Sky Raiders (8 page)

T
he quick decision surprised Cole. The buyer turned away, and a tall, muscled stranger came into view, glaring at Cole distrustfully. So much for making an easy escape from the old limping guy. He should have guessed the buyer would have help.

On his way out of the cage, Cole leaned close to surgeon girl. “If you get lonely, talk to the happy face.”

She looked at him like he was crazy.

Cole hopped down to where the tall stranger awaited him. “This way,” the man said, pointing toward the front of the caravan. He had a familiar reddish mark on his wrist.

“Are you a slave too?” Cole asked.

The man cuffed Cole on the ear, hard enough to knock him to the ground. Cole stayed down for a moment, the side of his head smarting and his mind buzzing with anger.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” the man said. “Up.”

Cole got to his feet. The kids in the slave wagons watched him with wide eyes. Without an audience, he would have gone
quietly. But he didn’t want all those kids to see him offering no resistance to a bully. It set a bad precedent.

So he turned and kicked at the side of the stranger’s knee as hard as he could. Crouching, the man swiveled, caught Cole’s ankle in one hand, and then swept his other foot out from under him with a brisk kick.

Cole’s back hit the ground first with a flat slap, and he found himself unable to breathe. Rolling onto his side, he shuddered as he tried to get his paralyzed lungs to kick into gear. He needed air but couldn’t inhale. Then the paralysis passed, and he was breathing again. He gratefully took several deep breaths.

“You have any fight left in you?” the tall stranger asked. “I could do this all day.”

Cole rocked into a sitting position. A glance at the wagon showed the occupants all pointedly looking elsewhere. He had taught them that defiance led to pain and failure. Not exactly the lesson he’d had in mind.

Cole got up and brushed himself off. The tall guard gestured for him to proceed. “Bye, Happy,” Cole called toward the cage.

“Bye” came a faint, high-pitched reply.

Cole noticed several heads in the cage swivel toward the floor.

Well ahead of them now, the buyer limped beside Ansel toward a group of burdened mules at the front of the caravan. “Those your mules?” Cole asked.

The man cuffed Cole on the other ear, not as hard as last time, but enough to make him stagger. “You learn slower than most dogs.”

“You didn’t hit me for saying good-bye,” Cole replied.

“I’m not that heartless,” the man said. “No more out of you.”

Cole watched the wagons as he walked. He saw Jenna, her Cleopatra costume filthy and bedraggled. Cole forced a smile and gave her a wave.

“You were brave to come for us,” Jenna called. “Tracy deserves to be run over by every wagon in the line!”

The other kids in her cage distanced themselves from her. She stood by the bars defiantly.

“They’re taking my wagon to the High King,” Jenna called. “Whatever that means.”

“This isn’t over,” Cole promised, ducking just in time to feel the man’s hand whoosh over his head. He had swung hard that time. Cole sprang to the side, barely avoiding a kick, then ran ahead toward the mules.

Something struck the back of his head and sent him tumbling. It was hard to tell whether it had been a fist, a rock, or a club, but it hurt plenty. Cole curled up, cradling his sore skull, worried that more blows might rain down. When none came, he risked a peek. The big man stood over him, frowning, arms folded beneath his chest.

“I misspoke,” the man said. “I’m not willing to do this all day. Act up again, and we’ll have to cart you to the Brink in a wheelbarrow. On your feet.”

Head still throbbing, Cole rose to find Dalton staring at him from behind nearby bars. Heavily powdered by dust and with his frowning makeup smudged and faded, his friend looked like the saddest clown ever. Dalton cautiously shook his head, warning Cole not to speak.

Cole nodded at his friend and mouthed,
I’ll find you.

Dalton waved, tears brimming in his eyes. “We’re going to the king too,” Dalton said softly, barely loud enough to hear.

Cole looked away. Would he really find them? Or was this the last time he would see anyone from his world? He had been mostly trying to give Dalton a little hope, but he found that he really meant his words. Maybe he would lead a slave revolt. Maybe he would sneak away on his own. It was hard to guess what opportunities he would find, but he silently vowed never to stop watching for a chance to escape and to find his friends.

When Cole reached the mules, the buyer already sat astride a horse. A long-haired man with a shiny burn scar on his chin rode beside him. “Come here, slave,” the professorial man invited.

Cole approached the man on the horse.

“I heard you sassing Vidal,” the man said. “Don’t speak to your betters unless we ask you a question. Is that hard to grasp?”

“I’m a quick learner,” Cole said. “All it usually takes is a concussion or two.”

The man looked beyond Cole and held up a hand to stay Vidal. “The slave was answering a question.” The man returned his gaze to Cole. “A little spirit might serve you well at the Brink. A lot will serve you ill. You’re not from here, so our treatment of slaves might seem barbaric, but you had better get used to it. Even if I don’t personally cherish certain aspects of slavery, we’re teaching you the order of things for your own good. I’m Durny, this is Ed, and we
have some riding ahead of us. You’re now the property of Adam Jones, owner of the Cliffside Salvage Yard and leader of the Sky Raiders. Don’t make problems, or you’ll pay dearly. Understood?”

“I get it,” Cole said.

Durny looked to Vidal. “Put him on Maribel. Our business here is done.”

By his sixth day of riding, Cole had grown accustomed to Maribel. In spite of her burden, she and the other eleven mules plodded tirelessly forward from daybreak to nightfall. Normal suns had crossed the sky ever since the duskday ended, and today was no exception.

Cole had found the ride lonely. The men tended to converse when he was out of earshot. They only addressed him directly with basic instructions. He had to unpack and brush the mules at night and get them ready to travel every morning.

The cold treatment wore on Cole. He had never felt like such an outcast. After having been marked, chained up, caged, and now ignored as if he was less than a person, Cole had to fight worries that his life was over. He began to doubt whether he would have another happy day.

Today they had started early, in the gray chill before sunrise. Durny had explained that the Brink was dangerous at night and that a long ride should get them to their destination before sunset.

As the day progressed, Cole tried to enjoy the scenery. At least the land had grown more interesting, with ridges, hills, and ravines. Grasses and brush grew everywhere, along
with numerous bushes and occasional stands of tall trees. He saw rabbits and squirrels, and occasionally glimpsed deer or foxes.

Cole kept an eye on the sun as it began to sink. Durny had made a point throughout the day of hurrying the mules along, not wanting to end up near the Brink after dark. The sun was less than an hour away from setting when Durny dropped back to ride beside Cole.

“Come with me, slave,” he said. “Let Ed and Vidal tend the mules for a spell.”

Durny dismounted and Cole did likewise. Durny motioned for him to follow, then led him onto a trail and up a rise. Up ahead the trail came to a sudden end at what was clearly a precipice.

Durny nudged Cole’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “You claimed not to mind edges. Why not give that one a try?”

Cole crept to where the ground stopped, and then he leaned forward to look down the cliff.

And down.

And down.

He had never seen anything like it.

He wasn’t looking down at the ground in the distance. He was looking down at sky that darkened toward purple the farther he peered.

Durny came up beside him. “Welcome to the Brink.”

“Permission to speak?”

“Granted.”

“Where’s the bottom?”

Durny shrugged. “Far as anyone can tell, there is no bottom. Expeditions have explored by climbing and flying. No one who ever returned has seen where the cliff bottoms out. It seems to go down beyond infinity.”

“It’s like the end of the world,” Cole said, staring out at the emptiness.

“Exactly.”

Cole glanced at Durny. “The world can’t just end.”

“This one does. At least in this direction. The Brink doesn’t go all the way around the Outskirts, at least as far as we’ve been able to determine.” He waved a hand to the right. “Go far enough in that direction and you’ll reach the Eastern Cloudwall. Can’t go over it, can’t slide under it, can’t dodge around it. Of those who have tried to go through it, none have returned. Same story with the Western Cloudwall, if you follow the Brink in the other direction. What lies behind or within the cloudwalls none can tell, for they cannot be breached by land or air. Notice anything else out there? Look closely.”

Scanning outward from the Brink, all Cole saw were sky and some clouds, the same view he got if he looked up. Wait, on one of the smaller clouds, in the distance, he observed the distinct shape of a castle with several towers.

“That cloud looks just like a castle,” he said, pointing.

“That
is
a castle,” Durny replied.

“It can’t be,” Cole said. “It’s floating.”

“Once again, welcome to the Brink.”

Cole gave Durny a suspicious stare. “You have to be kidding. This place might be weird, but not that weird.”

Durny reached inside his coat and removed a collapsible brass spyglass. Extending it, he raised it to one eye and focused it before passing it to Cole.

Since the spyglass was powerful, it took Cole a frustrating moment to line it up with the castle. Sure enough, the structure appeared to be made of stone, inexplicably resting on a wisp of cloud with nothing but blue sky all around. It had battlements, banners, towers, windows—even a visible drawbridge.

Cole lowered the spyglass. “How is it possible?”

“Specifically, I have no answer,” Durny said. “Generally, we’re in Sambria. This part of the Outskirts is the most susceptible to deliberate physical tampering. Some things I have seen shaped here make me wonder whether anything is impossible.”

“I’ve heard about shaping,” Cole said. “What is it? Like magic?”

Durny harrumphed. “Any phenomenon we don’t understand seems like magic. To a primitive culture, fire might seem like magic. This spyglass certainly would.”

“Shaping is science?”

“Not exactly. It’s . . . the ability to rearrange things and to imbue them with new qualities. Some people have a knack for it. I have a share of the talent myself. No matter how much talent you have, it’s easier to shape material here in Sambria.”

Cole gazed out across the gulf of sky. “Somebody shaped that castle?”

“Nobody knows who shapes the castles,” Durny said
thoughtfully. “They appear out of the Westtern Cloudwall and drift across into the Eastern Cloudwall. Today is a quiet day. You can often see a dozen or more from a single spot. While the castles migrate from one cloudwall to the other, we salvage what we can.”

“Wait,” Cole said in disbelief. “The Sky Raiders raid the castles?”

“You’re catching on,” Durny approved. “And you’ll be helping us.”

“How do you get to them? Planes? Helicopters?”

“Skycraft. Flying ships.”

“How do they fly?”

Durny glanced toward the sun. “Last question. We need to get indoors before dark. Near the base of the castles are suspensors, commonly called floatstones. They keep the castles aloft. We harvest them from time to time and use them in the construction of skycraft.”

Cole could not believe what he was hearing and seeing. But it was hard to argue with the sight of the castle in the distance. After all, he had crossed over to a mysterious world through a manhole in a spook alley, and he had held a conversation with a happy face. “The job is dangerous? Raiding the castles?”

Durny gave a snort. “I said no more questions, but what do you think? Now come—let’s go meet your owner.”

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