by Dorian Hart
“Of course,” said the woman. “All of the Travelers’ clergy maintain a presence in Travelers’ Square, right in the center of the city. The shrine of Delioch should be close at hand, in case your friend here wants to have his face attended to. They’ll want a donation, of course.”
“Ma’am, again, thank you,” said Dranko. “But my face can wait. Also, one more thing. Ernie here wasn’t kidding about the turtle. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
* * *
They drew off from the crowd and formed a huddle.
“I have a plan,” said Aravia.
“And I’m sure it’s brilliant,” said Dranko. “Let’s hear it.”
“Tor will fly three of us to Travelers’ Square on the carpet. We’ll fly high enough en route to see where Arrowshot Tower is, then do our best to convince the Werthans about their role in killing the colossus, assuming they don’t already know. Once we’ve done that, we’ll fly to the tower. The two on foot should just run straight there. If Aktallian is there, it would be best if we confronted him together.”
“Are we going to stop him blowing the horn?” asked Ernie. “I still think we should.”
“And I think we shouldn’t,” said Dranko. “Sorry, Ernie. But we don’t have time to argue about it. Turtle clock’s ticking, and Aravia’s plan sounds good to me. Any volunteers for walking?”
“I’ll walk,” said Kibi. “I hate that damned flying rug.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Ernie.
Tor unrolled the carpet and snapped it sharply to a hovering state. “All aboard!”
Dranko vaulted on behind Tor, and once Aravia and Morningstar were settled, Tor grabbed two of Vyasa Vya’s tassels and the flying carpet launched upward into the brightening sky, trailing its tendrils of smoke. Below him Kibi and Ernie jogged toward the city, leaving the crowd to gape and gawk at the carpet.
Tor flew in a high arc, and from hundreds of feet up it was easy to spot Arrowshot Tower, built as a succession of tall rectangular sections piled one upon another. Its zenith was fifty feet higher than anything around it, a flat stone square trimmed with a shoulder-high wooden railing.
“Fly us closer,” said Dranko, and Tor complied. The boy steered the carpet like he was born to its control, banking and swooping while the rug’s magical protections kept them firmly anchored.
Dranko squinted down at the tower’s rooftop, thinking he might see someone getting ready to, or even be in the process of, winding the Chelonian Horn, but the exposed tower-top was empty.
“Could we have missed it?” asked Tor.
“We’re only here at the suggestion of two talking rocks and a page from a madman’s diary,” said Dranko. “I figure there’s a good chance this whole thing is a big misunderstanding and the Ventifact Colossus is actually a fat bartender from Minok.”
But he didn’t believe that. Too many threads of fate were knotted together for this to be anything but what it seemed. The “wandering island” loomed at the edge of the desert, a living disaster waiting to wipe out Sand’s Edge as surely as a hurricane.
Tor was already descending. “I remember where Travelers’ Square is. It’s where I got patched up after our fight with those Black Circle guys.”
It was still early enough in the morning that the square was nearly empty. A flight of pigeons took wing as the carpet landed, and a nearby beggar stared wide-eyed for a moment before inching away. The Shrine of Werthis—a small two-story house with a miniature yard surrounded with an iron fence—was easily recognized by the insignia emblazoned above the door. Standing beneath the heraldic shield with its red gauntlet, Dranko considered what he knew about the Church of Werthis. Their priesthood doubled as a large battle-ready militia ostensibly under the command of King Crunard, but in practice they’d do whatever the Stormknight Lord Dalesandro ordered. The bulk of their fighting clergy was based in and around Hae Charagan, with lesser centers of power in Hae Kalkas and Hydra. In most other large cities they maintained a token presence; Dranko had seen their small chapter house in Tal Hae and wasn’t terribly impressed. This one was even smaller.
Morningstar rattled the door handle. “Locked.” She knocked, but after thirty seconds no one had come to let them in.
“It’s barely past six in the morning,” said Tor. “They could still be sleeping.”
“I can get us inside,” said Aravia. “Stand back.”
Dranko put his arm on her shoulder. “No. Save your magic in case we need it later. I picked up a new set of tools the other day; allow me.”
The lock on the door of the Werthan shrine was primitive, and Dranko had it open in less than half a minute. It creaked as it opened, but no one came to challenge them.
“Hello!” Dranko shouted. “Anyone here? Wake up, sleepyheads!”
There was a stirring from the second floor, some sounds of quiet voices, the creak of floorboards. Two people, a man and woman, came cautiously down the stairs, each holding a sword in front of them.
“Explain your presence here,” demanded the woman. She was short and powerfully built, but hastily dressed, and her short brown hair spiked in amusing tufts from recent sleep.
“I’d have thought Stormknights would be up at dawn, practicing combat maneuvers or something,” said Dranko. He held his hands to show they were free of weapons, and his friends did the same. “We’re here because you have something important to do today.”
“How did you get in?” asked the man. The fellow was tall, broad-shouldered and thin-waisted, with a salt-and-pepper goatee. Tor would look like that in another thirty years.
“I busted your lock,” said Dranko. “But that’s okay. You needed a better one anyway, and I’ll pay you for it, assuming you’re still alive tomorrow.”
“Are you the only two Stormknights here?” asked Morningstar.
The Stormknight woman rubbed her eyes with her free hand and peered at them from the bottom step. “You wear Ellish robes. And you, half-breed, you bear the scars of a follower of Delioch. What is going on here? Why might I not be alive tomorrow? Do you threaten us?”
Dranko ignored the slur. “What I’m about to tell you is going to sound unlikely, but hear me out until the end. The four of us were hired by an important wizard to investigate some old prophecies. We found extremely clear indicators that right here in Sand’s Edge, today, an enormous monster is going to attack the city, and the only people who will be able to kill it are three Stormknights. And that makes sense, right? Who’s better trained to protect innocent lives and slay fearsome beasts than you?”
“This is a trick,” said the man. “Some scheme to rob our house—”
Dranko sighed. “If my goal was to plunder your shrine, you’d still be asleep upstairs and I’d already be selling your silverware. In fact, I’m going to do the opposite of rob you.”
He unslung his pack and produced a bag of silver talons he had hastily prepared for this moment. “Why don’t we consider this a business proposition? I give you these hundred silver coins just for hearing me out. You go to the edge of the desert to see for yourself. If it turns out we’re wrong about this, I’ll come back and give you another hundred tomorrow morning.”
He tossed the sack of coins to the floor.
“The monster is in the desert?” asked the woman.
“Yes. For now. But our sources tell us that today it’s going to leave the desert and smash up Sand’s Edge.”
“You cannot possibly be giving credence to this goblin,” said the man.
The woman shushed him with her hand. “What kind of monster is it?”
“You know those islands that float around the Mouth of Nahalm? They’re actually giant turtles that live under the sand, and you Stormknights are fated to kill one.”
Dranko was sure this was where his story would meet an unyielding wall of skepticism, but the looks on both the Stormknights’ faces were so startled as to be downright comical.
“Giant turtles?” repeated the man.
“Technica
lly it’s called a Ventifact Colossus,” said Aravia.
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” said the woman. “I’ll go wake Corlea.” She dashed up the stairs.
“You know what we’re talking about?” asked Tor.
“Not exactly,” said the man. “But…Corlea. Years ago she did her weapons training at the Swordyard of Hae Kalkas. Part of the regimen is to participate in free-for-alls, general melees with a last-one-standing objective. She was one of the final pair of combatants, but she slipped and fell, losing the melee in the process. Corlea is extremely sure-footed, and when she examined the ground afterward, she discovered she had tripped over a small turtle that had miraculously survived being trampled by fifty Stormknights for over twenty minutes. But Corlea was its downfall; she had crushed its shell and killed it. The other Stormknights gave her a nickname that we still use in jest. We call her Corlea Turtlebane.”
Dranko blinked.
Beside him, Aravia said, “No, it’s not a coincidence.”
“Are there only three of you here?” asked Morningstar.
“Yes. My name is Sorent. You’ve already met Veloun.”
Dranko glanced out a window at the sun rising over the square. “Right. Great. This is Aravia, Tor, and Morningstar, and my name’s Dranko. Dranko Blackhope. We’re members of Horn’s Company. And my deal still stands. Right now the giant turtle has moved right up to the edge of the desert. You three get dressed and head over there as soon as possible. If we’re right, and the Ventifact Colossus climbs out, you three will have to think of a way to kill it. If not, I’ll return tomorrow and pay you another hundred talons for the misunderstanding.”
Sorent extended a hand. “I had heard that one of the islands had drifted close to the city but hadn’t thought much of it. Dranko Blackhope, I accept your proposal.” His eyes had lost their sleepy rheum, and he became excited, energized, his skepticism easily banished. Dranko supposed that when you’ve been trained as a warrior during peacetime, an opportunity to take some hacks at a city-threatening monster must be invigorating.
“Fantastic,” he said to Sorent. Veloun was coming down now with a second woman, tall and limber, her long brown hair a tangled mess.
“What’s this all about, then?” she said sleepily.
Dranko was done wasting time. “So that’s the Turtlebane? Great. Corlea, you’ve got a new turtle to slay today. Sorent, I’m going to leave you to explain everything to your friend because we need to get moving. Good luck with the colossus!”
“Have you alerted the town guard?” asked Sorent. “We three are quite capable, but against a creature the size of a wandering island, we may need assistance.”
That was likely to prove a fantastic understatement, but Dranko didn’t say as much. He clapped a hand on Sorent’s shoulder. “Something tells me that when the colossus makes its move, every man and woman in Sand’s Edge with something to shoot, chop, or throw will be out there doing their best.”
He gave his friends a grim smile. “Come on. We need to get to Arrowshot Tower before Kibi and Ernie.”
* * *
The crowd gawping at the wandering island had swelled to a hundred people, maybe more.
“Why are they still there?” asked Tor, peering down.
Dranko snorted. “You mean, why didn’t they believe a bunch of funny-looking strangers telling them the world’s largest reptile was about to rise from an ocean of sand? Gosh, I can’t imagine.”
Tor had flown Vyasa Vya high above the city. The streets were filling with city folk getting the day’s business underway. Arrowshot Tower rose up like a tall pine among saplings, and even from a distance Dranko saw that someone in red was now on the tower roof.
“There he is!” shouted Tor, swooping downward and banking smoothly left. “I’m going to land on the—”
“No, not yet,” said Dranko. “Better if we confront him all together. Get closer and scan the streets for any sign of Kibi and Ernie.”
The desert-side edge of the city was only a mile from Arrowshot Tower; assuming they’d met with no impediments, his friends should be arriving any time.
“There!” said Aravia. “In the tower. Look!”
Arrowshot Tower wasn’t more than sixty or seventy feet tall, but it appeared taller due to its relatively slender footprint and the squat, even rooftops of its neighbors. Large rectangular windows were set into the red stone of its exterior, striped with close-set vertical metal bars.
Dranko at first saw nothing, but then caught a flash of movement behind one set of bars. Two figures were dashing up the interior stairwell.
“They’ll be there in less than a minute. Tor, take us down to the roof.”
“Keep approaching from the east,” said Aravia. “If he’s summoning something from the desert, he may be looking out that way. There’s a chance he hasn’t noticed us yet.”
Given the streamers of smoke behind Vyasa Vya, Dranko was not optimistic about surprising the red trespasser, but it was worth a shot. Tor lowered the carpet down to the level of the roof and hovered just inside the railing along its eastern edge. By the railing on the far side, a lone figure in bulky red armor stood facing out toward the Mouth of Nahalm.
In the center of the stone roof was a wooden trapdoor, and this flew open even as Dranko and the others dismounted the flying carpet. Ernie emerged with Kibi on his heels, and the sound of the trapdoor banging against the roof caused the red-armored figure to turn his head.
“Aktallian,” breathed Morningstar.
The red-armored man did not reply but turned fully to face them and gracefully drew his sword. His off hand held something distinctly horn-shaped. He stood some thirty feet away, but Dranko could tell he was smiling.
“Hey! Aktallian!” Dranko shouted. “Why aren’t you off in dreamland terrorizing children?”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” he called. “Who might you be?”
“I’m Dranko Blackhope.”
“What a depressing-sounding name. Did you choose it yourself?”
“We have more important things to talk about,” he called back. “Well, really only one thing. That’s a nice horn you’ve got there.”
“Oh,” said Aktallian. “Are you here to stop me from blowing it?”
Ernie tensed. “Easy there,” Dranko muttered.
“Why haven’t you blown it already?” called Morningstar.
“Ah, Morningstar.” Aktallian gave a little mock bow. “How surprising to see you alive! It seems you prefer to die with company. As to your question, I was admiring the view. There are no deserts this vast where I come from.”
“And where is that?” asked Dranko.
“Nowhere you are ever likely to visit unless your luck is very, very poor.”
“It might surprise you to hear this,” Dranko called, “but we have no intention of stopping you. But I do have one question you could answer for me. If Emperor Naradawk wants to come back and rule Charagan, why would he want a bunch of giant turtles stomping all over it?”
It was a question intended to put Aktallian off his guard, but the red trespasser only laughed. “You are remarkably well informed,” he said. “And yet also tragically naïve. But here’s a question for you, Dranko Blackhope. If you believe I’m about to cause Ganit Tuvith to be overrun with Ventifact Giants, and you don’t intend to stop me, why are you and your friends here at all?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Dranko, “We haven’t entirely agreed upon not stopping you. But I figured that either way, we’re going to want to do something about you after you’ve either blown your horn or not.”
Aktallian laughed. “‘Do something about me?’ Is that a euphemism for ‘kill’ on your world? If so, it’s delightfully optimistic.”
“We should kill him right now,” said Tor.
“No,” said Morningstar. “In my Seer-dream, Eddings killed the turtle, but the turtle was there to be killed. If we need to sacrifice this city to save the kingdom later on, so be it.”
&nbs
p; Ernie fumed but nodded his resignation.
“But we can kill him afterward, right?” whispered Tor.
“Oh, Hells yes,” said Dranko.
Dranko wasn’t quite as confident as he sounded. He was meddling in the proverbial things whose understanding was far beyond him, but the one thing that kept coming back to him was Abernathy’s last pronouncement: that unless they found the Crosser’s Maze, an ancient and unstoppable being was going to show up and lay waste to everything. There was also the possibility that Stormknight Turtlebane had some prophesied destiny—and by the Gods those things were lying thick on the ground these days—to kill the Ventifact Colossus before it got very far.
And of course, when the dust had settled and the colossus was slain, and the Stormknights were queried about what prompted their heroics, the name of Horn’s Company was bound to come up.
“Aktallian, please, be our guest. Let the trumpet sound and the world’s largest turtle have its tour of Sand’s Edge.”
Aktallian gave him and his friends a long, hard stare. Dranko belatedly worried that he had gone too far, that now Aktallian would suspect a trick and not blow the horn after all. The man adjusted both his stance and his grip on his black sword; was he going to rush them, figuring he could kill them all and summon the Colossus afterward? Dranko didn’t doubt he was a formidable warrior even in the waking world, and unlike them he was heavily armored, but Dranko still liked the odds of six against one.
Without taking his eyes off of Dranko and the rest, Aktallian brought the Chelonian Horn to his lips. The bright green instrument was slightly bigger than a typical drinking horn; the sunlight brought multicolored reflections from its surface as though it were studded with a variety of gems. Despite the imminent enormity of consequence to Aktallian blowing it, Dranko couldn’t stop himself from wondering: would he get more from selling the gems off individually or from presenting the intact whole as a collector’s piece?
Its sound was low and piercing, a pure, even tone at the lowest register a person was likely to hear. A dull pain throbbed in Dranko’s ears, his teeth vibrated, goose-flesh prickled his skin. Arrowshot Tower emitted an alarming percussion of crackling rock, like a whole block of stone houses settling at once.
