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The Aerodactyl
Silas Amaro stood at the prow of the Aerodactyl and surveyed the quiet ocean blue that surrounded him. The vast emptiness of the water gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach, as though such emptiness were but a veil hiding something huge and horrible that could emerge from the depths at any moment to drag them down into nothingness. Having lived his life in the city, he had an innate fear of wide, open spaces. The last time he’d been on a ship, it had been during the brief conflict with Galvania, and the sea then had been full of hundreds of vessels, but he’d still felt the feeling he had now, that deep distrust of the rolling waves that lapped against the ship like the tremors of a monster stirring from slumber. Like a monster, you couldn’t reason with it, you couldn’t fight it, you simply were either destroyed or spared. If the sea wished to swallow them at that moment, then there was nothing that could be done. It was an inexorable force, one that rendered all things powerless. The sea was like death in all the ways that mattered.
He had dealt with death all his life, and although he was familiar with it daily, it still occupied his thoughts to the extent that he saw it in all things. He saw it on the face of the baker who was one hand short because he’d lost a son to the pox. He saw it in the awkward gaits of the alley urchins abandoned by their parents who had either succumbed to debt, drink, or disease. It was on the tongue of the man who had tried to steal from him as he had made his way to the harbor with a platoon of warriors. Curses had flown from the thief’s lips after Silas had had him beaten and left in the street writhing in agony. “May you die like a dog,” he’d shouted, and though his back had remained turned, Silas heard him. Sometimes he felt as though he was death’s harbinger, a role he’d never desired. Indeed, he took no pride in the number of men he’d maimed or killed over the years. He was pragmatic about it—to live was to experience death; to fear it, to despise it, to accept it, to yearn for it. That was why he stood on the prow of the Aerodactyl instead of cowering in the hold with a bucket in between his legs.
He couldn’t stay in the hold anyway, not with that wizard prowling about, muttering gibberish and staring at corners as though he saw things moving in the shadows. The second day at sea he had asked Firenze if Dazbog was insane. The assassin had thought about the question for much longer than Silas liked before answering in the negative. “At least, not entirely,” he’d added a second later. The thought had occurred to him that it could all be an act designed to drive away anyone who lingered—the man certainly desired his privacy, though Silas sent Firenze to question him from time to time, a task which the man clearly did not relish, for Dazbog was rude and dismissive, considering the mercenary to be beneath him.
“No sign of the thieves,” said a voice behind him. It was Firenze.
“They have at least a week on us, and who knows what sort of vessel they possess,” responded Silas, continuing to stare at the waters.
“Barbarian raiders are common in this area, says the captain. Perhaps they found our mysterious sorceress.”
“Bad luck for them if they did. Tell me, has Dazbog formed any theories as to what she wants with the Heart?” asked Silas.
“If he has, he does not share them. He becomes more abrasive by the day, I swear. He lets me into his quarters only after lengthy protests. Strange mushrooms blossom on the floorboards while shadows move from corner to corner, searching for dark space. It smells of death in there. The crew says we have no rats because Dazbog sucks their blood,” said Firenze, his voice having only a trace of its usual sarcasm.
“Is it true?” asked Silas, turning towards him.
“Perhaps. I don’t know. He is a necromancer. Nothing he has done is out of the ordinary for one such as him.”
“Do we have control?” asked Silas.
Firenze said nothing, but his silence spoke enough. Silas wanted a drink right then badly, so he left the prow and retreated to his cabin, Firenze in tow. His quarters were spacious, as far as ships went, and he sat at the table and uncorked a bottle of Zanj rum that had been given to him by the captain. Silas took a swig from the bottle and shook his head as the liquid burned down his throat. “Want some?” he asked, offering the bottle to the assassin, who shook his head.
“It doesn’t agree with me,” said Firenze.
“I’ve seen you drunk as a skunk on back alley swill, yet you won’t drink rum. I was nine years old when I had my first drink. There was a bar on Hyde Street called the Angry Bear where I used to clean tables for a penny an hour. One of my jobs was to collect all the dirty tankards and pour any leavings into a barrel under the bar marked “backwash.” Old Weaver didn’t charge as much for a pint of backwash. I got fired for drinking beer off the table. Miserly son of a bitch, old Weaver was.”
“Cheap bastard,” said Firenze.
“Of course he was. I just remember those days whenever I sip fine rum such as this,” explained Silas.
“It tastes sweeter,” said Firenze.
“I think it tastes sweeter. Perception is what we are discussing, I believe. Because of my memory of drinking low quality alcohol, I imagine the good stuff to taste sweeter than it would had I not that memory. However, as I just admitted earlier, I cannot drink rum without remembering drinking backwash, so how do I know the rum really tastes sweeter? Furthermore, taste is but an aspect of perception, and like all aspects of perception it is impossible to come to a universal consensus regarding its interpretation in many instances. For example, we both take a shot from the same bottle of rum, yet I claim the drink is bitter while you say it is sweet. Who is right? Whose opinion do we trust? Can we really define how the rum tastes? One man cannot share another’s perception without becoming that man, and I am not aware of any such magic existing that would facilitate such a process.” Silas paused and stared down at his feet. “Dazbog might answer our question. It is the sort of query that he enjoys.”
“Is so, he is full of shit,” said Firenze. “Why waste your time thinking of such trivial matters?”
“Speak to me like that again, and I shall have your tongue ripped out,” said Silas. “Practical men are needed now, yet bullshitters have their uses. Let us see our man. It has been a while since I spoke with him.”
The two men left the cabin and ventured below deck to the hold, passing two Medjay who stood at the bottom of the stairs, their forms ridged as statues, faces expressionless as death masks. Silas ignored them as his mentor had instructed, an old Durn named Imul who had served so long at court that he’d outlived three Dukes before a fit of madness caused his death. Medjay, the old Durn had informed him, were not individuals and did not warrant treatment as such, and any attempts to relate to them as fellow human beings would undermine their very purpose. “They are tools, not people,” Imul had said, “mutated to be little more than husks; soulless, without desire, unflappable. You’ll never lose one to drink or a bribe, and you’ll never find one wandering the streets, searching for women. From the start of their training they are forced to divide themselves into two entities, one pure and egoless, a vessel for the desires of the Duke, and another to serve as a depository for their selves. Over time, that depository is eliminated, leaving only the tool for us to wield.” Though he had passed over a decade ago, Imul lived on in Silas’s head, giving advice in his gravelly drawl. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to say regarding the theft of the Heart, perhaps because the occurrence of such an unthinkable thing had finally driven him to speechlessness.
They ducked under a low beam and came upon a thick black curtain drawn across the length of the hold, its density being such that it looked as though the curtain was made of obsidian. “Interesting,” murmured Firenze, stopping before the veil and slowly extending a hand. As his fingers reached the darkness, they were enveloped and disappeared. “Cold,” said the assassin, pulling his hand from the curtain. “As I said, he values his privacy.”
“I’m putting a stop to this,” growled Silas. “We will not let this devilry take over the ship.” Without hesitation, he went through the curtain, yet instead of a ship’s hold, he found himself in a cave.
Gone was the sound of the waves and the rocking motion beneath his feet; there was no smell of salt, only the damp, wet odor of mold. Water dripped somewhere in the depths. He heard the faint echo of bare feet slapping against moist stone, the steps slow, inconsistent, barely perceptible. Only a few feet in front of him was visible, the pale illumination outlining a patch of stalagmites resembling the worn teeth of a dead giant. Stranger said a voice, directionless, seemingly coming from his mind. Stranger. Thing. Interloper. Uninvited. From behind the stalagmites he saw it emerge, an alabaster creature, its skin like the dead flesh of a fish. Where. Where. Stranger. A meatless hand clutched his leg, sending cold through his body, freezing his tongue, leaving ice on his lips. He heard a command uttered in Firenze’s voice, and suddenly the image of the cave wavered, the creature and the stalagmites flickering in and out of existence, until the whole scene vanished, replaced by a dark ship’s hold and the craggy, unsmiling visage of Dazbog.
“How can I be of service, Amaro?” muttered the wizard, glaring with saggy eyes. “I hope it is a matter of importance, seeing how you have interrupted my work.”
Silas looked down at his leg, expecting to see the creature’s hand still fastened around his limb.
“What is wrong, Amaro? Do you not participate in the court magicians’ spells? Have you never seen an illusion?” taunted the necromancer.
Silas had, of course, witnessed illusions and fanciful spells performed during festivals and celebratory functions, usually consisting of mythical creatures or scenes enacted in artificial colors designed to impress and startle the audience. The cave had been no illusion; he had been there, he was sure of it. His leg still ached with coldness, and the smell of the place hung in his nostrils like the reek of carrion.
“What are you doing down here? The crew has become alarmed and claim you are eating rats and conjuring demons. Let me remind you that this ship is chartered under the Duke’s authority, and he is your master to whom you shall answer. Many evil things must be done for the good of the state, yet I would have you refrain from practicing the black arts unless asked to do so, for the good of morale as well as the preservation of our sovereign’s name,” stated Silas, a scowl forming on his hard face.
“What is a name?” snapped the wizard. “A name is a word, a word with variable meaning. Say the Duke’s name to a Galvanian, and he will tell you how little it means. Say it to the Capetian Captain of the Guard, and he will give you a dissertation on honor and responsibility. The Duke’s name means nothing. It is just a trigger for nationalistic feelings of loyalty in either case, and this is due to the nature of his office rather than any doings of the individual. There is no ideal to sully, Amaro. We travel beneath the banner of meaninglessness.”
“You avoid an explanation by launching into one of your nihilistic digressions. You wizards are full of shit,” responded Silas.
“I am not the one whose world is built on illusions,” said Dazbog. “I recognized the fallacy of belief. People like you need Dukes and Gods and the concepts they supposedly represent. When you passed through the veil, the cave was real to you, was it not? The nameless things that moved in it seemed real, as did their icy touch. There are some among my number who can materialize objects from nothingness. These objects feel as real as any other—they may vanish in a minute or disintegrate after a thousand years. What does this tell us about the nature of our reality? If reality can be manipulated in such a manner, we are without a foundation. If the immaterial can become substantial, did the material world ever have any substance? And yet you shake your head and tell me I am insane. I am what I am, Amaro: a rational creature drowning in a sea of ignorance.”
“All of this stops,” said Silas. “The illusions. The rumors. Your obtuse excuses. I want results, wizard, or I shall toss you in the sea.”
“Your captain plots his course using my information. Do you doubt my ability?” He took out a jade stone and put it before Silas’s nose. “I cannot, unfortunately, make this vessel travel any faster. I cannot open a portal and pull the courtesan and the troubadour through to toss at your feet. There are limits to my powers, yet rest assured that without out my wizardry, you will never find the Heart of Rankar.”
Silas quickly snatched the jade stone out of Dazbog’s hands and tossed it to Firenze.
“Can you guide us with that totem?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” said the mercenary, though he looked uncertain.
“He is a good killer, that is true, but a poor excuse for a magician,” said Dazbog. “You cannot trust him to ensnare a sorceress with his feeble abilities.”
“I’d be willing to risk disappointment. I don’t like the way you boss us around and act as though this is your ship and you are running the operation. You’re hired help, necromancer. Start acting like it. Or I’ll dispose of you in a way that is fitting.”
Dazbog shrugged, turned away from Silas and picked up a vial full of red liquid from a small table he'd thrown against the hold wall. He held the vial to his nose, shook his head, and put it back down, one hand stroking his beard, as though any further conversation with his company would only be a bother to him. Silas's nails dug into his palms, but he mastered his temper enough to make good on his threat.
“Firenze,” said quietly. “Call the Medjay and tell them to fetch a weight and some rope.”
“What does my death accomplish besides giving you satisfaction?” asked Dazbog, still busying himself with objects on his table. “It will be yet another life on your long list of lives taken. Who is at the top of that list, Amaro? Old Imul? Now that death accomplished something for you. The head of the Secret Service attempting to strangle the Duke, only to be saved by a lesser guardsman, who dutifully plunged his sword into his superior's heart in service to his country. One of the great poets couldn't have written a better romance. Let me ask you something, Amaro: Why did your predecessor try to strangle the Duke when he could have decapitated him with one swing of his sword? If he was intent on killing the man by suffocation, why did he not sneak into the Duke's bedchamber at night instead of attacking him at court in front of all? What did your investigation uncover? Oh yes; you concluded that a fit of madness seized old Imul, who had served three Dukes with not so much as a reprimand until you took his life. And why did you take that life, Amaro, when you could have easily torn Imul from the Duke and preserved him for questioning? Did you not want the Inquisitors to hear his answers? Perhaps he was pressured into attacking the Duke by forces desiring to replace him. Perhaps someone he trusted threatened someone he cared for, for even an old warhorse like Imul loved. In fact, it was said that he loved in ways not condoned by the Priesthood as well as Capetian law. Durn is a faraway land with many strange customs. They do not have the prejudices that we do. Are you aware of that, my lord?”
“You speak nonsense,” said Silas, though he had turned pale.
“I'm not the only one who has figured it out, I assure you. There are others who have amassed evidence, who are waiting only for you to lose favor with the Duke before bringing the charges. But I don't want to see a proud man brought down like old Imul. I know their names. I know where they can be found and what their vices are. Don't ask how I know these things; it is my art to know. This information can be yours at the end of our journey. Or you can throw me into the sea.”
Silas said nothing. Firenze did not call the Medjay to come forth but stared at his superior.
“You must think long-term rather than sacrifice wisdom for profit. Now, if that will be all, I have some experiments I must conduct in order to further our goal. Please leave the stone on the table before you go. I wish you a good day.”
Were it not for the appearance of the ship's captain, Silas knew he would have killed Dazbog—he was already moving towards the wizard, his hands clenched—but the seaman's piercing voice broke his rage and redirected his attention.
“My lord, we have spotted barbarian raiders. We can take evasive actions and avoid them, which I would recommend. They can be skilled fighters, though they tend to concentrate their attention on weaker, unarmed vessels.”
“Hail them,” responded Silas, forcing himself to walk away from Dazbog, pushing his insolence out of his mind. As he climbed the stairs, he felt Firenze's stare, sensed the questions he wanted to ask but wouldn't dare. Amaro, is it true? Did you resort to blackmail like a common lowlife? They didn't understand that Imul had already picked his successor, an agent named Thenias, who was comely yet terribly unsuited for the position. The Durn's wits had degenerated so much that he began thinking with his dick and not his head. Rewarding sycophants instead of recognizing ability was a sign of weakness, and the Duke had many enemies skilled in probing their defenses. So he had taken the initiative before someone else had. You could even say that he did it out of love for his sovereign, for the good of the country. Despite Dazbog's threats, nothing could be proven, for those that had mattered so much to the Durn had been placed on a ship and taken to a land across the ocean from whence they would never return. Yet how had the necromancer known? Magic. Perhaps sorcerers could uncover the truth with their spells; he did not know what they did, but the more he learned, the more he feared them. They should all be destroyed. If he was able to return the Heart without incident, he would look in to arranging an investigation of freelancers such as Dazbog.
On deck, he watched as barbarian karvi approached, beckoned by their flag. It took only a short while for the men to row alongside the Aerodactyl; they were tall, muscular, lean men, of a hard consistency, their skin covered in scarred lacerations, eyes peering out from beneath jutting brows, distant, cold, and mean. Their leader, a tall man with a scowling disposition, climbed aboard and presented himself to Silas, picking him out from his fellows as the man of authority.
“A contingent of heavily-armed Medjay and a powerful wizard,” replied Silas. “I know how raiders operate. Let me relieve you of any notions you have regarding commandeering this vessel.”
The barbarian smiled a ragged grin and presented his empty hands. He looked back at his companions and shook his head.
“We did not think we'd be so lucky as to encounter a ship like this and find it poorly defended,” admitted Coriver. “But we had to see for ourselves. Why do you hail us?”
“We are looking for a woman, a witch, and a tall, dark man with a scarred face. They would have sailed this way about a week ago. Did you happen to come across their ship?”
Silas had not realized at first how badly Coriver’s face was marred. The scar tissue was fresh, white, and raised, sitting on the man’s visage like a spider. I bet that hurt like hell he thought.
“Would you pay money for this witch?” asked Coriver, staring at Silas with a nonchalant expression, as though the answer to his question was irrelevant.
“Two-hundred sovereigns. Alive. The same for her companion.”
The barbarian shrugged and then began to unbutton his shirt. His entire chest was as deformed as his face. He gestured at the damaged skin as though beckoning an audience to appreciate a work of art.
“My tribe took a Northron steamship a week ago. It was badly damaged in the battle, and though we surprised the crewmen, we were nearly destroyed by a witch. We bound her, took her to our village, and put her before the flames. We had intended to hang her on the ancient oak, for we loathe witches, considering them unnatural and an affront to Prax, but she escaped due to the treachery of one of my own. Her sorcery did this to my flesh. She also killed our totem, and now Prax speaks to us no longer. Two-hundred sovereigns is not enough for one of her ilk.”
“Where did she go?” asked Silas
“Into the Mawlden Forest? It is a vast expanse, and beyond it lies the Wotan Veldt, a savannah inhabited by beasts and specters. If she went that way, I would not follow her. If she hugged the coast, we have not seen her, which we count as a blessing. Our luck has failed since the witch escaped. The steamship that we took from the Northrons sunk not far from here, for unknown reasons, and many of my people remain lost. The rifles that we won have exploded in our hands; none among us is not covered in scars. She must have put a curse on us, one that we cannot shake.”
Silas considered telling Coriver that Northron technology was designed to self-destruct if fallen into the wrong hands, but he decided that would ruin the barbarian’s woeful narrative.
“Perhaps you could take us to your village so that we may pick up the witch’s trail,” suggested Firenze.
“No,” said Coriver, putting his hands on his belt. His arms were long and sinewy, covered in red, curly hair. The pommel of his short sword looked as smooth as a river-worn stone.
“Very well. Go back to your ship, barbarian. If you find the witch, search us out. We are heading east and plan on hugging the coast. Farewell,” said Silas.
Coriver did not answer but turned his back on the Silas and Firenze and hopped down to his karve and bade his rowers to start rowing. Soon the sleek ship had put considerable distance between itself and the Aerodactyl. As the sun set over the horizon, bathing the ocean waters crimson and purple, the tiny outline of the karve could just barely be seen, an insect hovering over the churning waters.
“You did not think it wise to inspect the village?” asked Firenze, staring out at the sea.
“It was not worth the bloodshed. That man was quick to draw arms. Someone would have died.”
“The Medjay surely could have disposed of them…”
“We cannot afford to lost time traipsing through the Mawlden Forest. We have no alternative but to trust the wizard despite his insubordination and eccentricity. And Firenze, about what Dazbog said…”
“He is a liar and a manipulator.”
“It's true. All of it,” said Silas. “Don't forget any of it.”
Silas turned and left for his quarters, leaving the mercenary alone on the deck, his mouth agape.
Next Chapter: On the Road
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