Chapter 2 – Relief Before the Storm

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Valdeer was grateful his lodgings were tepid rather than cold throughout the day, so that when he finally climbed out from under his woolen blanket to face the evening, his clothes were only cold and damp, and not still dripping. As he neared the King’s Teeth tavern to offer his services, the near horizontal rain and the howling wind made him wonder why he bothered trying to dry them at all. If he could just get close to the fire, he could dry off while he played, then get wet again on the walk home. It wouldn’t be so bad if he had wood for the burner next to his bed. If it was a good night, he might afford some.

The King’s Teeth’s gridded bay window was bright, and steamed up, and his heart raced briefly as he thought of the warmth. A shiver ran down his back, and he pulled his jacket close. At least he could make a joke or two about being moist, and empty the water from his lute, that always got a laugh. The unintelligible murmur of conversation gave the impression it was a busy night. This could pay for another few days’ rent.

He pushed the studded wooden door open and got one foot inside before the warmth and Smithon’s call of alarm reached him.

“No,” said Smithon, moving out from behind the bar and hurrying toward him, shaking his round head. “No, no.” He tucked the cloth into the front pocket of his apron and rushed forwards, taking the door with one hand and gently ushering Valdeer back outside the door and closing it behind them. “No, Valdeer, you can’t, I’m sorry lad. I made my decision last night, and I’ve got to stick to it.”

 Valdeer angled his tricorn a little, trying to stop as much rain as possible from going down his neck. “Come on, Smithon. You know it’ll be fine. Just a few more nights until I get on my feet.”

“You can’t, I’m sorry. The costs to me are too much; a few good nights for you are a few bad ones for me. We gave it a try, and I let you back the last two times, and it happened again and again. More damages and more costs,” Smithon said, irritated, not sad. He really didn’t want him there. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.”

Valdeer lowered his head a little. The rain was running down the windows and pouring from the wooden window ledge like a waterfall. “There is nowhere else, Smithon. You’re my last chance. The rent’s due tomorrow, and without it, I’ll be out on my arse.”

Smithon’s lip tightened, and he shook his head slowly. “Not my problem, lad.”

“You’re really doing this to me?”

“You did it to yourself, Valdeer. Go on, on your way. I’ve got thirsty patrons.” Smithon turned, pushed the door open, then paused. “You’ll find something,” he said.

“There is nothing… I have nothing,” said Valdeer.

Smithon shook his head gently, but didn’t meet his eyes. “Sorry, lad.”

Smithon retreated into the warmth to the cheers from his patrons as Valdeer’s eyes began stinging. Rain had soaked through his clothes and was actively running down his skin. The wind gusted, and he slammed a hand onto his hat to stop it from blowing away. Taking a step, his knee gave way beneath him, and he fell backwards to the ground on top of the lute. Valdeer rolled sideways quickly, but uselessly, as wood splintered and the lute collapsed beneath him. Lying on his front in the mud, tears welled in his eyes, and he lifted himself onto his elbows, his face in his hands.

Ah, Harmathy, how did it come to this? How have I fallen so far? 

The first tear ran down his cheek, merging with the rain, closely followed by another. Wiping his face on a dirty sleeve, he twisted, bringing his legs around so that his feet were pointing downhill. He pulled his left leg toward him, rolled up the baggy trouser leg and strapped his wooden leg back on. Rain hammered on him as he rolled the trouser leg back down, and he sat in the dirty street for a moment. The lute lay broken beside him, the neck snapped, the body shattered. 

Over the slate-roofed buildings, another airship soared skyward, the sails furled as it rose into the blustery night. It gently turned in the air, calmer than he expected given the weather, and as he watched it go. He thought back to Harmathy’s light brown hair, her dimples when she smiled. How long had it been? His eyes blurred with fresh tears. There was no point in returning to his room—it was still damp from yesterday, and he wouldn’t be able to dry himself before getting into bed again.

Wind howled between the buildings in long gusts as signs creaked, swinging above closed and bolted doors. Raindrops hammered the ground, heavy enough to splash dirt on the side of his shoe, and he watched it slide slowly down the leather and into the muddy street. He lifted himself up, rubbing his cold, gritty hands on his hips. Wiping his eyes with the back of a dirty sleeve again, he took slow steps downhill. 

Most shops along this street had bay windows, and the majority were shuttered up. Chandlers, bakers, a standard shopping street for most small towns. He turned down the alley that ran between this street and High Street—he had a few coppers, and that’d be enough for a drink somewhere. Not enough to drown his sorrows, but maybe enough to splash them.

He spotted a leg poking out of a doorway a little further down the street. Someone too drunk to stumble home, no doubt. As he neared, he noticed the size of the legs, one folded under the other like a number four, then the burnished aluminum torso, its plating lined with gold trim. At the center of the chest was a glowing blue-white sordalite crystal. His heart sank. It was an odari. Friendly though they tended to be, this appeared around seven feet tall, built like a keep, and sported a zap pistol and a longsword at its hips. Soggy black trousers clung to its thick legs, and its leather boots were soaked through. 

As soon as he regarded its smooth metal face, broken only by two glowing blue-white eyes that illuminated raindrops and splashes of water, and an upturned “V” for a nose, it reminded him of his first odari encounter. Working on a farm a decade or more ago, he’d fed animals from the back of a cart with what he thought was a posh construct servant. When it nearly knocked him off the cart, his first reaction was to roll off a litany of expletives. After a half-minute calling it a useless metal bastard and throwing feed at it, it picked him up by the tunic, and said, with acid sarcasm, “Apologies, I sometimes forget how easily humans squish,” and threw him into the feed. Valdeer couldn’t work on the farm after that. He’d spent months slagging it off, and all that time the poor metal bastard had just listened and taken it. How was he to know? They appeared like any other construct, but it was that incident that made him realize they carried the same emotions he did, even if it was beastly difficult to tell what they were.

He took a pace or two past and heard the mechanical whir of movement and stopped dead. He turned and found the odari staring at him. It raised a hand a few inches, paused, then lowered it again, then patted the ground beside it. Its other hand moved to its chest, and it gently checked for something that wasn’t there. Its head lowered until its chin rested on its broad chest. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. Could it have been the same one but in a different body? Could they swap into different bodies?

The odari’s head lifted, and it regarded him. “I… I am.” Its voice was deep, metallic, like someone speaking into a metal bucket. Although the sentient automatons didn’t have a sex like most creatures, this one definitely sounded male.

“You’ll catch your death on a night like tonight,” Valdeer said. Tired and listless, he didn’t catch the logic until the odari corrected him.

“I would not suffer death by cold unless the temperatures were subzero and my joints became frozen. In all likelihood I would resume function if sufficiently warmed up,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“I might,” said Valdeer, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Then you should extract yourself from the weather,” he said.

To the side of the doorway was a shuttered window, and over the two was a small, dirty, green and white awning, folded up and secured to the wall. Valdeer moved to one end of the awning and unclipped the supports, then did the same at the other end, folding the awning out and stepping underneath it.

“Consider us both briefly extracted,” said Valdeer, shaking the extra water out of his shirt. He held out his hand to the odari, offering to help him up. 

The odari regarded the hand, but stood up without help. He towered above Valdeer.

“Your mum’s going to kill you,” he said nervously. “She told you not to be long.”

“I do not have a mother.”

“I… Yes, of course.”

An alley gate rattled in its wooden frame, and a poster tucked away beneath a wooden overhang fluttered as the wind tried to tear it free.

“Really is a shocker of an evening,” said Valdeer.

“It is lamentable,” the odari said in a flat, indistinguishable tone.

“What are you doing out here on a night like this?”

“I…” The odari raised a hand and held its chin between a finger and thumb, mimicking a pensive expression. “I needed to recharge, and taverns do not like odari taking up space to recharge indoors.”

“You don’t have anywhere to go?”

“I do not.”

“I know that feeling.”

The odari looked him up and down. “It appears you have nowhere to go, as well.”

“Hah,” he laughed, too loud for his own comfort. “I’m not homeless,” he scoffed. He felt his lip tighten, and he closed his eyes. “Not until lunchtime tomorrow.”

The odari’s eyes locked on him, and it stared at him for an uncomfortably long time.

“I’d best be going,” said Valdeer.

“To where?”

“To the… er—”

Something whipped across the odari’s face, and Valdeer laughed louder than he should, and felt terrible for it. Brushed metal and gold hands reached up, pulling the rain-spotted parchment away and holding it between them. In the light of the odari’s chest crystal, it was easy to see. There was an image of a city, with angled lines radiating above it, and above those, the words written in a fine arch. The ink was running, but the wording was clear. 

             Fortunes to be made!

Forastad Resurfaces! Adventurers and explorers wanted! Wages paid! A percentage of every treasure found. Airships leaving daily. Report to the Grundle Docks today!

The odari stuffed the flier into a pouch on his belt and placed a large, gentle hand on Valdeer’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “For a simple act of kindness.”

“You’re welcome,” said Valdeer.

“I hope everything works out for you,” he said, turning and marching off into the rain in the direction of the docks.

“You too,” said Valdeer. “Nice to meet you.”

The odari disappeared around the corner at the end of the alley, and Valdeer was alone in the darkness. The rain seemed louder now that he was alone, the wind colder, the gusts stronger. He backed into the odari’s doorway and tucked himself into the corner as best he could. He was still cold and wet, but now he also felt lonely. 

What would Harmathy do? He tried to picture her face, the dimples in her cheeks, but he couldn’t see it properly anymore. Those earlier, happier memories were now replaced with pain in her eyes, blood-flecked skin, her hand reaching to him. He hung his head as tears ran down his face again, and he slid to the floor. Wracking sobs escaped him, and he gripped his hair with both hands in frustration. 

Valdeer stayed there for what felt like a lifetime, until the tears stopped, and the shuddering became intermittent, then he stood up and shook his head, tucking his wet hair behind his ears. Stepping out from the doorway and awning, he took his tricorn off and let the rain splash on his face. 

In the downpour, he could almost convince himself that it was washing the sadness away, but it just washed itself into the drain of his heart where it could come bubbling up again like a volcano of misery. Replacing his hat, he wiped the worst of the water from his face with a dirty, wet hand before wandering back the way he came, stopping at the end of the alley to regard Kurzten, his home for the past two years. The King’s Teeth tavern just up the road, and the alley next to it where he’d taken a hiding from a group of apprentices. Then the corner of Farthingate, where the Musicians’ and Bards’ Guild stood, an outfit he paid more money than he could afford for the minimal benefit it provided. In the mud, moving towards the dock, large footprints that could only have belonged to a heavy odari trudged in the docks’ direction.

Forastad it is then.

“Kurzten,” he said, heading down the street toward the Grundle Docks with a swagger in his step, “I hope you sink into the fucking sea.”

#

“Door please, Wongy.”

Wongy, cropped black hair almost hidden beneath his tarp hat, gripped the door handle and spun it, pushing open the door so that the early morning gloom could enter the long wooden hut, serving as military barracks for the Twelfth Yukimora Marines. 

Inside were the unmistakable shapes of wooden beds, lumpy with sleeping people. One or two raised their heads, then quickly lowered them with a groan. Others pulled woolen sheets over their heads, all remaining silent except for Jurinder, who snored away without a care in the world.

Wongy held the door open, and Sergeant Rinun stepped through, bringing his foot down sharply on the floorboards with a thud that raised more heads. “Hands off cocks and on with socks! Everyone up! There’s trouble afoot, and the Glorious Twelfth have answered the call. A little later than the Twenty-First, perhaps, but we’ve answered, nonetheless.”

Semi swung his legs out of bed with more vigor than his appearance warranted. The bionic lower leg made a deep thud as it hit the floor. The green sordalite crystal in its side was glowing in the shade, reflecting off the metal prosthetic. “Has Scarfold signed us up for any old shite he can find again, Sergeant?”

“You’d better believe it,” said Rinun. “The Lieutenant sends his warmest regards and wishes he could be here to wake you himself, but I’m not due to wake him up for another hour. By which time you’ll have shit, showered, shaved, eaten a breakfast fit for a king, and be loading supplies on the Wrath. Machenzie’s got his labor arms on and is already at it. We’re to leave by midday.”

“Where are we off to, Sarge?”

“Was that you, Sephton?” asked Rinun, squinting into the darkness at the far end of the room.

“Yes, Sarge.”

“How many times have I told you?” he asked, preparing his voice of authority where “-sage” sounded like “sarge.” “There’s only three kinds of sarge: massage, sausage, and back passage, and I wouldn’t take any of them from the likes of you. We, my lad, are off to the wonderful city of Forastad.”

“The fuck is a ‘floor-ed-stad?’”

“For-ah-shtahd, is a city of wonder,” he lied. He knew the name, and they were needed, but other than that… “All the food you can eat, all the gold you can carry, and the locals love a uniform,” said Rinun, spreading his arms wide dramatically and looking to the dark ceiling. The lads hadn’t been pulling their weight. There were cobwebs.

“Sounds great, sergeant,” said Calmek.

“I’ve never heard of the place,” said Semi, standing up and flexing his bionic.

“It’s not long been discovered, so we’re going over to hold the hands of explorers and adventurers who’re investigating it. We’ll have aerial support from the Resplendent, Magnolias, and the Wrath, the Moon’s Hope will make supply runs, and the Glory will be there just in case.”

“The Glory? Is it safe there?”

“With the Glory there, it’s bound to be a lot safer,” Rinun laughed. “What’s going to oppose the Glory?” A laugh ran around the billet. “Thirty minutes, lads, and everyone’s in the scoff house.”

Chapter 3: Airy and Hairy

Legs swept out from under him, and suddenly airborne, Valdeer careened over the airship’s railing. Sharp wind whistled around his legs, and vertigo sent a shock of nausea up his throat. Catching it, he swallowed bitter acid, and flailed in the grip of a muscular red-scaled dragon claw. One hand slapped down on his worn leather tricorn; the other gripped his satchel strap as his coin purse flopped against his stomach. He hoped no one noticed the peculiar angle his other lower leg was at.

Hundreds of meters beneath him, waves moved leisurely, and the bright midday sun reflected off them blindingly. He couldn’t keep his eyes off them. It felt like hitting stone from a certain height, and he was pretty sure this was that height and more.

“What did you mean?” The red drakin, Elegoral, held his ankle in her clawed hand with a grip even Arol couldn’t match. “But not as many as some?”

“It was a joke. No, not a joke, an observation. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Valdeer said, faster than he’d ever spoken. The barge buffeted in the wind, and he felt his ankle drop a little. He smashed into the side of the ship.

“Are you… mocking the very hand that holds your life in its grip, little man?”

“Look, I’m a bard; it’s what I do. I make jokes and quips. I asked what you do, and you said you had your fingers in many pies. I said, not as many as some, because you have fewer fingers. It was a bad joke. I’m sorry.”

“You will be. Do you still think it’s funny? Maybe less fingers will weaken my grip?”

Her yellow eye glared at him from the side of her head, a vile sneer on her snout. Her fingers were thick, strong, covered in damaged scales and scar tissue, leading into an arm wider than his thigh and rippling with muscle beneath the scales. Why did he always have to open his big mouth?

“No! No! Look! I still don’t know what you do for a living. You were vague. I should have read the signs. You’re probably a fan of the five-finger discount… four-finger disc…” he dropped an inch and stopped.

“You just can’t stop digging, can you? Pathetic human.” She lifted him up to the handrail, and his eyes locked with a grinning goblin beside her.

Olive-green skin surrounded a wide mouth with yellowing teeth and eyes full of devious intent as the goblin reached nervously for Valdeer’s coin purse. She wore tight-fitting leather clothing covered in pouches and pockets. The little weasel would receive a double disappointment; the first would be grabbing the purse and realizing there was nought but moths inside, the second would be getting dragged through the handrails as a bargaining chip, or at least for company on the way down. After a few tries, her hand withdrew, and the goblin sneered as Valdeer dangled in the open sky.

“Tell me.” The drakin shouted over her shoulder. “What should he do to save his life?”

The motley group of ne’er-do-wells behind her whooped and jeered. Two elves, looking darker than they should have been in the sunlight, both had vivid blue tattoos swirling around their necks and up to their brows. Their garments—leather patches on hard-wearing, tight-fitting trousers and jackets—appeared dark blue when light hit them, while their white hair gleamed in the sunlight. A robed human with a bob of curly blond hair and wearing a plain brown robe somehow appeared as nervous as Valdeer, standing at the back looking awkward, as if uncomfortable with the situation and trying to disassociate himself from it. Beside the worried one was a bearded warrior of some sort, with thick fur around his leather armor’s collar and bracers. His bare, tattooed upper arms gave the impression of strength without bulk. Beside him stood a hooded woman in leather armor, face hidden beneath a hood, which cast a darker shadow than he expected in this light. 

The rest could have been the dregs from anywhere in the land. They’d seen their share of fights, with stubble and hair broken up by clean scars. It was a group he should have avoided at all costs, but everyone else had avoided him like the plague. In his filthy, once-colorful clothing, he could have passed for a homeless jester. 

He hated jesters. Everyone hated jesters, the prancing smart arses.

“A song,” said the bearded warrior. He wasn’t as keen on the situation and had kept himself away from the handrail. “The lad’s a bard. Let him sing a song.”

Elegoral smirked and leaned in close. “Sing us a song. Not something we know. Make one up about your situation now. If it doesn’t entertain, it’ll be your swan song.”

“I usually have time to… write them…”

“You have ten seconds to start, or I’m letting you go.”

“I… I… Right… okay… My gods…”

“Five seconds.”

“I… I never thought I’d see the day. I’d have the chance to fly away…” He glanced down and gulped. It was so far to the sea. Her face said it all. She was dropping him regardless. It didn’t matter what he sang. 

“I never thought I’d see the day,

I’d have the chance to fly away,

I’ll soar and dive, I’ve won the right, 

To follow down, the slops and shite.

And yet my fate remains untold,

My life, in claw, the drakin holds.

She plucked me up without a hunt,

The massive red and scaly c-”

“Time’s up!” she snarled. “What do we think? Was his song worth his life?”

“I reckon,” said the bearded man. He met Valdeer’s eyes and nodded with an appreciative smile. The hooded woman beside him didn’t move, but he could feel her eyes on him.

“Let him go!”

“Yeah! Drop him!”

Elegoral turned back to him. “The judges have spoken. Enjoy your flight.”

Her hand opened, and he screamed. He was weightless for a split second before another hand snatched him not a second later. The metal fingers jarred him with their lightning-fast grab, rattling his jaw. 

Elegoral glared at his unexpected savior, an odari—the same one he had met two nights earlier, who matched her height, though his frame was slightly slimmer. His light blue eyes glowed brightly in the sunlight. “The show is over,” he said.

“Who do you think you are?” she hissed, jabbing a talon into its chest. 

“I am Grone,” he said, jabbing her chest back so forcefully that her leg shot out, and her tail swished to maintain balance. 

“What’s going on here?” The Merchant’s Bounty’s captain, Zigurand, was leaning on the poop deck’s handrail with folded arms.

Valdeer was lifted suddenly and dropped unceremoniously toward the deck, cursing as his elbow clipped the handrail, hard enough that sharp tingles danced across his fingertips.  

“I rescued the human whose life was in danger,” answered Grone.

The captain eyed them all suspiciously before speaking again. “If I see any skullduggery for the rest of this voyage, I’ll have you all thrown overboard or locked in the brig. Respect my ship, or fly.”

Elegoral glanced from Grone to Valdeer and scowled. “Until next time.”

Valdeer stared at the deck, his heart racing. The terror of the moment still warring with the relief he felt at his rescue. A gold and aluminum colored hand reached down to him, and he took it. The odari pulled him to his feet and regarded him.

“Do not worry about them. I will be present throughout the journey.”

“Thank you,” said the bard, holding out his hand. “I’m Valdeer.”

“Grone,” the odari replied, holding out his hand parallel to the human’s. 

Valdeer glanced at the expressionless face for a moment, then moved his hand to meet the odari’s. He gripped it and shook before the odari repeated the gesture.

Valdeer released Grone’s hand and turned his hat a few times in his hands. Grone stared down at him. “I don’t have much to be honest, and no real way to say thank you. But take my hat. It’s a good hat. Think of it as a portable way to extract yourself from ‘lamentable weather.’” He held it out, and the odari plucked it from his fingers. 

Grone turned the hat around a few times in the same way Valdeer had been doing moments earlier, then placed the hat on his shining metal head. “It is a fine hat, thank you.”

#

Rain hit his back hard, each drop like an ice-cold stone through his thin black shirt. His fingers were so cold he could barely feel the window ledge beneath them. He glanced down. Harmathy was there. 

Dear Harmathy.

She looked up at him, smiled, and their eyes met a split second before the first guard tackled her to the ground. The clang of the impact, the coconut sound of a head hitting the cobbles. Two more guards appeared and were quick to put the boot in. 

Harmathy! He dropped from the window ledge, arms reaching for the ledge below and to the left. His fingertips hit the window ledge with his full momentum behind them, and something clicked in his wrist. Wood crunched and snapped, and he fell, hand gripping a piece of rotten wood, surrounded by wet splinters as he tumbled end over end. Barrels below the windows. He covered his head with his arms as the ground approached.

His legs caught the top of a barrel with a horrific crack, and he screamed out. Pain flared as he hit the mercilessly hard, wet cobbles.

“Another one! It’s our lucky day!”

Valdeer wriggled around. Every movement of his leg was agony. The crimson on his britches was visible through blurred eyes, and the sharp spike of bone protruding through them. He screamed. Harmathy was on her side, one arm covering her head, the other outstretched at a strange angle. Her eyes met his. Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t make out the words. He was about to cry out her name when a boot sent him reeling into blackness.

#

Valdeer awoke with a start, calming almost immediately when he realized he wasn’t bleeding in the street. His eyes flicked to his trouser leg, and he winced and closed his eyes tight for a moment. 

He was lying at the prow, in the sunlight that reached between the deck and the balloon. The worn decking stretched out before him to the stairs that led to the stern. A handrail ran around the stern’s front, and a sheltered cabin stood in its middle, decorated with more brass and elaborate wooden details than were necessary. The barge seemed fancy when he first boarded, but the longer he was on it, the more he felt it was all fur coat and no bloomers. There were only so many things that elaborate details could improve.

This was definitely the budget way to Forastad. Three larger airships passed them during the two days’ travel; each was magnificent by comparison. One with tall masts and full sails powered along with three engines at the rear; the other two had no balloon and no sails, but the engines powering them had thrummed as they soared past. They were huge, with rows of portholes and gun hatches revealing a significant number of decks. 

This was the warmest it had been on the journey so far. A lot warmer. Valdeer unbuttoned his dirty padded jacket and grimaced at the smell of stale sweat. Elegoral and her cronies were always watching from somewhere, and he didn’t feel comfortable risking the possibility of having his throat slit while he washed, or having Grone standing sentinel beside him. He lifted his head, moving the shaggy curls from his face. 

Everyone clamored for space at the side of the ship. The deck crew called out and beckoned for people to move away from the handrail to stop the ship tilting to one side. Grone sat cross-legged beside him, like a disconcerting statue.

“What’s going on?” Valdeer asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

“There is a commotion,” said Grone.

Valdeer glanced at him. “Why?”

“Forastad can be seen,” Grone said. “It was on the horizon, but we have moved nearer.”

Valdeer nodded. “Well, I’m grateful. The sooner we land, the better.”

“It will be good to finally arrive,” Grone said, repositioning himself onto his knees before standing. “It will be good to shake off the cobwebs.”

“Have you been sitting there the whole time I’ve been asleep?” Valdeer shivered, and this time he wasn’t sure whether it was because he was chilled, or because of the odari who had become his shadow.

“Almost. I watched while you were asleep, but have maintained the same position for some time.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, you know. I’ll be fine if you want to walk around the ship or have a look at our destination.”

“Valdeer, Elegoral held you over the handrail by your ankle. If I do not worry about you, nobody will.” Grone raised his expressionless face to the sky. The sun caught the odari’s eye lenses, and for a moment, they seemed to blaze. “Actually, I think you would worry, but it is unlikely that you would be in a position to help.”

“Right,” said Valdeer. “Look, I appreciate it, Grone, but I shouldn’t be a burden to anyone.”

“You have not been a burden, except for your time hanging over the ship, but that burden was only briefly mine to bear,” said Grone. The shining aluminum and gold being placed a hand on the handrail, then gently lowered himself to rest on his right forearm, looking out over the front of the ship. “I enjoy your conversation.”

Valdeer stood, pulled his sling bag over his shoulder and joined Grone. He couldn’t think of any conversation they’d had that was more than a few awkward sentences. Pushing himself up onto the rail, he swung his legs over and dangled them above the forepeak. The wind was refreshing, warm, and carried the smell of seawater and something he couldn’t put his finger on. Clear ocean stretched for miles around. The waves below moved in slow white lines across the sea, and the memory of his time hanging upside down surprised him with a wave of vertigo. He swung his legs back onto the deck and leaned against the handrail, breathing heavily.

“I can’t see it,” he said, wiping his brow with a dirty sleeve.

“It is off to the left. In order to dock at our allocated port, we need to take a wide berth around the island to approach from the north. Flying over the city is prohibited.”

Valdeer raised a thick eyebrow. “How do you know?” 

“I spoke to the night crew at length before they reached their sleeping quarters.”

“I’m sure they appreciated that,” said Valdeer, craning his neck to see around the crowd. The airship tilted a little more, and they turned toward the city. In the distance, Forastad came into view: a dirty, orange lump that rose from the sea. Cliffs along its northern edge stood tall, towering over the sea-bound ships berthed at tiny jetties. Zigzagging ramps ran up the cliff-face while specks of people moved on them. Small openings all around the cliffs let out a steady flow of water, creating tens of tiny waterfalls that shone in the sunlight like shafts of gold. 

Here and there along the city level were breaks in the ruins where docks had been constructed. The buildings around the island’s perimeter were destroyed—little more than an occasional upright or collapsed wall next to a mound of broken stone. Farther into the city stood taller buildings, generally angular and square with the occasional domed roof. Patches of brown and green covered parts of the ruins like poorly chosen camouflage. A huge brown area devoid of buildings or ruins looked like a bruise. Nothing appeared intact. Nothing was even well-preserved. His lip tightened a little. Centuries undersea had definitely taken their toll. A well of disappointment opened up inside him, and his eyes lowered to the rail. Its glossy black paint was chipped here and there, and he picked at it. After a moment, he took off his jacket and laid it at his feet. The heat was building as they descended toward the city.

“You do not look impressed,” stated Grone. His shiny, featureless face somehow seemed both concerned and sincere.

“I expected more,” said Valdeer. The distant figures on the zigzagging ramps were carrying crates and barrels. At least he didn’t have to do that. “It almost feels like I’ve left one dump to go to another.”

“This may be the case. However, there is one thing here that many on board did not have,” said Grone. “Opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“Indeed. Here we could find something that will change our lives forever.”

Someone snorted behind them. It was a giant of a woman, a light gray skinned titaran, dressed in a flamboyant white shirt and brown leather waistcoat that did nothing to conceal her broad shoulders and thick arms. Her exposed lower arms were muscular, and as she towered over him, it dawned on him just how big she was. Arol was massive, but this warrior had a good foot on him. From below her tricorn, blue tattoos came down to a point in the center of her forehead, while others joined onto her eyebrows and ears. Her eyes were off-white with no irises, and they unsettled him. 

“If you believe that,” she sneered, “you will believe anything.”

Valdeer turned back to the city and frowned at their destination. “I want to believe it,” he muttered quietly.

Grone glanced at the titaran and shrugged. “If there were no opportunity, why would so many clamor to be here?” The odari casually gestured to the skies around the city and the shapes and shadows moving around it.

Further out from the cliffside jetties, more ships sat at anchor, awaiting their turn to dock, and the skies around the city buzzed with airships. Only a few military vessels moved silently above the city. A flash of light came from the deck of one, and smoke rose from the city below. 

Valdeer stared in amazement. The airships that came to Kurzten were smaller merchant vessels and trade barges. Here, there were ships the likes of which he’d never seen. One hovered between them and the city, a blue glow emanating from each of its spell jet thrusters, a huge golden eagle on its prow. It was made from metal panels, and he imagined it was strong enough to withstand a broadside from each of the other nearby ships. It was proud, and he could easily imagine a king on a throne somewhere inside, commanding his forces as they sacked the city. 

He wanted that airship. 

One day, he would have that airship. He would sit on the throne inside and command whoever was there to cook him an egg butty, or bring him a coffee. His imagination had failed him. He didn’t know what he wanted, and he certainly didn’t know what he would do if he ever got it.

Huge wooden scaffolds and platforms harbored great airships, one of which was made from a material he couldn’t even identify, the color of bleached bones. A deep red line ran around the edge of its deck, and another ran halfway down the hull and across the back end. A steady stream of people disembarked, some carrying bulky items, or in pairs carrying crates and large sacks between them. The passengers made their way down zigzagging wooden ramps to a huge open area at its base, like ants following lockstep behind one another. 

A crowd had gathered there. A large wooden structure was being erected. Metal worker constructs lifted wooden frames into position while laborers climbed flimsy ladders and slotted them together. Sordalite powered and made of metal, they were built for practicality rather than aesthetics. Their boiler-tank shaped bodies had a pair of tubular arms, each joint fitted with a ball joint for maximum mobility, while large clamps for hands could grip onto logs and lift them with ease. Their legs looked squat in comparison and ended in brick-shaped feet.

On the far side of the crowd was an area of tables and seating—some wood, some stone blocks, all vaguely covered from the elements by enormous sheets of material. A thick palisade lined the edge of the compound, and guards stood on platforms spaced equally around it. 

Off to the left was another large dock. An airship was leaving, and sailors hauled thick ropes back onto the decks while passengers looked on. Some leaned on the handrails; others, wrapped in patterned blankets, slept nearby. He noted the high palisade around that dock, too.

“They’re big on security here,” he said, almost to himself. 

“With the many wondrous things said to be found here, it does not surprise me.” Grone pointed toward the departing airship. “I wonder how many of the passengers are leaving with something life-changing. They have lived the dream of adventure, and returned home victorious.”

“Maybe,” said Valdeer, “I hope that’ll be us in a few weeks.”

“I am sure it will be.”

The airship was turning their way, gently accelerating to pass across their prow. On the deck, a woman in buckled plate armor leaned on the handrail and stared through him with wide eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess, and streaks of dirt blotched her face. Beside her, a man in rags rested, one forearm on the rail, his head on his arm, the same wild, lost look in his eyes. He realized the patterned blankets behind them, and the dirt on her face, weren’t patterned or dirt at all—they were bloodstained.

“They have seen terrible things,” said Grone as the ship shrank into the distance.

“Hopefully, we won’t.” Valdeer glanced toward the empty dock and noticed another bone-white vessel moving toward the embarkation deck. To their right, the huge airship was still taking on passengers. He moved to the side to see around the bowsprit. Ahead of them, where they appeared to be aiming for, was their dock, or at least what he assumed was their dock. “Are we landing in that gap in the rubble?”

“Our trajectory suggests so,” said Grone.

“It looks like a crash site,” Valdeer said. .

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