Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I

by David Angelo

  That’s when he smelled it, the smell of the refined whale oil that acted as a propellant. Fin glanced at the fuel tank and saw it hemorrhaging oil from a deep gash in its side. Fin started to panic, but he bit down on his lip and followed the emergency procedure. He killed the fuel line, then opened the water tank all the way to flood the engine and prevent a possible fire. The engine coughed a few times, sputtered, and then came to a stop. The propellers slowed, then froze in midair. He was now gliding, without anything but the air beneath his wing to keep him up. Fin lowered the wing and aimed for a flat section of land at the base of the fort’s outer wall. It was the only safe spot for him to land, one that didn’t have any trees that could catch him.

  Fin circled the perimeter of the fort, trying as hard as he could to kill his speed. Below, the early morning light revealed the interior of Fort Titan. He saw plumes of smoke rising from barracks that were now ablaze. The remains of fallen wings were scattered about, the pilots nowhere to be seen. A few of his comrades had even managed to breach the fort’s walls, but their numbers were pitiful. They needed to open the main doors and flood the fort with soldiers if they wanted to take it today.

  He looked for Chinaw but couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t even remember where his wing had landed.

  “Land in the fort,” someone whispered. Fin felt breath on his neck, and the voice reverberated in his ear. He turned instinctively, but obviously, there was no one there. The voice was female, but it didn’t sound like Kemp’s; it wasn’t even inside his head. He had heard the voice as though whoever spoke was sitting next to him on the wing. Nor was it Blizzard’s, whose voice was unmistakable to him now.

  And there was something vaguely familiar about it, like Fin had heard it long ago but could no longer recall to whom it belonged.

  “Land in the fort,” the voice repeated with more urgency.

  He was not far from the ground now; one more rotation and he’d be ready to land. But the voice’s words gave him pause. Someone needed to be in the fort to lead the assault on the main doors. That was part of the original plan, after all, though judging from the way the pilots had dispersed after the harpoons started to fly, it looked like that plan had been abandoned.

  “Take charge,” the voice said, tension rising in its tone.

  Fin nodded, not even knowing whom or what he was nodding to, and turned toward the fort. Ahead, near the wall, he saw a clear patch of dirt that was just large enough for him to land. He killed his altitude and circled the fort one more time. The barracks were closer than they had ever been, and Fin could’ve easily brushed one if he wasn’t careful. He passed through a pillar of smoke and saw his chosen landing zone in sight. He slowed, descended, and held his breath.

  The wooden rudders made contact with the ground, and the whole wing shook. Fin felt like every bone in his body was rattling. Pieces of dirt and pebbles hit him in the face, and he was forced to shut his eyes. Fin tried to keep the wing steady, but he could feel it slipping beneath him. He felt the wing beginning to tip over. Fin pushed his weight to the opposite side, and after a few excruciating seconds, the wing was level again. The rumbling subsided, then stopped completely. Fin opened his eyes and exhaled.

  “That’s a hell of a landing, boy.”

  Fin looked up and saw Chinaw standing over him, his hand extended. Fin took it, and Chinaw helped him back to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” Fin asked.

  “Never been better,” Chinaw said. “I fell somewhere over there.” He pointed with a flanged mace to where he had fallen. The mace head was made of bronze, with sharpened flanges that looked capable of shredding armor. It was tipped with a silver spike, and the bottom of its dark-cherry shaft was adorned with a smooth steel ball. “I got stuck between two buildings, but I think those ended up breaking my fall.”

  “Did Chok make that?” Fin asked.

  Chinaw looked down at his mace. “Why, yes, he did. I’d been asking him for one for a while now, to complement my knives.” Chinaw motioned to the pair of knives with knuckle handles that were strapped to his side.

  “Awesome,” Fin said. He looked over toward the two main doors to the fort. “We’ve got to get those open before the rest of our fliers are shot down.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” Chinaw asked.

  They were interrupted by the sound of rattling armor, accompanied by a soldier’s barking commands.

  “Um…we’ll get to that,” Fin said, deploying his claws. “After we deal with them.”

  A small garrison of guards rounded the corner and charged at them, bayonets and swords at the ready. Fin and Chinaw responded with their own charge, meeting each other in the middle of the road. Fin knocked the rifle from a guard with one claw and jammed his second into his neck. Another guard came at him with a broadsword, which Fin dodged and grappled with his claw. The other claw came down on the guard’s arm, slicing it open, causing him to drop the sword. Fin delivered a backhanded strike with that same claw, flaying his face, knocking his helmet off, and sending his jawbone flying. A third guard tried to strike him over the head. Fin charged, drove a claw through the guard’s chest plate, and shoved him down.

  Fin looked over at Chinaw right as he was busy slicing the tendons of a guard’s leg with one of his knives, then hitting the guard square in the head with his mace. Teeth and bone shards burst from the guard’s mouth, while the rest of his face was reduced to jelly. Fin noticed another guard attempting to attack Chinaw from behind. Before he could lay a hand on him, Fin’s claw was in his side. When he kicked him off, the guard’s intestines clung to the claw’s barbs.

  The garrison thinned until there was only one left. He was a younger one, a novice who carried nothing but a spear. He let out a pitiful war cry, then charged them. Fin moved out of the way and caught the guard on the leg, sending him spiraling down. Then it was Chinaw’s turn; he pulled the guard’s head up and slit his throat. Chinaw let him go, and he was dead within seconds.

  With the guards dead, Fin led the way to the doors of the fort. After passing through the alleyways between barracks, facing little resistance along the way, they reached an open area in front of the massive pair of wooden doors. They had to have been at least thirty feet high, made from timeworn oak that had turned black with age and secured by a thick beam that stretched across the length of the entranceway. It looked like the only way to open the doors was to pull the beam out of its cradle; a pair of platforms along either side of the entrance seemed designed for that purpose. The doors also looked like they were controlled by a series of levers and pulleys, with cranks on either side to control both of the respective doors. Despite these reinforcements, the doors looked like they could be easily knocked open by a battering ram. In fact, it appeared Fin’s comrades were trying to do just that, judging by the way the doors shook and heaved like a breathing chest. But that damn beam wouldn’t budge.

  “How the hell are we going to open that?” Chinaw asked.

  Fin scanned the door again. There were sharpshooters above the entrance, so opening the doors the regular way was out of the question. There had to be another option…

  “The armory.”

  “The armory!” Fin exclaimed. “Where is it?”

  “The hell if I know,” Chinaw said. “I’ve only been in this fort for less than ten minutes.”

  “It’s to your left.”

  “Where?” Fin asked.

  “I told you!” Chinaw said. “I have no fucking clue where the damn armory is.”

  “To your left.” It was the voice again, sounding impatient. Fin looked over to his left and saw a circular building with a tall, triangular roof.

  Fin took off.

  “Where are you going?” Chinaw asked.

  “Just follow me,” Fin said, “and keep your head down.”

  They dashed across the perimeter of the clearing. The guards on the wall were preoccupied with everyone on the other side, so Fin and Chinaw were at little risk of getting att
acked. Fin reached the armory and tried the door, but it was locked.

  “Here,” Chinaw said, pushing Fin out of the way. He smashed the doorknob with the butt of his mace, then kicked it open.

  The inside of the armory was dark, but through the windows on the upper levels, they could see all that it contained. There were cannons, rifles, more of those spearguns, and barrels full of gunpowder.

  And a cart.

  “Quick,” Fin said, grabbing a nearby barrel. “Help me load this thing.”

  “What are you trying to do?” Chinaw asked.

  “Trust me,” Fin said. They loaded three of the barrels onto the cart, and then Fin grabbed the handles and wheeled it out of the armory. It was heavy, but not enough to slow him down too much. Chinaw followed close behind until they were back to where they started.

  “Now what?” Chinaw asked.

  Fin thought for a second, then remembered.

  “Wait here,” he said. He ran back toward his downed wing and grabbed his last two incendiary bombs. He returned to the cart and wedged the bombs between the barrels.

  “You’re not…” Chinaw said.

  “How else are we going to get those doors open?”

  “But how are you going to get out of the way in time?”

  Fin looked back toward the wall. There were fewer guards this time, those missing likely shot by some of their soldiers on the ground, but still too many to get there safely.

  “Can you make a distraction?”

  Chinaw sighed and looked back toward the armory. “I guess, but…”

  “Good,” Fin said. “I’ll go around the long way while you draw their fire.”

  “Okay,” Chinaw said uneasily. “But I must say that this is a stupid idea.”

  “Trust me,” Fin said, lifting the handles of the cart. “It may seem stupid, but when have our strategies ever made sense?”

  Chinaw sighed. “You got me on that one.”

  They departed, Fin going in one direction and Chinaw in another. Fin made his way around the maze of buildings, making sure not to lose any bombs or barrels as he went. When he reached the edge of the wall, Fin moved quietly so as not to arouse attention from the guards above. One of the guards that was on the rampart above the door screamed and fell backward, a bullet wound in his back. Fin glanced over to the armory and saw Chinaw crouched in the doorway, shouldering a flintlock. He sprinted back inside while the guards returned fire.

  It was now or never. Fin knew he had to act fast, or else Chinaw would be surrounded. But he still hadn’t figured how he was going to get out of the way in time. Suddenly, a musket ball ricocheted off the edge of the cart. Fin sprang into action; he yanked the cord out of one of the bombs and charged toward the door. A shower of sparks burst from the tip, stinging his face and chest, but he still ran. When he got to the door, he gave the cart a quick shove with his foot and rolled it into place below the wooden beam. Fin turned, saw the guard Chinaw had shot, and did the only thing that made sense to him in that moment. He heaved his armored body, slung it over his back, and retreated back the way he came.

  He had not made it far before the first explosion. The blast knocked him to the ground, the guard’s corpse taking the brunt of the impact. It was a heavy blow, but Fin knew it was only a preview of what was next. With the barrels ignited, the big one was just around the corner.

  Fin threw the guard’s body off, dove behind a nearby structure, and covered his head.

  He didn’t see the barrels detonate, but he sure felt it. The ensuing blast sent shockwaves through the fort, shattering windows and shaking every building to its foundation. The guards directly above the door were thrown from the wall. The resistance fighters on the other side were knocked off their feet and dropped the battering ram.

  The fort became deathly quiet. Fin got up and looked at the fruits of his labors. The door hung slightly ajar, bits of fire clinging to the beam, which was now just two pieces of wood barely held together by splinters.

  A loud war cry sounded from the other side, and the doors burst open. Resistance troops charged into the fort, some on foot, some on horseback, roaring with a fury Fin had never thought he would hear.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the voice said. “Four centuries of oppression, all up in smoke.”

  Fin couldn’t have agreed with the voice more.

  34

  FIN WAITED FOR THE stampede to die down a bit before emerging from cover. He locked eyes with Chinaw, who looked on the mass of soldiers charging deeper into the fort. When the coast was clear, Fin and Chinaw met in the clearing in front of Titan’s entrance.

  “Ever seen anything like it?” Fin asked.

  “Nah,” Chinaw said. “Only in my imagination.”

  They heard someone panting and saw Rocklier running toward them. He stopped at the fort’s threshold and fell to his knees, exhausted.

  “I’m so out of shape,” he gasped. “Remind me when the battle is over to go for walks more often.”

  Fin glanced at the direction from which he came. “Where are Black-Tooth and the others?”

  Rocklier pointed ahead. “They were in front, him, Kaw-Ki, and Chok. Did you see them?”

  “We couldn’t see shit through that crowd,” Chinaw said.

  “Well, I can assure you, they were there,” Rocklier replied.

  Fin looked up at the sound of a horse’s whinny and saw Scarlet trotting alongside Kemp, each on horseback. They stopped, and Kemp dismounted.

  “Looks like stage one got underway real well,” Kemp said, brushing herself off. “Despite our earlier difficulties.”

  “Yeah,” Fin said. He was more concerned over the fact that Scarlet was here, in the thick of the battle, with their kid in her belly.

  “You look like you can use a ride,” Scarlet said. “Anyone need a lift?”

  “But there are only two horses,” Chinaw said.

  “It’s no biggie,” Kemp replied. “There’s a lot of wounded that need tending around the perimeter wall. I can reach them by foot. You can use this horse if you’d like.”

  Rocklier got up and leaned against the saddle. “Bless your heart,” he said.

  “Here, Rocky,” Chinaw said. “You look like you can use a break. Let me do the steering.”

  “By all means,” Rocklier said. They mounted the horse. Scarlet looked down at Fin and tapped the back of her saddle.

  “Wanna hop on?” she asked.

  “Um…” Fin started. He looked toward Kemp. “Are you sure you can take care of the injured by yourself?” It was the only thing he could think of to keep Scarlet out of harm’s way.

  “I’ll be fine,” Kemp said. “Besides, we need a medic to assess injuries inside the fort.”

  Fin cursed under his breath. There was no way to keep Scarlet out of the heat of the battle. Fin apprehensively climbed onto the back of Scarlet’s horse. “Would you rather I steer?”

  “Nah,” Scarlet said. “You can use a break after all that flying.”

  She lashed the reins, and the horse took off, with Chinaw and Rocklier close behind them.

  They flew through the aftermath of the stampede. Around them buildings burned, Cullidon soldiers lay dead, and trash was strewn all over the place. Up ahead, the fort’s chaplain stood in their path. He held a copy of the holy texts above his head and shook it.

  “Turn back, you rebels!” he cried. “You don’t have the right to turn against us. The holy texts say as such.”

  “Like hell they do,” Fin shouted back. To him, that bastardized copy of the texts was about as useful as a doorstop.

  The priest ignored him. “Stop!” he ordered. “In the name of Blizzard…”

  Chinaw armed himself with his mace and lashed at the reins. The priest remained rooted to his spot, as though his empty threats were enough to stop the half-ton animal that was galloping at full speed. The priest held up his arms, but they offered little protection from Chinaw’s mace. Face met flanges, and the priest was knocked on his back.


  “Oops,” Chinaw said sarcastically. “Hope Blizzard forgives me.”

  Fin looked behind. The priest lay there in the dirt, motionless, never to misuse the Elder’s name again.

  They rode into a clearing in the middle of the fort that resembled a town square. Troops from both armies duked it out along the perimeter, hacking and slashing and lopping off each other’s limbs and appendages. Fin dismounted and landed on something sticky. He looked down and saw that he had stepped in a puddle of blood that had turned the packed dirt beneath him into a red, mushy ooze. Fin followed the streak across the road and saw a Cullidon soldier dragging himself along. He was holding his organs, which were falling out of a slit in his stomach.

  Before the soldier could get away, Chok bounded up to him and buried the head of his ax cannon in the side of his skull. Chok glanced at Fin and the gang; his face was splattered with blood, dirt, and soot, none of which seemed to bother him in the slightest. When he noticed them, he grinned, and Fin saw that even his teeth were splattered with the blood of his foes.

  “Glad to see you’re all right,” Chok said.

  Fin nodded, then deployed his claws and got to work. He, Chok, and Chinaw dove into the fray, while Rocklier and Scarlet provided support from horseback. Fin lost count of how many Cullidons tasted the bronze of his claws. The world became a frenzied blur, a swirl of bodies, armor, and so much blood. He felt it on his skin, his face. It got in his mouth, his ears, his nose. It bathed him from every direction, but Fin didn’t let it sway him. He pushed on. He could ruminate on how gross it all was later, just not now.

  “Where’s the prophet?”

  It sounded like a crack of thunder uttered from a throat lined with glass. Fin turned in the direction of the sound and saw him.

  General Tyrannous, clad from head to toe in obsidian armor, stood at the other end of the square. His head was hidden under a black helmet; even his face was shrouded behind a bulge that followed the contours of his skull with near-perfect precision. At the nose of the helmet was a grill that was just big enough for him to breathe through. He looked upon Fin through a pair of deep, empty slits in the side of the helmet, like two black voids. Dangling from a crest at the top of his helmet was something Fin had thought was a red plume. But a closer look at the stiff, flaky material that clung to a spike on the dome of the helmet showed it was not fabric at all but a strip of Faranchie tail skin. It had been stretched and tanned into a thin length of leather, one that retained the color of its original owner.