30

The air battle had been conclusively won, and that ocean of wreckage and rust lay quiescent now; speared by tall crags, cut in half by a long, shining road. So much to the good. On the other hand, manna was critically low. Dark Cloud could barely remain aloft, much less fight or climb out of danger. The ship needed time to recharge, as Erron explained. Preferably, someplace reasonably safe.

“One of those spires might do,” suggested Glass-cat, pointing to the west with her very long crystalline tail. Marget said nothing at all, still being angry over his teasing. As for the potential new crew mates, their formation from timber and brass, rigging and glass, was stalled by the general shortage of manna.

Miche burned to explore in the meantime. He nodded, saying,

“Cloud, take us to the nearest crag that seems stable. We’ll tie up while you refill the manna tanks… and we may get a storm, with all this dust in the air. Glass-cat and Marget will remain aboard to defend the ship. I intend to go below and explore that road and its terminus. If Gottshan docks here at all, we need to know how, and how often.”

Glass-cat bowed acceptance. Meg uttered a short, surly grunt. Nameless yipped non-commitally, no doubt thinking of food. Firelord had expended more power than was safe for such a small, barely worshipped god. He moved a bit now in his follower’s heart, as…

‘Aye, Captain,’ responded the Cloud, inching westward, slow as the sun. ‘Eight candle-marks should suffice to recharge the tanks, so long as we do not come under renewed attack. Five candle-marks, if there is a powerful storm.’

“Understood,” Miche replied, placing a hand on the nearest wood surface; part of the sloping dark wind-cabin. After all, it was not such a bad place to be spending eternity, he reflected. Up in the wind and the sunshine, his past stripped completely away, waking whenever the ship needed crew. He could do worse.

The elf turned away after a moment, to find his path blocked by Marget. She looked like a mountain of glowering orc-flesh and armor, clearly wanting to talk. Miche levitated slightly, bringing himself to her eye-level. There was something clutched in her ‘normal’ right hand, he saw.

Once she was sure that she had his attention, the orc extended her hand and opened its fingers. Glancing down, Miche saw three lumps of gold, a strip of dried meat and a carved wooden battle-lizard. Offerings.

“For the god who has honored you,” she rumbled. “He helped to keep me from death, Vrol. I am grateful. I would give thanks and do worship.”

He nodded, feeling Firelord stir. Next extended a hand to cover her gifts. Divine flames poured forth moments later, devouring all that she’d offered without harming Meg. Left a small mark on her big green palm, though, shaped like a wisp of fire.

“Thank you,” said Miche, as Firelord strengthened and grew. “He returns blessings and courage.”

Marget smiled, showing a great many teeth. Placing her construct-hand on the elf’s shoulder, she clasped him briefly, then let go once again.

“I spoke without thinking, before,” she said, “to one who has proven himself many times in the fight. Forget those words, Brother. They were ill-said and hasty.”

Miche smiled back, relieved; still surprised by how very much their friendship mattered.

“What words?” he scoffed, adding, “My sister speaks with her axe-blade and sword. Everyone listens to those.”

Meg touched her forehead to his for an instant, just… being close, giving and taking forgiveness. She stepped away then, having the deck-watch following his.

“Explore,” she advised, “but with caution. A wise male seeks out the enemy but withholds his strike until females arrive.”

Among orcs, maybe. Male elves were larger than females, generally… except for the sea-tribes, who were all (he thought) the same size. But,

“Just looking,” he promised. “A quick scouting trip to search for evidence of recent activity. What could…”

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“If you say: go wrong,” snarled Marget, shoving him, “I will reach down your throat and jerk out your lungs, Old One!”

He almost grinned at that, only Meg took herself quite seriously, and would have been deeply offended.

“You are welcome to try,” he said to her. “After my scouting trip. In the meantime, defend the ship and keep a weather-eye on those three new crewmates. Not sure what we’re going to get, except that they like to fight, and have clawed their way free of the Cloud.”

Marget nodded.

“I will stand watch over all,” she promised him. “May your god keep you from harm and foolishness, Vrol.”

A tall order in a place like this, even for Firelord. Moments later, armored and ready, Miche set off to explore. He levitated clear of the deck, rising far into that rust-clotted air. Set up a light shield spell to block the worst of the hot, gritty wind, as Dark Cloud shrank to a spinning raisin beneath him.

Unconsciously searching for cooler, fresh air, he rose till the black ship was no more than a slow-moving blotch, its shadow a flickering speck. Wind-swept red dust curled and streamed far below him, looking like trickling paint. To the west gleamed an endless wall of flickering light, just like the one that he’d driven back earlier. This one crept eastward, erasing whatever it touched in a shower of sparks. Problem for later, though, because there, seen from miles in the sky, was Gottshan. It had to be.

Wind-sprites materialized to sit on his shoulders and tug at his whipping blond hair, but the elf hardly noticed, so hard was he staring. ‘The City that Walks’ was a massive sphere, enormous even from this lofty vantage point. Partly transparent, with internal buildings and infrastructure that somehow stayed level, Gottshan rumbled away from that oncoming light-wall. Nor was it limited only to rolling.

Once, upon reaching some kind of gap or obstruction, a set of eight sprawling legs shot forth to lift that monstrosity clear of the road. It heaved itself over the blockage, scuttling crabwise, producing the noise that a campfire makes when burning green wood.

Nameless barked something unkind. Firelord wanted to go across for a closer look, but hadn’t the strength to leave, even after Meg’s act of worship. Next Erron spoke up, taking over just a little.

“It doesn’t move very fast," mused the elf-lord. "Estimate no more than five miles a candle-mark, at what must be… oh… say a hundred, hundred-and-ten miles away. There is time to scout the docking well.”

Good enough, and that’s what they did; dropping back down from clean, chilly skies to the grainy morass down below. Miche managed to slant their descent, heading for that big, bowl-shaped cavity. It had looked smooth, up above. Closer in, the dock was cluttered with hatches, bent ladders and fallen junk. As badly corroded as everything else in that terrible place.

“I may have said this before, but I hate it here,” he told whoever might care and was listening. “Especially hate that it’s probably my fault. Most likely something I did.”

Which… Right. Solved nothing at all. Nameless dug in four sets of very sharp claws as Miche swooped downward, somehow getting through armor-seams, leather and cloth.

“Keep scratching me, and I’ll make a game of dropping and catching you all the way down, Stench-rat,” threatened the elf, not really meaning it. He succeeded in flying a bit, altering part of the spell to enable a glide. Lost his wind-sprite passengers, too. That was something.

Next paused for a while to hover at mid-cavity, taking a good, long look around. It was a crater, nearly as big as the one he’d expected to find a city in, so long before; the one where he’d faced goblinoids and a murderous giant of steel. But there were no fallen stone trees here, and (so far) no sign of danger.

The wind had dropped, blocked by the well’s sloping sides. The only noises he heard were falling rubbish and Nameless, skittering from side to side on his shoulders, peering around. A cautious, full-turn visual scan netted him three possible entry points, a hatch and two narrow vents, along with a row of deep pits that might have fit Gottshan’s huge legs. Those were wide open but plunged into blustery darkness; jetting short bursts of air that stank like a furnace. Miche turned from the docking pits to that rusted and dented hatch. It was located about a quarter way down the docking well’s southern rim. Torn half open, the portal was crumpled into a sneer. Safe… “-er”, “-ish”, “-esque”. Enough for Miche, anyhow.

“That one,” he decided aloud. “Just a quick look around. In, out and then back to the ship, before Gottshan turns up (most likely looking for bones to grind into bread).”

For some reason, this failed to reassure his skeptical marten and small, huddled god.

“That was a joke,” he explained. “I’m sure that it draws manna, rather than eating its visitors.”

Manna collected by that ragged line of bent spires. They were power masts, he realized, much like the ones on Dark Cloud. Nodding, Miche dropped lower, managing to swing himself south using a flickery ley-line. Wasn’t sure that it came from the nearest spire… but he was probably right.

Anyhow, he got them all to that crumpled hatch, which was a lot bigger than it had looked from afar. About five times his height, and four-elves-with-their-arms-spread across, it opened on rust- and dust- spangled shadow.

“What did I say? All quiet and perfectly canny. Clear invitation to enter,” said the elf, raising echoes and whispers from far inside.

He settled lightly down onto the hatch’s bent rim. It had been scraped down from above, he saw, folding the metal like parchment. There were… not claw marks, exactly… deep and precisely spaced grooves creasing the hatch-rim. Five of them. Something had wanted in very badly. Quite a long time ago, to judge from the rust and debris caught up in those widely placed divots.

“Hmm… we’ll go fifty feet, or as far as the light reaches. If I have to spark up a mage-glow, we’ll leave,” the elf whispered. Then, hopping down from the twisted steel rim, Miche dropped onto the floor, inside.