“In your experience, sir?” The young man couldn’t have been more than twenty, and he wore a hopeful expression as he prompted the colonel. Though the men were preparing to defend the fortress, nobody appeared that worried by the airship’s appearance. Maybe this happened frequently.
“I might have started a few avalanches,” Zirkander said.
“In your flier? With explosives?”
“Bring me a beer later, and I’ll tell you some stories.”
“Deal, sir!” The young soldier hustled over to help the men with the harpoon launcher.
“Perk of having your name in the papers next to all sorts of war-related exploits… ” Zirkander said. “You never have to buy your own alcohol.”
Sardelle was the only one close enough to hear him, so the comment must have been for her, but the casualness surprised her. One minute he seemed to have her pegged for some kind of spy, and the next he was chatting with her?
Maybe he wants to keep you confused.
I get the feeling he confuses a lot of people.
“I much prefer being the one attacking to the one defending though.” Zirkander lifted a spyglass. “He’s just hovering out there. Scouting mission?”
He seemed to be talking to himself, but Sardelle decided to respond. “Do they come around often?”
The more he talked to her, the more trouble he should have ordering her execution later.
I wouldn’t bet on it. Judging by the so-called witch drownings I witnessed, when it comes to magic, these people will kill their own kin without a second thought.
Sardelle focused on Zirkander’s response instead of Jaxi’s commentary.
“They shouldn’t,” he said. “This place is supposed to be a top military secret.” Zirkander lowered the spyglass and gave her an appraising look again, though his gaze soon shifted over her shoulder. “Captain,” he called to the man jogging up behind her. It was the aide who had been introducing him to the fort earlier. And wasn’t he the one who had been tasked with organizing the archives?
If they were on his mind, Sardelle might be able to poke into his thoughts and find out where the room was located and where the empty forms were kept so she could fill one out for herself. She grimaced at the idea of, for the second time today, slipping into someone’s mind. There was the risk he would feel it too. She decided to simply open herself up for the moment. Maybe they would discuss the archives and the thoughts would float to the tops of their minds where they might be easily accessed.
“Yes, sir?” the captain asked.
“This happen before?” Zirkander pointed at the airship.
“No, sir. As long as I’ve been here, no enemy ships have appeared in our airspace. Audacious of them—they’re hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean. I wonder where they slipped in past our patrols.”
“I wonder that too.” Zirkander’s jaw tightened.
He wanted to be out there. By now Sardelle had gathered that he was a pilot, and she could have guessed at his thoughts without trying to sense them. She did, however, catch a strong vision from him, an image of a dragon-shaped flying machine, not unlike the one that had dropped him off. But this one was his, and it wasn’t alone as it cruised through the air. He led a squadron of other fliers along the shores of Northern Iskandoth—Sardelle had been along those fjords and gray sandy beaches enough times to recognize them, though she had never seen them from above. Zirkander remembered attacking an airship like this one off the coast, blowing up its engine, and bringing it down.
It should have reassured her that she and the colonel were essentially on the same side, having both fought to defend the continent of Iskandia—even if the people called it something different now—but it sank in for the first time that he must also be the descendant of those who had blown up her mountain… annihilated her people.
Zirkander frowned over at her. He couldn’t have guessed her thoughts, but maybe he had sensed her skimming the surface of his mind?
She pointed at the airship. “Are your weapons able to reach them from here?”
“No chance,” the captain said. “Neither the cannons nor the rocket launchers has that kind of range.”
Rocket launchers? Sardelle had never heard of such a thing, but, now that she looked, could see that something more sophisticated than a harpoon lay nestled in the artillery weapon’s cradle. She caught Zirkander and the captain looking at her and then at each other.
“Ms. Sordenta,” Zirkander said, “I think it’s time for you to return to… whatever work you’ve been assigned to do here. We’ll take care of the intruders.”
“I understand,” Sardelle said. It would be suspicious if she tried to find an excuse to stay up there.
She walked slowly back to the courtyard though and with hearing that might have been slightly augmented with magic, she caught a few more sentences on her way back to the stairs.
“Find her record, Captain. And find some of the people who arrived on the supply ship yesterday. If nobody remembers her… ”
“Think she’s a spy, sir?”
“We’ll see.”
I may have to escape and come back for you, Jaxi. Sardelle paused at the bottom of the stairs, not sure where to go. She hadn’t been assigned to any work yet, so how was she supposed to go do it?
I understand. And Jaxi did, but she couldn’t hide the sadness at the thought of being left behind, and it tore into Sardelle’s heart.
There was more at stake too. If the enemy—were these still the Cofah who had troubled the continent in her day?—destroyed this fortress or collapsed the mountains around it, would she ever be able to return? If the mines were shut down, who could possibly help her reach Jaxi? For that matter, who would help her find the belongings—relics—of her people? If she was truly the last of her kind, wasn’t it her responsibility to save and preserve some sign of her heritage?
Sardelle dropped her forehead into her hand. So much lost, and she was worried about being thought a spy? What did it even matter?
The captain jogged down the stairs, thoughts of the archive building floating at the top of his mind. Without looking up, Sardelle plucked the location from his mind as well as the layout. He frowned at her when he reached the bottom of the stairs, but all he did was point toward the laundry building.
“One-forty-three will assign you tasks. She’s in charge of the women’s area.”
“I understand,” Sardelle said.
Sewing or doing laundry, that would be the perfect time to let her mind wander. She refused to tinker with the memories of those who had arrived yesterday, assuming she could even locate them before the captain questioned them. Creating a record for herself would have to be enough. She gazed up to the rampart where Zirkander had the spyglass out again. With luck, this unprecedented enemy appearance would keep him busy, and he would forget about her.
* * *
Ridge walked through the mines, following a stocky infantry lieutenant for a guide, while two of his hulking soldiers trailed behind, each wearing enough armament to assault a fortress on his own. Ridge felt like a pansy for having bodyguards, but Captain Heriton had nearly pitched over sideways when his new commanding officer had suggested he would take a stroll on his own. After receiving a belated report about an attack on one of the lower levels that morning, Ridge had allowed the escort. Besides, his mind was more on the Cofah airship than this inspection. The craft had left without coming closer or doing anything else, but Ridge had a feeling it would be back. He knew a preliminary scouting mission when he saw it. He didn’t know how long they had been searching for the crystal mines, but now that they had found them, there would be trouble. It was no secret what powered the dragon fliers—and that there wasn’t an equivalent energy source out there. Maybe someday there would be, but not yet. And without the fliers… his people would have a hard time defending the continent against a superior naval force.
Ridge had written a report, but there was nowhere to send it, not until the next supply sh
ip came in two weeks. Someone had mentioned a pass over the mountains but that it was only accessible during the summer months. How helpful.
“What’re they staring at?” the lieutenant muttered, looking back and forth uneasily.
Ridge’s group was walking down a wide corridor, and a squad of miners was approaching from the opposite end, on their way off shift, their dirty clothes and weary faces implied. An armed soldier following the workers watched his flock carefully, not saluting—he held his rifle in both hands—but giving Ridge a respectful nod. The miners were staring at Ridge’s little troop.
“It’s either me or you, Lieutenant,” he responded. “You tell me, am I the pretty one or are you?”
The lieutenant cast a glum look over his shoulder. His nose had been broken a time or two in his career—or perhaps before it. “Definitely you, sir.”
The miners slowed down, and a few muttered to each other. They wouldn’t think to attack him with so many armed men present, would they? All they had for weapons were pickaxes and shovels. Yes, those heavy picks could do damage, but only in close quarters. Of course, in the tunnel, Ridge’s group would have to pass within close quarters.
“This is why the general never came down here,” the lieutenant muttered, resting a hand on the butt of his pistol. He must have read danger in the troop as well.
The first miner, a scruffy bedraggled man wearing a bloodstained shirt and a bandana around his throat, stepped toward the center of the passage. He removed a sweat-stained cap, pressed it to his chest with one hand, and raised the other—it was devoid of picks or other weapons.
“Colonel Zirkander, sir?” he asked.
“Yes?” Ridge had only been in the fort for a few hours; he hadn’t realized the news of his arrival had preceded him down here.
“I, uh, we want you to know… ” He waved at his grimy comrades. “We’ve heard about your fighting out there in the skies. Sometimes someone who can read catches hold of a newspaper, and there’s a former pilot down here that tells some stories about your early flights—he claims to have met you, but I’m not sure that’s the truth. Still, real entertaining stories. We appreciate them. And that you’re out there, fighting for our country.” The miner eyed the infantrymen, who had their fingers on the triggers of their rifles. “We just thought you should know.”
It was a moment before Ridge could come up with an answer. He’d had the king’s subjects thank him for his service before, and received his share of hero worship from young pilots, but he hadn’t expected felons to care about their country or those defending it.
Ridge stepped away from the lieutenant, met the man in the middle of the tunnel, and stuck out his hand. “Thank you… ”
“One-fourteen,” the miner supplied, gripping his hand.
Ridge raised his eyebrows. “And the name your mama gave you?”
The miner blinked a few times. “Kal.”
“Thank you, Kal.” Ridge walked down the line and shook more hands and got more names and numbers and was surprised at the shyness, considering all the broken noses and missing teeth in the group. “How’re you all being treated down here? Tough but fair? Getting enough food?”
With the questions, he opened himself up to a volcano of grievances, but he listened without making too many promises. If the fort was attacked in the future, he needed these men—all of the men—to stay put in the mines and not make trouble. That would be asking a lot—he had been a prisoner of war once, and he had used the first diversion he could to escape—but Ridge might need to siphon more of his soldiers into defense.
As he continued his tour, he crossed a lot of apathetic miners who didn’t care a yak’s back teats about the change of command or him, but he came across even more who knew who he was and seemed to think something special of it. He would use any advantage he could to win over the prisoners. He also found the “pilot” the first miner had mentioned. Ridge had never met him and through a few private questions learned the kid had been kicked out of the flight academy for fighting after three months. Not that surprising. These were all rough men. Ridge didn’t doubt for a moment that their deeds had rightfully earned them places here. Fortunately, none of them asked him for parole—he doubted he had the power to grant that even if he wanted to. When he asked what they did want, most of the requests were ridiculously simple, and he promised to look into them. If a rockslide table, a dartboard, and some pictures of near-naked women would improve morale, he had no problem acquiring them.
A private caught up with Ridge and his entourage somewhere toward the end of the tour. “Sir? Someone was killed up top. You may want to look in on it.”
“Show me,” Ridge said.
How many deaths was that for the day? They were far too common here.
Though nobody had made a threatening move toward Ridge, his escort followed him to the tram.
“What sort of killing was this?” he asked the private as the cage creaked and groaned, heading for the fading light at the end of the passage. Twilight had either come, or the sky had darkened further with clouds.
“A woman was hung for being a witch.”
Ridge’s stomach lurched. The prisoner he had been talking with? Sardelle? She was out of place here, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with witchcraft. He had her pegged as a spy—if a poor one—or, more likely, someone who had sneaked in to try and get a crystal. One could be sold on the black market for a great deal. Or she might even be an academic who wanted a sample for research—the gods knew the military had a stranglehold on the crystals. He knew that university professors had come to the airbase before, with bags full of microscopes and tools, wanting to study them. Few had ever had a close up view, for neither the king nor the commandant wanted information getting out where the country’s enemies might pick it up. Perhaps Sardelle was one of those curious professors who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Or was it that he simply didn’t want her to be some hardened criminal who truly deserved to be here? It wasn’t as if a spy or a thief was much better. A thief… might be turned away with a moderate level of punishment, especially if she didn’t succeed in stealing anything. A spy though… Ridge closed his eyes. He would be forced to shoot a spy.
A moot point if she had already been hung, he reminded himself with another lurch to his stomach. “Do you know the name—number—of the woman who was hung?”
“No, sir,” the private said.
Ridge resisted the urge to describe her for the private. The cage was nearing the top of its ride, the darkening sky visible in earnest now. All around the fortress, the pathway and rampart lanterns had been lit, though they did little to drive back the encroaching night. It was definitely snowing, thick swirling flakes that would make visibility difficult for anyone flying. Good. He hoped the airship would be forced out of the mountains and into skies where it would be spotted and shot down.
“This way, sir.” The private opened the cage and walked into the snow. “It’s in the women’s barracks.”
Ridge strode after the private and found himself outpacing the man, then turning to crunch through the old snow in the courtyard rather than following the walkways—with fresh powder on the ground, they weren’t that cleared anymore anyway. He had found maps of the fortress and the mines before his tour and memorized them as well as he could. This was either a shortcut to the barracks or… he was heading for the munitions building. Either way, the private noticed he had lost his C.O. and jogged across the snow after him.
Fortunately, Ridge’s memory proved accurate. He pushed open the front door and gave the traditional, “Male on the floor,” warning call, though the private’s furrowed brow made him think nobody here bothered. Maybe female prisoners were supposed to be used to random men walking into their sleeping and bathing building. From what he had skimmed of the operations manual, courtesies to inmates weren’t important enough to be mentioned.
“Third door, sir,” the private said.
Ridge could have guessed
that by the knot of women standing outside, staring in, gesturing and speaking. Most had removed their heavy outer clothing and appeared to be off-shift for the night. Sardelle wasn’t among them.
“Sergeant Benok gave orders that the body not be disturbed,” the private said.
“Good,” Ridge said, though he wasn’t any sort of forensics expert. He certainly wasn’t a witchcraft expert.
“Move aside,” the private barked to the women, despite the fact that they had already been doing so.
Ridge gave them a more cordial, “Thank you, ladies,” though all he wanted to do was charge into the room to check…
It wasn’t Sardelle. He told himself that his relief was uncalled for—someone was still dead, choked to death by a rope made from torn and braided linens, dangling from a water pipe crossing the ceiling. The woman’s head drooped forward, her snarled brown hair falling into her lean face. It didn’t quite hide the swollen lip and lump on the side of her cheek. She wore the heavy wool dress common to the female prisoners, and it covered most of her skin, but tattoos of knots and anchors crossed her knuckles, and more sailing-related artwork disappeared under her sleeves. The tip of one of her pinky fingers had been cut off at some point in her life, leaving a shiny pink stump. Her feet almost touched the floor, and Ridge guessed her six feet tall. This woman he would have believed was a pirate before ending up here.
“Her name?” he asked of the observers.
“Six-ten.”
“Her name?” Ridge repeated.
“Oh. Uhm.” The women glanced at each other.
“Big Bretta,” someone said from the back of the crowd.
“Thank you. Private, what led you, or your sergeant, to believe this hanging was a result of witchcraft?”
“The sergeant found some things in her bunk… a collection of people’s hair and some crude dolls carved from scraps of wood. It looked like she got caught trying to put hexes on someone.”