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Swaying back and forth like an angry pendulum the wain burst from the treeline, scattering wildlife left and right in raucous protest. Heedless of their dismay, the sorry four-horse team at the yoke hared up the cobbled wayroad as if all the cacodaemons of Haidia bayed at their heels. The cracking scourge of the driver’s whip may have played a part in their unseemly haste.
The miserable morning rains had washed all semblance of colour from the sky, lazily wafting the rich aroma of manure from the loamy earth. On a less frenzied occasion, the stench might have conjured thoughts of fertile crops and hard-working planters in the minds of the passengers aboard the stagecoach. Today, however, it only served to enhance their abject wretchedness, the cherry on the pudding of which was the wild whistling of the whip-wielding waggoner.
Wan alice-blue heavens that stretched from sea-tinted horizon on the north to towering snow-peaks on the south. Despite the clear skies, however, the ride travelled in shadow rather than sun. Massive rocky outcroppings of hissing steam and humming mana engines soared overhead: the Floating City of Lornius, seat of the Lornian High Council and purported destination of the regular stagecoach from Lyridia. Onwards the rickety ride forged through the early spring mid-afternoon.
One last bend in the road, taken at breakneck speed by the terrified team, and the city unfolded before them in all its artificially interconnected glory. Long rope bridges swung between buildings of red brick and white marble, and skyships docked at moorings open to the deadly drop below. A fragile gondola, suspended halfway upon its silky strand of steel cable, swayed dangerously in its determined ascent.
Except the waggoner had no intention of taking his motley cargo – foreigners, and one of them a greenskin to boot! – all the way to the heavily guarded shuttle station. They’d paid him well to get him to the Floating City in haste, and he’d done so diligently even at the expense of their comfort. But they hadn’t specified exactly where, had they?
***
Fifteen hectic minutes later, two thoroughly dishevelled figures stood in the mud beside the road, unceremoniously dumped in the midst of the ramshackle shanty town.
The rattle of the stagecoach’s axles gradually faded, from streets that wound like an intestinal labyrinth through hastily-erected warehouses and the tin-roofed shacks that served them. The slum stewed and sweated beneath the gloom of the majestic floating citadels overhead, a reeking cesspit of stale resentment directed at those who lived so high above. Volatile cocktails of hatred and fear studied the newcomers with practiced xenophobia, unseen from behind deserted scrapwood facades and atop makeshift rooftop avenues. Pools of foetid rubbish squelched in putrid disgust at their feet, a distinct reminder that they were unwelcome here.
As envoys of their peoples, both the armoured knight and the brutish orc travelled under the protection of the Lornian government, in name at least. But at the same time they had unknowingly stumbled into the midst of a tournament of sorts, as evidenced by the attack upon them at Lyridia’s docks that had prompted their hasty departure from the port city. The dilapidated shanties only served to drive home how far they had come from Lyridia, and how even further distant lay their respective homelands to the far north in Berevar and the Five Dukedoms.
Thus they travelled warily, alert to every possible danger. The seething hostility of their current surroundings only served to heighten their awareness. Jehan’s eagle-like eyes stabbed at the squalor from beneath his peaked barbute helm, while Throm coarsely spat sewage-laden humidity from his leathery tongue. It took a moment or two before either of them felt comfortable enough to speak.
“That whip wielder,” the orc began at last, anger building in his throaty rumble. “He tricked us, didn’t he.”
Jehan grimaced darkly at the statement that wasn’t a question, knowing that he and he alone bore the responsibility for their current predicament. In his defence, he had never before travelled other than in his own saddle, and thus could not have known of the common scam for which he had fallen. He doubted that the barbarian at his side would settle for that excuse, though.
“Well at least we got here quickly enough,” he countered in his own deep bass, blinking shadows from the edge of his vision and trying not to breathe too deeply of the raw stink. His head swam with cloying nausea when he lifted his eyes to locate the spindly thread that joined ground to sky.
With effort, he managed to track it to a vague silhouette at the top of a low knoll. On second glance, he supposed, he should have seen it earlier; of all the buildings clustered beneath the Floating City, only the shuttle station boasted five floors, a gilded spire, proper glass windows, and a killing perimeter wide enough for at least three warehouses.
“There,” he indicated, hefting a haversack of belongings to one broad shoulder.
“You sure this time?” Throm demanded suspiciously.
Jehan grimaced as the orc spattered filth into his polished greaves whilst manoeuvring for a closer look. He forced one last disgusted glance at hovels that not even a Caledonian serf, much less a self-respecting Olbinan peasant, would be caught dead in. Then he repeated,
“There.”
His feet swayed over the slums and a boyhood urge to spit off the side came and went. Underneath, he could barely see the movements of the people, the same color as the muddy streets. He wasn't so high as to be in the clouds on the edge of the skydock. He could see a few platforms over to where the shuttle had set them down and beyond that lay the rest of the Floating City. Each tier inwards seemed to climb ever higher as spires overtook one another. The race to reach the edges of the atmosphere went ever on until the seat of the council towered in the middle of the city. Here, the clouds did gather and blanket the top floors, hiding away those more important than the dirty citizens tied to the ground. From the exquisite stone and brass, copper lining, and gleaming glass windows, Avery could only imagine what the Council rooms must look like on the inside. It was into that shining throng that he intended to storm, a dark cloud to mar the shining city. There was so much rage to rain down.
He glanced back at Crispen. At least he'd bothered showing up this time. On their trek to the city, they'd been separated and it was Avery that came face to face with their opponents. He'd hidden in the monolith clearing, unseen by Cohen Ephraim. It had been a shame that he'd not faced the Sinai in battle, but instead he'd chosen to wait for his partner, unknowing if it would have been an ambush the moment he stepped out. The Akashiman never came to the clearing, the magician had left after a long while, and Crispen never had anything to say about the encounter. He'd been brutishly disregarded by his lover, and after a few days they found themselves perched on the edge of a world of finery and power.
It was almost time for them to take their leave of each other anyway. Avery was almost sure that he wouldn't see the olive skin and dark features he'd grown to hunger when all was said and done. They'd both had their reasons for coming to Lornius, and now they were poised to make those dreams come true. There had been quiet talk as the shuttle had lifted them upwards away from the stench of the slums of how they would wrench Lornius from the Council today. The sun glittered along the streets, the bridges, and along the metallic slopes of roofing. He was plunged in shadow for but a moment as a derigible began to descend towards another sky-dock and it brought his attention to the shuttle, descending downwards to pick up more passengers. All through the morning, the glittering glass tower had been empty and quiet. Once Avery and Crispen had come to the docks, they'd waited. They knew another fight awaited them, it was just the way the Lornius had gone. This time, Avery had the feeling that their opponents would not be absent. The surety of this sent a shiver from his toes to the tip of the single wing on his back. He gripped his shield more tightly, pulling the remnant of his sister's wing against his body has he got to his feet.
"I'm pretty sure we've got company." he called to Crispen as he looked over the edge of the dock to try and see down the side of the gilded shuttle tower to whoever might be waiting to come up to them. For a moment, his head swam from the height, his stomach feeling light and sick. His lids slid closed over green eyes as he swayed but for a moment, and a hard, cold wind buffered his chest. It was almost as if the city itself was built to keep him from falling, but he knew that one misstep would be too much for the winds that came flooding upward from the ground to gently hold him back. It was foolish to trust the wind anyway, when shears of angry gusts had sliced at them all morning.
It really was the perfect city to rule Lornius from, he thought.
Throm endured by fantasizing. He held no ill will toward the big skraeling at his side, not really, but the thought of starting with him was growing increasingly pleasant. The orc thought he could draw his sword and have Jehan’s head off before the human knew what was happening, and then Throm would rage against this entire island. He’d fall, certainly, but it would be a glorious stand. Dozens would die bloody, and no orc would be welcome in Lornius again. As far as Throm was concerned, he’d be doing his race a favor.
There were hateful faces no matter where he looked. His sheer size prevented any of these wretches from acting on their prejudices, but the desire was palpable. Throm kept his shield on his forearm, and his hand did not stray far from the hilt of his blade. If they mobbed him, he wondered if Jehan would fight in his defense, or ultimately step aside. Were their positions reversed, the orc didn’t know what he would do.
Of course, eventually he realized these malnourished peasants had nearly as much silent ire to throw in Jehan’s direction. Perhaps Throm’s companionship tainted him their eyes, or perhaps there truly was no distinction between outsiders to them. He was growing accustomed to skraeling fear of green-skins, but the xenophobia here was something else – something overwhelming and dangerous.
Throm wanted to see the whole place burn.
“What keeps it up?” Throm asked, glancing up at the ominous shape dominating the sky above them. He was aware of the floating city’s tremendous size, but could only discern so much. The sun was blinding to the orcish eye, and he could only permit himself a few seconds’ peek before he had to blink tears and spots out of his eyes.
“The balloons, I suppose,” Jehan mused.
“Balloons,” Throm said. He puzzled over the word for a moment, and then figured it must refer to the bulbous shapes from which the suspended structures hung. “They are full of air?”
Jehan paused, trying to think of how to explain it in a way the orc would understand. “A certain kind of air, yes.”
Throm hummed thoughtfully, low in his chest. He mentally likened it to a goatskin or bladder full of water, only floating air instead. “What happens if this…balloon is cut?”
“The air leaks out.”
“The thing falls,” Throm surmised.
“We’ll talk about it more once we’re somewhere else,” Jehan said diplomatically.
Throm glanced at him, then at the skraelings surrounding them. If the balloons were punctured, he didn’t know where he’d rather be – falling with the city, or waiting to be crushed beneath it.
Obviously, Chivalry and Savagery won.
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