by Steve Rzasa
Suddenly Daisy’s engine increased its pitch. Cope snapped his head left. Uh-oh. More than eight, apparently.
Four more dirigibles loomed farther down the valley, on their way up from Pearly’s Bend. They came from around a bend in the mountain range. And they were dropping fighters like a teratorn shedding feathers. Five, by Cope’s count.
He grinned rapaciously. Five? Might just be even odds against his three.
His orders were to observe and report back to Colonel Cuthbert. But Cope was not going to let an opportunity such as this pass. No one would expect a reconnaissance flight to attack. It would be lunacy.
Cope accelerated into a dive. Gunshots rang out from the town below. Carbines, probably. Not that they had near the range to hit him this high up. He pulled out of the dive. Good. Daisy and Tread were right there on his wings.
He angled his biplane up and gunned the engine.
The five approaching fighters dipped their wings and dropped down at the Perch aeroplanes. Three of them were two-seater TAB IVs, definitely painted in plain old Trestleway livery. But they were accompanied by a pair of Rhoads 33 triplanes, both painted a gaudy green and gold. That had to be the free fliers.
“Bandit scum,” Cope hissed. “Wait ’til they see what I’ve got. Come in closer, dogs.”
He bore up at them, his hand poised on the lever for his Hinohama rockets. He grinned broadly, but his face froze up in a mask of confusion as the planes broke off into a trio and a deuce. They zoomed right around Cope.
“What?” He was utterly baffled. They acted like they knew. He cursed. Of course. That cussed second councilor and his goons were all at the aerodrome in Perch when he blasted the bandits from the air raid earlier in the week. Maybe they knew he had rockets, because his fighter was still painted the same garish blue and adorned with his squadron leader markings.
So they were staying off his nose.
“Fine by me!” Cope put his plane into a renversement, banking hard up, nose in toward the clouds, engine straining, then rolling over onto one side and racing back down an invisible loop until he was right on their tails.
Daisy and Tread were both dodging the gunfire the planes hailed upon them. The rear gunners of the TAB fighters sprayed bullets from their rotating Keach guns. Cope gritted his teeth and ducked his wings as a burst of gunfire ripped through the air above him. Barely missed the canvas. He pressed down in the trigger for his own gun, but he had his Vigilante jerking about so badly he was sure he’d not hit a thing.
An explosion tore a TAB fighter apart. Cope’s jaw dropped. A line of smoke and fire leap out from Tread’s aeroplane, spinning off in a lopsided spiral. Another explosion burst just feet from another fighter. At first Cope thought Tread’s shot missed, but then something, shrapnel likely, ripped the upper left wing of the TAB to shreds. It limped away from the fight.
Cope laughed out loud. “Rebekah Hawes, you fiend!” he shouted to the air. So she’d finally seen his wisdom and added Hinohamas to other aeroplanes.
The last TAB fighter wheeled around and blazed a trail back toward the dirigibles. The bandit fighters split apart. One ran away, headed toward the mountains, while the second unleashed a furious volley of gunfire at Daisy.
Cope tsked. “Not polite to pick on a lady.” He banked hard to the left. Within moments the fighter’s tail was square in his sights. The rear gunner fired a salvo. Cope slackened his grip on the controls. The wind pushed his plane from the path of the bullets. He pressed the trigger.
Flashes left glowing blobs before his eyes. The tail of the enemy fighter shredded with the force of a smilodon tearing into a bull moose. Bullets traced their way up the fuselage as Cope overflew the fighter, all the way into the cockpit and the engine beyond.
Fire and smoke erupted. The fighter dove in a death spin. Cope figured it was best the men were dead already. Being trapped in a burning aerocraft was no way for a flier to go.
Speaking of go…Cope gave the signal for Daisy and Tread to get the tarnation out of here. He had one more task.
Cope turned his plane to the columns of men and vehicles inching past the walls of Fort DeSmet. There. That large truck. Looked just dandy. He put the biplane into a steep dive. Its engine screamed.
The crack of carbines firing echoed from the valley floor. Most of the militia column scattered like little tan toys knocked aside by an angry child. A handful of militia tore the canvas off the truck to reveal a double Norton anti-aerocraft tracer. Cope swore. He rolled his biplane as the twin muzzles flashed.
They missed. Cope grinned. He reached for his levers and pulled hard, one after the other.
His plane bucked like branter kicked by its stable mate. The Hinohama rockets shrieked out from underneath, a-one-and-a-two, the second following in the smoke trail of the first. Cope banked hard right. The fuselage shook so hard he worried for a minute the frame might break. “Come on, doll, don’t crack on me now…”
BADOOOOM.
The truck with the anti-aero cannon exploded in a ball of fire. The sound rumbled like thunder across the valley. Flames shot everywhere as fuel and ammunition detonated in secondary fireworks to the main show.
The sight didn’t cheer Cope. He felt spent. He took one last look over his shoulder at the chaos before turning his plane for home. “That was for you, Jesca.”
Saturday
Captain Beam climbed out from under the motorwagon. Sergeant Taube hunkered on the dirt road, hands over his head. Curled up over himself like a no-account infant. Beam kicked him in the leg. “Get up. It’s over.”
Taube complied. His cheeks, even half hidden by his beard, were red. “Sir. I apologize for the force I used, but I felt it necessary to remove you from harm—”
Beam held up a hand. Silence. Taube’s mouth went slack. He cleared his throat.
Much better. Beam dusted off his hat had settled it primly on his head. Hmm. A lot of dirt on his suit. But then, this operation was bound to be messy. He hadn’t foreseen Perch making a first strike.
The flames burned bright and the smoke reached high from the smoldering ruins of the truck. Well. There went one Norton gun. Beam frowned. His men raced around trying to douse the blaze. Thankfully, the militia had removed the other nearby trucks and motorwagons from the column. They too ran off in search of water.
None of the townspeople of Fort DeSmet came forth to assist. Typical. Trestleway shows its muscle with a force of stability, a steadying influence in a barbaric land, and is treated with disrespect. Beam would teach them a harsh lesson were he of the inclination. The simple folk staring from the gates of the town and the tops of the houses would understand only pain. But he had a timetable to keep, as sure as if he were on the rails. Men and machines he could not spare.
Let Fort DeSmet hear what happened to Perch when Beam was done with it, and then they’d need no further education.
Several militia had to chase down the branters who’d bucked their mounts in panic at the sounds of the aeroplane engines and explosions. Branters. He should have used only motorized wagons, or else have traded for some branters reared in Wright Valley. Those breeds were well accustomed to aeroplanes.
If and but. No time for what-may-haves. “I appreciate your diligence in not letting me die, Taube. My main concern is that we not portray weakness to the militia.”
“Yessir. I just thought…” Taube stopped himself.
Beam raised an eyebrow. “Thought what?”
“Ahem.” Taube cleared his throat. “Well. Sir, you didn’t call on any…abilities to protect yourself.”
Beam stared at him coldly. Taube backed away. “Would you care for a more personal demonstration of the abilities I can make manifest?” Beam flexed his left hand.
“No.” Taube lifted his chin. Attempting to retrieve pride, perhaps. “No, sir.”
Beam turned from him. Taube’s barely audible sigh was his reward. Beam basked in it for a moment. His mind was churning too fast to stall for long, though. “Sergeant, issue or
ders: we move immediately. Perch has no doubt ascertained our true strength. I suspected they might. Tell the battalion commanders I want us rolling north in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Taube paused.
“A question?”
“What about the dirigibles? Shouldn’t we send them on ahead on a raid?”
“So they can be treated to a full-force showing of Perch’s aerial might while we wait hours behind?” Beam carefully chose his tone to mimic that of a disappointed teacher.
Taube received the message, apparently. His face was downcast.
“The dirigibles will shadow us just ahead on our march. They will be our screen against any further interruptions.” Beam pointed to the burning truck. What had once been thick canvas fluttered in the flames like so much burnt paper. The acrid, choking stench of fuel afire stung Beam’s nose. “Once you’ve given orders to the battalion commanders, signal the two dirigibles that just loosed their fighters to land. And offload all their aerocraft and fuel for those planes.”
Taube looked perplexed. “And…we’ll be loading them?”
“Fair guess, Sergeant. We will indeed. They have special cargo and a special assignment.” Beam looked up into the sky, at the black specks fading into the blue. Three black specks. “I had it in mind as a contingency. Now is to our advantage to use it.”
“Yes, sir.” Taube started off.
“Oh, and sergeant?” Beam kept his voice pleasant and level.
Taube stopped. A pair of Peace Branch officers ran up to him, spouting questions, but Taube shushed them with a glare. He turned to face Beam.
“Do keep from displaying outward dread. Keep your cowardice buried.”
Taube stiffened. He stalked off, the other officers hurling questions his way as they followed.
Beam sagged. So. Taube had noticed that Beam was unable to summon a defensive barrier when the aeroplane opened fire on the column. He’d called upon the might of the cythraul to deflect those rockets, or redirect them into the town walls, but they had not come.
“You defied me,” Beam hissed through gritted teeth. He made sure no one else was within earshot as he leaned against the motorwagon. Militia ran to and fro, weapons in hand. Engines buzzed as the two dirigibles descended. Wisps of steam, tiny by comparison to the huge aeroships, trailed behind. They headed for escarpment looming to the northeast of the town. It was flat enough to land there, and free of forest.
“This is not the agreement. This is not the vow I took and kept without fail,” Beam said. “I serve with my blood and my soul, and you grant my entreaties.”
You fail, miserably. The chorus carried an edge of malicious humor. Its words were cold.
Beam struggled against the sick feeling inside. Outwardly he kept up his façade it served him well.
You flesh are always failing us. You are weak. We are mighty.
“If you’re so infernally mighty I expect you to always triumph!”
You presume too much to order us, flesh. Akhoyan is our commander, not you. We fight the enemies at our choosing. And leave you to your pain when it amuses us. Strength!
“You’ve only shown me that you fail, and that you’re losing strength,” Beam said. “Mayhaps this Thel proves too much a power for you to handle.”
The seizures came quickly. One after the other, sharp pains, smothering agonies, pulling and tearing at his body. Beam bit down so hard he pierced his tongue. Blood tricked from the corner of his mouth. He clenched the fabric top of the motorwagon so hard it ripped. His body contorted in rictus.
You mock us? Thel is no match for Akhoyan! The Allfather is nothing to the forces of the cythraul! We killed His Exaltson, and we shall kill His people! The voices raged in his mind.
Beam cried out silently for help, but he knew no one heard. Nothing beyond the cythraul could hear him or would care if they could. That was the mantra they’d pounded through his skull.
The pain stopped abruptly, like a sudden wind that bends the oak and leaves the limbs and leaves trembling in its wake. Beam willed himself to stand up straight. Sweat drenched his head, but he refused to remove his hat. No weakness. Do not bend.
Better. You improve.
“When I call on you next time, I need you to succeed,” Beam said. His voice shook.
We will not abandon you, the chorus said, but it mocked him. We have business with Perch. Your attacker in particular.
“Who? Who was that pilot?”
He had a sense of the answer before they even whispered, Copernicus Sark.
Of course. Beam reached in to the pocket. The hair of that Jesca woman was still there. He would deal with Copernicus Sark. He might still hold a candle to that woman’s memory.
Our enemy reaches out for him. You will kill him. We shall gladly drag him from this plane. And kill his brother too. One more to deny the Allfather.
Beam smiled. He luxuriated in the feeling of power flowing through his body. Yes. There. That was what was rightfully his. And no blamed Thel would deny him his day.
Show Him.
He turned and held both hands toward the wall of Fort DeSmet. He shouted his command, and sharp, glaring bursts of light flew out from his hands and from his whole form.
By the cythraul, it was beauty itself.
The light pummeled the ancient wall and threw stones aside like pebbles cast into a stream. Townspeople screamed and shouted. Three houses on the other side of the wall collapsed.
Beam stared at the rubble.
Perch was his.
Saturday
Winch played a hunch that Vaughn Markwater would be at the Third Street Chapel in this time of crisis.
He was right.
The student of Ifan and eyewitness to the death of the Exaltson knelt at the front of the chapel. The metal spike caught the morning light and sent it shimmering across his shoulders.
Winch came to stand behind him. “I need to ask you something.” There wasn’t the time to adorn his conversation with pleasantries.
Markwater chuckled. He rose and turned to face Winch. Tears streaked his face. He looked weary.
Winch was chastened. “I’m sorry. But this can’t wait.”
“I understand.” Markwater gestured to the spike. “This couldn’t wait, either. I’m always drawn back to chapel when it seems all of Galderica is mired in insanity. Which is to say, often. But I’m not upset, Mister Sark. These are tears of happiness. My soul is secure from death.”
Winch nodded. “I believe that too.”
“Then what troubles you?”
Winch poured forth the whole story: the mission to Trestleway, the powers of the cythramancers, Thel’s dissolution of those powers and then His apparent decision to let those powers succeed. Markwater stroked his chin but made no comment.
“I don’t understand why He would not grant us victory.” Winch wanted to hit something. It was anger born of fear and nurtured by anxiety. “I could have stopped Beam and ended—”
“Halt. Right there.” Markwater poked him in the chest. Winch drew back, shocked. Markwater’s face contorted in vexation. “You hear it?”
“Hear what?” Perhaps the man was mad.
“Those words. ‘I.’ ‘Us.’ ‘I could have stopped.’” Markwater shook his head. “The problem is not Thel, Winch. It’s you. The First Man is still buried in there.”
“But I follow the Exaltson!” Winch gritted his teeth. “Confessed my sins unto Him and gave Him allegiance.”
“And so then He owes you something?” Markwater folded his arms.
Winch choked back his words. Clouds above, he was right. Winch could see his actions and words clearly, like receiving a new pair of glasses. He wanted to be some kind of warrior for Thel, deep down, a warrior who would personally avenge the evil in this world.
Yet he’d never asked the Allfather what His plan was.
“Winch, you aren’t the first to stumble over this,” Markwater said softly. “I did too. You know, we visited one little mountain hamlet, a
nd they ’bout shooed us out at gunpoint. You’d never seen a man as irate as I was. I went right up to Ifan and asked him to blow that village off the mountainside like a tornado striking a forest.”
Winch remembered that passage from the pamphlet. “And he shut the door on you.”
“That’s putting it in the mildest sense.” Markwater smiled. “Thel’s ways are not our ways, Winch.”
“Yes, I seem to recall telling others that.” Winch felt heat creep into his cheeks.
“We have a lot of gall as fleshly beings to presume we can call on the Allfather to smite our enemies, like He was a hunting hound leashed and ready for our beck and call. The fact is, He will push back the enemy when He sees fit. So you did nothing wrong. It simply did not fit in with His plan.”
“Whatever that may be.” Winch sat down in the front row of pews. He looked up at the spike on the wall. “I wish that were plainly evident.”
“Winch, the only advice I can give you is this: Trust in the Exaltson and His Writ. The Hallowed Sepyr overshadows believers, and He grants them Thel’s power in times of need. Have faith. But don’t demand his action. It won’t happen when it suits you.”
Winch nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Markwater sat beside him. “You’ve probably read it all before in the Caudex.”
“Yes. But it helps to hear it through a live voice.” Winch folded his hands. “Let’s pray together.”
“A sound plan.” Markwater bowed his head.
• • •
Winch headed direct for the aerodome. He’d promised Gil he’d be where the news was, and he hoped Lysanne would tend to the children until he could see them. He wanted her to take them to Picksborough with her family.
Turned out he’d have to make one fewer trip.
Everyone was there, and Winch figured there must be four hundred armed men standing in a ragged column along the Ridge Road, just outside the aerodrome fence. Most of them wore forest green militia coats in varying states of repair and disrepair. They were of all ages, from gangly teens with baggy coat sleeves to older men with plenty of grey in their beards. Some of the middle-aged men, whose uniforms were of a much more flattering cut and had been kept in far better care, barked orders.
