The King of the Skies

by Robert J. Crane

  “Rein him in, Mira!” Heidi called.

  “Sorry,” I shouted back. “Carson is his own person.”

  “Well, he should be on a leash.”

  Carson whooped as he made another jump, changing dimensions.

  If the stakes hadn’t been so high, I might’ve smiled. But we were racing Burnton to the crypt, which I figured was buried within an industrial-styled cocoon of assembly lines and dilapidated corridors falling to bits, and if he got there first and won, my quest would be over.

  The corridor terminated, spilling us out into one of the assembly rooms. It was still working, machines whirring away, conveyer belts moving. Nothing was carried on them but dirt; whatever manufacturing had happened here had ceased, so dark, rusted grabbers reached down every fourth second to clutch at nothing, ferrying the contents of empty grippers to a chute in the corner.

  Doors were cut in the sides of the room, leading out in all directions. Higher, a ledge, accessible by ladder, overlooked the room.

  Burnton had stopped to order his men through, splitting them up.

  “Take a door,” I ordered as I rushed past him. “And be careful!”

  “I’m on this one!” Carson called, running left.

  “Divvy yourselves up,” Burnton ordered his own crew. He turned and kicked off again, putting on a burst of speed to follow me. To me: “Don’t get overconfident, young miss! This is a treacherous arena we find ourselves in.”

  “I’ll take my chances, thanks,” I shot back over my shoulder as I leapt onto a conveyer belt piled high with the rusted debris of this crumbling facility. It whisked me forward, giving some added momentum—

  Then I jumped again, spinning so the room reoriented, ceiling now under me and the floor overhead.

  I bounded ahead, leaping over a pipe—then another jump reset gravity, and I landed nimbly at the top of the ladder at the gangway, directly ahead of a broken-down, holey corridor leading straight on.

  “Uh,” Burnton coughed, “maybe that confidence isn’t quite so poorly founded as I’d thought.”

  “See you later,” I shot back, and pumped my feet.

  But the extra lead I’d gained was small.

  “You can’t outrun me, young miss!” Burnton called from behind as I ran across the ceiling.

  I chanced a backward glance.

  Just twenty feet behind, boots hissing underfoot.

  How did—?

  The room opened, and suddenly my feet were touching nothing. Upside-down, my center of gravity got confused. The room lurched into a spin, and I yelped as it pivoted about me to reset even as I fell up, then sideways, in a peculiar arc—

  Vats were being carried about by cranes, placed to and fro on conveyer belts covered in broken metal.

  One swung around now, and just as the floor became the floor again, and I was about to touch down, it slammed into my right side, impacting my shoulder with devastating force. It knocked me sideways, and I stumbled—

  My foot hit an edge.

  Open sky hung down below.

  For an agonizing moment, I hung there, like a puppet on strings …

  And then I was teetering over—through the trapdoor and out of the arena.

  I screamed as I dropped through the air, dead right arm useless, left hand grabbing for my belt, for the umbrella on it, and the arena receded above me—

  25

  I was falling—

  And then I jerked to a stop.

  Above me, Decidian’s Spear had burst to life. It bridged the gap in the floor, keeping me from falling to a crushing death far, far below.

  Because I am a glutton for punishment, or because it’s simply human nature to look down from high things while simultaneously thinking, I could die if I fall from this high thing, I turned my head back over my shoulder to look down.

  The underside of the factory/city/crypt/whatever this was Brynn had built lay above a swirling vortex of dark, churning cloud. It might be ten miles below, or a thousand, for all I knew. Whatever the case, it was dark and spun frighteningly.

  Just turning to look disoriented me. My nerves were convinced the spear had dislodged somehow, and I yelped, clinging on tighter with a left-handed grip, staring straight up again.

  Burnton leapt over the gap but stopped to look down at me before passing.

  I had a terrifying vision of him stamping on my fingers, forcing me out of the race once and for all.

  He didn’t. He did, however, grin at me and disappear for the route ahead.

  “Hey!” I cried. “Little help here?”

  He returned, peering down again.

  I thought, for a second, he would reach down and take me by the wrist, lifting me back into the arena.

  Instead, he said, “I’m sure you’re resourceful enough to figure something out.” And then he was gone.

  “You bloody, slimy—”

  The wind breezed, a sudden gust pushing me to one side where I hung. I cried out again, scared the pendulum motion I was set into would cause the spear to slip.

  I needed to get up, fast. Windspeeds on gas giants were ridiculous—my million-world clock gave Harsterra’s most fierce storms speeds of hundreds of miles per hour. If one of those kicked up out of nowhere, I was done for.

  Problem was, I couldn’t pull myself up. My crushing impact with that damned shifting vat had sapped the pulling power out of my right arm. I could hang on just fine with my left, but as my non-dominant side, it wasn’t up to the task of dragging me back through the hole. No matter how I tried, grunting and grimacing, I could not pull myself up.

  “Damn it,” I muttered to no one.

  Why couldn’t Burnton just bloody help?! I would’ve given him thirty seconds’ headstart if he’d wanted.

  I thought quickly, not least because now I also was aware that each second I wasted was another second closer Burnton came to the Lamina Ambroscus.

  How had I got out of scrapes like this before? (Which was a crazy thing to have to think—how did I manage to stop myself falling to my death every other time this year?—but then that was the life of a Seeker.)

  I’d almost been sucked out onto Florida coastline as a tornado threatened to wrench me away from the Chalice Gloria in April. Same deal then, only I had actually had the strength in both arms to pull myself back through, even with the winds whipping me back.

  I racked my brains for more. But all those teetering almost-falls had blurred into one, and aside from simply rebalancing, I couldn’t remember any that had—

  The image of the Necklace of the Regent Adjunct slammed into my brain like a freight train, lying there on my desk.

  Faeries had caused me to fall onto a lower tree limb in that little game of parkour. And though I hadn’t been quite so precarious as I was now, I had been able to return to the trees’ platforms with—

  The line launcher!

  I unsnapped it from the back of my belt and fired straight up.

  The arrow took a rightward jag almost as soon as it had left me. Elvish rope streamed behind it for just half a second. Then it froze, the line taut as the arrow either embedded in something—not likely, given that the place was all compressed steel—or spun a knot to anchor me by.

  I pressed to extend the rope—and I shot back inside of the crypt arena like a cannonball.

  Landing hard on my heels, I bent my knees to take the impact.

  The line launcher reeled back in, arrow untwisting from the vat it had spiraled itself around.

  I glared at it. “You are so very lovely.” I kicked off the ground, hard, then said, “Thanks.” And, promising myself that I would definitely offer a testimonial to whoever built these brilliant, brilliant devices—maybe even scoring myself an endorsement deal of my own?—I hurtled back after Burnton.

  How long had I been out of the race? Forty seconds? A minute?

  Enough time for Burnton to get a sizable lead, however long it was. He’d already exited this chamber, vaulting the conveyer belts and vats and piles of rubble t
hat suggested this arena should have stopped functioning who knew how many years ago.

  I couldn’t hope to catch up on foot.

  But luckily I didn’t have to.

  I took aim at the far end of the hall—and fired the line launcher.

  An arrow cleaved through the space, elvish rope flowing behind it.

  It spun around a stretch of piping running along the ceiling.

  I pressed the button, flying across the room—

  I let the rope and arrow reel themselves back in before reaching the other side. No longer attached to the ceiling, my forward momentum kept me surging ahead, toward the adjoining corridor, holes underfoot leading down to the storm, panels in the walls gone too—

  Before I crash landed, I fired again, through the gap—

  My toes touched the very edge of the corridor’s remaining useable floor. I’d have fallen through if not for the sudden tension in the rope. Instead I was tugged ahead, sailing through the space into—

  The next room was some kind of production line. Equipment still whirred, and many smaller conveyers twisted and turned. Only debris was being shuttled about, dirt and metal in scattered piles.

  Low-ceilinged, the machinery took up so much space that I couldn’t see where I could fire an arrow through and speed up my progress. The only way through this was a slow slog, leaping from surface to surface as best I could.

  Burnton had encountered the same. I saw him up ahead, between machines, clambering over moving conveyers.

  “Blast it,” he grumbled. He hadn’t lifted his knee high enough, and touching it to the moving surface by accident sent him off balance.

  I set to moving—

  But I was shorter than Burnton, annoyingly so, and lifting my legs high enough to clamber over the conveyers was not happening.

  I pursed my lips, looked around.

  The walls were out, far too cluttered with machines.

  But the ceiling …

  It was low, too low to comfortably slip through. I’d need to duck and weave between piping and dark smears of equipment, dusted and rusted from time. Even so, it offered clear enough passage that I’d catch up with Burnton and reclaim my place in the lead of this race.

  So I jumped, twisting in the air. Vertigo overtook me for a second as the room tilted, and the floor became ceiling—

  Then I was planted.

  I surged ahead, crouching low to dodge through the obstacle course.

  Burnton looked up just as I overtook him. “Hah! Good tactic! Why didn’t I think of that?” Burnton leapt to the ceiling behind me. His boots hissed as they connected, holding him in place via whatever mix of suction or magnetism or whatever kept these guys aloft. “I must’ve been so affected by your near fall that it rattled my brains for just a minute.”

  “Good to know it had some effect on you,” I shot back, ducking between two pipes that disappeared into the ceiling—the floor, from this perspective. “Considering you didn’t stop to give me a hand up, I thought you weren’t worried at all.”

  “I knew you’d find your way out of it. How did you, by the way?”

  “Willpower,” I shot back.

  “Hah! Yes, it’s often willpower that wins in the end! I’ve said so many times. In fact, I’ve just today struck a book deal. The King of the Skies: How Willpower Drove Me To Success, Riches, and Eternal Glory. My publisher believes it’ll be the bestselling book of all time. I try to be modest about it, but honestly? I think it will.”

  “Good for you,” I muttered. Forget falling through holes in the floor or ceiling; Burnton’s self-indulgent boasting alone might do me in.

  Burnton’s height kept him behind me through the production line. But then we were in corridors again, vaulting between walls and floor and ceiling as panels were missing, and his longer legs gained him extra speed. He could leap farther distances than me, needing to switch surfaces less often …

  “What a race!” Burnton cried as he overtook me, giving me a jovial little wave as he passed. “Isn’t it invigorating?”

  Stressful, somewhat nauseating, stupidly dangerous … I could think of plenty of things it was, but invigorating was not one of them.

  I sped, pumping my arms, pushing all of my power into every leap.

  The next room was another line of conveyer belts, the bigger ones that pushed vats around. A crane system operated in here too, moving glowing tanks around overhead. I cast them a wary eye—then yelped as one swung at me from behind, brushing the backs of my legs.

  “Be careful of those things, young miss,” Burnton called from up ahead. “I thought you’d learned your lesson from last ti-iime!”

  A vat swung very close to his head. Burnton ducked, throwing himself backward. At the speed it was moving, and the likely weight of it given its size, if Burnton hadn’t rolled into that last-second dodge, his head would’ve been knocked clean from his shoulders.

  Luckily for me, it gave me a chance to catch up and overtake him again.

  Leaping conveyers, ducking between vats, I parkoured over gaps in the floor, piles of debris and broken equipment fallen into disrepair.

  “Well done!” Burnton, again. “You’re really performing wonderfully! You ought to be very proud of this, giving the King of the Skies a run for his money.”

  “I’ll put it on my Seeker resume,” I fired back.

  “Oho!” he chortled. “You should see the accolades on mine.”

  “I’m sure your book will tell me all about it.”

  “Oh, it will! I think we’ll struggle to fit them all in—I know we will, actually—but no matter; there’s plenty room for follow-ups. I know sequels often aren’t always as well received as the first, but, well, I’m all about breaking the mold, aren’t I?”

  I ground my teeth. “Uh huh.”

  Through corridor after corridor, room after room, we surged. Other routes forked off—but Burnton and I bolted ahead, keeping pace, leads swapping back and forth. An awkward landing that had me crashing into a rattling, skip-sized machine with dull lights sent a spike of pain through my right arm. It granted Burnton first place again—and then he lost it two minutes later, when a wall panel came crashing down in front of him, forcing him to an abrupt stop. I retook it—and then lost it less than thirty seconds later as I tripped over a mound of rock.

  “Whoever brought that in here?” Burnton mused, passing me by.

  We flew deeper into the structure, pushing closer—we hoped—for the crypt, dodging machines and flying vats, leaping holes through which the winds of Harsterra gusted, threatening to suck us out with them.

  Burnton kept a steady lead now. I was flagging, hard. Every step sent a thud of pain through me. My stumble earlier had resulted in a pain in my hip. It hadn’t been bad to start with, but the pain increased now with every step.

  If this were school sports day, I would’ve bowed out my now.

  The thought of the Lamina Ambroscus, though, pushed me on. So I dug deep, sucking in breaths that set my lungs on fire, leaping gaps, trying to keep pace with Burnton—

  Another wall panel crashed down in front of him.

  A swell of victory surged through me. My chance to overtake him again!

  I passed him, breathing hard, no time for jibes. Rounded the corner, the corridor forking sideways—

  Grand doors adorned with shining, silvery metal came into view beyond a wide abyss of missing panelling.

  “The crypt!” I gasped.

  Burnton sped behind me, leaping onto the opposite wall. He vaulted wide gaps, enormous bounding jumps that allowed him to cross space I couldn’t hope to.

  His pounding feet drew closer as I ran.

  And I realized, with sickening certainty: he was going to overtake me.

  He was going to get to the crypt doors first—and he was going to win.

  Use the line launcher, I thought. Cinch this thing!

  I reached for it—

  Burnton twisted to see what I was doing.

  His eyes drew wide.
“Is that a gun—?”

  And then he missed a step and vanished through the floor.

  26

  I slammed to a stop, staring—

  Burnton fell from the arena. Dropping like a ragdoll, his arms groped madly up. His eyes, widening even more, stared up, crazed and terrified …

  He was falling.

  He was going to die.

  And the Lamina Ambroscus would be mine.

  My thoughts swirled, like the storms below, traveling lightning fast, back and forth, warring.

  The Lamina Ambroscus, in my hands—

  Burnton dying.

  Victory to Mira Brand, another story for the history books—

  Burnton falling to his death as I watched.

  Could I let that happen?

  Could I let a man fall to that fate so I could take my win uncontested?

  His mouth opened, lips parting to scream—

  No. I couldn’t let that happen. That was not me.

  Firing the line launcher straight up, I anchored it above me—and then I leapt through the gap after him, holding tight.

  Elvish rope shrieked as it unfurled so fast that any normal rope would snap as the intense force wore through it—but it held, as I knew it would—and I drew nearer and nearer to falling Burnton, closing—

  I thrust out a hand. “I’ve got you!”

  He groped up for me. Fearful eyes locked on mine, his face a tense series of lines, he gasped—

  Closer … closer …

  The rope’s whine changed, becoming higher-pitched—

  I was almost at the end of the line.

  Praying there was just enough left to let me reach him, I leaned forward, down, stretching my arm as far as it would go, all the bones and muscles screaming as I tried to force every—tiny—millimeter—out of them …!

  “GRAB HOLD!” I roared—

  Burnton flailed—

  Our fingertips touched—

  Missed—

  And then, with one last push, I grasped desperately again.

  He caught my wrist—and I wrapped my fingers about his—

  The line launcher went taut.

  Out of rope just at the last second.

  We bounced. I gritted my teeth, holding so desperately tight, praying like my life depended on it that Burnton would not let go—