Skybound - A Verian Modern Fantasy Novel

Chapter One

Caladhneòil


Utter silence carpeted the Everwood as thickly as any moss or lichen, an eerie blanket of unnatural tranquility stretching from the uppermost boughs of the trees above to the dense undergrowth of the forest floor. Silent it may have been, but still it was not, for this was the Sior-Choille, an endless expanse of twisted life where even the trees were not content to remain where they were. For in the realm known as the ‘boundless dark’, there lurk things far worse than trees.

There were no stars above the Sior-Choille. That thought had remained with Sèran since the outset of the expedition. It was more than the simple shroud of leaf and branch that obscured the sky, more than even the supernatural shadow cast by the writhing wood, for in the boundless dark, there simply was no sky. By airship, one could fly over the wood, even land at one of the rare patches of order that were the settlements and outposts in the greater realm, but as soon as one ventured into the wood itself the simple laws of reality became supplanted by a force far greater. It wasn’t malicious, for that logic implied the Sior-Choille to be an entity capable of malice, but simply and fundamentally contradictory to logic and order. This much Sèran could attest to; anyone would if they’d spent the past two weeks in the Everwood. At least, she amended in her head, they would be able to if they were still alive. And sane.

She paused, raising one hand to halt the small band of rangers in her wake. Something was wrong, some subtle difference in the background cadence of the eternal forest, but for the life of her she couldn’t tell what. Furrowing her brow, she cocked her head to one side, trying to hear what had so unsettled her through the faint noise of swaying leaves and birdsong. Realization dawned not a moment too soon–there were no birds in the writhing wood.

“Lanterns!” she cried, hastily fumbling for her own as the chittering grew closer. Sparkflames leapt into life behind her as the rangers activated their lanterns, the magically fueled fire burning where any conventional flame would have withered in moments, their electric blue light setting the treeline into sudden and brilliant contrast. She lit her own with a touch to the activation sigil, and hooked it to the bayonet lug of her runegun with a quick, practiced motion. The chittering reached a crescendo, and something burst from the undergrowth with an ear-grating shriek and a flash of reaching claws. Sèran fired, reflexively shouldering the recoil as her weapon discharged an arc of scarlet lightning, the runes along its length glowing a faint red as they powered the mage-rifle. Her attacker fell with a second, gurgling shriek that died in its throat as her boot crushed the thing’s skull.

“A bramble-soul.” she said with a shudder, managing to keep her voice steady despite the adrenaline racing through her veins, “One of the Anam-Dris. We must be close–I’m sure you’re all aware why these things are never found far from settlements.”

Her rangers didn’t need the reminder, for one did not reach their station without knowing the horrible truth of the Anam-Dris. The ‘thing’ in question had been human once, driven mad by the meaningless secrets of the forest realm, and corrupted in both mind and body until it had been reduced to a slavering husk of flesh and wood. All things considered, they were one of the lesser dangers of the Everwood, but the nature of their origin rendered them a horror few could bear.

“Keep your lanterns bared and your rifles armed.” advised Conall, a tall, white-haired ranger with more experience than any man Sèran had ever met. His eyes, perpetually sunken and hooded, darted from side to side as he raised his own weapon, an archaic multi-chambered pistol that fired solid shot rather than harnessed magic. He was the expedition’s navigator, and the etheric compass he wore on his left arm like a wristwatch was the only reliable way to tell direction this deep in the Sior-Choille. He shot her a glance, nodding towards the direction the bramble-soul had come from.

“The captain is correct. We’re not far from the cloud-port now. If the Wayfinder is with us, we should be there before true dark.

Sèran let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and gestured for her company to reassume formation and continue past the corpse of the bramble-soul. There was little difference between night and day in the Everwood, but the true dark was not something she’d like to be caught out in. It was a monthly occurrence, a phenomenon prompted by the absence of the moon, when not even the faintest glimmer of light shone in through the leaves. It was not only the myriad thirsting horrors of the woods that were a danger on such nights, but the masters they answered to as well. Not even their sparkflame lanterns would avail the rangers then.

The next few hours were tense, even as their path took them out of the deep wood and into a more lightly forested border region. Despite appearances, even the edges of the Sior-Choille could be deadly, and the ranger party proceeded with all due caution, enchanted lanterns blazing a path through the unnatural shadows clinging to every branch and trunk. After what seemed to Sèran like at least three or four hours of trudging through undergrowth and ducking under low-lying branches, they came across a stream. It was no more than five feet across, but the water was clear, and it ran out of the deepest part of the woods towards the direction they had been heading. She looked at Conall, raising an eyebrow to voice her unspoken question. He checked the glowing face of his compass and nodded, turning back to her with a grim smile on his lips.

“This stream flows towards Caladhneòil, likely converging with the river Eirgenn before it reaches the settlement. We can follow it directly to the port, assuming this is not some deception of the wooded realm made to divert us from the true course.” he said, the smile dropping from his face as quickly as it had arrived.

“That’s one way to kill the mood, bodach.” muttered Myrna, slipping into the language of Cladachòrail as she shot the old ranger a disdainful glare. She was a scarred, sharp-faced woman from the great city, and wielded her long rifle’s axe bayonet with a little too much enthusiasm. “Can’t you just say something positive and leave it at that? Two weeks of grinding my teeth to your ever-present fatalist streak has done me more harm than the damn forest.”

Sèran laughed, drawing an expression of confusion from Conall and an irritated frown from Myrna. “Always at each other’s throats, the two of you never change. Cheer up, the both of you, we’re almost out of the woods, regardless of where the stream flows. Just follow my lead and try not to aim for each other if it comes to it.”

“Right, I’ll be too busy shooting at you.” Myrna grumbled, shouldering her rifle and raising her lantern with her free hand. Blue light glinted from the iron tip of the spear leveled at her chest. Figures rose from the underbrush, or emerged from behind the trees. Clad in drab browns and greens, they carried spears and crossbows, most metals carefully dulled with what looked like soot from fire. Sèran’s eyes drifted down to the razor edge of the longsword aligned with her neck, leveled across her right shoulder from an unseen figure standing behind her. All around the river clearing, the tableau repeated itself with Conall and the rest of the rangers, the light sounds of conversation and banter replaced with thin breaths and boots crunching over dead leaves. They were surrounded.

Thousands of bells rang out from the spires of Cladachòrail, a melodic cacophony of tolling and ringing ranging from the deep resonance of bronze giants in the largest temples to the shrill chiming of even the smallest street bells. Throughout the city, the pattern—the signal—was the same, and it did not herald something as mundane as a change in hour, but a change in direction. Sails billowed under new angles, great masts rotated and locked into place, and Cladachòrail flew north.

Most famously known by its moniker as the ‘City of a Thousand Names’, Cladachòrail was the greatest of the fortress-cities, a flying bastion powered and defended by the most powerful spellcraft in the realms, and an independent city-state in its own right, not bound to a terrestrial nation like most of the lesser sky cities. Towering fortress walls formed rings in the upper city, the greater sprawl spilling out and under the central superstructure like the petals of a flower around its heart. Docks jutted from every aspect of the city, meeting airships of a vast range of shapes and sizes, the gaudy colors of their envelopes spotting the city in hundreds of brilliant hues. Above them all loomed the majestic bulk of the Cathair nan Diathan, the Seat of the Gods. A thousand feet of stone and brick reaching for the sky with all the severity of a spear at dawn, the Cathair was a temple complex of unrivaled scale, a place of veneration dedicated to the ancestor-gods, major and minor pantheons alike.

Ludan draoidh Eitearrach stood motionless amid the crowd of pilgrims and worshippers, bathed in fractals of multicolored light as he stared up at the intricate stained glass window dominating one wall of the temple complex’s uppermost structure. This section of the building was the single highest point in the entire flying city, and fittingly enough, it was devoted to the grandest pantheon of the ancestor gods: the Eternal Court. Iomaidhr the Wayfinder, Caraìth Smith-Lord, and Ludan’s own goddess, Turasùr the Mage-Queen. Her image stood twenty feet tall, wrought in lead and glass, loose mage’s robes hanging over a gleaming set of lamellar plate armor, each scale picked out in individual detail. She carried a holy object in each hand, a blazing lantern in her left and a sword in her right, for Turasùr was not simply the goddess of knowledge, but the patron of all who sought it regardless of their means or motivation.

As the bells overhead made their last solemn remark, he turned away from the window, opening a path through the crowd of temple-goers through the judicious application of his elbow. Though he wore the same elaborately worked mage’s robes as Turasùr in her glass depiction, he did not cut a figure quite so impressive. His bedraggled brown hair was swept to one side over a face that looked like it hadn’t received any sleep—or a shave—for far too long. Intricately weaving patterns tattooed in blue burst from his left brow and down that side of his face in a cascade of runic symbols, thrown into sharp contrast by the complete absence of any tattoos on the other half of his face. He walked supported by a staff—more of a theatrical affectation than a practical choice. After all, he practiced his craft through the hand that held his staff, not the glorified walking stick itself.

His hand, along with the rest of his right arm, was an elegant construct of rune-engraved bronze and steel, given life and purpose through the practiced expertise of the city’s most experienced artisans and artificers. Ludan had made a number of improvements himself in the five years since he’d lost his arm, weaving his own enchantments alongside more conventional mechanical alterations, such as the concentric chambers that comprised the bulk of his forearm, each one crafted to house a spell or rune. It was a useful tool to have at his side, and one that had saved his skin more than once in his past journeys beyond the walls of Cladachòrail.

As he reached one of the great staircases sweeping down from the upper levels of the Cathair, he fell into step alongside a second man clad in the blue and gold of Turasùr’s chosen. They descended the stairs in silence for a moment, his companion clearly deep in thought. After a minute, he glanced up at Ludan with an expression of concern on his face.

“Are you aware you’re being followed, Ludan?”

Ludan shrugged, resisting the urge to turn and look back up the stairs. “I‘m sure it’s nothing, Camìr.”

Despite his assurance, Camìr did not appear to be convinced. “I needn’t remind you of the trouble they’d cause if one of the rival orders got wind of our little expedition. Fellow mages aside, Tanhàghan’s Witchseekers would see both of us run out of the city.”

“Witchseekers?” Ludan snorted, clapping a hand on his companion’s back to guide him down another flight of stairs. “I worry that fancy clouds your vision. Come, I’m sure you’ll feel more assured once we’ve boarded.”

Nodding reluctantly, Camìr followed the other mage out of the Cathair’s open front gates and onto the Bellway, one of Cladachòrail’s great upper roads. As the two of them pushed through crowds of pilgrims and devotees on their way to worship, Ludan couldn’t help but feel as if Camìr’s concerns had some merit. He very much doubted the followers of another ancestor-god would challenge Turasùr’s folk, but they were being followed, that he could sense. There was a third presence, the hint of arcane will focused on his mind. He glanced behind himself, swore, and pulled Camìr into an alleyway between a goldsmith’s and a clothier’s. Frightened and confused, his friend clutched at Ludan’s arm, eyes darting from him to the mouth of the alley. Camìr was a more than competent mage, but he did not have Ludan’s experience in the field, and the threat of conflict was clearly getting to his head.

“What did you see?” he gasped, shaking Ludan’s arm imploringly, “By all the gods, is it the Witchseekers?”

“I’d know better than to run from them.” Ludan retorted, carefully but firmly extricating his arm from Camìr’s grasp, “I’m afraid it’s as you initially suspected. I saw violet robes behind us, and that means we must be off as soon as possible.”

Camìr nodded his understanding, nervously fiddling with the cuff of one of his rune-marked gloves. Their pursuers were indeed not of another god, but of Turasùr herself. While the Eitearrach—Ludan’s order of mages—wore robes of blue and gold, their brother orders each bore their own arcane heraldry, and purples robes meant they faced the Geasadh, enchanters of the inner city that had long been rivals to the Eitearrach. The fact that they were following Ludan was almost a comfort. It meant they only suspected him, and had not yet discovered the truth of the expedition. If they already knew where he and Camìr were headed, the legitimacy of his order would no doubt have been challenged long before now.

“We’d best be off then.” said Camìr, nerves settling. They turned to head down the alleyway and out onto the street beyond, but Camìr paused, stripping off one of his gloves and handing it to Ludan. When subjected to a questioning look and a raised eyebrow, he flapped a hand at Ludan as if to suggest his friend assumed too little of him.

“I keep myself warded against spells of divination and sight—if they’re tailing us by your arcane presence, this should confuse them long enough for us to get to the air docks.”

Ludan moved to slip the glove onto his left hand as they ran out of the alley’s mouth, realized Camìr had given him the wrong one, and awkwardly forced it over the metal digits of his right as they turned onto the Calrathad, a wide stone avenue running along the city’s uppermost docks. Their ship, an elegant three-masted frigate with two hull-mounted airbags, was docked at the next junction, and they hurried to it as fast as they were able to run, Camìr nearly tripping as he glanced behind them every other step.

They reached the dock panting for breath, Ludan gesturing furiously at the closest deckhand to get the ship ready to slip its moorings. As he and Camìr hastened up the ramp, they found themselves confronted by the ship’s captain, standing with his arms crossed at the top of the ramp. Deorsa Eacharn was a tall, mustachioed man in his middle age with more scars than one could count. Ludan had always suspected the captain was a reformed corsair, but now, as always, he dared not voice that suspicion.

“Camran told me you lads were in a hurry. We’re to be off then?” he asked, not stepping out of their path.

“Aye, and as swiftly as you can manage.” Ludan said, handing Camìr’s glove back as he spoke, “I don’t believe the expedition is in jeopardy, but we nearly had a run-in with the Geasadh. You of all people know what their interest could spell for our order, and your career by extent.”

The captain pursed his lips and nodded, stepping away from the ramp head. Ludan and Camìr gratefully stumbled onto the airship, glancing about themselves as Eacharn barked orders and set his crew to readying the vessel. Steadying his ragged breathing, Ludan leaned on his staff, surveying the docks nearby. No spells weighed upon his mind, nor did any purple-robes figures push their way through the bustling road to apprehend them. He breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to Camìr with a half-smile that slid off his face as soon as he saw his companion’s expression. The other mage had gone a pale shade of slate, staring wordlessly over Ludan’s shoulder with a palpable mixture of dread and apprehension. Slowly, uneasily, Ludan turned to see what had left Camìr so distressed. A trio of figures approached the airship’s berth, lamellar plate gleaming silver under the midday sun, green tartan cloaks billowing in the high altitude wind. They were not of the Geasadh. They were Witchseekers.

Sèran stood frozen, not even daring to unsling her rifle and toss it to the forest floor.

“Who’s the leader here?” inquired a voice from somewhere behind her, accompanied by the sound of wet leaves crushed underfoot, “And when you do decide to speak up, pray tell me what in the Wayfinder’s name you’re doing on the edges of the Sior-Choille.”

Sèran saw the swordsman look over her shoulder at the speaker, withdrawing his blade with a nod as the footsteps stopped behind her. She turned on the spot, coming face to face with another drab-cloaked figure, his green cloak pulled tight around what looked like an elegantly embroidered tabard of brown and gold. He prodded her in the chest with the blunt edge of an ornate targe shield, raising an eyebrow as if to reinforce his question.

“We are rangers of Dùn Gulbarach, bound for Caladhneòil.” she said hurriedly, eyes straying to the soot-blackened metal of the broadsword the stranger carried casually in his other hand, “I bid you release us, we mean you no harm.”

“Whether or not you intend to harm us is aside from the point, ranger.” he said, pacing around her to inspect the rifle slung across her back, then glancing to the identical firearms the other rangers bore. He gestured with his shield, and the other cloaked figures lowered their weapons. They were still guarded, but no longer threatened Sèran’s party. Their leader turned back to her, raising the hood of his cloak. He wore a gold circlet over fiery orange hair that spilled out in intricate braids, more gold woven through his beard in shaped clasps.

“I’ll concede that you certainly look the part.” he admitted, sheathing his sword without looking away from her, “Only, in my experience trained rangers don’t walk into an ambush thrown by a group of mere mercenaries.”

The man moved his hands constantly as he spoke, making emphatic gestures like a practiced orator now that he no longer gripped a weapon. He extended a hand to her, all smiles, the hostile attitude apparently completely forgotten.

“The name’s Arascain. Aodhan Arascain. If you’d be generous enough to share yours with me, I’m sure me and my lads can direct your vaunted crew of rangers to Caladhneòil—our current employers, you ken.”

Sèran looked down at the outstretched hand dubiously, hesitated, and took it in her own with a forced smile. She didn’t much care for his condescending attitude towards her company, nor his sudden and unprompted change of heart, but at least he seemed to be offering her a way back to civilization.

“I am Sèran, and with me are Conall, Myrna, Ulchel, Rinalde, and Éua.” she said, her smile glazing over as the man called Arascain turned her hand over to inspect the make of her leather glove.

“Lovely. I’m glad we can all be friends here.” Arascain said dryly, dropping her hand as if he’d never touched it, “You find yourselves under the watchful eye of the Èsihrbann, the finest free company from nowhere to anywhere. As we currently find ourselves at the edge of nowhere, I’m sure you can appreciate that the acclaim is indeed warranted.”

When it became clear to him that no agreement was forthcoming, the mercenary captain turned away with an exaggerated sigh of mock disappointment, gesturing for his troops to form up behind him. It took Sèran a few seconds of staring wordlessly at his back to even process the information. She could not deny that her professional pride was somewhat wounded from the revelation that her supposedly elite band of forest rangers had been ambushed by a group of jumped-up hired blades, but the fact that mercenaries would even venture to the edge of the Sior-Choille was a revelation in its own right. That spoke of a truly indomitable degree of idiocy, or a prowess that the simple attire of Arascain’s men belied. As she considered the mercenary captain, the thought dawned that both were probably true. In what Sèran reflected was almost certainly a woefully ill-considered move, she turned to the band of dejected-looking rangers and offered them a shrug and a half-smile.

“We’ll just have to trust him. If he speaks true, then we have no cause for concern.”

A few hesitant nods and a bit-back retort from Myrna was the only response she got, and she understood why. Every soul among their number considered themselves elite, the best of the best, brave and skilled enough to become a ranger and lucky enough to make it out of the verdant realm of the Everwood in one piece. Arascain’s stunt had proven his ability, but it hadn’t made him any friends in Sèran’s band.

“Form up in front of the mercenaries and show them how real rangers move, I’ll not have our party marched into Caladhneòil like prisoners.” she said, shooting a glance towards Arascain as the distant shriek of a hawk rang out from above the dense foliage overhead, “Besides, while he may believe he’s seen our full hand, we still have a few tricks up our sleeves, don’t we.”

She caught up with Arascain before the free company began their march, picking her way over the treacherous blanket of moss and winding roots underfoot with the practiced ease of a forest ranger. Still deep in conversation with a cloaked man she recognized as the one who’d held a sword to her throat, Arascain appeared not to notice her approach until his companion nodded meaningfully in her direction. The mercenary captain spun around on one polished jackboot, arms spread wide and a winning smile plastered across his face.

“Sèran, was it?” he said, a hand gently straying to the hilt of his sword, “I trust that your ranger pals are wise enough to grasp the prudence of our little arrangement. After all, if you’re bound for Caladhneòil I’m sure you can understand working with its lawfully employed representative—that’d be me—is in their best interest.”

“Of course.” said Sèran, watching Arascain’s smile drop off a cliff as the other rangers made their way to the front of his company, assembling alongside her, “But understand that we are not your prisoners, nor will we tolerate being treated as such.”

The piercing cry of a hawk split the air, closer and significantly louder this time, and Arascain half-drew his broadsword, unable to hide his discomfort at the sound. There were no birds in the writhing wood. It was almost enough to make Sèran laugh, for despite his more than evident bravado, Arascain clearly didn’t know enough to realize the true Sior-Choille was at least an hour’s travel behind them. Meeting his eyes, Sèran extended her left arm, the now faintly glowing lattice of runework on the glove Arascain had noticed flaring to life with the movement. Something burst through the canopy above them, and in a shower of leaves the hawk alighted on Sèran’s arm. The hawk stared at Arascain, gleaming orange-red eyes glaring out of its regal black and white plumage. It was a goshawk, a bird that according to the traditions of falconry was strictly reserved for the nobility. A band around its right leg glowed with the same runic inscription that repeated over Sèran’s glove.

“Do not presume yourself to be in charge here, Aodhan Arascain. I am Sèran de na Tamanh of the house of Sàrgul, and you are hereby commanded to follow me until I deem your service is no longer required.”

Arascain paused, sheathed his sword, and started to laugh. It was a deep, genuine expression of mirth that left Sèran feeling quite wrong-footed. Still laughing, he threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender, shaking his head at her.

“You know, I probably should have predicted this. It’s just my luck to confront the one person I was hired to find without realizing just who you were. The folks at Caladhneòil were awfully generous with the coin, you understand, but apparently didn’t see fit to inform me of the whole ranger deal. I thought the ‘Lady Sàrgul’ I was after would be traveling at the edge of the Everwood in a guarded carriage along one of the old paths, not cutting through the damned place at the head of a band of forest pathfinders. So if you’ll excuse my incredulity, I and the Èsihrbann are at your service, my lady.”

He cut an exaggerated bow, pulling on the collar of the man he’d been talking with to elicit a similar act of genuflection out of him.

“Now, if you’ll allow me to carry out my function, I need only your command to escort you back to the safety of Caladhneòil.”

Sèran nodded, and Arascain began readying his men to move out. Despite ostensibly being in control of the situation, she couldn’t help but feel powerless as she watched him order the mercenaries into formation. She found herself regretting her decision already.

Blaigeard. By the gods above and below, why are they here?”

Ludan drew his mechanical right arm back as he swore, concentric chambers folding out with a twist of his wrist to reveal the brass casings inside, each and every one engraved with a uniquely powerful series of arcane runes. He cycled the system of chambers, ejecting a casing covered in a spiderweb lattice of triangular runework, and slammed it home in the single primary chamber that ran down his entire forearm. Another brief flick of his wrist, and the complicated system of unfolding chambers hinged back into place with the soft click of well-polished mechanisms. Camìr stared at him, and then back to the approaching Witchseekers, apparently unsure which to fear most. Catching his sidelong glance, Ludan smiled, and extended his arm towards the other mage, metal digits still locked around the haft of his staff.

“Take it, I cannot guarantee this situation will resolve itself peacefully.”

Camìr acquiesced, watching as the lines of concentrating runes along the length of the staff lit faintly at his touch.

“And the… arm thing?” he asked.

“Consider it our insurance.” Ludan responded, “Now come, Tanhàghan’s chosen are not known to be patient folk.”

The two city mages stepped down the gangplank, walking side by side along the dock towards the three armored figures. Ludan stopped fifty paces from their leader, and he followed suit, holding out a hand to stop the other two from going any further. The followers of Turasùr and Tanhàghan were not overly fond of each other, but while they remained within the walls of Cladachòrail the laws of accord must be followed. Ludan’s eyes darted from figure to figure as the two parties faced each other, and he stifled another curse as he noted that all three Witchseekers carried rifles—thankfully bereft of enchantment, for Tanhàghan abhorred magic of all kind, but no less of an overt threat. Whatever they were here for, and Ludan suspected he knew all too well what that reason was, they had come prepared to resolve their mission with a healthy excess of force.

“Hail, sons of the Eitearrach.” their leader said, lifting his already extended hand in curt greeting. He was an immense figure of a man, his heavy armor clinking faintly in the high altitude wind as his cloak streamed out behind him. He clutched his rifle by the barrel with the forced nonchalance of one unused to diplomacy. Ludan guessed the man had never been sent after a mage who hadn’t overtly broken the laws of the city before.

“Hail, warriors of the Brilliant Goddess.” Ludan said in response, raising his voice to be heard over the rising gale, “On what duty are you called to pursue us?”

“Detention, and if you will not come willingly, execution.”

Ludan nodded, as it was the only answer they would ever give. Tanhàghan’s Witchseekers were a holy order of paladins dedicated to finding and punishing those who would disrupt the order of the Golden City in their practice of magic. They were not common watchmen, and to surrender oneself to them was more than likely a longer and more painful death than the execution they so eagerly offered. If they had come for him, it meant they not just knew about his expedition, but knew where exactly he intended to venture.

“Camìr, go to the captain, get this gods-forsaken ship into the air immediately.” Ludan hissed, jerking his head towards the immobile airship, “I can buy you at least half a minute, now go!”

With a single step forward, Ludan broke the accord. In the same second it took him to take a stride, three rifles came up to aim, firing in concert with a shouted command from the lead Witchseeker. The shots struck Ludan in the chest, the throat, and the center of his skull, all three equally fatal blows, but none so much as grazing his skin. He stepped over the bullets, crushed and smoking on the planks of the dock before him. It had been a risk to trust their fire wouldn’t penetrate his wards, but it had given Camìr the second he needed to clamber back aboard the airship and make for Captain Eacharn. For that to work, however, Ludan would need to hold three of the most well equipped and trained warriors in the city off on his own.

He brought his mechanical arm up to bear, leveling it at the Witchseekers, two of whom had dropped their guns and were now charging down the dock with blades drawn. Internal servos whirred as the chambers built into his forearm spun, clicked into place, and ejected a spent shell onto the planks beside him, a runic lattice still visible on the glowing metal. Arcane sigils flared to life along the length of his arm, gleaming from shoulder to palm as raging electricity leapt from fingertip to metal fingertip. Ludan pulled his hand back and up like a spearman preparing a javelin, and the discharged energy coursing along his arm lept out to form a lance of crackling, coruscating light. He stepped forward, thrust his arm out towards the oncoming Witchseekers, and released his spell. The light died, his arm went limp, and a flash of lightning split the air, a raging bolt of unfettered power that earthed itself in the chest of the charging Witchseeker captain and exploded out of his back. It bisected the man in less than a heartbeat, ripping a cloud of flash-fried viscera and glowing armor fragments out of his body as it passed, sending cracks down the cobbles of the Calrathad as the energy dispersed into the heavily warded upper bastions of the flying city.

Before the steaming corpse had even hit the planks his companion was lunging past, driving at Ludan with the tip of a long-bladed hunting sword he recognized as an estoc. Ludan backstepped the blade, his right arm still hanging useless at his side. The Witchseeker snarled, sweeping the sword around in a furious blow that would have ripped Ludan’s throat out if his wards didn’t catch the blade and throw it aside at the last second. That would be the last time they availed him, however, for as Ludan stumbled away from the swordsman he could sense the tightly-woven fabric of defensive enchantments breaking under the continued assault. He could not trust his wards to take another blow. Channeling a spell as powerful as the one he’d just blown on that hapless Witchseeker meant his arm would be deadened for at least a minute, if not more, and his third opponent was still in the back with his rifle. As if to reinforce the point, the crack of gunfire rang out from the end of the dock, and the bullet tore through Ludan’s billowing robes even as the other Witchseeker drove him steadily further from the airship.

An unbalanced step back nearly brought him toppling over the edge of the dock into nothingness. Unable to give any more ground, Ludan dove under the Witchseeker’s next slash, sprawling on the dock and taking a shallow gash to the shoulder as the swordsman pivoted the angle of his attack. He hit the ground rolling, watching the tip of the estoc gouge the planks beside his head as he barely avoided the follow-up blow. If he didn’t do something drastic soon he was going to end up skewered on the end of his opponent’s sword. The sudden roar of propellers coming to life from behind him gave Ludan the moment he needed to act. As the Witchseeker glanced over his shoulder at the airship preparing to take flight, Ludan grabbed his still-limp mechanical arm, forcing the compartment open with his free hand. The Witchseeker’s gaze snapped back to him, and the sword thrust forward again, but as Ludan stumbled backwards he wrested a shell free from a chamber at random, tossing it to the ground at his feet. The tiny brass cylinder bounced on the wooden face of the dock, rolled for a moment, and came to rest under Ludan’s raised boot. He locked eyes with the Witchseeker through the slit of his opponent’s helmet visor and crushed the casing underfoot, praying to Turasùr that he hadn’t chosen the wrong one.

Blinding white illumination spilled out from under Ludan’s boot, and he hastily lifted his foot as smoke began to wisp out from the leather sole. Within seconds the shining casing had begun to burn through the planks of the dock, thick black smoke billowing up between Ludan and the Witchseeker. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but as Ludan turned to sprint for the airship he supposed it was at least better than taking a sword to the head. He saw Camìr wave to him from over the taffrail as he neared the gangplank, and for half a second the idea that he might actually make it crossed his mind, only to be shattered as the sound of another gunshot punctuated the growing whine of the airship’s hull-mounted propellers. Captain Eacharn slumped at the helm, blood staining the front of his uniform witless hands dragged the yoke down. Still at least twenty paces ahead of Ludan the airship rose wildly, listing to one side with the audible groan of protesting cables as it strained against its mooring. With a sickening lurch the gangplank came free of the ship, tearing free of the dock to plummet down to one of the lower circles of the city below.

“Ludan!” shouted Camìr, gripping the railing hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, “The rope!”

Catching his meaning, Ludan dashed for the nearest mooring cable, watching in apprehension as metal strands frayed and began to snap near where the cable was affixed to the docking clamp. Camìr’s voice raised again as he neared the cable, more panicked than before.

“Behind you!”

Ludan knew better than to turn and look. He threw himself flat, sliding to a halt against the base of the steel mooring hook. He heard the all too familiar sound of a blade cutting the air overhead, and watched as Camìr raised his borrowed staff over the railing of the ship, incandescent sparks gathering about the hooked tip in swirling clouds of arcane flame as runes flared to life along its length. Ludan rolled over just in time to see the Witchseeker swordsman thrown off his feet by a streak of prismatic fire. Scrambling to his feet, Ludan jumped for the rope, not daring to hesitate and give the rifleman another shot. He realized his mistake when only one set of fingers closed around the straining cable, and without the strength of his other arm he was left swinging over air far out of Camìr’s reach.

“Camìr—to the helm, right this blasted ship!” he spat, gritting his teeth against the biting pain in his left hand. It was all he could manage not to go joining the gangplank hundreds of feet below. Thankfully, Camìr nodded and ran down the length of the ship without further comment, leaving Ludan praying that the cable wouldn’t give way with him still clinging to it. Judging from how the pain in his hand was beginning to spread an uncomfortable numbness through his fingers, he’d need to amend that prayer to include plummeting with no handhold whatsoever. With a sudden shift in pitch of the background drone of engines, the airship rolled back towards Ludan, who found himself sliding back down the quickly slackening cable, sharp twinges of stabbing pain shooting up his arm. Cursing the prosthetic hanging limply from his side, he made an attempt to collect his thoughts and calm his mind. His mechanical arm would—in theory at least—come back online in only a matter of seconds, but he wasn’t about to leave his life up to chance. After another moment considering the thought, a quick prayer to Gulbaran started to sound like a good addition to his calming mantra.

The trickster god of luck must have had a nasty sense of humor, Ludan reflected, for he felt the surge of power through reawakening servos just as the pain in his hand became unbearable. With a grunt of effort and desperation he swung his mechanical arm up and locked its metal digits around the mooring cable, letting his pained hand fall to his side. In his mind the last words of his mantra fell into place alongside his wearied arm, and with relief flooding his heart, he whispered the command, two words of power in the old tongue of Cladachòrail.

Gaoth, èirich!

He let go of the cable as the wind leapt to his command, bound by the force of his will to bear him aloft. A gust rose beneath him with all the force of a hurricane, sending him sprawling over the railing of the airship and on to the safety of its deck as the last remaining Witchseeker loosed a shot harmlessly into the side of the ship’s hull. Ludan laid gasping for breath on the deck, staring up at the clouds above, which were soon joined by the concerned face of Camìr.

“Ludan?”

“I’ll live.” Ludan managed, forcing a weak smile onto his face. Unlike the pre-prepared spells he channeled through the artifice-wrought workings of his mechanical arm, calling upon the untamed magic of the natural world took a toll on one’s body and mind, and required a singularly focused will.

“Camìr,” he added, still face-up on the deck, “Tell the crew to cast off the accursed mooring cables and get this thing in the air.”

Camìr nodded, but paused as he made to return to the quarterdeck.

“Our goal remains the same? Even with the Brilliant Order out for our heads?”

This time, Ludan’s smile became genuine.

“Yes—we sail to Caladhneòil.”