by D. A. Metrov
Now that it was light out, she was mending Mitor’s torn wing. Not an easy task in the rocking boat. She saw a tall jagged stone off her port bow. She shoved her foot against the tiller to avoid hitting it.
“Be still, Mitor.” The nervous robot had helped her scoop water from the leaky hull throughout the night, and it was quickly filling again. “I want you mended before we reach Cape Kragmaur where we shall both require our full capabilities.”
“Understood, Master Bill,” Mitor said, the words rising clickety-clackety up his throat.
“I’m not sure you do. Nor would I expect you to. You’ve probably spent your entire life laboring inside the mountains. How could you know the history of this coastline?”
“I have been catalogued with information, Master.”
“Catalogued?”
“I am unable to explain.”
“And why not?”
“The terminology lacks sufficient reference to your world, Master.”
Bill hesitated to admit she had no idea what the machine meant. “Do you know how many frigates and cargo ships have met their ends trying to round the cape?” Her brow furrowed deeper with worry. “It’s a rocky point more dangerous than an army of ogres.” She was amused by herself, speaking in such melodramatic fashion.
“497 to date,” said Mitor. “According to records maintained by the former Seer of Buer.”
Lizard Bill raised her eyebrows, not only surprised by Mitor’s knowledge, but also wondering why the machine had used the word “former.”
“I am water-proof, Master. I am able to paddle if—” Mitor’s voice stopped in mid-sentence. Lizard Bill poked him, but he didn’t respond. She shook him by the shoulders. Still he wouldn’t flinch or blink his telescopic eyes. She was flummoxed. At the same time she realized she’d genderized the machine as a “he” based on no particular evidence.
Her wing stitches were almost done, but not quite. She decided they would hold for now. She set down her needle and took note of the water level rising in the hull. The wind was brisk enough and their sail full, so they were not in immediate danger of sinking. The little steam engine, an ingenious device common to all Valkyrian vessels, ran on sea water boiled by a wheal-cell generator.
Keeping her foot on the tiller, she began to turn the wooden robot this way and that. She examined its parts and gears and wondrous intricacies. It was her device, after all. She should know how it worked. She was surprised by how many details she noticed for the first time. In particular, the hand-crank folded neatly into its chest.
“What’s this?” She jammed her fingers around the crank handle and unfolded it from its housing. Curious, she gave it a turn. She stood up to gain more leverage. She had to put her entire body into it. As she did, she realized its rotations were causing countless other gears and wheels and pulleys to turn inside the robot’s torso. Those, in turn, were tightening steel springs and copper coils. What she could not see were the flint sparks that fired up the wheal cells that created the steam that drove the robot’s tiny motors. She turned and turned, round and round, motivated by the water that was now up around her calves.
Zhhwinnggg! Mitor’s head snapped back, spun a full turn, and sent out blasts of steam.
“Thank you, Master.” And with that, he returned to bailing water from the hull. “As I was saying, I am waterproof and capable of paddling. As long as I am fully powered, that is. A flaw in my design, I would say.”
“Flaw?” Bill leaned into the tiller to avoid another rock. Mitor did not answer. Instead, a flock of gulls cried out overhead. The birds dipped and danced in the air, wondering if the tiny craft might be a source of morning tidbits. Or were those warning cries?
Bill noticed several of her lizards were perched around the bulwarks staring at her. She knew that look in their eyes. It was definitely foreboding. She’d learned to communicate with her creatures that way, mind to mind, as if they were extensions of herself. The warnings suggested her concerns about Cape Kragmaur were insufficient.
My goodness, she thought. How afraid should I be? Well, this is nonsense. I refuse to be afraid of something that has not yet occurred, remembering what her mother had taught her as a little girl.
And with that, she set her jaw and fought to keep her knees from trembling. She gazed ahead at the large stony points that loomed ahead in the mist. Like hammer-wielding giants, waves crashing at their ankles, they were ready to bash her vessel into splinters.
Thankfully, Bill could not see the Lizard King and his entourage watching her from a nearby cliff. He was watching and wondering if she, too, might be demolished like so many of the 497 wrecks they’d witnessed with their own eyes. Thankfully, she could not see the worry on the old reptile’s face. His visage was tough like those of his billion-year-old predecessors who had quaked the earth with their very gaits. His was a face etched with eons of struggle and violence in the fight to survive. His boney brows had been desensitized by too much death and bloodshed. Worry was normally a stranger to his eyes, but not now. Lizard Bill was his favorite human. Being the guardian of his kind, he practically considered her kin. And she was heading for certain death.
Brighton and Handower soared eastward along Perpetua’s Southern Coast. Brighton had finally stopped thinking about the battle scene he’d witnessed at Valkyrie. The carnage had been too reminiscent of his father’s murder. It felt too much like his own troubled mind. Instead, he marveled at the towering peaks that stood like citadels forming Perpetua’s backbone. It made him recall the men who’d first come to explore this foreboding coastline. Men brought to life by his father’s stories:
“Those who became Falcon Riders arrived on the Lost Isle by way of phantom winds that had blown their frigates off course,” his father had told him in his story-telling voice. “It was nearly a century ago. They discovered the magnificent Magradores that bred on the mountain peaks. It was written in the captain’s journal: ‘These mighty birds stand fifteen feet in height with a wingspan of fifty. They are fierce in temperament, and thrive on goats, cliff trolls, and giant sea pike.’
“The strongest of the explorers were ordered to stay behind to capture and train the birds for our king. The trio of ships that had brought them to the island were to return in one year to retrieve the trainers and their new mounts.
“It never came to be. The frigates couldn’t find their way back to this uncharted kingdom. The handful of men who’d been left behind was on its own for quite some time. They’d built the small settlement at Drakton, in the shadow of the old Temple of the Mountain Gods.
“The castaways had been hearty men,” his father used to boast. “Men of integrity and noble spirit. Eventually they became not only masters of the Magradore falcons, but Sky Sheriffs serving the commoners who lived scattered about the island.
“After decades, because of a scarcity of women, I became the last Sky Sheriff. As you know, our family is all that’s left at Drakton save for the sea birds and the crabs. You, son, are the only hope of continuing the line.”
How often had Brighton heard that? The only hope. What does it mean now? He’d drifted into another realm too worrisome to think about. He breathed in the smell of his bird. What lineage I come from—the first men to train and ride these magnificent birds. But stranded in this lost land. Is it a blessing or a curse? Right this moment, it’s a blessing. Handower is special, and he’s the closest thing to a companion I may ever know. Look how he flies. With flawless skill, even at his young age.
The falcon knew instinctively where to hold his flight path so he would benefit from the updrafts that arrived from the open waters.
All the birds of the island knew these drafts. And what time of day they were strongest. And which direction they favored, depending on the phases of the moon. The smaller hawks and kites spent hours hanging, wings outstretched, virtually motionless in those magical realms. The technique allowed them to scan the rocks below for prey—ground squirrels, lizards, mice, and snakes. It was the most effort
less form of flying.
Brighton checked the Teidalbaden. Of course, Lord Aviamore had never gotten around to teaching him exactly how the thing worked. He’d had to figure it out on his own, mostly by trial and error. The altitude meter was easy enough to understand. A quick glance told him how many leapspans he was above sea level. It had taken him awhile longer to realize that the air pressure meter could predict weather like an approaching storm or a hot, sunny day or even unseasonal winds. The three-dimensional compass told him not only whether he was going east, west, north, or south, but also if he were heading up or down. The latter was important especially for cloud or night flight. The wireless telegraph was the part of the Teidalbaden he understood the least, mostly because there was no one to telegraph. Not that he knew of anyway.
Numbers look fine for now, he told himself. He felt the sun on his face and the gentle flutter of his hair rippling back over his head. As much as he’d resisted the notion of traveling to Drakton, he now began to think he’d over-reacted. Perhaps the trip along the coast would not be so perilous after all. Even this time of year. Even flying round the dread Cape Kragmaur that was known for its unexpected outbursts of fury and rage.
But he wasn’t going to Drakton, was he? He was only out here to find Lizard Bill and make sure she return home safely.
Is she mental? Trying to navigate Perpetua’s coastline? It certainly isn’t bravery. Will she return without a fight? Will she insist on continuing east once I find her? Should I force her to come back to Meland with me? Will she sit behind me on Handower’s back and hold me tight? Will I feel her long hair whipping around my face and chin? Will I smell her smells?
He was already drugged with these fantasies. Lulled into an altered state driven by his imagination and those mysterious ambrosias coursing through his body. His mind fell into a vortex then, some hidden pocket of feelings in his psyche. It was a place that felt warm and… can’t go there. Too strange. Too… pleasurable.
“Lovely day, is it not, Handower?” He closed his eyes and a broad smile widened beneath his nose. He felt the gentle rise and fall of Handower’s frame. He listened to the subtle sounds of air rushing through countless feathers. He marveled at the minutia of constant, tiny adjustments the bird made in order to stay in the heart of the wind stream.
He dared to admire the skill of his Magradore and even to feel a fondness for him. Maybe we should go to Drakton. Maybe the trip would be easy. Perhaps even fun. When was the last time they’d had any fun together anyway?
And just as Brighton was about to surrender to complete reverie, Handower erupted with a mighty screech. It was for no particular reason other than to remind his rider he was still not fully tamed. Still not humbled. Still of mind to do whatever he chose at any given moment.
And before Brighton could open his eyes, the great bird spun in mid-air. Like a fire rocket on New Year ’s Eve, the giant falcon tucked his wings, banked toward the sea, and spiraled three times. Because of his years of experience, Brighton’s knees instinctively tightened. His heels dug into Handower’s ribs. He hung on with all his might while trying to steady his breath. It happened in an instant that seemed to have a lifetime of its own. Damn!
In that time, Brighton felt the blood drain from his face. He was white as a sheet by the time Handower soared upward and righted himself again.
“Steady, Handower. Steady, boy.”
Brighton peered up ahead again, at the deep forests that blanketed the mountainsides. And the coastline that wiggled eastward, marred with hundreds of little inlets and coves and outcrops of solid rock. He studied the constant dazzle of whitewater, appearing and disappearing as a result of the breathing sea and her crashing waves. Back and forth, in and out—noiseless at this height. Should he ever end up down there, he’d be tossed about like so much seaweed. Ground into food for the crustaceans that would eat anything that came their way.
Where is that idiot, Bill? And what of my so-called collaborators? He turned his head landward. He scanned the rims of the foothills. And the treetops. And the higher mountain ridges, each one separated by a denser layer of mist. Sfumato. That’s what his father had called it, dubbed so by the Great Leonardo.
For Pello and Biffee, their race had begun. They, too, were invigorated by the warm sunshine as well as the grassy meadowlands that still shimmered in autumn light. With the glee of their youth, they ran and leapt, bounding from boulder to boulder. They flew over gullies, and galloped this way and that with no particular reason for doing so. Their shouts and laughter were a welcome relief from the war they’d left behind.
There was a pathway, although invisible to most, all around the island. It lay between the tall, craggy peaks of the high country and the sheer, steep cliffs that held the ocean at bay. All monkrats were familiar with the route. It was dangerous, but the only overland method of traversing the island. There was no specific trail, just a kind of corridor available for those who knew how to see it. It was no easier to travel over Perpetua than it would be for a snail to cross the back of a porcupine. Such was the nature of the island’s jagged mountains and ravines.
For a monkrat this was home. This was the place they loved and cherished. It was theirs, mostly anyway, and they knew enough to appreciate it despite its unkind terrain.
And so Pello and Biffee raced each other as they’d done four times in the past. And even though they conversed in jovial manner along the way, it was no secret to either of them that the other was plotting ways to win the race.
“He wonders if the puffins have left for the South?” shouted Biffee, gasping for breath.
“Long gone, he’s sure.” Pello sprang more than a leapspan through the air onto the next stone, which would act as launching pad across the deep crevasse that lay ahead.
They ran crazy. Crazy wild. As if using all the tensions built up in the last few years, fighting to propel them forward. Ah, how good it felt. To be free like this. Free as zephyrs. That’s what the war was about, wasn’t it? To ensure this freedom?
“With any luck, they’ll make it to Drakton before the first freeze,” Biffee squealed, feeling the earth and pebbles flying out from under his leathery paws. “After that, going will be slower, for sure.”
“And once they reach Drakton, there’s still the climb to the old temple. He wonders if it’s still visible from the plateau? It was crumbling to pieces last time they saw it.”
On their previous trips east, Pello and Biffee had spent their time restricted to the lowland ridge, not far from where the Aviamore family once had their home. But the brothers never visited the Aviamores because the Aviamores were already gone by the time the two monkrats were old enough to be off on their own. The monkrats never dared go near the old, abandoned house because there were whispers that the dark-souled Lady Aviamore had secretly returned. That she’d become a witch. And would put a spell on anyone thoughtless enough to trespass her property.
The brothers had certainly never considered climbing up to the forbidden Temple. The Seer of Buer who’d taken possession of that place was known to hurl lightning bolts at intruders—shafts of pure hellfire that could reach out to sea and pulverize full-sized frigates. Consulting the Seer required skill and courage, even for those accustomed to audiences with kings.
“He didn’t bring a scope, did he?” Biffee asked, feeling the small telescope he had hidden in his belly pouch along with a pint of loose redberries.
“Drats, forgotten it is.” Though concerned, Pello refused to break pace.
“No worries. Once the race has been decided they shall consult the Seer. Then return to Valkyrie with the knowledge required to win the war. They’ll be heroes, they will!” Biffee smiled to himself, knowing the scope would give him decided advantage over Pello. Distracted by his own mischievous thoughts, he veered too near the edge of the cliff. He lost his footing, and sailed off into the wild blue yonder.
Pello may have been terrameters ahead before he even realized what had happened if not for Biffee’s cr
y. He spun around and scampered to the edge of the cliff. Looking down over the side, he saw Biffee hanging by his paws and the surf exploding on the rocks far below.
“Biff,” Pello said, in the most manner-of-fact manner.
“Yes, brother?” Biffee remained calm as he could, knowing he could maintain his hold on the rock ledge only a moment or two longer.
“Why’s he acting like a witless ninnybob? In the middle of a race and all. Just taking a breather is he?” Pello kept a perfectly straight face.
“If that’s supposed to be a joke, he’s not amused.” Biffee hid the terror in his voice. “If he’s not going to lend a paw, then leave him to spend his last moments in peace and retrospection.”
Pello stared at him for the longest time. “What’s the fun of running a race if there’s no one to run against?” He reached out and clawed his brother by the forearm. They both strained and struggled to get Biffee back on safe ground. They lay on their backs then, staring up at the sky, lungs heaving, eyes filled with relief.
“Thanks, mate,” Biffee gasped.
“Not a problem.”
They lay there a few moments longer, breathing in the crisp ocean air and enjoying the brilliance of the overhead clouds. They gave each other a sideways glance, then bolted to their feet and galloped off again, screaming with abandon.
It was sunset. Brighton and Handower were gliding off the coast, still terrameters behind Pello and Biffee. Brighton was thinking about resting for the night. But they’d have to find a safe ledge. There weren’t many. Not on the whole of Perpetua. Not large enough for a Magradore and rider. Besides, how could they afford to rest when Lizard Bill was down there somewhere, heading ever closer to Cape Kragmaur?
He scanned the deep blue waters below, straining to see anything resembling a steamboat dinghy. From this height, it would look like nothing more than a cork bobbing in the sea.