Medieval Mars: The Anthology (Terraformed Interplanetary Book 1)

by Travis Perry

  Judging from the smell, I’m getting close to where the town stashed the sheep corpses. Why no one thought to bury or burn them I don’t know. I’m still watching for tracks when I catch sight of a lump of burlap poking out of the edge of some brush. That’s odd enough, so I crouch and lift up one edge.

  My eyes go wide as a moon when I see what’s in there, but then I have to smile. I just found my dragon. Now I got to figure out who’s putting on the show. I got my suspicions, and there’s just one place to look.

  After laying out the burlap, I pile the equipment in the middle of it and draw the corners together to make a sort of bag and carry it over my shoulder. Fortunately, the burlap’s big enough to do this without risking stuff dumping out the sides. Lanatae’s ahead of me, so I head straight for town.

  The sound of someone, probably that Owen Ellyot fellow, hawking wares carries pretty well in the still air. I hate to disrupt an honest businessman in his work, but this fire-breathing dragon nonsense needs settling and soon. If he’s an honest man, he’ll understand. If he isn’t, then I don’t much care what he thinks, truth be told.

  I reach the edge of the trees and start up the hill to the village. The whole town, kids included, has turned out to see what this peddler has to offer. The badly spelled wagon is there and a platform like a low, sturdy table has been set up. I hang back a bit and listen.

  Owen Ellyot is a gray-haired, pudgy little man wearing fancy clothes that match his hair. The sheer material looks like silk but the dye is a little inconsistent so it’s not quite suitable for the court at Mons Olympus, but much better than anything lowland farmers and shepherds could lay hands on. That might impress some of the towns closer to the mons, but this remote village is too interested in practical survival to really care about useless frippery. He’d’ve done better to show up in wool and a well-worn workinghand’s shirt.

  The peddler is on the stage holding up an object that really does look to be from the Time of Magic. The device is L-shaped with buttons and sliders on one side of the L. A long cord dangles from that end, ending in a small box-shaped thing with two prongs on one end. The other, longer part is a hollow tube with a few wires and springs.

  Owen shows the device from all sides. “And here, my good people, is another handy invention from the Time of Magic. My experts tell me that this has a wire that generates heat and might be useful for cooking food or keeping your home warm on a cold night.” He leans closer. “Without a fire, I mi—”

  “What have you got that’s good against dragons?” Seth demands.

  “I said, without a fire, my good people.” Owen holds the device up higher and speaks louder. “Who here wants to be the first in all of Lanatae to own this device?”

  Seth props his hands on his hips. “And I said, what have you got that’s good against dragons?”

  “Why would I carry any such thing, my good sir?”

  “Dragons!” Seth nudges Joel, who jerks back like he just got poked with something sharp.

  After shooting Seth a murderous look, Joel takes up the chant. “Dragons! Dragons!”

  Others join in, and before long, the whole town is going on about it.

  A strained smile crosses Owen’s face as he sets his “heater” aside and holds up both hands until the chanting dies down. “All right, all right. I gather you’re having trouble with dragons. Let me think…” He stares at the cloudless sky for a few minutes, then grimaces and nods. “Yes, I have something that’s proof against dragons, but it only works on a really obscure type. It’s no good against the acid-spitters, but fire-breathers, now there’s the thing.”

  I frown. He just so happens to have a device that works against a type of “dragon” someone around here seems to have been faking? Something about this isn’t ringing true. Is Owen Ellyot involved in the local shenanigans?

  “Just a minute. I’ll fetch it.” Owen steps up into the back of his wagon. After much clunking and banging around inside, he comes back out with a green cloth bundle. “Here is just the thing you need.”

  He flicks off the cover with a grand flourish. The device is an orange near-sphere with rounded ridges that run from base to crown. A rough, green cylinder about the size of my thumb protrudes from the top. The side facing us has a grotesque face with triangular black eyes, a skinnier black triangle for a nose, and a jagged black mouth. “All you have to do is turn it on when the dragons are nearby.” He taps the green cylinder. The black eyes flicker white and orange, and mean-sounding, shrill laughter comes from the mouth. “This weapon from the Time of Magic will scare them away.” He taps the green cylinder again and the device shuts off. “For such a unique and useful artifact, I could easily get two hundred fifty migs of platinum.”

  A collective groan rises from the assembly.

  I raise my eyebrows. Maybe he could get that much and maybe he couldn’t, but from a tiny village like Lanatae? He’s got to know better than that. These people are on a barter economy for the most part. If they have any platinum in the town it all, it sure won’t come to anything like two hundred fifty migs.

  “I can see that you’re good people in a bad situation. I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll—” Owen pauses, studying the sky for a moment. “Yes, yes, I’ll do that. I’ll let this valuable artifact go for one hundred eighty migs of platinum or a quantity of goods coming up to that amount in agreed-upon value.”

  This town might not have the coins to get there, and even an equal value of goods will strain the budgets of every household. Luse shoots a questioning look at another fellow across the crowd, who just shakes his head. A town this small has a community purse and someone to mind it? I am impressed.

  Somehow, I’m not surprised when Seth starts encouraging people to pool resources and pay the peddler. Joel and Zechariah join in immediately, and before too long, half the village is in agreement.

  This has gone on long enough. I’d better step in before they do something they’ll regret. I tug my hat down and adjust the weight on my back, then take a deep breath and push my way through the crowd toward the peddler’s platform. People press in against me, and I get all shaky like I’m going into battle. In fact, compared with walking through a crowd, I’d rather go into battle. I set my mind to my task and push my way to the front.

  Once at the platform, I swing the burlap off my shoulder and plop it in front of everyone. The cloth falls open, and I lend a hand to the corner that falls across a couple sets of spiked gloves and some kind of rig made from a canister, tube, and candle.

  Amidst protests from Owen, I hop up onto the impromptu stage and point at the equipment. “Here’s your dragon. Found it stashed in the brush near the dead sheep.”

  “That’s a lie!” Seth shouts.

  “I don’t think so.” I nudge the flame thrower with my boot, then point to the modified gloves. “This here’s the fire part, and here are the claws. The weird angle of the fifth claw mark is accounted for by the angle of the thumb.”

  A handsome young woman with reddish blonde hair races forward and picks up one of the gloves. Her face goes white first, then fiery red. “Joel Smidt! These are the gloves Goodman Kruger gave you for our wedding present! Is this how you got that cut across your arm and belly? Playing dragon? Scaring people half to death?”

  He goes pale as snow and points. “Seth! He put me up to it! It was his idea!”

  The crowd turns on Seth and his two cronies, and I leave it to Luse to keep them honest. The platform gives a little bounce. As I turn, I see a streak of gray rushing for the front of the wagon.

  I launch myself after him, losing my hat in the process, and catch the peddler by the collar. He stumbles backward a step or two, and I give his collar a good pull to help him find the ground. His eyes go all unfocused for a moment before he blinks hard and tries to sit up. I don’t let him get any further up than that until Luse joins me.

  Luse gives me back my hat. “Well, Dannel, I thought you’d left.”

  “I did leave.” I settle th
e hat back on my head. “I just didn’t stay gone.”

  “I, for one, am glad you returned.” He glances back at the village. “They’ll be paying back the folks who lost sheep. Then I’d wager they’ll be on their way. Feel sorry for the wives.”

  “For better or worse,” I say, and I mean that, but I hope they all find peace somewhere where they can start over and stay honest. “What do you plan to do with Owen, here?”

  “Oh, he’s going to pay his fair share of the cost of those dead sheep. We’ll remove a couple wagon wheels to make sure he stays around long enough. Once the debt is paid, he can move along.”

  Owen huffs like a little kid denied a treat.

  I smirk. “He better mind his manners. As a circuit rider, I visit every village all the way from here to Olympus. Sure would be a shame if someone spread the word about his dishonest dealings.”

  With a tip of my hat, I start back for where I left Ranger.

  Luse catches my arm. “Rider, you wouldn’t mind sticking around for a couple days, in case there’s more to this than Zechariah, Joel, Seth, and the peddler.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll set my campment where I had it.”

  I leave Luse to take care of the details regarding his prisoners, and I head to retrieve my horse and gear. Most likely that quartet accounts for everyone in on the plot, but no harm in staying a couple days.

  Not like I have somewhere more important to go. My time is my own to decide, and if the good folk of Lanatae will feel more at ease, then my time here will be well spent.

  After graduating from two rival universities with degrees in wildlife science and education, Cindy Koepp has worked as a secretary, tropical bird specialist, tech support rep, tech writer, teacher, editor, and optician...all to support her habit: writing complex stories to entertain anyone brave enough to read them.

  She enjoys watching westerns with her dads, mysteries with her moms, and science fiction and fantasy by herself. When she’s not catching up on movies and doing crafty stuff, she spends her time coming up with wild story scenarios and whistling with her wacky African Grey. You can catch up with her other adventures on http://ckoepp.com.

  Flight

  by Kristen Stieffel

  Astrid put away the grooming tools and rubbed her hands, massaging away the cold. Outside, the cloudless dome of the sky sat empty, awaiting the competitors. “Good day for a race, Ragnar.” Astrid caressed the bird’s neck, and he made a low, rumbling squawk. If only she could fly with him. “You show those dragons what you’re made of.”

  He stared at her with a beady black eye and cocked his head.

  “Let’s see your pinions.” She stood in front of him and stretched her arms to either side. “Spread.”

  With an abrupt caw, he stood, talons digging into his straw nest, and stretched his wings to their full nine-meter span.

  “Hold.” He remained still while she walked along each wing, inspecting the ebony flight feathers for irregularities. She fetched the saddle from the rack in the corner and slid it in place. She was a tall woman, unfortunately, and Ragnar’s body was even longer than hers. Leather saddle straps ran around his wings, front and back, joining into a V at the girth. She carefully snugged the belt around his breastbone. “Good boy.” She ran her hand over the feathers of his head and neck, which she had groomed to a glossy sheen. The bridle slipped around the hooked beak as long as her arm. “Let’s go find your jockey.” She took the reins and led him outside.

  The sun had not yet risen in the east, where the land sloped down toward Puerto Santa Lucia on the coast of the Melas Sea. In the west, light glinted off something metallic in the sky. Impossible. Huh. Unless one of the dragon riders had fitted his beast with armor. No, armor would only slow a creature down. Even dragon riders weren’t that stupid.

  Master Breiner, the pot-bellied head trainer, finished barking at the groom in the next stall and arrived to drill Astrid. “Is the old boy fit to fly?”

  “Fit as ever,” Astrid replied. “Those dragons will see nothing but his tail feathers.”

  As if he knew he was being spoken of, Ragnar squawked and ruffled the feathers around his bridle.

  Astrid reached up and smoothed them with one hand. “Who’s riding him today?”

  The trainer looked across the field, where other birds and grooms were lined up. “Chaya. Haven’t seen her yet this morning.” He turned back to Astrid. “Wait here while I find her.”

  “Yes, sir.” On the opposite side of the field, the dragon riders and their beasts lined up, much like the birds and their jockeys. For days, nobles had been arriving with their jockeys and mounts. Every cycle, they gathered from all over the Kingdom of Marineris for this competition.

  To Astrid’s right rose empty bleachers, ten ranks high, from which the nobility would watch the races. A few nobles strolled on the field. She spotted Lord Samuel Dubois, govnor of Melas, Ragnar’s owner and, for all practical purposes, hers. She dusted the hay from Ragnar’s nest off her tan twill trousers and ran hands over her braid to ensure she was presentable. Not that he ever noticed her anymore.

  Again she glanced westward. The metallic thing had drawn closer. Squinting, she tried to make it out. A big fat bag, with some kind of cargo slung underneath. How could it possibly fly?

  Breiner, huffing and stony-faced, returned with Chaya. “Give her a good briefing.” He walked on without receiving her answer.

  Not that she could have said anything other than, “Yes, Master Breiner.”

  Chaya kneaded her hands.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Astrid said. “Ragnar’s done this eight times, and won five, so he knows what he’s doing, don’t you, fellow?”

  The low rumble in his throat was akin to a cat’s purr. If a cat were thrice the size of a horse.

  Chaya was a slim, short girl, only about seven cycles old. Prepubescent. Even shorter and more sticklike than Astrid had been at that age. A braid of blonde hair darker than Astrid’s snaked over her shoulder.

  “Have you your map?” Astrid asked.

  “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Not ma’am. I’m just the groom.”

  “But you…” Chaya fumbled with the buckles of her leather flight jacket. “You’re a champion.”

  Astrid flushed hotly. “Ragnar is the champion, as Master Breiner would soon tell you. I only had the privilege of riding him for a few cycles.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.”

  “No offense, ma—miss?”

  “Astrid.” She smiled.

  Chaya smiled in return and pulled the map from her inside pocket.

  “Now, the course is marked out for the long-distance race.” The checkpoints were marked in red ink on the otherwise blue, green, and tan hand-drawn map. “What this doesn’t show is the easiest way to reach the first checkpoint.” She tapped the spot on the mesa atop the mountains to the northwest that marked the border between Melas and Candor, the great chasms at the heart of the largest valley ever known. “As you approach the mountains, go up the eastern slopes and see if you can catch a thermal. That will allow Ragnar to soar to altitude instead of flapping, as the dragons do. Don’t worry if the dragons get ahead of you there. The thing is, they wear themselves out getting to altitude. Once you’ve passed the checkpoint, turn south and head for the second checkpoint at cruising speed.” She tracked the southeasterly path back to the lowlands. “Then turn and head home at top speed. The last leg is the key. Ragnar can put on a sprint after flying so far at those altitudes. Few others can.”

  At the sound of his name, he gave a grunt that might have been a chirp had it come from a songbird instead of a giant carrier bird.

  Astrid folded the map. “Where is the first checkpoint?”

  Chaya turned and pointed. “Eighty kims north northwest.”

  “And the second?”

  “Ninety kims south southwest of the first.”

  “And then?”

  “Then sixty kims eastward to get
home.”

  “Very good.” She handed the map back. “Study that as much as you can on the ground, but in a race, leave it behind. There’s no time for it.”

  “Kay, Astrid.”

  “Give him his head. You’re just there to navigate. Trust Ragnar, Chaya. He knows what to do.”

  “Kay.”

  For another half hour, while nobles filled the bleachers, Astrid continued giving Chaya advice on form and answering her questions.

  They reached a lull, and Astrid groped for anything she might have forgotten.

  “Um…Astrid?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you fly anymore?”

  The girl might as well have jabbed a dagger into her heart. “Are you joking?” Astrid spread her long arms and pulled her shoulders back. “Look at me! I’m too enormous to fly. I was grounded as soon as I topped a meter and a half and these showed up.” She gestured to her breasts, which stretched out the fabric of her blue and white snowflake-patterned sweater.

  Chaya, blushing, ducked her head. “I—I’m sorry.”

  Astrid patted her shoulder. “No, I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just…I still sort of resent having grown up.”

  Chaya nodded. “I suppose that’ll happen to me, someday.”

  “Happens to everyone. You, me, Master Breiner…”

  Chaya giggled.

  Astrid frowned. Oh. She had rather implied that Master Breiner was hampered by breasts. “No, his weight is around the middle, not up top.”

  Chaya’s childlike laugh was refreshing, and Astrid joined in for a moment.

  Ragnar let out a great crow, and soon the other birds and half the dragons did the same. A couple of birds tried to bolt back into the aerie.