by Paul Collins
‘Fleeing a husband,’ muttered Jelindel, spreading her open hands and spinning around to show that she carried no loot.
‘Ah ha, so that’s why you stay sober in ports, you little devil.’ The duty officer gave a toothless grin. ‘Down below with you – quick about it.’
Reputations are made thus, Jelindel thought fatalistically. Now it would be rumoured that first navigator Jaelin was, in fact, a clever thief or an adulterer, rather than a runaway novice from a Nerrissian monastery.
Jelindel was still awake when Hargav arrived. He stank of beer and vomit, and took an unusually long time to find his way into the tiny locker that was his bunk. He tried to sing a verse of some song about a sailor, a squire, and a girl with a piece of string, was silent for a minute or so, then began snoring.
Above him, Jelindel smiled in spite of herself. She lay awake for a long time thinking about pentacle gems, lindraks, privateers, and machines that opened bridges to paraworlds.
Chapter 12
CHICKEN RUN, BAT FLIGHT
Fa’red was not the sort of wizard who muttered arcane spells over foul-smelling cauldrons in dark cellars. Although he was a very inventive man, his ideas far exceeded his ability to carry them out personally. As such, he had learned to delegate work.
A year earlier, over a tankard of ale at the local tavern, he had suggested the idea of a living house to Masonnerry the Artificer. A house that lived off sunlight and water, repaired itself, cleaned itself, kept itself at a pleasant temperature all year around, and ate kitchen scraps.
Over the next few days they discussed the spells required, planted a few dozen seedlings that had been subjected to a very heavy barrage of formative spells, then watered them with a fluid that Masonnerry had brewed in a foul-smelling cauldron in a very dark cellar.
Fa’red had visited Fowler the Foul next. Fowler lived in a house made of woven chicken feathers. While the featherdown mattresses were supremely comfortable, and the goosedown cushions positively caressed those who sat in them, the place stank of wet feathers when it rained.
While the two wizards dined on fried chicken, Fa’red called for a raw chicken leg. Holding it up, he pulled at a tendon so that the claws of the dead bird contracted, grasping a knife.
‘Have you ever considered the idea of a pair of chicken legs that are ten feet high?’ Fa’red asked.
‘I – oh. Well, not really. What possible use would they have – apart from doing the walking for a twenty-foot chicken?’
‘Could you create such a thing?’
‘Well, yes. Some very arduous incantations over a suitably fertilised egg soaked in some very potent liquid at body temperature would do it. Of course, I would need a dark cellar and a cauldron, and the smell would be positively foul. But it could be done.’
‘And if you just wanted the legs?’ suggested Fa’red.
‘Oh, much easier. You just grow the legs out of the sides of a large fermentation barrel – all breweries have them. You just add water and digestive fluids, then start shovelling in chicken feed. Mind you, a vast amount of chicken feed would be needed, and the cost could be prohibitive.’
‘Just say I was to supply the chicken feed, the fluids, and one very large brewery barrel: could you do it?’
‘Sir, have you not been listening? Of course I can; it is just that I have never done it before. Come to think of it, I rather like the idea of strutting around the town on such an apparatus. My wife would probably appreciate using it for going to the market. Oh, and what a grand entrance I could make at the forty-third congress of the Chicken Wizards Fellowship later this year. I tell you what – supply me with two barrels and twice as much chicken feed, and I shall grow a spare one for you.’
‘And what about a correspondingly large pair of chicken wings?’ asked Fa’red, without trying to look eager.
‘Oh, I could grow them, but they would be no good at all for flying. Big problems with the lift-to-weight ratio when you get as big as that. It’s a matter of feather strength, too. I wrote a paper on it, once. I have a copy here, somewhere, written on feather-fibre paper.’
That night, as Fa’red soaked in a bathtub at a nearby inn, trying to get the smell of chicken out of his skin and hair, he came across an interesting footnote in Fowler’s paper on very large chicken wings.
With skin wings, there is a higher limit to the size that can be lifted for flight. This is the case with dragons, of course, and these remarkable creatures supplement the lift and thrust of their skin, bone and ligament wings by using magic to cancel out as much as nine parts in ten of their weight.
Next on the list was Belforrey the Bat Man. He lived three weeks away by coach. As Fa’red made the journey, he took extensive notes and calculations. Thus, by the time he reached his destination, he had a complete set of specifications ready.
Fa’red showed him the plans and specifications for what he wanted.
‘Well, yes, I could grow you a set of bat wings that could move the weight that you require to be airborne. A fruit bat’s wings would be best, enlarged and strengthened by magical means,’ Belforrey said. They were seated inside a tower.
‘You see, Fa’red, the wings have to be strong as well as light if you want to fly. It would be easy to grow very light wings that could not even support their own weight. Or very sturdy wings that could not push down enough air to get even, well, my weight off the ground. But strong and light together takes skill, brilliance, flair, even artistry.’ He wandered over to the window to admire the belfry on the adjacent tower. For some reason, he had caused a belfry to be built on each of his thirteen towers.
‘But can it be done?’ said Fa’red.
‘Of course. I have flair and artistry. You take a fruit bat pup from its mother’s pouch, and soak it in some foul-smelling gunk brewed in a dark cellar. I would have to hire one of those, of course – I only have belfries in this castle. This kills the bat pup but allows the wings to grow to a virtually unlimited size. Of course, there is the matter of feeding. You would need a very large vat, the type that breweries use.’
‘Perhaps filled with digestive fluids and chicken feed?’ suggested Fa’red.
‘Oh no, you can’t grow bats on chicken feed. You need fruit, or at least fruit peelings, selected kitchen scraps. It would be expensive, but you would get a very nice set of wings. To tell the truth, I rather fancy myself with such a set of wings. One could put a saddle on the barrel, and steer it with a pair of reins and some pedals and levers. Launching could be a problem though. You would need ten-foot-tall legs to reach take-off speed.’
‘Oh, very impractical,’ said Fa’red.
‘But wait. I could have my peasants build a stretch of perfectly level ground a mile long and fifty feet wide. Then I could put wheels on the barrel and get into the air.’
‘You could call it an airstrip,’ Fa’red said, thinking of a diabolical paraworld he had visited once.
‘What?’ said Belforrey. ‘Oh yes, very clever, Fa’red.’
‘Of course, you could not go anywhere,’ Fa’red pointed out. ‘No road on the entire continent is straight for more than a hundred yards or so, and they tend to be crowded with peasants, carts, armies on the march, and nobles in coaches.’
‘No problem for me. I will only take off and land here, at my castle. Mind you, there is the question of range.’
‘Range?’
‘Oh, yes. The wings would get hungry after all the exertion of flying. You would need to feed them after an hour. And purge the waste material in the barrel, too. Of course, you would be dead by then. So there’s no point.’
‘Dead? From one hour of flying?’
‘Wind chill, my good sir, wind chill. Even wearing long underwear under leather trousers, fleecy leather boots, and a leather coat, you would be dead of wind chill. Go outside, for example. The air is cool, but there is no wind. Now imagine that cool air as a gale. Imagine sitting in that gale, perfectly still. The heat loss would be incredible. I’ve done experiments. I’v
e sat on top of a tower during a gale, and, my word, it gets cold. Add rain or snow, and the time you can endure drops even further.’
Fa’red had taken this into account, but he was not about to let on. ‘So, for example, a flight from D’loom to Mordicar would be impossible?’
‘Well, not impossible, just cumbersome and very uncomfortable. Map, map, where is a map? Maps are like handmaidens, they seem to know when you want them, and hide. Not that I have any handmaidens, of course. They don’t like the bats, you know. Ah, found it.’
Belforrey unrolled the map on the floor. Fa’red knelt down beside him and held down one end.
‘The far north is about three hundred miles,’ said Belforrey. ‘Travelling at about sixty miles to the hour, that would be five hours. Allow another hour for headwinds, and you need six hours. That would have your wings dead from hunger six times over. It would also have you dead of exposure about seven times. It’s all right if you were a cat with nine lives. But, even so, it’s a high price to pay for an admittedly fast trip. Of course, you could build seven airstrips along the way.’
‘Very impractical,’ said Fa’red.
‘Take off from D’loom, then incline a little southeast to fly over the Garrical Mountains – catch the updrafts, you see. You would need a strip on Dragonfrost Plain. Very cold and high, but quite flat, so easy work. Another strip near the Marisa River, another at Hez’ar, a third near the Serpentire River. Yes, nice flat flood plain there. Oh dear, a forest where the next strip should be. Trees to clear, stumps to dig out, that will take time. Mordicar, well, it is on a coastal plain so –’
‘But, as I said before, quite impractical.’
‘Yes, but only for long journeys. In terms of bringing a little joy to the heart of a jaded ruler, a short flight on a warm day would be perfect. A joy flight, if you like. Is the Preceptor at all jaded?’
‘Almost all the time,’ replied Fa’red.
‘In that case, I could grow two sets of wings, in return for raw materials and costs: the hire of a dark cellar, building an airstrip here, ingredients for gunk, about thirty tons of fruit, a couple of large beer barrels, lightweight carriage wheels, acids to mix digestive juices. Yes, that will be all that is needed.’
‘Seems cheap at the price,’ said Fa’red. ‘I shall draw up a contract and make some appropriations against the Preceptor’s military research budget.’
Getting everything together was no easy matter. The ten-foot high chicken legs were ready first. Next, Fa’red rode back to Belforrey’s castle for flying lessons. With him came a blacksmith, carpenter, and several wagon loads of tools and materials.
Belforrey was already flying his own wheeled and winged beer barrel. With the aid of two saddles, the wizard gave Fa’red flying lessons, while the blacksmith and carpenter worked on the other two barrels. They joined them together using several iron bands, and incorporated both sets of controlling levers, reins and pedals into a single set around a saddle at the front end. An enormous chicken’s bottom, tail, and tailfeathers protruded from the back of the barrel for waste disposal.
Being a little uncertain of his capabilities and not anxious for a stray rock to complicate matters, Fa’red decided to use Belforrey’s airstrip for the first take off. As a special bonus, Fowler added a long, scrawny neck and beak to the barrel on legs. ‘It’s a warning for others to get out of the way,’ he said. Fa’red’s carpenter built a special tunnel through the winged barrel to accommodate the neck, and it proved to be a good idea. Some sort of warning was going to be needed to clear birds from the airstrip during take off. Belforrey had found this to his cost when he hit a crow during one of his test flights – at fifty-miles-per-hour, even a crow can pack a punch.
A tug at the lever marked WARNING activated the huge beak, and sent a mighty ‘BUK BUK BUKCAW’ thundering down the airstrip. Every bird within a radius of a mile was startled into the air. Once they had flown clear, Fa’red pressed the RUN pedal with his right foot and the FLAP pedal with his left. The gigach’at, as Fa’red called it, lumbered down the airstrip, slowly flapping its wings as it ran. Every foot fall caused a mighty thud. Belforrey’s peasant crew cheered and threw their hats in the air as Fa’red thundered past. The wind buffeted his face as the speed increased. Then he pressed the BUK BUK BUKCAW lever for the sheer exhilaration of the moment – and the thundering stopped. He was in the air.
Fa’red took his foot off the right pedal and placed it on the flight footrest. Then he threw a lever marked TRAILING AND LOCK. Beneath him, the huge chicken legs stopped their running motion, bent back, and locked up, so that they trailed behind the barrel. Fowler had been confused about why Fa’red wanted this feature. But, since Fa’red was paying, he did not press the matter.
Using the reins, Fa’red banked the giga-ch’at, and climbed in a circle. An hour glass on a pole was set at his eye level. An orange line showed how much time remained before the wings became hungry. Another hour glass near his waist showed the level at which they would begin to starve.
Fa’red was wearing thick clothing. Even so, he noted that the air rushing past certainly made him feel cold very quickly. He tried taking his foot off the left pedal and gliding, catching thermals rising from nearby mountains and being lifted higher without any effort. He went as far as trying a few stall recoveries, and even a brief powered dive.
At last the sand approached the orange line, and Fa’red began to drop height. A smoky fire beside the airstrip showed the direction of the wind, and Fa’red brought the giga-ch’at around to face into the wind as he landed. He unlocked the legs, pressed the right pedal to get them running at their maximum speed, then took his foot off the left pedal to stop the wings flapping. The thud thud thud of the clawed feet announced that they were in contact with the ground again. Fa’red eased back on the right pedal as the speed dropped. He walked the giga-ch’at back to Belforrey and his ground crew, triumph glowing on his face. He even pressed the BUK BUK BUKCAW lever so that his strange animal-bird-machine could share in the glorious moment. He pressed the ROOSTING lever, and the legs folded at the knees.
‘A few minor adjustments, but otherwise perfect,’ Fa’red announced, dismounting.
‘I must commission a pair of legs like that,’ said Belforrey, excitedly.
‘It allows one to land in any reasonably flat terrain,’ said Fa’red. ‘I can give you the name of a good chicken wizard.’
Belforrey had not seen the last of Fa’red’s innovations. A second saddle was now added behind Fa’red’s, this one facing backwards. Bags of fruit and juices were added to iron hangers, followed by leather pouches of digestive juice mix. Finally, the carpenter and smithy added a special feature to the giga-ch’at. Fa’red and a small boy climbed into the saddles.
‘Now then, lad, tell me what you are to do,’ Fa’red called over his shoulder.
‘At the word “Shit”, I pull the lever marked SHIT. This releases the sludge at the bottom of the barrel. At the word “Feed” I slide open the hatch marked FEED ME, and empty a bag of chopped fruit into it.’
‘Good lad, I am sure I can count on you,’ said Fa’red. ‘Well now, time to take off. And this time I might try the giga-ch’at over unlevelled ground.’
‘But the wind chill,’ warned Belforrey.
‘The air is colder at night, when your bats do all their flying,’ laughed Fa’red. ‘I intend to fly during the day, when the air is warmer. Goodbye now, and thank you again, Belforrey.’
The flight to D’loom took two hours. Fa’red was a little cold when he landed at his estate, but not desperately so.
The living house had been delivered in a soil-filled wagon. As Fa’red inspected it he noted with satisfaction that it was appropriately streamlined, with holes added at the sides for the wings. Masonerry had also included a small window with thick glass-like material.
With the aid of a crane, the organic house was lowered onto the giga-ch’at, and boards were forced apart to fit the wings through the sides. Walking the dev
ice-beast around, Fa’red thought it was a little heavier, but the legs coped quite well.
After a short test, Fa’red walked the creature to a patch of newly turned and watered soil. Here he folded the legs and the wings. The house put down roots when Fa’red pulled the ROOTS lever, and leafy branches sprouted from the roof when the FOLIAGE lever was activated.
‘Finished, and just in time,’ said Fa’red, admiring what had only been a vision in his mind a year before.
The following day, Fa’red stood before his castle as the Preceptor arrived. Along the winding path, beyond the boundary of Fa’red’s estate, waited his escort of elite lancers. There were six hundred armed men, fifty wagons containing tents, supplies, drinking water, gold for trading, several warrior wizards for fighting off magical attacks, several cooks, a dozen washer women, five physicians, and even a carpenter’s wagon with a supply of wood for repairing other wagons and any bridges that happened to be down.
‘Well, time to go,’ said the Preceptor, looking down from his horse. ‘You appear ill prepared for our journey.’
Fa’red held up a small bag.
‘I fear this will be a long campaign, mage,’ the Preceptor said, darkly.
‘Not so long, Preceptor.’
The Preceptor’s horse whickered, mirroring its rider’s growing impatience. ‘Is it a magical bag that has its bottom in some other world, and which can take a ton of luggage while weighing no more than a few pounds?’ the Preceptor said.
‘No. It’s an ordinary bag, containing a bottle of wine, two slices of pork pie, several magical amulets, and some ancient scrolls with important spells.’
‘The journey to Mordicar is five hundred miles. That will take two weeks of strenuous riding. Three if my not entirely loyal subjects in the conquered territories destroy the bridges, and longer if they decide to attack. I would advise you to pack a little more luggage, strap on a weapon, and saddle your sturdiest horse.’