by Marc Secchia
The plunge into the Brass Mirror drove her so hard against the straps, she thought she had broken something. Whisper tasted blood in her mouth. This would be the reason for the neck and forehead straps – not breaking her neck on impact.
Deep, deep she drove into the brassy waters. Strangely thick bubbles surrounded her. The ice was cracking, so Whisper grabbed the controls a second time and twisted the nose upward and outward. Away from the flow. Headache! Oh, shiver her paws … she saw in shades of white and rusty red and – black! Whisper forced the craft to dodge a huge black body, which it did sluggishly. The chemo-magical thrusters whined incessantly. Better. The bands of pain in her head eased slightly as she began to make horizontal headway.
Why couldn’t Humans cross the Brass Mirror on one of these?
Probably because it would be eaten away long before they reached a quarter of the distance – or munched by one of those! Whisper screamed as she drove right through the gap between a set of fangs of a size she had never imagined, neither in her worst nightmares nor in her memories of the nightmarish creatures of Xisharn. The mouth was bigger than Ignothax in his entirety, lined with multiple rows of black fangs set in a long, narrow jaw. The creature swam lazily crosswise to her as Whisper’s paws trembled on the controls, but the creature was in no rush, whereas her vehicle was. A few seconds later, she popped up to the surface and the primitive craft, free of the clinging, thick waters, surged ahead with a roar.
If she had harboured any doubt that these canyons were inlets for the Brass Mirror, that doubt was burned out of her now.
She hissed across at a fantastic speed. The deep, metallic-orange waters rushed beneath her at an unbelievable speed as the craft began to aquaplane, then she was squeezing the other control to reduce the thrust as she neared the deeply undercut cliffs. Oh no. How was she supposed to find a spot to stop safely, here? Whisper pulled the nose over, heading slightly up-canyon in the strongside direction, looking for a landing place … there! She turned hard over again, instinctively opening the throttle to its fullest. The craft roared, kicking up a wall of tarnished-looking water.
The small craft jounced about, then the fins dug in and she shot toward the small beach she had spotted beneath a massive overhang of rock. She skidded up a low beach of glassy pebbles, which clattered over the porthole as the nose dug in abruptly. Halt. “Ouch.”
Whisper hit the releases. The porthole hissed slightly as it released and tangy, acid-noxious air rushed in. No time to pause. Scrambling out, Whisper began to cough and choke and … blinked. What? She touched her face experimentally.
Aye, she was wearing her shorts around her mouth and nose.
Apparently, they filtered the toxic air, somewhat – because that initial whiff had her lungs and especially her sensitive nostrils stinging, but also the tissues of her eyes and ears were starting to react. It was logical, of course, that the acid content of the air should be most potent down here, at ocean level. No Whisper had been this low, according to her memories, save those who had ended up visiting the acidic waters involuntarily. She glanced about, and found, amidst the piles of glossy bubbles created by her precipitate arrival, the black eyes of at least ten aquatic draconids examining her edible properties from near the water’s edge.
The missile boat lay just about at the high tide mark. Move! Throwing out a metal rope, she looped it Whisper-quick around a nearby rock and activated the self-welding Mage-tie.
Then, she unceremoniously fled for her life.
Snapping fangs and irritable hisses accompanied her departure, with all alacrity, from the beach. Whisper leaped for the rock face above, dug in with her talons, and was forced to walk an almost upside-down gauntlet above the eagerly leaping, bony black draconids as they tried to sample her haunches and quivering tail. A slip of her hind paw almost tossed her to the waiting fangs, but Whisper arched her body and fired a neurotoxic dart into the mass. The moment the draconid convulsed, the others swarmed in a snapping maul of fangs and talons.
What love did the Dragonkind spare for each other?
Not fifty feet higher up, Whisper spied her next test, a swarm of poisonous yellow drakkids that skittered across the acid-bitten rocks toward her. She outpaced them with some dangerously rapid climbing that took her up and around a shendite overhang that jutted above the lapping seawater. Four or five yellow bodies plopped into the waves, and were consumed within seconds by a ravaging school of acid toothfish.
I am not tasty!
Well, that went without saying. She was a choleric Whisper that would curdle the innards of any Dragonkind that dared to try to sample her flesh. She kicked one last drakkid in the teeth. The foot-long lizard dropped into the water. Boiling. Gone.
Whisper bit her lip, but none too hard. Right. Time to map a trail to the top. A nice little nine-mile climb through prime Wyvern nesting territory would be followed by the likely skirmish with the Warlock’s troops – unless she climbed even higher, and jumped down amongst the frisky, trigger-happy Azar army. Aye, sensible plan. Definitely the one for her.
The magic squeezed irresistibly at her temples. She must keep moving. Whisper touched the sirrubiflower sticks tucked into her wristlets, meant to be her protection against Wyverns – Mage Shivura had better be right about that – and settled the miniature crossbow on her back. Gemmini would appreciate this latest application of her flechettes.
Climb, Whisper. Climb!
Chapter 21: To Hear a Whisper
FOUR MILES UP the cliff was a perfect time for dawn to break. Thankfully, age-yellowed tranbis-vine covered this section in massive, tangled layers, which happened to be perfect planning on the part of a certain furry creature who would rather her fur-style did not take a further lurch toward the macabre. She raced up the foot-thick anchoring vines, moving confidently through the tangled mass. Unfortunately, in another two and a half miles this thicket would come to an end and she would have the singular distinction of attempting to stay out of sight of Wyverns and Dragons alike, in broad daylight, as she climbed a further four and three-quarter miles up to the outcropping of semiorite and grey tihoriabite, which overlooked a battle that appeared to be brewing up an encouraging volume of smoke. Hopefully, the Warlock was getting his grey chops kicked up there by Xola and her cohorts. There was a constant flow of troops underneath the bridge, despite the flare of sunstrike now rendering the topside of that span impassable – relatively so. She grinned.
Whisper panted heavily with the effort of constant vertical running and climbing. All too soon, she reached the end of the cover. A couple of final trailing vines brought her to right into the midst of an enormous area of narrow ledges and cracks that supported a teeming population of aggressive, bite-first-ask-questions-later Tamarind Wyverns.
Therefore, she armed her crossbow with flowers.
Taking careful aim as far down the cliff as she thought viable, given allowances for angles, power and the whistling wind, she whispered, “Alright, Mage Shivura. Let’s see you earn a bigger dungeon – I mean, laboratory.”
Her fangs flashed in the briefest of grins. Click.
A wink of metal flashed down the cliff.
Whisper missed the mother Wyvern, but judging by the screeching, struck something in that nest. Eight seconds to mayhem. Seven, six … she counted down silently. One … zero.
The mother Wyvern glanced about furiously, up and down the cliff, her fangs bared.
No sign of – oh! A strange rippling of beasts seemed to run across the nests and roosting places downwind of the site she had shot. Wings stretched. Mouths opened as tongues tasted the wind. Then, as if Shivura had pressed the switch on one of his dubious pieces of equipment as he tortured certain helpless Whisper-creatures, the Wyverns attacked that nest in a screeching, howling mass. In seconds, a hundred Dragonkind were embroiled in a sprawling fracas. In ten seconds, the fighting had spread five hundred feet in every direction. Twenty, and the dead were tumbling and bouncing down the cliff in gratifying numbers.
&
nbsp; Whisper crowed in delight. “Mage Shivura, for that, I might even consider kissing you.”
Ugh. On second thoughts, there were limits to what she would do for Arbor!
Shivura had avowed the Wyverns would mistake the subtly modified flower-scent for fresh urine. What that had to do with draconic behaviour, he claimed, was a matter of science. Arming another dart, Whisper tried a shot further afield, down and to her right paw.
Strike! The wind puffed the flechette outward, and a flying Wyvern did the rest.
Not stopping to ask any questions, Whisper climbed rapidly, threading her way across ledges, dodging garnet, aquamarine and quartzite crystal formations, and running up or along the ledges where she could. She camouflaged as lightly as she could, experimenting with the magic to try to ensure she did not run out, but after she was spotted for the third time in quick succession, she gave up and tried to blend in completely. Up. Up! Away from the brawl that was spreading faster than she could climb.
Finally, she ascended to the level of the bridge and had her first sight of the battle. Dragons and soldiers held the fortifications against an as-yet-unseen Azarinthe advance, but something was booming away at the wall from the other side, raising puffs of dust and smoke, and shaking the cliff to which she clung. Warlock Sanfuri’s soldiers mostly wielded bows from the top of the battlements and the cliffs, or hurled small Mage-bombs and Warlocks’ devices at the Men of Grey. She checked the soldiers very carefully indeed. No Sanfuri. Could it have been a trick? They just did not know if a Warlock and his familiar could be separated very far. She was one hundred percent convinced that she had seen Ignothax toward the rear of the force attacking Rhyme and Ammox’s defences, and the Arborite leaders concurred. They expected Sanfuri at the rear – but what if his Dragons were indeed functioning as air transport? Was that even possible?
Whisper looked back across the bridge. That fortification was complete. She could not see Drex’s force just around the corner, but the battle there was also a violent affair, evidenced by blue smoke drifting off the cliff’s edge, and the frenetic activity of the Warlock’s soldiers.
Closer, she observed his troops, taking mental notes as both Rhyme and Xan had ordered. They were mostly Reds and Greens, with a scattering of Men of Yellow, White and even Blue Arborite traitors. One fellow was as gold as a freshly-poured ingot, while there were many variations on the basic Human colour schemes, some new to her knowledge. Working magical and mechanical siege engines, she saw hordes of thickly bearded Men who had to stand barely four feet tall, dressed in white suits with the most fantastical profusion of pockets and tools she had ever seen. Engineers? They had the most oddly rolling walk, as though their hips were jointed in inexplicable ways. Six-fingered, pot-bellied Dwarves of the deep caverns, her memories said. Not Human at all – and don’t call them pot-bellied!
Chuckling at the strident note of warning in her memories, Whisper continued climbing. Some Whisper must have learned that the hard way.
Half an hour of careful climbing brought her to the level of the balconies overlooking what Ammox had called the ‘split-away’, the trail leading away from the canyon toward Arbor. Now she had a good view of both sides of the bridge. The numbers of Warlock Sanfuri’s forces on the far side had been considerably reduced, she noticed, frowning. Where had they all disappeared to? Both Drex and Xan fought against what were essentially skeleton forces either side of the canyon. Were the missing troops and dragons preparing an ambush for the Azar? If there was one, she could not identify anything out of the ordinary.
She eyed the Wyverns circling above speculatively. Opportunity? Aye. The Dragonkind were partial to fresh meat. She should be kind and feed the dumb animals.
Arming a paralytic flechette with her last sirrubiflower stick, Whisper took careful aim across the narrow crack. Below, the heavily armoured Azar forces worked a massive battering ram. As she watched, it rolled forward steadily. BOOM! The wall shook. There was Queen Xola, further back, battling a Gold-Red Dragon blow for blow. Her fists flamed blue, extending as Mage-fists twenty feet above her head as she pounded the Dragon with a series of fisticuffs about the earholes.
Decent talent, that Queen.
Whisper selected her target with care. That would be the Warlock’s archer with the largest backside on the balcony opposite. Twang! The metal-cable bowstring sang out as the arms snapped back into the resting position. The man screeched and leaped into the air, clutching his wound with both hands and incidentally, attracting the attention of all the nearby Wyverns. Then, his eyes rolled up and he slumped. Paralysed. The collapse brought a few enterprising Dragonkind within striking range as their predatory instincts responded to the apparent distress of an animal. Nostrils flared.
Whisper counted down in her mind.
GRRAAARRGGH!!
Every man and Dragon in that defile looked up in shock as two dozen Tamarind Wyverns attacked mercilessly, routing and destroying the Warlock’s troops in seconds.
Whisper blew them a kiss. “Shivura’s compliments, boys.”
Then, she leaped.
A couple of speculative arrows homed in on her flying form, but the sight of men being ripped apart by wild Dragonkind was exactly the distraction she had hoped for. With a flare and a cheeky wave, she swooped down behind Xola, firing a neurotoxin dart-spray at the Gold-Red Dragon during her approach. The Dragon scratched its ear and strangely, retreated. Whisper stared. Odd behaviour.
Xola unclenched her clawed hands, letting their blue mana sheaths gutter and fade. “Whisper. Should have known you’d have something to do with that.”
“Me?” she inquired innocently.
“You furry little troublemaker!”
With a disdainful strut, Whisper sniffed, “Your spurious accusations insult me, o Queen.”
“Blatant falsehoods make me itch,” she returned. “Come on. My brother demands the pleasure of your dubious company. Good work, Whisper. You crossed the bridge again?”
“No. I swam the Mirror.”
Whisper had the great pleasure of making the Grey Queen’s jaw sag ajar like a rusty hinge.
* * * *
At the end of her briefing, King Xan rubbed his temples. “Well, that muddies the waters. The motivational vectors show that the Arborite King could be the traitor, but now a much closer second in the probability hierarchy is that he was duped by the traitor – as you rightly pointed out. Outright poisoning comes a distant fourth, after some trickery on the Warlock’s part. I’m curious about your interpretation of Yessimy’s actions. Specifically, the ring-rubbing.”
“Me too,” said Xola. “You say she genuinely loves the King?”
Whisper said, “As best I can tell, she’s the perfect, devoted family servant. If she is poisoning him, I’ve found no trace of it anywhere. Not even in her own food or sweat or … uh, bodily fluids and excretion.”
Xola’s eyebrows peaked. “You were thorough.”
“I swim in chamber pots for the greater glory of Arbor, milady.”
Apparently this was cringe worthy rather than funny.
Xan said, “Another problem. Warlock Sanfuri was definitely here. He promised – in his usual arrogant brutish way, with some memorable similes – to take Xola to wife after the battle.”
The Queen’s jaw muscles clenched.
The King added, “With your permission, sister?” She waved a hand angrily, chewing away at the inside of her lip. “Very well. Briefly, Sanfuri was Xola’s mentor in the magical arts before he turned rogue. He convinced her to take part in a magical experiment that fixed her Element-orientation on mana.”
Now, it was Whisper’s turn to gulp, mouth agape in shock.
“A botched experiment,” Xola said softly. “As I’ve learned since, to my cost, Draco-Mages are the masters of the Element of mana. Humans are not. Sanfuri sought to fuse my powers with those of a Dragon – which I did not know at the time – to create a super-powered Element Enchantress. What he achieved was to corrupt my powers. I have prec
ious little control of the mana. There is no recourse or return for an Element Enchantress damaged as I have been. I have mana, I can’t control it, and without the greatest self-discipline I’m a terrible danger to everyone around me. I … explode things.”
Xan clasped her shoulder. “Never lose hope.”
Xola had loved him, or at least, idolised her mentor, Whisper realised, moved by the pain in the young woman’s voice as she sat on a stool in Xan’s tent, twisting her hands in her lap. The truth had devastated her. This was the reason for her hatred of Sanfuri, and rightly so. Unless …
“No recourse?” Whisper asked.
“No.” Brother and sister shook their heads.
“Unless you could find a Draco-Mage willing to teach you.”
“Superb idea,” Xan enthused.
“You’ve one in your pocket?” Xola asked caustically, then appeared to flinch as Whisper took her hands. “And the proverbial drakkid in the soup is that they’re all dead or gone – what are you doing? Whisper!”
Whisper sniffed the Queen’s fingers.
“Get off!” she snarled, but did not whip her hands away.
“You smell magical. What are the normal components of sweat?” she asked. Yessimy did not appear stressed or fearful when she held the King’s hand, but still, there was a nuance here that she had not isolated before, a miniscule chemical component …
Xan said, “Water, urea, lactic acid and trace minerals such as magnesium, potassium, sodium and calcium, and then trace metals such as copper or zinc. It may depend on diet. Proteins, odours … the Reds love onions, for example. That’s the reason for the odour you noticed around Shivura. Back to Yessimy. You noticed nothing … unusual, at all?”