by Devin Hanson
He checked the Locuscorpi compass and felt a surge of excitement. The pointer had drifted off to the left, and downward visibly. "Ava!" he shouted, "We're getting close! Head to the left a little."
The dragon rumbled a reply lost in the wind and heeled over. For the first time in hours, her wings were still and the only sound of their passage was the faint whistle of wind through the straps of Andrew's pack.
They entered a cloud and Andrew's visibility was cut to a few feet past the tips of Ava's wings. He shivered as the damp air swirled around him. The compass in his hand straightened out and he shouted to Ava to hold course.
A minute passed, then two, then suddenly they exploded out of the cloud and into the clear night sky. The clouds were above them now, a solid blanket that blocked out the light from the stars and dimmed the moonlight to a mere fuzzy glow. Below them, the terrain was rugged and uncultivated. He had no idea where they were, but it was far from any center of human civilization.
Andrew peered into the darkness before spotting the Storm Shadow. It scudded along ahead of and below them, high enough to easily clear even the tallest hills, but still well below the cloud ceiling. Andrew remembered how the Belathon had been ambushed from the clouds and knew that the protection offered by hiding in the clouds was wishful thinking at best.
Ava swept in, hugging the cloud ceiling and keeping her wings steady. Her initial forward speed was enough that she was able to coast in until she was directly above the airship before cupping her wings and matching speeds.
The ever-present howl of wind past Andrew's ears settled out to just a stiff breeze and Ava's voice drifted pack to him. "I do not like you risking yourself, Avandir. I do not like this plan."
They had discussed various ways to get Andrew onto the deck of the Storm Shadow, and none of them were good. Andrew argued that a quiet approach would be best. Ava simply landing on the deck and roasting everyone in sight might work, but it also might kill Jules, destroy the airship and the egg along with it. The next problem, of course, was that the gondola was directly underneath the armored balloon. He couldn't repel down onto the gondola, nor could Ava come up from the side. Unless Andrew ran down her outstretched wing, and that was the worst idea ever.
The plan Andrew had come up with wasn't much better, he had to admit. But it was too late to turn back now. "Relax," he called back, keeping his voice low. "Everything will go just fine."
Despite his confident words, his heart was hammering as he slipped the Locuscorpi compass into a belt pouch before he uncoiled the heavy climbing rope from his pack and tied it to a convenient spike rising from Ava's back, far enough forward that it wouldn't interfere with her wings. He ran the rope through a rappelling ring on his pack harness.
"Wish me luck," he called and, before he could talk himself out of it, jumped off Ava's back.
The rope hissed through the ring and Andrew let it play out about half the length before shifting his weight and hauling down on the dangling end of the rope, bringing his descent to a jarring halt. He swung dizzily before he could regain some control and line himself up with the airship. Ava was holding station above and a little to the right of the airship, and the surge of her wings made Andrew bob around.
Slowly now, Andrew lowered himself until he was nearly at the end of the rope, with ten feet flapping in the wind below him. Ava twisted her head down, saw he was in position, and stopped beating her wings. Distantly, Andrew heard her say, "I expect lots of scratches after this, Avandir."
Was she making a joke? Andrew's breath caught as she started gliding down toward the airship. This was stupid. The worst idea ever. He gripped the hilt of Jules' runed blade and watched the airship approach.
When Andrew had asked Ava whether she thought her flying skills were up to the task, she had assured him with no hesitation that it wasn't her she was worried about. As Andrew dangled from the dragon's neck, her response suddenly struck him as being rather vague. Was she not worried because her skills were unmatched, or was she not worried because it wasn't her that was going to be smashed like a bug against the gondola?
The airship was only a hundred feet away now, close enough for Andrew to make out the details. The Storm Shadow was smaller than the Caerwin, barely half the length of the converted merchanter. Rather than the forecastle and quarterdeck separated by a wide waist of the typical merchanter, the Storm Shadow had only a quarterdeck, with the main deck stretching all the way to the bow. The wheelhouse was centered on the quarterdeck, open from behind and only a low shroud providing cover from the headwind.
A row of cannon ran down each side, six to a broadside, with a swivel gun mounted on the prow and two stern chasers on the quarterdeck. They were of a different construction than Andrew was familiar with, and he couldn't work out their method of operation from the distance. Like the Belathon, the Storm Shadow was sheathed from bowsprit to stern in airon.
As Andrew closed the distance, his heart in his throat, he counted three men on deck: one manning the wheel, and two on the prow by the swivel gun. Andrew thought of his own time on watch and felt his nerves settle just a little. Never once in that long day waiting for the dragon to attack had he thought to look up.
The airship was getting very close now, and Andrew felt a mild panic set in. He was too low! He lost sight of the wheelhouse, the armored flank of the Storm Shadow looming closer at terrifying speed. Seemingly at the last second, Ava caught her forward momentum with a cup of her wings. Andrew, hanging by a hundred feet of rope, rode the impetus upward.
Moving at barely jogging speed, Andrew's feet cleared the top of the railing on the quarterdeck by a bare yard. He jerked Jules' blade free of its scabbard and the runed blade cut through the rope with only a slight jerk. Free of the rope, Andrew's momentum carried him in a shallow arc and he landed on the deck in a roll.
The heavyset man at the wheel was still turning around, a comical look of stunned surprise on his face when Andrew came up from his roll and slammed into him. A gush of liquid heat on Andrew's hand made him look down. Jules' blade slid free of the man's chest, sending another welter of blood over Andrew's hand. The man opened his mouth but nothing came out besides a wet gurgle before he slumped to the ground.
Andrew's chest heaved as he struggled for breath, the terror of his approach to the airship muddled up with the horror of the dead man at his feet. He hadn't even meant to kill him, it had just been a reflexive jab, a movement drilled into him years ago. Only the wicked sharpness of Jules' blade had made the blow fatal.
Andrew edged back from the blood spreading in a pool around the dead man as he fought his breathing back under control. His hands shook and he pressed them together, collecting his thoughts and calming his nerves. He was here to rescue Jules and recover Ava's stolen egg. These men were pirates, kidnappers, murderers and worse.
He told himself that, and struggled not to throw up.
He thought about his training, how his swordmaster had drilled into him the difference between being alive and dead. What makes a survivor of a fight different? He must be willing to kill. Actual skill with a blade only goes so far. In most fights where blades are involved, the one who walks away is the one who is more willing to kill to survive.
Years ago, he had nodded, certain with all the self-delusion of youth that he had what it took to survive. Now that he was standing over the body of the man he had just killed, he wasn't so sure. His lunge had been reflexive, his body following the blade drill hammered into muscle memory through thousands of repetitions. The blood on his hand felt sticky and he scrubbed it on his shirt, suddenly desperate to get the blood off.
Could he do it again? Was he able to kill as many men as he needed to in order to rescue Jules? Was he able to do it for Ava? It was one thing to reflexively kill a man, but it was another entirely to premeditate the killing. To wait in the shadows and stab a man in the back. To wrestle a man over the railing and hear his scream dwindle in the distance. To confront someone, blade in hand, and test his re
solve face to face.
Could he?
Andrew tightened his grip on the hilt of Jules' blade until he knuckles stood out white beneath the smeared blood. Was he Kossirith? Or was he just a gunny? Was he worthy of Ava's trust, of Jules' friendship? Or was he just a failed merchant, running from the wreckage of his life?
If he ran now, would he ever stop running? If he succumbed to the fear, could he ever hold his head high again? Trent's sneering face rose in Andrew's memory. Was he worthy of contesting the will of a lord, or was Trent right? Was he no more than a worthless commoner, not good enough to share the same sidewalk as the likes of Trent?
His sword hand loosened from its death grip on the hilt. He forced his shoulder to relax, his breathing to even out.
He was wasting time.
A voice called up from the lower deck, and Andrew dropped into a crouch. Cooling blood soaked into his pants at the knee but he didn't even feel it.
"Oy, Bayley, you best not be sleeping on the wheel, or th' lord'll chuck you over the rail in the morn!"
Booted feet thumped up the stairs to Andrew's left and he edged toward the top of the stairway, crouching down behind the wheelhouse sheathing. A man's head topped by a mop of unruly hair rose up and turned toward the wheelhouse. Andrew saw the man's eyes widen in shock then Andrew rammed the runed blade through the man's throat. It was a sloppy thrust, and arterial pulse sprayed blood everywhere. Andrew jerked back, raising one arm instinctively to keep the blood out of his eyes. The man's hands went to his throat and he thrashed around, making whistling noises.
Movement on the prow caught Andrew's eye and he spun, slipped on the wet deck and barely caught his balance. The last man on watch was rounding the swivel gun toward an alarm bell. There was no way Andrew could reach him in time.
Andrew pressed one hand to the scale under his shirt, feeling the slightly serrated edges digging into his skin. He concentrated for a moment before flinging out his other hand and calling out, "Igan!" in a voice firm with command. Summoned by his will and powered by the vitae of the scale, a blaze of liquid fire roared out from his hand and slammed into the man just as he was reaching for the bell clapper.
For a moment, the deck of the Storm Shadow was bright as day, then the blaze of white-hot flame was gone and the watchman was burning like a torch and toppling over the railing into the open night below.
Andrew blinked away the after-image of the Igan flame etched into his retina. Three men dead by Andrew's hand, and all he felt was relief that the alarm hadn't been sounded. He listened carefully for a few seconds. Did anyone hear the blast of the Igan? The only sounds that reached his ears was the regular grind of the airship's engines.
Time to find Jules. Andrew drew the Locuscorpi compass out of his pouch and watched the needle sway around before settling and pointing toward the prow and down into the hull. There was one large hatch centered on the main deck and another one toward the point of the prow. He had no idea which one would lead toward Jules, but, guessing wildly, he figured there would be less people down the smaller hatch that he might run into and have to kill.
The small hatch was a iron-bound wooden trapdoor, which, as Andrew discovered as he struggled to lift it, was not airon. Not even privateers could afford to have every piece of metal aboard be airon it seemed. Beneath the hatch, a narrow, steep stairway led down into the bowels of the airship. Swampgas lanterns burned at intervals, giving uncertain light.
Andrew checked the compass again and found he had gone past Jules at some point. Well, nothing for it. He pulled the hatch shut behind him and crept down the stairway, one hand holding the runed blade at the ready, the other clutching the scale beneath his shirt.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the passage split. The compass pointed toward starboard and down even further. As Andrew worked his way through the corridors, he moved slowly, carefully, listening for footsteps before rounding corners. The airship seemed abandoned.
Where were the crew? There were signs that suggested a crew of upwards of thirty members. He should have run into some by now, right? Besides the three men on watch on the top decks, the airship might as well have been abandoned.
He went down a second stairway and found himself in a sort of cargo hold. An alchemy-powered lift hunkered in the middle of the floor, lining up with the large deck hatch. Just as well he hadn't tried descending that way, it was a straight drop twenty feet down.
Barrels were lashed down in rows along the curve of the hull, while canvas sacks holding other goods hung swaying gently from hooks. A cabin of sorts was nestled into the forward bulkhead, while aft the massive engines hunkered, the size of a small house. The noise here was loud enough to be difficult to hear someone talking in normal tones, but not enough to obscure the shouting coming from the cabin.
Andrew checked the compass to confirm what he already suspected. Jules was inside the cabin. He briefly toyed with the idea of kicking the door in and interrupting the argument with steel, but the ghost of prudence convinced him to take cover behind a hanging sack next to the cabin. He pressed his ear against the wall and was able to pick out parts of a conversation within.
"-trust me! I've only had your welfare in mind." It was a man's voice, slightly warbly with age.
Jules answered, too quiet to pick out words but the undercurrent of anger unmistakable.
"Of course I want you to! Think of the benefits it could bring our house. Our luck has run afoul these last few years. The Priahs have more money than the king!"
More angry mutterings from Jules.
"He's just a boy. In ten or fifteen years he'll settle down."
A sharp retort.
The man's voice spoke again, uncertainty wavering before ironing out again. "It might have been unorthodox- no, stop it. You of all people should know that propriety can be bent in times of need."
A long string from Jules, punctuated by the crash of crockery breaking.
"You might not agree now," the man huffed, "but given time, you will come to understand. You're nobility, Jules. Life does not always go the way you want it to."
Silence from Jules.
"I can't convince him unless you give me something to work with," the man pleaded.
Jules spat something.
"Very well. I'll send someone down to clean this up. We'll talk again in the morning."
The door swung open, and a portly gentleman with a grey fringe of hair around his bald pate sidled out. He shut the door and lowered a bar down, locking Jules inside. He tugged his waistcoat straight, unhooked a cane from the crook of his elbow and climbed the stairs Andrew had come down a few minutes before.
Andrew waiting for a minute to make sure the old man wasn't coming back then slipped out from his hiding place and lifted the bar from the door. He pushed the door inward and squinted into the darkness within, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light.
"What do you want?" Jules asked, her voice tired but tight with anger. "I told you already what Trent can do with his offer."
Andrew cleared his throat. "I've come to give you a different option," he said then immediately wanted to kick himself. What was that? Of all the things he could have said, that was probably the worst.
He heard Jules gasp then his arms were filled as she flung herself at him. "Andrew! What are you doing here? How did you get here? Is this blood?" she pulled back for a moment.
Andrew glanced down at himself and was surprised to discover that he was covered in sprays and blotches of blood. "It's not mine," Andrew assured her. Out of the dark room and with her at arm's length, he could finally see her clearly. She looked exhausted, her skin pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She had a bandage wrapped around her head, the stark white standing out against her hair. For the first time since he had met her, she looked otherwise than perfectly coiffed.
She hugged him again. "You can't imagine how glad I am to see you," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "How did you find me?"
"Locuscorpi," he
answered. "Jules, we need to get you out of here. Where's the egg?"
"Egg?"
"The dragon egg! Trent stole one."
Jules closed her eyes for a moment and cursed. "I don't believe it. No. I do believe it. That bastard. I don't know where the egg is, Andrew, I've been locked up in that closet since I regained consciousness."
Andrew ran his hands through his hair. "Okay. Well, we need to find it."
"Burn the egg, Andrew! We need to get out of here! Call your friends and let's jump ship."
"Friends?" Andrew asked confused.
"Yeah, your friends! With the airship? How you got here?"
"Ah." Andrew shook his head. "Look, there's a lot to explain. It's just me. Ava… let's just say, the egg is our ticket home. Besides." His voice hardened. "I'm not leaving it with Trent."
Jules stepped back and looked him over with a more critical eye. "You boarded the Storm Shadow by yourself? Who is Ava?"
"No time," Andrew said. "Oh. Here." He handed her the runed blade and the extra scale from his pouch. "You're way better with this than I am."
Jules accepted the blade without comment, but the scale made her raise an eyebrow in question. "Don't you need it?"
"I've got my own," he responded. "Where on this ship would be the best place to keep something really, really hot?"
"Got your own," she chuckled, bobbing the scale up and down in her hand. "This is not your brooding scale." She nodded at his shirt where the blood had dried around the scale Andrew wore underneath. "And that isn't either."
"Jules." Andrew took her by the shoulders and bent down to look her in the eye. "I'll explain everything. But right now, we need to act. Where is Trent keeping the egg?"
"Gods." Jules rubbed her eyes. "You're right. Let me think. If I had a dragon egg, I wouldn't let it leave my sight. It will be wherever Trent is. His cabin would be off the main deck, so my guess is the egg would be there."
"Then we go up." Andrew nodded at the stairs. "After you. Oh, by the way. Where's all the crew?"
