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  Crosswind

  The First Sark Brothers Tale

  Steve Rzasa

  Published by Enclave Publishing

  24 W. Camelback Rd., A-635

  Phoenix, AZ 85013

  www.enclavepublishing.com

  ISBN (paper): 978-1-935929-83-3

  Crosswind

  Copyright © 2012 by Steve Rzasa.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval System without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC, Phoenix, Arizona.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Jeff Gerke

  Cover Illustration by Keith Thompson

  Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Dave

  Here’s to the adventures of our youth

  Come and hear,

  all you who fear God,

  and I will tell what he has done for my soul.

  —Psalm 66:16

  496 P.C. (Post Commonwealth)

  Monday, Third of Quince

  Troy could finally relax.

  His Maledore Vireo biplane dipped just under the clouds. It was still dark this early in the morning. The sky was a deep blue, and his only illumination was that given by the moon. It was plenty, though, to shed light on his gauges and instruments. The flash steam engine of his biplane was loud enough to reassure him it was properly working. He wore a flight cap padded with bear fur that muffled all sounds that would otherwise reach his ears.

  Troy adjusted his flight goggles. There were no obstacles in his immediate path, so he hazarded a glance behind.

  Nothing but grey mountains covered in emerald fir trees. The rising sun had yet to clear the east edge of the Sawteeth. But he couldn’t see anyone behind him.

  He blew out a breath. The early morning air was bitter cold. It whipped past his cheeks in white wisps. So he’d lost them. Good.

  Troy had a small map strapped to a board just below his instrument panel. It gave him a fine representation in browns and greens of the Sawteeth, the jagged mountain ranges running north to south for hundreds of miles along Wright Valley. So…it looked like he was twenty miles south of the city-state of Perch. There was a bit of a crosswind. Not too bad. Troy checked his speedometer. Hmm. Ninety eight. Top speed for this ungainly aeroplane. Twelve minutes until he reached the airport.

  His ears registered a new sound. It seemed like nothing more than a difference in pitch in his own engine. But Troy knew better. He craned his neck far around to his left.

  He hadn’t lost them, after all. The two TAB IV interceptors dove down on him from five miles behind. The biplanes were stubby aerocraft painted such a dark green they were almost black against the night sky. Thank goodness for the moonlight. They had bullet-shaped noses and curved bellies painted a pale blue.

  Troy cursed and gave his plane as much speed as she could handle. He sent it into a corkscrew toward the east rim of the valley.

  The pursuers were closing.

  They weren’t close enough to open fire. Yet. He gave her as much speed as he dared. Already the engine shook and grumbled. He loosened his death grip on the yoke long enough to give the cockpit panel a reassuring pat with his right hand.

  Rusted spikes! Those interceptors were fast. They were now less than two miles out, and coming up fast right behind him. Troy scowled. Soon they’d be just within the maximum range to shoot at him. He spun the biplane quickly left, toward sharp rock outcroppings covered with pines. He angled her nose into a steep dive. He yanked back on the yoke in time enough to pull out of the dive. His plane cast a shadow on the fir tips that reached up at the fuselage.

  He snapped around. They were still there. The intercepting biplanes matched him move for move, their stubby wings rocking from side to side with precision.

  The pursuers closed rapidly. Still they didn’t fire. Troy marveled at his luck. He climbed to a higher altitude and laid on more speed. The sight of Perch in the distance further buoyed his heart.

  The city-state sat on the edge of Trafton’s Cliff, long tendrils of smoke reaching from the chimneys of its homes and businesses now visible under a brightening sky. Buildings of brick, stone and wood, many of them with peaked roofs, reflected the first hints of warm sun from the east. Colors became more vibrant in the morning light—reds and browns of the buildings, greens of the parks and trees, sharp blues of the steaming hot springs. That far away the city was a tiny reminder of a tabletop diorama Troy had back home, one with mechanical miniature trains.

  The city was close. He was going to make it.

  That’s when his engine made its first choking gasp. Troy had never heard the biplane register that complaint before. It sounded like something might be interrupting the fuel flow to the engine. But that was impossible. He’d checked everything over himself not three days ago.

  There it came again. Troy tried giving it more gas, but it was not working. The engine struggled to maintain its speed, which Troy was startled to see had dropped below 80 miles per hour.

  The two TABs were right on him. They’d surely use their Keach guns now—he could practically see the pilots.

  Then the engine died. No warning, no red needles on the gauges. It just…stopped.

  The Vireo was gliding.

  Troy smacked his console with a passion. He should not have underestimated his pursuers. No need for bullets this way—gunfire would alert everyone in earshot that trouble was coming. Perch might scramble its own defensive squadrons. And Troy knew nobody wanted to tangle with them.

  He crossed physical sabotage off the list as he grappled with the yoke. He’d slept at his plane the night before, and it had been locked up for days. No hand had touched it. No person’s hand, that was.

  His compass spun wildly. Switches toggles on and off without him touching them. Needles on the gauges flipped back and forth. A glow suffused the entire panel and the engine housing ahead of him.

  That meant cythramancers. In the aeroplanes behind him.

  The thought chilled him more than the morning wind, more than the sight of the Cobalt River below. It wound like a silvery ribbon through green hills and barren rock fields. And it was getting closer. His mind still rebelled at the notion that the evil ones from the folktales his grandmother told him were not mere figments of her imagination.

  They were real. And they were after him.

  Troy fought the air currents. He could see he’d never make Perch’s aerodrome. The slanted cross of the stone block runway surrounded by dozens of hangar barns looked like a tiny pair of ribbons laying at the cliff’s edge in the distance. It was too far, and he was losing altitude too fast.

  There were narrow plains to either side of the river, just south of Perch. Either would work as a landing site. Maybe. Troy spotted two herds of mastodons on the ranch lands. The shaggy beasts wouldn’t take kindly to his landing on their tusks.

  He gritted his teeth. Pain shot up his arms. He was sure he’d have blisters on his palms from the way he was strangling the yoke. The Vireo staggered against a cross breeze. That wouldn’t help.

  Suddenly a shadow smothered him. The engines of the pursuers’ aeroplanes droned overhead—the landing wheels were no more th
an 30 feet above him, and slightly ahead. Killing his engine wasn’t enough? They were going to force him down too? Why not just let gravity do the job?

  Troy snorted, despite his fear. Probably they didn’t want people in Perch to see this. They were getting close enough now he could see the few streetlights scattered at major intersections flicking off, one by one, as dawn approached.

  No, they wouldn’t dare…

  He felt it on his head first. A strange pressure. It spread like air blowing down on him, a current moving independently of the cold wind knifing past him. But this wasn’t air. He didn’t want to look up again. Sweat poured down his brow. Fear seized his heart. No, it was more like terror.

  He had to look up.

  One of the TAB interceptors was right above him. A shimmering sphere with translucent colorings grew from within the aeroplane’s cockpit. The biplane’s fabric fuselage made no difference—the sphere cut right through it somehow without leaving a mark. Troy thought of soap bubbles in the sink. This, though, had a palpable energy to it. That must have been what he felt.

  He had to get clear, even if his engine was dead. Troy braked his biplane. The pursuers adjusted their speed and stayed right above him.

  The sphere trembled. It burst outward and lashed down at Troy. The wave of shimmering light struck his upper wing first. The impact threw the biplane savagely down and rolled it. The next thing Troy knew, he was in a spin. So much for his careful descent.

  His head cracked against the side of the cockpit. Spots of painful light shot through his vision. He struggled against the pain in his head, the swimming vision, and the agony in his arms. Nothing he did would make his biplane right itself.

  Troy had never been an Exalter, but nevertheless he prayed to the Allfather for mercy and clemency. Wherever his soul would wind up—fiery Avernus or the golden light of the Unfading—his time in these lands was over.

  His only worry was that he could not protect Jesca. He saw her face seemingly within his grasp. Troy wanted to reach for her.

  The biplane slammed into the ground, and it all went black.

  Monday

  Winchell Sark tipped his wire-frame glasses farther down his nose. That left room for him to rub earnestly at the center of his brow with the first two fingers of his right hand. He didn’t know why, but it always helped him concentrate when he was stressed or tired.

  This morning, he was definitely tired.

  The sun was finally warming the chill mountain air. Winch blew out a breath that steamed like a whistling kettle. He pulled the collar of his waistcoat snug to his neck and wished he’d remembered his hat to cover up his hair. He wanted to get behind his desk and put his fingers to his typewriter. There were stories to be written for this week’s issue, and the work would not be done by his standing about in the middle of South Street.

  Tall buildings of brick and stone lined either side of cobblestone. Sidewalks of wood planks provided a path for pedestrians. Here and there, merchants rolled out awnings of red, white, or green fabric in preparation for another day of business.

  He glanced down at the square of post in his hand. The message boy had brought it while Winch had still been working through—but not eating—his breakfast. His editor wanted him at the office, pronto. Winch rolled his eyes. It was likely not major news that his editor wanted him to cover, but a story that everyone in the diners, pilots’ chow halls, ranches, and general stores would be talking about. Right then, the delectable aroma of fresh bread, rolls, and pastry drifted up the street from the bakery. Winch almost melted right there.

  Animal footfalls clumped farther up the street. Winch stepped to the curb as a surly diprotodon led its wagon down the street. The beast had shaggy tan fur and was as big as a bear, though it had a bulbous snout and lacked the meat-tearing teeth. It snuffled as its head swayed from side to side. Eight barrels thunked and scraped against each other in the back of the wagon it pulled. The man at the reins shook the leather straps periodically. He tipped his wide-brimmed brown hat at Winch. “Mornin’.”

  “Mornin’.” Winch gave a polite wave as the wagon rattled past. He saw himself reflected in the storefront windows on the other side of the street—yep, still tall, skinny, with brown coat and grey pants, white shirt and black vest, black hair trimmed short and slicked to one side. His beard, dark and close cut, showed a few hints of grey.

  A horn honked. It sounded like someone had squeezed a reed-fowl by the belly. A pair of motorwagons raced noisily. They were spindly vehicles with four wheels and carriages open to the road on the sides. A tank for gasoline used to heat the flash steam boilers hung under the carriage. Steam sprayed from their tailpipes. The three people in them hollered at each other—a young married couple, judging by the dress of the pair, followed by a middle-aged man wearing the clothes of a blacksmith. What they said, Winch couldn’t make out. They weren’t happy with each other, that much was certain.

  They nearly rammed the back of the diprotodon wagon. “Mind your wheels!” the driver hollered. His beast bellowed even louder.

  “They had best slow those contraptions down, or the sheriff will have them confiscated,” Winch said aloud.

  He continued to the nearby building. Six elaborate signs hanging from the front of the weathered, two story red-brick structure vied for attention. Only one interested Winch—the black wood painted with curving gold letters that read, “Perch Advocate.” The office was sandwiched between Estabrook’s Photographic Studio and The Sun Book Emporium.

  Half the structures on South Street had peaked roofs, better for keeping winter snows from piling up. Winch had suggested just such a thing for the Advocate but to no avail so far.

  Another set of carriages— both motorwagons, Winch noticed—came the opposite way. These were going considerably slower. He shook his head. How Perch would deal with the increased traffic of the noisy, smelly machines run by those flash steam engines was beyond him. They smelled even worse than the diprotodons, but they left less of a mess.

  A grin creased his face as he walked up the sidewalk. Perch continued to come alive with the brightening morning—storekeepers swept the walks, women watered plants in the window gardens, a mother and two girls opened their vegetable stand a block ahead. The sight made him think of the family he’d just left back at his house, as they prepared for school and work.

  Winch recalled that he’d forgotten to read the Caudex with his wife this morning. He grimaced. Why was it so easy to set it aside? He prayed, and he wondered in his heart whether Thel would send him an answer to his question.

  “Winchell!”

  He hadn’t expected a booming reply from the heavens. His mind froze for a second as he marveled at the efficacy of prayer to the Allfather—until he realized he recognized the accent of the voice from on high.

  Winch looked up. Sure enough, his editor, Gilbert Davies, stood on the roof of the Advocate offices. He had a wild fiery red beard and moustache. He carried a long-stemmed pipe, which he stuck in his mouth when he spoke. His chest was burly, but it looked even thicker when he stood with his arms folded over it, as now. His vest—the grey one today—was unfastened as usual.

  “Good morning, Gil.” Winch pulled his notepad from his pocket and waggled it. “I have another good one about Mr. Borman for you.”

  “One can always count on that numb hake to liven things up,” Gil said. “But right now I couldn’t care less what’s been going on at that doggery he calls a hotel. There’s bigger news to be had.”

  “Be right up. Far be it for me to interrupt your Monday morning routine.”

  “What, of shouting at you?”

  “No, of standing sentry on the roof.”

  “And you’re late.”

  Winch dug his pocket watch from his vest under his jacket. The watch was silver and plain, with no markings except several scratches on its cover. “No, it’s six fifty-five, and this thing has never been wrong, even way back when Grandfather owned it.”

  “Just get your
carcass up here!”

  Winch chuckled. He pushed open the door to the Advocate and was assaulted by the racket from the tele-typers. A young woman waved cheerily at him from behind the curving, L-shaped chestnut counter. Both tele-typers sat on the far end of the L, away from the door and down the hall leading back into the Advocate’s newsroom. Winch ignored the tele-typers as the keys pounded out telegrams of their own accord. The constant noise was irksome after a quiet weekend at home. He noticed the T-box on one was wide open, revealing the churning gears. He’d probably have to oil them later

  “Good morning, Winch.” Annora Minick, the advocate’s other reporter and proofer, removed a strip of paper from a tele-typer. She wielded her scissors with consummate skill. She seemed every bit as serious and scolding as a constable, with glasses framing sharp blue eyes and brown hair secured in a bun at the nape of her neck. “You started early this morning, didn’t you?”

  “Typical Monday.” Winch tapped his notepad on the counter as he walked by. The worn wooden boards creaked under his shoes. He loved the feel and the smell of this place. The whole building was as old as Perch—there it was, on the brass plaque above the L-desk. Perch Advocate, Est. 322. It was history incarnate.

  “If you have a story to type, it will take me a while before I can get back to the line-puncher.”

  “Not right now. I will get it to you later, I promise.”

  “Just not too late. I’d rather herd mastodons than face the printers’ wrath.” Annora pulled at a long strip of vellum lying on the counter beside the tele-type papers. The random pattern of holes reminded Winch of the piece of cheese Gil had left out for the mice that patronized the basement. “This one is already a tad late.”

  Winch grinned. “No worries.”

  He passed through the newsroom without stopping. The smell of ink and paper permeated everything. There were just three large wooden desks here. His was the most untidy—papers leaned precariously off one corner like snow on Shepherd’s Peak. Winch slowed only enough to snag the olive green shoulder bag off his desk.

  Winch took the stairs at the back two at a time. His hand slid up the clammy, cast-iron rail as he passed the second floor landing—nothing but storage rooms and the archives up here—and continued up to the rooftop cupola.