It was supposed to be a job like any other.
The rain fell with an insistent urge, dashing upon the ground with a wet thud and a splash of spectacle. Brief, explosive, but determined to be seen.
Like the people in this city, the detective supposed. They live incessantly, desperate to be known, and die in moments of clamorous brilliance. This rain is for them; another loud showreel between the main attractions.
The adamant patter of rain on his hat and trenchcoat belied his presence in the street, impatient fingers rapping on him, the cadence insisting he make a move.
Have it your way, he thought, stepping out of the rain and underneath the awning of a nearby building. He turned briefly to gaze back down the street, obscured as it was by the torrent. In the distance, daubs of colour and light occasionally swept through the rain, exposing the rest of the city in all of its gaudy extravagance. The detective sniffed, the expression somewhere half between disdain and apathy, before turning away and placing his handle gently on the door to the building.
Above the noise of the rain, there was no sound as he opened the door and slipped inside.
---
She knew I was coming.
The detective had stared down the barrel of a gun before; more times than he cared to recount, in fact. Seldom, however, had he stared down the barrel of a gun held by a lady.
Quite a striking lady, at that, he thought, then sniffed again. Seems these aren’t professional annotations anymore.
She noticed the gesture, and her gun arm twitched at him. The gun wobbled in mid-air, in a desperate gesture of power assertion.
Was that supposed to scare me more? A desperate lady, with an obvious lack of experience in firearms, is pointing such a firearm at me. There’s nothing scarier than desperation.
“Lady...”, he began slowly, seeing her eyes widen in fear. Comforting. He continued, watching her with an inscrutable gaze. “It is far too tense in here for me not to be smoking... do you mind?”
She stared at him a moment. Her brow shifted. Another moment passed as she continued to gaze at him, incredulous.
“A-are you fuckin’ serious?”
“It’s an addiction; It doesn’t have to be rational. So... do you mind?”
The lady laughed, a high-pitched squeak of disbelief.
“Sure, do what you want. But any sudden moves and I’ll paint the walls in a distinctive shade of red”.
It would be more pink than anything else. Trust me, lady, I know.
“Duly noted”, the detective said.
Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his beige trenchcoat. It hung from him shoulders, shapeless and despondent. A dozen weary years weighed the coat down, and the man beneath felt every day, hour and minute of those years.
From the pocket he produced a battered metallic lighter.
Zippo, he thought to himself, if I could go back in time and burn your company to the ground, I’d probably get hit by a train on the way home. He suppressed a laugh, as not to alarm his would-be murderess.
So might as well keep smokin’
From his breast pocket, he drew a thin cigarette. Though unlit, it was stubbed at one end, and crumpled slightly in the middle. It was as haggard as the detective himself. With a practiced ease he placed it between his lips and drew the lighter to him. There was the distinctive flick-clink of the flint ignited and flame blossomed from the device and ignited the weary end of the cigarette. Even as he was placing the lighter back in his pocket he was dragging on the end of the stick, attempting to savour a flavour that his tastebuds had long been scoured of the ability to detect.
He dropped the lighter back into his pocket, and left his hand there, slumped against the warming steel. The other hand drew the cigarette from his mouth as he exuded a disorganised veil of smoke from between his lips. It wafted in midair a moment, hanging limply as if observing, before drifting lazily to the ceiling, to observe in peace.
“Now...” the detective began, his disenfranchised gaze meeting hers again, “let’s discuss why we’re here, and why you have that shooter trained on me”.
“I didn’t kill anyone, you hear!”
“Nobody’s saying you did, darlin’. But I gotta wonder why you hired a Private Detective all the way out here to hold him at gunpoint to tell him that”.
She paused, and the gun wavered in midair.
“You ... you can tell them, though! You can help me tell everyone I didn’t do it!”
“Lady, you have a gun pointed at me. I don’t find that particularly compelling reason to help you”.
“You... you have to! Nobody else can help me!”
“Why don’t you tell me who’s dead”. He took another drag of the cigarette. After the plume had gone the way of the one before, he spoke again. “Who didn’t you kill?”
“My father... my boss!”
“Two men?”
“One. Both!”
“Why would you want ‘em dead?” More smoke drifted aloft. The small room they occupied had begun to smell acrid.
“Because I would have gotten everything. The company, the power, the money. Complete control”.
“Sounds like a perfect reason to kill him to me, lady”.
“But I haven’t! I haven’t got shit! The board took it all away from me?”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they think I killed him”.
“Ah”.
“So now you’re going to help me prove I didn’t”.
“Still with the gun pointed at me, though...”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll shoot you”.
“Ah, but then you will be a killer, lady, and you’re out to prove you’re not, right?”
“I have nothing else to lose, right!?” The gun swayed in the dying light of the room. Her finger twitched dangerously. The detective paused a moment on the inhale of his cigarette. The hand in his pocket flexed. Finally, he sighed and the smoke billowed clumsily from his mouth.
“Well. You have one more thing”.
“I ... I do?”
“Sorry lady”.
---
The police came shortly after I called them. They were suspicious for a while but I told them it was me or her. I didn’t tell them the details of the case but they figured out who she was pretty quickly. Her face was recognisable. No bullet holes to ruin it.
The badge worked in my favour. I know guys on the force, I’ve done some consulting for them. Nobody asks questions about how what happened to her came to be. And nobody asks questions about why there’s a smoking hole in the pocket of my coat.
Peter Stewart: Less Than Just a Pretty Face
A simple, uncluttered place where I can unceremoniously dump my writings and musings to the unsuspecting martyrs who accidentally find their way here. Enjoy.
Saturday 20 July 2013
Sunday 13 May 2012
The Frozen Moment: Part Four
Six
Waiting was
tense. More tense than Valant would have liked. The Cobras had made no move to
attack or to retreat from the Temptation,
and forty of the forty-five minutes in her ultimatum had already passed. The
Captain was tense. She tried to contain it, to show that she was not worried,
but her brow constantly furrowed itself, despite her best efforts, and it
looked as if her jaw might snap if she clenched it any further. Even Mr. Ghost,
who had given control of the communications to a lesser crewman and returned to
the bridge, attempted as little conversation with her as possible, to risk incurring
her ire.
Like a pressured engine reaching its limit, the tension finally burst
when a hiss came from the helm; the communications device sounding off again.
Valant snapped forward for it so fast, Ghost was scare able to realise she'd
moved until she had the equipment to her face. "What is it?", she
demanded, with as much cool as she could muster. It only partially worked.
"A message, Captain, from the Cobra ship. A message for
you".
Valant had no times for theatrics. "Speak, you fool! What
message?"
"They say if we sail now, and leave them in our vapour trails,
then they won't pursue us, and they won't blas... blast us into a thousand
pieces... Captain". Valant's hands clenched around the machinery in her
hands.
"And if I refuse?"
"...Then they'll leave nothing left of us to fall to ground"
replied the deckhand, mustering as much courage as he could. His quivering
voice betrayed him.
"No", said said simply, "tell them no. And to prepare
to meet whatever awaits the overconfident on the other side!" She slammed
the device back down onto its cradle with such force, Ghost was curious to see
if it would ever work again. She wheeled on him, her face a dark vision of
rage.
"Are the men prepared, Mr. Ghost?"
"They are, Captain, have been for forty ..." he looked to
the timepiece on his breast pocket, "...three minutes".
She snarled. "What's two minutes between friends?" She
turned back to the helmsman, briefly. "Take us to attack speed, sir. Now.
Come about their aft". The soundless man at the wheel reached down and
flicked the receiver of the two-way radio twice in rapid succession. After a
short pause, the ship lurched as the Engine room complied with the code. She
returned to face her First Mate. "Mr. Ghost, they have crossed and
belittled the wrong woman today. Tell the men we give no quarter. Prepare the
broadsides".
The tall man's face became very stern, instantly. "Aye,
Captain!" he barked, "not one will live to tell of their loss
today". He hastily left the Bridge and moved down onto the main deck,
bellowing orders as the Temptation
began to accelerate.
Across the yawning gap, the Cobra
vessel began to move as well. Reacting to the sudden surge from the Temptation, she appeared to bring
herself about further, but with a noticeable rise in altitude. She was slow,
though; a symptom of her size. "Speed, Mr. Domm", she reminded her
helmsman, " I want to be behind them before they're level with us".
Two more flicks to the Communication's mouthpiece followed her order,
and a second later the wind whistled through Valant's hair a little more
sharply. A stray strand here and there caught itself in the draft, dancing
around her head, ethereal, whispery. Some might have said Angelic.
Yes. Angelic. I am the Angel of death for
these poor bastards.
If the forty-five minutes waiting had been a lifetime, the 3 minutes
it took to close the gap between the two ships was momentary. The Temptation looked down on them now,
floating some meters below, but rising quickly. The helmsman brought them
about, and slowly they moved past the side of the ship and began to approach
her aft.
Seemingly seconds before, she was gazing at the small figures of men from
afar, toy soldiers on the deck of a wooden model, now she was gazing into the
whites of the eyes of real people; real men, hardened sailors, ready to fight.
Ready to die.
Valant nearly forgot herself. She cleared her throat and raised her
voice.
"As you will, Mr. Ghost!"
Watching her from his position on the main deck, the First Mate only
nodded, incrementally, then turned back to the crew around him. His bellowing
voice was at odds with the tense silence.
"Ready yourselves, you dogs! Scared of dying, is that it!? Death
is nothing but the next thing to fight!" The men barked back at him,
bringing their sabres and pistols down on the nearest surface. A mixture of
thuds and clangs added their voice to the salute. Ghost continued.
"We show no quarter!" He didn't wait for their response
before drawing his pistol, aiming across the bow of the Cobra vessel and, as he
squeezed harshly on the trigger, roared.
"FIRE!"
His pistol shot cracked out across the sky between the ships and
through the main deck of the enemy ship, rapidly fading from view as the Temptation came about her aft. There was
a scream as the bullet caught some deckhand, and a thud as he hit the wooden
decking.
Mr. Ghost never lacked for accuracy, the Captain thought.
His shot was followed a second later by the crew lighting the tapers
of the cannons. A great multitude of hisses
rose up through the air, like newly forged steel in the rain, before they
ignited the powder in the barrels.
The noise from the broadside was a sound no man, or woman, could ever
prepare for. The explosion of noise from the simultaneous release of so many
shells, like a dozen cracks of thunder at once, ripped from the barrels as they
forced their charges out across the breach. The entire ship reeled back several
feet as the shout burst out and the Engines tried to compensate for the sudden
movement. Squalls of smoke burst out from the barrels with the cannonballs,
rising and around the ship.
Across the way, the broadside connected with the enemy ship along the
final ten meters of her starboard side, and along her stern. Wood ruptured and
splintered as the charge burst through metal and board alike, ripping great
chunks of wood and cladding from its holdings and throwing them both back into
the ship and out into the open air. One lucky shot caught one of the waiting
cannons. There was a spark, then a ball of fire and scream as the gunpowder
ignited, lifting the cannon off its axel and through the hull above it, hurling
it out into the sky, where it finally gave up and plummeted.
Across the stern, it was much the same. Glass smashed and wood caved
in under the pressure of the cannonballs, which in many cases propelled
themselves through the entirety of the ship and out the other side. Atop the
stern on the bridge, sailors stepped gingerly away, lest the decking beneath
them give way to the shot structure below their feet.
But it was the noise Valant always remembered. After the first shot is
fired, there's nothing but ringing, buzzing in the ears. You feel disconnected from everything else around you; you are isolated
from the madness and the chaos that has erupted, but you can see it all, smell
it all, like some observing spectre. Then the ringing begins to clear, and you
hear the shouting of the fight, the creaking of the wood, the screams and the
moans of the dying. The smell of acrid smoke filled Valant's nostrils and
she came to her senses.
I have no time to sympathise with the
dead. I can sympathise with them when I join them. That ship is mine
She surged forward and drew her pistol as the enemy ship began to
retaliate. On the stern, sailors and Officers fired pot-shots from bows and
pistols. The crack of gunfire and thrum of arrows loosing shouted near her ear,
and whispered from afar. There was a grunt, and one of her crewman standing
near the helm staggered back. An arrow had ripped through his breast, and a
dark stain was blossoming across his tunic. He tried to speak, but he only spat
a mouthful of blood. Gargling, he fell back against the hull and sank to the
ground. Valant left him.
As she moved, she pointed her pistol across the breach, in the general
direction of the Cobra sailors, and
pulled the trigger. She didn't stop to see if she'd hit anything, just kept
moving to the gunwale. She looked out at
the Cobra ship, which had begun a turn to port in the aftermath of the first
attack on her starboard bow. Gunfire and the whip of arrows still filled the
air, but Valant's attention was drawn to something else. As the aft of the ship
turned to face the Temptation, she
saw exactly what she hadn't wanted to see.
A meter or so beneath a row of smashed glass, five slats were cut out
of the wood, and from them poked snub-nosed barrels that Valant knew all too
well.
Carronades!
Carronades were short, stubbed cannons used primarily for short-range
combat. From a distance, they were almost useless, but close enough they were
devastating.
Close enough, Valant thought, her mind racing. This is too close.
She turned to bellow an order to the helmsman. She heard herself
screaming at the man to come about, but by then it was too late. With a sharp,
short roar, the Carronades fired, the six guns spitting their ammunition the
short distance to her ship. The Temptation
rocked from the impact.
One of the cannons had been carrying chain and shot, Valant saw,
grimacing. The ammunition, a crude design of two small cannonballs connected by
a length of chain, had caught a bunch of rigging in its path before it finally
wrapping itself around one of the ballast masts with a crunch. Wood splintered
and caved. The tangled rigging strained and pulled, protesting, against the
airsack they were attached to. With a moan of complaint, the stricken mast
leaned against the pull of the rigging, drawing it taut. The rigging would not
comply, however, and their competing forces drew the mast to a halt. For now.
Above, the ballast balloon--one of several--swayed and grimaced, but remained.
Valant watched it for a moment, worried, before grabbing back onto the
Gunwale, keeping low. She risked looking away from the ballast for a second to
survey the rest of the damage.
At least one of the other cannons had been loaded with grapeshot, she
saw. Grapeshot, designed to kill men, converted the cannon into a giant
scattershot, launching smaller, densely packed charges at the crew. A lot of
her crew were clutching small wounds in their legs and arms, whilst others
writhed on the decking, their faces obscured by hands and masks of blood. The
Captain presumed only one cannon had been loaded with the deadly grapeshot, as for
every man writhing in pain, two more resumed the fight. Amongst them was her
First Mate, unloading another shot at anything unlucky enough to be his target.
"Mr. Ghost!" She cried out above the noise of war. The pale
man spotted her approaching and moved through the haze and fog of the battle to
get closer.
"Captain!" He shouted, "what are your orders!?"
"There's no matching them for power, sir! Closer! Tell the men to
prepare another broadside, and to prepare to board!"
The gaunt man looked briefly shocked, "board!? We'll have to come
alongside them! If they manage to fire a broadside, we're done!"
Somewhere nearby, the dull thud of a hand-cannon could be heard. All
around them men were shouting and moaning.
"Then we shall have to fire first! We are faster than them, in
body and mind! Tell the men!"
The man nodded his nod, and started barking orders again. Across the
deck, cannonballs rolled into barrels and were pushed further in by waiting
crewmen. Satisfied, Valant returned to the bridge.
"Mr. Domm, take us to them, side to side. Ram them if you must,
but get us close enough to board".
The helmsman clucked in his strange way, his hand moving to the side
of the helm. He flicked once, twice on the receiver, paused a second, then
flicked once more. The engines below decks gave a groan that could be heard
from where they were stood. Valant wondered if they'd been damaged in the
attack. If they had, it wasn't enough to stop the ship accelerating.
The helmsman gave a tug on the wheel, and the Temptation lurched sideways, drifting across the gap between the
two ships. The Cobra vessel had
turned to engage them properly, so the two ships were now side-to-side. Aboard
the enemy vessel, men backed away from the gunwales in panic, anticipating the
Pirate's next move. From the foredeck, Valant heard the bellow of
"FIRE!" from her First Mate, and then the returned cry from the
cannons as they fired, their thunder cracking across the space, above the noise
and confusion of the battle.
The broadside blasted through the gun decks of the Trade Ship. Some
charges caught cannons, sending them up in blusters of fire and smoke, whilst
others just caused carnage, spraying splinters of wood across the deck. It had
provided Valant with the single moment's advantage she needed. In the
confusion, the enemy ship had lost its organisation, and failed to return fire.
Now it was too late. Valant grabbed tighter to the railing and braced herself.
With a crash and several huge thuds, the two ships collided in
mid-air. Aboard the Temptation, the
crewmen held onto whatever they could find for support as the ships joined,
scraping and bumping along one another. Aboard the Cobra ship, men were less anticipant. Some were thrown from their
feet whilst others, unluckier still, were thrown from the sides to their
deaths. The crew of the Temptation wasted
no time; armed with cutlasses, maces, and bits of broken wood, her men breached
the gap between the two, digging their fingers into the splintered hull of the Cobra vessel and hauling themselves up
and onto her deck. Others threw grappling lines across, whilst two men manned
harpoons at fore and aft. With a reeling thrum,
the giant iron bolts launched. They broke through the wooden hull of the Trade
Ship, embedding themselves deep and locking the two together.
With a final order of "Keep her steady, Mr. Domm!" Valant
joined her crew. Placing one foot on the gunwale of the bridge, she forced
herself up and over the railing and across the small gap, drawing her long,
thin rapier as she did. She landed lightly on the aftcastle of the Trade Ship,
amongst a still-shocked group of men. With no more warning, she launched
herself at the nearest; a fine, sharp thrust the chest, and the men was dead
before he knew what was happening. She gave him no thought, withdrawing her
blade and whirling onto the next one. Across the way, others on the aftcastle
of the Temptation followed her lead,
leaping the gap to assist their Captain.
Battle was joined at last. Down on the foredeck of the Trade Ship,
Valant's crew had taken them by surprise. Everywhere she looked, sabres were
locked, and the clamour of sword fighting, the crack of pistol fire and the
screams of death filled the air. She could smell them, like she could smell the
smoke from her cannons. It smelled like battle. It smells like victory.
Above her, she spotted a man in the rigging aiming down at her, his
pistol cocked and ready. In a moment of blind panic, Valant froze.
There was a shot. The man in the rigging gave a grunt, then a scream
as he fell from his perch on the main brace. Several dozen feet below on the
deck, he impacted with a sickening, satisfying, thud. He arched his back, his
scream a silent widening of the jaw, then went slack. Valant breathed a long,
composing breath. At her side, Mr. Ghost's outstretched arm held his smoking
pistol victoriously. Valant looked up at him, a modicum of gratitude written on
her features, then past him. She released the shortest of gasps, causing Ghost to follow her gaze to across the breach and back at the Temptation. He muttered a curse.
With the collision, the precariously balanced rigging on the Temptation gave out its struggle. With a
mighty crack, the main rope
supporting the mast snapped to the floor, catching one of the crewman full in
the face. It lifted him from his feet, sending him sailing across the decking.
The force of the blow, however, saw that he was dead before he hit the ground.
With no more opposing force, and with the rigging holding the main
brace broken, the mast vaulted back on itself suddenly, pressing fatally into
the already stricken gassbag. As Valant watched in horror, the ballast, forced
by the ailing mast, pushed free of its rigging and then, under continual
assault from the wooden beam, split down the centre. The ripping sound was heard
above the noise of the fighting, and the two opposing groups halted their
struggle to watch. A great gale of air burst from the broken balloon, gusting
warm air into the combatant's faces. With no more support on one side, the Temptation sagged viciously to
starboard, pushing the Trade Ship into leaning inwards as well, towards the
damaged Pirate Ship.
This drift propelled the mast through the wreckage of the ballast with
greater force and, with one finally groaning cry, it split itself from its base
fully and hurled itself across the deck of the two airships. Railings and
decking shattered as it came down across them, many men flung clear by the
shaking of the impact. Some others, unluckier, were caught beneath the fallen
beam.
My ship... Valant paused a moment, unsure. Ghost
looked to her. She felt his gaze on her, and was vaguely aware he was calling
to her. My ship ... but not my victory!
"Mr. Ghost!" She said. Her voice was of stronger steel than
any of the blades around her. "They have damaged my ship. They have
crossed Temptation. We take the Captain, we take the ship". She looked to
him, her hand gripping tighter on the hilt of her blade. "We take it
now".
He said nothing, nor did he give anything away, but when she moved to
the stairs and away from the aftcastle, she heard his light footfalls and knew
he was following her.
The shock of the collapsing mast had soon worn off, so as Valant and
Ghost made their way down to the main foredeck, the fighting had resumed in
earnest, and the sounds of battle once more rang across the sky. She fought her
way down the stairs, the pale man with her at every step. They cut, thrust and
riposte their way from the aftcastle and onto the main deck. Despite the
distraction, or maybe because of it, her men fought with vigour and
determination, and it was clear to see that the Trade ship crew were being
pushed back. Valant raised her voice, cutting down another man as she did so.
She cried.
"Who amongst you is Captain of this sorry whale!?"
The response was almost immediate. From the centre of the fracas, a
man broke from a cluster of sailors that had so far resisted her crew's
assault. He was dressed in clothes that befit a higher rank of Officer. He had
done away with his Dress Coat as the battle had raged, but he still wore a pale
brown, full length waistcoat, embroidered and trimmed in gold. The chain of a
pocket watch looped from one pocket to the other, and at the bottom of his
breaches dark black, formal boots gripped him to the upper calf. They were
badly scuffed from battle and caked in dust and blood, like the rest of his
uniform.
The battle did not stop for them. He did not stop, either. He closed
the distance between them and swept his blade at her. The sword, already drawn
and soaked in the blood of its victims, gleamed in the high sun. Valant stepped
nimbly to one side and brought her rapier against his bigger, flatter blade.
She drew her rapier down to his hilt and, with all her strength, locked him
there. He looked up at her, and finally spoke.
"I have that honour, you vagrant". His voice, despite
everything, was calm and collected. "If you wish to demand my surrender,
you'll find it at the end of my blade".
"I do not want your surrender, sir. I want your ship and your
cargo". He struggled against her blade, but she held him fast. "You
have damaged my vessel, and for it I will have your life. At the end of my
blade is vengeance, Captain. At the end of my blade is your death".
She drew away from him, darting back. He anticipated her and followed
forward with his sword, swiping through the air inches from her face. He
composed the swing well, and quickly gave chase.
Their swords rang out as they danced back and forth across the deck,
criss-crossing between other combatants, ducking under rigging, swords,
gunfire, emerging through clouds of dust and smoke. Still they fought. He had
the advantage of power, both physically and in his larger weapon. His blows
rained down hard, and Valant was forced to dodge and weave, rather than facing
him directly. They both tired from the exchange; once his sword glanced too
close for comfort, another time he nicked her cheek; a bead of blood caught on
the end of his blade.
He smiled a beleaguered smile. She glared.
They were standing alone now, on the forecastle. On the main deck, the
battle continued; the Pirates were greater in skill, and were pressing down on
their enemies, but the Traders were determined and well armed. Defeat would
have to be wrenched from their dead hands.
Suits me, just fine, Valant thought. She looked her opponent
over. He was hunched forward, and was panting heavily, moreso than her; the
blade in his hands becoming more and more like dead weight as their battle
continued. She ached, every muscle in her moaned in exhaustion, yet her rapier
still felt light and nimble in her grip.
He came at her again, swinging his blade down at her with
uncharacteristic sluggishness. She moved aside with ease. Exhausted, but not to
be outdone, the Trader Captain swung to the side, following her. She ducked
underneath it, barely exerting herself, and thrust out her slender needle at
his leg. He pulled away at the very last moment, but the blade still sliced
through his breeches and caught him along the skin all the same. She withdrew
the rapier just as quickly as it had jutted out.
The Captain roared in frustration. He raised his blade above his head,
blocking out the afternoon sun. In his eyes, Valant could see an anger, a fury.
It was a rage that her she knew well. She always spotted it in the eyes of the
nobility, those better than her. She
hated it. She hated him. His scream
reached a crescendo and his fingers twitched around the handle of his blade as
he made to swing the final blow.
With breathtaking speed, the rapier darted through the air. There was
a popping sound, then nothing for a
moment. That moment seemed an eternity to Valant, but then, finally, the chop of the Captain's blade embedding
itself in the wooden deck behind him broke the tension. The bubble burst.
Valant saw.
The rapier had pierced his throat below the Adam's Apple and emerged,
glistening, from the other side. A full four inches of metal protruded out of
the back of the man's neck, from a hole the size of a finger nail. The
Tradesman's mouth was still open in his furious scream, but was now silent,
save for a few miserable half coughs. The rage was gone from his eyes, replaced
with a wide, wet shock. His pupils were tiny specks of black against a sky of
white, and then they saw no more.
Valant slid the blade from the man, and let him fall backwards to the
floor, where he landed in an ungainly heap. The Pirate rose and looked over
him.
"At the end of my blade, Captain", she said to his corpse,
"is my victory".
Thursday 29 March 2012
The Frozen Moment: Part 3
Four
The thin, reedy whistle of the boiling kettle pierced the atmosphere
of the room with its shrill whine, drawing attention and ire from everybody in
the room. With a bluster of air and dropped sheets, a large woman hurried
through the small living room and into the adjoining kitchen. The whistling
finally subsided when she drew the kettle from atop the stove and onto another,
unlit hob. The room exhaled in unison. The two youngest children made an
exaggerated show of unclogging their ears after the assault on their senses.
Their father--the large woman's husband--merely smiled at the children
knowingly, before crossing the room to join his wife in the kitchen.
The oldest of the three
children, Jaim, simply looked away from the offending object and back to his
reading. A tale of adventure, mystery, suspense and action; precisely the kind
of tale the boy could often be found engrossing himself in. He had been poised
at a moment of crucial dialogue, when the main character had opened his mouth
and let forth a high pitched whistling. As a thirteen year old boy, Jaim cared
least of all for the dialogue in his books, but he nevertheless found it
distracting--not to mention rude--that
someone would interrupt the protagonist when he was talking like that.
He scanned back down the page to find where he was up to. There.
Ser Gaudrion was steely-eyed and
determined. He drew the blade of legend forth from the sheath at his hip and
levelled the point of its blade at his old, immortal foe. His face was a dark
mask of strength and determination. When he opened his mouth to speak, his
words cut as deep as his sword ever would:
"Jaim, we're out of water again. Could you run to the Middle Sixth
and get us some, son?"
It took a second for Jaim to place the voice as his Father's, and not
that of Ser Gaudrion. He sighed, but did not openly complain. Neatly folding
the corner of the page he was up to, he placed the book on the side table, atop
an ever-increasing pile of other books, then stood and faced his Father.
"How much do we need this time? I can only carry so much".
The older man smiled again. Jaim had no option but to smile back; his
father was always grinning. He barely every grumbled or frowned, and it was
even more rare for him to be angry. Whenever Foster Lanse rose his voice, you
knew there was real trouble somewhere.
"Oh not so much as last time, boy. Just the one large Gourd. Just enough
for supper". His smile broadened into a laugh. "If you're lucky,
we'll let you go again tomorrow to get some more. But only if you're
lucky".
Jaim grimaced at him, then cried out when a large hand ruffled his
hair. He shut his eyes tight at his Father tormented him, hearing him say
"Go on then, off with you. Sooner you're back, the sooner we eat".
That was incentive enough for the boy. He headed into the kitchen, his
mother smiling down on him and thanking him for being a "good lad"
and fetching the water. He took the gourd--a large, peanut shaped
container--from the table and hooked his arms through the straps. It sat on his
back, peering over his shoulder. It wasn't very heavy, but once he filled it
with water, it would be. He jostled it a few times, to get it as comfortable as
it was going to get. When he was satisfied, he headed for the door.
Before leaving, he made sure the wooden sword he kept by the door to
their small house was run through his belt and secured there firmly. He swung
the wooden exit open and walked out into the afternoon. It was, like any other
afternoon in the Third Quarters, grey. Above them, the dark smog cloud hung
over the city like it always did, high enough that they didn't choke on the
poisonous fumes, but so low that they were guaranteed to never see the sun. His
parents had told them stories of how some people went their entire lives in
Paceguard without ever seeing the raw beauty of the sun, not once. All they'd
had to go on was the tales and stories they'd heard, as they slaved under the
dull, charcoal sky from the cradle to the grave.
Jaim was certain he was not going to be one of those people; he would
be an adventurer like all those men (and sometimes women) he had read about. He
would be as great as Ser Gaudrion, and one day the sun would be an
insignificant yellow speck compared to all the things he had seen and done. He
would fight monsters and unlock secret mysteries. One day, Paceguard would be a
tiny dot on the map to him; just another place he had visited. It would be
home, always, but not where he lived.
With thought of monsters and adventures firmly in his mind, he set off
along the precarious steel walkways of the Third Quarters, on his way to the
Middle Sixth. All around, the sights and sounds of a typical busy day in the
Third rose to meet him. He could smell sawdust, iron filings, molten metal and
a host of other unidentifiable aromas. He saw people pushing wheelbarrows laden
with wooden tools and components, and iron weapons all together. The men and
women of the streets around him moved with a purpose, dedication and knowledge;
they repeated this routine day in, day out; a clockwork monotony that kept them
in business; that kept them fed.
Jaim followed the steel walkway along, staying firmly in the centre
when the railings to either side of him vanished. Before long, the rickety
houses and stacked buildings of the Fourth Quarter began to give up and vanish
from sight as well, as the boy continued his journey across the city. To his
left, the afternoon mist--or maybe it was smog, who knew--began to part, and
the white stone finger of the Viscount's Tower reared up out of the murkiness,
pointing its slim, pale digit at the heavens. Up, through the smog cloud and
beyond. Jaime wondered what rested at the top of the edifice; he knew the
Viscount lived there, and his daughter. He wondered what adventurers they were
a part of, what mysteries they conspired to create or to solve. He longed for
the opportunity to find out. His fingers itched along the wooden sword on his
hip. He sighed and continued walking. Not
today, Jaime. One day, but not today.
Smoke and smog billowed up to his right, from the factories that
littered this quarter of the city. He coughed as stray fumes drifted around
him. The smog was particularly thick in this sector of the city. The factory
workers were required to wear masks at all times to mitigate the damage the
smog did to them. It wreathed the buildings and obscured them from sight; a
poisonous, overzealous blanket. The chimneys protruded from the low lying fog,
the only proof that the factories existed beyond stray glimpses between the
otherwise all-consuming smog. They themselves belched more of the viscous smog
into the atmosphere, where great clouds of it fell to continue obscuring the
work plants. The rest drifted ever higher, to eventually join the rest of the
grey matter in the giant smog cloud above the city.
Luckily, Jaime didn't have to endure the smothering, choking depression
of the Factory District for too long. He was taking a direct route to the
Middle Sixth, which cut across the Fourth and Fifth districts only briefly,
hugging along the side of the Viscount's Tower and minimizing travelling
distance. Before long the smog was clearing around him and Jaim could see the seemingly
endless rows of buildings that housed the factory workers. Now that Jaime
considered it, they were just as depressing as the factories smothered by the
swirling smog behind him. He didn't stop to consider the thousands of people
down there, he wouldn't let himself. Instead, he just quickened his pace and
moved on as fast as his legs would carry him.
Soon enough, the steel walkway beneath him showed its terminus. About a
hundred meters ahead of him, the walkway merged into the cobbled pavement of the
Middle Sixth. At last, the young boy
thought. The ground, which had for a long time been so far beneath him as he
traversed the Fourth and Fifth districts, was gradually rising to meet him.
Here and there, small, nice looking houses dotted the landscape. As Jaim made
his way from the steel walkway and onto the cobbles, the houses multiplied
until, eventually, the boy was walking down a row of houses joined to each
other. People were milling about outside or walking along the street. None of
them towards the Fifth district he noticed. Some stopped to look at him,
curiosity in their eyes. Most of them ignored him. He preferred it that way.
He reached a fork in the road. To his left was his destination, and
more houses on one side of the road. On the other, stores with awnings and
large, decorative signs loudly declared who they were and what they were
selling. Inbetween these houses, darkened alleys skulked, hiding themselves in
shadow as if, if they were seen, they would be removed. To his right was a system
of shortcuts he knew to get to the public Well. He gazed off down to the right,
and heard the trouble before he saw it. Loud shouting, the sound of smashing
glasses and crockery, screaming. Towards the end of the street, he spotted it;
a tavern, most of the patrons outside, shouting. The windows had been smashed
and inside, people were hurling knives and flammable material at the
bystanders. He wondered where they had come from; there was never a raucous
moment in the Middle Sixth.
Jaime decided that perhaps it was best he went the other way. He turned
and took a left. As he did so, he saw a group of the Viscount Household Guard
rush past. Twenty six of them, clad entirely in their silver chainmail and
armour, the blue half cloaks of their Lord flapping from their left shoulders.
Their swords and Polearms glinted dangerously in the afternoon light. He sighed
again, wishing he could be amongst them as they quelled the stupid drunkards in
the tavern. Jaime took one last look at the unit of Guards before carrying on
down the street.
He had not gotten far when something caught in his periphery and drew
his attention. He turned just in time to see a figure vanish down the alleyway
between two shops. Normally, Jaim would have done what his Father told him to do,
but the Tower, the Guards, the fighting ... everything conspired against him,
overriding his senses and drawing him into following the figure, who he had
only been given the briefest of glances of, down the alleyway.
Jaim's hand was gripped tight to the coarse hilt of his wooden sword,
his defence and his protection. He kept a reasonable distance from the figure,
who he could now see was dressed entirely in black, a dark hood pulled up to
hide his features. Jaim followed him down the alley, around several corners and
away from the main street. His heart raced. He was wearing his courage on his
sleeve. The excitement and the adrenalin spurred him on, pushing him to
continue following the hooded figure, despite every other inch of his mind
telling him to turn back and ignore what he saw.
Eventually, after tailing the hooded man--he assumed it was a man--for
about five or ten minutes, the figure turned into a small, derelict looking
building. Surprisingly, he left the door ajar. Jaim followed as close as he
dared. As he got closer to the door, he heard the muffled, unintelligible yet
unmistakable sound of voices talking. He drew closer, and closer, barely
touching the ground with every step; a shadow in rough spun clothing. The
voices detangled themselves from the air around them and finally became
intelligible as he drew up alongside the door.
"Everything's going to plan" came one voice. It sounded high
class, clipped, educated. He must be from
the Seventh, Jaim wondered to himself. The voice continued. "The men
are keeping the Household Guard busy in the tavern. By the time they realise no
help is coming to aid them it will be too late for them to surrender. If we're
lucky they might take some of the Household Guard with them before they're cut
to ribbons" He laughed. "That crooked Senator played his part in
session today as well".
"We won't be leaving him as a loose end, will we?"
Another voice. This one didn't sound as
smart as its companion's. It had a drawl to it that Jaim didn't recognise as
regional to any of the districts of Paceguard. An outsider? That didn't make any sense of him. None of this did,
come to think of it.
"No. He'll be dealt with in due time. I have my men on the way to
the Tower now that the Guard is preoccupied. They should have it secured and
the Viscount captured in the next hour".
The Viscount! In danger! Jaim
had never been so close to real adventure in his life. It didn't feel like he
thought it should; a deep, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He
didn't feel all that brave suddenly. He wanted to go home.
"Will the Viscount give us what we want?" the lower voice
said.
"I doubt it. Not at first. But he will in the end, or I'll gut his
daughter like a fish, then him".
Jaim gasped and the voices went silent. There was a sudden scuffling,
and the door swung open. He stared up, wide-eyed and terrified, as the man he
had been following leered down at him, his face a mixture of shock and anger.
Before the boy could even more, the hooded figure--now hoodless, reached and
clenched a fist around the scruff of his tunic. With a strength Jaim wasn't
expecting from the man, he heaved him up to eye level.
"Who is it, Teech?" The distant voice seemed right at Jaim's
ear now.
"Some child, sir. I reckon he's been here a while. I thought I
felt somebody following me".
"If you think he's heard our plans, then be a good man and dispose
of him, would you? We're in something of a hurry".
Teech smiled at Jaim, and uttered a mock apology. "Sorry kid, but
business is business".
The flash of silver in Teech's hand was the last thing Jaime saw before
the arm swung. The wooden sword clattered to the ground.
Five
The wind sighed through the trees of the
Flowmarches. Through the trees, through the leaves and barks, the stumps and
flowers, and through the wisps of Truval's hair. He let the breeze play over him,
and with the stray strands of brown hair that had escaped his ponytail. He
continued resting lazily against the stump of the tree he had grown accustomed
to.
It is a good stump, a fine stump. He thought. It is the kind of stump made to be lain against.
On the ground to his right, Truval had placed his quiver, the arrows
within it lazing against the ground just as much as he was, huddled together;
the fletching of each quivered as the wind continued to tickle around them
playfully.
To this right lay Truval's Longbow, his pride and joy. It was 6 foot
tall to the inch, almost exactly the same height as Truval himself. It was
made from a single piece of Yew, gently
curving outwards as a bow does, less of a "D" shape, as everybody
seemed to describe it as, but more of a gentle arch. Truval often quipped that
anybody who thought it looked like a D either had very cramped, squashed
handwriting, or simply couldn't write.
The bowstring was drawn taught between the two ends of the arch. Small
droplets of dew and water had gathered along it in the hours Truval had been
relaxing; they winked at him when he turned his eyes to the bow, he winked
back, chuckling.
Truval sighed a contented sigh; this
was a life he could get used to.
Through the small breach in the canopy of leaves and branches above
him, Truval could see the blue-orange sky, streaked with wisps of white and
grey. It had rained earlier; nothing torrential, and the woods had been a
faithful defence against the rain. He had even appreciated, after the shower
had passed, the sounds of droplets pattering
their way through the trees and to the ground; they had created a different
ambience to the surroundings. Not quite the same as total silence, but peaceful
in its own way.
Truval thought back to his day. It was slowly ending now, as the blue
of the daytime sky began to fade into orange. Soon, the orange would cede to
purplish sunset, and then finally dark night would descend. As much as he had
enjoyed relaxing here, Truval did not find the prospect of spending a night in
this forest particularly inviting. And yet there were others in this forest
that would be spending their night here, Truval had seen to that. He was far
away from them now, but he had left them a parting gift.
He had been running for days, and days. Weeks, even. Running from
hunters, running from townsfolk and bounties. Running from life. When he had found this glade in the middle of the vast forest
he had fled into, he felt that there was no further point from life or civilisation. Not one that he was likely to find anyway. So he had
stopped, and he had fed and rested and, as it had happened, he had stayed here
many hours. But all good things must he end, he supposed, and so he must move
on. Already the light of the day was starting to fade. The shadows of the
trees, so inviting earlier, began to lengthen and slowly blend with the forest
floor, becoming more unwelcoming.
Truval got to his feet and brushed his tunic down. He kicked the stump
he had been laying against firmly, knocking mud and twigs and water that had
gathered from them. He grabbed his hat from the top of the stump, shook that
off, and replaced it on his head. As he was reclaiming his quiver and bow, his
attention was drawn by a cracking sound from deeper into the forest.
He looked up, suspicious, and quickly grabbed an arrow from his quiver
and notched it lightly against his longbow. He prepared for the eventuality
that some civilian--or worse, a bounty hunter, had found him and meant to claim
him for the sizeable reward placed on
his head. The size of the reward was a matter of some pride for Truval, but
that satisfaction was tempered by a determination to never see it paid out.
"I am warning you", he began, "braver men than you have
probably tried to stop me. Ask my companions some miles away in the forest.
They shall be spending a long night here. Many long nights, perhaps, unless
somebody finds them soon, I should think". He made himself laugh, a
nervous sound, all air and bravado.
There was no response from the forest. An increasing darkness greeted
him, and silence. Truval stepped away from his tree trunk and into the centre
of the copse.
From the dark, silent blackness ahead of him, around him, above him,
there was a slow, rattling sound. Truval was hesitant to call it a breath; it
was more an exhalation, just air leaving something. It did not sound like life.
It came again, this rasping dead sound. The sound of two pieces of emery paper
rubbing together. Truval began to wonder if he was dealing with hunters at all
anymore.
From the darkness ahead in front of him, two red slices appeared,
stark against the inky forest. Thin, red, unblinking eyes.
Truval drew his bowstring back, the fletching of the arrow pressed
against his breast. His voice was shaky, "I warned you". He loosed
the arrow at the redness, straight for the head.
In the silence of the forest, the twang
of the bowstring and the thwip of the
arrow were a cacophony; birds took flight and small creatures on the forest
floor hurried away. The dull thud of the arrow hitting its target unnerved
Truval even more; once the arrow had landed, silence reigned again; there was
no grunt, no scream, no hiss of
blood. Just that redness remained; the eyes remained.
Truval took a worried step back. He stilled himself and reached back,
his arm shaking, for another arrow. As he drew it out, the ground crunched. He
hadn't moved. He listened. Another crunch, then another. The unmistakable sound
of footsteps. Whatever it was, it was moving. Truval felt his mouth go dry. He
notched another arrow, aimed, loosed.
Twang, thwip, thud.
Crunch.
The slightest outline of the red-eyed ... thing began to emerge as it drew slowly, slowly closer. Truval
couldn't make out any details, at all, but he could see it was human in basic
shape, and in the fading daylight he could also see that neither of his arrows
had missed. They protruded from its head, glinting in the ebbing sun. Yet
still, crunch. Crunch. Truval gritted
his teeth, frowned; he was as angry now as he was afraid. He reached back, drew
a third arrow, notched, aimed, loosed.
Twang, thwip, thud.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunchcrunchcrunch.
Truval nearly tripped moving backwards. He looked back, down at his
feet, and when he looked back his blood ran cold.
The thing, the red eyed thing, had emerged from the clearing. The
waning light of day illuminated it, highlighting in all its monstrosity. Truval
assumed that once it may have been human, but not anymore, and not for some
time. The two red slices of eyes stared, unrelentingly, at him. They were sunken
into a colourless face, in hollow, cavernous sockets. The cheekbones were high
on the face, and almost entirely visible through the translucent, grey, dead
skin. The right cheekbone was higher than the other, but not through breakage.
Where it should have ended, just below the eye, the cheekbone continued to
spread out, up and around the eye, protruding some half inch from the face. It
moved around the eye, up and across to the other side of the forehead, before
trailing off to a ridge over the left side of his head.
Its nose--his nose, Truval
supposed, was a broken, indiscernible mess inbetween the mutated cheeks. Two
punctures marked its nostrils, amidst a mash of cartilage and grey. The mouth,
a gaping, yawning cry of agony, drooped to the left, showing a row of rotten,
sharpened teeth and no tongue. Truval hated that part, the mouth. It was from
its mouth that the dry, dead rasping expulsion of air was emitted in long,
drawn out heaves. Every shuffling step it took was accompanied by one of these
protracted, scraping winds.
It ambled forward, dressed in a ripped and broken grey robe. It
reached all the way down to his feet, but was so ripped and torn and tattered
that it offered little to no protection in the way it should. Inbetween the
rips and breaks in the fabric, Truval could see that he wore nothing, and his
emaciated husk of a body had punctured so many times, ribs and collar bones
poking through the paper-thin, sagging skin. Below the robe, his feet
protruded, with every shuddering movement, gnarled and misshapen. They pushed
dirt forward in an ever increasing pile as he scraped towards him.
But of it all, he hated the
eyes most. The face was a broken, mutated mess, but its eyes were sharp, and
slim. Red and staring, Truval saw them, and felt judged by them. His revulsion
and his anger reared up and overwrote his fear. He dropped his bow and slid his
dirk from its sheath high on his hip.
"Come on, you freak! You're just brain dead! How could I have
hoped to kill you that way?"
He launched forward, shouting, bringing his sword down hard and fast
against whatever part of the monstrosity he could find first. He felt the blade
connect, and his arm vibrate painfully as the weapon glanced off bone. He
jumped back, and threw himself forwards again, this time with a clear target in
mind.
He swung the Dirk in a horizontal arc, at the creature's face. It
connected just as he had wanted it to, where he wanted it to, along the
outcropping of mutated cheekbone. He heard the slice of the blade joining with
the bone, and the thud as it stuck there.
Truval gazed in horror at the thing, his sword now embedded an inch
into its head. He tugged, but the sword wouldn’t come loose. He tugged again,
more desperately, but still nothing. The red eyes gazed at him, judged him. Hated him. He gave another pull at the blade, pathetically this
time. He whimpered as the eyes bored into him.
Faster than Truval could have ever imagined, the thing's arm shot
forward and caught him by the throat, gripping tight, restricting.
Above the sudden lack of oxygen, Truval's first impression of the grip
was how hot it was. The bony fingers clawed into his flesh and they burned. But they didn't just burn at his
throat; the heat spread up and down his body, into his arms and legs, up his
neck and then, finally, into his brain.
When it reached his head, Truval's eyes bulged wide. He opened his
mouth to scream, but no sound came from his mouth. His tongue burned. He needed
oxygen, he desperately needed to breathe, but it was nothing to how his insides
burned white hot. He felt like he would go on forever like this, this searing
pain inside him.
And then something gave. And Truval saw; the thousands things he
wasn't, and would never be. The sheer scope of it all, and his place in it. How
he had risen and fallen, less than the first breathing of a baby, and less than
the final breath of the dying man. The thing gripped suddenly tighter. There
was a snap, Truval's eyes went
entirely white, and he went limp.
The creature dropped him unceremoniously. In death the huntsman’s face
maintained that gaping, agonised expression. But the thing continued watching
the archer with its crimson eyes, even as the last light of day vanished above
them, and night covered them both in its blanket.
Its red eyes watched him.
Monday 19 March 2012
The Frozen Moment: Part 2
Two
Captain
Valant stood at the aft of her Airship, the Sweet
Temptation, with one hand on the helm and the other around the telescoped
monocular placed against her eye. In the distance, she could see the
unmistakable gas bags and vapour trail of another airship. Through the
telescope, she could see clearly it was a merchant vessel; its hull swollen to
accommodate the goods she could carry,
making her look like some giant, wooden, airborne whale.
She'll do, Valant concluded, smiling.
She contracted the eyeglass and
placed it back on her hip, alongside her blade. Turning to her First Mate, she
nodded. "Mr. Ghost, prepare for offensive action. I shall have that
ship".
Mr. Ghost, as pale as his namesake
but no less intimidating for it, returned the nod. "Aye, ma'am.
They're putting distance between us from the looks of it, no doubt they've
spotted us". At six and a half feet tall, Mr. Ghost, or the Ghost as he was often called, was an
imposing figure all in dark grey. He was thin, but lithe. His silence and
emaciation belied his nimble strength. It was said that the man was everywhere
at once, and heard everything. Whether or not it was true, Valant didn't care;
it kept her crew in line.
"A wise choice, really" she smiled. "I wouldn't want to
be caught by Temptation either".
"Nor I, ma'am, but there'll be no outrunning us. They may prolong
the inevitable, but there's no Airship in the sky that can match us for
speed".
"You have the truth of it, Mr. Ghost. See to the
preparations".
The Ghost nodded once more, before making for the foredeck, barking
orders to awaiting crewmen as he went. Valant watched him go, before turning to
her other side. "Helmsman, take us after her. I'll be in my cabin. Call me
when we're on top of them".
The helmsman made no motion to acknowledge her order, beyond taking
the wheel firmly in his hands. He is much
more silent since I had his tongue out, to be sure, but a nod wouldn't go
amiss. Thinking no more of it, the Captain made her way down the stairs of
the aftcastle and then into the interior of the Airship. Arriving at her
private cabin, she closed the door behind her and locked it.
The cabin itself was fairly spacious, and not lacking for luxury. The
centrepiece of the room was her desk; a huge, varnished Oak table, with gilded
corners and strong, narrowing legs that ended in strong claws. The animal they
had belonged to was unknown to her, but its feet were fierce. The desk was
fierce. Atop it was littered all manner of trinkets and paraphernalia that the Sweet Temptation had plundered over the
course of its illustrious career.
Moving around the table, she stopped before her window, and gazed out.
Windows were a rare thing aboard War-faring Airships, but Valant had insisted.
In an uncommon moment of capitulation, the Captain had agreed to have the
window inset somewhat, and to reduce its size, thus minimising the danger of it
shattering or providing too much of a target to enemies. What was originally
intended to be a window spanning the entire length and breadth of the back
wall, was now markedly smaller. It still ran the entire length of her wall, but
was now a strip of glass, a meter from top to bottom, broken only in the
centre, where the bare wall was covered with a map of the major airways and
secret hideouts that only she and a select few knew of. From outside the ship,
it gave the impression that the aft of the Temptation
was glaring.
Let them think that, Valant had thought, There's nothing on the Temptation for them but death. They would do well to stay away.
The view out of the window was nothing but sky as far as she could
see; roiling white clouds not far below her, everywhere else blue, fading
slowly to orange, as the daylight began to accede to night's advances. It was a beautiful view, but one she had seen
many, many times before.
She moved away from the window and gazed at her map. It was mainly
decorative; she had another map for annotations on her desk, but she enjoyed
looking at this one. The main Air-trade routes were marked with thick dotted
lines. At either end, the names of their terminus' were written in an elegant,
delicate handwriting.
The route they were winding their way down now was called the
'Wispway', a smaller sub-route branching off the main 'Cloudline', as it was
known. This sub-route was less patrolled by the vessels of the Unified Navy, so
Valant had decided that any ship brave, or foolish, enough to travel it
deserved whatever befell them. It was, admittedly, a shorter route to the
mountain city of Aclivite than the main, heavily defended, 'Nimbusline', so a
number of larger trade ships, thinking themselves invincible, made the journey
in order to maximise on time and money.
They were her favourite; the ones who thought they could fight her.
The Temptation wasn't the
largest Airship in the skies, but she was larger than some of the official Navy
warships, and more than a match for any Tradecraft flying. What she lacked in
power, she made up for in speed; It had been known for the Temptation to disable its prey and be boarding before the poor,
unsuspecting target could get to their ready-stations.
Oh and we can fight, too, Valant thought. We can fight with the best of them. Her crew did not lack for
bloodlust, and dozens of battles above the skies of a dozen cities had made
them hardened, skilled and truly ruthless warriors. If their speed did not win
the day, her crew would.
She reached out and touched the map. The rough parchment was coarse
against her skin, but she welcomed it. Slowly, she traced the route of the
Cloudline from its starting city, up north at Paceguard, down and down past
where the Wispway branched off, travelling further south still, until her
finger rested against the end of the line. Marked next to her finger, in the
elegant scrawl of the Cartographer, Chronos
Bastion. Next to it, in a much scruffier, capitalised scrawl, someone had
written one word.
Home.
Her finger lingered on that point of the map a few seconds. Her eyes
slid closed. In her mind, huge stone walls reared up, their distant battlements
peaked with flagpoles, their heralds snapping sharply in the ever changing
wind. Turrets and minarets peered over the wall at those beyond the defences.
At the top of the highest tower, a window lay open. Through the window, she
could see the face she always saw, peering out at her. The face of--
Three sharp knocks at the door brought her back to reality with a
gasp. Her finger slipped from its place on the map, and she remembered herself.
With a cough, she turned, and made for the door.
It was The Ghost waiting, when she opened the heavy wooden breach. He
tilted his head slightly when he saw the slightly distant look in her eyes, but
thought better than to ask. "Captain, we're almost upon them. They appear
to be coming about".
Valant coughed again. "They're bigger fools than we could have
hoped for, then. Mr. Ghost, tell the men to prepare their battle stations, I
shall follow".
The First mate nodded curtly, and disappeared down the corridor. The
Captain took a moment to compose herself, unnecessarily smoothing down her
tunic, and then followed.
---
On deck, it was frantic, but composed. Men were running back and forth
across the deck, fulfilling orders that just kept being barked from The Ghost.
Cannonballs were being drawn in crates from
below decks to supply the artillery on the main deck. Below the boards,
the Temptation housed a hefty
broadside of heavier cannonry, but the accuracy and speed of the smaller,
above-deck shots were invaluable.
Valant moved through and around the scrambling crew and to the
foredeck, to get a better view. Leaning on the bow and looking out across the
sky, she could the Tradeship in the near distance, no more than a kilometre
away. It was indeed coming about to present her broadside to them, and it
looked more heavily armed than she had anticipated. Two sub-decks of cannons
poked from her hull's flank. Black noses, suspicious and twitchy. She was
certain that if they were to exchange broadsides in straight combat, the Temptation would not fare well.
What can you be carrying that's so
important as to be defended so heavily? She wondered. The cost of the ship and all those armaments would
offset the price of transporting almost anything. It had to be something
special. Something exceedingly
valuable.
Valant was determined she would have it. Whatever it was, somebody had
gone to a lot of trouble for it.
When she returned to the Helm, she was joined by her First Mate, who
had finished shouting orders. "The crew awaits your command, Captain"
he said.
"Very good, Mr. Ghost. They're boasting a two-deck broadside and
I don't want so much as a splinter on my hull". She turned her head to
address the helmsman, "Take us higher. Above their guns". Again, with no acknowledgement,
the mute man put his foot to a pedal just below the large, brass steering
device. Down at the very stern of the Temptation,
the altitude rudders raised their heads curiously. The airship began to
steadily ascend.
She turned back to her First Mate. "Tell the engine room, take us
to attack speed ".
Ghost looked as confused as she had at the prospect of the ship being
so heavily armed. "My Captain, are you ... certain about this? A two-deck
broadside is a powerful showing. Who knows what else they--"
"I am always certain, sir. Now tell the engine room. I need
speed". There was no more arguing. With another curt nod, the pale man
headed for the Communications deck. Valant turned to the helmsman.
"Prepare for evasive manoeuvres, Mr. Domm. And be ready to flank
them. Like I said, not a splinter".
This time the helmsman did nod, his grip on the wheel tightening.
Valant looked to the fore. Ahead of them, the Tradeship loomed,
dropping below the prow of the ship as the Temptation
rose higher. She could just make out the figures of men on-deck, braced and
ready for combat. Briefly, the Captain considered the possibility that she was
making a mistake, but she soon banished the thought.
There was a hiss from next to the helm; the small two-way mouthpiece
was sounding off. Valant grabbed it, taking the mouthpiece in one hand, and
putting the receiver to her ear. "Mr. Ghost?"
"Aye, Captain. Engine room complying with orders. Awaiting
further command".
"Very good. Stay where you are, I'll need a direct line to the
Engines".
"As you will".
Ahead of them, only the gasbags of the larger ship could be seen as
the Temptation reached a height that
Valant was comfortable with. Along their sides was emblazoned their insignia,
swelling in the centre with the curve of the balloon. Something struck Valant
about this particular insignia; a large red oval formed the background. On top
of that was a treasure chest, mostly closed, but straining somewhat under the
amount of gold and shining material trying to burst forth from it. In front of
the chest, three large serpents reared up, facing anyone who looked at the
insignia. Their hoods were wide and their eyes were angry.
Valant didn't like it. Worse still, she recognised it.
There were no Trading Companies that used such brazenly defensive
imagery in their logos, nor did any she know have them screened across the
ships themselves. It had been a long time since she had seen anything like this
on an Airship, save her own simplistic insignia, and yet she couldn't quite
remember it. Those snakes, defending that chest, and their hoods.
She realised what it was just as there was another hiss from her ear.
"Captain. We're being hailed".
She took a moment to respond, still struck by her realisation.
"Y-yes, Mr. Ghost. Hailed by whom?"
Ghost did not sound happy in his reply. "By the trade ship,
ma'am". Something about the way he said 'Trade' made her feel uneasy.
"They demand to speak to the Captain".
Valant balked at that. "Demand? Who do they think they are, to
demand anything from me!?"
There was a short pause. "They demand to speak to the Captain.
They demand it, by order of the Guild of the Three Cobras".
That was it. The Guild of the Three Cobras. Notorious across the world
as the best, and perhaps more famously, most expensive, escort-cum-courier
service that money could buy. If you
could afford it. They carried enough guns and armaments aboard their Galleons
to cause even some of the strongest self-proclaimed Skylords to keep their
distance. Through loopholes and caveats in the legal system, they were not
bound by how many guns and weapons they were allowed to carry--a gap in the
'Disproportionate Firepower' act that had yet to be plugged.
Whatever the Cobras carried aboard their ships was defended by enough
men and gunpowder to start a war in the skies that could be seen from the
Frozen wastes of the Eastern Fringes.
The wind seemed somehow stronger to Valant. She took a heavy step
forward and placed her hand on the railing to steady herself, lest this wind
blow her away. Glancing around, she saw that the rest of the crew didn't seem
to notice the sudden gale.
"Ma'am?" Ghost's voice was still in her ear. "Ma'am.
The Cobras demand a response... Captain!"
Captain. Yes, Captain, that's what I am. She remembered. Of course she
remembered. How could she forget? She was the scourge of the skies. She got
what she wanted; she always got what she wanted.
"Tell them they have 30 minutes, Mr. Ghost. There will be no
negotiations but for this; tell them to lower their standards, present her aft
to us, and surrender. If my demands are not fulfilled in that time, then we're
coming aboard, and there will be no quarter".
Ghost's voice was stern. "Captain Valant, these are Cobras. We could be starting a war with
the entire compa--"
"Thirty minutes, Mr. Ghost, tell them". There was a pause.
She waited. After a few, long moments, her First Mate finally replied.
"As you will".
Three
He stood up
suddenly, far faster than he should have. The world span, his vision blurred.
He swayed on the spot, reached out to grab something to support himself and, when
nothing presented itself, fell to his knees. He took several long moments to
draw breath, place himself, and remember.
Fighting. There had been fighting. Blood. Death. Explosions. He had
sat in his seat and he had ... he had ... what had he done? He hadn't ... he
hadn't ... agreed? No, he had said no to someone. To something. Someone.
He drew himself back to his feet. Slower, this time, with determined
purpose. Once he had composed himself, he took a look around the scene. The
Chamber of Governance was a picture of chaos. Senators were fleeing, their deep
crimson robes flowing behind them and, in some unlucky cases, below them, as
they tripped or fell. Some were people he knew, had seen before, some were
unknown, their faces obscured behind masks, hoods, or blood.
In the centre of the room, the battle he had committed to raged. His
faithful guard, emblazoned in their Golden armour, struck out at the opposing
foe, Blood splashed across their gleaming silver breastplates and stained their
sky-blue capes a deeper, navy shade of night. For all their skill and courage,
however, his men appeared to be losing at the moment of their cessation. They
had fought valiantly, but everything had turned sour just before the roof had
imploded.
The roof!
He turned, suddenly terrified, to gaze wide-eyed at the gaping maw in
the ceiling. He was briefly afraid it was still collapsing, and staggered
backwards away from it. In his panic, he nearly tripped and fell down the great
stone stairs behind him, but he managed to regain his composure as he realised
that, much like the men around him, the Airship's attack had frozen in time as
well.
Frozen in time. I thought it was a fairy
tale.
He drew himself up again, to his full height. Proud, rigid. Fear and panic are not feelings that the
Grand Prince of the Empire should show.
This Empire, his Empire had
been born in the ashes of his Father, the Grand King of the Second. His father
had succumbed to an illness not long after declaring war on the North. It was
an official declaration, backed by both the Senate and the people. They had
mobilised that very same moment, the Empire’s airfleet sailing forth with speed
and strength to engage the Unified Navy in the skies over Chronos Bastion. It would be their first great victory. With it, they
forced the capitulation of the Bastion without the loss of a single man within
its walls.
The battle in the skies above had been so fierce, and lasted for so
long, that many doubted anybody would win, but when the drumbeat of cannons had
finally stopped, and the mist cleared, the great standard of the Empire snapped
and fluttered angrily above them, with not a single Unified Airship left.
The Bastion had welcomed an end to the fighting, then. They had even
welcomed him, the Crown Prince of the Empire, when he had arrived to be their
Regent; Commander of their foothold in the north. From his seat in the
'impregnable' Chronos Bastion, the
castle that nobody thought could be taken, he had launched his offensive along
the skylines and shores of the entire Northern continent. Within a month, five
of the eight shoreline cities had surrendered, and the Trade-routes all flew
through the Bastion to refuel and resupply.
Traders didn't care who was in charge, they just cared about the
profit. The Prince understood this, the Prince accepted this. The Prince
welcomed this. Other despots would have shot them out of the sky, and there'd
have been no trade in Chronos Bastion
for a hundred generations. The Prince welcomed them with open arms, making sure
the Castle produced as much as possible to trade and resupply traders who had
flown all the way to the end of the line.
It was in this way that the Bastion had grown, and soon become the
central point of the entire Empire, second only to the Grand Capital. But the
Bastion was his, the victories were his. Chronos
Bastion was the stage from where the war was fought. The Grand Capital was
half a world away, stagnant and delicate, untouched and unknowing of the war
and glory that existed to the North. The Grand Capital was no longer the
Empire. The Empire, in reality, was his.
But what Empire? He thought. What now? I have lost everything.
I lost my trade, I lost my Bastion, I lost my war, and then I lost time itself.
And now here I am, trapped. Trapped by the last, dying act of a vengeful woman
and an even more Vengeful Viscount.
No, he suddenly thought, gazing around him. No. Not trapped. Freed. I walk again, I feel. For me, time flows again.
Something must have gone wrong. Gone right!
She failed, because time flows through me again, and I through it. The rest of
this world may be frozen, but not I!
He almost skipped down the steps. He strode with purpose through the
scene before him, glancing left and right at the madness that had stopped
around him. In a way, he thought he should be thankful. The stopping of time
may well have saved these people's lives. His
people's lives, anyway. Not his enemy's.
No. For his enemies, death would be welcome thing when the Empire of
the Second was reborn around them.
Monday 5 March 2012
The Frozen Moment: Part 1
So here it is. The first chapter (+ prologue) of the "novel" I wrote last November, during "NaNoWriMo". I've been editing and improving on the very rough, original draft, so the version you see here will be the version I have polished as much as I can (which could go either way, to be honest).
Another fun fact; I haven't actually finished the novel yet. I stopped just after 50k (the total required to 'win' NaNoWriMO), and haven't started back up. But you can bet I'm going to go ahead and get it finished, now that I'm slowly putting the chapters online.
I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts on it, good or bad, so long as it's constructive. "It's shit lol" won't fly.
(inb4 "It's shit lol").
Also, Creative Commons apply yada yada yada; this is my work, don't steal it, it's my Intellectual property. If you do, things will happen. Bad things).
I hope you enjoy!
-----
The
Frozen Moment
A
NaNoWriMo Accident; by Peter Stewart
Prologue
The
Audience Chamber was still.
A large, circular, domed room, the
chamber was filled with people. Some were pointing, some were shouting, others
were running and fighting and dying. All of them were motionless and silent.
Frozen.
The room was a tableau of chaos.
Those who were sitting down were trying to stand up. Those who were pointing
were screaming. Those who were shouting were wide-eyed, afraid. And all of them
were still, held in place. Dozens of men and women halted in-situ, stuck
between steps, fear forever etched onto their faces.
In the centre of the auditorium, a
battle was unmoving, paused at its peak. Men with swords and spears were
thrusting, stabbing and blocking the weapons of those attacking them--their
enemies. Some had not been so lucky, and their faces were the halted, haunting
images of death; expressions of agony, shock and disappointment wrought on
their features as they were indiscriminately slain.
From their opened, unmoving wounds,
gushes of dark, crimson blood had erupted and been suspended in mid-air. Bone
and sinew and flesh hung motionless in the air, trailing streamers of solid
state caught in time.
Above this macabre portrait, a
large portion of the domed roof had collapsed. Stone and glass and mortar had
caved inwards and fallen arbitrarily. Several large chunks of masonry lay
strewn across the chaotic scene below; some had fallen on patches of empty
ground, whilst others had claimed those unfortunate enough to have been in
their path, their broken twisted limbs held forever as a testament to the
scene.
Much like the blood, other pieces
of the collapsing ceiling had frozen during their descents. Large boulders were
seized in the space, as were the multitude of smaller, cascading rocks and
pebbles. A thick cloud of dust had erupted with the roof's implosion and hung
above the scene like the descending swarm of some angry plague.
Beyond the roof, hanging in the
sky, was the source of the destruction. The airship floated loftily in the near
distance, the ripple of explosions still blossoming across its broadside,
frozen like everything else, a still shot of destruction. Bunches of cannon
shot loomed ominously between the vessel and the auditorium, as if waiting for
the perfect moment to descend.
At the centre of this portrait of
madness, in the high seat at the back of the Chamber, a solemn figure sat. He
wore sharp, elegant clothing befitting of a man of power; an elaborately
decorated breastplate covered his upper body, a deep burgundy half-cape draped
over the right shoulder, clasped to the breastplate by a brooch in the style of
a sword, stabbing through the material.
Unlike the rest of the crazed,
terrified people around him, his face was a passive, still mask. His eyes gazed
at something just out of sight, oblivious to any one point of the chaos around
him; it didn't seem to be reaching him. His pupils, however, were tiny black
specks in a deep blue ocean; whatever this man was seeing, he feared it.
Like the rest of the madness around
him, he was a statue; an image locked in stasis. His power, his dress, his
feelings were all stilled, irrelevant and ceased. Whatever he had hoped to
achieve was stuck; his aspirations were lost. This maddening scene of chaos
around him was deafeningly silent, a void of sound trapped within this bubble
of timelessness.
And then, with a desperate rushing
of air, he moved.
-------------
One
The
balustrade of the balcony was cold when Lucé placed her hands upon it and
looked out over Paceguard. In the crisp morning air, the dense smog that
covered the city so many hundreds of feet below looked almost like nothing more
than an early mist, settled over the city whilst it slept.
Would
that it were so, she thought, gripping the steel bar tighter.
The balustrade was always cold in
the mornings, even in Summer. Her balcony faced away from the rising sun, so it
was the middle of the day before the first trails of sunlight began to warm her
side of the Viscount's Tower. The long dawn shadow of the tower stretched out
before her, lying contented against the city below it. It would slowly wake,
receding inch by inch before stretching itself out once again on the other side
of the city.
Lucé shivered as a crisp winter
breeze whisked around the heights and through her thin bedclothes, yet she
remained outside, gazing at the slowly rousing city. Below the smog, the first
echoes of awakening began, breaking the fragile morning silence. Her eyes
darted to the source of every sound she heard, squinting desperately, as if by
narrowing her vision she could penetrate the opaqueness. As ever, though, it
was no use. All she had was sounds to go by as the city below--her city--rose to face another day.
"Madame?" came an
inquiring voice from behind her, within her bedchamber. It was a warm voice,
but it frustrated her nevertheless. "You mustn't be out here so early,
it's always so cold this side of the tower, especially in Winter".
"It's quite alright, Suse,
I'll be fine for another minute or more. I'm just enjoying the city". Go away, woman. "See to my
breakfast, would you? I'll be along shortly. I'll have the usual".
Suse hesitated a moment, concern on
her face, before she nodded, backed away from the window and headed out of the
bedchamber. At the door, she paused a moment again, muttered something to
somebody outside, then busied herself with Lucé's request.
Lucé took a deep breath in through
her nose. The morning air was cold,
as Suse had said; it burned its way through her nostrils and down into her lungs.
She shivered again, but savoured the sensation of the chilled air within her.
It was refreshing, like a splash of cold water in the face. She couldn't stay
here forever, she knew that, but she would linger as long as she could.
"My lady, that's enough gazing
for one morning". Another voice. This one cold, clipped; It brooked no
argument. "Time to come back inside and prepare for the day".
Lucé turned, but kept one hand on
the railing, the cold a sharp tether. "Just a while longer, Traech. You
know I love these mornings. The city is so beautiful"
Traech frowned. He was a tall man,
and thin. He was dressed entirely in black; formal, as suited his office. His
face was cast seriously, stern, but it held the potential to be kinder.
"You can barely see the city, my lady, and there is nothing to gaze on
past the walls. This is idle folly. Dare I say, procrastination. Your father
expects you to be prepared for a morning's officiating with him today and
instead I find you wasting time?"
"What is time, Traech, if not
to be wasted?"
He snorted. "A precious thing,
Lady Lucé. One you understand so little of, it seems. Am I to report to your
father that this is how you are frittering the responsibilities of state?"
She sighed. There was no arguing,
she had lost. She let go of the balustrade and began back into her bedroom.
"Fine", she huffed, deliberately exaggerating, "but it simply
won't do for me to be interrupted like this. Father best be prepared for me at
my worst today".
Traech smiled behind her back.
"As ever, my lady".
---
Viscount Armén was not a man who enjoyed being kept waiting. The one thing he held precious beyond everything else was time, and that was something he was certain everybody else held dear as well. It baffled him, then, that some people chose to dawdle with their arrangements so much.
The Viscount had more patience for
his daughter than most, admittedly, but at the same time he though she, of all
people, should understand the value of the time she took for granted. Instead,
he sat, waiting, in the high seat in the Chamber of the Senate--bereft of any
Senators. The seat next to him, reserved for his daughter, was empty when it
shouldn't be. The room was silent. Outside the hall, the regional Senators
waited for their weekly opportunity to address the Viscount directly, explain
their grievances and requests, and await his official decree on the matter.
The Viscount loved the notion of
this democracy, but did so despise having to sit through their wearisome
complaints and squabbles. Having his daughter accompany him--or perhaps, suffer
with him--during his official business was the only thing that kept him going
through it.
Finally, twenty minutes later than
they had agreed, the side door to the to the chamber opened, and his daughter,
Baroness Lucé stepped through, the look on her face when she saw her father a
beaming picture of insolence. Nothing I
say can harm her, Armén thought. Or
rather, I can't bring myself to say anything that can harm her. His Chief
Steward, Traech, stepped through the door after Lucé, flanking her. He wore his
usual impassive mask of stern day-to-day business upon his face. On meeting the
Viscounts gaze, he gave an insignificant shrug and bowed his head.
"Sweet child", Armén
began, as stern as he dared, "I asked for you twenty minutes past. The
Senators will not like being kept waiting".
His daughter, to her credit, at
least tried to look contrite. "They will not like it even more when you
say no to their requests, Father. Besides, you know how I enjoy looking out of
the window of a morning. The city is so beautiful".
"The City so-- Lucé, the City
is invisible from up here; a blanket of smog from wall to wall. What is so
beautiful about looking down at nothing?"
She laughed. "You don't
understand, Father. Nobody ever understands. You don't look with just your
eyes. There are things beneath the smog, I can hear them, and when I hear them
I see them. Not with my eyes, but I see them all the same. Little ideas in my
head".
Armén smiled. He had lost again.
"As you say, child. Come, take your seat. The day's business is to begin.
The sooner we start, the sooner we can be done".
With a sigh, Lucé crossed the
distance to her seat and, with another--deliberate--sigh, lowered herself into
it. Besides her, the Viscount patted her head with a gloved hand, then looked
up to his steward, who had moved to the Chamber's large, ornate central doors.
"Traech, show them in would
you? Let's get this over with".
"As you say, my Lord".
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