“Welcome, bold travelers. Lay ye hopes and fortunes into my hands and I shall return them a thousandfold.”
Norcossa, the dragon goddess of luck, boomed, her wings extending to almost fifty feet across, covering the entire atrium. Her gold and platinum dress shimmered as she towered over the guests.
The movements of the mouth did not entirely match her speech patterns, yet other than that, the ten meter tall animatronic was as real as real could be. Her scales were made from wyvern hide. Real dragon scales would have been preferable, but the combination of the dragons’ intelligence and the strict anti-poaching laws almost worldwide left little alternative.
Her wings shimmered and flapped loudly, raining down gold and silver slips of paper, which flapped down lazily towards the eager guests. The slips of paper allowed a single free spin at the slots. Like a Twinkle dealer giving the first sample for free.
The crowd of lavishly-dressed politicians, entrepreneurs, businessmen and royalty cheered as they jumped, shoved and reached for the mocking slips of paper like beggars at the poorhouse stampeding for the last bowl of soup.
“Only two slips a man, please!” One of the guards said firmly. His armor was like an extension of the lavish interior, white and gold in color.
This was the greeting that the Golden Cornucopia casino airship gave its guests every time she took off. One of its victims had named it a “siren’s call” in his suicide note after losing his fortune within the airship’s gilded walls.
Mides smiled through the hidden peephole which looked down at the guests. He took care that he was the only bat onboard, so that only he could fly up to it and spy on his clients. Here they were, some of the most powerful men in the world, their eyes gleaming hungrily at the prospect of doubling or tripling their wealth overnight. One or two would. They would clap and holler and drink the bar dry, perhaps performing some outlandish stunt like stripping themselves naked and mooning the now ruined losers.
At least, that’s what the last degenerate rich bastard had done, the grey-furred bat thought wryly. Behind their opulence and high-born manners and nobility, the rich were every bit as debauched as the poor devils in the Dark Zone, selling their children for one more hit of Twinkle.
One particular magnate, one of the most powerful men in Osnya’s thriving automobile business, poisoned himself, his entire family and his most trusted servants in a mass murder-suicide after losing everything at Mides’ gambling tables.
The bat felt no guilt or responsibility for him, or any of the others who lost everything. They were adults, and their wealth and wellbeing was their responsibility. If they wanted to piss away the empires they’d built in years or decades from robbing decent folk, so bloody be it.
The mass of well-tailored suits and elegant, yet alluring dresses circled around the massive statue of Norcossa as she spoke her well known quotes. Of course, most of those had been originally told to pious worshippers or soldiers before battle, not wealthy gamblers who hadn’t done an hour’s honest work in their lives.
The Holy Order of Lady Fakona had even tried to sue Mides while he built the airship, citing that the association of a figure of piety and stalwartness such as Norcossa with gambling and vice was a blatant misrepresentation and blasphemy. However, he’d easily won the trial, citing free expression. This wasn’t the Third bloody Era anymore.
Mides watched the mass of opulence reach out for the lifelike animatronic, touching her as if she were a real goddess. He noticed one of the guests stroking Norcossa’s arm scales, an obese boar as broad as he was tall, getting a hard-on through his well-tailored trousers which could have served smaller mammals as a parachute. Mides recalled that he was a prominent figure in the dragon husbandry community. There were rumors that he sometimes dismissed the grooms and stablehands and remained alone for hours with his dragons… seemed they were true.
The bat almost lost his breakfast as the mental images hit him. He restrained his anger by reminding himself that he still controlled who won and who lost. And the swine had just signed his death sentence.
The guests were ushered through lavish corridors, all laden with images of wealth and plenty. They were invited to their luxurious suites, the walls lined with gold leaf, the beds sat upon a throne-like pedestal. However, they afterwards had to suffer the inconvenience of having their bags searched.
Firearms, blades of any kind, even ties above a certain length were all confiscated.
The restaurant (which was only open at certain times of the day for short periods; we don’t want to waste time that could be spent at the game tables, do we?), staff were very careful about cutlery potentially being hidden in sleeves, or a guest “accidentally” breaking a plate or glass and sneaking a shard away.
Mides had learned the hard way to leave no chances when it came to the possibility of his guests harming themselves. On his maiden voyage, the Varga twins, famous firearm tycoons who’d made a fortune during the War, had lost their entire estate in just one night at his tables. When they ran out of cold hard cash, they began to gamble away their mansions, factories and other assets. They got drunk and high in their suite then shot themselves with a prototype machine pistol they were going to present at a military expo in Nyter. Worse still, the morons had left the selector on full auto, so the stray shots went through the walls and injured two other guests.
It had been one Gehl of a scandal, one that he managed to cover up only because he now had the brothers’ wealth at his disposal to spend on legal fees and silencing newspapers. A few entitled rich bastards raising a fuss about their rights being violated was a small price to pay to keep his business.
The guests would also soon learn that their rooms lacked amenities normally expected of such luxury. The lamps were subpar and did not light sufficiently to allow comfortable bedtime reading; what, you came here to read? There was no room service. If they wanted food, they’d have to go to the restaurant during its open hours or a snack bar- either road having to be taken through the gambling halls, naturally.
As did the road to the outdoor promenade, massage parlor, sauna, gymnasium, smoking lounge and every other potential destination.
And when one went into the gambling hall, all thoughts of going anywhere else normally vanished.
It was a truly awe inspiring-sight. The walls were covered in murals depicting Norcossa leading her faithful into battle, her gleaming scepter aimed at the enemy, ordering her soldiers to charge. The enemy, of course, being the slot machines, card tables and roulettes, manned by smiling dealers dressed in pristine, pocketless white and gold uniforms, like soldiers manning machine gun posts, waiting to cut down an enemy charge.
Upon entering, each guest was offered a complimentary glass of champagne. It had an extra bit of alcohol in it, specially blended to hide the stronger taste, which was usually enough to chase away any inhibitions about going all in. The bars were all within the gambling hall itself. The sounds of dice hitting canvas, cards being shuffled, raucous cheers of carefully selected winners and of course, the live band, were a constant alluring birdsong calling back the drinkers drowning out their sorrows at losing.
However, in spite of its splendor, when one entered the hall, they noticed something amiss. Normally, it wasn’t so much as seeing it as it was feeling something wrong. A feeling of deep seated wrongness and falsehood. Like how some people felt in the presence of Druids who had the power to change their appearance: there was something wrong.
That was because the room completely lacked windows. All light was artificial. And clocks, for that matter. Gamble until you expire of means to gamble with. Mides couldn’t let something as trifling as a guest’s bedtime interfere with the constant cashflow.
A silver-furred vixen, taller than most of her species, a black and gold dress hugging her narrow, sinewy frame, walked into Mides’s office. He flew down to her, offering her an expensive cigarillo, which she accepted gratefully.
“What do you have for me, Bianka?” He asked.
Bianka, alongside six other “feelers” were some of the Golden Cornucopia’s greatest assets. They were specially selected based on their looks, education and experience in manipulation and subterfuge. There were five women and two men, in the relatively rare case of a female gambler, or a man who secretly preferred the company of his own sex.
Bianka herself spoke six different languages and had finished the newly minted University of Psychology at the top of her class.
Quite frankly, it was a happy miracle she was here instead of wasting away in a tiny room listening to damaged veterans talk endlessly about their nightmares.
The feelers persuaded the prosperous old coots to keep gambling by appealing to their masculine pride. No man wanted to back down when an attractive woman gave them sweet eyes. And of course, once they lost sufficiently, the courtesans disappeared like phantoms in the mist, by secret doors if need be. They never degraded themselves by bedding their marks, mostly because there was no need for it. The mere unspoken promise allured the silver from their purses more efficiently than any pickpocket.
“Got a few promising ones,” She answered through a puff of smoke. “Prince Comdus is here. This time posing as a rich University student.” Mides couldn’t stifle a satisfied laugh. Every royal needed a vice. And the vice of the immediate heir to the Osnyan throne was doubtlessly gambling. The boy could always find some public fund to dig his paws into, or a bank willing to loan him, given his position. His embarrassed father, the prestigious Dekebus The Vth, had done his best to limit the means with which his son could indulge in the sinful games, and the media exposure. Yet the young prince always found ways to escape his father’s watchful eye, and new coffers to pilfer and gamble away.
Many Osnyans were worried that Comdus would be a bad king, especially following his father’s superb reign, yet Mides was not among them. While he was a terrible gambler, Prince Comdus was incredibly smart and creative in subterfuge. Anyone that can find ways to continue gambling enormous sums, when the most powerful man in the world bars them from most income, must be worth something.
“I met Lord Draveer, the tobacco millionaire.” Bianka continued. “He’s just finished the acquisition of a Rigurian company, and he’s awfully happy about that. I didn’t even need to ply him with booze for him to tell me that. And the old lion was all over me.” She smirked.
Mides thought for a second, doing some calculations in his head. “Make Draveer lose a few thousand. 100k tops. But don’t skin him alive. Let him win some. He’s a good potential repeat customer. I’d rather wait until he grows his business in Riguri before doing that.” The bat ordered.
Bianka nodded.
“Oh, also… it’s probably nothing, but there are two gentlemen who have barely placed a bet so far. They went to the dice tables a couple of times, then they just went to the bar, watching everything.”
Mides frowned. Non-gambling guests were no good. Not only were they not losing money, they tacitly encouraged others to step away from the games.
“Did you try to-“
“I did, but I was only given monosyllabic replies. They don’t seem to be interested in me or the other girls.” She shrugged. “Maybe they swing the other way? I can get Francis or Krest to try their luck.”
The bat flew back up to his peephole, looking for the offenders. He found them easily enough. It was a bull and a thylacine. The young bovine was tall and broad shouldered, yet it was the kind of build owed to a good diet and healthy exercise, not hard work. His large cloven hands were surprisingly delicate, lacking any scuffing or callusing. And his back, while muscular and impressive, had a slight hunch. A wealthy bureaucrat with a passion for weightlifting.
His partner, on the other hand, was completely different. He stood well over six feet tall and was as narrow as a nerve. His thin pianist hands were covered in scars, as was what little of his torso was visible beneath his elegant red shirt. He stood up straight, as if at attention. While he conversed with his companion, his amber eyes discreetly glanced around the hall, settling on each and every guest, then moving on to the next. Mides had seen it before. Threat assessments.
The thylacine was most definitely a soldier, most likely a Burning Steel veteran. This was by no means unusual. However, thylacines were not native to Osnya, or even the Carnelian continent. Some had fought as part of Solvegira’s Foreign Legion, and Mides supposed some may have chosen to settle in the lands they fought for.
There was something about that man. He didn’t just look like a soldier, but a warrior on a mission. He was completely relaxed, yet there was an edginess to him, like a race dragon waiting for the cage doors to be lifted.
“Tell Leone to have one of the guards keep an eye on those two. Seems to me they’re not here for the booze anymore they are for the gambling.”
“You think they’re planning to rob us?” Bianka asked, an air of edginess in her normally impassive voice.
If they did, they’d be very unlikely to succeed. The ship had ten guards, each armed and well trained. No way only two men, regardless of their skill, could win against that. Furthermore, due to the growing threat of air piracy, the Golden Cornucopia was constantly shadowed by the Obsidian Arrow, a small, yet heavily armed corvette-class airship, which had another twenty mercenaries on standby. In case of hostile action, they’d rappel onto the mother airship and subdue any attackers.
Mides flew over to a bookshelf and retrieved a small journal and a massive tome. The journal was the guest list. It contained names, companies, estimated wealth and even a picture. Some nations talked of paperwork such as identity cards necessitating pictures in the near future, yet none had yet taken steps to accomplish it. As usual, Mides was ahead of the curve.
Flipping through the guestbook, he found the two suspects easily. The thylacine was an up-and-coming businessman, his company dealing in tires for automobiles. Smart, thought Mides. Carriagemakers were already closing up shop worldwide.
There were two safe investments, as far as the bat was concerned: technological advancements and vices. He’d chosen to combine both.
The bull was a fresh graduate from the Ignisdava University of Sciences. Classic tale of a rich boy celebrating his graduation by wasting away a good chunk of daddy’s money on frivolities.
“They check out. No grounds for trepidation.” He smiled at the vixen.
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Antoine Carton Dewulf stood on the edge of the observation deck, watching as the white smoke of his cigarette seemed to absorb itself into the puffy white clouds. Nearby, the clatter of dice hitting tables, satisfied laughter and disappointed growls cut through the silence of the sky.
Antoine didn’t look. He knew they were glaring at him from behind. He had half a mind to turn back, just to make them fearfully look away. Yet as satisfying as that sounded, the russet furred timberwolf could not defeat his apathy and disgust sufficiently to do anything.
Here he was, working for the enemy. Of course, many of his countrymen were doing the same thing. Even their Speaker…
It felt wrong. Perhaps the honorable thing to do would have been to slit the throats of everyone on this Pale-forsaken flying monument to the “little candles” vanity, then throw his lot in with the thousands of pirates roaming Osnya. He’d had such thoughts many a time.
Continue the fight, after a fashion. Strike out at the enemy with the savagery and energy of a Magisa turning into a Pale Walker after death, slaughtering as much of the enemy as they could before their soul was whisked away. But then, what would he be? A fugitive. A roamer. Someone who lived off the land, avoiding civilization, striking out against its very foundation.
He’d be a Rootless.
He bit down on the cigarette almost hard enough to sever it. As much as he despised the Archenemy, he did admire them for one thing: their refusal to bend the knee. When the Lunists invaded, they’d attempted peaceful integration of the occupied regions. Showed the people of Osnya that they’d been living in the scorching rays of Savagery, when the gentle shade and radiance of the Moon and Civilization awaited.
And while they’d had some limited success, the barbarians mostly lashed out. The damned Rootless first, of course, the natural destroyers of civilization. But then the people within the cities, who saw the repression of the Rootless. They sabotaged roads and railways, killed high ranking Lunist officials, spied and reported back to their masters via dragon messengers.
They quickly adopted a name: “Siccali”. Meaning “Sicklemen” in Osnyan. Apparently, it referred both to their willingness to kill and die for their homeland, as well as the insurgents being average peasants taking up arms for their homeland.
They kept up the fight, no matter how many of them were killed or shipped to work camps. Eventually, the barbarians had figured out the value of the Siccali, and they began leaving behind troops in each abandoned region, where they trained and formed insurgencies. And when the Aurora Alliance finally counter-attacked, the many occupied Osnyan cities rebelled en masse, making troop and supply transport difficult, if not impossible for the Eclipse Empire.
The stalwartness and fighting spirit of the average worshipper of the Sun had saved their nation.
Of course, what the gloating Osnyans usually failed to mention was the cruelty and depravity of their “noble” Siccali. They robbed their own villages for food and other supplies, or coerced villagers into joining them. They were brutal and utterly merciless to any and all Osnyans who converted to Lunism .And of course, their sheer depravity and barbarism towards Lunist civilians when the war turned around, and they counter-invaded Alexandrios, now recruited into “Vengeance Battalions”.
Yet for all their sins, they never gave up the fight. Even when their Legion was seemingly defeated, even when all seemed lost, even when offered an easy, comfortable path in serving the victorious empire, they fought with all they had.
Now that the war was over, what did his people do? Oh, they were discontent. Hardly a day passed without an Osnyan soldier in occupied Alexandrian cities being beaten, mutilated or even murdered. Many of them tried forming resistance movements inspired by their enemies’, yet they were either brutally crushed, or they turned into little more than pirate gangs.
It felt like he should have felt anger and revulsion at his people bending the knee to the Archenemy so easily, after the enemy fought them so hard, yet he couldn’t. Because he’d done the same.
For eight years he’d fought as a Nyxferer. Night Fighters. The elite of the First Army. He and his comrades had sown fear and terror into the barbarians’ hearts. The Osnyans even had a saying: “If the Nyxferer get into the trench, the battle is lost.”
Of course, that was not always true… especially if the Pugnazuras, the Scout Raiders, happened to be in said trench. As far as Antoine was concerned, they fought with sheer savagery and animalism, not skill. But the end result was the same: they were every bit as good at what they did as the Nyxferers.
Even so, Antoine’s unit had never lost an engagement. Not even against the damned Pugnazuras. Sure, not every mission went flawlessly. Many of his comrades had given their lives for the cause. Most of them, in fact. Yet his unit had never suffered a humiliating retreat without order. And how many of those damned orders there were…
He’d done everything that he could to win. And so did every last one of his people, from the most valiant of soldiers, to the lowliest factory worker. But someone didn’t want them to win…
Cursing, Antoine walked to the observation deck, where he tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the clouds. He was about to grab another one, when he noticed something. Something that did not fit the random, natural chaos of cloud formations. Something with a definite shape.
He stopped and leaned on the railing. He definitely saw something. Something triangular and… plumed. A feathered wing. Not a dragon, thank Kirous. He couldn’t stand those savage things. A griffin. The airship had a griffin for scouting. Perhaps it was just stretching its wings?
No, it only did that at night…
He was about to turn around and warn his colleagues, when two powerful arms wrapped around his neck. He tried gasping or calling out, yet not even a strangled choke came out. It was like he was held back by a factory automaton, not a human being.
It wasn’t the first time he was being choked. Falling back on his training, he leaned forward and elbowed backwards. He felt his elbow strike flesh, yet there wasn’t even a grunt of pain. He grabbed the little fingers of the hands that were choking him to break them. They did not budge. It was as if the mere fingers of whoever was strangling him were more powerful than his entire hand.
His face went numb. His head throbbed, begging for oxygenated blood that wouldn’t come. His body had forgotten its extensive training and experience, and merely began flailing around pathetically like a fish in a bucket. Eventually, his body ran out of fuel for even such a futile struggle, and he felt himself being gently laid out on the polished metal deck as consciousness left him, just as the shooting began…
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Rouka Severin eyed the richly gilded airship through his binoculars. It was dusk, the sun hiding away behind puffy clouds, casting vivid, yet shy little honey-colored rays. The first stars were up in the sky, twinkling a promise of safety and comfort.
It was most fitting that the Empire of Light’s downfall would begin just as the moon took the sun’s place upon the sky.
The Golden Cornucopia gleamed in what little sunlight remained. How very fitting that such a vessel of decadence would attempt to harness the scorching sunlight for as long as it could.
The wolf put the brass binoculars down, revealing two different colored eyes. One was gray, almost coal-black, the other a comforting shade of pale blue. One could tell from the richness of his silvery fur and strong, sinewy build that he was almost a pup. Indeed, he was barely two decades old.
Yet his eyes, that shimmering coal and that patch of ice, had more pain in them than most men four times his age. They were the eyes of weariness and exhaustion. Yet what anyone subject to his gaze felt first was the sheer ferocity and fortitude behind those queer, contrasting eyes.
A fortitude fueled by hatred. Hatred for those who had produced that weariness. For those who had beaten him down, taken everything away from him. His life, the promise of a life beneath the gentle Radiance of the Moon, his father, his brother, were all burned away in the accursed Flame.
He pawed at a silver full moon-shaped pendant dangling from his neck. He opened it up. It was a black and white photograph depicting a wolf family of four; Two men, a woman and a child.
The older of the two men had his paws around his wife’s shoulders, who was sitting down. She tried to look neutral with a half-smile, like people often do in family photos, yet the disquietude on her face couldn’t have been more evident.
The source of her anxiety was clearly the military uniforms that the two men were wearing. Not the dark green Osnyan uniforms, but the far lighter Lunist uniforms, which by that point in the war, were a light blue, which did a fairly good job of blending in with earthy tones. The two soldiers were clearly father and son. Their fur color was almost a perfect match, and by now, the son had completely caught up with his father in height and musculature.
The elder looked impassive. His coal black eyes were glancing at the camera with nothing more than a sort of anticipated nostalgia. Like a sailor looking at the port of his home, knowing it would be years before he saw it again. The younger soldier was eager and anxious to fight, evident by his hands clenched on the backrest of his mother’s chair, knuckles looking white even through the grain of the old frayed picture.
And holding the woman’s hand was a wolf pup. He was 10, perhaps 11. He stroked her larger hand in both paws, his dual-colored eyes glancing at her with the reassuring comfort that only children naive to the dangers of the world could provide.
Rouka’s eyes were fixed on his mother. He tried recalling her exact fur color. The color and shimmer of her eyes. Her warm, joyous smile. It seemed beyond imagination for a loving son to forget any such details of their mother, regardless of how much time had passed since their last meeting. Yet his final memories of his mother were not of the handsome, proud woman in the photograph. They were of a pathetic shell of her. A pink, frightened, gaunt thing, her hooded eyes constantly trying to hold back tears.
In his darkest moments, the young wolf found himself wishing that his mother had been killed alongside his father and older brother. At least then, his final memories of her would be of her true self. Not of the broken down, traumatized creature that the barbarians had cursed her to become…
A single tear rolled out of the lighter colored eye, the pendant clenched in a fist. He felt his anger welling up. He felt hatred burn in his chest as if a sickle penduled over his heart.
Today, he would finally unleash that hatred upon the wretched Fakonans. Today, he would make them taste true defeat for the first time in twelve years. Today, every city they burned, every person they forced to live by their barbaric rules, every Lunist they butchered, would begin to be paid back. Little by little… until the bastards had nothing left to give.
His dark contemplation was interrupted by six shimmers coming from the casino airship’s top deck; Two short, one long, three short. All the lookouts were taken care of.
Turning, he nodded to his right hand man; a monster of a polar bear that could have made certain dragons look small. He was sporting an eyepatch over a heavily scarred face, and was clearly far older than his captain. However, he gave no sign of resenting taking orders from a far younger man.
“It is time.” Rouka said simply. The bear grunted an acknowledgement and saluted, walking down to the gunnery.
The wolf walked across the deck to the bridge. He already had a perfect view of his target through the thick glass. He was so close to his goal, he could taste it… finally, he would get to punish his tormentors in a meaningful way. They would wail and mourn and suffer. Many would think it was a fluke, an accident, and the worst passed… then he would strike the killing blow.
“Pump the tanks! Towards the ship!”
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“Lost again, ya foozle-handed yokel!” The cougar with an eyepatch chortled as he lifted the wooden cup, revealing a 5 and a 6. With that, he had a full house of 1-6. The young buck before him slammed the table, the shock rerolling the dice as if in a desperate attempt to change the result.
“Aw, come on, princess, don’t be a sore loser!” The feline slapped his shoulder with fake sympathy. “Give ova’ that earring!”
The buck hesitated, looking down at the knife sheathed at his belt with a wistful longing. At length, he undid his earring and tossed it on the pile of valuables already on his opponent’s side.
A hefty coin purse, a ring and a golden fountain pen were piled up like war booty.
“Don’t worry, sunshine. Ya can win it all back!” The cougar grinned, revealing a golden fang.
The buck suddenly got up with such force and speed, the cougar jumped back. He thought the boy may use that knife of his after all.
“You’re cheating!” the boy cried. “Your dice are loaded! I just know!”
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The cougar sighed something that almost sounded sympathetic. He gathered up his dice and outstretched his hand.
“Here. Try them.”
The buck grabbed the dice and weighted them up in his hand. He shook them near his ear. He flicked them on the table. They all obeyed the laws of physics and tumbled like normal dice.
The youngster stared at them for a long time, then looked up apologetically. The cougar nodded understandingly, making sure the two marked dice were tucked well behind his sleeve.
A long ring pierced the dusty break room.
“Eagle-2, respond. Eagle-1 from Mother Hen has not reported back at the agreed time. He is likewise not responding to telegraph hails. Pray check up on him.” The intercom buzzed.
The cougar groaned and pressed the brass switch near it.
“That bloody gump just fell asleep again. Y’know what those fuckin’ Lunists are like: they sleep during the daytime. Still can’t get used to our timetables.”
“Eagle-2, that may be so, but procedure asks that you give us visual confirmation in case of comm silence. Without Eagle-1, we have a blind spot the size of the Foakmons. Get to it, and I’ll pretend you’re not breaking the rules against gambling.”
“Oh, you fucking-” The large feline began saying, yet the intercom cut off before he could properly reply. With a guttural sigh and another curse, he got up.
“Alright… the fuckin’ nightspawn fell asleep again. Wait here and I’ll-”
The buck’s first impression was that his comrade had punched him in the chest. But the cougar had not moved. In fact, the feline was flying back himself. He then noted with detached curiosity that his comrade no longer had a face.
In his left peripheral vision he saw how the gamblers at the next table were now splattered all across the shattered wood. He saw the wall burst open as well, as an arrow-shaped projectile, about the size of an automobile engine, slammed through it.
It was cold. So cold. A freezing gale pulled at him. He was being pulled out of the ship. Amongst the flying debris, he saw a severed hand. He realized with a strange logical indifference that it was his hand. Which was curious, as he still felt his hand. He felt his fingers moving.
He saw the airship from below. It looked strangely untouched, save for the hole in its side. The lean, arrow-shaped corvette was now listing downward, threatening to collapse. They’d hit the Ventus tanks, he realized. A small, rapid, armor-piercing projectile. The kind used in Lunist AA cannons. His father, who’d been an aviator in the War, told him about them.
The buck laughed. He laughed even as a wicked piece of shrapnel pierced his chest like a bayonet. He laughed like a fool as he fell through the clouds.
Because he realized how ironic it was that his father survived eight years fighting aboard an airship, only for his son to die aboard one during the peace he’d so bitterly fought for.
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The casino had been built with heavily soundproofed walls. Nothing distracted a gambler more than the foreboding sounds of a storm or howling winds rocking the ship. It’s why none heard the firefight that followed the first few guards getting knocked out, or their sister ship getting blown to smithereens. The first sign of alarm came when the chief of guards on the casino floor did not receive the hourly update from the outside patrols, nor did they reply to hails on the telephone or telegraph.
The chief, a broad backed ox with his horns neatly trimmed, rallied his men to the armory.
“This is the first time they fail to report back in time in two years of operation.” He barked. “Something is going on. We will breach the observation deck via entrances A and B. Scaletta, Barbaro, Ficulus, on me to A. The rest of you stack up on B. Angelo, you lead that team. I shall give the signal via portable telegraph. The signal word is “purpur”.”
They locked and loaded, body armor going over pristine suits, the guards arming themselves with autoloading shotguns and SMGs, all the latest models in firearm technology. No expense had been spared for the defense of the Golden Cornucopia. Scaletta, a dark furred wolf all the way from Riguri, took point, the barrel of his SMG held low. The small team moved with a precise, well-practiced flow. Most of them were veterans, either of the Burning Steel War, or the many smaller conflicts that erupted following its conclusion.
The chief of security felt a cold knot in his chest. The same applied to the observation deck guards, yet they’d apparently been overwhelmed by some overwhelming force. They reached Gate A, splitting up to cover it. Scaletta stood opposite, weapon held ready.
The ox held up three fingers.
Three… two…
As soon as his final raised finger twitched to close, Scaletta raised his weapon. At first, he thought the wolf was merely preparing to breach. He realized what was truly happening too late. The shock was so great, that he didn’t truly believe his eyes until he felt the barrel against his skull.
The last thing he ever felt was a cold circle pressed upon his forehead like a priest’s blessing. He died without knowing why, his demise coming so quickly that he hadn’ to feel betrayed.
Scaletta killed his chief and the other guard behind him in a single, short burst. The ox’s head exploded, leaving only the lower jaw and a twitching tongue.The wolf then corrected his aim downwards, killing the guard behind the chief in the same burst. The scream of the automatic weapon reverberated through the brass and wood corridor, the echo and the rattle of spent casings creating a deafening concerto of death. As Barbaro covered him, Scaletta opened the gate. If all had gone well, his comrades were doing the same on the opposite side.
Through the gate stepped Rouka Severin. The silver-furred wolf was shorter than his compatriots, his armor simple and light, consisting of a single steel plate covering his upper chest. Yet his analytical gaze of coal and ice and slow, purposeful movements made him fill the room far more than his burlier comrades. He carried a simple sawn-off shotgun and a Lunist Messer long dagger at his hip. The blade lacked any kind of decorations, looking exactly like the utility machete, or short sword if the need arose, used by millions of Eclipse Empire soldiers years ago.
The gunfire whose reverb was slowly dying had brought out two dealers, a lynx and a hare. The confusion of seeing their own guards with weapons raised gave them the illusion that their allies had a handle on the situation. Until they saw the improvised armors and unknown faces of the pirates, and realization dawned upon them. By then, however, two gunmen moved up behind them, cutting off any means of escape.
Severin approached the two terrified croupiers, holding the sawn off by the two barrels in a clear show of non-violence.
“I shall only ask this once: where is Prince Comdus?” His soft voice was polite, almost apologetic, yet firm. It wouldn’t accept a negative answer.
“I-I…” the lynx stammered. “He isn’t here! We can show you the guest list, we-” He gasped in pain as a quiet meaty squelch filled the room more than the terrible gunfire. Still holding the sawn off by his side, the young wolf drew his Messer and plunged it into the cat’s guts with a single, fluid motion.
Blood erupted upon the white and gold suit. The blade exited the man’s stomach with a terrible rasp of meat and bone, and the man collapsed on hands and knees, as if not lying entirely prone would prevent his death. Severin took the opportunity to wipe the blood off his blade on his victim’s shirt.
He glared at the hare. The croupier’s eyes did not leave his dying colleague, gasping suddenly as he’d forgotten to breathe. True to his word, the pirate leader would not ask a second time.
“H-he…” The hare struggled for words, eyes darting to the wide blade dripping his friend’s viscera. “He’s in the main gambling hall! Prince Comdus is in the main gambling hall! He’s wearing a gold and purple suit!” He then began sobbing uncontrollably, pressing himself against a wall as if he could make himself disappear.
“Thank you, my friend.” Severin said, like he was paying a cabbie. Then, in one quick motion, he brought the sawn-off’s stock upon the herbivore’s head, sprawling him out cold on the floor.
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“I hope everything is to your royal highnesses’ liking?” Mides asked the finely dressed ashen-furred tiger in a hushed whisper. The heir to the Osnyan throne turned around, his blue eyes glazed. He’d inherited his father’s eye color, but not their spark. Prince Comdus’s eyes had all the sharpness of the sky blue wallpaper in a baby’s room.
“Oh, wonderful, wonderful!” The tiger grinned, downing a shot glass in one gulp. “Your ship, as usual, is beyond reproach or bother! Why, I’d give ten Imperial Palaces for it!” He looked at the attractive lioness next to him, her burgundy dress revealing far more than would have been acceptable in polite society. She purred and rubbed his sharp jaw, at which he audibly exhaled.
“Especially with wonderful ladies such as these…” He said to the smaller bat almost conspiratorially.
With that, he slammed a single gold-colored chip down on the 21 upon the forest green roulette table. A thousand Krata, more than most Osnyans could have hoped to make in a year, wagered on a drunkard’s whim.
Mides glanced for a second at the zebra croupier. He then took his golden cigarette case out and opened it. Then, as if thinking better of it, closed it back up and replaced it in his jacket. The zebra did not even tilt his head towards his employer, yet he got the message. He adjusted his cuffs before spinning the wheel. Unbeknownst to anyone, a wire ran from his sleeve all the way down to the machine.
The small ivory ball bounced upon the polished wood twice, then began spinning around the rim. Round and round it went, the grind of ivory against wood filling the room more than the live band and raucous laughter across the hall. The Prince was utterly transfixed upon the ball, forgetting for a second even about the sensual lioness currently caressing his neck.
The ball landed upon 21. Prince Comdus screamed in joy and clapped his hands, attracting the curious gazes of every other high roller. He embraced the lioness, crushing more than squeezing her as he pressed his lips against hers in a sloppy kiss. She tensed, clearly uncomfortable, then remembering her purpose, slipped a manicured hand behind his head and returned the unrequested advance.
Mides chuckled at the circus act the second most powerful royal in all of Osnya was putting on. He’d have been crassly lying if he said that having such demigods in the palm of his hand, with something as trivial as parlor games, didn’t give him a feeling of near godhood himself.
He saw Lieutenant Otis, a brawny sabertoothed tiger, approach out of the corner of his eye. His build, the barely concealed revolver bulging his neat jacket and the fact that he wasn’t gambling at all clearly communicated to all that he was no high roller. And that should any of them raise a fuss, they’d be dealing with him.
“Where should I lead him now?” The lioness asked, sneaking away from her “date”, whom was currently in the process of ordering a round of the most expensive liquor available for everyone in the hall.
Mides thought for a second. “He’s our best customer. A key to returning clients is to let them win every now and then. So, make him feel like he’s won enough for the night, and take him-” The bat continued talking, yet he could no longer hear his own words. The sound of his voice was replaced by a constant, buzzing drone.
A splash like warm soup suddenly covered his face. His eyes squeezed shut as he flinched away from it. A few droplets made it on his tongue. Salty.
An expression of agony was sketched upon Otis’s face, his shirt stained bright crimson. He twisted around as something slammed into his shoulder, sending a gory chunk on the floor.
The bullet that killed Otis ripped through the silence, almost drowning out the screams of the dozens of patrons. The large tiger fell forward, his hand clenching his now useless revolver, and Mides found himself half pinned beneath the massive dead weight. What few other guards there were in the room were cut down in short order. The pirates cleared the room, covering each other like trained soldiers advancing through a trench. They quickly covered the exits and forced the civilians to the ground, screaming at the top of their lungs or blasting a shotgun into the air to get their point across.
Debris, torn playing cards and betting slips floated lazily through the air like ashen snowflakes. The final of the screams died down, replaced by the occasional whimper and the slow footfalls of a single man. Mides looked up from his bloody hiding spot, seeing a white-furred masked canine walk slowly through his ruined temple of greed, gambling tables and shattered slot machines laying at his feet like destroyed altars.
His burgundy shirt and trousers almost concealed the blood already coating him. His mask consisted of a captured Air Police helmet, a small jagged bullethole in its side, with an added steel visor, making his eyes invisible behind steel slits of cold metal. All Air Police helmets were surplus Osnyan Legion helmets, making it resemble an improvised version of the infamous Scout Raider steel mask. He held a sawn-off double barrel in one hand, and a bloodied short sword in the other.
Some of the pirates, Mides noted with shock, were his own guards. He thought his screening process was foolproof! Yet they seemed almost inconsequential compared to the wolf’s mighty presence.
“Ladies… gentlemen…” He began, his voice quiet, yet filling the room. “You have all dined well tonight, I hope? Of course you have. No one here has ever experienced starvation, pain or loss. It’s why you try and simulate it here.” He picked up a large dice, looking over the six finely carved sides.
“You spent all these years building up your empires… and then you come here, willfully offering the chance of their destruction for the scant chance of an addition to your wealth. It’s not really about the opportunity to grow your empires of sin even further. It’s about guilt. On some level, you all know that you have not earned the power you exert over millions, and thus, you believe that risking a fraction of your wealth, to swell the coffers of the scum running this flying abomination, absolves you of your sins.
“It does not. Your sins, and Osnya’s sins, are too loathsome to be absolved by anything but blood.”
“Freeze in Gehl, you pirate scum!” The tall, ashen-furred tiger cried. Prince Comdus removed his opulent purple jacket, leaving him in his gold threaded waistcoat. At least two gun barrels were now pointed his way, yet he had no reaction. It wasn’t so much bravery, Mides thought, it was more like the concept of any kind of punishment being inflicted upon him was unthinkable.
“You dare storm in here, murder in cold blood, and lecture us on morality?!” He approached the leader, ring-covered fists clenched. The masked wolf appeared to have no reaction until the prince took a swing at him. He easily dodged the clumsy punch and jabbed his shotgun’s barrels into the larger feline’s belly.
It hadn’t been a very powerful blow, yet Comdus fell down like he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. He curled up in a fetal position, moaning terribly in a pain he’d likely never experienced.
Mides had to fight hard not to groan. To think that whelp’s father had lost an arm in battle…
The wolf chuckled, looking down at the pathetic heir.
“And this is who shall one day lead ‘The most powerful empire in the world’? The ‘heir of the Augustans?’ Perhaps I needn’t do anything to punish Osnya after all.”
“F-fuck y-” The prince croaked, before a well aimed boot to the ribs sprawled him out with an exaggerated cry of pain. The other pirates laughed with gusto, a few turning away from the other hostages to observe the pathetic spectacle.
And none were looking in Mides’s direction now…
He ran the ship’s plans through his head once again. Right next to him was a vent which led outside the ship. If memory served him correctly, it was large enough for a Class I mammal such as himself to fit through. The vents on the ship were held in place by two screws at the bottom, and then swung upwards on a hinge. And his penknife could serve as a screwdriver.
The bat began slowly wiggling out from under his bodyguard’s bulk. It wasn’t an easy task, for the tiger was at least twice his weight. He kept a wary eye on the pirates, who were currently focused either on tormenting the cowardly prince, or watching the other hostages. With great effort, he was halfway free, sweating and muscles straining. He closed his paw on the knife, settling his eyes on the brass ventilation shaft. Making as little noise as he could, he began crawling on his elbows, inching his way to the vent.
Opening up the smallest blade on the utility knife, he lodged it in the grove of the screw and began twisting. There was some resistance, and he had to strain a little, but eventually the screw gave and obeyed the movements of his hand.
The first screw fell softly on the carpet. Mides looked back. Still none had noticed him, yet some of the laughing pirates had lost interest and began covering the hostages once again. One down, one to go. He hurried this time, forcing the screw open. The knife fell out of his hand and clattered on the floor.
All laughter ceased at once. Every pair of eyes in the room, from the pirate leader, to the attackers, to even the terrified guests, were settled upon him. He almost laughed. He’d been so close…
“Ah… Mister Mides Vespertyl… our gracious host for tonight.” The sinister mask made the wolf resemble a grinning skull. “How polite of you to join us.” He gestured, and one of the pirates, a massive polar bear holding a vicious sickle-like weapon, approached. He moved with the slowness and precision of an automaton.
Mides looked back at the grate wistfully, as if he could think it open. Then he looked at the screw… it was practically out already.
The desire to survive refilled every vein in his body. He gripped the screw and pulled. It was loose. It came off right away. Unable to hold in a gasp of triumph, he swung the vent open. He heard the previously unhurried polar bear rush towards him, each step reverberating like a giant’s feet crushing stone. He jumped inside the vent, crawling as fast as he could.
A massive handpaw made to crush boulders came after him, groping the cold metal. The bat could not hold back a scream of terror as he crawled further and further. The hand caught him and he yelped. It had only caught his jacket. He shrugged himself out of it and went on. The vent now went down at a 45 degree angle. He slid down on the bare metal, his bodyweight crashing through the grate at the bottom. He fell through the clouds, the cold night air like whips of razor wire across his exposed thin fur. Calling back his all too brief Imperial Navy training, he made his body like a plank and extended his wings.
His fall stopped as if he hit a brick wall, and the whiplash almost made him vomit. It had been too long…
The Obsidian Arrow was a burning wreck in the ocean, its flames lighting up the waters like a lamp in a dark alley. The pirates’ airship, a captured transport vessel outfitted with improvised black armor and guns, was a stark contrast to the richly gilded Golden Cornucopia.
Mides continued gliding across the dark skies, looking around desperately. They were over the Silver Sea. Where exactly, he did not know, that had always been the navigator’s duty, not his. There were countless little islands around it, yet only a handful were inhabited. And many more were pirate havens. And for now, he couldn’t see anything save for inky black water stretching as far as the eye could see.
And he hadn’t practiced flying in too long… it had only been minutes and he was already getting tired. He shivered, bitterly feeling the absence of his jacket. He flapped his wings, partly to keep flying, partly to keep his blood flowing. Still nothing. No islands, no ships, no other aircraft.
After minutes, or perhaps hours, of flying, Mides realized he would die. His wings barely obeyed him anymore, flapping lazily like curtains in an afternoon breeze. He wondered if he would die immediately upon plummeting in the ocean, or suffer the agonizing death of struggling in the icy deep until finally his strength gave out.
Just then, a shape flying below caught his attention.
It was an orange dragon, about thirty feet in length. At first he tried to stay quiet, afraid it was a feral dragon, but then he saw that it was loaded down with crates and had a crew of three: a rider and two guards.
“Hey! Help me! I’m up here!” He cried. The dragon’s massive head craned towards him, his rider, a bull, following him.
“What the devil-” The bull began, then quickly instructed the dragon towards the bat. Carefully, with aid from the other two riders, he was settled upon a crate and strapped in.
“You look rough, friend.” The bull said. “Did your ship have an accident?”
“W-we…” Mides began, yet his tongue felt like a brick. Licking his lips and taking in a breath, he tried again. “I am the captain of the Golden Cornucopia. We were attacked by pirates. I managed to escape…” He wondered if he should reveal who was on the ship… well, the crown was at stake… “Prince Comdus is amongst the hostages!”
The bull’s eyes widened and he whistled lowly.
“Please, get me to the nearest town! We must get the Air Police on it right away!”
“No need, mate.” The rider grinned. “I make sure to keep ol’ Bertha here in tip top shape. Only the latest and greatest for me girl.” He patted the dragoness’s flank. “She’s got a portable telegraph. We can let the coppers know right away. Scrillo!”
One of the two guards, a portly boar, saluted and turned towards a console, turning several knobs, three bulbs whirring to life as the machine turned on. Then, he began pressing upon the large brass button with the precision and cadence of a woodpecker.
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Wireless telegraph aboard ships had a range of 300 miles during daytime, though that range could be as much as doubled during night time, thanks to the refraction of long-wave radiation in the ionosphere. The far smaller portable telegraph, however, had a much shorter range. The rucksack wireless telegraphs used during the Burning Steel War had a measly range of 10-20 miles. The ones aboard dragons could be larger, depending on the species and load capacity, but even then, they could only hope to hit 100 miles on a good day.
They were quite far away from the mainland, about a hundred miles out. Their only hope was a patrol ship from the Air Police. It took a few tries, and changes of altitude, yet eventually, they were picked up by a small patrol vessel. Upon hearing of the hijacking, and especially that Prince Comdus was taken hostage, the air bobbies scrambled to inform their superiors.
Once the message made its way to a ground police barracks, a landline telephone could be used. At first, the half-asleep ram sergeant operating the telegraph went through the motions with the enthusiasm of an overworked desk clerk. Pirate hijackings were more common than thunderstorms, and were treated with the same degree of urgency. He’d see if a board and rescue crew were available, and in the likely case they were not, then they’d-
As the telegram paper unrolled, he saw two words that chilled him to the bone:
“PRINCE COMDUS”
Those two words woke him up far more than the cup of tepid coffee upon his desk. He rubbed his eyes and did a double take.
“PRINCE COMDUS TAKEN HOSTAGE. STOP.”
“R-radiant Light!” he muttered.
He pressed every single alarm he could find. He did his best to recall his training: “In case of crises involving members of the Imperial Family, immediately inform the Ektore’s Guard.”
The ram picked up the phone receiver, scanning down the numbers list for the Guard. But then, he thought about it: The Guard were the best of the best, handpicked from the Adustii and Golem orders. But not even warlocks that could manipulate fire or turn themselves into hulking rock behemoths would be worth squat if they were hundreds of miles away in the Capital. It would take them hours to arrive.
Then, he recalled the Ignisdava elite bobbies that had come to train with them. At first, the ram viewed them as lowly as any other city cops, but he had to admit, they were good. Even gave him and his men what-for in training. As far as he knew, they still hadn’t left.
Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, he dialed a number.
“Get me Maloko!”
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Borsas’s wings sliced through the clouds like scythes through a field. His five riders flattened themselves against his back, making his 50 foot long body resemble a gigantic bullet. They blended in the night sky perfectly, the dragon’s green scales painted in grey-black paint. His harnesses and equipment were likewise concealed, every last bit of gleaming metal covered up. His riders wore midnight blue and black armor and fatigues, looking like spikes upon his massive back.
His wings were extended to their full length of 120 feet, flapping only now and then to gain speed or altitude. Tyras was once again amazed at how such massive beasts could be infinitely quieter than the smaller, sleeker planes that outdid them in areas of speed and range.
Finding the plans of the Golden Cornucopia had been relatively easy, as it was officially listed as a hotel ship, and its blueprints a matter of public record. Actually studying them however, was a different matter. Most pirates were opportunists. Some would capture ships to add to their own fleet, yet most of them simply snatched up every valuable not nailed down and fled. And right now, Prince Comdus was the most valuable commodity they could possibly have.
With Prince Comdus in their grasp, they could force Grand Ektore Dekebus to do whatever the scum wanted. Or perhaps, they could even kill him as a revolutionary gesture. From what little Mides Vespertyl said about the boarders, they were more the ideological type. A few of them were turncoat employees, who were paid kingly, meaning monetary incentives would have had less value. Which left ideology the sole motive.
The pirate leader’s speech accusing the patrons of building their business empires at the expense of the common man all but confirmed that theory. Which meant that there was no time to waste.
Tyras had taken five copies of the maps, securing them in the glass displays before each seat, which allowed the riders to study documents while airborne.
“Here’s the deal!” Tyras shouted, although the quietness of the dragon’s flight made it rather unnecessary. “If we approach the ship straight from behind and at least 50 meters underneath, they have no way of spotting us! They’ll be looking out for Air Police ships in any case, not dragons. The lower maintenance levels are where the main transformers and fuse boxes are located. We disable them, then move up to the main decks.
“We’ll split up into two elements. Achlos, Rafil, you shall come with me on the West Wing. Achlos, you take point with the shield. Eldar, Kiah, you take the East Wing. There should be less resistance there, given its distance from the main gambling hall and guest rooms.
“Once we reach the main entrances to the gambling hall, where most pirates are located, we each give a signal on the portable telegraphs: ECHO for when we each reach it, and I shall transmit SUNSTORM as the signal for a simultaneous breach.”
Achlos smirked privately beneath his mask. “Operation Sunstorm” had been the codename for the mass Aurora Alliance counteroffensive in the Foakmon Mountains, the turning point of the war. Not only were the Lunists pushed back, but they had suffered so many casualties, lost so much equipment, vehicles and materiel, that they never truly recovered. It was widely considered the most successful counteroffensive in history.
Even so, the mastermind behind it, Lord-General Diegis, considered it a personal failure, as several elite Lunist divisions had managed to fight their way out of the encirclement. Now that Achlos thought about it, it was probably a way to further demoralize the enemy: “If this is what I consider a failure, wait until I achieve success.”
“Sunstorm” had already become slang in Osnya and other Fakonan nations for the turning point of a dreadful situation. And as nearly the entire team had been involved in that glorious victory in one way or another, they all felt that in this case, the expression was adequately utilized.
The two ships were now plainly visible through the dark clouds. Even from such great distance, it was plainly visible which was the pirate ship, and which was the Golden Cornucopia. One was smooth and well rounded, even its very silhouette made to entice and attract. The other had jagged protrusions of gun pods and welded-on armor upon it, like a deformed curled up armadillo.
Black oily smoke rose up from far below, where the escort ship had been shot down, a foreboding smog of death.
Tyras guided Borsas to fly well below the Cornucopia, where it lacked any windows or viewing ports. Once they got up next to the platform, they jumped one by one. Borsas flew downwards, hovering below the ship awaiting orders. The dragon had an earpiece, like all team members, from which he could hear telegraph messages.
The operatives all wore the segmented assault armor of trench raiders and the steel ballistic mask and respirator combo made infamous by the Scout Raiders. A massive battery backpack powered each team member’s portable radio and night vision devices. They all carried the new top-loaded SPC-90 automatic carbine, now outfitted with steel magazines, as per Tyras’s instructions. All except for Achlos, who instead carried a massive tower shield and his handcannon.
Tyras signaled them to wait, then focused. Using his Forte to see just into the next few rooms, he saw that there was no immediate resistance. Tyras nodded.
Achlos beat the door down with a mighty kick and the five raiders cleared the room in a matter of seconds. The generators buzzed and spun furiously, powering the entire ship. Or rather, it powered “luxuries” such as electric lights, electronic slot machines and elevators.
“We are outnumbered at least three to one, and our foes have the defensive advantage.” Tyras explained. “We’ve all gotten through worse odds, but only with careful planning to regain the initiative.” With that, he drew his Gladius and slammed the hilt upon the circuit breaker. Metal bent and sparks flew like firecrackers, the spinning generators whining dreadfully like a wounded animal, before sputtering dead.
The room was immediately plunged into darkness. Tyras, Rafil and Eldar could still see somewhat thanks to their nature-granted night vision, yet the two herbivores couldn’t even see their own hands.
“Night scopes on.” Tyras ordered, sliding the bulky brass scope over his singular eye. As Achlos did the same and his world lit up into a confusing mishmash of green and black, he saw his commander’s silver eye gleaming beneath the mask’s visor, the night scope like a protruding artillery piece.
“Now it gets interesting,” Tyras growled.