Aethosphere Chronicles: Storm of Chains (10 page)

The masked doctor’s response sounded
indifferent, “As I’ve said, I need to keep him overnight for
observation, but by tomorrow I should have a clearer idea of his
long-term medical prognosis.”

“Lt. Graye, I’m telling you the truth,”
Drish pleaded in desperation. He could see his life slipping
through his fingers like the snow drifting outside and melting on
the window.

“Regardless of the prisoner’s medical state
in the morning, see to it that he’s prepared to be transferred to
the dungeons. I want to get him into an interrogation cell before
the trail goes cold. I want those insurgents, down to the last man,
and
he’s
my key. And make sure he’s restrained.”

While the doctor and nurse set about
buckling him down with leather straps, Drish watched in anguish as
Graye spun coolly on his heels and marched the length of the narrow
chamber with all the practiced discipline of a career military
officer. All that remained of the Hierarch thereafter was in the
spicy scent of his aftershave, and the heavy dread he’d left
plaguing his captive’s mind.

Restrained and helpless, Drish could only
stew in solitude within the empty wing of the fortress’s infirmary,
while the long curtains filtered any outside light into a
nondescript twilight. Time, it seemed, was lost once again, and how
long Drish was forced to lay there was left to speculation. He’d
entered a sort of purgatory to contemplate his sins for eternity,
and only the occasional visiting nurse broke the monotony. But as
they changed his intravenous jar, they refused to spare him a
single word of comfort.

At some point night fell, and a restless
dark came settling over the room. From the thick shadows clinging
to the fissures in the rock wall, ghosts came crawling out to haunt
the ancient building. These green vaporous forms rose in moaning
choruses; mocking the cowardly noble for being weak, taunting him
of treason, begging for his help; and though Drish tried
desperately to shut them all out, they rang true in his head. Eyes
wide with fear, he watched as one dressed in a doctor’s uniform
approached, parting through the other ghosts like an airship
through clouds, and as he neared, he began peeling off the medical
scrubs. With it came chucks of flesh, and in horror, Drish found
his father’s undead corpse taking shape, emerging like a ghastly
newborn from the cocoon of his death shroud. Gore pulsated and
bubbled out from a gaping wound in his chest, while the left side
of his body decayed to rotting flesh and yellowed bone.

Arvis came shambling closer with his arms
held out, and his milky gaze locked on his son. “Son,” he moaned
pleadingly, reaching out with boney fingers. “Why did you kill
me?”

Drish woke with a violent start, finding his
hospital gown soaked in sweat. Around him the soft light of morning
gathered to drive away the nightmare, and he shuddered with cold
relief, though it hardly made him feel better. Moments later, he
heard the creaking hinges to the ward door swing open in protest.
Had the colonel come to haul him away? Drish gripped the sheets and
wondered if he could hold himself in place when they came for him.
Finally he worked up the courage to look, and found it was the
doctor strutting on course for his bed, presumably to check his
vitals one last time before they decided whether or not to ship him
off to an imperial torture chamber.

It was all too much, the events, the dream,
the impeding dread of what was to come next. The fugitive
bureaucrat had had enough. He grumbled at the approaching figure,
saying unkindly, “I’m fine. I would rather just be left alone until
the soldiers come for me, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’m sure you would,” muttered the doctor in
a low growl. The man’s voice was rough and deep, and not as Drish
remembered it from yesterday; and when he looked up, he found the
doctor staring back down at him. A dreadful connection to his
nightmare was forged in that instant, and he looked away from the
man’s fierce yellow eyes, up to the wisps of red hair protruding
from just under his medical cap.

No…this isn’t the same doctor from
earlier at all. This is someone else; someone else entirely.
Drish couldn’t shake the feeling he got from the man’s
devil-be-damned eyes either. He’d seen them before, staring at
him—
just before the butt of an imperial rifle sent me here
.
Drish wanted to cry out for help when he realized who this was.
Bar Bazzon…Here! He’s come for me! Arvis must have told this
pirate the damning truth for him to risk this place in order to
exact his revenge for my betrayal… Help!
But he found his voice
had failed. Only a garbled gagging broke the silence between
them.

“Keep quiet,” snapped Bar as he slapped a
hand over the collaborator’s mouth.

Suffocation
, that was to be his
method? Terrible suffocation, and with no way for Drish to save
himself? His hands were bound and all he could do was thrash his
head from side to side.

Suddenly there was movement at the door; a
nurse and an orderly had appeared; and with them they pushed a
gurney into the room.

I’m saved!
“Mmm mmm mmmm!” Drish
struggled desperately to scream through the brute’s calloused hand.
Or was he? Neither seemed particularly concerned that this doctor
was trying to smother him, even when they looked right at him.
Instead, they hastily shoved the gurney his way until it crashed
into the IV rack next to the bed, and sent it smashing to the
floor. Terrified confusion gripped Drish’s heart in runaway beats.
Again he tried to shake the hand away, but it was locked in place;
powerful and rough against his dry lips.

The nurse leapt to the bedside and tore away
her mask, and Drish could hardly believe his eyes.

“
Abigail! Have you come to witness my
demise as well?”
He accused in muffled vowels, though he found
he couldn’t fault her if she had.

“Bar, you’re going to kill him before we’ve
even had the chance to save him.”

“Sorry, Abby, but he won’t shut up. Tried to
tell him it was me, but he went crazy the second he laid eyes on
me. I don’t know what his problem is?”

“Glad to see me, Drish,” Abigail spoke
tenderly, and there was her beautiful face leaning in close to his.
He could smell the jasmine perfume, light and flowery, on her
supple skin. “I’m glad to see you. We’re going to get you out of
here, so please, be quiet. Are you going to do that for me?”

The girl was as radiant as ever, and Drish
was compelled to nod; even if he believed Bar was here to kill him.
How could the pirate not, after the look he’d had given him in the
foundry—one of pure vengeful rage. How could the man not want him
dead? But then there was Abigail’s face to stay his fears. It was
filled with kindness, even if it was clear she had been crying
recently; morning Arvis no doubt.

Could he really have meant that much to
her?

Drish had yet to shed his own tears on his
father’s behalf, and yet this girl, who only days ago had been a
stranger, was more distraught over the death of his father than he.
It was clear Arvis had lived a double life, but who could ever have
imagined to this extent. Drish realized he had never truly known
his father at all in his final days.

Abigail moved in closer, so close he could
feel the warmth of her breath on his forehead, and the downy hairs
of her arms on his own as she worked the straps. He watched her red
eyes—like pools of saffron powder—as they lingered over the bandage
wrapped around his head. Beneath the obvious signs of sadness were
betraying hints of excitement.

“Are you alright?” she asked him
breathless.

Drish felt a quickening in his chest just
hearing her voice playing off the fine hairs in his ears. “Minor
concussion, bump on the head…” he tried to sound nonchalant about
it, but his voice was dry and harsh. “But just what the hell are
you doing
here
?”

“That should be pretty obvious,” she replied
tartly. “We’re here to rescue you, Mr. Larken.”

Rescue
, Larken didn’t know whether to
be happy or terrified. At least rescue meant Bar wasn’t going to
kill him; at least not immediately. But still, everything had
become so muddled over the past few days he wasn’t sure where he
stood anymore.

Bar revealed his face “That’s two you owe me
now,” he said with a broad grin, but Drish felt anything but
reassured.

“But here? Here! We’re on Port
Armageddon…are you crazy?”

“I prefer Ragnarok Cloudfortress,” corrected
Bar with a glower, as he and Abigail sought to unfasten all the
restraints. “And yes, we are nuts, but that’s all best left for
explanation once we’re safety off this rock.”

“You guys done taking your sweet-time over
there with Mr. Fancy?” hissed the gangly teenage Hierarch. He had
his ear pressed to the doorway, but straightened and looked back at
them, expectant. It appeared the kid had shaved his head for the
occasion, which just made him look the part of a buffoon, now more
than ever. “There’s an awful lot of activity in the hallway out
here.” He backed away and drew an oversized gun from the waistband
of his baggy scrubs. “So just get on with it.” Drish couldn’t
understand why they’d elected to bring this pubescent henchman on a
mission like this.

“There,” said Abigail as she freed Drish of
his last bonds and urged him to his feet. “We don’t have much time.
Bar, you know what to do.”

The pirate captain was already stripping the
sheet from the unfortunate patient on the gurney, but it turned out
not to be a patient at all, just some crudely fashioned mannequin
made of waded cloth and topped by a scraggily mound of black hair.
Drish looked again at the Hierarch and then gagged when he puzzled
out the hair’s origin. “Is that atrocious monstrosity supposed to
be a likeness of me,” he grumbled in revolt as they guided him to
his feet.

“A spitting image if I should say so
myself,” replied the captain as he hauled the doll into Drish’s
bed. After the blankets were pulled up high they all stood around
it for a moment, gazing upon Bar’s handiwork. “Well?” asked the
pirate captain, looking for praise.

“Hair looks nice,” stated Fen with a shrug,
as he rubbed a hand over his bald scalp.

“No idiot in their rightful mind will fall
for such a ruse,” snapped Drish, tetchy.

“It doesn’t have to be a piece of art,”
replied Bar, on the defensive. “It just has to pass for you long
enough for us to get a head-start…which, I might add, is being
wasting standing around criticizing this thing.”

“So onto the gurney, Mr. Larken,” ordered
Abigail, “you have a date with the morgue.”

“The morgue?” That did little to assuage the
trepidation burning through the aristocrat, but he lowered himself
on the gurney anyway. “Why there…?”

“Details,” she said throwing the sheet up
over his head. “Just remember, you’re dead, and dead men don’t
move; and dead men especially don’t talk.”

“Yes, yes,” grumbled Drish from beneath the
rough linen, getting the picture.

“What did I just say?”

“Dead—”

She silenced him. “Yes, dead—remember that.
And you two, don’t forget to grab his clothing on the way out. I
don’t think Drish wants to make the hike back to the skiff in
nothing but a breezy medical gown.”

“Hike,” began Drish, but Abigail shooed him
to silence.

The gurney bounced and jerked its way over
stone floors, making it nearly impossible for Drish to lay still as
they pushed him down one long corridor after corridor. Beyond the
thin veil of his ‘death shroud’ patches of light and dark streamed
by, occupied by shadowy forms and the voices of men. Any moment
Drish expected the curtain to be pulled away and some imperial with
a gun to appear. An escape attempt from Port Armageddon would not
only assure his guilt, but bring about a speedy execution; that is,
if they didn’t just shoot him outright on sight. Even from the
grave, his damnable father had ruined his chance at freedom once
more, and Drish would have cried out for help, except, as
demonstrated on the streets in front of his apartment, the
scofflaws surrounding him had no qualms about negotiating with
bullets. If it came down to that, no doubt the noble would find
himself killed in such an exchange…and Abigail too. And for some
reason, he couldn’t bear the thought of her dying. No, for all
their sakes, it was best to keep quiet.

The gurney skidded to a stop and Drish
thought their dreadful moment had come, but rather than voices
calling for surrender, there was the shuffle of elevator doors
instead.

“In you go,” whispered Abby, but just as
Drish was pushed inside, the base’s siren screamed out in shrill
warning.

“Already?” Bar growled in frustration. “I’d
hope we’d at least make it to Thresher’s Valley before they caught
wind of our escape.”

Suddenly Drish found the sheet covering him
being torn away, leaving him blinking in the harsh light of an
overhead arc-bulb. As the he sat up, Bar shoved a stack of crumbled
clothing into his unsuspecting arms.

“Get dressed,” ordered the pirate as the
elevator rattled and screeched its way down the cliff walls.

“Do you mind,” sneered the aristocrat,
holding out his tailored shirt and giving it a temperamental snap
to shake out the wrinkles, “this shirt is made of Moon Fall cotton
and not be manhandled by the likes of you.”

“I’m sure it is,” dully replied the pirate,
appearing equally unimpressed.

Beyond the metal cage that held them, a
shaft of glass allowed the noble to gaze out over the Cloudfortress
as the elevator descended and he dressed. He had never personally
visited the facility himself when the UKA had controlled it, but it
had been described to him time and time again as a closed valley
lined in docks and buildings, but looking out on it now made him
realize just how poor a description that was. Drish himself didn’t
know if he could give the military complex proper justice, thinking
that it reminded him simply of a vast stone coliseum, only more
vertical, and filled with jetting balconies and observation boxes
fashioned out of metal and stone and timber. A thousand points of
twinkling lights lined the walls and dazzled the senses, while
beams came lancing up from the valley floor to paint the underside
of the clouds in moving circles of white; and all of it hauntingly
beautiful; like when the lights of Throne used to shine, before war
and conflict turned them dark.