by D. A. Metrov
He marveled at great caverns where stalactites and stalagmites glimmered in the dull light as if they were teeth belonging to the mountain itself. And the whole while he moved, his mind was exploring a new world of its own.
This place is so incredible. So much a part of Perpetua’s beauty. Who has the right to come here and just take what they please? To carve away the soil? The very flesh of the island. To pulverize it, melt it in pots, and package it for sale? Someone’s got to stop it.
Who else was here but him and two monkrats? What could they do? What would his father do?
“If your father were alive,” Biffee said,“he would take swift action.”
“Very swift action,” added Pello.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to take action.” Brighton kept moving. He didn’t know what action he was going to take yet, but he did know he had to do something. He led the monkrats down tunnel after tunnel. At times they would stop and listen to the strange echoes of demons moving about in the darkness. Gorpes running, charging, shouting. Filled with some mad, driving force that had no rational explanation.
Brighton lost track of time. He’d become hypnotized by the discovery of a termite-like empire that was both astounding and dreadful. And the whole while, Brighton imagined his father, Lord Aviamore, Sky Sheriff of the island, down here assessing the situation. And planning his response. Perhaps he’d summon a ghost army of ancestral Falcon Riders to return here from the dead and join him in battle. An army of sheriffs to crush whoever was behind this terrible savaging of the lost isle. He was faced with a question he’d never before imagined. He wondered if he could fill Vada’s shoes.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, they began to hear rumblings again. Rumblings and thunder from the blasting teams busy disemboweling the heart of Perpetua.
The ground trembling beneath their feet, they came to the end of a tunnel. A hole in the wall, the size of a fist, loomed before them, a dim light coming from the other side. Brighton peered through and could see only vague glimpses of mining activities on the other side—abstract flashes of gorpes and robots and steaming equipment. But he couldn’t stay there long because the toxic air coming through the hole stung his eyes and made him gag. He turned around and slumped to the ground. Pello and Biffee took turns peeking through the hole. They, too, grew ill.
“Something criminal in there,” Pello gasped, as he and Biffee crouched next to Brighton.
“Work of devils,” Biffee said, then proceeded to vomit uncontrollably. He crouched over and dry-heaved until there was nothing left in his belly. Pello could do nothing to help him but keep a paw on his back.
Brighton felt his eyes watering, and the strength leaving his limbs. “They’re going to destroy Perpetua if we don’t stop them.” To him, the words he spoke felt like a summons to his very soul. A summons that announced to him, for the first time in his life, a greater purpose for his being. Purpose beyond just looking after himself. Purpose that would draw his ultimate potential from the core of his being. He realized, in order to truly become a man, he must allow it to manifest. He knew, at that moment, he’d have to do something he’d never done before. Something grown up and courageous. Something that would make his father proud. Something that would earn Bill’s love. At the same time, he knew it would terrify him to the bone.
He looked at Pello and Biffee. He knew, they, too were to be part of a destiny. He knew if they did something to disrupt this mining operation and affect the outcome of the war, they might become legends. Whether or not they would live to hear their own story was another matter all together.
Brighton felt a massive explosion. So powerful, he had to catch his balance. He looked around and saw it was shaking the entire mountain. A deluge of dirt and rock fell from the ceiling, nearly crushing him and the monkrats to the ground. They stumbled away, back into the darkness. And just in time. Another, even greater explosion, brought down the whole tunnel where they’d just been sitting.
Had they been able to stay until the dust cleared, they would have seen the gorpe blasting team charge in to assess their work. And out beyond them, Gretch and Malgor, and a squadron of bat flyers circling the great smelting chamber in preparation for their hunt. The pair struck fear into the hearts of the miners who watched them from the corners of their eyes. Even the bat-mounted gorpe warriors who followed in their wake were apprehensive. They were ready to do the troll’s bidding, though, in secret, they dreaded the unpredictable nature of their foul-smelling commander.
Gretch had a blank look in his beady, red eyes. He’d already made up his mind he’d soon be carrying the bloodied head of Brighton Aviamore in a sack tied to his waist. He could see himself presenting the messy prize and the prisoner, Handower, to his liege, Seigneur Dredgemont. He imagined himself claiming the kettle of gold.
Gretch and Malgor soared past the dust and smoke oozing from the mouth of the newly blasted tunnel.
I smell human. Malgor’s thought reached Gretch’s mind. Gretch peered into the smoky cavity as they flew by.
Men from the shipping ports. Gretch’s answer was telepathic as well.
Here! Malgor insisted. The scent of Brighton Aviamore, Second Assistant Game Warden. I remember. From the Islet of Meland.
Gretch knew Malgor would not be so insistent if he were not sure. Could it be possible? Brighton, the son of Lord Aviamore whose death I caused so many years ago, right here under my nose? The thought enraged Gretch on all levels of his being.
“Find him!” Gretch drove the backs of his spiky hooves into Malgor’s ribs. Malgor squealed and pumped his wings with greater fervor, following the scent that burned in his nostrils. He and the squadron of killers banked sharply and entered the newly opened tunnel. Like hunting dogs, the fiends were onto Brighton, Pello, and Biffee. Nothing would deter them now.
The blasting team heard Malgor coming from behind. They dove to their bellies and covered the back of their heads. After the rush of smelly wind passed overhead, the devils got back up, and planted more dynamite.
Malgor was able to follow the scent of his prey all the way to the great stalactite cavern. But he lost it there in the vortex of updrafts from the earth’s molten core. Updrafts that mixed with the icy meltwaters of the mountain peaks above. The result was a confusion of vapors that confounded the bat’s normally keen sense of smell.
Malgor circled around, up and down, trying to determine which route Brighton had taken. It allowed the young man and the monkrats to make their getaway. Gretch grew so furious he beat Malgor’s hide, drawing the monster’s blood, making him even more desperate to find his victims.
Brighton, Pello, and Biffee made it back to the shipping port.
“They needs to head back to Valkyrie,” Biffee whispered. Brighton could tell the monkrats were anxious to return home.
“They’ll race him back!” Pello said looking like he’d just announced the most brilliant and fun idea imaginable.
Brighton ignored them. He hurried on toward the docks.
He scurried to a mountain of pallets, and crouched there, studying the gorpes, robots, and airmen. Pello and Biffee came up next to him. Finally he spoke.
“I’ve decided. We’re going to steal an airship.”
Chapter Twenty
AN ACT OF MADNESS
Brighton’s eyes were fierce as Handower’s as they peered out toward the loading docks and the dirigibles being weighted down with wheal.
“Come again?” Pello said.
“We’ll fly it into the heart of this operation and blow it all to kingdom come.” And with that Brighton stole away, ducking in and out of the shadows, making his way closer to the docks. He hid behind a mountain of wheal sacks, watching the workers at a nearby airship.
“He’s gone completely mad, has he?” Biffee said, scuffling up behind him.
“What does he know about flying an airship?” Pello gasped.
“Or stealing one, for that matter?”
“Not to mention surviving a blas
t to kingdom come!”
“We have to put a stop to this,” Brighton said, studying the work patterns of the airmen. He turned to the monkrats. “Look, if you want out, now’s the time. You can head back to Valkyrie. No hard feelings.”
The brothers looked at each other, then back at Brighton. Their answer was apparent in their eyes.
Brighton grinned. “We’ll bail out before impact.” He stole away again feeling a bit crazy inside. He glanced back at the monkrats and read their minds as they stared at him, petrified. Bail out before impact? He wondered if they would follow as he kept on. Finally, they scampered after him.
Brighton hid behind the foreman’s shack that stood near one of the loading portals. He peered inside its tiny window. By the light of the kerosene lamp burning inside he could see it was empty. He slipped around the corner and went inside. Pello and Biffee followed him.
Brighton tore through a mess of items—dirty, smudged paperwork; hand tools; a half-eaten sausage. Anything of value here? Maybe something to disguise myself. He found a shirt, soiled from labor and sweat, and wrapped it around his head like a turban. It was a custom typical of the workers. He saw that Pello and Biffee were watching him with slack jaws. He peered back out the doorway.
“You two hide in that transporter.” Brighton nodded to a nearby empty push cart. “I’m going to act like a dock worker, and get us aboard the ship.”
Pello and Biffee answered at once, “Right.”
And with that, they dashed out to the cart. Pello and Biffee jumped inside and hid themselves beneath a pile of empty ore sacks. Without missing a beat, Brighton pushed it toward the behemoth airship hovering next to the loading dock. He merged with the laborers coming in and out of the ship’s hull. The workers were so tired and weary from their nocturnal labors, they took no special notice of him.
The roar of the dirigible’s idling engines grew louder as Brighton approached the dock’s edge. The ship rose and fell ever so slightly like a frigate moored in harbor. He pushed the cart through the loading portal leading to the ship’s cargo hold. Brighton grew cocky. This is not such a big deal. It’s going to be easy. Maybe even fun.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The gruff voice came out of nowhere. Brighton turned and saw the hulking dock foreman glaring at him from between the stacks of pallets. He held a ledger in his pudgy hand and a scowl on his unshaven jaw. “We’re loading, not unloading,” the brute went on, nodding at the empty cart. “Your head coming unscrewed, boy?”
“One of the men said there’s been a spill,” Brighton said, wondering if he could lie his way through this. “Inside, near the bridge.”
The foreman glared at him. “I ain’t heard nothin’.”
“Just happened.” Brighton immediately felt his ruse might work. Keep it up. He’s going for it. “Captain’s furious, mate. Need to clean it up before heads fly.”
He pushed the cart away, turning his back to the foreman. He felt his heart pounding. Having lived a life of solitude for so long, apart from the affairs of men, he’d never done anything like what he was doing now. Sure, he’d visited Valkyrie a few dozen times since moving to Meland. He’d experienced the bustle of the village square and the busy marketplace. But the folks of Valkyrie were sociable and peace-loving. Here he was among humans for the first time since his father died and his mother disappeared. And not just ordinary humans, but rough and tumble dock workers and airmen. He knew these were the kind of men who’d be ready for a knife brawl at the drop of a hat. He could hardly believe he was doing what he was doing—stealing aboard an airship disguised as a worker. To commandeer the craft, no less. It’s going to work. It’s really going to work.
The foreman, looking annoyed that he hadn’t been informed of the mishap, marched after him. Just then several workers pushing full carts entered the hull and had to be directed. The foreman stared at Brighton, then turned to the approaching workers. “Follow me,” he barked, then led them the other way to unload their wheal.
Pello and Biffee popped up from the under the smelly sacks, and peeked up over the side of the cart.
“Stay down!” Brighton said.
“Can’t breathe in there!” Biffee grimaced. Pello sneezed. Biffee pushed him back down to muffle the noise.
Brighton, of course, had never been inside an airship. He had no idea where he was, let alone the location of the bridge. But he’d learned enough about frigates from Vada’s books to figure the layout would have to be similar. The only difference being the bridge or wheelhouse would be on the bottom instead of the top. He leaned into the cart, and pushed it as fast as he could. There was no time to think, he told himself, only for action.
He saw an open space ahead, surrounded by a railing. It had a spiral stairway that led down into a lower room. Must be it. He pushed the cart aside and let it ram into a nearby pallet of wheal. Pello and Biffee toppled from the impact.
“Come on!” Brighton shouted. He leapt down the stairway, at the same time readying his dagger in his fist. After some banging about, he quickly found himself sprawled out on the floor of the bridge. He struggled to regain his breath. He was about to pick himself up, when Pello and Biffee landed on top of him.
“Get off me!” he yelped in pain and frustration.
The trio righted themselves. Brighton looked up and saw the bleary-eyed captain of the airship. The man was staring at them with an open mouth from his stool near the steering wheel.
Brighton saw the jug drop from his hand. It hit the floor. Its contents spilled around the captain’s feet. Brighton saw the bags under the man’s blood-shot eyes, and realized he was drunk.
Brighton stood up, and put on his fiercest face. He marched right up to him, and held the dagger to his throat. “One word, and I’ll remove your ugly head,” he growled.
“What’s the meaning of this?” slurred the captain, beginning to recover from his shock.
“Meaning?” said Brighton. “How about… ah… ” He searched for words. “You’re my prisoner? And we’re taking over.”
The captain frowned and started to his feet. Brighton shoved the edge of his blade against his throat.
“Easy,” Brighton said. He saw a closet in back of the wheelhouse. It was filled with hissing valves and steam pipes. He motioned for the captain to head toward it.
“You know the penalty for mutiny, boy?” the captain growled. “You’ll hang by the neck while seagulls eat out your bulging eyes.”
Brighton pushed the dagger against the captain’s Adam’s apple. The man got up and wheeled toward the closet. Pello and Biffee looked dazzled.
Once the captain was inside, Brighton ordered him to sit. “Tie and gag him,” he said to his accomplices.
Emboldened by Brighton’s successful incarceration of the ship’s captain, the monkrats charged into action. They stuffed a rag in the drunkard’s mouth, and bound him up in so much rope, he was soon helpless as a mummy.
Brighton rushed back to the ship’s controls. He took a quick look out the cabin windows. He noted the galaxy of lights from the other dirigibles floating high above the pitch black sea. Pello and Biffee came to his side.
“What does he think?” Pello said. He had a certain excitement in his voice, knowing they were about to do the unthinkable.
“Looks simple enough,” Brighton said, even as he realized his hands were shaking. And with that, he shoved the throttle all the way forward.
When the dirigible lurched unexpectedly, the workers in the hold, including the ill-tempered foreman, were thrown off their feet. They lay on their faces and listened to the roar of the ship’s mighty steam engines. Before they could move, they heard the dock lines snap from the mooring cleats.
“What the devil?” roared the foreman, rubbing the knot on his forehead. He picked himself up and tried to steady his body. But he, along with the others, were thrown back down again as the ship lunged and jolted.
Brighton realized there were several small windows in the ship’s instrument pan
el. Through these windows he could see the chaos developing out in the cargo hull, on the docks, even behind the ship. Must be some kind of mirror system. If he’d been nervous before, he was now on the verge of an all out anxiety attack. The ship was not behaving as expected. Pushing the throttle forward made it go backward. Pulling it back, made it advance. Turning the wheel left made it go right, and vice versa. Part of him wanted to abandon the entire scheme and simply flee. He figured he and his partners would be able to escape in the turmoil. But the greater part of him kept thinking about how his father would act if he were here—taking possession of a pirate airship that was clearly in violation of the law. And thinking that filled him with a sense of uneasy authority.
He hauled back on the throttle with all his might. The ship lunged forward again. Through the cabin window, he saw he was heading right for another airship. He shoved the throttle forward to reverse his direction. But the large dirigible, perhaps two hundred leapspans in length, required making such moves far in advance. Reversing its momentum took time. It was not like turning a rowboat. That pounding in his chest grew louder than ever. He glanced at Pello and Biffee and saw they were wide-eyed. He looked back just as his ship slammed into the other. Brighton was thrown back on the monkrats. All three fell to the floor.
Brighton rushed back to his feet. Looking at the instrument windows, he saw the workers in the cargo hull thrown about like ragdolls. Sacks of wheal had toppled off their stacks, and exploded their black dust everywhere. The men’s faces were masked with wheal dust. They were crawling around on their hands and knees. Shouting and screaming, looking for a way off the ship. Brighton watched in astonishment as some of them leapt for their lives.