Doctor Buzzard sighed. “Well, Dwillard, to the surprise of no one, it is up to me to save the day. Everything always falls upon the smartest person in the proverbial room. I would say you’d do well to remember that, but I fear it will never apply to you.”

He and Dwillard crouched beside each other, peering over the lip of the ditch. That oaf’s knees were shaking, knocking together and producing a hollow, and very distracting sound, which Buzzard suspected would perfectly match the empty resonance that would sound if he knocked on the man’s skull.

How, oh how, have I ended up mired in these dismal circumstances? Stuck here with just this idiot for company. At least Dwillard had displayed some loyalty. That was more than Buzzard could say for the other renegade guards.

Though perhaps those imbeciles had played their cards well. It looked like they might survive, or at least make it to the town, thanks to Gwilym distracting the sheriff. Well, all of them except the man that Jackson had just killed, of course.

This Gwilym Oubliette had exceeded Buzzard’s expectations, albeit not in a conventional sense. The young man just fought with such deranged determination that Jackson seemed thrown off-balance.

That was before a bout of ill-conceived idiocy commandeered Gwilym’s mind. Only a fool of the absolute highest order would’ve thrown themselves at so monstrous a machine as Jackson’s chopper.

Alas, the boy was doomed. Too bad. Too bad, he was an interesting one. More pressing was that Buzzard’s subordinates had abandoned him. And he needed some mule-folk to help transport his things. He had a lot of important items that he would not leave behind. Time to take matters into my own very capable hands.

“Dwillard,” Buzzard said. “Have you ever flown with a jetpack?”

“N-no,” Dwillard whimpered.

“Heehee. Are you crying?”

“N-no,” Dwillard said, wiping tears and snot on his sleeve. “I just– Isn’t there any way we can help Gwil? He’s a nice guy. He saved my life.”

Buzzard glanced up. Gwilym had been gutted like a fish and Jackson had his boot on his chest. “Unfortunately, his book is on its last page. He will be dead any second now.”

Dwillard sobbed. “I just wish the fellas would’ve recognized that Gwil cared about us more than Jackson ever did. And now he’s dead!” he wailed.

“Pull yourself together,” Buzzard said. “You can still save me. And you can do something that would make Gwilym very proud of you.” Buzzard clambered down to the base of the ditch and began rifling through his pile of possessions.

“Aha!” He extracted the jetpack he’d built a few years ago. A large, blockish backpack with a rocket-shaped engine. “Now, look here, Dwillard. A jetpack is deceptively simple to operate, though it requires a deft hand.”

“W-what’d you want me to do, doc?” Dwillard said.

“You’re going to fly over the wall, open the door, and release all the prisoners. In doing so, you will fulfill Gwilym’s dying wish.”

Dwillard stiffened his jaw. “But what about the override?”

“Fool! It obviously still opens from the outside. How else would they ever get back inside themselves?”

Before Dwillard could continue driveling, Buzzard spun him around and started strapping on the jetpack. Then he spun the buffoon around again, so they faced each other.

“Now, listen carefully. You have these two handles.” He placed Dwillard’s hands on the grips. “Feel the triggers? Yes, good. They’re pressure sensitive. The left one—that is your left—will control your vertical thrust. And the right—your right—will control the horizontal.”

“Oh gosh, doc,” Dwillard said.

“I’m not done. The right stick has two buttons on the top. One will lock in your altitude. The other will initiate a controlled descent. Obviously, that should only be done once you’re above the control panel for the prison’s door.”

“I think I get it,” Dwillard said.

“I’m still not done! I haven’t told you how to steer. However, it’s simple, because I designed it so brilliantly. Both your pitch and yaw are controlled by the left stick, which affords you with full axial movement.”

Dwillard said nothing. Finally, he was learning.

“Now, I advise you to fly very high above the wall so that you don’t get impaled by ballista fire. Hopefully they don’t spot you while you ascend, but there’s not much we can do about that. Okay, I’m done.”

“Got it,” Dwillard said. “But how do I turn it on?”

“Feel along the bottom there. Yes, there’s a pull cord. Pull it.”

Dwillard’s scream was cut off, at least to Buzzard’s ears, as he rocketed skyward, sputtering, jerking, careening every which way.

Buzzard took a whiff of the exhausted Kaia smog and licked his lips while glaring up at his fumbling assistant. Eventually, Dwillard stabilized and began making forward progress. He’d gone plenty high enough, at least. Heehee.

Buzzard knew that Dwillard would succeed. He would not have chosen a failure as an assistant. And the jetpack was nothing short of perfect.

There we have it. The prisoners would go running free. Most of them would be killed by Jackson, but Buzzard would secure a few and they could carry his stuff while he orchestrated a grand escape. Where’s my radio transmitter? He needed to get in touch with dear Adeline. Ah, but first…

He returned to the crest of the ditch. There was Gwilym, lying in a pool of his own blood. Still alive! And the sheriff, oh, was he raising his boot? It looked like Buzzard was just in time. Goodbye, lad.

And then Gwilym disappeared.

Buzzard gasped and cranked up the zoom on his goggles.

“Heeheehee! I’ll be damned!”

The doctor pulled his Erithist needlegun from the holster on his belt and took aim. It was a spur of the moment thing. Call it a scientist’s intuition. “Alright, Gwilym, I’m betting everything on you.”

***

“Keeping your cards close to the very end,” Jackson said. “I respect it.”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The sheriff prowled, knees bent, head bobbing like a reptile. Ready. His men had fanned out around him.

“What is it? Teleportation? Invisibility?” Jackson muttered, half to himself, half to his prey.

***

Gwil felt so cozy lying on the sunbaked rock. Better than a bundle of blankets beside the fire in the dead of winter. The Nirva voices were clamoring, but Gwil was getting better at ignoring them.

Jackson and his officers babbled at each other as they stomped around. Hearing their frustration, Gwil smiled to himself. They couldn’t find him. His hiding place was too good. He had time.

His stomach was healing, but he’d had to rip his hand out after it got embedded in the newly grown flesh. That had been a painful setback.

His ribs had put themselves back together, but not quite right, leaving his chest lumpy and malformed.

Looking up at the sky, Gwil thought he saw a man flying high overhead. But no, just a bird.

An ear-splitting crack made him flail. The boulder that he’d been hiding behind—a huge silver spear had impaled it!

At first, Gwil thought that maybe the ballista atop the wall had fired at the bird, and that the projectile had coincidentally landed right next to him. But no, that wasn’t…

Looking at the spear now, Gwil saw it was actually tiny. No bigger than a sewing needle. And the boulder had disappeared? He was exposed, laying right out in the open. What is going on!

The needle’s luster captivated his eye. He’d seen it once before. Its ethereal quality could not be mistaken. Erithist. The substance that deadened Nirva.

“I found him! Boss! Boss! He’s right here!” a voice shouted from a few paces away.

Gwil turned toward the horde of stomping, scraping boots.

“How the hell?” Jackson barked.

As he made to dash away, Gwil plucked the Erithist needle from the little stone that it was stuck in and closed his fist around it. The needle was so heavy.

He made it three steps before vomiting and collapsing on the ground.

Ah! I poisoned myself. Face down in the dirt, Gwil smiled. This would be even better.

Jangling spurs marked Jackson’s approach. “Nice trick. But too late. You’re outta fuel.”

Gwil writhed on the ground but did not lift his head.

“I got a real good look at your organs earlier.” He kicked Gwil in the ribs.

Gwil blew a raspberry, his tongue flapping against the dusty ground.

“Look me in the eye while I kill you.” Jackson grabbed a fistful of Gwil’s hair and lifted him up.

Gwil’s arm shot out to ram the Erithist needle into Jackson’s neck. A rope appeared from nothing and snagged Gwil around the wrist, diverting his thrust into the sheriff’s bare bicep.

The rope disintegrated in that instant. Jackson fell to his knees, retching.

His own sickness from touching the Erithist abated, Gwil tackled the sheriff to the ground, planted his knees on the man’s chest. Jackson groped for the needle, but Gwil pinned his arm and then smacked the top end of the needle with his palm to drive it deeper.

Gwil flooded his fist with Nirva and cracked the sheriff on his quivering jaw.

Again. And again. Gwil laughed at the popping sounds as the jaw bounced from side to side. With every blow, more blood speckled them both. Three golden teeth popped out.

Jackson’s eyes rolled back into his skull. From the vicious beating and the voracious Erithist, he began to seize and foam at the mouth.

A charging horde of bodies and spears slammed into Gwil, stabbing at him, wrapping him up in their arms, shoving him, grubby hands scratching at his face. A spear glanced off his ribs, and another nicked his shoulder.

Gwil swung his arm out and sent three of them flying back. He kicked another in the knee. With his other arm, he continued to beat on the sheriff’s face.

But more than a dozen of Jackson’s officers assailed him, and eventually they threw him off their boss and buried him at the bottom of a dog pile.

With a swell of Nirva, Gwil flailed his way out of the pile. Cigar rushed Gwil with his spear. Gwil caught the man by the wrist and then snapped it with a chop from his other hand.

He shoved Cigar away as the officers formed a blockade between Gwil and Jackson. A few attended to the sheriff.

Gwil caught the glint of the Erithist needle pinched between the fingers of one of the men.

“Dirty fuckin’ trick,” Jackson barked. His face was a lumpy mess of red and purple, but already the swollen flesh was writhing.

Gwil stood, clutching at his abdomen. Some damage inside his guts had gotten reaggravated while he was in the pile. Bile burned in his throat.

He hawked and spat. He had to finish this now, before Jackson healed. He wasn’t gonna get a better chance.

Crunch! The sound was loud and sickening. They all turned their heads - in time to see the second man fall from the top of the wall and splatter on the ground.

A song filled the air.

On the other side of the wall, two hundred voices cried out in primal chorus. Sunlight kissed their skin. Clean air blossomed in their lungs.

***

Dwillard touched down next to the door, as gracefully as a butterfly.

“Oh boy, oh boy,” he said, voice thin with relief. Every single muscle in his body had been clenched to the breaking point as he soared hundreds of meters above the ground.

Dwillard pumped his fists. The doc was right! The jetpack was amazing!

He clasped his shaking hands. Sorry you don’t get to see this, Gwil. The former prison guard reached for the lever beside the door and pulled it.

“Wahoo!” Dwillard screamed as the heavy prison door groaned open.

The raw ecstasy in those roaring voices drove Dwillard to his knees. He started crying. That huge, scary redheaded guy came running out first. And then they all poured forth—men and women who Dwillard had abused with his own two hands.

“I’m so sorry!” he wailed as the mob rushed past him. No one spared him a glance.

He pressed his forehead to the ground. “Can you see this from down there, Gwil? I did it for you! I’m terrified of heights!”

***

Cort, a spear in each hand, was the first out. He had the layout of this courtyard—and the wall’s defenses—seared into his mind. Through all those hours toiling in the mines, he’d been visualizing this moment. His pathing was automatic, as if he’d rehearsed it a thousand times.

He turned sideways, skip-hopped, and hurled the first spear.

The first ballista operator was impaled before he’d even turned around.

The second at least got his hands on the weapon’s crank. They both toppled over the other side of the wall.

Cort flashed a thumbs up.

The freed prisoners surged past him as he scanned the wall. About a dozen Podexians remained up top. Frozen, aghast, faces warped by jaws that were so dropped they defied anatomical limits.

Limmy stood next to Cort with a bundle of spears in her arms. He took two and waited for another guard to attempt to man the ballista.

That did not happen. Instead, moving as one, the guards all turned and ran, hightailing it along the wall’s length, heading for the manor that stood on its far end.

Brock clattered past, bearing Leira (asleep) and Ansoir (unconscious) in his litter.

Cort turned. There stood Isca, alone at the prison’s threshold. He had never seen her with such a bright, genuine smile. The crinkles on her face warped her tattoos. It made him happy and sad and terrified all at once.

“What are you doing?” he barked.

She shook her head. “You know I can’t. I told you what I would do.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna let you do that!” He shook his head. “They’ve abandoned the wall. We don’t need to do it. We’re gonna go right through. We’re free. Don’t!”

She tilted her head. “I’m not sacrificing myself, I promise.” Something was wrong with her voice. It was too soft.

“Damn right you’re not.”

He made to grab her, but she said, “Don’t you trust me, Cort?” and he stopped.

“Not right now I don’t.”

“I must destroy this poisoned place. Excision is required. It’s not something that you can understand, so you just have to trust me.”

“Fuck that. I’m not gonna let you kill yourself for whatever bullshit you’re wrapped up in. I thought you hated all that stuff anyway.”

“I promised you I won’t die. And I can make another promise, too. We’ll see each other again.”

He couldn’t make himself speak. It felt like his tongue was trying to crawl down his throat.

“If you care about me, let me go,” Isca said. She smiled again. “Just come and find me after.”

“I don’t…”

She laughed, and it sounded like music. “There’s nothing to say, right? I’ll know when you all get clear, so don’t worry about that. Cort, I have to go. I’m sorry. But listen. I think Gwil and Leira are special. Please go with them. Bind your life to theirs.”

“What? Isca-”

She took a tiny step over the threshold and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Go. They need you. The fighting isn’t over. And Cort… it will never end, not until the last star falls.”

With that, Isca reentered the prison. She did not look back.

The gloom swallowed her, and Cort wanted to vomit.

He could just follow her inside and drag her out. But… why couldn’t he do it? Dammit, why couldn’t he follow her?

Such deep conviction in her voice. It would’ve been blasphemous to defy her wishes. Like trapping a bird in a cage.

No matter how desperately he wanted, Cort could not get himself to follow her. All he could do was wonder at the scripture written across her flesh. She all but said it—she was forced to do this.

Jaw clenched, Cort turned and dragged his heavy feet toward his comrades. They’d reached the foot of the wall. Hundreds of fists pounded against the metal gate, underscoring their rabid screams. That’s right. Bang the war drums.