City in the Sky (24 page)

“We carry the dead and those too wounded to walk,” he told them quietly. “We aren't safe until the
Cloudrunner
is in the air, so we better start moving.”

None of the marines were unwounded, and those who had no problems walking were pulled down by the weight of the dead and the more severely wounded. Erik himself supported Enviers, who'd taken a Draconan thrust deep into his upper thigh. The corporal's injury had been bound, but it would take a Healer to be certain there was no infection or permanent damage.

Despite the hobbling pace of the Aeradi, they'd been close to the docks already and they reached them quickly. Erik was at the lead of the group, and stopped dead in his tracks as he came around the corner.

Over a hundred Claws of the Dragon, a full battle company, were drawn up on the dock in front of the
Cloudrunner
. Erik could see no red cloaks among them, so there were no Red Dragons, but he had no doubt why they were there.

Nonetheless, they had no choice. He started moving again, leading his battered and bloodied platoon to the dock where their ship rested. Before they could get close enough to call to the ship, the captain of the Claws, accompanied by his colors group, came to meet them.

“I am Major Jodias Kale, of the Black of Twelfth,” he told Erik, giving his company, battalion and regiment. “You are all under arrest and will come with me.”

Erik eyed the man coldly. “Go to your Fires, lizard-licker,” he hissed. “Go to them and
burn
there.”

Kale jerked as if struck. Apparently, despite – or perhaps, because of – the battle-worn state of the platoon, he'd clearly expected them to surrender without a fight. Erik had no intentions of doing anything of the sort.

The half-Aeraid sergeant smiled coldly as the Draconan officer went for his sword, and drew his own blade. He did nothing overtly threatening, simply holding the blade in his hands.

“You
will
come with me,” Kale insisted.

“When all Fires darken and all Waters freeze,” Erik told him contemptuously, and looked over at the
Cloudrunner
. “Hello the ship!” he shouted, using all the breath he still had.

Kale stared at him for a moment, but Erik gestured for him to look. A head had popped up over the railing and surveyed the scene on the dock. A moment later, thirty Aeradi suddenly rose over the railing and nocked arrows to bows. At the same time, sailors appeared out of nowhere to man the ship’s weapons.

To drive home the message, the rear fire-cannon in the broadside facing the dock, the only one that didn't bear directly upon the Draconan infantry, fired. The stone ball, propelled by the explosion of the Dwarves' fire powder, flashed across the dock and splashed into the water.

“Thirty seconds or so for your men to reach us,” Erik told Kale conversationally. “Thirty good Aeradi archers – and believe me, those ones up there are pretty burnt good – will get off at least ninety shafts between them. Three cannon and two crys-bows as well. Not nearly enough time for them to reload the cannon or recharge the crystals,” Erik reflected, his voice still conversational, “but I suspect my friends over there have the cannon loaded with grapeshot. Just how many of your company do you think will survive to reach us?”

The Draconan captain stared at him in silence for a long, long moment, his sword in his hand. He looked as if he was tempted to order the attack anyway, in the hope that he might get his sword into this half-blood in front of him.

“Let us through, Major Kale,” Erik told the man, almost gently. “No one else needs to die today. Let us through,” he repeated.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the Draconan company commander sheathed his sword and stepped back. He glared at Erik, and then his gaze shifted to Demond, who'd joined Erik without the half-blood ever realizing it.

“Go,” he hissed. “But neither you, your ship, nor any other ship of your Fires-cursed kind will
ever
be welcome here again. Understand?”

“We understand,” Demond told him flatly. “Now get out of our way.”

A full Strike Regiment of dragons, blacks, greens and browns, was kept on ready status at all times, to guard Black Mountain's skies, rendering fixed anti-air defenses redundant.The headquarters of that Regiment, for ease of communication, was in the First Circle.

Nonetheless, by the time Brane reached them, he could see the
Cloudrunner
beginning to rise out of the artificial lake below. Unless something was done, and done quickly, they were going to escape. Despite all the effort, Tarverro was going to
escape
.

“I need to speak to the duty officer
immediately
,” he snarled at a young-ish Draconan just inside the headquarters.

The man, wearing the uniform of a Skyborne lieutenant, looked at him. “I am the duty officer,” he said dryly. “Most of the senior officers are on exercises.”

“Oh.” Brane paused for a moment, and then physically shook himself. “I need a pursuit launched of a skyship – they have a convicted murderer on board, and one of their marine platoons just chopped up a Claw unit that tried to apprehend him.”

Brane watched in satisfaction as the Lieutenant's eyes widened in shock. “I see,” he said, admirably calm. “I think we can do that.”

The Skyborne officer turned to a man sitting at a desk. “Get a runner to the Brown's Third Company, they're on active. Tell Captain Holis we have a skyship that needs to be brought in, or burnt down.”

“Hold that order,” a calm, emotionless voice cut through the chatter of the Ninth Strike Regiment’s headquarters. “Let them go.”

Brane turned around slowly, already almost certain of what he would see. Machieava stood directly behind him, two Red Dragons at his back. “Let him go,” the commander of the Red Dragons repeated more quietly, so only Brane could hear him.

“Why, sir?” Brane asked. The order was inside Machieava’s authority to give, but he still wanted to know
why
Tarverro had to walk away.

“Look,” Machieava said quietly, and pointed.  At the edge of Brane’s vision, perhaps a third of the way into its descent, was a second skyship.

“If we burn down a skyship, here, in front of another Aeradi vessel and with a
septon
aboard,” Machieava said quietly, “we may as well declare war on the Aeradi. We
cannot
afford open war with them yet. We are too close to completing our plans to have the war start before
we
are ready. Do you understand me, Captain Brane?”

Brane nodded silent, if unwilling, acquiescence.

“Good,” his commander said. “Now, come. I have another mission for you. One that I think you will find… acceptable.”

Some hesitation must have shown on Brane's face, for Machieava's voice suddenly hardened into a tone of sheer
command
. “Come, Brane,” he snapped.

Erik stood silently at the stern of the
Cloudrunner
, watching the citadel shrink behind them. He knew they weren't quite home free yet. Dragons could still intercept them and burn the sky ship down, killing all aboard. He could still die for the 'crime' of defending himself against an assassin.

Only when the last fortifications of the citadel passed out of his view did the half-blooded Aeraid slowly begin to relax. By some miracle, they'd escaped.

Not all of them, though, he knew. The wounded and the dead alike now lay under the decks of the
Cloudrunner
, being tended to by the ship's Healer, a now much-overworked man. The Healer was human, a necessity as no Aeraid could wield the earth magic of healing.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Erik slowly turned to find Albiers standing behind him. The commander of
Cloudrunner
's marines stood there watching him for a moment, and then gestured to Erik's face.

“Are you going to get that seen to?” he asked.

“There are still men who need attention more than I,” Erik replied.

“True enough,” Albiers admitted softly. “Decorian died,” he added, even more quietly.

“Gods take him,” Erik said, his voice twisted. Decorian had been the worst wounded of the men they'd borne down to the ship. He'd hoped the Aeraid would live, but he'd feared it would be otherwise. The marine's death meant that six men had died here, for his folly, and that twelve had died on the journey, simply because he had been with them.

“Too many have died for me,” Erik said quietly, his voice still twisted.

“I've spoken to the others,” Albiers told him. “According to them, you're the reason
any
of them made it back – most Aeradi simply don't have the size and strength to knock the Claws back like that. You saved the others' lives.”

“Twelve men are dead,” Erik said flatly. “Six more, at least, will be weeks recovering. All this because the Draconans were after
me
.”

Albiers shrugged. “At least partly,” he admitted. “But there were other causes of the tensions, Erik. The balance is shifting – something is changing. More men lived as happened than may have had you traveled aboard a different ship. They would still have pursued you, and still have harassed us.”

Erik said nothing.

The Lieutenant shrugged again. “You do not believe. You will, as time passes. For now,” he laid his hand on Erik's shoulder, “go see the Healer.”

Finally, Erik nodded. As he walked away, headed towards the hatch down into the ship, he saw Albiers take his place at the stern of the ship.

“Erik?” the Lieutenant said, stopping Erik before he left.

“Sir?” Erik replied.

“It has been an honor and a privilege to serve with you,” Albiers told him, watching the mountains behind them. “When we return to the city,
septon
Tarverro, you will have my recommendation for the militia.”

What with one thing and another, Erik had completely forgotten why he'd undertaken the voyage aboard the
Cloudrunner
.

“Thank you,” was all he could think of to say, and he thanked Albiers far more for his words than for the recommendation.

“Don't mention it,” the Lieutenant replied, and Erik knew that he had understood what he
hadn't
said as much as what he had.

Four

Forty-nine days after she’d left, the
Cloudrunner
slowly drifted back into the skydock at Newport. Most of her wounded had recovered, but too many of her crew were dead, victims of the Draconan pursuit.

A pair of wing-lancers had met them a full hour out of the city, the six-yard golden wingspans of their huge rocs making better signals than any flags. They'd flown close enough for the crew to get a good look at the razor-sharp talons and the black beaks of the horse-sized birds as they shouted instructions for the ship to divert to the military docks.

The Lancers had escorted them in, and almost as soon as they'd docked, a blue-robed man with the lightning-bolt insignia of a mage had boarded the
Cloudrunner
. Erik stood at the rear of the ship, with Albiers and the other platoon sergeant, watching the man speak to Demond.

Finally, Demond shook his head at the man and led him back to where Erik and the other marines stood.

“Gentlemen, this is Mage Kirian Norst,” Demond told them, gesturing at the robed mage. “He works for the King, and he has some questions he'd like to ask us about our tour.”

“Why?” Erik asked bluntly. He didn't know about the rest of the crew, but he just wanted to get off the ship and go home.

“Because the Draconans have blocked our ships from their ports,” Norst said calmly, “and they specifically named this ship as the cause of this action.”

“Did they?” Erik said quietly. “And just
what
are we accused of doing?”

“Disturbing the peace, threatening a port official and slaughtering a platoon of the Claws of the Dragon,” Norst replied. “Now, while we are uninclined to take the Draconans' word at face value, we still need to investigate their accusations. Did these events occur?”

“Did we disturb the peace, threaten to fire on a company of Draconan port guards, engage and defeat a platoon of Claws?” Erik asked.

Norst nodded, looking as if he was embarrassed to even be asking. Demond, looking over Norst's shoulder, met Erik's gaze and shrugged.

“Yes, I rather think we did,” the Captain said calmly. “Oh, we also killed a couple of Red Dragons.
However
, given that they wanted us to surrender one of our men to their justice, for supposedly killing one of their assassins in a completely different country, I don't see how we could have done differently.”

Demond winced, and Norst inhaled sharply. “I see,” the mage replied, his voice admirably calm. “Perhaps you would care to elaborate on the exact sequence of events?”

It appeared that
none
of the
Cloudrunner
's crew were going to get off until Norst had his questions answered, so Erik sighed, and explained the series of events that had led to the eventual ugly showdown on the docks of Black Mountain.

Norst took notes, writing everything down on a small clipboard he’d produced from somewhere inside his robes. Finally, once Erik was done, he returned the clipboard to its pocket and looked at the
Cloudrunner
's officers.

“I agree with your opinion,
septon
Tarverro,” he said quietly. With the
Cloudrunner
's return to port, Erik's authority and rank as a member of her crew had expired, reducing him to 'only' his blood title. “There was nothing else you could have done. I assure you that I will press that opinion onto my superiors.” He shrugged. “As far as His Majesty is concerned, you need have no worries.”

“What about the port blockade?” Erik asked.

Norst shrugged. “They seal their ports to us every three or four years. It rarely lasts more than a few months before they get over their snit – they can't
afford
to seal them forever.”

Erik nodded slowly. In comparison, most of the Sky Cities were sealed to Draconan trade permanently. It was a disturbing thought.

“In any case,” the mage continued, “I have no more reason to detain you gentlemen or your crew. A detail from the port battalion will be arranged to move the bodies of your fallen to the city morgue until the families can make arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Albiers said quietly.

“It's our job,” Norst replied. With a salute, he left the marines behind, standing at the front of the sky ship and staring into the city.

“That's that, I guess,” Erik said quietly.

“Yeah,” Demond replied, equally quietly. “I'd suggest that those of us with homes ashore go to them and rest up.” He offered Erik his hand. “
Septon
Tarverro, it has been an honor and a privilege to have you under my command. I will speak to the Militia's Commissions Board on the morrow on your behalf, you may be assured.

“As will I,” Albiers said, offering his hand as Erik finished shaking Demond's. For the Aeradi, it was a gesture between close friends, but these men had become that and Erik shook the Lieutenant's hand as well.

“Thank you,” Erik replied. “Both of you. It has been an honor for me as well.”

By the time Erik made it back to the Tarverro house, it was well past dark. Crystal-lights, held off the ground on metal supports, lit the sky-city's streets with a soft bluish glow. Neither as bright nor as harsh as daylight, they were still more than enough to allow Erik to find his way home.

It was late enough that the staff – a laughable description of what, when he left at least, was made up of two maids and a cook – had clearly gone to bed, and the house was mostly dark.

Unwilling to activate the crystal-light chandelier than hung over the east wing – the public areas – of the house – it, after all, had a limited number of hours of use before it needed to be realigned – Erik found a lantern in the cloakroom. A flick of the lever on its side brought the two crystals inside the device into contact, and they began to glow with the same soft bluish glow of the outside lights.

Using the lantern to light his way, Erik entered the west wing, the private areas of the house, to find the one light that was still on. It was a lantern, identical to the one in his hand, resting on a table in the front living area of the wing. The table was positioned right next to the large chair in which his grandmother sat, fast asleep.

A book rested on her hands, sign of her sole 'vice'. While the carefully maintained industrial and decorative forests of the Sky Isles and the sky cities themselves produced significant quantities of wood, most of it went to either the ships or trade. Paper for books was expensive in the Realm of the Sky, though Dwarven-made printing presses made the manufacture of the books themselves a cheap enough proposition.

With a smile, Erik gently reached out and shook Arien's shoulder. She started awake, and looked up at him with sleepy eyes.

“All right, I'm headed to be… Erik?” her voice went from sleepy to awake as she realized it wasn't one of the servants waking her. “When did you get back, grandson?”

“Earlier today,” Erik told her softly. “We got tied up at the port – they had some questions about the events on our trip.”

Arien looked at him sharply, belying her state of moments before. “They don't hold crews for questioning unless something…”

“Worry about it in the morning,” Erik said, softly but firmly cutting her off. “For now, you really should go to bed.” He offered her his arm. “Here, let me help you.”

Instead of using his arm to support herself, Arien pulled him into a tight hug. After a moment, she released him and eyed him. “You could have taken the armor off, you know?”

Despite his worries and the weariness left by the trip, Erik couldn't help himself. He started to laugh. His grandmother glared at him for a moment, and then her face faded to a grin as she joined him, her giggles echoing around the room.

Erik's aunt Hella arrived in the small dining room where he and his grandmother were eating breakfast as he finished explaining the events of the
Cloudrunner
's voyage. She came in quietly, picked up a plate from the side table and sat down, serving herself from the still-steaming dishes the cook had put in the center of the table.

“Someone's trying to kill you, nephew?” she asked Erik. “What did you do, open your mouth twice?”

While Erik
thought
she was trying to make light of the situation, probably trying to make up for their last meeting, he didn't find it very funny. Before he could work up a good glare at the woman, though, his grandmother laid her hand on her daughter's sleeve.

“It's not exactly funny, dear,” she said quietly.

“A lot of good men are dead because those
bastards
are after me,” Erik hissed, his hand clenching around his cutlery.

Hella recoiled. She turned her attention to her plate. “I'm sorry,” she half-muttered. “I hadn't realized.”

Erik took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “No, you couldn't have,” he told her – only somewhat reassuringly, he knew. “Remembering the rumor mill in this city, however, everyone will have by tomorrow,” he added.

“Sooner,” Arien replied. “Something that fascinating is going to spread fast. I'm afraid people are going to talk.”

“Gods curse it,” Erik swore wearily. Trying to put the situation out of his mind, he then attacked his food with a will. Taking their cue from their
septon
, his two female relatives followed suit.

Erik's plate was clear, and he was eyeing the still-partially-full dishes in the center of the room when there was a knock on the door. He glanced up to see Shel standing just inside the room.

“Milord?” she said questioningly.

“Yes, Shel?” he asked.

“There's a man here to see you,” she told him. “Militia uniform.”

“Send him in, dear,” Arien told the maid before the girl's last words had sunk into Erik's mind.

Militia uniform could mean anything – most of the men he knew here were members of the militia, but no one wore the uniform when off-duty. Why would an on-duty militiaman come to see him…?

The young Aeraid who followed Shel back into the room, exchanging glances with the attractive young maid, did wear militia uniform. However, unless Erik was mistaken – and Arien's etiquette lessons had been quite thorough – the small shield on the man's collar, quite separate from the shoulder stripe of his corporal's rank, marked him as a regular seconded to the Militia.

At the sight of Erik, he came to attention and saluted. Erik returned the salute, confused. While
septon
s traditionally had the right to take salutes from any soldier of the city, that was mainly at formal ceremonies.

“Erik
septon
Tarverro, sir?” the man asked.

“I am,” Erik replied. “At ease, soldier.”

The corporal remained at
attention and proffered Erik a plain brown envelope. Curious, Erik took it.

“What is this, Corporal?” he asked.

“You are summoned to speak before the Militia Commissions Board, on the eleventh bell of the day,” the soldier replied.

“I… see,” Erik said. The eleventh bell was late afternoon, this late in the year. “I will be there.”

“Understood, sir,” the soldier replied. “Permission to bear that message to the board, sir?”

“Granted,” Erik replied, hiding a smile. He realized that the soldier had
never
dealt with a
septon
before, and had decided to treat him the same way he'd treat a very senior officer. “Thank you for delivering the message, Corporal.”

Another salute and Shel escorted the soldier out. Leaving his maid and the soldier to their flirtation, Erik turned his attention back to the envelope in his hand. Opening it revealed a single sheet of paper.

The message's prose was far more flowery than the soldier's simple statement, but it carried the same message: appear before the Commissions Board at the eleventh bell. Simple enough, but it also carried an unspoken stamp of approval – this letter
had
to have been sent before any of the
Cloudrunner
's crew had made their recommendations. Indeed, it had to have been sent as soon as the news that the sky ship had made port reached the Board.

It was hardly a
bad
sign, but it still made Erik nervous.

Erik reached the Board's offices, just east of the Square of the Gods, five minutes before the eleventh bell. Two soldiers in militia uniform were waiting for him outside the squat stone building.

“Erik
septon
Tarverro?” the corporal greeted him.

“I am,” Erik replied.

“If you will come with us, sir,” the militiaman said calmly, “the Board is dealing with another issue at the moment but will be free shortly.”

Erik nodded calmly and followed the two soldiers. They led him into a small chamber where a handful of loose chairs faced a long table with six chairs behind it. Once inside the chamber, the two soldiers took up position just outside the door, and left Erik to study the room.