Chapter 105 - Finish Line

“Perhaps not the path I laid before you, yet a king haunts not the steps of those who walk before,” said Lura. She climbed down from her oryx and surveyed the carnage. “Still, a bargain struck, honored it must be. Will you keep faith?”

I looked up at the huntress. “I’m a goblin of my word. Now, what’s this favor you want?”

Lura looked southeast toward the high desert. “This land has a great creature that devours magic. A sky devil of unimaginable power. But it never touches the ground, except to feed—so no orc could hunt it. Not even with a shaman of immense skill and cunning. But you fly without magics. This, you will give to me, that we may hunt the greatest of quarry.”

Sourtooth’s sharp intake of breath quickly turned into a cough. Clearly this creature had some major significance.

“I…” I considered. The bestiary had mentioned a creature from the desert that was at least in the 90’s level range, well above anything we’d fought before. Even the whistler now had a 52 superimposed over its head. “You’re asking me to build you a fleet of aircraft to hunt a magic-eating dragon.”

“It is strong and swift, and these ramshackle vessels will avail us not. I want a sky chariot that can keep pace with a thunderstorm and climb just as high.”

“Oh… oh no…” I said. This was the favor she wanted? That she’d been so afraid that I’d balk at she’d been unwilling to give it voice? She wanted me to build aircraft the flew higher, faster, and further? The horror. It was tough to keep the grin off my face. “Lura, I don’t have the materials for a project like that. I don’t think I could make you anything fast enough for you to win the Stampede.”

“Put the Stampede from your mind. My ambition has elevated, and I will for you secure any materials you require.”

“Clearly,” scoffed Sourtooth. He scratched his head. Then he shook it, then he groaned. “Argh, I suppose someone had to be fool enough to try it again.” He looked at me. “You’ve ensured the Flock’s placement in the Stampede—and with it, your rights to hunt the plains. Without the rudder of vengeance, I now find myself without path. I should like to see this folly to its end, if you’ll have it.”

“Sourtooth, I have a feeling this folly is just getting started. Having your smithing skills and knowledge of Rava is something I’d welcome with open arms,” I said. And then, to Lura, “Like you said. We have an accord. I can’t promise you the sky, but I can promise that I’ll do whatever I can to get you flying as high and as fast as this sky devil.”

Lura nodded. “Good.” She leaned back as one of her orcs riding next to her team’s Keeper whispered in her ear. “The other teams are on their way. The day is yours, Apollo. Orc tradition dictates your kill you ought share. Will you honor our ways?”

I looked at the massive length of the whistler. There was enough meat on it to feed the whole tribe for months. And if the meat was as nutrient packed as a smaller scale grub, then as far as I was concerned, our food shortage was at an end.

“When in Rome,” I said. And then added quickly, “Er, that means yes. I’ll share.”

Many of my goblins had already started to tuck in, and my mouth already watered at the scent of the flash-barbecued whistler meat. Still, there was something else that caught my eye.

The ridged armor on the whistler had seemed more like rock than bone. But as I approached it, I could see a dull, metallic luster where we’d cracked the surface of it, and in the cross-section of its decapitation. Sourtooth followed me, eyeing me curiously as I broke off a piece with a small hammer I kept in my pouch. I looked at the material. It didn’t look like iron or zinc.

“Sourtooth, how does this thing get so much metal build-up on its carapace?”

The old orc pointed up at the spires. “During storms, thunder calls the dust up from the earth, and when the bolt strikes the whistler’s tail, holds fast the metal to its hide. This whistler has been growing for centuries, getting tougher all the while.”

I hummed to myself. Strange. This world’s version of electro-plating? Galvanized carapace? I’d seen plenty of broken steel parts since unlocking the boom furnaces, and this didn’t have the right grain. Plus, it was too lightweight. Despite the whistler’s size and strength, it still had to be able to move fast and strike hard. But there were other metals that you refined with electricity. I knelt down, picking up a few more pieces of the pinkish gravel that covered the floor of the canyon.

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I whistled, getting the attention of every goblin in the canyon.

“Collect as much of this shell ore as you can!” I shouted. “And find me the tail!”

Sourfang scratched his head. “Pointless,” he muttered, kicking his prosthetic against the hide. “This ore is too light and brittle, far too-so for weapons and armor. It serves only to lend to the whistler’s strike.”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe, we just found ourselves a goldmine.”

“A metal of equal worthlessness,” said Lura, approaching. I brought my head around. “You don’t use gold for coinage or…?” I looked back at my work. “Right. Orcs. I suppose central monetary systems aren’t your forte.”

Several goblins ran up, chittering. I followed them, and they led the three of us up a small slope and through several pillars to where the end of the creature dangled from where it had wound around a pillar Some of the legs back here were still clawing at air, not yet having received the signal that the front of the monster was dead, I suppose. The end of the tail had a pair of prongs that were a slightly different luster than the rest of the carapace. They were massive, too. Big enough that a dozen goblins would struggle to heft one of the tail prongs between them. I took a handful of iron nails from my pouch and tossed them up in the air. The couriers squawked and covered their heads, waiting for the rain of sharp iron to fall on them. But it didn’t come. Instead, the nails shot up, holding fast to the surface of the whistler’s tail.

Natural permanent magnets—powerful ones, too. Neodymium equivalents? Probably not quite that strong but loads better than lodestones or raw magnetite ore. If I couldn’t mine or manufacture magnets, could I pull them off the various creatures of Rava that used lightning on their own, like the thundercleaves and the whistlers? That, of course, meant hunting more of them.

Did I really want to think about there being more whistlers that I had to kill for magnets?

No, not especially. Not yet, anyway.

Within a few hours, the other teams began to arrive. Their convoys of oryx and pack beasts made camp in the canyon, and the echos of tent-stakes being pounded and processing knives being sharpened rang off the rock walls. Chuck returned towards the evening; fuel-empty chopper being towed behind a Blood Gorger pack-boar. He grinned when he saw me and Armstrong sitting near Promo’s forge grilling whistler meat.

I offered the wrangler a strip of dripping meat fresh from the forge. “How was hunting with the Gorgers?” I asked.

“Boss, you should’a seen it,” he said between bites. “This thing they hunted, it was fast, fast. Could barely keep up with the choppers. But they’d have got it. Mark me, these orcs know their trade when it comes to bringing down beasties.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “Because we’re on the hook to take down the baddest one in the skies above Lanclova with Lura.” I tried to poke at the coals in the forge with a stick, but Promo swatted me away.

“How you plan to do that?” asked Chuck. “The choppers don’t go that high before they start whinging and sputtering. He tilted his head up to where a pair of biplanes circled above the camp. “More of those?”

“Something like those,” I said, watching their lazy loops in the sky. But one of the planes diverted east, and the other wheeled around soon after to follow it. I tapped Armstrong, who followed the action. A moment later, the crack of a signal popper echoed through the canyon, and I scrambled.

“Get to the buggies!” I said, running.

I reached my customary trike, looking between the brass bottle and the engine for the pale blue glow. But I saw nothing.

“Girmaks?” I called out. No response. I grit my teeth. The Ifrit must be elsewhere. I’d drive it myself.

I dropped a rockette into the starter and kicked the trike into gear, almost before Armstrong and my other secretive service had time to get aboard. Overhead, the green puff of smoke that marked the signal popper was drifting on the breeze. I angled the front wheel toward it and opened up the throttle. Vehicles flanked me, and I wasn’t sure what I expected to find. But the orcs were taking note as well, and a few of their scouts had spotted something. A few mounted up on oryx. Lura joined me, and a moment later, and Sourtooth on his motorcycle.

“What comes, little brother?” demanded Lura. “Does something challenge the Stampede?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” I shouted over the sound of the engine.

In the distance on the hard pack, beyond the edge of the canyon, something approached across the ground—something small, scrabbling toward the camp. I shaded my eyes with a hand, but couldn’t quite make it out, until it started waving its arms, and then tripped and tumbled across the hardpack, stubby legs waving in the air.

“Is that a noblin?” asked Armstrong.

“I think so,” I said, trying to think. “Did we lose a noblin today?”

My scrapper chief shook his head. “Maybe he fell out o’ the glider?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

We pulled up closer, and I could see the noblin was dressed in frayed and tattered robes and covered in myriad scratches. Even the tip of one of his ears had been docked. But through all that, I still recognized my canoneer chief.

“Luther!” I shouted. I pulled up the trike and jumped down as the canoneer collapsed on the ground outside the canyon. He had a small brass jar wrapped in his hands, and the portly noblin huffed and puffed as though he’d run a marathon—which he might well have done, since we were miles from the edge of the desert.

“What the heck happened to you?” I asked. But it wasn’t my canoneer who answered, seeing as he mostly just heaved for breath he didn’t have to spare, and sat back on the ground.

“King Apollo! We were betrayed!”

“Taquoho?”