by Steve Rzasa
“I bear witness, and give honor.”
“Thank you.” Lantern eyes glow yellow, with a glimmer of flame behind them. He exhales, and heat rolls over me, a blast furnace that smells of rotting food and burnt flesh. “The battle was my last, but it was worthy. The enemy reigns no more. Such is the fate of those who bend magic to the works of evil. They were worms who reached to a shore far beyond what was within their power to control.”
I am never more aware my own life is a snap of those huge jaws away from ending. My men are likewise vigilant—ten of them cordon me, muskets raised high. Laughter bubbles inside, a frantic chuckle prompted by their lunacy and my audacity. Would they really attempt to shoot the dragon? He would scoff at musket balls as I would I brush off a mosquito’s sting.
Yet I cannot leave him. “You destroyed Navio Mons.”
“No. I fought on the side of those who did, those who pursued what is right. Many have died. Let that not be lost from your memory.”
“It will not.”
“But I know why you are here, too, man-worm. Your yearning betrays you.”
My heart accelerates its tempo beneath sapphire cloth and chain mail bound in leather. He cannot know what I dream. Can he? Rumor has it a dragon can divine a man’s thoughts by meeting his eyes, or touching his flesh, or both. Myth veils dragons as mist clings to the Northamber highlands. Both are treacherous to navigate. “I desire to see you off from mortal chains, dragon, and let the memory of your bravery be not lost.”
He coughs, expelling a blast of blazing air tinged with flame. I shield my head and face with my gauntlets. Whether it singes my hair from blond to brown, I shall leave for later. Thick black ichor oozes from the corners of his jaw.
“Whom shall I speak of?”
“Varoth. I am Varoth, warrior of Benath, the ruler of the Atlan dragonkind, leader of twenty.”
No mere soldier, this. I had wondered of his razor-sharp spikes, a mix of obsidian and pearl, jutting out from the back of his head. This is one in authority. A captain of a company. “Then may you find your way to the eternal sky beyond the pale, Varoth.”
“I make my roost in the presence of lost friends.” His breath wheezes now. Given the bruises spread across his battered body, I am surprised he has any left in him. “But you, man-worm, you know the custom.”
My hunger gnaws. “Yes, yes I do.”
“He who bears witness and gives honor to a dragon’s death, may take from the body what he wants, be it of one kind—scales and nothing else, or claws and nothing else, and the like.” Varoth shudders. His voice falters. “Ah, but I see them. My kin. Look at the grace with which they soar.”
“Great Varoth, I need your approval.” The words spill over fumbling lips. Time runs. The sun is a furnace’s coal, half-dipped below the sea’s horizon. If he fails to give me such, I am left with nothing.
I have not spent my life at war with Northamber for nothing.
“Very well,” Varoth gasps. “Choose now, and I give it to you freely. Only you must swear: what you take, is not used for gain. It is not used in service of avarice. What you take is only to be used for the betterment of others, for the protection of the weak, and the vanquishing of evil.”
“I swear it, by all I hold holy and precious.” My brothers and sisters are there, in my mind’s eye, as are my mother and my father. His face looms largest, as I last saw it, stained with soot and weary, yet cracked by a smile. Never forget your vow—for the Queen and the people of Westnaxa.
Never will I forget.
“Good. Your heart is noble.” Varoth’s eyes dim. They narrow to pale slits. The sun slips to its last sliver. “Tell me who you are, and what you desire.”
“I am Derek Satterlee, captain of Her Majesty’s brig Endeavor.” I stand, let the sea breeze blow my blue cloak in furls behind me. The fading sun lights silver gauntlets and greaves a shimmering orange. “And I would take from you your wings.”
I have sixty men at my disposal. Every able hand is put to task cutting Varoth’s wings from his corpse. Though we have secured the blessing, the window in which we can claim it is closing.
Varoth’s right wing is crushed beneath his body, torn and useless. Instead we have the left wing stretched out and hoisted by tackle. Such a wondrous thing! Even Endeavor’s sails are diminished by the great, dark span reaching fifty feet along the rocks.
“Take as many strips as you can,” I order. “Long and wide. I want nothing less than six feet across.”
Sailors hack through the diaphanous blue-grey skin. It is supple yet strong, and only the sharpest of blades can sever it—and they with considerable effort. The smell of sweat and the sound of cursing fill the air, alongside the crackle of torches lit at ten-foot intervals around our work space. I lend my cutlass to the effort, mindful of steam rising in greater gouts from across Varoth’s body.
If we’re not fast enough, we shall all burn.
Movement catches my eye. A young man reaches for Varoth’s face. Fangs hang exposed from the open maw.
“No! Don’t!” My cutlass is stuck on a strip of wing that will not come free. I leave it lodged and leap from a lopsided boulder across the backs of two of my sailors.
The youth cries out. Varoth’s fang glows as hot as iron on the anvil, ready to be shaped. Confound it all! If he holds too fast—
“Idiot!” Gustave Barthelemon jerks the sailor away, and helps him bury the scorched hand in the water. “We promised the dragon we would take only its wings!”
“Forgive me, Lieutenant! I thought it’d be well if I took one tooth.” The sailor’s face is doused in sweat, his arms trembling. “My family could—”
“If you have need of silver, you know the captain will reward you on your deed and your need, fool!” Gustave cuffs him across the back of his head. “You could have been slain by the dragon’s corpse had you held on any longer!”
“He could have endangered us all,” I say. “The body’s ignition proceeds.”
Crackling builds—not from the torches, but deep in Varoth’s chest. Smoke replaces the steam. Light emanates from his mouth, the deep wounds between his scales, and through his eyelids.
“Make haste!” I rejoin the line of workers. Almost free. The last sections are torn down from Varoth’s long, powerful wing arm. Must cut faster. Blades blur.
Shouts of alarm. Varoth’s body flares up, first in isolated spots, then in one great flame along his midsection. Fire erupts from his mouth, charring sand for dozens of paces ahead. Lights blasts from his eyes with the power of lightning.
“Get back! All of you, stand clear!” Gustave helps me drag the last section of wing away, down the rocky portion of the shore, until we’re waist deep in the cold Atlan waters lapping against gray stone.
Varoth is a pyre, turning the night around us as bright as the morn.
Gustave’s breath heaves. Black hair is slicked with water, and he wipes wet from the slender moustache. “Sacred blue skies! They really do burn themselves from existence.”
Even half submerged, heat rolls over us in waves as tangible as the seas around us. Within moments, nothing remains of Varoth but a dragon-shaped mound of ashes. Winds rise from the north, scattering charcoal and ember to the skies.
I grasp the wing between soaking wet fingers. Varoth will see. I will keep my promise.
I will fulfill my call.
Endeavor cuts the tops of thick clouds. She’s a hundred feet from bow to stern, oak hull reinforced with iron scantlings. Sails as white as the cottony mounds around us strain under the winds. Three masts teem with lines and sailors. A handful more of the men walk the arms of the port-sails and starboard-sails, to either side of the brig, checking for rips. Westnaxa’s pennant snaps, a blue coachwhip with seven silver slashes. Our kingdom’s coat of arms ripples on the mainsail—a gold lion, rampant, atop a silver rose.
I give the glorious sight not a second’s worth of my time as I hurry down from the wheel deck. Gustave, perusing the charts by the helmsman�
�s side, calls something that fades from my hearing.
Too much work to be done.
My cabin is ill-decorated for guests. There are no seats to accommodate lords, nor are there the requisite liquor cabinet or trophy case. My bed is crammed into the port shelving; charts and maps into the starboard. Rows of books fill the spaces above and below both. Three windows allow light from aft.
All other room is packed with contraptions.
Wheels and gears, blades and guns, pulleys and tackle. Pelts from dozens of creatures overflow crates. Mystic stones pulse with a rainbow’s worth of light behind dusty glass walls of wooden cases. I step over an empty gauntlet. Straps and gears spill from its sleeve. A wheellock pistol sits disassembled and discarded atop another crate. Its sides are crisped from a failed attempt to increase its volume of shot.
A chunk of Varoth’s wing rests atop my work table, its gleaming surface clumped by the mess underneath. I lift it and sweep away the trinkets. Metal and wood crash to the deck.
Knuckles rap the door frame. Gustave stands there, nose wrinkled. “Northscum, Derek. How can you stand to work in such refuse?”
“The clutter barricades me.”
“From what? Your men? Your ship?”
“Don’t be absurd. They are the reason I continue my work.” Where have I lain it? Ah. The framework is tucked under a canvas to the left of the table. I pull it free. Now for awl and rope. “Get me the bottle on the shelf, will you?”
Gustave gives the cabinet nearest him a withering stare. “You’d be better off asking for a star when there are constellations full of identical ones.”
“Purple liquid, top shelf, third from right.”
Glass clinks against his gauntlets. Mine own are set atop the canvas. I remove my cloak, and my armor. Much easier to work in this fashion. I snatch the bottle from his hands, and douse a stained rag with such a healthy portion it soaks my hands. Gently I rub the wing section, clockwise motion, in broad swatches.
“Stinks like a goblin’s armpit,” Gustave mutters. “See here, Derek. The men complain we’ve deviated too far from our prescribed patrols. The bosun keeps them from uttering such in your presence, but it’s only time until some fool slips. Something has struck Northamber to the core, cut out its very heart. Have not the messenger fae brought word of their summoner corps’ demise? Every one of them, slain!”
“I shall believe it when I have heard it from Her Majesty’s lips.” The bottle’s half empty, but I’ve procured plenty of the sealant. Whatever strength dragon wing possesses, it needs safeguarding from rot and wear like any flesh. “Have you come back here to chastise me, Lieutenant, or lend a hand?”
“Don’t mock me. You know the problem.” Gustave spreads both arms, as if he can gather the contents of the cabin. “These! All these cursed creations of yours. Each one an abortion of some glorious device you claimed would save the kingdom and bring our forces an advantage. Now you have us haul dragon scraps aboard our warship.”
“It will work. This will be different.”
“That is what you said of the pistol that would supposedly be silent as a whisper, or the gloves able to move of their own accord.”
I shake my head, as much to counter his statements as to clear away some of the fumes from the sealant. Should have cracked a window before I began. “This gift—this is the final piece. I understand now why I’ve failed before. Every time, I’ve tried to replicate what exists already, what has been crafted in nature. No more. It is folly to do so when I can adapt what is already built for us.”
“This is not a matter of lodging an aethershard deep in our hull and ratcheting it up or down when we need to change altitude. Every novice has learned such for centuries. Leave the madness to the Aevorn and the summoners!”
“No!” I slap the table. Sealant sprays across my tunic. “I will leave nothing to summoners. Don’t you see? Northamber cast its shadow across the lands and isles because of their magic! Westnaxa alone stood against them, and countless lives were paid—my father’s, among them. By my strength of mind, I will bring them to heel. I will meet them on their own battleground and show them they cannot defy our people.”
Gustave sighs. “You put yourself in the place of the Most High, I fear.”
“Someone has to. Continue our course as I’ve ordered. I’ll be topside when I’m ready…when it’s ready.”
“Of course, Captain. I only hope you don’t drop this one.” Gustave nudges the gauntlet with his boot. “Because its failure will be your final.”
My rag stops. I listen to his boot steps diminish, and the door creak shut. Sailors’ work chanties murmur through the bulkheads. The cabin sways as Endeavor rides the winds. The clank of the rise-wheel’s arm echo beneath me. Deep in the hull, an iron vise tightens its grip, pressuring the aethershard crystal into exerting more lift. We soar higher.
I stretch the wing section against the frame. Yes, the genesis is there. There’s no flaw in the marvelous substance, not once it is anchored in place.
Gustave is right. If I fail my end, it is not my pride alone that will suffer. I will die.
It sounds terrible. I get back to work.
The clang of the ship’s bell rouses me from my stupor. What time is it? Nay, what day is it?
Difficult to see. I must have neglected to light a lantern. Wait. There is a soft yellow glow from near the door. Gustave, I suppose, has hung one on a post.
My hands are curled. They ache and groan as I unclench them. They’re red and beaten, weathered as wood left to rot, yet it has been worth the effort.
The door bangs open. Cold air surges through, tossing papers and flapping canvas. “Captain! We’re a mile off from Kensinghall,” Gustave says. “They are being attacked!”
I drag on my armor, my gauntlets—but not the cloak. I care not for its protection from the chill winds. It will only hamper me. “Is it her?”
“It is. Spotters have her over the isle. Winds are thrown about. She has a vessel with her. Appears to be corsairs.”
My lips curl into a grin. Ah, it will be a proper battle. I gather up my bundle from the table. There is no chance for a test at low altitude. Baptism by fire.
Or rather, by wind.
I take the proffered spyglass from Gustave’s mitt. Kensinghall spreads across an isle floating a couple thousand feet above the churning Atlan, with the Westnaxa coast five miles to the north. Three jagged points dangle under a set of rolling hills. Aethershards emit a sickly green glow throughout the gray stone and tan dirt. I count six, no seven buildings ablaze, torches lit against the night sky. Beams of light slash, shone high above by great mirrors of polished brass. One of them strikes a person, illuminates her clear as day.
Annalise.
She wears all white, shrouded in a swirling gray cloak. Chestnut hair writhes in the winds roaring about her, guided by the convoluted motions of her hand. She rides them as easily as I stand the deck of Endeavor, my feet perched on the starboard rail and my hand gripping the nearest line. Even as my mind catches up to what my eyes reveal, she tightens her left hand into a fist, lips murmuring an incantation. A terrible squeal of metal wrenched apart cuts the roar of the windstorm. One of the lights blinks out. Annalise fades to shadow.
“Corsairs!” one of the lookout bellows above me. “Coming around the far side of the island.”
Ah, yes. The more mundane threat. She’s a dual-masted schooner, moving swiftly through the sky on billowing brown sails. Her path is jagged, tacking back and forth; doubtless Annalise’s conjured winds cause her as much havoc as they do Endeavor. My vessel slews to port and up. A few nearby sailors shout, scrabbling to secure their safety ropes.
My stance never falters. “Gustave, lend a fellow a hand.”
Gustave guides my construct to my back. Together we secure crisscrossing leather straps around my waist, over my chest, and under my arms. “Run out the starboard guns!” I cry. “Helm, continue our arc, and descend for a diagonal salvo on the lieutenant’s mark!”
“Aye, Captain!”
Gunners and mates bark orders at sailors. Kegs of powder roll by. Men grunt and sweat as they position the six cannons on the starboard side.
Thunder booms. The enemy’s shots fall short. Either they mean to take our range and altitude, or they’re incompetent and just wasted a pair of perfectly good cannonballs. A last glance with the spyglass offers explanation for their eagerness. The corsairs are clad in garish tunics and painted all over with red streaks. Goblins reinforce their ranks. There’s a dozen of the hunchbacked, green-skinned creatures. Men and beasts carry the emblem of Northamber—a black crown atop crossed silver swords.
“Mercenaries,” I note.
Gustave scowls. “We’ll not expect a fair fight from them. They must be desperate, to attack Kensinghall now of all times. How do they expect to collect their bounty, with Northamber crushed?”
“I suspect it matters little to them. Where’s the helmet?”
He hands it to me. “This is madness.”
“It may well be.” The helm is leather and steel, fitted with a face covering of mesh thick enough to protect my face, yet, open enough to allow decent visibility. It conforms to my head, the bear’s fur interior providing a layer of warmth. Should be enough to deflect a sword’s blow, and a musket ball’s glance. “You know what to do. The bindings cannot leave the ship. I won’t risk losing them.”
“I understand. Godspeed, Captain.” Gustave claps me on the back.
I pass back a salute, and leap.
The currents are right where I expect them. I dive for the nearest thermal. If this fails to operate—
I pull both cords affixed to my chest. Wooden frames reinforced with metal burst open, their construction not unlike a bat’s. Or a dragon’s.
The sealed skin of Varoth’s wings catches the air. They snap tight, arresting my fall, turning it into a glide. I reach for the drag-guides at the wing joints, and pull.
I soar up, away from the black seas.
No doubt my cry of exultation is lost amidst the howl of the wind and the rumble of gunfire. Lights flicker as Endeavor drops down beside the corsair schooner. Six cannons pummel the enemy, then four more from the lower deck. The corsair trades shots but, owing to Endeavor’s superior handling, only half its cannonballs find their mark.