My balls are going to freeze off, thought Rolo as he soared over the endless expanse of calm, blue ocean towards the floating island of Bendel-helm drifting slowly through the sky.
He wore wraps of thick wool around his chest, face, arms, and joints of his large, earth-toned wings, which protruded from between his shoulder blades. On top of that, he wore sturdy, light-weight leather, an outfit crafted to help protect him from airborne predators or obstacles he may encounter during long journeys between islands. His leather pants, tied at the ends to durable flight boots, flapped incessantly, absent of their thick wooly inner linings. Someone—probably that young girl he shared a drink with the night before—had stolen them while he slept off the after effects of a ruckus party and a rather potent brew of ale. An archon’s skin could handle freezing temperatures for prolonged periods of air travel, no problem, but there were still limits. He was, after all, only human—albeit half, and had been flying for the better part of the morning in the bitter cold. Cursing the thief, whatever her name was, Rolo attempted to warm his lower bits, but there was only so much one could do while traveling as fast and as high as he was.
The crystalline structures protruding from Bendel-helm’s rocky belly perpetually drew upon the waters below as it moved along its set course through the air, absorbing what it needed to sustain life on its surface. The result was an enormous column of water, that from afar, resembled a massive, misty cascade nearly frozen in time. The roar of the waters slowly crescendoed as Rolo neared. It was a small island, to be sure—a two-day’s walk across, he surmised—but one that was very much teaming with life. And, by many accounts, full of provincial folk whose culture was steeped with nuanced traditions and superstitions. This was partially due to the isolated nature of the island, which enjoyed only two crossings with other islands per cycle according to Rolo’s book of crossings, which he kept on his person at all times. And one of those islands was uninhabitable for some unknown reason. That gave Bendel-helm only one trading partner. Just one. The word backdrifter came to mind, something synonymous with the rural and unsophisticated. Such was the reputation of Bendel-helm, he’d read. Most of the folk, he anticipated, had never seen a man with wings before, let alone knew anything about the order of Archons. Or much about the world at large, for that matter. More than likely his kind existed only in children’s stories or religious parables here on Bendel-helm, and rarely as the heroes. There were only ever a thousand or so archons in the world, give or take, at any given time and they rarely ventured to any of the smaller islands, unless there was a really good reason to.
Rolo angled his trajectory upward so he could make out the surface from a distance and put the rising sun behind the island. He hated flying into the sun. The glare was almost as pestering as flying without wooly underwear. He pumped his wings to gain some altitude and perspective as he made landfall. The island itself had a vague oval shape to it, like an avocado cut in half with the larger portion towards the south. The surface was lush and green, filled with trees as tall as towers. There were fields and clearings, many populated with townships. A lake glistened near the middle of the island. Thin tendrils of rivers snaked their way through the trees, eventually waterfalling off at different ends, most likely to be sucked back up again.
The most prominent feature of the island was a large stone wall that wound its way across the northern border. Not exactly on the edge, but about a hundred or so steps inland. There were large outposts built sporadically along the wall. Rolo counted twelve of them, but couldn’t quite make out how many were in the distance. Below each outpost were clusters of buildings, wagons, livestock, and people. People that looked like ants from Rolo’s sailing vantage point.
Rolo flew parallel to this wall until he found a large group. They were clustered together on the northern side of the wall, on the tiny strip of land right at the edge. He angled his descent in their direction. A part of him thought perhaps he should be more cautious about his approach. He really should land within the trees and seek out people he could build trust with in secret to help him complete his mission. He being a scary archon and all. That’s how master Arboune would do it. Carefully. In the shadows.
“Be strategic,” he could hear his mentor say. “Think it through, Rolo—you’re too hasty!” But no, that would take too long and be incredibly tedious and boring. And that just wasn’t Rolo’s style.
As he neared the large cluster, he could see the attention was centered around one man standing on a wooden platform built directly onto the precipice. A small contingent of men in metal armor surrounded three sides of the platform, their long spears pointing meaningfully in the man’s direction. An angry mob gathered around them in a semicircle, shouting and throwing vegetables at the cowering man. It looked like a public hearing and sentencing. Rolo had seen these before. On the bigger islands there were usually food vendors set up for events like this, but Rolo didn’t see any carts or huts. Only unusual craters that littered the barren strip of land.
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That was disappointing; he was starving.
Rolo circled the group a few times before spiraling down and landing with a heavy thunk directly in the center of the platform. The impact gave such a burst of wind it knocked the man backwards, nearly off the edge. There was an audible gasp, a swift hush, followed by a clanking of spears and boots from the unsure guardsmen. Utter shock would have been an understatement to describe the collective sentiment. It gave Rolo a bit of a guilty thrill to be able to command such immediate attention at whim.
“Ah, sorry about that,” said Rolo, stretching his back and wings before folding them tightly against his back. Then he bent over, grabbed the whimpering man by the trousers, and set him on his feet like a mother would a toddler. Rolo stood a full head taller than the panic stricken, piss stained man. Of course, he stood a head taller than most people. Most archons did. He gave the man—an ugly fellow in his mid-forties—a pat on the cheek and turned to address the crowd, gracing them with a bright white smile and a wave to nobody in particular.
“Hello all, good people of Bendel-helm. Sorry to interrupt your, uh, festivities here, but I’m looking for a man. A one … oh what was his name? One moment please.” Rolo held up a finger then felt around his chest and sides then his inner and outer thighs until he found the little rolled up piece of parchment he was looking for. “Right,” he said, unrolling the note and holding it out in front of him. “A one Captain Dennis DikenBargobolla. Gemma’s tits, that’s a mouthful.” He looked up from the note at a hundred staring faces. “Looking for Dicken Barboll … Dennis,” he said. “Is there a Captain by this name here? Or does anyone know where I may find him?” The fact that people were still gawking gave him pause. “What?” he said, shrugging with a smirk. “Have you people never seen an Archon before?”
“Who … what are you?” came a nervous voice from one of the guards.
Rolo spun around, his wings fluttering. “Ah, good, you speak the common tongue. I was starting to suspect there was a language barrier. Now, that would have been awkward. As to what I am: an archon. As I just said, if you were paying attention. Half human, half something else I’ve not the patience to explain. I’m Rolo of the Archon Archipelago.”
“And why, might I ask, do you seek this captain, Rolo of the Archon Archipelago?” said a bald, older man dressed in expensive looking white robes, stepping up onto the platform.
“Oh, good, you look like someone in charge,” said Rolo, slipping the note back into a pouch on his leg. “I am on assignment by my order. This captain of yours sent my master a message via hawk pigeon nearly a cycle ago. I’d like to—”
“Good sir … Rolo of the Archon Archipelago,” said the robed man, cutting him off. He didn’t seem nearly as intimidated as the townspeople were. No doubt he’d traveled enough to see one or two archons before.
“Please, Just call me Rolo.”
“Good sir … Rolo. I’m sure we can oblige, but as you can see we’re in the middle of a—”
“Oh, right,” said Rolo, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the very confused looking man on trial. “Sorry. What’d he do, by the way?”
The robed man looked a bit flustered. He blinked a few times then said, “This man has been accused of molesting numerous young women and also attempted to murder one of our town’s most senior elders.”
Rolo tongued a tisk, tisk, tisk and shook a finger. “Well, that’s not very nice, now is it?” he said. “And you have proof?”
The robed man lowered his eyebrows. “Many testimonies and a personal confession from the man himself,” he said pointing at the quivering man.
“Is that so?” said Rolo, turning to face the accused.
The criminal swallowed, shrugged, and smiled pleadingly, exposing a set of rotten teeth. Almost as rotten as his tattered clothes.
Rolo cringed.
“Tradition dictates he must turn himself over to the great waters of Ashteral of his own volition if he’s to have any chance of redemption in the life to come,” said the robed man.
Rolo’s cringe deepened. “Yeah, no, you’ll be here all night if you think this one’s going to jump. Here, let me help,” he said, lifting a boot and thrusting it into the man’s gut. The sudden impact folded the man in half like a thin slice of meat before sending him backwards over the edge. “There.” Rolo turned back to face the robed man, dusting his hands unnecessarily. “Now, person with the bald head and nice robes, if you could please point me in the direction of this dickbarb fellow, I’d greatly appreciate it—oh, and perhaps the nearest wool merchant as well.”