Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  Allfather, do not forsake me!

  He took a swig from his bottle. “Haven’t I told you how much I like a woman with red hair?”

  Continue the Adventure…

  Check out the next book in the Sark Brothers Tale series.

  Sandstorm (A Sark Brothers Tale, Book 2)

  Keep reading for a sample chapter of Sandstorm…

  About Sandstorm:

  It’s been four months since the city-state of Perch turned away the invading army of its southern rival, Trestleway, and sent the dark forces of the Cythraul packing.

  Thanks in no small part, everyone reckons, to Winchell Sark and his brother, Copernicus.

  Word reaches Winch that an old friend is in dire need. Seems he’s come across a long-lost artifact deep in the Golden Desert that folk say can tear apart the veil separating this world from the one beyond the shadows.

  But it’s not only Winch and company seeking this relic. There’s a new threat gathering, one that will stop at nothing to conquer the desert sands—and unleash the Cythraul on an unsuspecting world.

  Enclave Publishing is the premier publisher of Christian speculative fiction.

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  An enclave is a group of like-minded people in a place where they are surrounded by those who are not like-minded. It is not a place to hide, instead Enclave Publishing is a place where authors and fans of Christian Fantasy and Christian Science Fiction can come together and then go out and make a difference through worlds of words. Our stories can seem strange but underneath they contain powerful expressions of Redemption, Truth, and Hope.

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  Keep reading for a sample chapter of Sandstorm (A Sark Brothers Tale, Book 2)…

  Sandstorm

  (A Sark Brothers Tale, Book 2)

  *

  Chapter 1

  Friday

  Winchell Sark leaned back from his typewriter. The story before him would never write itself, of that he was keenly aware. But so far he couldn’t get one tarnal sentence put together.

  It was the stifling air. The brass thermometer hanging on the wall in the main office of the Perch Advocate read 78 degrees, which was not terrible. But the combination of the sunlight beating in through the front windows of the newspaper building and the general lack of ventilation gave no respite from a summer’s afternoon. Winch rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his vest. That helped a mite. He rubbed his hand under his chin. Time to think about shaving the beard before the weather turned any hotter.

  The awnings are down, he mused. I could type outside on the sidewalk.

  “Winchell!” His editor, Gil Davies, poked his head out of his office door. The stained glass windows gave it the appearance of a tiny cathedral. “We need that heat wave story before it ends, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Since when has my luck been that foul?” Winch said. “Steady on, I’ll get it done.”

  “Ta.” Gil blew a ring of hazy smoke from his pipe.

  How Gil could abide smoking when it was this warm, Winch hadn’t the slightest clue. Switch gears. “Gil? Are you certain I can’t be of more use up at the heliograph installation?”

  “Konrad is there taking photographs,” Gil said, “as you bloody well know. And he doesn’t need your confounded help to transcribe a speech. He’s a capable lad and needs more training in the field if he wants to be a newspaperman.”

  “Well, I just figured—”

  “And yes, I did see through your rather transparent attempt to get out of this Avernus of an office and into the cool air of the mountain peaks.” Gil tapped his temple with his pipe. “I’ve not gone entirely daft.”

  Winch smiled. So much for that ploy. He really would have helped Konrad. “I bow to your wisdom, as per usual.”

  Gil snorted.

  Winch flipped to the next page in his notebook. He drummed his fingers against the keys in an attempt to get his words moving, as he read the statements from Perch’s meteorological office. “Let’s see—‘record high temperatures for month of Octaron’… ‘Rain expected within two weeks’…ah, there we are. ‘Ranchers feeling pinch from decreased irrigation flows, Cobalt River below late summer norm.’”

  He started into the story, leading off with comments from the Jackmans’ ranch and some of the more well-known mastodon herdsmen in Wright Valley.

  “You’re not done yet?” Annora Minick approached his desk. She wore a white blouse and blue skirt that looked infinitely more comfortable than Winch’s attire.

  He smirked. He couldn’t very well start wearing women’s clothing.

  “What?” Annora’s eyes, sharper blue than the sky, watched him suspiciously. Her hair, straight and auburn, was partially undone from the bun in which she usually kept it secured. She carried several strips of paper in one hand.

  “Oh, nothing. Reflecting on the heat.” Winch finished up a sentence. Good. “And no, the story’s not done, so there’s precious little yet for you to put into the line-puncher for the pressmen.”

  “It’s not them who should worry you, it’s Gil. He wants to send that story out over the wires by the end of the day.” Annora smiled mischievously.

  “Funny, he didn’t mention that.” Winch raised his voice as he spoke.

  “Yes, I did! First thing this morning!” Gil hollered from the confines of his office.

  “No, you didn’t because you were at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the first heliograph delivery at the aerodrome!”

  “I…! Oh. Hmm. Yes, very well. But I still want it before you leave!”

  Winch sighed. Annora laughed and shook her hand full of paper slips at him. “I told you so. Now, don’t bother me. I have important dispatches to line punch.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of being a bother.” Winch pounded at his keys, spurred on by new urgency like a branter given a kick in the hindquarters.

  “Oh, the Parcel & Letters boy is out front,” Annora said. “He says he has a letter for you that needs a signature.”

  Winch stopped typing. “A signed letter? From whom?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Would I read your mail?” Annora took the paper slips to her desk.

  Winch tried to make his exit from the back office as silently as possible, a task made easier by Annora’s typing on the line-puncher. No need to further rile Gil.

  The young courier waited out front by the L-shaped counter. The tele-typers at the far end of the desk put out enough racket that Winch didn’t have to worry about Gil overhearing him. The boy had a round face beaded with sweat. His cheeks were red and he wore a blue cap. Winch figured he must be grateful not to have to also wear the navy blue and silver jacket issued to all Sawtooth Parcel & Letters couriers today. “Mr. Winchell Sark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Letter, signature required.” The boy handed over a notepad of carbon paper. Winch signed for the receipt. The boy ripped off the top copy and thrust it at Winch. “Postage paid. No charge. Here you are, sir.”

  Winch took a thick, brown envelope from his hand. It was about the size normally reserved for stationery, but it was stuffed far too thick for just one letter. A collage of stamps covered the upper right corner. Winch stared at the palm trees, domed buildings, and dromornis depicted on the three stamps before realizing the origin. “El Brazo?”

  “Yessir. Good day, sir.” The boy tipped his cap and dashed for the front door.

  Winch opened his mouth to ask another question but the courier was already scooting down South Street on his bicycle. A motorwagon honked at him as he sped by. Spindly whee
ls swerved and bumped over the dirt. Steam hissed from its engine exhaust.

  Winch stood under the awning, letter in hand. He loathed the idea of returning to the stuffy office. The awning ballooned in the breeze. He closed his eyes. It was refreshing, even if it was warm air.

  “Hadn’t you bloody well read it?”

  “Great blue skies!” Winch spun around. Gil’s pipe smoke washed over him. “Gil, this isn’t a chapel service. You don’t have to remain silent like that.”

  “How else do you expect me to follow you about when you’re not writing my story?”

  Thel, give me patience. “It’s a personal letter, Gil.”

  “From El Brazo, I see. Who do you know in the Golden Desert?”

  “That’s none…” Winch’s voice trailed off as he read the addressee.

  Bringhurst Dart.

  “Brin?” Winch tore open the letter. Praise the Exaltson!

  “An acquaintance of yours?”

  “An old friend and a good man.” Winch withdrew several sheets of paper from the envelope. One was a letter. The others were a map scrawled in thick parchment and a list of items. “We studied at Megunticook Harbor College together. I introduced him to his wife, and they introduced me to the Allfather.”

  “Ah! I’d rather fancy meeting this chap and his lovely bride.” Gil leaned on the doorjamb. “Always pleasurable to make acquaintances with fellow faithful.”

  “Sad to say, Gil, his wife went on to the Unfading Lands a few years past.” Winch sighed. “Katya was a kind woman and a gentle believer. The fever that took her was a cruel one.”

  Winch examined the letter as Gil puffed eagerly on his pipe. It was indeed from Brin, though he was used to the tidy penmanship of the man of science he so respected. Not this untidy scrawl:

  Dear Winch,

  I trust this letter finds you hale and hearty in Perch. There isn’t an Exalter in El Brazo who hasn’t heard the whispers and rumors of this past spring’s amazing events at your fair city. May I just say, the Allfather be with you all.

  There is little time for pleasantries, I fear. You must come see me posthaste. My latest expedition into the desert has uncovered something far more disturbing than what I sought: foremost, the knowledge that I was too late to retrieve an important artifact, one that belongs ensconced in a museum; and that whomever stole that first artifact must be pursuing a second, more valuable relic, which I also covet.

  Most importantly, you must pray. This relic, Winch, is not some trinket to be sold or bartered for wealth. In evil hands it can have devastating effect. There is dark power associated with it. Dark power with which, I understand, you are well acquainted.

  Give Lysanne and the children my best. Our last Wintergala spent at your home is one of my fondest memories, even two years hence. Good luck and Thel-speed.

  Bringhurst Dart, Professor of Antiquities

  Mintannic University of Science.

  Winch stared at the paper. Dark powers. He’d tried to put the events of the spring out of his mind. But he could not. He had the dreams to remind him. And the sideways looks of passers-by.

  “What’s wrong? Confound it, Winch, you look like a man perplexed.”

  Winch handed him the letter wordlessly. As Gil read, Winch examined the map. It gave directions to a hotel in El Brazo. And the list demanded he equip himself with certain items for the trip. Including a book written by… “Gil. Have you ever heard of a man called Goodrick Nunez?”

  “Yes, I know his work. Explorer from somewhere up north, around Mintannic and the city-states of the plains, I think. He poked around the Golden Desert some generations back.”

  “And he left a book of his travels, then? One called Seventeen Months with the Caminante?”

  “That would be the one and only. A fine memoir.”

  Winch folded the list, the map, and the letter. “So you have read it. Is there a copy I can have?”

  Gil chuckled. “Winch, it’s not a dime novel of aero-pirate exploits. This is a hand-bound, exceedingly rare record of a man’s extensive travels throughout the Golden Desert. It is also one of the most comprehensive on record. But…”

  “But what?”

  “It so happens that the Wright Valley Memorial Library here in Perch has one of the few copies in Galderica.”

  “Does it now?” Winch wondered vaguely if he still had his library card in his billfold. And whether he had any books he owed to them. They had a tendency to get mixed in with the volumes he’d amassed at home.

  “That’s mighty convenient, lad.” Gil drew a circle in smoke with his pipe.

  A passing wagon drawn by two diprotodons put up enough of a breeze to scatter the smoke. The animals, covered with short brown hair and their noses bulbous and quite ugly, grunted as the owner applied the reins liberally.

  “Yes, quite a coincidence. Though Brin was never a man to leave things to chance.” Winch tucked the envelope carefully in his vest pocket. “He must have known the book is here. If he wants it, it’s a simple matter of checking it out.”

  “A book that rare? Don’t bet the aerodrome on that.” Gil snorted. “You do whatever you blamed well please with it after you get me my story. Saturday’s a free day, after all.”

  • • •

  The weight of the letter riding in his vest gave Winch new urgency. He had the story typed and checked for errors within an hour and a half. He left it fluttering to a halt on Gil’s desk as he hurried for the door.

  “See you Sunday at chapel!” Gil called.

  “I pray so!” Winch closed the door.

  South Street was busy with travelers this time of day, especially it being week’s end. Carts full of produce from nearby farms and greenhouses trundled north to Main Street. Motorwagon trucks bearing crates and bagged goods rolled south toward the aerodrome hangars rising in the distance. Their flash steam engines let off white wispy clouds that trailed behind.

  Winch could see two silvery dirigibles circling over the largest hangars. Each hangar had pitched roofs that gave them the appearance of miniature mountains. Three more aeroships sank below the edge of Trafton’s cliff toward the landing field on the valley floor, reminding him of gargantuan whales submerging beneath the waves off Megunticook.

  There had to be a dozen aeroplanes converging on and leaving the aerodrome at that moment. Steam shimmered from every vehicle, catching sun rays as it scattered in the air.

  “Wonder if Cope is on his way in or out,” Winch murmured.

  He dug into his vest for his pocket watch. The antique given to him by his father, and gifted in turn from his grandfather, was silver and battered. Four-forty-six. Well, Lysanne would not be finished with her Friday afternoon session. Still, Winch didn’t suppose it would hurt to show up early this time. She’d be expecting him to walk her home, in any case.

  On the way up South Street he stopped by a flower cart and scrounged a few coins for a bright red and yellow tulip, Lysanne’s favorite. The old woman overseeing the cart thanked him and offered to wrap the stem in tissue paper. Winch declined.

  At the corner of Main and South Streets, Winch marveled at the number of Perch flags still flying at half-staff. The white, blue, and red fluttered in the breeze from fourteen buildings by his count. None of the people on the busy sidewalk seemed to pay the flags any heed. A woman with a white bonnet walked past Winch without looking at him. A man headed the other way tipped his hat and smiled, and Winch nodded in response.

  “You did not notice me in the slightest, did you?”

  Winch started at the cool, calm voice that whispered beside his right ear. “Miss Plank, I hardly think it’s fair to criticize me such.”

  Miss Plank had the white bonnet folded in one hand. Her face was—well, Winch could only describe her as average and plain. There was nothing exotic about her countenance, pale as it was, though it was not by any means unattractive. Her hair was black and not arranged with any great extravagance. Her dark eyes were no different from the eyes of many other p
eople in Perch. The fact was, had he not known her, he would never have picked her from the passers-by, especially in the dark skirt and white blouse she wore.

  “I have advised you to keep your eyes watchful and your mind ever keen.” She spoke to him with the condescension of a teacher losing patience with her pupil.

  “It’s not been on my mind of late,” Winch said. “I was admiring the flags.”

  “Mayor-General Keysor only ordered them at half-staff for a month.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “The memory of Trestleway’s invasion is still fresh for some of us, even when most have buried it beneath their daily busyness.”

  Winch wondered how many weapons Miss Plank carried on her person at that moment. He guessed three, but did not have the desire to ask. “Shouldn’t you be training my wife?”

  A large, four-engine aeroliner swooped in over downtown Perch. Its motor noise reverberated against the brick buildings. Steam spurted in white feathers behind it. Miss Plank smiled. “She is handling things quite well with my trainers. I no longer need to hold her hand. Come, you should see.”

  The building on the northwest was Señor Cavallo’s grocery. Winch peeked through the windows and admired the astonishing array of canned foods displayed along with bushels of fresh produce. Between Cavallo’s and the neighboring building, a law office, was a short alley into which he followed Miss Plank. She opened a door on the side of the building.

  The passageway inside was dim, and the wood floors creaked. “Don’t they ever ask you at Jennings, Petersen & Allgood, Esq. the source of the racket coming from the back portion of this building?”

  “I pay the lease and they ask no questions.” Miss Plank eyed him sternly. “They know whom I serve.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  Winch heard no noise coming from the back at the moment, which he found odd. Usually the sounds of fisticuffs were evident. But today it was as silent as a hangar shed on a winter’s day.

  They turned the bend in the corridor. Winch smiled. There stood his wife in the room at the other end of the corridor. It was a spare space, with white plaster walls and no furniture. The floor was wood, partially covered by several thick rugs laid atop each other. A single bulb, naked in its socket, lit a circle in the center of the room. The rest was cast into shadow.