29

The nearest floating island was as big as a mountain flipped upside down. With a verdant, forested top and three vast, pointed roots, it resembled a giant stone tooth embedded in streaming white cloud. The magic that kept it aloft sang from its very core, making the air seem to ripple.

Up here, the sunlight was pure and direct, unfiltered by mist. It was much cooler, less humid, as well. Better yet, the wind sprites were fairly cooperative. Still playful, but willing to waft Miche and his passengers over those bumpy gold cloud tops to “Big Island”.

The darting sprites materialized often to yank Marget’s braids or the elf’s long cloak. Their mischievous faces and billowing, transparent hair made them look like naughty small children (but they did take him where he wanted to go).

The orc was deeply relieved when her boots grated on solid rock once again, and she could release poor, frantic Spots. The fawn was a pitiful sight; huge-eyed and wobbling. Nameless wasn’t much better. The marten shot away the instant they landed, barking imprecations. Then again, its long tail and whiskers had been a particular wind sprite target, vexing the creature to madness.

Miche let his friend go, rubbing at dozens of scratches and looking around. The sprites had deposited them atop a spire of level rock, which rose from a lush, teeming forest. Turning full circle, he saw more floating islands, as well as a lake on their own that flashed in the sun, reflecting a sky so blue and pure that it seemed to go on forever.

“I bet…” he began, a little uncertainly. “I mean… you could tear a piece off, dip it and eat it.”

“Eat what?” rumbled Marget, rearranging her coarse, yard-long braids. The wind sprites had stolen half of the orc’s metal clamps, and now her hair had begun to unravel. “I am famished, and ready to hunt whatever this air palace boasts.”

He shook his head, feeling self-conscious.

“Nothing. Just… dream food for air sprites.”

Being quite literal, Marget dropped the matter at once. She stood with her legs braced apart, snuffing at the wind as she dragged both her hands through that mane of black plaits, cursing, re-braiding and clamping.

Well, they still had plenty of food, and it seemed wise to eat before setting off to explore, so the elf brought out the wyvern steak and three apples. Next, he set wards and built a fire, while Marget fetched water and wood. They saw no sign of other people; elf, orc or human. Just noisy birds and dozens of curious animals. Rock conies and small goats, mostly, along with a host of inquisitive ground squirrels. The creatures displayed no fear, coming right up to sniff at Miche and Marget.

“Hunh,” grunted the orc, brushing a trio of goats away from her meal. “These beasts have no dread of a hunter, Vrol. There would be poor sport in stalking them.”

“They may never have seen a person before,” he suggested, pulling his own blond hair out of a goat’s mouth, “Anyhow, we have enough food, and such innocence merits protection.”

Marget snorted. Next fell to gnawing a slab of tough meat that he pulled off the fire and handed her.

“Best we explore and move on, then. One of the farther islands might provide more amusing prey,” she replied, around a big mouthful of food.

Miche nodded, consulting his map. ‘Val,’ the shrine goddess had called him. ‘Lord Errin’, the story inside of him argued. Both names pulled at his heart, but only one came with memories… and it was too much to think about, now.

The map seemed to struggle to show their location, displaying only the top of the floating island, with a blurry background of shifting colors behind. No shrine was displayed up here, but a constellation of lights dotted the backdrop. Shown from so far above, they formed the shape of the Strider; upright, as in midsummer.

The rest of those floating islands weren’t marked on his map, though they crossed the rift in a curve like a flagstone path, to the eye. Very strange.

“What do you see when you look off to the side like that, Vrol?” Marget asked curiously, nudging him.

The elf considered, cocking his head a bit. Fed half of his apple to Spots, then…

“Here. Take my hand. I think I can show you,” he told her, reaching over the nibbling fawn.

Marget’s hand enveloped his, while he still held the map in his thoughts. She was kin now in spirit, if not in blood. What he knew… what he saw… he could share. Mostly. The orc’s mind worked differently, and her way of seeing was not quite the same as his own. Close enough to let her glimpse the chart of their island, though, against a backdrop of shifting colors and lines.

She reached forward with her free hand, trying to rotate the map. He followed her gestures, turning the image as she indicated. Thanks to Marget, the elf discovered that he could blur the island to focus back on the valley below, too.

He hadn’t stopped eating while they worked, having drained himself hollow with all of that brisk levitation. Suddenly, Marget switched her attention from the landscape to what he was chewing.

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“What is that taste?” she demanded. “It is an apple, but there is something in the way you taste it that I do not recognize.”

That surprised Miche. He stopped in mid-chew, swallowed hastily, then said,

“It is sweet, somewhat tart… grainy and kandish.”

“What was that last word?” prodded the orc, scowling suspiciously.

“Kandish. Like kand. You know,” he replied, perplexed.

“No. I do not. When I am forced to eat apples, I taste not that flavor… except when my thoughts are with yours, Old One.”

That led to some exploration, as they learned that their senses did not align perfectly. There was much to discover. Mostly odd scents for him, strange colors and various flavors for Marget. She insisted on having him taste apples again and again, because as soon as their contact was broken, she could no longer recall that delicate savor.

A foolish amount of time passed that way, while the sun went a-westering and twilight approached. Sunset colored the sky; marking the moment when larger dragons go hunting for prey. It was time to seek safer lodging. Done with silliness, they cleared up their mess and then left. Edged their way down a set of spiraling, overgrown steps chiseled into the sides of their pillar.

“This must have been a sentry post, once,” Miche speculated. “Or else a place from which one might board and launch airships.”

Marget grunted. She lumbered along behind him, carrying Spots on her burly shoulders, one hand clutching the fawn’s spindly legs together in front.

“Those I have seen at a distance,” she scoffed. “Sorcerous, untrustworthy skiffs held up by magic. Drop out of the sky like a rock, if their spells fail.”

Someone… Lord Errin had seen that happen. Watched many crews lost, in the final battle but one. The elf shook his head, too stubborn to let the jibe stand.

“There was a time when great fleets of airships rode the skies, Marget. When manna was free for the taking, for anyone with talent. Like air and sunlight, almost… back when the casting of spells was easy.”

“That would be good for elves, but not for the rest of us,” said the orc, sounding glum. “It would set your folk over all other races, Old One.”

“And breed much hatred,” agreed Miche. “I think that we brought the end down on ourselves, through arrogance. Then, when manna faded, and the races were equal, war broke out.” The thought depressed him.

Marget shrugged, causing Spots to struggle and kick.

“Folk will find any excuse to fight, Vrol. The trouble was surely not all caused by elves,” she said, bumping him with a muscular arm.

They were still over two-hundred feet up the stone pillar, quarter-turned so that they faced the next closest island. Miche stopped climbing downward to stare. The other island was five miles or so distant and smaller than theirs. A dark place it was, curved like the moon and (no other word for it) blurry; seeming to vibrate and break into bits at the edges. Or, not bits, but…

“Assemblers,” said Miche, keeping his voice down. “Their hive must cover the entire island.”

As the elf and orc looked on in surprise, millions of the mechanoid creatures rose from their floating stone nest. These formed a great, swirling black cloud that roiled like smoke, streamed upward and then took the shape of a massive dragon. Miche reached upward and back to nudge Marget, not taking his eyes from that soaring false drake.

“Aye, Old One,” she murmured. “It is the same shape seen through the clouds, from that cess-pit of merchants. Can they be hunting the city folk instead of taking them up to their heaven?”

Miche stifled a very orc curse when Nameless dropped onto his head from the steps above. Snapped,

“Into the cloak hood, you pest! Hide.” Firelord was still out there somewhere, exploring; a thing he liked not at all.

The marten complied, squirming around till it found a comfortable spot, then slipping its sleek masked head out to rest on Miche’s shoulder.

“I don’t know why they would bother,” answered the elf, once Nameless was settled. “Assemblers do not eat flesh, in my time… I think.”

“Nor in mine, I know,” rumbled Marget. “Yet they are taking the people of Amur for some reason.”

“All of their trouble and none of my own,” grumbled the elf, reaching up to scratch Nameless under the chin and behind it small ears. “Still… perhaps we could go have a look at the place, once the assembler dragon has left.”

The thing was a graceful and smoky shadow-monster that swooped and dove through the reddening sky; sometimes coming apart or taking another quick-darting shape. In its own way, a breathtaking sight.

“I care not at all what becomes of the locals,” clarified Miche, staring at Marget.

“Who would?” she agreed, loosening various weapons. “But before we rush in, the matter needs thought. ‘Stay downwind of the prey’, as my mother used to tell me and Vrol-the-former… Not that we listened.”

Miche smiled.

“Stubborn runs in the family,” he said to his sister-in-heart. Then, “I can get us out there. Best move under cover of darkness, when the winds are right, though… and without Spots, who has no place in a fight.”

Marget nodded.

“This floating rock is safe for the small one. Nothing is hunted here.”

Miche thoughtfully rubbed at the side of his jaw, nodding back.

“Aye, that," he agreed absently. "For the rest… I can work on a spell of invisibility. One that blocks all ways of seeing. Then we can scout the assembler hive from above. Don’t suppose the Amurites would be penned out on the surface, but it can’t hurt to look.”

“Would snaring an assembler for information do any good?” wondered the orc.

Miche shrugged.

“They are only intelligent in large groups, when they’ve reached at least person-mass,” he told her, recalling the life of Lord Errin. “We would need to capture a great many units, then induce them to combine.” And that didn’t seem very likely.

“Unh,” she grunted. “Well, no prey in the blankets, and the way to beat death is to meet it with valor.”

“Mother, again?” asked the elf, glancing back over at Marget. She grinned at him, showing her full set of frightening teeth.

“Mam perished in battle, drenched in the blood of her foes… as may we all,” said the orc, reverently. Her hand on his shoulder was tense with excitement.

Meanwhile, that dragon-shape had locked together and fully assembled. It was now a sleek, mechanoid beast of dark metal with glowing, bluish-white seams. Would never fool anyone who’d seen an actual dragon… except through the clouds or a very bright sunset.

Spreading vast wings ribbed in metal and membraned in shimmering energy, the beast gave a piercing cry. Part crackle, part whistle, the sound rattled their teeth and chipped stone. Bits of their stairway flaked and dropped off, causing the pair to tumble/race downward. Even at this distance, the composite creature was loud. It lashed a very long, segmented tail, cutting the air like an axeblade. Its giant horned head featured a pair of glowing, heat-lightning eyes and a mouth that glittered like frost.

The false dragon rose, spiraling into the air, then paused to look down at the hive, appearing to communicate. And that, he suddenly knew (or Errin had) could be disrupted. The assemblers’ link could be shattered by making a certain pattern of light.

“I have an idea,” said the elf, watching that shadowy monster soar away into the gathering dusk. “Listen…”