22
The snowy mountains gave way at last to a broad, level plain. Very cold at night, blistering hot in the daytime, its surface was covered in wreckage. Just a tangled and rusting junkpile that spread to the very horizon, with a line of bleak towers spearing the mess like dark, broken teeth. No water at all, and drek-few inhabitants. On the other hand, there was no sullen red spiral marring their northern vantage. No drums, either. That was something. But…
“There are supposed to be waystations, here,” accused Miche, leaning out over the gunwale with his bow in one hand. Kept the other locked tight to that polished brass rail, as a fall from this height, onto all that, would certainly kill him. Since leaving the mountains, they had faced nearly constant attack; battling ancient defenses from land, and silent, strangling sky-vines that dropped right out of the air. Now, he and Marget kept watch day and night, along with that glassy construct. It was Miche’s turn, this time. He stood on the deck with Nameless and Firelord, around noon of their fourteenth day aboard the Dark Cloud.
Meg was below, sparring with Glass-cat. Firelord sparkled above, making the airship’s rigging and masts blaze with light. Maintaining a tendril that reached down to Miche, the godling made a very effective lookout. “Drone” the elf wanted to say… though that didn’t make any sense. Drones were battle assemblers, not sentries or gods.
On the other hand, equally senseless, were all of those fallen airships, transports and shattered steel titans. Had they all plunged from the sky, together? A few at a time? And most of all, why? Was there some power at work here that dragged flying vessels down to this graveyard of ships? Would they have any warning, if so?
Dark Cloud still couldn’t climb over the clouds or move very fast. There was not enough manna for that, according to Erron. Not that the heights were much better. They’d long since stopped chumming the air, but a few greedy wyverns and harpies kept following, anyhow. Sentry duty was lively, and he hardly dared to draw a deep breath or stop scanning that rusty horizon.
A few bald patches of… might have been cracked pour-stone pavement… threaded the wreckage like footprints or beads. Very rarely, he caught a quick glimpse of movement at the edge of those weird, ragged cavities. Once, he spotted something that looked like a field of bleached and struggling plants. Grain, maybe.
It seemed that somebody lived in this horrible place, and they trusted nothing that came from the sky. Sensible.
‘Captain,’ said the ship, near the end of Miche’s watch. ‘There is an unusual manifestation ahead. My senses do not extend very far, but it resembles a giant road of some sort.’
Along with that dry and staticky voice came an image: flattened wreckage in a broad, polished swath curving down from the far northwest. It looked very much like a road. Firelord saw it now, too, adding his own lofty sightline to Cloud’s.
That odd trackway wasn’t far off their route, so Miche said,
“Summon Marget if you please, Cloud, and bring us about for a closer look… carefully.”
‘All hands’ rang out from the airship’s brass bell; three sharp clangs, pause and then two. Moments later, the muscular orc and glass construct rushed up from below-deck, armed and ready for battle.
“What has happened?!” demanded his heart-sister, bearing an axe and a sword. She loped heavily over to Miche, trailed by Glass-cat (now sporting a tail, two quite pointed ears and an armory’s worth of crystalline weapons). “Are we there?”
The elf shook his blond head, disturbing Nameless (asleep once again in his cloak hood).
“No. Or… not yet. That Gottshan mark shifts its place on the map like a wandering star. But there is something new coming up soon, and…”
“Everything new keeps attacking,” grumped Meg, switching her axe and sword for a crossbow. Her construct arm still looked very strange, but it functioned as smoothly as flesh and bone would have done. Stronger, though. Much stronger.
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Beside and a little behind the big orc, Glass-cat swiveled her ears, seeming to snuff at that dry, burning wind. Each day since her first shuffling appearance, she’d grown more detailed and agile. More like a crystal tabaxi. She'd started speaking to them, as well; without tone or inflection, at first. Had been one of the trapped, haunted crew, they thought.
“It is a road,” she whispered now, sounding crackly faint as burning paper. “One not often used, and then only by something heavy and large.”
Miche nodded, feeling the wind shift as Dark Cloud heeled over. Mast-and-tank shadows crept sideways, flowing over the ship and its crew like black water.
“I miss the mountains,” said Miche, as they approached that weird, polished trackway. “Why is everything in this nightmare place too much? Too hot, too cold, too full of junk…”
“Too given to ambush,” growled Meg, who preferred a straightforward fight. “If these feeble dangers cannot face us directly, they should give up, kneel down and submit to our will. Free food, steady work and a private cell in the hold aren’t so bad.”
The elf disguised his snort of amusement with a sudden loud cough, pounding himself on the armored chest.
“All that rust in the air,” he lied, for neither Marget nor Glass-cat found themselves funny, at all. Nor were they tricked by his subterfuge, but then the Dark Cloud yawed to starboard, altering course so they skirted that broad, shiny trackway rather than crossing it.
As Firelord watched out for sky-vines… as the shimmering glow of a light wall appeared in the west… Miche, Marget and Glass-cat stared at a huge and very deep road. Its surface was nothing but crushed and smoothly ground rubbish, its high banks just twisted derelict wreckage. Miche scowled, saying,
“On the map, Gottshan is labeled ‘City that Walks’, but…”
“But it seems more like the city that rolls,” finished Glass-cat, barely audible over engines and wind. “I like this not.”
“I have liked nothing since losing two mates at once to this troublesome Old One,” rumbled Meg, shoving the elf with her mithral-and-wood muscled shoulder. He dodged her alertly, twisting aside.
“Right. Love you, too,” Miche responded. “And they wouldn’t have beaten you anyhow, even without my distraction, so… Hang on a bit… What is that?”
Nothing good, as they quickly discovered.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
In Milardin, much earlier and crosswise in time, the crew of the dreadnought Majesty worked without ceasing to rescue whomever they could. Elves, half-elves, even mortals were pulled from the magically lifted rubble by Captain Prentis, Prince Nalderick and a trio of sorcerers.
They’d begun with the mansion and temple, partly to rescue the injured, partly hunting Lord Arvendahl. That warg-son wretch had come close to starting a war with Averna, and Queen Shanella demanded his head in revenge for her shattered realm and too many dead to tot up. Thus, Majesty’s presence and that of the prince-attendant. Lady Solara had come as well, keeping him safe and reporting to father, Prince Korvin.
It had been hard, dirty work, and more often bleak than successful. Much of Milardin was flattened or covered in turbulent seawater. Even the city’s iconic, spiraling staircase was flooded, up to the second huge step. Finally, one of their temple rescues bore fruit. They’d turned up a wood-elf male clutching a terrified child; both of them covered in smeared blood and rock-dust.
Solara used magic to raise many tons of cracked marble, waving her pearl-topped staff as she chanted aloud. With a deep, crunching rumble, those heavy stone blocks pulled away from the spiraling staircase and into the air. Great chunks of rock, twisted metal, smashed wooden pews and people lifted like milk-weed fluff, as Majesty’s crew and marines went to work.
There were drek-few survivors, among them that wood-elf and boy. Scander (the healer) came over to claim them, but he had to swerve when Nalderick lifted a hand. The healer didn’t stop working, though, having long since learnt to get around strictures, orders and rules.
“Wait,” commanded his highness, leaning closer to gaze at the quake-victim’s swollen and blood-reddened eyes. “Lord Arvendahl; where is he?”
“P- Please, your highness,” gasped the wood-elf, pushing healing elixir aside as he struggled to speak. “They were… all of them… all the high ones… gathered at the council chamber for trial. Lady Sheraza is there… maybe his lordship, too, and… please, sir… my wife. Please, please… my wife.” He’d started to cry, coughing out most of the potion that Scander poured into his mouth.
Prince Nalderick clasped the fellow’s trembling shoulder.
“We’ll find her,” he promised. Then, mussing the child’s dusty hair, the prince straightened up once again. Such raw displays of emotion made him feel queasy. He’d been energized by the clue to Arvendahl’s whereabouts, though.
“You heard?” Nalderick asked Prentis, waving their healer back to the saving of lives. The captain inclined her head.
“Yes, Highness. If Lord Arvendahl is anywhere here, he’ll be found in the council hall. By your leave, my prince, we can move at once to start combing the ruins.”
She was an elf of high noble lineage, dark-haired and hazel eyed. A cousin of sorts, present to keep him in line.
Nalderick cleansed himself with a murmured spell, scrubbing his hands on his pants legs, trying to drive off the feeling of dust, fear and blood.
“You have my leave,” he commanded. Then, glancing back at that pulverized temple, the prince added, “We’ll leave ten rescuers here to keep digging. One of the mages, as well. The rest of us will proceed to Milardin’s council hall.”
Because, whatever else happened, he meant to find Arvendahl, whose handiwork lay all around him; painted in blood, flooded wreckage and screams.