Spellship

by Chris Fox

  The blast doors rose, giving them their first look at the new world. A sharp wind howled through the gap, chilling the room instantly. Voria’s teeth began to chatter, and she briefly wished she had a set of her own environmentally controlled spellarmor.

  The tank lurched into motion and rolled through the doors. It hummed over snow and rock, up a small rise that afforded a good look at the crater around them. It was far smaller than the one on Marid, and much less hospitable. The entire field was coated in dull grey, lifeless rock. An ancient lava field trampled by the elements for centuries.

  They’d only made a few hundred meters when a shadow passed over them. Voria shaded her eyes, tracking the Wyrm’s flight. It was large, but nowhere near the size of the Wyrm that had plucked them from orbit.

  The sun prevented her from seeing the color, but she had the impression of white scales as the creature winged by overhead. It entered a steep dive, and she tensed as it fell toward them. Aran and his company fanned out around them, preparing for combat.

  Stone surged up into the air in a huge wave as the Wyrm crashed into the earth no more than thirty meters away. It bellowed a challenge, its nostrils flaring as lightning crackled about its eyes.

  “I am Sentry Daygon. Who are you and why have you come to Virkon?” The creature’s voice rattled Voria’s teeth, though after hearing Neith she was considerably less impressed than she otherwise would have been.

  “My name is Major Voria, of the Shayan Confederacy. I’ve been dispatched to meet with the Council of Wyrms, on behalf of my people.” Voria paused for a moment as the Wyrm’s long neck stretched closer. She was very cognizant of the rows of teeth a mere three meters away. “We’re hoping for an alliance, or at the least an exchange of information.”

  The creature studied her as if trying to puzzle out whether or not she were serious. The Wyrm’s head shot up, and it began to laugh. “Very well, mortal. Bring your little honor guard and follow us in your earthbound vehicle. I will conduct you to the council. But take care with your tongue. They are not a patient lot.”

  20

  Audience

  The trek across the lava field drove home how insignificant they were. Wyrms dove and wheeled through the sky, banking suddenly to avoid colliding. An entire cloud followed their tank, shadowing their agonizing progress across the crater floor.

  The Wyrm who’d offered to guide them glided a little ways ahead, stopping occasionally to preen as he waited for them to catch up. His scales glistened in the sun—now silver, now white. Otherwise, he looked much the same as Khalahk, with impressive horns jutting from his head. Voria couldn’t begin to guess his age. Three centuries? Four? Definitely less than a millennia.

  “Why do I feel like we’re walking toward our own execution?” Aran muttered over the comm.

  Voria jerked, startled by the sudden disruption to the tense silence. “You are not alone in that feeling, Lieutenant. There are more Wyrms here than we faced on Marid, by a hundredfold.”

  Crewes barked out a harsh laugh. “Notice none of them scaly bastards has gotten too close, though, ’cept for that guide.” He feathered his booster, and his armor rocketed to the head of their little caravan. “They might be able to kill us, but I’m betting word got back about Khalahk.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, Sergeant,” Voria countered. She shaded her eyes. They were approaching a cliff face with a wide slash down the middle. That slash disappeared into darkness, though she could see light filtering down inside, probably from some sort of open roof.

  They crossed the last few hundred meters in silence and followed their guide inside the cavern. The walls sloped up high above them, disappearing into the shadows. The center of the ceiling had been carved away, allowing light from above. It would also allow a dragon to fly out, if they chose.

  Something massive moved in one of the shadowed alcoves above, and several fist-sized rocks tumbled down to spill across the path. Davidson paused the tank and only moved on when the debris had stopped raining down.

  More shapes moved above, each keeping to the shadows. Their eyes blazed, so very much like Khalahk’s had been, lurking in the darkness when they’d left Shaya aboard the Big Texas.

  Hostility radiated down from above like heat from a star, the full fury of creatures more ancient than the oldest living Shayan. They didn’t want her here, or any lowly bipedal race. That was clear without a word being uttered. Voria was meddling, and these Wyrms did not like meddlers.

  One of the Wyrms, a long-necked female, crawled into a shaft of light. She stared imperiously down at Voria. “I am Wyrm Mother Olyssa, and, at present, I stand first among the flights. You address the Council of Wyrms, little Shayan. Tell us, why have you come to our world?”

  Voria sketched an earth sigil, then a spirit. The amplification spell swirled around her for a moment, then disappeared. It would raise the volume of her voice, but not enough to be a challenge to the Wyrms.

  “I’ve been dispatched by the Shayan Confederacy, to bring you troubling news.” Voria kept it simple. “The Krox are stirring in the Erkadi Rift, and have begun invading our space. We believe this war will quickly spill across the entire sector, and once the Krox have dealt with us they will turn their attention toward you.”

  Deep, booming laughter came from several of the alcoves, though not from Olyssa. Her scaly face tightened, and her eyes flashed.

  Another Wyrm moved, this one smaller than Olyssa. Her eyes were dull and rheumy, and her scales had faded to a soft ash-white. “Yes, I thought that might be your argument. The Krox representative arrived some time ago, and made very similar arguments about you. They claim you will come for us, if not stopped. The difference is that you’ve killed one of our oldest Wyrm Fathers, whereas the Krox have done nothing to harm us. Why should we listen to you, morsel?”

  Wings rustled in several other alcoves, and Olyssa dipped her head deferentially to the wizened Wyrm. Voria considered her answer with great deliberation. How did one admit to murdering a powerful member of this society, without having them perceive you as an enemy?

  “If you’re referring to the death of Khalahk, then what you’ve heard is true,” Voria admitted. There was no sense denying the truth. They could ferret it out magically, if that was even necessary. They could see it on her face. “We were attacked, and we defended ourselves. Not once, but twice. In the end we had no choice but to kill Khalahk. Would any of you have done differently if assaulted by a Wyrm of Khalahk’s strength? Would you have gone willingly to your death, or would you have fought back for your own survival, as we did? His death was a regrettable tragedy, but Khalahk left me little choice.”

  There was more rustling, then whispers in a language Voria didn’t recognize. The Wyrms hissed back and forth to each other, the matron arguing with Olyssa. A massive male slithered to the edge of his alcove, glaring down at Voria.

  “I am Aetherius, and Khalahk was my mate,” he boomed. “He was the Wyrm Father of our flight. You come here after murdering him, and you seek our aid? Are you mad, little humans? I understand that your tree goddess is flighty, but have you so little connection to reality? You may have been defending yourselves, but if you think I will thank you for killing my mate, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “Why would Khalahk have attacked you?” Olyssa demanded. Aetherius’s head snapped up and he glared hard at the Wyrm Mother. She met his gaze evenly, her tail swishing behind her in what Voria guessed might be a challenge.

  Aetherius flicked a forked tongue across his teeth, but said nothing.

  “I don’t know,” Voria said, and it was the simple truth. She’d guessed it might be connected to Aran, but sensed that bringing it up would be a monumentally bad idea.

  “Because,” Aetherius roared, “the vessel carried a dragonslayer. We already know this. The Krox have presented their evidence, and we have found it sufficient. Khalahk sought to kill Aranthar for the death of Rolf, and instead an Outrider turned upon his master and slew him.”


  Voria wished, however briefly, that she’d never left Shaya. She didn’t really understand what significance Outriders played in Virkonnian society, but she guessed they were a bit like tech mages on Shaya. Useful servants perhaps, but that wasn’t quite right. She suspected these Wyrms saw their Outriders as pets, and that changed the equation.

  You fired a servant who disappointed you. But if a dog turned on its master, you put the dog down.

  “Is it true your vessel carries an Outrider?” Olyssa asked.

  Voria had the sense Olyssa knew the answer, and the answers to all her questions.

  “It did,” Voria admitted. “We brought Lieutenant Aran, the Outrider Aranthar, home. We were unaware he was being considered for murder, as, again, we were merely defending ourselves from assault.” She didn’t mention that Aran was hovering a few meters away. A bead of sweat dampened her cheek.

  “He is here?” Aetherius roared. His wings flapped, sweeping stones and debris down upon them. Voria sketched an air sigil, and a translucent umbrella appeared over the tank. Rocks the size of fists rebounded off with enough force to have crushed a human skull. Without magical aid, any one of them could have been killed.

  “Lieutenant, perhaps you should remove your helmet,” Voria suggested once the barrage of stone had subsided. She didn’t know what else to do. Instinctively, she reached for the seeing Neith had given her.

  Possibilities stretched out before her. Aetherius swooping down and swallowing Aran. Aran killing Aetherius, then dying to the rest of the Wyrms. There. A possibility flitted by, different from the rest. She pursued it.

  A woman she didn’t recognize detached from the shadows at the base of one rough cliff faces, and addressed the Wyrms. Olyssa listened to this woman, and Aran lived.

  Voria came back to reality with a sharp shake of her head. Aran was just now removing his helmet. Thankfully, only a few moments had passed.

  “No,” Olyssa howled. She retreated into the shadows, her voice feral, and weak. “I refused to believe it. But I cannot deny it with my own eyes. One of ours, a dragonslayer.”

  “He is from your flight, Olyssa,” Aetherius roared. “What is his fate?”

  Voria spun around, looking to the shadows from the timeline. Sure enough, someone moved there. A master of stealth, but one who was too interested in the proceedings to conceal herself fully.

  Who was she? And what could Voria do to get her to intervene?

  “Aran,” she whispered into the comm. “Stall. Tell them a story. Keep them busy.”

  Aran shot her a murderous look. “Stall? Some days I really hate this job.”

  He flew into the air and drew the attention of every Wyrm in the room. Voria took the opportunity to study the woman in the corner.

  She wore shimmering cloth that covered her completely. Voria sketched a parse aura spell and was unsurprised to see the heavy enchantment interwoven through the cloth. It flowed and pulsed…like a living thing. Her armor was alive.

  It also matched the description Aran had given of the person who’d tried to assassinate him in his quarters. If she wanted him dead, why did the possibility exist that she would intercede on his behalf? That meant there must be a great deal of internal conflict.

  You didn’t have an internal conflict like that for a mark, so she hadn’t been paid to kill him. Which meant she was killing him for another reason.

  Virkon was supposed to be all about honor. Had that been it? Had she been honor bound to kill him?

  Perhaps she was a superior. Or a mentor. Or a family member. Whatever the relationship, part of her didn’t want to see Aran die.

  Voria took a deep breath. She sketched one more spell, since everyone was focused on Aran—a simple missive, with a single sentence.

  If you do nothing, he will die.

  21

  Astria

  Aran’s mouth dried like he’d just inhaled a fire bolt. He stared up at the Wyrms above, both awed and terrified to be the focus of their attention. He had no idea what they wanted to hear, but when all you had was the truth, that was what you led with.

  “I am an Outrider, I think. Several months ago I was mind-wiped, and I can’t remember anything before that moment.” He guided his new armor a little higher, his dark helmet tucked under one arm.

  Several of the Wyrms shifted restlessly. He halted his rise. Maybe that was taboo. He was only a lowly human, after all.

  The Wyrm they’d called Olyssa prowled back over to the mouth of her alcove. She stared coldly down at Aran, and he read murder in those slitted eyes. “Do you think not remembering a crime absolves you of it?”

  Aran’s hand flexed, reaching instinctively for his spellblade. That was understandable. He felt more in control with a spellblade in his hand, and he desperately needed to feel in control right now. Because he knew he wasn’t.

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he admitted. “But if you’re going to try me for a crime, will you at least tell me what it is?”

  “Try?” Olyssa asked. She cocked her head, her neck bringing it closer.

  “He’s talking about a March of Honor,” a clear, feminine voice echoed through the cavern. “On Shaya, the world he’s been hiding on, they talk about crimes. Sometimes, they punish them. But they do not force their people to fight for their convictions, or to defend themselves from the consequences of their actions.”

  Aran’s eyes widened when she stepped into the light. It was the woman from his quarters, still wearing the same flowing uniform. He couldn’t see anything, only her eyes. She wore her spellblade belted at her side, and walked as if it were an extension of her. He hadn’t developed that, he realized, because he always stored his blade in a void pocket.

  The woman walked slowly forward, and dropped to one knee at the very center of the caravan. “Wyrm Fathers. Wyrm Mothers. I ask your leniency. Your Outrider left this world. Only a shell has returned. A shell that does not remember its own actions. If it is to be judged, then let Virkonna judge him.”

  “So you believe that your brother should be given the honors of an Outrider, even after murdering Khalahk? We may very well see war between the flights, and that’s a direct result of Aranthar’s actions.” Olyssa leapt from her perch, swooping toward the ground. She slammed into it with a crash, sending up a spray of stone and grit that knocked the woman in the suit back a step.

  The woman coughed once, then pulled off her mask. Dark, shoulder-length hair spilled out, framing a face not so different from Aran’s. She was pretty, in a severe way. Her eyes bored into him, in open challenge. He stared right back, meeting that challenge with the same ferocity he had when she’d attacked him on the Talon.

  The woman waved a hand to clear the last of the debris floating through the air. “That is precisely what I am saying. My brother served the dragonflight loyally for his entire life. He never had a black mark, until Rolf was killed. And, from the report he himself sent, we know Aran was dealing with forces he couldn’t possibly overcome. He was the junior Outrider, not the senior. How can you hold him to account for that?”

  Olyssa reared up, her wings extending high above her. “It is only your past service that prevents me from ending you, human. We are not here to debate what happened with Rolf. We are here to talk about Khalahk.”

  “Khalahk attacked Aran.” The woman walked boldly toward Olyssa’s towering leg. “Aran defended himself. He did so in ignorance, with no knowledge of his people. He can’t know what a crime he has committed. If you devour him here, he dies confused, and that is not justice. He is a victim in all this.”

  “So what do you advocate?” Aetherius boomed from above. Other Wyrms called similar questions.

  “Let Virkonna judge him.” She slowly raised her arm and pointed at Aran. “Let the Wyrm Mother decide. Aran makes the March of Honor. The odds of his survival are almost none. Those of you with a vested interest in his death still get it, but he gets to die fighting.”

  Olyssa kicked off with a mighty flap of her wings, an
d the rush of air knocked Aran’s armor several meters back. She soared up to her perch, and landed agilely. The Wyrm clung to the rock, peering down at Aran and the woman they’d called his sister.

  “What say you, Olyssa?” Aetherius rumbled. “He comes from your flight.” He gave a vicious grin. “We could dismember him here. Fastest dragon gets the morsel.”

  “No,” she snapped. “My anger and grief are overpowering, but this woman’s words hold a bit of Mother’s wisdom. We should let her decide. I call it to a vote. Who will allow this Outrider to take the March of Honor?”

  “What if he survives?” the wizened Wyrm called. She crawled into a shaft of light, which glinted off her dull eyes. “If we allow a dragonslayer to live, then we invite a hundred hundred fools to follow this one. They’ll be rising up all over the planet, calling for Virkonna knows what.”

  “She speaks true,” Aetherius pointed out. “We cannot allow him to live. End it now, Olyssa, before this grows into a problem that must be solved with much greater violence.”

  Aran was grateful for the brief moment where he wasn’t the subject of their attention, and the more time he had to think, the better. Anything he said would only make it worse, so he said nothing.

  “A vote has been called,” another Wyrm called. “The subject must be settled.”

  “I will trust you, Olyssa,” Aetherius said. “But if this human comes back to bite my tail this will be the last time you have that trust. You had better be right. I vote to allow the Outrider to take the March of Honor.” He whirled, then disappeared deeper into his alcove.

  The other dragons murmured their answers, one after another. Aran wasn’t sure how their voting worked, but when it was over, each Wyrm flapped into the air and soared out of the top of the cavern.