Whelan saluted with his stick and walked off.
Robert caught the whisper of a chuckle when he left. Putting the odd man from his mind, he resumed his search for anything of tactical importance he needed to keep from the enemy.
A work detail draped a tarp of heavy canvas over Winslow and the two aeronauts, while McCarthy and Bayliff disengaged the terra-track from the cables. They swung the conveyance out from its cubby on the side of the airship, and activated the hoists to lower it. The small five by eight foot sled came equipped with two track treads that wrapped over and around the wheel posts. A single cycling chamber powered the vehicle to pull it through the most unforgiving terrain. Inflatable bladders lined its sides, should the need to take to water arise. It possessed a low load capacity, for cutters rarely had the need to transport gear over distance greater than warehouse to dock.
The men lifted the trio of stretchers and slid them onto the flat bed.
"The six of you start toward the citadel," Robert said. They secured everything of a compromising nature, and he wanted to depart. "We'll be right behind you."
McCarthy powered on the machine, and waited while the huffing steam engine built enough steam to turn the drive shafts. The dials moved with a steady pressure, and before long, he waved his hand in a circle above his head to signal his readiness.
"Attention," Lindstrom said, and the aeronauts snapped rigid.
"Thank you, Sir," Lindstrom said when Robert looked over. "None of us wanted to leave without the Chief."
"No one gets left behind," Robert said. "Get going, Lindstrom."
First Push
The crew of the beached Albatross marched along the river, ever conscious of the enemy force bearing down behind them. They trudged on, burdened with weapons, corpses, and ammunition, yet none asked for a respite. Everyone knew the danger they fled. They all witnessed the horrors the Aeresians visited on their prisoners when they assisted in the liberation of the prison camp. None of them wanted to face such a fate, so they pushed through the pain of their ordeal.
The terra-track led the procession, but within a mile, showed signs of struggle beneath its load. Conventional cannon, cycling chambers, barrels of powder, shot, chambers and the three deceased crewmen filled the mechanized cart. Due to its extensive cargo, which overtaxed its load capacity, they halted their march.
"Suggestions, McCarthy," Robert said. "I'm not of a mind to leave anything behind that will benefit the enemy."
The engineer considered the situation and rubbed his chin.
"We strap a crew to the vessel, in a harness," he said. "Drag it along behind them to assist the drive train."
Without argument, Robert slipped into the lead position in the harness, and adjusted the strap across his chest to ensure easy access to his rifle. The Zephyrs brought up the rear, and stomped along the shoreline in their mechanized armor. Whelan walked next to him, and chanted a tune to mark the cadence of the march.
"Hey, hey, Smiling Jack,
Meet me down by the gunnery track,
I'm gonna be a shootin' jack,
No turning back.
A shootin' jack,
Not for money,
Not for study,
All for King and country."
The men who pulled the sled repeated the cadence after each line, and pulled in time to the rhythm. Robert chanted along, and matched his steps to the beat. The cadence helped distract the mind and set the pace, so they all marched in step.
An explosion roared up the canyon, and everyone stopped to look behind them. The remains of the Albatross rose in a great fireball and it shook the canyon walls.
"Brace yourselves, lads," Whelan called, and he crouched down to cradle his head with his forearms. Everyone followed his example, except for the Zephyrs, who stood steadfast against the blast.
The over pressure wave raced across them moments later and rocked the sled. The gears in the Zephyr's armor ground to compensate for the change in pressure, and it pushed them back a step. A section of the canyon wall adjacent to the Albatross separated and slid into the river below.
The crew cheered, and screamed obscenities at the enemy now blocked behind the rockslide.
"We're not home yet, lads," Whelan called out. "There's still a ways to go, and you'd better believe the bastards will find a way over, under or around that pile of wreckage. Step to."
Robert stood and leaned into the harness. Whelan resumed the cadence.
"Hey, hey, Smilin' Jack,
Met me down by the gunnery track.
I'm gonna be a cuttin' jack.
A cuttin' jack
A shootin' jack
Not for money,
Not for study,
All for King and country."
The company fell to, and the sled plodded along the bank.
"I'm getting hoarse," Whelan said. "McCarthy, take over for me."
"Aye, Boatswain," McCarthy said, and he picked up the next verse.
"That was a hell of a parting gift," Robert said once the men chanted in rhythm once again.
"Thank you, Sir," Whelan said. "So nice to be appreciated."
"Enlisted or conscripted?" Robert said.
Whelan chuckled.
"Ah, the question of the age," Whelan said. "I see how it is, Sir. You're trying to determine what sort of man I am with that question."
"How do you mean?" Robert said. "If you enlisted, you're a patriot, and a conscript a victim?"
"Convenient cover stories to hide behind," Whelan said. "But I find they are usually far from the truth."
"How so?"
"The truth of an action is usually far more complicated than a simple, one-sided answer can account for. Anyone who tells you an issue is clear cut and easily polarized is trying to sell you something. Usually, they're looking for a fight to cover up their own inadequacies."
Robert laughed, and shook his head.
"Is that how it is?" he said. "Here I was thinking that right was right and wrong was wrong."
"That's a schoolboy's argument, Sir," Whelan said. "And not a very bright one, at that. If you pardon the comment. No offense meant, of course, Sir."
"None taken," Robert said. "What is the better argument, then?"
Whelan regarded him, his habitual smirk lightening his demeanor.
"People do what they want to do," he said. "And they make excuses to make those decisions more palatable."
"Really?" Robert said. "Who in all the Hells would want to take part in this madness?"
Whelan shrugged, and his smile deepened.
"A man whose running from something, for one," he said. "Nothing like a war to provide a convenient escape from the drudgery of life's routine."
"Maybe some of us believe so strongly about something we're willing to give our lives for its protection."
"There is that," Whelan said, "but deep down, you know it's better than the alternative."
The monastic routine of Temple life flashed through Robert's mind, and he winced at the memory.
"I volunteered, Sir," Whelan said, seemingly oblivious to Robert's discomfort.
"So what are you running from?" Robert said.
Whelan chuckled to hear his own logic turned against him.
"I'm an artist," Whelan said. "A painter."
Robert laughed at the unexpected answer.
"No wonder your running away to play soldier," he said. "Such a life must be frightfully expensive."
"Only if you have to pay your debts," Whelan said. "I try not to."
"And here I thought I was the only one here above the dictates of the law," Robert said.
"Son of the Great House Raen’dalle," Whelan said. "Youngest son of the wealthiest noble in all of Patheran. Initiate to the Sharikeen Temples, and keeper of society's keys. And you're out here sweating beside the likes of me."
Robert kept the rhythm of his pace, but only just. He cast a sidelong glance at the Boatswain and clenched his teeth. He knew the crew took a certain pride i
n fighting alongside a member of a Great House. Word reached his ear of many who sought to turn that commonality to their advantage after the war and seek employment with his House in service. He disapproved of the turn of the conversation, however. But he could not afford to take umbrage with it at this time.
They needed to reach the citadel.
"Don't get all pissy with me, Sir," Whelan said. "I'm just having a little fun to pass the time."
"I'm not accustomed to be the object of such fun," Robert said. The words sounded petulant to his own ears, and he regretted them.
"Not a joke in my words, I assure you," Whelan said. "Just giving light to the past. It's an honor to serve with you, Sir."
"Your parting gift," Robert said to change the subject. "You crafted a series of wards on the isolator. Sherep for the ignition, buffered with Alense and augmented with Quartar to increase the radius. And something else I was unable to detect that amplified the entire effect."
"You are gifted beyond the realm of mere mortals," Whelan said. "I am impressed. You sensed the wardings after they ignited. I don't know many mages who could do that."
"What did you use?"
"Oh," Whelan shrugged under his harness. "Just a little nothing of my own invention. A little trick I picked up in my wanderings."
"Where did you study?" Robert said. "You don't wear the wings, and your eyes are dark. An initiate of your level would surely wear the stigmata."
"Here and there," Whelan said. "I am a traveler, and received a rather unique education. Nothing that would interest such a great lord such as yourself."
Another explosion sounded through the canyon, though smaller in stature. The crew stopped to ascertain the threat. An Aeresian cutter hovered above the landslide, and fired volley after volley at the obstacle, and reduced the boulders to rubble.
The guns of Sharil's Forde fired, and a series of cycling blasts sizzled through the air. They impacted with the cutter, and blew it apart. The fiery debris fell into the river below.
"No time to watch the fireworks," Robert called. "There's nothing to stop them now. Onward, men."
McCarthy, the cutter's chief engineer, yelled, "Heave!" and the crew pushed forward once more.
The cadence resumed, and the sled slid forward.
A natural arch covered the river ahead, and created a tunnel that ran for over a mile. One of the few natural bridges across the Devin River, Caliban's Crossing reared hundreds of feet above their heads. Robert knew it by reputation alone. Tales of the Fae dominated the folklore in the surrounding countryside, and all of those stories placed the entrances to their mystical lands beneath these arches. A carving of a large, silver laden apple branch decorated its northern face. A silver mist rose from the river within the tunnel, and tendrils ventured out into the light of day. A speck of light within indicated the far side, and Robert understood why it gained such a supernatural reputation.
"Tir na Aill," Whelan said, and drew a symbol on his chest with his middle finger.
"You believe in the Fae Folk?" Robert said.
"I believe in many things," Whelan said without a trace of embarrassment. "Most men live their lives girdled with superstition. I know better, but I have seen things in my years. Believe me, Sir, the Fae are not what you envision them to be. Those creatures don't actually exist. These creatures would have you think they are Fae, and are far more dangerous."
"Was that the Zenzil you scribed on your chest?"
"Aye, Sir." Whelan said. "The Fae don't care much for the Sharikeen. Helps keep them at bay."
Robert smiled, but did not respond. If he encouraged the Boatswain, their next topic of conversation would revolve around Fae circles, gates in the mist, and the land of eternal youth. How long before the conversation traversed to the Lethen'al and Lo'ademn?
He glanced behind him, and saw several of the crewmen make similar inscriptions on their chests.
The Boatswain's influence, Robert reflected. They followed his commands, and if he drew a warding of protection on himself, they emulated him.
"You might want to ward yourself, Sir," Whelan said. "Walking this close to the entrances of the Fae lands can be hazardous to your health without it."
"I'll take my chances," Robert said. He knew soldiers, sailors and aeronauts held such common superstitions, but he held no store by them. The Zenzil functioned as a locus for meditational focus, a graphic representation of the Eight Fold Path, not a talisman of any type of power.
He glanced behind him again, and cast his gaze back toward the remains of the Albatross. The Aeresian infantry swarmed over the rockslide like an angry insects nest.
"Will they enter the tunnel?" Robert said, thinking aloud.
"The Aeresians?" Whelan said. "They'll hesitate, but with the press of units behind them, they'll enter all right."
"They believe in the Fae as well?"
"There's not much to separate the people of northern Patheran and southern Aers, save a difference in religious doctrine," Whelan said. "Similar cuisine, similar customs, similar traditions. For centuries, they intermarried and traded without so much as a thought. Wasn't until they published the Colparim that things took a turn for the worse. They'll pause when they get to the mouth of the tunnel."
Robert held to his silence, and digested the information. He possessed a privileged and extensive education, but gaps existed in his knowledge, especially at the local levels. The possibility of using the terrain and the local beliefs to their benefit intrigued him. But less than two miles separated his crew from the approaching enemy.
"What are you thinking, Sir?" Whelan said. "I can smell the oil burning in the gears of your mind."
Robert regarded the Boatswain.
"I'm thinking of using their beliefs against them," Robert said.
"In what way?" Whelan's eyes betrayed a certain caution, but also inquisitiveness.
"They believe in the Fae," Robert said, "and they believe this is an entrance to their lands. What if we convinced them the Fae did not want them to enter? It might buy us the time we need to reach the citadel."
Whelan shook his head and puckered his lips.
"Dangerous, that," he said. "We could do it, but at terrible risk. If we incur the wrath of these creatures, we might not make it through."
"Whelan," Robert said. "Spare me the folktales."
Listen to him, Winslow's ghost said beside him. There is wisdom in his words.
Robert ignored her.
"What would you have us do?" Whelan said, oblivious to the spectral exchange, though his eyes did flick past Robert's shoulder.
"Send the crew forward," Robert formed the strategy while he spoke. "You and I stay behind and lay a series of wardings. Nothing overtly destructive, but designed to remove individuals in an otherworldly fashion."
"On one condition," Whelan waited for Robert to acknowledge his statement. When he did, the Boatswain continued. "We offer them to the Fae."
Robert rolled his eyes and sighed.
"How do we do that?" he said.
"Leave that to me," Whelan said. "I know the rituals. But you have to agree to it."
"Okay," Robert said, more to humor the aeronaut than anything else. "Fine."
"You'll need to better than that, Sir," Whelan said. "You'll need to say the words once we're inside the tunnel."
"We do not have time for rituals right now," Robert said. "We need to stop their advance."
"And we need to pass through unmolested," Whelan said. "If we're to do this, then we both have to speak the offering with each trap we set."
"Fine," Robert conceded the point. "What words?"
"An offering for the Fae," Whelan said, as if from memory. "To grant us safe passage beneath the eves."
Robert agreed, and related the plan to McCarthy.
When the crew approached the tunnel, Robert and Whelan slipped out of their harness and stood aside to let the others pass. The Zephyrs strode past and offered a salute.
"Let's get to it," Rob
ert said once their crew passed by.
"Yes sir," Whelan said. "Follow my lead."
Intimidation
Robert and Whelan completed their task, and ran through the tunnel to regroup with the crew. They set twenty traps, each designed to reduce the unwary soul who tripped them to ash. Robert ignored the second half of the incantation. He refused to ask the blessing of some peasant's fairy tale. But he did say, "An offering to the Fae," even if he felt like a fool doing it, so as not to offend Whelan.
The mist hung heavy here beneath the stone arch, and swirled against their legs. Sound held a distant quality and muffled the outside world. Droplets of water dripped from the ceiling, and the faint sunlight reflected in shimmering waves on the stone. Dark passages dotted the walls, which held the promise of deeper mysteries.
Whelan kept his attention focused straight ahead and did not look to the side. Robert's gaze, however, swiveled to inspect each passage they crossed. Shapes appeared in the fog, and held fast to the darkened creases, making it impossible to define their true form. Some gave the impression of being tiny stick like figures. More substantial creatures looked out with as well, their pointed faces obscured by the darkness. One appeared to be a woman with abnormally large eyes, clothed in a silver gown, with a golden circlet on her head. Robert almost paused to gauge the veracity of his vision, but Whelan's continued admonition to keep moving prevented him. If he did not know better, he would swear the woman bowed to him with her hand over her heart.
The last opening made him pause.
This tunnel shaft emitted a soft yellow glow, and blurred around the edges where the light touched the stone. Within, the mists parted to reveal an image of a young woman, roughly his own age, walking her horse through a deep forest. A leather cord held her auburn hair back, though unruly strands escaped the confines to glow in the shafts of dappled sunlight. Her face held a delicate beauty that captured the entirety of Robert's attention. His pulse increased and beat faster. His hands trembled. She lifted her finger to remove a wind borne strand from her face, and her eyes flicked forward. She met his gaze, and stopped walking. Her eyes widened with surprise and, in those seconds where they stood revealed before the other, recognition. He felt as though he always knew her.
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