title of hero. I'll be fine with a little rest. Go check on the Captain. She doesn't look well."

  Robert clapped him on the shoulder and spared him any further argument. Despite the sense of humility the man held, he planned to recommend him anyway. He may be able to decline a Viscount, but not a royal decree. Returning to Stockbridge, he checked the pulse in her wrist. Very weak. He laid his fingers against her neck to verify. She lost a great deal of blood from her ordeal. The stresses of her rescue did not help. Many of the wounds on her back broke open while he carried her through the Cape York's decks.

  If they walked out, they needed a litter to carry her. He laid the Captain on her side, and used his leather overcoat as a pillow. McCarthy and Vilaster returned with armloads of food, bandages and blankets. Each had a pack thrown over their shoulders.

  "The last crew was provisioned for a decent trek," Vilaster said. "Good thing too. Any idea where we are?"

  "Not really," he said, "but it should be easy enough to determine. What was our heading when we started off?"

  "South by southeast," Lindstrom said. "Give me a few minutes and I'll map out a course back to the citadel. McCarthy, see if you can unmount that compass from the helm."

  Robert and Vilaster constructed a makeshift stretcher from a pair of rigging spars and a sheet of canvas wing. The Captain did not stir when they moved her, which raised Robert's concern. They laid her on her stomach, and fitted one of the blankets over her. Once done, they separated the rations between the two packs.

  Whelan walked over, and crouched by the Captain's side. He laid his hand on her cheek, and closed his eyes.

  "How is she?" Robert said, leaning on the pack.

  "Not well," Whelan said, and sat back on his haunches. "I'm not sure she'll survive the trip back."

  "Can't you do anything?" Robert said. "You healed me from those musket balls."

  Whelan shook his head. "It's too soon. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. My healing skills are rusty, and I did too much already."

  "What about the... other thing you did?" Robert said. He felt the ghosts crowd closer, but ignored their words. He already knew Winslow was intrigued, and Gal'Preston furious.

  Whelan studied him, his expression guarded and closed. A hint of something dangerous crept into his eyes, as if warning Robert not to press the issue.

  "That is not something I can repeat so soon, either," he said at last. "At least not without some rather profound consequences. It would be best to forget what you saw."

  "We can't just let her die," Robert said. "We've already lost Bayliff, and we don't know if Barnes and his Zephyrs escaped the Cape York. Not to mention all the souls lost with the Ogun Den attack on the Dreadnaut."

  "These things happen," Whelan said. "The hero doesn't always save the damsel in distress. I'm sorry."

  Robert chuckled and bent his head.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Nothing," he said. "I just pictured Stockbridge's reaction to being called a damsel in distress. She'd kick your teeth out of your head."

  Whelan smiled, but his expression grew serious again.

  "Nevertheless," he said. "The concept still holds. Sometimes things don't work out as we planned. We'll do what we can, but I want you to be prepared should she not make it. You may need to accept that the bad guys won this round."

  Robert shook his head. He did not accept that, would not accept it. They came too far, accomplished too much to quit now.

  "There has to be another way," he said.

  "I can't predict the future," Whelan said, "but she's not in a good way."

  "We're both Temple trained," Robert grimaced in response to Gal'Preston's rant and drew a breath to order his thoughts. "If magic won't work, we'll use what the environment has to offer. What do we know about where we are?"

  Whelan shrugged. He stood with his arms wide to indicate their surroundings.

  "This is a desert. There's not much here to help her."

  "I need a map." Robert marched off to where Lindstrom worked his calculations.

  "The Duinn Wash," Whelan said. "It runs for hundreds of miles west of Sharil's Forde."

  Robert stopped pulling charts out of the overturned plotting table. Duinn Wash. He knew that name. It echoed through his early memories, before he left his father's house of nights spent by the fire reading in the grand library.

  "The Fae." He recalled the memory, enshrined in his thoughts, and intermingled with his favorite mastiff, Setana. "The Duinn Wash is the land of the Fae."

  Whelan directed his scowl at the deck.

  "Haven't you had enough of those creatures? You almost didn't walk away under Caliban's Crossing."

  "But they could help her." Robert moved closer. Stockbridge's insensate form lay between them.

  "And what would you offer them in return?" Whelan crossed his arms, and squinted to the northeast. "They do nothing for free. I'm telling you, they are not right."

  "We've already made payment," Robert said. With the old tales fluttering through his mind, he knew the plan would work. "We dedicated all the casualties from the traps to the Fae. We asked for nothing in return."

  "They may not see it that way. To them, just letting us pass through unmolested was enough of an exchange. Besides, we're all marked as Sharikeen. The Fae do not take kindly to our ilk."

  "We have to find an entrance." Robert turned away. None of the Boatswain's arguments disabused him of his course. He had no other way to save the Captain.

  "It could take days to find a circle," Whelan said. "She doesn't have the time for you to go searching for one."

  Robert pointed northeast.

  "I think there's one that way," he said, and Whelan started in surprise. "You saw one during our descent, didn't you? I noticed you looking off in that direction just before."

  Whelan threw his head back and laughed.

  "Well played," he said, and to himself he muttered, "The most promising in generations."

  Robert suppressed his smile of triumph.

  "If we do this, I cannot protect you," Whelan said. "I will not even enter the circle."

  "So be it," Robert said. "Just lead the way."

  The preparations did not take long, and they left the steaming airship with Stockbridge strung between the four of them. Along with the sensitive materials stored with the maps, they secured the cycling chambers from the engines and isolator.

  Wind scoured the flat ground clean, and large cracks fractured the parched soil. Each man wrapped a garment over their heads to ward off the sun, and set out without a word of complaint.

  Whelan led them toward a low hillock that dominated the horizon, and he stopped at the base. The air here prickled the hairs on Robert's arms, and a nervous flutter filled his belly.

  "We're here." Whelan laid the litter down. "I go no further, and I suggest you men stay as well."

  Lindstrom, Vilaster and McCarthy exchanged a troubled glance and nodded agreement.

  "Keep your head about you, boy," Whelan said. "And leave your weapons with us. Be careful what you agree to, and what information you tell them. Keep your ultimate goal in mind at all times. Whatever you do, do not enter their realm."

  "I thought the Fae ring was their realm," Robert said while he unbuckled his weapons belt.

  "It's the threshold," Whelan said, "a doorway to their realm. You can meet with them there, but if you cross over you may never find your way out. Stay inside the ring until they're gone."

  Robert nodded his understanding and lifted Stockbridge from the litter. The crewmen wished him luck, and Whelan patted his shoulder.

  "Come back to us," he said. "Your story in this world is far from over."

  "I thought you couldn't read the future," Robert said.

  "I know what I know." Whelan said, and waved him off.

  Without further del
ay, he started up the worn path inside of the hill.

  The Fae Ring

  The land changed while he walked. Small springs of grasses dotted the soil after a few steps. Several more yards later he saw bushes and wildflowers running riot over the surface. At the top, a row of evenly spaced stones formed a ring. Dew hung heavy on the lush grasses here, and the soft drone of insects filled the air.

  Robert stepped across the outer edge and moved to the middle of the ring. He laid Stockbridge to the grass, as gentle as possible, and stood to survey the view. The barren, arid landscape disappeared. In its place lay a lush meadow, with forests crowding the distance. A dense, silver mist rose about the stones, and he did not see his crew at the base of the hill anymore.

  "Welcome Magus," a voice said. He drew a deep breath to shore up his courage, and turned. Before him, at the inner edge of the circle, stood an impossibly tall woman. Her long hands folded before the silver gown she wore, and a gold circlet rested on her thin, elongated head. Long, silver hair spilled over her shoulders and blew in the breeze Robert did not feel. Her amber eyes were too large for her face, and her pointed jawline accentuated the disorienting effect. "Are you lost?"

  "No," Robert said, and he had to work moisture back into his mouth to do so. "We need aid."

  The woman nodded her head once.

  "Of course," she said. "Your companion is injured. Is that the aid you seek? Or do you seek to be rid of the spirits which haunt you?"

  "My friend," Robert said. He had difficulty forming a coherent thought, and he struggled to keep his gaze from her eyes.

  "She is most grievously injured," the woman said, "and not long for your world. Will you claim her, Magus? Make her one of your entourage? It would be a fitting end for a warrior such as she. Far better than trapped for all time in one of your devices."

  "No," Robert said. He detected the emphasis she placed on her last sentence and remembered Whelan's warnings. "I am not a Sharikeen mage, though they educated me."

  "Indeed," she said. "You are marked by them. Your hair bears the white wings, and your eyes are blue. That speaks to the extent of your education."

  Robert felt Gal'Preston's ghost stir, but he held his peace.

  "I am not a Sharikeen mage," he said again. "I am an officer in His Majesty's royal airfleet."

  "And does the officer have a name?"

  Again, Whelan's cautions returned to him.

  "I am born of Raen," he said, hoping the obscure reference mollified her.

  The woman crossed both hands over her chest and bowed to him.

  "Son of the Tor'val, I greet you," she said. "You are most welcome here."

  "Can you save her?" Robert said. He regretted his choice of words. Perhaps his first name would have been better to offer.

  "We can," she said. "But there is a cost. Are you willing to pay it?"

  "I already have," Robert said. He balled his fists to help him focus his thoughts. For a moment, he considered entering the flow state, but thought better of it. He had no way to tell how she would react. "Under Caliban's Crossing I sacrificed over a dozen souls to the Fae."

  "Ahh, yes," she said. Her eyes fluttered as if with pleasure at the thought. Small shadows cavorted in the mists behind her. He had not noticed them until they moved. "They were well-received. But safe passage was already granted for that payment. You must now pay for this."

  "My companion's offer was for safe passage," Robert said. "I asked for nothing in return for the offering."

  The woman's large eyes narrowed, and she remained silent.

  "You are correct," she said at length. "We will accept your offering as payment made."

  "Partially," Robert said, and woman's eyes narrowed again. "I offered a dozen souls, and I am asking for you to save one. There are eleven left unclaimed."

  "Such is not the agreement," she said.

  "Then return them," Robert said. "I have parlayed in good faith. I have brought no weapon, and I offered the souls freely."

  "Souls of your enemy."

  "Souls nevertheless," he said.

  "To heal such injuries is costly," she said. "The price must be heavier."

  "Two souls for one." He stepped closer, though his every instinct told him to flee. "If that is not acceptable, we will be on our way and I reclaim my original offer."

  "You would see her die?"

  "And bind her to my side for all time."

  The woman regarded him, and the silence stretched on.

  "Son of Raen indeed," she said, and bowed to him again. "Your offer is accepted, and it is done. You retain ten offerings should you decide to visit us again."

  "How long will it take?"

  "It is done," she said. "Her body is healed. But her mind has suffered tremendous trauma. Her spirit will remain here with us for three days. She will be at peace and ease her soul."

  "That was not part of the bargain," Robert said. "I'm not leaving her here."

  "You will take her with you, and she will awaken in three days' time, whole and well." The woman drifted closer without moving. "Unless you would like to stay here by her side. We have much to offer you."

  Robert's soul tugged at the weight of the offer. The tales of his youth spun through his mind. He always wanted to see the Summerlands, to feast beneath the trees, to sleep beneath the stars of a thousand worlds.

  He stepped back, and shook his head to clear it.

  "We are leaving," he said.

  "We wish you pleasant journeys," she said. "We can assist with that as well, if you wish."

  "I've had enough bargains for one day, thank you," Robert said. He moved to stand beside the Captain, and glanced down at her.

  "The price will be smaller." The woman spread her hands. "We are still in your debt, and that is a situation we do not enjoy."

  "We're fine, thank you." Robert knelt down to feel the Captain's pulse. It beat stronger, and the injury to her eye healed.

  "You have a long way to travel," the woman said. "Your enemy closes in on your fortress, and they bring with them the magics of death. Their numbers are great. We can return you to your fortress in two steps. Do you wish for glory? We can provide that. Do you wish for immortality? We can grant that, after a fashion. Speak how the Fae can aid you."

  "You would take sides in a war between two Sharikeen forces?"

  The woman turned her face away, as if to hide her reaction. The figures by her side increased their movement, and she made a placating gesture toward them.

  "The Fae do not support either faction," she said to Robert. "But there are alliances we do hope to forge for the future's sake. We would have you think well of us, son of the Tor'val. To that end, we ask again if you will accept our assistance."

  "What do you know of the Aeresian forces?" He stood again, intrigued by the turn of conversation. Whelan's words cautioned him, but he pushed them aside. "What are these death magics they bring?"

  "We have no words for them," she said. "They are constructs born of the Otherworld's dark imaginings, and we fear them." She held out her hand to reveal a small dark bronze amulet with a blue sapphire set off center. A fine silver chain dangled. "We do not know how to unmake them, but we can help you to see constructs others cannot. Take it, and consider two souls repaid."

  Robert hesitated. Though they had no accurate estimate of the enemy's numbers, he saw their army firsthand. The small force at Sharil's Forde had no hope to stand against them, but honor forbade them to abandon their post. If he wanted to live through this and retain his honor, he needed more than he currently had at his disposal.

  "I accept your offer," he said, "and I give you my thanks. Both for this, and the life of my Captain."

  She bowed to him again and he took the amulet. His words of gratitude made her smile, and the creatures behind her settled.

  "You will think well of us?" she said. Her large eyes had an expectant gleam that made him nervous. He put the chain around his neck and nodded.

  "Yes," he said. "I do." />
  She held her hands up again, and presented a sheathed sword wrapped in a fold of red silk.

  "To defend you in your time of need," she said, "and bring death to your enemies."

  "I have a sword, thank you."

  "Not like this." She drew the silk back to reveal the leather wrapped hilt and rounded pommel. "This is a weapon forged of old, when the E'ine walked the land and the Lethen'al were in their infancy. We gifted the human warrior, Fren'Galgalad this blade. It is named Claiomh Solais. On his death, his son returned it to us, but we are loath to touch it. He imbued this weapon with Sharikeen markings, and heavy with the weight of time. It will help you touch the spirit within you, and dispatch those who stand against you."

  She revealed the foot of the tapered leather scabbard with its gold butt cap. The only fold of silk left on the weapon rested beneath her hand.

  "There is no payment for this," she said. "It is a sign of our friendship, freely given."

  He knew the name Fren'Galgalad, the first white mage, but only from fragmented epic poems predating the Reign of King Therebus. To carry such a weapon into battle defied the wildest wanderings of his childhood imagination. And to carry the friendship of the Fae; that held honor unto itself.

  Robert bowed and accepted the weapon.

  A tingle raced up his arm when he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and an eager excitement surged through his belly. He drew a foot of the blade from the scabbard, the glistening leaf shaped steel etched with Sharikeen runes. Some he had no trouble identifying, yet others bore a complexity beyond his comprehension. The Kal stirred within him at the sight.

  "Your companions await you at the bottom of the walk," the woman said. "We will hasten your steps to your fortress. Stand against your enemy, Son of Raen, and know that you carry the friendship of the Fae with you into battle."

  The woman bowed one last time, and drifted back into the mist. It parted with the movement, and bled away. The sun shone through, and the desert land returned to view.