by D. A. Metrov
Wark could see others continuing to engage the enemy out on the main field. He headed back into the thick of battle, through clouds of steam and gas. He flapped his wings toward the death groans he knew were from his own fighters.
The monkrats, Pello and Biffee Mulagoon were inseparable twin brothers. Still they were as different as oil and vinegar. One of their comrades had fallen into a fissure in the heart of the battlefield. The hapless creature slid by his claws down the rocky face that was crumbling from his own weight. He was in danger of slipping into oblivion, and Pello and Biffee were intent on saving him. Biffee lay on his belly and held Pello’s ankles, while Pello reached down for their mate.
“Take his paw,” Pello shouted, referring to his own outstretched mitt. The monkrat dared not let go to grab for Pello’s paw, that was for sure.
“Is he mental?” screamed Biffee, referring to his brother, Pello. “How’s he supposed to take his paw? The lad would drop surely as Galileo’s apple should he let go.” Or was that Newton’s apple?
“He don’t know what else to do. He’s falling,” Pello sobbed, reaching for his fellow monkrat who was sliding away before his very eyes.
“If the Great Leonardo were here, he’d think of something. Something brilliant,” Biffee shouted.
“Well, he ain’t here, and he ain’t him!”
“Then tell our boy he’s a witless ninnybob. Falling into a crack like that.” Biffee grew frightened. And frustrated. He hoped they wouldn’t take him seriously.
“He ain’t going to tell him any such thing,” Pello grunted from the side of his mouth. “Shame on him, Biffee Mulagoon!”
“In that case, ask him what he’d like to say to his mum might he never see her again.” Biffee groaned and strained to maintain his grip on Pello’s thick ankles.
“What do we tell his mammy, lad?”
The poor monkrat looked even more scared. His claws slipped. His eyes grew wide with terror. “Eck!”
“What did he say?” shouted Biffee.
“He says...”
And with that Pello lost his grip. The monkrat watched in horror as his fellow soldier flailed his limbs, and plummeted away into darkness. Biffee could hear his cry fade away. He felt bad for wasting time by bringing up Galileo’s apple.
Pello didn’t know what to do. He decided to scream in anguish, though by nature he was shy and reserved. But before he could let out a sound, a great rush of wind roared past him.
Wark swooped down into the smoking crevasse. He caught the monkrat with his feet, and lifted him back above ground. Pello and Biffee watched, amazed at Wark’s flying skills, not to mention his quick wit and daring.
“Did you not hear my order to retreat?” Wark howled as he carried the dazed monkrat back toward the abandoned catapult line. “Meet me at the Town Hall!” And Wark was gone.
Pello and Biffee were still stunned. But not for long. Gorpe warriors, waving sabers and shooting steam-muskets, were heading straight for them. The monkrat brothers scrambled for their weapons. But their weapons were not forthcoming, probably lost in the dark somewhere when they’d decided to rescue their comrade. Biffee grabbed an empty boot. Pello a cracked kettle. They flung them, and whatever else they could snatch on the run, at the approaching enemy. And they ran off into the nearby woods.
Chapter Four
VALKYRIE: THE TOWNSHIP PROPER
“They’s lost them.” Biffee glanced over his shoulder as they scampered through the evergreen pines they’d known since childhood. Pello wasn’t sure. He listened to the night. Besides the patter of their paws over a carpet of pine needles, he could hear only the distant clamor of gorpes.
The forest that separated Valkyrie from the Inland Ridge was tall and thick. The brothers knew to avoid the thin slivers of moonlight that would give them away to enemies who might be hiding in the trees.
“He should have grabbed that soldier, Pello,” Biffee said just to taunt him. “Now Wark will brag about it for days.”
“Would have, if there’d been time. He’s just glad they don’t have to relay his last word to his mammy. ‘Eck.’ Poor girl’d be mortified.”
“Eck?”
“It’s all he said.”
“They’d have to make something up.”
“And dishonor the lad?”
“On the contrary. To ensure his infamy. ‘Mammy,’ he’d say. ‘Her boy wanted them to tell her he died not in vain. He took down a hundred dogs before he perished. And he took them down for her, Mammy. And, thank her, Mammy. For raising him to be strong and brave and willing to sacrifice himself for others. His heart will be with her for the rest of time.’”
“All that from ‘eck’?”
“She’d never know.”
They could see the dim lights of Valkyrie up ahead.
“He wonders what Wark wants, anyway?” Biffee asked.
There was no name for the architectural style that dominated the Township of Valkyrie. An exotic mix of Mesopotamian-style towers and Tudor cottages, the structures were all roofed with Spanish tile. They were appointed with chimneys, vine-covered walls, ladders, balconies, fountains, and catwalks. And, as if to unify this great hodgepodge of motifs, every bit of it was covered with white stucco and creeper vines. The resulting ambiance suggested some pleasant, but primitive future. It was all powered, of course, by steam. Steam-powered generators provided electricity for street lamps, business lamps, home lamps, and appliances. Mills, laundries, bakeries, kelp processing plants, and tea packers. All manner of manufacturing machines, maintenance equipment, accounting devices, printing and writing machines. Machines for transportation—on land, by air, beneath the sea.
There were other machines that had fallen into disrepair. The old building where they were stored had a name carved in the portico above the entrance: “Eugenic Sciences.” But nobody knew what that meant. The machines and other equipment inside were merely repositories for rust. Not only that, there were rumors the place had long been hexed by a necromancer. No one knew what a necromancer was either.
The township had always been a sanctuary providing shelter from the stern elements of the surrounding mountain wilderness. It had been built during the era of humans. But when the humans disappeared (most of them anyway) the hearty monkrats had moved in. The birds had been first to mimic the language of Men. But the monkrats, whom men had trained for manual labor, had gone further. They’d learned to read the books that had been left behind. And from there how to sew and build and even govern themselves by council. It wasn’t long before many of the other beasts of Perpetua followed suit, evolving into animals who behaved like humans. It wasn’t unusual on the Lost Isle of Perpetua, a land where birds had somehow grown big as dinosaurs. It was a land so distant from the rest of the world, it was assumed anything imaginable could happen.
So Valkyrie had experienced a strange renaissance. Monkrats had strolled the streets as dignified and as erudite as any citizens of the civilized world. But now the cobblestone lanes were filled with the sick and dying—casualties of the god-awful war.
Pello and Biffee had heard of the Black Plague of Europe. As much as what they saw reminded them of that, they dared not say as much. Even the normally glib Biffee kept his eyes ahead, avoiding the wounded soldiers propped against the walls. The monkrats feared they might see someone they knew who was injured. Or worse. They made their way across the square, toward the Town Hall, which had been converted into a hospital. They were already dreading the scene they would find there.
Lady Sharpeye, known throughout Perpetua for her veterinary skills, was now in charge of the casualties that filled the large meeting room.
“There now, that should heal just fine,” she cooed to the monkrat whose arm was wrapped in a fresh sling. Though it hurt like the dickens, the monkrat managed a smile. The great raveness smiled back before moving on to the next cot.
“Eleanor, we must speak.” Wark was pacing the floor, his brow in a fret.
“I’m listening, dear.
” She examined a swollen eye beneath a crusty head wound on the next patient.
She didn’t seem to be listening, Wark complained to himself. He was about to protest when he saw Pello and Biffee come in the front entrance. “Ah, there you are.”
Pello and Biffee moved toward him, disturbed by the number of injured that cluttered the hall.
“Eleanor, the three of us must travel to Drakton to consult the Seer of Buer.” The statement earned a glance from Lady Sharpeye.
“Yea three?”
“We three,” Wark said. “We need counsel regarding the war. The enemy has begun attacking in greater numbers. The lads will travel overland, and I over sea. That way one party is sure to get through lest some misfortune delay the other. Winter’s approaching, after all.” Wark felt satisfied he’d sufficiently explained his reasoning for such a drastic decision.”
“But who will command the troops? Surely, not Gretch.” Lady Sharpeye then turned to a passing monkrat nurse. “Get this soldier an ice pack, please.”
“Yes, mum.”
“Each company has its own leader,” argued Wark. “It’s time they learned to make their own decisions. It will be—”
“Why not send young Brighton Aviamore of Meland?”
Wark scowled. He couldn’t stand it when she interrupted, though she always did so with good reason, and he knew it.
“Falcon Lord?” He pretended to consider the idea.
“His father was a lord,” said Biffee, “because he served the community as Sky Sheriff. Brighton Aviamore has no such title. As of this day, the boy is merely a Second Assistant Game Warden. And that in name only because he’s derelict in his duties and irresponsible. Ask anyone in Valkyrie.” Biffee then closed his eyes and raised his nose in a most aloof and disrespectful manner.
Pello grew nervous. One shouldn’t contradict the Commanding Officer like that. Especially not in public.
“He begs his pardon, sir.” Pello braced for some kind of reprimand.
All Wark said was, “Indeed.”
“He’s also the last Falcon Rider,” Sharpeye added, raising an eyebrow to Biffee. “Perhaps he only needs the opportunity to prove himself. What does he have to do out on that lonely islet? He may have the occasional honey thief to deal with. Or a territorial squabble between field mice. He is on payroll, after all. Besides, he’d make much better time than you three, which is a consideration since—as you just acknowledged—winter is approaching.”
Pello and Biffee looked at each other. They knew they could make it across the island as fast as a Falcon Rider. Maybe even faster should he encounter storms, which he certainly would this time of year.
Wark was already pouting. He knew once his wife took a stand, there was no changing her mind. He was annoyed with himself for not being able to anticipate her logic. At the same time, he realized he was motivated by pride which automatically made her right which annoyed him even more.
She leaned close to him. “Dear, I really need you here with me. I couldn’t manage without you. Please reconsider.”
“The boy is so young,” Wark whined. “And reckless. He has little concern for anyone but himself.”
“He demonstrated exceptional valor when he climbed Mount Pegosa to retaliate for his father’s killing,” said Sharpeye.
“He slew the mighty Fumor with poisoned goat meat,” said a wounded monkrat soldier who was eavesdropping from a nearby bunk.
“And Fumor’s mate,” added another patient. “To think, he was only eight years old.”
“Then kidnapped the chick,” Biffee said. “The one he named Handower.”
“And tamed the devil to boot.” Pello blushed for piping in.
“Aye, there’s still debate as to whether he succeeded on that count,” Wark said with a smugness in his voice. At the same time he was thinking of a way to save face in front of his infantrymen.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve decided. Warden Aviamore must earn his pay.”
“Second Assistant Warden,” Biffee said.
“He should certainly earn his pay,” Lady Sharpeye said with a knowing twinkle in her eye.
Wark turned to Pello and Biffee. “You two go to Meland, and issue the order to Brighton Aviamore. Then make way to Drakton to ensure the mission is accomplished.”
Pello and Biffee looked at each other again. This time Pello’s gaze was fierce, Biffee’s grin mischievous. They’d raced each other the three hundred and eighty-three terrameters across the island four times before—each of them winning twice. This would be the tie-breaker. They were out the door before Wark could say another word.
“Thank you, dear Wark,” Sharpeye said, giving him a loving peck on his beak. He sighed, not because she’d gotten her way, but because he adored her, and hopelessly so.
“I’m returning to the front lines. We’ve casualties to collect. And thank you... for the fine job you’re doing here, my lady.”
She bowed to him, then returned to her duties.
He hopped out the front door, and launched himself off the steps of the Town Hall. With a series of caws, he flew back into the moonlit sky, and disappeared over the treetops.
Pello and Biffee raced down to the shore already arguing about the best way to cross the channel to Meland. No sooner had they left the town proper when they were surprised by a stray robot. The little machine stood in their path, his valves steaming, left wing hanging limp. And a pathetic look in his telescopic eyes.
Biffee reached for his sword only to remember it wasn’t there. He assumed a hand-to-hand combat pose instead. “Defend itself, or suffer, enemy!”
Pello looked around. He saw a branch, and picked it up to use as a weapon. “He heard him.” Pello barked, holding the branch to the robot’s throat.
“I request amnesty, sires. In return, I shall remain forever in your service.”
Pello and Biffee didn’t know how to react. They had no idea the machines could speak (if one could call it speaking). The words, though admittedly decipherable, sounded more like clanking sounds coming from the robot’s chest. They certainly weren’t from its mouth because it had none. It reminded Pello of the music box they’d heard as toddlers—the one their mother had used to lull him and Biffee to sleep—but not melodious in any sense of the word.
Both Pello and Biffee could see the thing was incapacitated. They didn’t have time to discuss the merits of amnesty and service. They had a race to run.
“Stay here, does it understand? They shall impound it upon their return,” Biffee said with the braggadocio of a high-ranking official. Pello snorted in agreement. With that they were off again. The robot wheeled around and watched them vanish.
The brothers arrived at the harbor, and discovered many of the vessels had been damaged by enemy saboteurs. The boats were either partially or completely sunk.
“They might have to swim,” said Pello, worry in his voice.
“Is he daft? They’ll freeze to death. This will do.” Biffee jumped into a small, leaky steam dinghy. Pello wrung his paws, then leapt in after him. Biffee lit the firebox. He started the engine, and hoisted the tattered sail that was more holes than cloth. Pello poled them out beyond the breakwater.
They were soon chugging across the open sea, both of them mesmerized by the pink aura growing on the horizon. The dawn and its reverent silence were most welcome these days since they signaled a reprieve from the rigors of battle.
Then Pello noticed something else. They were being followed. The robot—flapping its one good wing, and using the other for balance—fluttered after them. The contraption was barely able to skip over the surface of the water.
Pello and Biffee scowled. What were they going to do about this unexpected nuisance? While the machine had their attention, they failed to notice they were also being followed by someone else—Gretch and his mount, Malgor—circling high in the sky above them. So high they were barely visible.
Chapter Five
MELAND ISLET
Brighton Aviamore,
now the sixteen-year-old Second Assistant Game Warden of Meland, sat mounted on Handower, his fully grown Magradore falcon. The bird stood atop the islet’s sole mountain peak less than a nautical terrameter off the coast of Perpetua. The two of them scanned the land and sea below as if they were guardians of the world. Though, in truth, they rarely ventured more than a short flight from home.
Despite his long, scraggly hair and his ruddy, sunburned skin, Brighton already had the appeal of a wild Adonis. But he hadn’t a clue about his good looks. If someone had told him as much, he would have dismissed the notion. He gazed with the same ferocity as his falcon. He felt it was part of his duty to appear stern as a military officer. And because of the rigorous demands of living off the land, he’d already developed the physique of a grown man. His long-sleeved cotton shirt, scruffy black riding boots, and flying goggles had belonged to his father. His buckskin vest and pants fit surprising well considering he’d made them, like most of his personal belongings, by hand.
He watched Lizard Bill on the beach far below, an ant-like figure darting this way and that. Bill was like a crazy person, snatching at something running at his feet. Brighton watched Bill drop to his knees, and reach out to a speck in the sand. Brighton knew the “speck” was one of Bill’s wayward pets. After a moment, the pet climbed into Bill’s open palm. Lizard Bill stood, and returned the creature to the safety of his sampan hat along with several other specks.
Lizard Bill was delicate looking, Brighton thought, even for a fifteen-year-old. His lizard-adorned sampan forever hid his face. Besides Brighton, Bill was the only other human on the tiny Islet of Meland. As Brighton spied, he grappled with a peculiar mix of feelings that were swimming in his gut. He felt protective of Bill yet bothered at the same time. He imagined swooping down, should he have to, in order to save the lad from imaginary savages or cutthroat buccaneers.
