by Sean Heslin
Possible Hero
by Sean Heslin
www.seanheslin.co.uk
© 2020 by Sean Heslin
Cover design © 2020 by Sean Heslin
ebook edition - 1st
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.seanheslin.co.uk
When I was much younger,
because I said I would:
To Han, Jo, both Pauls and all the sundry others
who asked nicely, but whose names
have temporarily slipped my mind.
They will understand.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Appendix
Excerpt from The Crimson Auditor
Chapter 1
“Everything has to start somewhere.
No, I tell a lie, some things start somewhere else entirely, like on another plane, you know? Everything has to exist somewhere. No, that’s not right either. Some things never get started at all, but happen anyway. Quicker.”
- The Eternally Misquoted Great Prophet Fengal, 4182 C.M.
The terror was palpable as they tumbled through the air.
The winged lizard wheeled in the sky, wings straining as his body urged him to pull up before he and his passenger reached a messy end far below. Muscles shifted and sinews stretched. Breath came in short, sharp bursts.
The ground drew ever closer as his energy waned and faltered. Closer, the warped mountains below with curled and razor-sharp peaks. Closer still, an end to a life of servitude and humiliation. As he fell, the flyer was suddenly torn between deeply ingrained duty to the whims of his cargo, or simply taking a final, easy way out of his misery once and for all.
With a roar that penetrated the clouds, he grudgingly but sharply pulled out of his deadly plunge, flinging their bodies into the sky once more. The passenger’s armoured thighs clamped tightly and the humiliation was complete as a warm trickle was felt at the base of the lizard’s neck. A few more flaps of the huge leathery wings and the pair sped high in the sky anew, startling aside a flock of leafbirds who were far from home. The winged beast felt a sharp rapping from above.
“Go lower!” the passenger was urging. Go lower indeed, as if that would be any safer.
There were then a string of noises that could be construed as insults, though it was hard to hear with the wind. The lizard had definitely heard the word 'dragon' used though and grimaced through very pointy teeth at the (probably not accidental) racism.
Rancha was an urglon, and while not especially proud of this undeniable aspect of his heritage, he was obedient to a fault. His entire winged species was so. They were a product of artificial sorcery from centuries past, bred for said obedience, servility and durability as well as a few other special features; least of all worth mentioning that unlike their misbegotten cousins, the damnable self-absorbed dragons, urglons actually paid attention once in a while. So, while Rancha possessed his own mind, despite his severe misgivings he relented to the command and swooped lower in a more gentle dive, turning briefly above the nightmarish Kinhest Mountains in a meandering circle before holding breath, pulling wings close and plunging deeply into a wide valley between three or possibly five opposing rockfaces. It was hard to tell, or even to count them over the noise of the screaming on his back. The terrain here was twisted from thousands of years of erosion and the madness that broken Art had once wrought. Outcroppings threatened to sprain unwary wings and tails. Every ounce of skill was needed to spin and shimmy through the airspace that no sane creature would dare to brave, even on foot. The passenger's thighs clamped again, but this time rather than the trickle, there was a brief acrid scent on the air and a faint spatter on the lizard's spade-like tail. Rancha allowed himself a slight reptilian grin at the eructation he had caused, before the less pleasant consideration arrived that he would probably have to bathe a lot after this trip. Still though, worth going for the evacuation trio? Was armour normally fitted with absorbent underwear? Heavens knew that the fat man who called himself a knight that rode him needed a certain...voiding and cleansing of body and spirit.
“Aaaaaaaarggghhhhhh!”
Rancha flattened his wings tight against his haunches and flicked into a barrel roll through a stalagmite encrusted rainbow of stone, barely grazing the edges as he went. The move was well timed and wings were then spread widely to catch the winds, throwing the pair back into the sky before another sudden swoop into the canyon. He felt, rather than heard, the further warbling screaming coming from above and felt pity that he could never tell anyone that the brave knight had squealed like a human girl from a little bit of stunt flying. The passenger had insisted the flyer make the experience as interesting and exciting as possible, because he ohhhh so hated long journeys, whatever his name was.
Rancha had to tear himself from his thoughts to save being splattered over a sudden cliff-face, looming urgently ahead. He wrenched his way over the ridge and threw up clouds of dust as he skimmed over a small plateau. Little furry creatures panicked at the sight of the great shadow above, but then the two cleared the span and were out over the insanity of the Kinhest Mountains once more, probably bending the laws of physics as they went. Rancha had thought about it occasionally, most often when making this trip. They were most likely very much breaking a few physical laws with this mode of travel, but then, those fell beasts had been broken a long time ago by much older minds than he.
A piece of simple joy emerged from the mists. The sight of their destinati
on, gently peeking up from the vast stony spiderweb. A kilometre high tower, the tallest known manmade object, reflecting the midday sun and shining like a beacon of hope, soothing Rancha's soul simply by what it represented. The final push then. He was glad that these desolate mountains were such a topographical nightmare; he was tired, and though the random formations made even his most meagre efforts seem more impressive than they were, he very much felt that he could do with a nap. A few more bone creaking stunts, a landing, then he could finally be rid of the fool on his back, collapse and die in peace.
Well, bathe first, then die.
Chapter 2
“History is written by people who weren't there.”
- The deposed Earl of Poom, 1851 C.M.
The relationship had started due to paperwork, as most things do. It had begun a few days before, on the sun-soaked paradise island of Parli, where rest, calm and the spirit of pleasure lived and thrived.
There had been a man there, human, stood swaying in a bar, dressed in a clean blue linen ensemble, sipping something sticky and admiring the couples dancing nearby. He had a matching hat. He had been happy. It was the first holiday that he had been allowed to take for a decade that was not simply a rest between assignments, or waiting around for other people to turn up. He had swirled his ostentatious cocktail, peering into its murky depths and wondered vaguely what to do that evening. Then, a flicker of movement. Another man, wending his way through the crowd, apologising gently to the dancers he jostled. That man carried a clipboard. He was deferent, yet determined. He had scanned the room, comparing faces to his clipboard. The man in the blue linens had experienced a strong sense of inevitable horror creeping up on him.
The man with the clipboard had approached. He had smiled briefly and greeted the blue-linen man by name. It was a name with no fear behind it, no fame, no fortune. Simply a name to be called. The man with the clipboard had handed over a piece of paper which was duly read. There was a murmur from the crowd as the skin of the man in the blue suit had rippled and his fangs extended slightly. Then, a moment of composure before expressing a few choice words; short, eloquent and ultimately vulgar. He left the bar and the clipboard man behind, not particularly caring who he knocked aside as he went. He had walked the short distance to the stables, shedding the blue clothing and swearing loudly to whichever gods fancied listening. Then he changed.
First, came the face, a snout erupting and extending, ears moving up and around his head into a pointier position. Next, the tail, blunt, flat tip snaking out behind, knocking over an outside table and causing some dismay over spilt alcohol. His hue was changing, greener and darker by the moment. His body main gained mass very quickly, extra ribs jostling for space in his chest cavity and strange new organs designed for ballast and balance filling the ever-increasing void.
As he reached the stables, his wings grew back in, buds spreading into vast and veiny sails that would bear him aloft. Lastly came the rest of the mass and muscle to pad out the saggy scale lined sack that was his new skin and a flourish; a purple tint along each scale ridge, because style cost nothing.
Geranchafenador of the Glayena brood was himself again, in the form he hated the most; the one he had been born with.
The urglon had continued to indulge in loud vulgarity throughout the transformation, and moreso still as he shoved his massive head through the stable door, becoming more inventive with his expletives as he went. He managed to work in an invective that described the insertion of entire human heads into a plus-size gullet.
“Move,” he had commanded, most unlike him.
The stable hands did not want to lose said heads in those teeth of profanity, so quickly fitted Rancha with his saddle so he could be on his way and not breathe fire on them. Urglons could not breathe fire, only the true dragons tended to do that, but Rancha saw no reason to correct the misapplied stereotype, for the sake of expediency. The last strap was tightened and then he took to the air, knocking over even more drinks on the holiday island with his wingbeats. He did not care.
A long, long flight over land and sea followed, with no particular rush or extra action, save when Rancha stopped for lunch, swooping down and devouring wild swampchucks, who had been living their lives in blissful ignorance upon the marshes, where their existence was primarily measured by how long it took to be eaten by something else. Rancha very much took his time with his lunch.
Eventually and anticlimactically he had come to a very boring, brown valley with a shoddy looking castle that was built into one of the dirty valley walls. There, stamping about on the battlements was a man dressed in cheap, stylised armour, demanding to know where the hell Rancha had been. Rancha, being an urglon, had it ingrained into his very Art-Bound being that he was Not Allowed to talk back to or argue with those he was meant to serve. The armoured man introduced himself as Master Yansul and required that he was addressed as such. Rancha had nodded and done so. Master Yansul had outlined his needs for the flight – excitement, regular rest stops and not to go upside down unless strictly necessary. Rancha had agreed to those stipulations. With assistance, Master Yansul and his baggage had been mounted onto Rancha using hard-wearing leather belts that still somehow smelled of tanner's piss, and together they took off with as little ceremony as the urglon could manage, for Master Yansul deserved none whatsoever, for the base crime of wrecking his one and only holiday of the decade.
---
All that was in the past. In the present, remaining nerves were being tested and twanged as Rancha and his screaming cargo approached the tallest tower; the final destination of his passenger whose name he had already forgotten. The uncanny tower was nestled within a vast complex of buildings, battlements, drawbridges, granaries, warehouses and more tower and tower-like structures than normal possibility or architecture should or could allow for. The sight in the sunshine was wondrous, amazing; an impossible jewel in the madness of the Kinhest Mountains. Provided the observer cared. Master Yansul, of course, expressed his supremely unimpressed impressions in between yells, summing up the astounding experience as:
“I was expecting it to be bigger.”
Not that Rancha was entirely listening. He was too busy summoning up the last of his strength and muscle memory so he did not crash into something. He knew better than to trust his eyes. Rancha decided to narrate as he flew. He often found talking aloud a very helpful tool when trying to do something physical, particularly when he was letting his subconscious do the driving. He also knew that the idiot sat on him would not absorb the information, even if the 'knight' could even hear any of the narration. Though his offhanded comment was technically correct.
“What I know, having been here before many times, and you do not, you abyss-stricken cretin, is that this mystical, misty vision of palace and castle and homestead and workshop and all the rest that you see before you, is merely an illusion to ward off and confuse potential invaders.”
Rancha illustrated this by dog-legging around an invisible minaret, causing some consternation upon his spine at the apparently unnecessary manoeuvre.
“The real palace/castle is, in fact, substantially, drastically, phenomenally and a bunch of increasingly long words you won't understand, bigger than the illusion presented here, spanning several square miles, rather than the modest few acres you, as a casual observer, would see, though there is a lack of those too. Observers, I mean. There will never be that many casual observers, or indeed any invaders. You see, you pustule upon a greyfart's backside, nobody has tried to bring an army all the way out here for decades, and nobody in history who has ever tried to come here on foot the long way has ever made it the full distance, so claims of invulnerability are usually justified.”
The urglon peered through the mystical haze, picking out fuzzy landmarks. He suddenly swung to the left, making the passenger emit another yelp of surprise and then a series of choking noises.
“The Kinhest Mountains are fairly high ranking in the list of most inhospitable places to live.�
� Rancha continued conversationally, knowing he was into the home stretch. “You can't march an army over them without becoming hopelessly lost, you can't dig under them without misjudging distances and going mad in the process. Even if you did manage to traverse by air, you have to know where you are going, else you would pancake yourself against an invisible wall. I bet you eat a lot of pancakes, don't you fatso? Of course you do. Anyway, the only realistic use of this accused illusion is to give the people who live hereabouts a constant headache as their sense of perspective is baffled every time they stop concentrating, not to mention noseache when they forget where the walls are. The upshot is, if you even care, that in order to come here without an invitation, you have to hire someone like me and fly a long distance without dying horribly, or like most normal people, you stupid gutter-born berk, utilize a somewhat more straightforward and swift means that involves a certain amount of paperwork and a handy doorway. You didn't do your paperwork properly, did you? Or even at all, huh? Hence the mug that is me having been sent to pick your racist ass up. You pile of excrement.”
There was no additional comment from above, aside for some whimpering. Rancha wondered what the opposite of luck was.
On drawing closer, Rancha released a pent up sigh. The tallest tower was an illusory marker for a spacious courtyard, used for the comings and goings of any flying creatures bright enough to make it here via this route, such as himself. He felt, rather than heard, Master Yansul speak, but by this point Rancha could pretty much guess what was being said, probably being along the lines of thanking some deity that he had finally arrived and insulting Rancha's ancestry, comparing him to a hairy sugoat etc. etc.
It was sad that the lot of the urglons was so. Many had protested their creation, many more had protested their usage. Even still, several centuries later, they were still generally classed as beasts of burden, though these days they had a few more basic rights than they used to have and a recognition of their not-inconsiderable intelligence. The richer ladies and gentlemen of the lands, the alleged nobility, still treated urglons like dirt. 'Created to serve? Then they will serve,' was the attitude. It was probably a good thing that Rancha had deliberately chosen not hear the full specifics of Master Yansul's last statement, else his final straw would have snapped and so then would he have snapped, and then so would have Master Yansul's neck have snapped between Rancha's teeth. Rancha had needed to bite his tongue so much over the last few days that he wondered if he would speak ever again. He had more or less totally blanked out the conversation that had happened during the last comfort break, earlier that morning. It was not often that the words 'lesser species' were used in context these days.