by P B Hughes
“What has happened?” asked Jelani. “Who has invaded this town?”
“Enough,” said Nera. “I am Nera Gallagher, Ogre-Slayer and Gold Guardian of the Empire. If there is any evil that plagues this town, then I promise you we can handle it. Now let us in.”
The man’s eyes went wide, but he was quickly shoved aside. A pair of brown eyes took their place. They blinked down at her a moment, and then their owner spoke in a gravelly voice. “Emperor’s ghost…Nera, is it really you?”
Nera raised her eyebrow. “Last I checked.”
The slat slid shut and there was a fumbling behind the door. It opened quickly and a pot-bellied silhouette of a man ushered them inside. One by one, they stumbled into a small, poorly lit room with two wooden chairs and a barrel of ale in the corner.
Nera recoiled as the portly man wrapped her in his embrace. She tried to pull away but his grip was firm.
“Little Nera!” he said. “Can’t believe you’re here!”
“Let me go!” she said.
“What’s the matter?” said the man. “Aren’t you happy to see your Uncle Barnabas?”
At that, Nera froze. She looked up at the grizzled face and into the eyes of her uncle. They were so like her father’s eyes.
“Uncle…Barnabas? Is it really? It is!”
And then she hugged him right back, and the two of them laughed and squeezed all the tighter. He ruffled her hair with a rough hand and stepped back.
“Last time I seen you, you was nothing but a sprout, monkeying around on your father’s ship. Look how much you’ve grown. My, my.”
Nera laughed. “Papa brought the whole family—I was only six if I remember correctly. You look…” Nera wanted to say he looked the same, but he looked very different. His waistline had expanded, his beard was unkempt, and he was a good deal balder, but his eyes—his glinting brown eyes were the same. “You look good, Uncle.”
“Bah! How polite of you. Well, I’ve grown too, as you can see.” He pulled back a long brown cloak and gave his belly a pat. “All this sitting in one place—can’t be good for my health.”
“I hate to interrupt your reunion,” said the slender man with green eyes standing next to him. He wore a similar cloak tied about the middle with a leather belt. “But Slint and Roark will be back soon. If they find you here they will sound the alarm and have our heads.”
Barnabas gasped and stiffened. “You’re right, Geoffrey. We have to go now. Got to get you somewhere safe!”
“Uncle, what’s all this about?” said Nera.
“I’ll explain everything in due time. For now, keep quiet and follow me.”
“And what should I tell Slint when he asks where you’ve gone?” said Geoffrey through gritted teeth.
Barnabas opened the door to the room and stuck his head out. “Make up an excuse—I’ve gone to the latrine. I’ll be back before long. I trust you, Geoff.”
Geoffrey’s lips narrowed and he did not reply.
Barnabas flicked his hood over his head. “Keep to the shadows,” he said as the six of them slipped outside.
The sky was a smattering of broken clouds speeding forward, all trying to gain on the one ahead. Nera was met with howling, frigid gusts as they turned the corner into a cobweb of cobblestone streets. Barnabas ducked down an alleyway and the others followed. They turned and turned again—winding and darting like mice through a maze. The town had long since gone to bed, and fortunately, Nera thought, the sound of their movement was drowned out by the dull roar of wind.
Barnabas slid to a stop at the back of a shop. A light shone through the window—dim and inviting. Nera looked in longingly; she was ready to soak the warmth into her bones and dry her clothes. Perhaps her uncle might boil them some hot water.
A bath, Nera thought. Oh, how heavenly a bath would be!
Out of instinct, Nera reached for the rickety back door. Her uncle stepped in front of her and closed it with a snap. He shook his head and pointed to a cellar door built at the base of the shop. He pulled it open and ushered them inside.
Sir Weston and the others followed Barnabas down a creaking staircase. Reluctantly, Nera gave one last look to the lit window and climbed down into the pitch-dark cellar.
The air was cold and damp, and grew more so as she descended. A flicker of light met her at the base, and there stood her uncle, a lantern in hand.
“My apologies,” he said. “My apologies to all of you. It isn’t right, sticking guests down in the basement. But you need to understand what dangers lurk in these streets.”
“Well,” said Gregory, dropping his supplies on the floor, “spit it out, then. We’re used to danger by now, eh Nera?”
After the battle with the ogre, Nera thought that anything else would be like a walk in a meadow. Still, the fear in her uncle’s eyes told her that if they were not afraid, they should be.
Barnabas set the lantern down on a wooden table in the middle of the room. “Please sit down. I’ll tell you the whole story. But first, let’s get the furnace going to warm you up.”
Nera set her supplies in the corner and began to pull them out, one by one. She heard the squeal of rusted hinges as her uncle opened a fat potbelly stove in the back of the cellar. Barnabas threw some logs into the stove and began to fiddle with a flint, striking it again and again. Gregory placed a hand on Barnabas’ shoulder, and the man stood aside. Gregory pointed his staff at the fire—it flickered a moment, but nothing happened.
“Blast it all,” Gregory spat, kicking at a rusted can and sending it into the wall. “It’s too wet. I can barely make a spark.”
“Here,” said Martha, stepping to his side. She waved her staff over his body, pulling the water from his clothes, and then held it suspended in the air in a ball that began to swell as she extricated the moisture from the air. She stared around the room a moment, and then sent the water splashing into an open barrel. “I’ll do the rest of you now, if you’d like.”
Gregory shot a fireball inside the stove, and the room came to life. Orange light sent pulsating shadows across the wall, and slowly, heat filled the room. Martha moved on to each of them, draining the water from their clothes until they were comfortably dry.
Nera sat down on the floor, glad to be out of the rain. “All right, Uncle,” she said. “Story time.”
Barnabas gave a furtive glance to the top of the stairs. He slid a chair out from the corner and took a seat. “Well, you see, it all happened around four months ago. When they showed up. It was a group of mercenaries. About twelve of them, fully armed. Ugly fellows, the whole lot—most of them covered in odd tattoos and piercings. But there isn’t a law against being ugly, so we let them on by. Only thing was, two of them were goblins. You know the law. No goblins allowed in a human city. At first, no one complained. Didn’t want any trouble with these fellows. So long as they pay their bills, a creature’s a creature, I always say. And our lawman was away—you know our constable, Marty Friesen, the Ruby Miraclist. He was out the day they came—said he’d be back in a week. Anyway, that night, they were playing cards at the bar. Old man Mulberry, well you see, he decided to let them in on the game out of fear they’d hurt him if he didn’t. The goblins joined in, too. Well, the old man won three games in a row, and one of the goblins accused him of cheating. Of course, Mulberry denied it. And I believed him, what’s more. No one would be foolish enough to double-cross those brutes. The poor man even agreed to give them their money back. But nothing would satisfy them. They wanted blood. And then—” Barnabas placed a hand on his brow and swallowed “—then one of the goblins jumped up, threw the table aside, and slit the poor man’s throat before the Creator and the world.”
“How horrible,” whispered Martha.
“Monsters!” said Sir Weston, leaping to his feet. “Justice will be administered, I can assure you. Come, Guardians we must enact vengeance upon these foul creatures.”
Barnabas’ eyes went wide. “No, no you can’t do that! Just listen, there’s more t
o this story. Please, sir, sit down. Please.”
Sir Weston sat back down slowly, his eyes locked on Barnabas.
“Well, they murdered Mulberry, and then Mr. Swanson as well, the pub owner—the poor fellow tried to throw them out for what they did. Several of us ran off to find the constable. We figured he’d make short work of them. And we found him, riding down the path several miles from town. We explained the situation and he charged down the road, the rest of us following at a distance. When he got back, though, the gates were barred. A goblin leaned out the tower window, bow drawn. The arrow hit Constable Friesen square in the chest. Killed him in cold blood, they did. Then, nearly a hundred of them came out from the trees—men and goblins both—and they pushed their way into the city. We laid our weapons down. All of us would be in the grave, just like Constable Friesen. The whole thing was a ruse—they were spies, here to check the city’s defenses. We’re a trading post, open to all nations, not a military city. We fell without resistance. But that’s not the worst of it.” He dropped his voice to a hush. “There’s Cythes in their number. Not sure how many. At least two.”
Nera felt waves of fear swim across her skin. “What? Cythes, here in the city?”
“Aye,” he said. “Not sure why they chose our town. Strategic location, most likely as we’re on the river. But they forced a meeting in the town square. Informed us that his lordship, Specula Greavus, has taken this city in the name of the Obsidian Plague. All those loyal to the new order will be spared, given a mark to show their allegiance.” He rolled up his left sleeve and showed them a strange black tattoo on his wrist of an eye with a triangular pupil. “Those who refused the mark…were put to death instantly.”
“How many refused?” asked Jelani, somber as ever.
“Eleven,” Barnabas replied, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Four of them women, one of them barely a man. I—” his voice cracked with a sob “—I should have resisted. I should have done something. But I’m just a technician. I don’t have any weapons; I don’t know how to fight. What could I do? And now the people are starving. I haven’t been able to take my Sky-Whale out to trade, and they’ve blocked the boats on the river.”
Nera stood up and placed a comforting hand on her uncle’s shoulder as he buried his face in his hands. She looked around the room, soaking in the worried gazes of her comrades. “Uncle, you did what you had to do to survive. If you had done anything else, you’d be dead.” She stroked his shoulder, wondering what she should do or say.
Barnabas stood up and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I need to return to the watch. Slint and Roark—they’re two of their men. You’re lucky you came when they’re on watch. They hate staying up all night.” He made his way up the steps. “Usually they sneak off for a snooze or a drink. If they’re back before I am, there could be a steep punishment.” Barnabas froze on the steps. “I’m afraid I have no food to give you. You must be famished.”
“We have some food,” said Nera, exchanging a worried glance with Jelani. “It’s not much, but we’ll manage.”
“Good,” replied Barnabas, continuing up the stairs. “I’ll try scrounge for something when I’m off duty.” He opened the door and turned back around. “Whatever you do, do not leave the cellar. We’ve got to think of a plan.”
With that, he shut the door. Nera watched as his feet shuffled past one of the narrow, rectangular windows near the ceiling. She shook her head in disbelief.
“No food!” Gregory exclaimed, glaring at Sir Weston. “Now what are we supposed to do, starve to death?”
“We still have our rations,” said Martha. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
Gregory crossed his arms and huffed: “Unbelievable.”
“Out of the frying pan,” said Jelani as he stretched out onto the floor, “and into the fire.”
Nera rubbed her eyes and tried to think. Her brain felt like it was covered in a layer of fog. She was so weary she could barely formulate a thought. “What should we do, then?” she said, hoping someone would come to her aid.
“Lay your head down, Nera Gallagher,” Jelani replied, resting his own head against a saddlebag and shutting his eyes. “Wake up with a clear mind. Then we will find a way to complete our mission.”
Nera reached for the bundle in her own pack, but instead of unraveling it, she simply buried her face in it and sank into a dream-filled sleep.
◆◆◆
Nera was a little girl again, sending up puffs of dust as she scrambled across the rafters inside her family’s hangar, wrench in hand. Though she was more than sixty feet high, she felt not even a tinge of fear. She skidded to a halt in the middle of the elevated path, snatched the rope to the iron-cast hook-and-pulley dangling from the roof and fastened the hook to her belt. She inhaled the stuffy air and took a moment to admire her family’s Sky-Whale resting below in the middle of the sprawling hangar. The hot air balloon looked like a giant silver watermelon, she always thought. Her Papa’s pride and joy. As such, it was hers too. She planted her foot at the edge of the scaffolding and took a nosedive. The rush of air and the sound of the rope spinning through the wooden spool of the pulley filled her ears as she sped to the ground. At ten feet she began to slow, and at one foot she jerked to a stop. She placed both feet on the floor and blew a yellow strand out of her eyes. Then, she unbuckled herself and released the pulley to wind back up to the rafters.
Two boots waggled from beneath a large, spherically shaped machine near the back of the room. Tubes and pipes jutted out here and there; a giant propeller connected to the end of a long pole stuck out the back. The engine. The most important part of the Sky-Whale, Papa had said, and Nera was helping him fix it.
“Here’s the wrench, Papa,” she said, kicking one of the boots.
Her father slid out from beneath the engine and gave her a grin through his scraggly beard. “Thanks, Little Bolt,” he said, and slid back under.
The sound of twisting metal floated up from beneath the engine.
“Ah-hem,” Nera said, clearing her throat, and folding her arms.
Nothing.
“Ah-hem!” she said, louder this time.
Papa slid back out, eyebrow raised. Nera scowled down at him.
“All right,” he said with a chuckle, “come on.”
Nera smiled and jumped onto Papa’s belly, forcing out a grunt. She lay flat against him, resting the back of her head on his chest as they slid back underneath the engine.
Nera stared up at the engine’s insides—it looked like a metal city: screws and bolts, piping and gears, all working together to make those propellers spin.
“What’s this machine called, Nera?”
“The engine.”
“Right, but what’s the technical name.”
“The electrically driven air screw.”
“That’s my girl. Chimaroo technology at its finest. Soon the Empire will wise up and learn it ain’t Miraclists that make this nation purr. It’s the techies like us!”
Nera puffed with pride. It felt good to be important.
“Now,” he said, pointing, “see those three lugnuts? They need to be tightened, and then we’re all set. Think you can handle it?”
“Course I can,” Nera said, frowning. She fit the wrench on the first one and twisted as hard as she could, moving to the next, and then the next.
“Nice job, Little Bolt,” he said, taking the wrench and giving each one a firm twist for good measure.
The world dissolved around her and she found herself sitting on a stool in the living room of her family’s house, staring out the stretching bay window dotted with rain. She gazed from left to right—first into the sprawling prairie that seemed to go on forever, and then down the path that led from the front steps of their house all the way to the hangar a hundred yards away. The building was giant, rectangular, surrounded by trees, though its roof could be clearly seen as it towered even above their tops. The sky was swirling with clouds of giant grey, and fat drops pelted the
ground intermittently; flashes of lightning blinked off in the distance. Dangerous weather to fly in, she knew. She longed to be with her Papa—to help him land the ship. This was a memory she revisited often in her dreams. She was waiting for him to come home from a long business trip.
“Nera,” said a voice behind her. It was her older sister, Gretchen. “Mama said to stay away from that window during storms.”
Nera ignored her. Gretchen was incurably bossy.
“How about we brush your hair? Papa will like it. I’ll braid it too if you’ll let me.”
“I don’t want to,” Nera replied. “I like it the way it is.”
“It looks like a rat lives in that tangled mess. If you would just let me brush it, then it wouldn’t hurt so much. Come on, be a dear and let me brush it. It will be fun.”
“Braid Mag’s hair. She likes it. Besides, Papa will be home soon.” Nera looked back out the window. “I want to watch for him.”
“Fine,” said Gretchen. “Then I’ll just do it here at the window. But if Mama sees she’s likely to scold us for being too close.”
Gretchen pulled a chair up behind Nera, sat down, and, with some difficulty, began raking her brush through Nera’s curls. With every stroke it felt like her sister was tearing out the roots of her hair. But Nera relented, content to watch for her father, and to watch for lightning. She knew her father would need to land quickly before the storm. Lightning was one thing that could delay his travels significantly, and even damage or destroy their ship.
And then she saw it—the immense silver Sky-Whale break through the backdrop of blackening clouds. Despite the storm, the ship was in good shape. Nera clapped her hands with excitement and pulled away from her sister, pressing her nose against the glass.
“Nera,” her sister scolded, “sit still!”
Nera sat back down and watched the ship settle over the barn, ropes unfurling from the gondola. Her sisters and brothers slid down to open the hangar roof. Oh, how she wanted to be with them—the sights they had seen, the adventures they had been on, the gold they had earned! The hangar rooftop slowly cranked open and the great ship lowered down inside. The roof shut just as a flash of lightning split the sky, releasing a torrent of rain. Her siblings were the first to emerge from the hangar, followed by her father. He ran after his children, shielding his eyes from the rain.