Dragonfang (22 page)

‘But, as I said before, quite impractical.’

‘Yes, but only for long journeys. In terms of bringing a little joy to the heart of a jaded ruler, a short flight on a warm day would be perfect. A joy flight, if you like. Is the Preceptor at all jaded?’

‘Almost all the time,’ replied Fa’red.

‘In that case, I could grow two sets of wings, in return for raw materials and costs: the hire of a dark cellar, building an airstrip here, ingredients for gunk, about thirty tons of fruit, a couple of large beer barrels, lightweight carriage wheels, acids to mix digestive juices. Yes, that will be all that is needed.’

‘Seems cheap at the price,’ said Fa’red. ‘I shall draw up a contract and make some appropriations against the Preceptor’s military research budget.’

Getting everything together was no easy matter. The ten-foot high chicken legs were ready first. Next, Fa’red rode back to
Belforrey’s castle for flying lessons. With him came a blacksmith, carpenter, and several wagon loads of tools and materials.

Belforrey was already flying his own wheeled and winged beer barrel. With the aid of two saddles, the wizard gave Fa’red flying lessons, while the blacksmith and carpenter worked on the other two barrels. They joined them together using several iron bands, and incorporated both sets of controlling levers, reins and pedals into a single set around a saddle at the front end. An enormous chicken’s bottom, tail, and tailfeathers protruded from the back of the barrel for waste disposal.

Being a little uncertain of his capabilities and not anxious for a stray rock to complicate matters, Fa’red decided to use Belforrey’s airstrip for the first take off. As a special bonus, Fowler added a long, scrawny neck and beak to the barrel on legs. ‘It’s a warning for others to get out of the way,’ he said. Fa’red’s carpenter built a special tunnel through the winged barrel to accommodate the neck, and it proved to be a good idea. Some sort of warning was going to be needed to clear birds from the airstrip during take off. Belforrey had found this to his cost when he hit a crow during one of his test flights – at fifty-miles-per-hour, even a crow can pack a punch.

A tug at the lever marked WARNING activated the huge beak, and sent a mighty ‘BUK BUK BUKCAW’ thundering down the airstrip. Every bird within a radius of a mile was startled into the air. Once they had flown clear, Fa’red pressed the RUN pedal with his right foot and the FLAP pedal with his left. The gigach’at, as Fa’red called it, lumbered down the airstrip, slowly flapping its wings as it ran. Every foot fall caused a mighty thud. Belforrey’s peasant crew cheered and threw their hats in the air as Fa’red thundered past. The wind buffeted his face as the speed increased. Then he pressed the BUK BUK BUKCAW lever for the
sheer exhilaration of the moment – and the thundering stopped. He was in the air.

Fa’red took his foot off the right pedal and placed it on the flight footrest. Then he threw a lever marked TRAILING AND LOCK. Beneath him, the huge chicken legs stopped their running motion, bent back, and locked up, so that they trailed behind the barrel. Fowler had been confused about why Fa’red wanted this feature. But, since Fa’red was paying, he did not press the matter.

Using the reins, Fa’red banked the giga-ch’at, and climbed in a circle. An hour glass on a pole was set at his eye level. An orange line showed how much time remained before the wings became hungry. Another hour glass near his waist showed the level at which they would begin to starve.

Fa’red was wearing thick clothing. Even so, he noted that the air rushing past certainly made him feel cold very quickly. He tried taking his foot off the left pedal and gliding, catching thermals rising from nearby mountains and being lifted higher without any effort. He went as far as trying a few stall recoveries, and even a brief powered dive.

At last the sand approached the orange line, and Fa’red began to drop height. A smoky fire beside the airstrip showed the direction of the wind, and Fa’red brought the giga-ch’at around to face into the wind as he landed. He unlocked the legs, pressed the right pedal to get them running at their maximum speed, then took his foot off the left pedal to stop the wings flapping. The thud thud thud of the clawed feet announced that they were in contact with the ground again. Fa’red eased back on the right pedal as the speed dropped. He walked the giga-ch’at back to Belforrey and his ground crew, triumph glowing on his face. He even pressed the BUK BUK BUKCAW lever so that his strange
animal-bird-machine could share in the glorious moment. He pressed the ROOSTING lever, and the legs folded at the knees.

‘A few minor adjustments, but otherwise perfect,’ Fa’red announced, dismounting.

‘I must commission a pair of legs like that,’ said Belforrey, excitedly.

‘It allows one to land in any reasonably flat terrain,’ said Fa’red. ‘I can give you the name of a good chicken wizard.’

Belforrey had not seen the last of Fa’red’s innovations. A second saddle was now added behind Fa’red’s, this one facing backwards. Bags of fruit and juices were added to iron hangers, followed by leather pouches of digestive juice mix. Finally, the carpenter and smithy added a special feature to the giga-ch’at. Fa’red and a small boy climbed into the saddles.

‘Now then, lad, tell me what you are to do,’ Fa’red called over his shoulder.

‘At the word “Shit”, I pull the lever marked SHIT. This releases the sludge at the bottom of the barrel. At the word “Feed” I slide open the hatch marked FEED ME, and empty a bag of chopped fruit into it.’

‘Good lad, I am sure I can count on you,’ said Fa’red. ‘Well now, time to take off. And this time I might try the giga-ch’at over unlevelled ground.’

‘But the wind chill,’ warned Belforrey.

‘The air is colder at night, when your bats do all their flying,’ laughed Fa’red. ‘I intend to fly during the day, when the air is warmer. Goodbye now, and thank you again, Belforrey.’

The flight to D’loom took two hours. Fa’red was a little cold when he landed at his estate, but not desperately so.

The living house had been delivered in a soil-filled wagon. As Fa’red inspected it he noted with satisfaction that it was
appropriately streamlined, with holes added at the sides for the wings. Masonerry had also included a small window with thick glass-like material.

With the aid of a crane, the organic house was lowered onto the giga-ch’at, and boards were forced apart to fit the wings through the sides. Walking the device-beast around, Fa’red thought it was a little heavier, but the legs coped quite well.

After a short test, Fa’red walked the creature to a patch of newly turned and watered soil. Here he folded the legs and the wings. The house put down roots when Fa’red pulled the ROOTS lever, and leafy branches sprouted from the roof when the FOLIAGE lever was activated.

‘Finished, and just in time,’ said Fa’red, admiring what had only been a vision in his mind a year before.

The following day, Fa’red stood before his castle as the Preceptor arrived. Along the winding path, beyond the boundary of Fa’red’s estate, waited his escort of elite lancers. There were six hundred armed men, fifty wagons containing tents, supplies, drinking water, gold for trading, several warrior wizards for fighting off magical attacks, several cooks, a dozen washer women, five physicians, and even a carpenter’s wagon with a supply of wood for repairing other wagons and any bridges that happened to be down.

‘Well, time to go,’ said the Preceptor, looking down from his horse. ‘You appear ill prepared for our journey.’

Fa’red held up a small bag.

‘I fear this will be a long campaign, mage,’ the Preceptor said, darkly.

‘Not so long, Preceptor.’

The Preceptor’s horse whickered, mirroring its rider’s growing impatience. ‘Is it a magical bag that has its bottom in some other world, and which can take a ton of luggage while weighing no more than a few pounds?’ the Preceptor said.

‘No. It’s an ordinary bag, containing a bottle of wine, two slices of pork pie, several magical amulets, and some ancient scrolls with important spells.’

‘The journey to Mordicar is five hundred miles. That will take two weeks of strenuous riding. Three if my not entirely loyal subjects in the conquered territories destroy the bridges, and longer if they decide to attack. I would advise you to pack a little more luggage, strap on a weapon, and saddle your sturdiest horse.’

Fa’red gestured in the direction of a small shed that had branches and leaves growing out of its roof. Behind it was what appeared to be quite a large tent, which had been partly collapsed without the poles having been removed.

‘I call it an airliner,’ Fa’red announced proudly. ‘It flies through the air in a straight line, you see. Mordicar is only three hundred miles away as the magalel flies.’

‘That would be all very well if I were a magalel, but I happen to be a head of state with six hundred warriors and a very large entourage. Very little of that will fit into your “airliner”.’

‘But, my lord, how much of all that do you really require? I mean, when you walk into the temple at Mordicar, what will you need?’

‘Just what is in my saddlebags, I suppose. And the pentacle gem. Not to mention an army at my back when we reach Mordicar.’

‘Ah,’ Fa’red said. ‘I’ve had a battalion of your finest lancers rerouted from their duties in Passendof. So far as Bravenhurst is concerned, they are on training exercises.’

‘You presume too much, mage. Now, as for the other matter, Fa’red, my patience is thin-edged.’

‘Well then, Preceptor, I don’t think I can get you there for lunch, but I have packed what might be termed an in-flight meal, ha ha. Catchy name, don’t you think? Unstrap your saddlebags, then watch.’

Fa’red walked the Preceptor to his airliner. He opened the door to the shed, went inside, and closed it behind him. The Preceptor unstrapped his saddlebags and sat with them over one arm, but did not dismount. A minute later the branches began to be absorbed into the roof. Then the sides pulled up out of the ground and, abruptly, the shed stood up. This came as a shock to the Preceptor, who was not used to sheds that could seemingly stand up of their own accord. The tent behind the shed now began to spread out into two enormous wings that spanned at least five dozen feet. Finally, the shed turned on ten-foot legs with sixty-foot wings and appeared to stare at the Preceptor through a single, square glass eye. It began to lumber in his direction.

While the Preceptor was fairly broad-minded about peculiar, and occasionally quite intimidating, magical things, his horse was not. It had been trained to cope with things like being charged at by horses carrying men encased in armour and waving long and deadly weapons, carnivorous animals, deserts, flooded rivers, forest fires, and even ships in raging storms, but the airliner was considerably more than it could cope with. It attempted to turn and flee. The Preceptor wrenched its head back around with the reins. The horse reared, but failed to throw the Preceptor. It then put its head between its forelegs and bucked. The Preceptor rode the frenzied horse till it steadied.

Angered, the Preceptor raised his head in time to see a giant
chicken’s foot come down beside him. He noted that the legs were bending and that the shed was descending. It stopped about a foot from the ground, then Fa’red opened the door.

‘The airliner at your service, Preceptor,’ Fa’red declared.

The Preceptor was offered assistance by a youth who introduced himself as Coster, the flight engineer. He pulled his arm away from Coster’s helping hand and glared at Fa’red. Then he walked over to the shed door, beside which stood a girl.

‘My name is Linnet,’ she said. ‘I’m the flight hostess. Have a nice flight.’

The Preceptor stepped into the shed, which smelled like a fruit market. Sacks, bags, and one enormous barrel filled the space. Up near the square window, two saddles had been strapped to the barrel. There were smaller square windows to either side of the second saddle.

‘Welcome aboard, Preceptor,’ said Fa’red. ‘Just climb into the saddle behind me.’

‘What trickery is this?’ the Preceptor demanded. Behind him, Linnet locked and bolted the door.

‘Magery, yes, trickery, no, Preceptor. My airliner has already made five flights, one of them in the complete, operational configuration.’

‘Would you please get into the saddle, Preceptor?’ said Linnet.

‘Have
you
flown in this contraption?’ the Preceptor demanded of Linnet.

‘Yes, Preceptor, only this morning.’

‘Very well,’ the Preceptor grunted. ‘You try my patience, Fa’red.’ Warily, he put a leg over the barrel.

Linnet showed him how to use the safety straps. ‘The handles on the walls to either side of your saddle are to hold on to when taking off and landing, or in rough weather.’

‘Rough weather?’ asked the Preceptor, apprehensively. ‘Fa’red, you’ve gone too far!’

‘Oh, but this is a very nice day,’ wheedled Fa’red.

The Preceptor turned and saw that the flight hostess was already astride her own saddle. She strapped herself in and gripped the handles to either side of her. Behind her Coster was also in position.

‘Are you ready, Preceptor?’ asked Fa’red, holding up the reins.

‘My saddlebags!’ exclaimed the Preceptor, hoping that he might have left them outside.

‘Strapped over the barrel behind you, Preceptor,’ called the cheery flight hostess.

The airliner began to walk with an unsettling, rolling gait. Looking past Fa’red, the Preceptor saw that the beast-device was facing the royal escort. Through the side windows he saw the enormous wings beginning to flap ponderously. Suddenly the airliner bellowed a mighty BUK BUK BUKCAW, causing the horsemen to scatter.

‘Perhaps a more dignified warning sound would be appropriate,’ suggested the Preceptor. ‘A trumpet fanfare, or the roar of some great predator?’

‘Later, please, Preceptor. We could have a major malfunction unless I really concentrate on this operation.’

‘Major malfunction?’

‘Come to a very abrupt stop, Preceptor,’ called Coster.

The Preceptor looked through a side window. The ground seemed to be moving past unnaturally fast. The shed shook with each mighty footfall, the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the wings sounded like the panting of an exhausted dragon – then the thudding of the feet stopped.