Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (13 page)

She had to do something.

Fulo and Levwit ran onto the bridge. Gor’m was behind them, holding Captain Vrei by the arms.

“We heard an explosion,” said Fulo. “What happened?”

“The galleon sank,” answered Semith, “but Owein and Shazahd escaped on a stray balloon. We’re losing them in the stratosphere.”

“Who’s that?” asked Reeth from the helm. Then they all noticed her.

“This is the last of the pirates,” said Fulo. “We managed to take her alive.” His tone, and the bloody evidence of brawling smeared across his face, didn’t invite anyone to ask how it had happened.

Cavada appeared from the hallway, panting. “Where are they?!” he gasped, shouldering his way onto the bridge.

Jaes snatched a speaking tube from the wall. “How high, Gantas?”

The report came from the observatory. “
At least two itthum above us. Climbing rapidly
.”

“Up!
Up!
” Cavada shouted.

Weiden toggled a big lever on the center console, and they all heard the buzz of the altimeter being reset. The ballast operator buzzed back in reply, confirming that he received the order and was making appropriate changes to the amount of air in the ballasts. They watched the sky outside sink leisurely around them as the ship began a steady climb upward.

“That won’t be good enough,” Mentrat said, reaching over Jaes to draw out another tube. “Forward Ballast,” he said into it. “This is Mentrat Ranaloc. Can you give me any more lift?”

“
Sorry, My Lord. We’re dumping as fast as we can. She’s just not made for rapid ascents
.”

“Don’t you tell me what she’s made for!” Ranaloc roared into the tube.

“You want to save your friends?” Everyone turned toward the female voice. “I can help you.”

“Who are you?” asked Cavada.

“My name is Vrei. I can save your friends.” Ranaloc stepped toward her. “But,” she added, “only if you promise to let me go.” Mentrat narrowed his eyes at her.

“Don’t listen to her,” said Fulo. “She’s a pirate. A moment ago she would’ve killed all of us without a thought. She’s lying.”

“I am not,” she said. Then, looking straight into Mentrat’s eyes, “I
can
save them. If you let me.”

Mentrat’s brow furrowed with consideration.

“Don’t do it…” Fulo warned.

“We have to do something!” said Cavada.

“…Let her go,” Ranaloc said. Gor’m stiffened. “I said let her go!” With a sigh, the giant released Vrei.

Fulo tightened the grip on his pistol. Through clenched teeth he warned, “If you so much as –”

“Take it easy,
pucith
,” Vrei said, walking past him to the communications desk. She pulled out a speaking tube. “Engine room,” she said.

“
Engines here
,” Galif replied.

“Open the cargo bay doors and push everything you can out of the ship.”

“…
What?
”

“Push it out. Everything. We need to lose weight.”

“
Who is this?
”

Ranaloc took the tube. “This is Mentrat. Do it, Galif.”

“
But there’s –!
”

“Just do it!”

Vrei then glided down to the helm. She paused for only a second to overlook the controls before she started flipping switches and spinning dials.

“What the…?” said Reeth as he watched her. “What are you doing?!”

“Saving your friends.”

A warning bell dinged.

“What’s that?” asked Fulo.

“The fuel,” answered Weiden. “She’s dumping the fuel!” The helmsman lunged to stop her. Fulo raised his gun at her back.

“Stop right there!” he yelled.

“Do you want to save them or not? This is the only way.”

“No,” said Mentrat, silencing them all. “She’s right. Dump the fuel. Dump it all.”

Shazahd chose one of the ropes at random and slashed at it. It took a few hacks, but the blade was sharp, and it snapped in two. The free cord ripped down, pulled by a great weight. She heard a yell from below. Terror seized her when she realized it was Owein’s voice.

Looking over again, she waited a few excruciating seconds to see someone swing back into view. There were still two bodies. But now both of them were on a single rope. The lieutenant was on the same line he had been on before, and Owein was below him at its very end.

Shazahd breathed a sigh of relief. And then cursed.

Owein held onto the last arm’s length of rope and made the mistake of looking down at the quickly departing earth below. He could see
Gilderam
under his boot, just a tiny blob in the distance. The clouds were millions of puny white blotches spread around the entire planet in a thin layer. He could see the curvature of Vuora from here.

The air was thinning drastically, approaching dangerously low levels of oxygen, and the temperature was dropping with it. Owein realized he was freezing cold. He couldn’t feel his hands. He knew he was in trouble as he felt the subtle tinge of euphoria creeping up the back of his mind. Lightheadedness was settling in. If the lieutenant didn’t kill him, unconsciousness certainly would.

Gritting his teeth, Owein commanded one hand to rise above the other, and forced his arms to pull his body higher. He did it again, with the other hand, and couldn’t remember expending more effort in his life. His legs kicked uselessly below. Panting ferociously, he lifted his head to see the lieutenant carefully shimmying down to him.

“So… you managed to escape death so far, Master Maeriod,” he said, shouting between deep, heaving breaths. “But how’re you going to save yourself now?” The lieutenant was feeling the effects of higher altitude as well, and his controlled descent down the rope was very slow. His arms were shaking, but Owein couldn’t tell if it was from the exertion or the cold.

“For all this work,” he went on, “it makes me wonder…. Are you worth it, Master Maeriod?” They locked eyes. “I didn’t think so….”

Ranaloc and the others stood outside on the foredeck, hands braced on the rail, as
Gilderam
rocketed heavenward. The rushing air blasted them from overhead. They had killed the engines, emptied the ballasts, ejected all the fuel, dumped the cargo, and were now plowing upward in a free ascent.

Cavada, Fulo, Gor’m, Vrei and Levwit struggled to stay on their feet as the effects of rapid decompression wreaked havoc on their bodies.

The lieutenant brought his boot down on Owein’s white knuckles. The air was only a fraction as nourishing to their blood as it should be, and the force of his blow was weak. But Owein was running out of steam, and the feeble stomp was enough to pry his fingers loose. He readjusted his grip, but slid a little further down the rope. Owein’s lower hand grabbed at its fraying end.

“Why….
Why?!
” Owein tried to shout, but it came out more like a whisper. “Why kill me…? We’re… we’re both going to die….”

The lieutenant wasted precious strength to utter a meek laugh.

“
Why?!
” he mocked. “As I… told you before…. I always …carry out …my orders….” He paused on the rope to catch his breath. “Whatever it takes… Master Maeriod.” He raised his boot for another stomp. “Whatever… it takes….”

Shazahd’s lips were deep blue as she raised the hilt in her numb hands, its point down, and plunged it into the balloon. Yellow gas exploded from the torn chamber. Buoyancy altered and the balloon shifted, throwing Shazahd off balance. She caught herself on the shroud until it settled, then thrust the blade into the balloon again.

Another
pop
, a rush of gas, and another shift. The full chambers pushed around the newly emptied ones, fighting for the highest placement. She stabbed the balloon again and again, deflating it section by section, releasing as much of the pale yellow gas as she could.

Although she could scarcely notice it, each strike helped to gradually slow their climb into the atmosphere. But they were already so high that her strength was failing, and each thrust was coming slower than the last. Soon the weight of the sword became unbearable and it fell from her hands. She blinked to keep herself awake.

“Look, up there!” Fulo yelled from the deck of
Gilderam
. “There’re two people hanging from the balloon!”

They could see them now. Owein was holding onto the end of a rope, and the lieutenant was just above him.

“That’s Owein!” Ranaloc called out. They watched in horror as the bluejack kicked at him, only a couple knocks from freeing him completely.

“Not on my watch,” muttered Levwit, cocking back the hammer of his long, shiny rifle. He raised the gun in the air and took aim. The reckless ascent of
Gilderam
made any careful accuracy difficult, if not impossible. Cavada gulped as he watched the Marquis, wobbling on the unstable deck, struggle to steady his rifle.

Their sight began to dim from oxygen starvation and their lungs drowned in the vacuous air. Neither Owein nor the lieutenant noticed the green blob below that was quickly expanding below them, catching up.
Gilderam
soared upward at breakneck speed.

The lieutenant lifted his boot over Owein’s head, and he ducked down, bracing for impact.

But in place of a clobbering heel, Owein felt nothing. When he should have heard a crunch, instead he heard a fleshy smacking noise from overhead. He looked up and saw that the back of the lieutenant’s skull was missing. A dazed expression remained on his face when the faraway sound of a gunshot finally reached them through the air.

The officer’s body slackened and fell free from the rope, brushing past Owein on its way down to the wheat fields almost seven
itthum
below.

Owein blacked out just as the deck of
Gilderam
floated up to his feet and a small army of hands gently caught him. Those same hands pulled down the balloon and retrieved Shazahd, who was trembling with hypoxia.

The order was given to descend again and the internal ballasts were re-filled with air. The ship became heavier, and
Gilderam
began its slow journey back to safer altitudes below.

The mood of the Imperial drawing room was at once tense and muted. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn shut over the windows to conceal the Empress and her councilors before the address. A little light seeped in from outside and provided a dull glow.

The room was ornate and gigantic, a seamless continuation of the royal opulence which permeated the entire palace. This one was a rectangular stretch of intricate parquet flooring speckled with furniture. The whole impression gave a sense of wasted space and flamboyant proportioning.

The Empress stood before the center window, which lead out onto a balcony over the Imperial Square. The curtains currently obscured the spectacular view it usually afforded. Guests were floored by the incredible sight of the Royal Promenade: a boulevard marching westward for
itthum
from its origin in the Square, and the formidable skyline of New Gresad, the nation’s primate city.

The palace was situated on the highest hill of New Gresad, and the glittering grey waters of the Baeno Leir could be seen undulating in the distance between towers to the north. At present, however, the only sign of the outside world was the ambient murmuring of a tremendous crowd gathered on the street outside.

Attendants scurried around Empress Sraia Te Vama noiselessly, making last minute adjustments to her royal gown, hair and makeup. She wore the national colors of purple and scarlet, accented with black and trimmed in gold. The Imperial emblem was embroidered into the rich brocade with gold thread: the
theija
flower.

“Not since your ancient grandfather Crothus sat on the throne has there ever been such support for the Crown in Gresadia,” said Councilor Egoth Laedus.

“All of New Gresad is waiting in the streets right now, cheering for you!” added Badi Cahn. The Empress seemed not to notice them.

Tho Adbara leaned close to the councilor beside him and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I only wish I could have seen the look on Thalius’ face….”

“Councilor,” spoke the Empress. Her interjection took everyone off guard. “It is disrespectful to speak of the dead in such a way.”

Adbara stumbled to save face.

“I… I’m terribly sorry, My Empress.” He bowed to her. “I meant no disrespect. Thalius was an honorable servant of Gresadia. Most honorable.”

“Quite,” added someone else.

“More than you even know,” said the Empress very quietly. “He, at least, had the courage to speak what he believed.” She stared sharply at Adbara, who couldn’t bare her gaze, and so bowed to her again to escape it. The other councilors shuffled uncomfortably in the silence.

An attendant approached the Empress and extended an envelope.

“A letter, Your Highness,” he said. “Just received from Councilor Lamarioth. He regretfully apologizes for his absence, but says that –”

“You are excused,” she said suddenly and firmly.

“…Does Your Majesty wish to read it?”

“No. Destroy it.”

“As… as you wish.” And the attendant left.

The Empress drew in a sharp breath and adjusted her shoulders. Then she nodded to a courtier by the balcony.

The attendants fled. Empress Sraia Te Vama walked up to the curtain and servants pulled it open for her. More servants, waiting on the balcony outside, opened the glass double doors. When they did, the deafening roar of over a million cheering voices exploded into the drawing room.

It was late afternoon and the sun was heading into the west, placing it behind the crowd to shine back at the palace almost like a spotlight. It illuminated the white, purple and maroon marble of the palace’s countless soaring parapets brilliantly.

Confetti spilled from windows along the Promenade and teams of trumpeters, blaring with all their wind, could not hope to compete with the noise of the mob. A sea of airships floated in the sky above, each straining to get a view around the others. Naval ships paraded through the airspace in a huge, swirling swarm. The fleet numbered nearly four hundred vessels, mostly cruisers, galleons, and frigates, supplemented by destroyers, gunships, cutters and corvettes – and crowned with three hulking battleships.

Another hundred privateer ships loomed even higher above the parade – sloops, caravels, clippers and others – hanging comfortably beyond the purview of naval spectacle. Her Majesty’s flagship, the dreadnaught
Vacthor
, was stationed just outside the city, hovering over the Baeno Leir.

It was a city in the air – a literal floating fortress. It took eight primary balloons and scores of auxiliary ones to hold her aloft. They bulged like flexed muscles between cascading gun decks, built on top of one another to form a mountain of darkwood and black iron, capped both fore and aft by two enormous conning towers. Stubby chutes spewed endless streams of exhaust, which collected above the ship like a storm cloud.

The Empress glided gracefully to the end of the balcony and surveyed her subjects. With a gentle raise of her arms, palms out, she sent them into an absolute frenzy. Her smile was a cool one, subdued and slight. Before her empire, Sraia Te Vama looked more like a deity than a mortal woman.

The Empress lowered her arms, and the crowd quieted on cue.

“Gresadia,” she said to them. “Children of Wrasada….” The Royal Promenade had become so hushed that her tender voice reached every ear. “Today is the most significant day in all of our lives. Today… Mankind takes its first step toward the glory that Lord Geithoron in Aelmuligo has promised us.”

The streets erupted with praise. She went on when they calmed down.

“Since those ancient days when Rathideus disappeared from Vuora – and the Holy Diadem with him – the great race of Man has been put down. We have been stepped upon, subjugated and persecuted by the world at large. We, the blessed creation of the Almighty and his Daughter, have been ruthlessly targeted by our enemies for centuries. Every corner of Vuora reaches out to lash at us! Elf and
roccrash
have allied against us. If they could only muster the strength, they would see all humans crushed and our great Empire burned to the ground. My gentle people… we have no more friends left in this world.… But we have something greater. Something far more powerful and far more fearsome. We have more than the greatest civilization the world has ever seen, and more than the mightiest navy that has ever sailed the skies…. My friends! We have the Book of Teric on our side!”

The Empress threw up her arms, and the crowd cheered even louder than before.

“There, written for all to see, Mankind has been promised an end to our oppression! We have been promised reparation! We have been promised justice!”

She paused again for the crowd’s praise, and waited a long while before going on.

“The Diadem of Rathideus,” she said softly, “was to be our crown. The Lord gave it to us to signify our favor in His eyes, and to mark us as the true and rightful rulers of this world – for all time to come. It has been lost to time. But our resolve has not been lost. It is stronger than ever! My people, our crown – our Diadem – is not some artifact, it is not any worldly piece of jewelry! Our Diadem is there!” She pointed directly above, to the armada in the sky. “And it is there!” she indicated the city all around them. “And it is here…” she brought both hands to her heart. “We are the stewards of this land, of this world, just as Geithoron has proclaimed. And today… we take it back!”

Sraia Te Vama raised a fist, and the masses responded with ferocious gusto.

“The Church has chosen to abandon us. So be it. In their old age they have grown senile, and have sided with our enemies, with
roccrash
and
zvec
alike. We shall form a new church! A united church! The Church of Gresadia!”

The Empress managed to shout over the tumult in the Promenade.

“Forget the past, Gresadia, for the Fourth Age has ended,” she said. “The days of struggle and of hardship are over. Our day has come at last. I hereby declare today to be the first day of the Fifth Age – the Age of Mankind!”

The people roared their approval.

“My friends,” she went on, “cast all fear from your hearts, as our victory against the forces of evil that plague this world is assured by the gods themselves! We cannot fail, for
we
are Geithoron’s chosen people! We are Mankind! We are Gresadia!”

New Gresad exploded with exultation. Behind the Empress, the ten councilors were clustered around the doors, reluctant to come any further outside. With the Empress’ back to them, their expressions were less than flattering.

“So…” mumbled Laedus. “She marches us off to war.” He chuckled.

“And in doing so she seals her own fate,” said Adbara.

“
And
the fate of the Empire,” Badi Cahn added.

From overhead, the horns of every ship in the sky bellowed in unison. The oppressive sound sunk down into New Gresad like a thick, aural fog. The signal was for the
Vacthor
, whose horn could still be heard when the rest of the navy subsided, booming its reply in the distance. The colossal vessel turned over the ocean, pointing its nose at the palace. The rumble of its enormous engines could already be felt underfoot by the citizens in the square.

“We will never defeat Divar,” said Cahn simply. “This armada is doomed.”

Laedus slapped his shoulder. “Aren’t we all?” he said with a sardonic smile.

As the Empress embraced her screaming zealots, the
Vacthor
rolled above New Gresad like an ironclad thunderhead. Nexane exhaust fumes streamed from her smokestacks and hung in the air behind the ship with a rigid tenacity, threatening to become a permanent fixture in the sky. When its shadow passed over the Royal Promenade, its cannons fired a salute to its country and its Empress.

Then they unveiled the secret weapon.

From gaping mouths built into the
Vacthor
between decks came spilling out tiny aircraft zooming at incredible speeds. The crowd below was hushed by the sight of them. The miniscule craft had no balloons, and that plain fact elicited growing chatter from the ground.

The T-shaped aircraft were little more than a thin plank of wing attached to a fuselage, which extended back from the middle. At the center was a cockpit for the pilot, with the tail following behind it, ending in a cross of stabilizing fins. Twin engines spun propellers at the tip of each wing.

A squad of them dived straight down into the Promenade and leveled out over the crowd. The buzz of their tiny engines rattled the ears of the onlookers as they crisscrossed around one another right over their heads. A second later and they were gone, scattered down separate streets, flying between the buildings.

The mob went hysterical. Their exuberance swelled into a victorious wave that swept all the way down the Promenade and back.

Even the councilors were stunned.

“Well…” said Adbara. “I see they perfected the wing design after all.”

“If you pour enough money into any problem…” started Cahn, but didn’t finish.

The Empress turned to see their faces, and her eyes shocked them out of their amazement. A few bowed, others offered affirming gestures. She turned back to her people.

“A trite little show,” observed Laedus. “But let’s see how useful they are in battle.”

A personal balloon appeared beside the balcony and attendants helped the Empress inside it. The councilors, again surprised, rushed after her.

“Empress! Where are you going?” they called, almost collectively.

With one foot in the balloon and one on the railing of the balcony, she turned towards them with a relaxed smile and said, “To war.”

None of them could think of what to say in protest before she was inside the balloon and heading straight up toward the
Vacthor
.