The Lodestone Trilogy (Limited Edition) (The Lodestone Series)

by Mark Whiteway

  She glanced up at the boy next to her. “Time to go.”

  “Which direction?”

  Shann scanned the shelf of grey stone, which was interspersed with tufts of purple and yellow grass and gave way to a succession of steep-sided gorges gouged into the ancient rock before finally rising towards the line of distant hills that formed the island’s spine. She was hoping to see a thin line of smoke from a campfire, or some other telltale sign that might indicate where Lyall might be. However, common sense told her it was far too early for a campfire. They could wait till evening, of course, but even then, there was no guarantee that he would see fit to reveal his position. He had to know that they would be coming after him. Perhaps that was his intention all along.

  She shook off the disturbing notion and applied herself to the problem once more. Her mind went back to the valley where Lafontaine had shown them the great hu-man star vessel. The vessel would be gone now, of course; they had stood together and watched in wonder as it lifted into the night sky—a gleaming apparition in sapphire and gold. However, there was also the squat, stubby sky ship that their Captain—the Prophet—used to fly above the Great Barrier of Storms to visit her world.

  Lyall was seeking an audience with the Prophet, and it made sense that the Prophet would return to his sky ship. Of course, the ship could have been moved for all she knew, but it seemed the most reasonable place to start.

  She mapped out that part of the island in her head, remembering the flat upland where Lafontaine had first been introduced to the party. He had shown them a path which led down the sheer side of the valley to the rough timber-built cabin and ultimately to the wide floor of the canyon.

  They could be there by mid-morning tomorrow. They would only need to descend as far as the bend in the trail to get a bird’s-eye view, at which point it would be obvious whether the sky ship were still there or whether it had flown the coop. If it were gone, well—she would just have to think of something else.

  She started back down towards the beach, the wind ruffling her short dark hair and crimson cloak, and called over her shoulder, breezily. “This way.”

  Rael opened his mouth, then closed it once more and trotted after her as if he would willingly follow her into the fires of perdition.

  ~

  It was not until sometime later, long after the island of Helice had slipped below the horizon and Annata’s Reach was gleefully cutting a wake once more through the wide swells of the open ocean, that Keris realised something was wrong.

  During the outward voyage, she had been content to leave the minutiae of ship handling to Patris and Shann. Patris had by far the most experience, and the girl was fascinated and eager to learn, which meant that Keris could concentrate on more important tasks. Now, with Shann left behind and Lyall embarked on his foolhardy quest to save his sister, the position of First Mate fell to her by default.

  It was something she had not anticipated when she had agreed to conduct the Reach safely back to Kieroth. Her head was filled with new and unfamiliar terms—capstan and cathead, halyard and hawser. Even after repeated instruction, she struggled to remember the difference between a bowline and a buntline, causing a frustrated Patris to rush over more than once and grab the rope himself, muttering all the while. She showed little aptitude and even less enthusiasm for the various shipboard tasks thrust upon her. At this rate, it was going to be a very long voyage indeed.

  It was during one such incident, when she had contrived to tangle the lines, forcing Patris to intervene and rescue her efforts for about the hundredth time, and she simply stood there, floundering, feeling as useless as a landed fish, that she suddenly remembered Alondo.

  She excused herself, noting that Patris’s expression was more one of relief than annoyance, and headed for the sterncastle. When she thought about it, she hadn’t seen the musician since they had left the island.

  Her first thought was that he must have fallen prey to another one of his bouts of seasickness. They tended to come on not long after the ship set sail and lasted no more than a day or two, but during that period, he would normally take to his bunk and not appear on deck. Might as well check up on him. I’m not doing a lot of good up here.

  She stuck her head around the door and checked the dimly lit interior, but it was empty. Frowning, she turned and headed for the forecastle. She stepped through the hatch and inspected every corner of the cabin, but there was no one there. Next, she conducted a systematic search, beginning at the foredeck and the ship’s prow and working her way aft. At the crenellations and side rails, she peered out over the turbulent ocean, looking for a splash of water, a waving hand, a figure sporting that ridiculous red hat, but there was nothing.

  Patris looked at her oddly once or twice, but said nothing. She even lifted the hatch set into the lower deck and descended into the murky interior of the empty hold, creasing her nose as she sloshed through the shallow layer of bilge. Finally, she returned to the lower deck, where Patris was fussing with the sail as usual. “Alondo is gone,” she announced.

  He stood up straight. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

  “He isn’t here,” she said, as if addressing a small child. “He’s not on board.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I just searched this ship from stem to stern, as well as the surrounding sea. There’s no sign of him.”

  Patris ran to the starboard rail. His eyes narrowed, accentuating his crow’s feet, as he scoured the water. He cupped both hands to his mouth and called at the top of his voice. “Alondo.” The sound carried over the sea, but there was no response other than the creaking of the hull and the gentle lapping of the waves. He strode to the larboard rail and called again. Still nothing. “When did you see him last?”

  “Not since we weighed anchor,” she replied.

  “Me either. If he left or fell overboard in the vicinity of the bay, then he probably made it to shore.” And if he didn’t, then he’s almost certainly lost. “Do you want to go back for him?”

  Keris cursed inwardly. Alondo had been her responsibility. Shann had charged her with the simple mission of getting the others safely back to Kieroth and she had failed. Mistakes, her former mentor Mordal once told her. Everybody makes them. The secret is knowing what to do when they happen. Most people panic. They overcompensate, which usually leads to a second error or a string of errors. Take a deep breath. Remember your duty. Accept your losses. Then move towards completing your assignment in the most efficient way possible.

  She steeled herself and shook her head. “No. We are tasked with bringing this ship and its complement safely back to Kieroth.”

  “That’s just you and me now.” Not counting the deceased Boxx.

  “Then we have a lot of work ahead of us.” For the first time, she regarded the flapping sail and its complex array of guide ropes with something approaching genuine interest. “Is there any way to coax more speed out of this thing?”

  <><><><><>

  Chapter 24

  The cart bearing Yaron and McCann had barely entered the outskirts of Kieroth when the bombing started.

  It began slowly, like the rumble of distant thunder overlaying the clatter of cartwheels on cobbles. Alex McCann squinted and stared at the unbroken blue sky from beneath heavy brows, hidden behind an upturned collar. His brows drew together into a frown. Before he could comment, the rumble was joined by another all-too-familiar sound—the rising whine of an avionic. He grabbed the reins from Yaron and pulled the juvenile graylesh to a too-abrupt halt, causing the striped beast to rear and yelp in protest.

  Yaron’s olive face was staring up at him. “Wha’s up?” he demanded.

  “Trouble.”

  Boom. An eerie silence followed, broken finally by ragged yells and jagged screams, as black smoke began billowing over the rooftops from one street over. The boy stared wide-eyed at the curdling cloud. McCann jumped down from the cart and flinched as a silver streak flashed low overhead, its twin fans emitting a high-pitched
shriek.

  Yaron still sat on the buckboard, transfixed by the sudden apparition. McCann reached up and grabbed the young Kelanni by the collar, half-dragging him out of his seat and down to the ground. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

  “Avionics,” Yaron said, stupidly. “They’re firin’ at us.”

  “That’s right.” McCann cast about, trying to get his bearings.

  “Our avionics aren’ fitted wi’ weapons.”

  “No. But ours are.”

  “You mean ’u-mans. But... they’re na supposed t’ have avionics. They’re na even supposed t’ leave their island.”

  “It’s a closely guarded secret,” McCann’s mouth twisted. “Or at least it was until thirty seconds ago.” He could hear multiple engine drones now, coupled with the sound of distant firing. The air was charged with panic. People running. Frenzied shouts.

  Up ahead, a phaeton floated towards them, humming quietly as curious occupants stuck their heads out the windows and observed the rising palls of smoke as if they were a new tourist attraction. He wanted to flag the driver down—to yell at him to get himself and his passengers off the street—but he was still a human operating under cover in an alien burg. He could not afford to attract attention to himself.

  The whining grew in pitch once more and another silver dart appeared over the rooftops. Its nose dipped and it hovered for a moment, so that McCann fancied he could almost see the outline of the pilot. Then, a puff of smoke and a brief flash erupted from the machine’s port side. McCann had just enough time to shove Yaron to the ground and hurl himself on top of the boy before the opposite side of the street disintegrated.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as dirt and debris rained down on the two of them. The eerie silence returned, except this time it was all around him, blotting out sound. Slowly he realised that his ears were ringing. The body beneath him stirred. He raised himself gingerly. Dust hung in the air and clawed at the back of his throat. He gagged and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. The sound was muffled, as if someone had stuffed his ears with cotton wool.

  The alien boy raised a dust-covered face, looking like a character out of an ancient Bela Lugosi film. “Are you all right?” McCann asked, in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone else.

  The boy knuckled an eye and nodded. McCann got to his feet, scratched his head, and looked around him. The street. The store fronts—what was left of them. His clothes. The sky. The world. All suddenly transformed into monochrome. He was Buster Keaton in that tornado scene after the building fell on him. Only this wasn’t a movie. And no one was laughing.

  A dented wreck of mangled metal creaked tortuously as it settled back on the roadway. With a sense of shock, McCann realised it was what was left of the phaeton. It had been passing by just as the missile had impacted and had been blown across the street as if struck by the hand of a petulant giant-child. Nothing stirred within the fully occupied carriage.

  As the dust gradually settled, he began to discern mounds, lumps, or shapes that might once have belonged to living things but were now indistinguishable from the smashed masonry. Frozen in time and turned to stone. There was no time left, not even for compassion. He yanked the boy’s arm over his shoulder, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him away like a scarecrow.

  Slowly his mind began to operate again, although it felt as if it were stuck in low gear. Was this some sort of rogue attack, or had it been sanctioned by the Captain? Right now, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting a stop to this pointless carnage. The Captain’s Kelanni agents or operatives here in Kieroth might have some answers, but even assuming any were still alive, then they were probably laying low. By the time he located one, it would be far too late.

  Suddenly, a crazy idea occurred to him, one so completely preposterous that it might just work. “A roof,” he shouted in Yaron’s ear. The boy looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Do any of these buildings give access to a roof?” he repeated. “Large. Preferably flat.”

  His eyes widened—sky-blue pools in a wasteland of grey filth. “The Lechlar Court.” Lechlar—an indoor sport involving something like a flying puck, an elongated catcher’s mitt, and a nest of ropes arrayed from floor to ceiling. Like an aerial form of pelote. It was perfectly designed for the Kelanni’s rapid agility and grace of movement. Humans would probably suck at it.

  Less than an arena, more than a hall, the tall, one-storey building would be ideal—if it had not already been reduced to rubble, that is.

  Two blocks and ten minutes later they were standing outside the Lechlar Court. The streets were largely empty now; terrified townsfolk remained cloistered behind locked doors, clutching their simpering youngsters and cowering under tables while angry insects buzzed overhead. Just like the London Blitz of Earth’s Second World War, it was more than the fear of death. It was the fear that you could be next.

  An unlocked side door gave access to the Court. The anteroom beyond led to various adjacent cubicles—changing rooms? Showers?— as well as a larger set of double doors which presumably accessed the playing area. McCann ignored them all and headed for the stairs.

  Three flights later, they terminated in a storeroom scattered with boxes of discarded equipment and another door, this time locked. McCann raised a booted right leg and smashed it open. He strode onto the roof, followed by an open-mouthed Yaron, who stared at the shattered hinges as if he was going to be asked to pay for the damage.

  Here, above street level, the full extent of the devastation could be seen. Plumes of smoke rose like accusing fingers from every direction. Sleek silver machines threaded between them, glinting in the suns’ light, screaming, and spitting fire like crazed dragons. Every now and then, a new explosion rocked the townscape. It was twenty-first-century Baghdad in the final days before the fall of Saddam Hussein. McCann, however, was not here for the view.

  He turned to the boy behind him, whose mouth was now filled with knuckles, and shooed him back inside. Then he began rummaging through the storeroom.

  After a couple of minutes of fruitless searching, he uncovered two short metal poles of equal length and hefted them experimentally. One was painted red, the other yellow, but they should suffice. “Stay here,” he instructed.

  Away from the sights and sounds of the rooftop, Yaron finally found his voice. “Wh... wha’ ya gonna do?”

  “I’m going to have a little chat with someone,” McCann replied.

  ~

  For the thousandth time, McCann rued the loss of his equipment. With his Speaker Ring, it would have been a simple matter to contact Susan on Helice and ask politely if she wouldn’t mind telling him what in blazes was going on. Or he could have reconfigured his datapad to hack into the comm. frequency that the avionic pilots were using— strictly a breach of protocol, but in the circumstances, who cared. Heck, even his hand-held gamma could have been used as a flare. But he had nothing; nothing other than his wits and a distant memory, a memory of something from his pilot’s training. Something very old...

  He marched to the centre of the roof, held the tubes aloft, and spelled out the instruction: L-a-n-d.

  The art of semaphore dated from ancient times, from long before the development of electronic communication. Yet, anachronistically, it was still a part of standard flight training—or at least it had been when he qualified for his shuttle pilot’s ticket all those years ago. For all he knew, it might have been removed from the handbook by now. Or these younger pilots might have slept in on the day that particular lecture came up. Nevertheless, it was his last remaining card, so he had no alternative but to play it.

  One of the silver darts came swooping in low from the east. He turned to face it and signalled the same four-letter command. As it passed directly overhead, the note from its engines fell due to the Doppler effect, but the ringing in his ears was back. He did a quick one-eighty and saw that the aircraft was already on the turn. He had been spotted, which was either very, very good or very, very bad. In a few seconds h
e would find out which.

  The avionic slowed, its front end tipping towards him like a pointy-nosed professor inspecting some peculiar specimen over a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He repeated the signal, half-expecting a bolt to erupt from the machine’s forward-mounted gamma, but it righted itself instead and began descending meekly. The outer edge of the tornado blasted some of the residual dust from his hair, beard, and eyebrows before dying away as the silver bird settled back on its struts. He carefully set down his makeshift batons and waved both arms in greeting.

  The cockpit cover popped open and a scrawny figure pushed itself up and peered forward. “Mac? By Hades, it is you. We all thought you were... Man, you look like week-old bread. Where you been?”

  Garcia. He had a first name, but no one ever used it and McCann couldn’t remember what it was. A New Yorker originally, but shipped out so many years ago it hardly mattered. He was low-level crew. Ships’ stores and security. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. McCann suppressed his rage and did his best to sound conversational. “Dodging sidewinders. What’s with the all-out assault? You guys go trigger-happy or something?”

  “Captain’s orders.” The pilot climbed down to the roof and approached. His face was mottled like a pepperoni pizza. Eyes like twin olives. Anchovy mouth. “Sorry, we didn’t know you were here in alientown, not having gotten so much as a text message and all. Of course, it probably wouldn’t have made any difference to the orders. You know how determined the Captain can be.”

  “Sure. I’m starting to feel warm and fuzzy all over.”

  The little man’s laugh was as dry as a rasp. “Yeah, well. A lot of stuff has happened while you were away. The Accumulator Device was attacked and destroyed by a gang of green terrorists.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “Totalled.”

  “But how—?”