by Colt, K. J.
Sardelle spotted Zirkander and ran across the courtyard to the steps leading up to the wall. At first, no one stopped her—or even noticed her, their eyes toward the distant airship—but a soldier on the walkway grabbed her arm before she could race past him. The halt to her momentum spun her around, startling her, and she almost launched a mental attack. She caught herself a split second before she would have hurled him away from her.
“Where do you think you’re going, woman?” the soldier demanded.
“I’m in the middle of a meeting with the colonel.” Sardelle tugged at her arm, but the man had a grip like a vise.
“A meeting. Sure you are.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Zirkander was standing on the northern wall next to a cannon, pointing and talking to a young soldier who stood on the other side. There wasn’t time to convince this buffoon to let her go. With a subtle tug from her mind, she unfastened his belt. The weight of the dagger and other pouches on it pulled it down with impressive speed, along with his trousers. It was enough to startle him into loosening his grip. Sardelle wrenched her arm free and sprinted toward the colonel.
“Stop that woman,” the soldier called after her, amidst an impressive stream of curses.
At the corner, someone turned and grabbed for her. On the narrow walkway, she couldn’t dodge far enough to the side, and he would have caught her, except she loosened the mortar in the stone beneath his feet. It wobbled, drawing his eye for a split second. She ducked his grasp and ran around the corner, coming to an abrupt halt before the colonel.
“The cannons,” she panted, out of breath from the sprint. “You can’t fire them, not this time of year.” She pointed at a cornice on the nearest mountain. “Could start an avalanche.”
Zirkander looked at her for several breaths before responding—why did she get the feeling he was trying to scrutinize her?
Probably wondering if you’re a spy.
After my horrible lying? A real spy would be much smoother.
“In my experience,” the colonel said, “an explosion has to be set off on or in close proximity to the snowpack to cause an avalanche, but if we need to fire, we will be careful.” Something squeaked behind him on the walkway, and he pointed over his shoulder without looking. A pair of soldiers was wheeling out something that reminded Sardelle of the harpoon launchers on whaling ships.
As the soldier she had unbuckled charged up behind her—his trousers securely fastened again—she felt sheepish. Of course a professional soldier would have experience blowing things up—explosives seemed to be far more common in this century than in hers.
A big hand clamped onto her shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir. I had… an equipment malfunction and didn’t catch her before she wiggled by.”
The soldier started to drag Sardelle backward, but Zirkander lifted a hand. “It’s fine, Sergeant. She can stay. She was informing me about the conditions in the mines.”
The soldier’s face scrunched up. “Like a spy?”
“Something like that.”
Sardelle read the double meaning in the colonel’s slitted eyes. She did her best to look calm and serene… and definitely not guilty. But he had to be wondering who she was after that botched background sharing. The way he kept gazing at her—appraising her—made her want to squirm. Fortunately, the soldier next to him spoke, and Zirkander looked away.
“In your experience, sir?” The young man couldn’t have been more than twenty, and he wore a hopeful expression as he prompted the colonel. Though the men were preparing to defend the fortress, nobody appeared that worried by the airship’s appearance. Maybe this happened frequently.
“I might have started a few avalanches,” Zirkander said.
“In your flier? With explosives?”
“Bring me a beer later, and I’ll tell you some stories.”
“Deal, sir!” The young soldier hustled over to help the men with the harpoon launcher.
“Perk of having your name in the papers next to all sorts of war-related exploits,” Zirkander said. “You never have to buy your own alcohol.”
Sardelle was the only one close enough to hear him, so the comment must have been for her, but the casualness surprised her. One minute he seemed to have her pegged for some kind of spy, and the next he was chatting with her?
Maybe he wants to keep you confused.
I get the feeling he confuses a lot of people.
“I much prefer being the one attacking to the one defending though.” Zirkander lifted a spyglass. “He’s just hovering out there. Scouting mission?”
He seemed to be talking to himself, but Sardelle decided to respond. “Do they come around often?”
The more he talked to her, the more trouble he should have ordering her execution later.
I wouldn’t bet on it. Judging by the so-called witch drownings I witnessed, when it comes to magic, these people will kill their own kin without a second thought.
Sardelle focused on Zirkander’s response instead of Jaxi’s commentary.
“They shouldn’t,” he said. “This place is supposed to be a top military secret.” Zirkander lowered the spyglass and gave her an appraising look again, though his gaze soon shifted over her shoulder. “Captain,” he called to the man jogging up behind her. It was the aide who had been introducing him to the fort earlier. And wasn’t he the one who had been tasked with organizing the archives?
If they were on his mind, Sardelle might be able to poke into his thoughts and find out where the room was located and where the empty forms were kept so she could fill one out for herself. She grimaced at the idea of, for the second time today, slipping into someone’s mind. There was the risk he would feel it too. She decided to simply open herself up for the moment. Maybe they would discuss the archives and the thoughts would float to the tops of their minds where they might be easily accessed.
“Yes, sir?” the captain asked.
“This happen before?” Zirkander pointed at the airship.
“No, sir. As long as I’ve been here, no enemy ships have appeared in our airspace. Audacious of them—they’re hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean. I wonder where they slipped in past our patrols.”
“I wonder that too.” Zirkander’s jaw tightened.
He wanted to be out there. By now Sardelle had gathered that he was a pilot, and she could have guessed at his thoughts without trying to sense them. She did, however, catch a strong vision from him, an image of a dragon-shaped flying machine, not unlike the one that had dropped him off. But this one was his, and it wasn’t alone as it cruised through the air. He led a squadron of other fliers along the shores of Northern Iskandoth—Sardelle had been along those fjords and gray sandy beaches enough times to recognize them, though she had never seen them from above. Zirkander remembered attacking an airship like this one off the coast, blowing up its engine, and bringing it down.
It should have reassured her that she and the colonel were essentially on the same side, having both fought to defend the continent of Iskandia—even if the people called it something different now—but it sank in for the first time that he must also be the descendant of those who had blown up her mountain… annihilated her people.
Zirkander frowned over at her. He couldn’t have guessed her thoughts, but maybe he had sensed her skimming the surface of his mind?
She pointed at the airship. “Are your weapons able to reach them from here?”
“No chance,” the captain said. “Neither the cannons nor the rocket launchers has that kind of range.”
Rocket launchers? Sardelle had never heard of such a thing, but, now that she looked, could see that something more sophisticated than a harpoon lay nestled in the artillery weapon’s cradle. She caught Zirkander and the captain looking at her and then at each other.
“Ms. Sordenta,” Zirkander said, “I think it’s time for you to return to whatever work you’ve been assigned to do here. We’ll take care of the intruders.”
“I understand,” Sardelle said. It woul
d be suspicious if she tried to find an excuse to stay up there.
She walked slowly back to the courtyard though and with hearing that might have been slightly augmented with magic, she caught a few more sentences on her way back to the stairs.
“Find her record, Captain. And find some of the people who arrived on the supply ship yesterday. If nobody remembers her… ”
“Think she’s a spy, sir?”
“We’ll see.”
I may have to escape and come back for you, Jaxi. Sardelle paused at the bottom of the stairs, not sure where to go. She hadn’t been assigned to any work yet, so how was she supposed to go do it?
I understand. And Jaxi did, but she couldn’t hide the sadness at the thought of being left behind, and it tore into Sardelle’s heart.
There was more at stake too. If the enemy—were these still the Cofah who had troubled the continent in her day?—destroyed this fortress or collapsed the mountains around it, would she ever be able to return? If the mines were shut down, who could possibly help her reach Jaxi? For that matter, who would help her find the belongings—relics—of her people? If she was truly the last of her kind, wasn’t it her responsibility to save and preserve some sign of her heritage?
Sardelle dropped her forehead into her hand. So much lost, and she was worried about being thought a spy? What did it even matter?
The captain jogged down the stairs, thoughts of the archive building floating at the top of his mind. Without looking up, Sardelle plucked the location from his mind as well as the layout. He frowned at her when he reached the bottom of the stairs, but all he did was point toward the laundry building.
“One-forty-three will assign you tasks. She’s in charge of the women’s area.”
“I understand,” Sardelle said.
Sewing or doing laundry, that would be the perfect time to let her mind wander. She refused to tinker with the memories of those who had arrived yesterday, assuming she could even locate them before the captain questioned them. Creating a record for herself would have to be enough. She gazed up to the rampart where Zirkander had the spyglass out again. With luck, this unprecedented enemy appearance would keep him busy, and he would forget about her.
Ridge walked through the mines, following a stocky infantry lieutenant for a guide, while two of his hulking soldiers trailed behind, each wearing enough armament to assault a fortress on his own. Ridge felt like a pansy for having bodyguards, but Captain Heriton had nearly pitched over sideways when his new commanding officer had suggested he would take a stroll on his own. After receiving a belated report about an attack on one of the lower levels that morning, Ridge had allowed the escort. Besides, his mind was more on the Cofah airship than this inspection. The craft had left without coming closer or doing anything else, but Ridge had a feeling it would be back. He knew a preliminary scouting mission when he saw it. He didn’t know how long they had been searching for the crystal mines, but now that they had found them, there would be trouble. It was no secret what powered the dragon fliers—and that there wasn’t an equivalent energy source out there. Maybe someday there would be, but not yet. And without the fliers, his people would have a hard time defending the continent against a superior naval force.
Ridge had written a report, but there was nowhere to send it, not until the next supply ship came in two weeks. Someone had mentioned a pass over the mountains but that it was only accessible during the summer months. How helpful.
“What’re they staring at?” the lieutenant muttered, looking back and forth uneasily.
Ridge’s group was walking down a wide corridor, and a squad of miners was approaching from the opposite end, on their way off shift, their dirty clothes and weary faces implied. An armed soldier following the workers watched his flock carefully, not saluting—he held his rifle in both hands—but giving Ridge a respectful nod. The miners were staring at Ridge’s little troop.
“It’s either me or you, Lieutenant,” he responded. “You tell me, am I the pretty one or are you?”
The lieutenant cast a glum look over his shoulder. His nose had been broken a time or two in his career—or perhaps before it. “Definitely you, sir.”
The miners slowed down, and a few muttered to each other. They wouldn’t think to attack him with so many armed men present, would they? All they had for weapons were pickaxes and shovels. Yes, those heavy picks could do damage, but only in close quarters. Of course, in the tunnel, Ridge’s group would have to pass within close quarters.
“This is why the general never came down here,” the lieutenant muttered, resting a hand on the butt of his pistol. He must have read danger in the troop as well.
The first miner, a scruffy bedraggled man wearing a bloodstained shirt and a bandana around his throat, stepped toward the center of the passage. He removed a sweat-stained cap, pressed it to his chest with one hand, and raised the other—it was devoid of picks or other weapons.
“Colonel Zirkander, sir?” he asked.
“Yes?” Ridge had only been in the fort for a few hours; he hadn’t realized the news of his arrival had preceded him down here.
“I, uh, we want you to know… ” He waved at his grimy comrades. “We’ve heard about your fighting out there in the skies. Sometimes someone who can read catches hold of a newspaper, and there’s a former pilot down here that tells some stories about your early flights—he claims to have met you, but I’m not sure that’s the truth. Still, real entertaining stories. We appreciate them. And that you’re out there, fighting for our country.” The miner eyed the infantrymen, who had their fingers on the triggers of their rifles. “We just thought you should know.”
It was a moment before Ridge could come up with an answer. He’d had the king’s subjects thank him for his service before, and received his share of hero worship from young pilots, but he hadn’t expected felons to care about their country or those defending it.
Ridge stepped away from the lieutenant, met the man in the middle of the tunnel, and stuck out his hand. “Thank you… ”
“One-fourteen,” the miner supplied, gripping his hand.
Ridge raised his eyebrows. “And the name your mama gave you?”
The miner blinked a few times. “Kal.”
“Thank you, Kal.” Ridge walked down the line and shook more hands and got more names and numbers and was surprised at the shyness, considering all the broken noses and missing teeth in the group. “How’re you all being treated down here? Tough but fair? Getting enough food?”
With the questions, he opened himself up to a volcano of grievances, but he listened without making too many promises. If the fort was attacked in the future, he needed these men—all of the men—to stay put in the mines and not make trouble. That would be asking a lot—he had been a prisoner of war once, and he had used the first diversion he could to escape—but Ridge might need to siphon more of his soldiers into defense.
As he continued his tour, he crossed a lot of apathetic miners who didn’t care a yak’s back teats about the change of command or him, but he came across even more who knew who he was and seemed to think something special of it. He would use any advantage he could to win over the prisoners. He also found the “pilot” the first miner had mentioned. Ridge had never met him and through a few private questions learned the kid had been kicked out of the flight academy for fighting after three months. Not that surprising. These were all rough men. Ridge didn’t doubt for a moment that their deeds had rightfully earned them places here. Fortunately, none of them asked him for parole—he doubted he had the power to grant that even if he wanted to. When he asked what they did want, most of the requests were ridiculously simple, and he promised to look into them. If a rockslide table, a dartboard, and some pictures of near-naked women would improve morale, he had no problem acquiring them.
A private caught up with Ridge and his entourage somewhere toward the end of the tour. “Sir? Someone was killed up top. You may want to look in on it.”
“Show me,” Ridge s
aid.
How many deaths was that for the day? They were far too common here.
Though nobody had made a threatening move toward Ridge, his escort followed him to the tram.
“What sort of killing was this?” he asked the private as the cage creaked and groaned, heading for the fading light at the end of the passage. Twilight had either come, or the sky had darkened further with clouds.
“A woman was hung for being a witch.”
Ridge’s stomach lurched. The prisoner he had been talking with? Sardelle? She was out of place here, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with witchcraft. He had her pegged as a spy—if a poor one—or, more likely, someone who had sneaked in to try and get a crystal. One could be sold on the black market for a great deal. Or she might even be an academic who wanted a sample for research—the gods knew the military had a stranglehold on the crystals. He knew that university professors had come to the airbase before, with bags full of microscopes and tools, wanting to study them. Few had ever had a close up view, for neither the king nor the commandant wanted information getting out where the country’s enemies might pick it up. Perhaps Sardelle was one of those curious professors who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Or was it that he simply didn’t want her to be some hardened criminal who truly deserved to be here? It wasn’t as if a spy or a thief was much better. A thief might be turned away with a moderate level of punishment, especially if she didn’t succeed in stealing anything. A spy though… Ridge closed his eyes. He would be forced to shoot a spy.
A moot point if she had already been hung, he reminded himself with another lurch to his stomach. “Do you know the name—number—of the woman who was hung?”
“No, sir,” the private said.
Ridge resisted the urge to describe her for the private. The cage was nearing the top of its ride, the darkening sky visible in earnest now. All around the fortress, the pathway and rampart lanterns had been lit, though they did little to drive back the encroaching night. It was definitely snowing, thick swirling flakes that would make visibility difficult for anyone flying. Good. He hoped the airship would be forced out of the mountains and into skies where it would be spotted and shot down.