Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (42 page)

A single ball of fire arose from the unseen depths of the forest. Undulating, bubbling, and roiling with wisps of jet-black smoke, it shot up with a roar, and easily swallowed the entire Inner City in the space of a breath. The ball flew higher and higher, hastily devouring oxygen as it churned skyward.

It left a blackened, charred shadow of the former city behind as it ascended. Its many limbs were fried and dead, speckled with flames. Its beautiful green leaves had been seared clean away. The rollicking fireball spewed into the firmament above, and flattened out as though it had hit a ceiling.

Like a mound of fiery dough squashed with a rolling pin, the ball spread into a sheet of fire across the sky. It expanded above the forest like a tidal wave, reaching in all directions, capping the world with a ceiling of flame and soot. A deep, red darkness blotted out the sun, and swooped over
Gilderam
and the surrounding forest.

Then – as quickly as it had come – the fire burned out and vanished, leaving behind a dense smog of ash and smoke in its place.

Shazahd’s hands fell off the wheel.

It spun lazily of its own accord, bending to the will of the prevailing winds. Her mouth hung open, tears filled her eyes, and she collapsed onto the floor. The heartroot fragment was a dead rock around her neck. The light had gone out of it.

Jerahd helped Owein over the rail of the lower deck, and the two stood together in silence. They somberly observed the bedlam all around as
Gilderam
sailed gently onward.

“
Threithumé
…” Owein said.

“Perhaps,” said Jerahd.

They glanced at each other.

Levwit Balkenthron stared at the burning city, paralyzed with heartbreak, as
Gilderam
sailed on. He was still strapped into the aft gunner’s seat, sandwiched between two red-hot, smoking barrels.

He quoted to himself, “
The ancestral home of the Called Upon shall be destroyed, expunged from the world by the Dark Sorcerer, and the sky shall turn to fire above the wastes there laid
….”

A mountain of smoke belched from the heart of the forest, streaming from the gnarled, blackened remains of the once-glorious elvish capital. The fountain of ash fanned out across the sky, a monument to death, and shadowed the trees of Divar for
itthum
around.

Gilderam
was the only ship left in the sky. She glided aimlessly away from the Inner City’s scorched sarcophagus. No one knew in which direction they headed.

No one cared, either.

Levwit Balkenthron unlatched his harness to remove himself from the aft deckgun when his ears prickled with the now familiarly haunting sound of a tiny, buzzing engine. His hands flew to the wheel cranks. But where was it coming from? The noise droned inside his head, distant and untraceable.
Left? Right? Up
…
?
Maybe he was imagining it.

Then he saw it.

One last Gresadian fighter craft bobbed in the air, flying in a beeline for
Gilderam
. Levwit aligned his targeting reticle with the little red aircraft… but something didn’t seem quite right about it.

It wasn’t shooting at him, for one thing.

The Marquis curled his toes against the firing pedals, but something inside him told him not to fire. His hands tightened on the cranks, keeping the reticle right on the nose of the craft, and yet something held him back. Could he shoot them down preemptively? And after the battle was over…?

The little ship started to wobble. Soon it was rolling back and forth chaotically. Perhaps the pilot was having difficulty steering. Something was definitely wrong.

Levwit relaxed his posture, but the craft banked upward. It looked like it might run into
Gilderam
. He got his feet ready on the pedals.

With a squawk, a furry mammal jumped onto the targeting reticle from atop the magazine. Levwit shrieked in surprise. It was a little blue monkey with tall ears and big eyes. He recognized it from the feast the night before.

“You little
drindam!
” he said. “Get off that!” He tried to push the creature from the reticle, but its little hands held on tight, and it wrapped its long tail around his wrist to stay him. “Why you –!”

The fighter craft flew over
Gilderam
, and passed her by, continuing away into the sky. Levwit heard something tumble behind him – sliding down the balloon.

He ripped himself out of the deckgun and hurried around in time to see the crumpled form of an elf land on the deck.

“Audim!” he cried, and ran to his side.

Owein pushed open the creaky door to the bridge. It whined painfully on its one remaining hinge. He ignored the carnage within and ran straight for Shazahd.

“Are you all right?” he asked, picking her off the floor.

Her eyes fluttered open and found his. There was nothing either of them could think to say. She threw her arms around him.

“Hey!” Cavada called out from the floor under the helm console. “Weiden’s breathing! He’s alive.”

Weiden squirmed to life. “Wh… what happened?” he muttered.

“It’s all right,” Owein said. “It’s over. We’re safe.”

Weiden didn’t seem to register the news as Cavada helped him to sit against the wall. He saw Reeth, impaled by glass knives in the chair next to his, and Semith’s leg sticking out from under the ballista bolt. “
Threithumé
….” He saw Vrei on the ground. “Captain!”

Cavada bound up the stairs. “Captain Vrei? Can you hear me?” Cavada shook her boot until she shuffled to life. “Can you move?”

“Ugh… I don’t know if I should,” she replied groggily, rolling her head around to check her surroundings. “Did we get those
mlec
bluejacks?”

Cavada’s smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Aye, Captain,” he said. “We got ‘em.”

“Lord Ranaloc!” Pawl called out. He hurried across the deck, weary with mental exhaustion. He was shaken from the battle, in a barely-functional state of shock. Mentrat looked even worse, Pawl thought as he neared the deckgun. He could see him frozen in the gunner’s seat, his head resting back, and one arm hanging over a barrel.

“Lord Ranaloc, sir, you can get out of there now, we’re clear of danger. Galif says he needs you in the engine room to –”

Closer now, Pawl heard the sizzle of the super-heated barrel. It was singeing Ranaloc’s arm. The old man’s eyes were cast upward. They stared, cold and blank, into the heavens beyond.

“Mentrat?” he asked, and followed his gaze to Aelmuligo, which was cresting a cloud in the sky. “Mentrat!” Pawl cried, and ran around to unfasten him from the gun.

He was stopped by the sight of a hole under Mentrat’s left breast, big enough to put a fist through. A trickle of dried blood ran from the side of his mouth.

The sun arched down along the western sky and shone warmly on the surviving crew of
Gilderam
. The orb was big and gold with the onset of evening, and clouds all around were glowing bright yellow and deep orange.

They were gathered on the bow, solemnly encircling the body of their late master, Lord Mentrat Ranaloc, the inventor. He had been laid on a table on the foredeck.

They were uniformly silenced by a shared sense of tragedy. They wore it like a shroud. No one could find the right words to say. Pawl did say something, but no one heard it. He wouldn’t remember it himself. Even the little creature from the Inner City seemed saddened, perched on Levwit’s shoulder. It’s tail curled slowly from side to side down his back.

Together they breathed heavy breaths, and looked out at the tree-filled landscape of Divar. The ocean of green, leafy hills sprawled underneath them farther than the eye could see, disappearing into the horizon.

Their minds weren’t working. They were numbed by the grief. The battle they had fought, the loss… it was too much, too soon.

Shazahd approached her father’s body and observed it for a moment. She ran a hand along his arm, and stroked his white hair.
His face
,
she thought.
He looks so calm. So at peace
. She remembered the last words he spoke to her.

‘
You made me realize something
,’ he’d said. ‘
I love you, Shazahd. I love you more than anything else in this world, or beyond it
….
You’re all I have that’s worth anything. And you’re worth everything. I know that now.
’

She felt her throat spasm involuntarily, and a watery heat burned her eyes. She threw herself on Mentrat’s body and hugged him. She wept.

Then she felt something against her cheek. It was hard – metal. She sniffled, and remembered that her father had said something else, too.

‘
Shazahd
…
there’s something I need to tell you
,’ he’d said.
‘
Something you must know
.’ She had seen him grab at his shirt. She pulled back his collar and found a chain around his neck. Taking the necklace off him, she found it held a single key.

And she knew exactly what it was for.

Shazahd flew for the hatch.

“Shazahd!” Audim called to her. “Where are you going?”

But she had already gone inside.

“Let her go,” Owein heard himself say. He sensed Jerahd’s presence at his side.

“So,” Jerahd said.

“So,” he echoed. “I guess that’s it.” Jerahd raised an eyebrow. “The prophecy. Fulfilled, huh?”

“No. Not yet. Not completely.” Now it was Owein’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “It has been advanced,” Jerahd clarified, “but not fulfilled. There is still one last chance to stop it. But…” he shook his head.

“But what?”

Jerahd looked closely at Owein.

“Owein,” he said, “do you believe?” He honestly didn’t know how to respond. “Do you believe, now, after all you have seen, that there might be some truth to these… fairy tales? That perhaps, in all the chaos and disorder of the world, that there might be
something
linking it all together? Do you believe, Owein… that you are the Savior?”

Owein’s jaw hovered for a couple seconds. His eyes broke loose, looking all over – anywhere but at the Vali beside him. They fell, at last, on the body of Mentrat Ranaloc, whose wispy hair was blowing in the
baethes voth
.

Shazahd was sprinting. Her mind raced even faster.

What was it he was going to tell me?

The thought pervaded her entire being. She could think of nothing else. The key was clenched tightly in her fist.

Gilderam’s
corridors bent and wound and twisted for her, leading her precisely where she wanted to go, rather than losing her in an endless maze of wood paneling and handrails. She wasn’t thinking of how to get there, only of her destination.

The ship seemed to know.

“I suppose,” Owein said at last, “that now… after all this… anything is possible.”

Jerahd considered this gravely for a moment. Then he said, “Feth will go to the Gate of Underearth in Geldr’thal. There he will begin the ritual to unlock it. Our only hope is to thwart him there.” Owein met his eyes with intensity. “That is the last piece of the prophecy, Owein. If he is successful… it is all over.”

Owein inhaled painfully. He felt a prickly anxiety spread throughout his body.

“The Book states,” Jerahd went on, “that the Savior will decide the fate of the world. It is his decision, and no one else’s, that will determine the outcome.” Owein turned away, his brow furrowed, and looked out over the trees. “So I must ask you,” Jerahd said very quietly. “…What will you decide?”

The Disciple’s eyes were pleading, but poised. He could tell there was a tumultuous arbitration occurring within Owein.

Shazahd stood before the door.

Her father’s private chamber.

She inserted the key into the lock. It glided smoothly in, as though pulled by a magnetic force, and almost turned itself at her suggestion.

The door swung open, and her mouth fell.

She stood, paralyzed for a moment, before taking the first, timid step inside.

“Captain Vrei,” Owein called out, stepping forward. “With your permission, I’d like to set a new heading.”

Vrei turned around. Everyone turned around.

Owein swallowed with some strain.

“Any chance you could drop me off in Geldr’thal?” he asked. “Looks like I have a date with an undead sorcerer.”