Dark clouds filled the sky as Erin stalked across the wind-swept field. Golden grass, trampled and scuffed from hours of practice, whispered in the breeze. The young gryphon rider, sabre in hand, was rigid with focus.
The blade caught the light as she shifted her grip, its polished steel flashing with the orange glow of the braziers set up nearby, where Old Man Uric lounged, drinking from a leather flask. Before her, a man loomed like an unmoving statue, his own sword resting easily in his gloved hand. He was older, scarred, a soldier who had seen too man battles and buried too many friends.
His stance was relaxed, but his sharp eyes watched her every move.
“Again,” he commanded.
The rider took a breath, squared her shoulders, and lunged. The sabre cut the air with a whisper, swift but not yet sure. The soldier deflected with effortless ease, his blade ringing against hers. The impact jolted up her arm, but she held firm.
“Better,” he allowed, stepping back. “But you’re still leading with your arm, not your body. You’re not swinging a scythe, girl-you’re wielding death. Again.”
Erin swallowed and adjusted her footing, then raised the sabre once more.
Sweat dripped into her eyes as the clang of metal on metal rang out once more and then, the sting, as the flat of his blade struck her hand. Her fingers opened reflexively, and the sabre dropped from numb fingers to land on the trampled grass.
Old Man Uric laughed, and Erin’s cheeks heated.
“Not fair!” she cried, shaking her hand in an attempt to cajole some feeling back into it. “The sword’s heavy and not balanced.”
The soldier lowered his blade and stooped to gather up the fallen sabre. He hefted it casually in his hand and grinned.
“Weighted at the tip,” he agreed. “It’s made for slashing down at your opponent from the back of your mount. Not duelling.”
“Then why practice with it!” she snapped.
“Because there will be times when you are afoot,” Lady Sarah called out from behind her, and Erin spun, cheeks flaming guiltily.
“Sorry, milady.”
“Don’t be sorry, just try harder.” She cocked a brow at Old Man Uric who chortled.
He raised the flask to her in salute before drinking from it. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she maintained her composure. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she enjoyed the lack of formality from the old sailor.
“Enough,” she said, lifting her chin towards the soldier. “Mayhap, try the pistol.”
“Yes, milady.”
The soldier carried the blades back to the fallen log that Old Man Uric was using as a seat and sheathed them before propping them carefully against the log. He reached for his pack and brought out a long-barrelled flintlock pistol and held it in his hand.
He brought it across to Erin, the polished wood and steel worn smooth from years of use, and she wiped the sweat from her brow before taking it, her fingers curling around the grip, lighter than a sabre but heavier than she expected.
“Not so tight,” the soldier murmured, adjusting her grip. “Hold it firm, but let it rest in your hand. A blade you wield. A pistol, you guide.”
She nodded, shifting her stance as he placed a small powder horn in her palm. She pulled the plug with her teeth and poured the fine black powder into the muzzle, careful not to spill. Next came the lead ball, rolling snug into place before she rammed it down with the iron rod, pressing it firm into the charge. She moved quickly, her movements stiff but precise, under his watchful eye.
“I hunted with my da,” she said as he glanced up at her, face showing surprise at her quick loading. “Muskets, mainly.”
“Good. I’ll expect you will hit the target then,” he said and lifted his chin toward the firing mechanism. “Prime the pan.”
Erin flipped the frizzen open and poured a pinch of powder into the pan before snapping it shut. The flintlock was ready. She swallowed, the weight of the weapon suddenly heavier in her hands.
“Now aim. Take your time-it’s no use firing if you don’t know where it’s going.”
She turned towards the small wooden rounds balanced atop the wooden stumps, placed there earlier by the soldier. She raised the pistol, her arm steady despite the hammering of her heart. The wooden target, scarred from past lessons, filled her sights. She sucked in a breath and squeezed the trigger.
A sharp crack split the air. Smoke billowed from the barrel, curling in the wind as the ball struck the stump with a solid thunk.
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Erin lowered the pistol, coughing at the acrid scent of powder. The soldier looked at her, brow furrowed, as Old Man Uric laughed uproariously.
“Never said I caught anything,” she muttered, cheeks blazing.
“Reload,” Lady Sarah called out. “Try again.”
Erin’s stomach rumbled, but she ignored it and reloaded the pistol. Taking her time as she muttered through gritted teeth. It had been a frustrating morning. Flying was not so much fun when it was raining, and she was cold, wet and miserable.
There had been nothing to see with the farms, and she had longed to swing north and head out over the forests, but the closest she had come had been skimming close to the edge to check on the woodsmen as they began their work felling more trees for the palisade.
Two hours with the sword had done little to help assuage that frustration, and her arms and back ached from the swordplay, while her thighs and buttocks from sitting crouched in the saddle. All she wanted was a hot bath and something hearty to eat.
Instead, she was standing in a field and embarrassing herself with the pistol too.
She closed her eyes as the shot went wide, the ball fired over the Edge and out into the void. Old Man Uric laughed, and her hand tightened on the pistol hilt as she spun on him angrily. “Can you not!”
“Ah, lass,” he said, sipping from the flask. “I’m not laughing at you.”
“Then what are you laughing at?”
“Why, the very notion that when you need to shoot, it will be on the back of that fearsome beast of yours. A much harder task when you and the target are moving in opposite directions.”
The soldier chuckled and even Lady Sarah couldn’t stop the smile at the old sailor’s humour. The noblewoman caught her eye and inclined her head, the slightest movement to indicate her agreement with his words.
Erin’s shoulders slumped and she turned back to glare at the target. It was small, little wider than a man’s hand. Her hand ached where she gripped the pistol and she forced her muscles to loosen as she grit her teeth.
She reloaded.
Taking a deep breath, she raised the pistol and sighted along its length.
“Squeeze the trigger when you exhale a breath.”
Erin jumped at the voice, seeming to whisper in her ear. She glanced around but no one made notice of the voice, and she did not recognise it. Thinking it a figment of her imagination, some ancient memory from her youth given life with her frustration, she shook her head, then sighted along the barrel once again.
“Breathe,” the voice said.
She exhaled slowly, narrowing her eyes on the target before pulling the trigger.
A crack filled the air, smoke billowed from the barrel and the small wooden target was catapulted away from the stump it had been sitting upon.
Old Man Uric whooped! The soldier smiled approvingly as he watched the target fall, and Lady Sarah smiled widely. She clapped her hands, inclining her head towards her apprentice.
Erin laughed, a wide grin splitting her face as she lowered the pistol. She turned and made a mock curtsy towards Old Man Uric who simply laughed all the harder, cheeks reddened, and eyes glazed from the liquor in his flask.
She turned to Lady Sarah, but whatever she had meant to say vanished as her gaze caught a tall figure standing on the palisade walkway. Grey robes hung loose about him and the hood was raised to cover his head against the rain, obscuring his face.
Even so, she recognised him as the wizard from the ship.
“Well done.”
The words were whispered on the air and there was a half bow of the wizard’s head before he turned and walked away, going about whatever business he was on.
He’d helped her! A wizard, meddling in her training. Why? A favour or a test? Erin bit her lip, unsettled. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful of wary. She’d had little interaction with the wizard’s back in the city. They were figures of mystery and awe, and far above her station.
Why then would one deign to help her?
She watched him go thoughtfully for a long moment, before Lady Sarah clapped her hands, bringing her attention back to the group she was with.
“Come now,” Sarah said. “There are three more targets, and I expect you to knock each down with your next three shots.”
“Aye, lass. You can do this,” Old Man Uric called. He upended his flask, brow furrowing when he realised it was empty, and he let his arm drop with a sullen glare at the offending flask.
“You did well,” the soldier agreed. “T’was a good shot. Now do it again.”
Erin put the thought of the wizard aside and flashed the soldier a grin. “Yes, sir.”
****
Mathias strolled along the walkway a smile resting on his lips. He half-turned his head at the sound of another shot, smile widening at the cheers of the drunken sailor that indicated she had hit her target.
He looked down at the wand he held and sheathed it, releasing his hand from the smooth wood, and grunted as the light along its side, died. A foolish waste of mana when he had far greater uses for it, but still, he did not berate himself for the use.
There had been something about her. Perhaps the way she stood, so dejected as the others laughed at her failures. A growing frustration and anger he recognised so much of in himself.
He had watched, and he had seen why she failed to hit the target, the pistol jerking as she pulled the trigger. The soldier should have noticed and corrected her, but he hadn’t. Was it a simple oversight, or had he enjoyed watching her struggle?
Whatever the reason, it had irked Mathias, and he had been moved to help her.
His mind wandered back to the city, and the poorest quarter. He had seen it before-the strong preying on the weak. He knew too well the sting of mockery, the way failure fed cruelty. And he detested it. It was why he had acted.
He despised those who took humour in the misfortunes of others. Those that laughed at those weaker or less skilled than themselves. Too often he had been the one laughed at, and he would not stand by when it happened to another.
So, he had helped the girl, using mana and taking time away from his most urgent task. Neither of which he had much to spare.
The girl was forgotten as his mind returned to a far greater problem-one that no amount of training nor determination could fix. If his calculations were right, then the young Lord Browett wasn’t just ambitious-he was desperate.
Racing against time itself. But how much time? Days? Weeks?
Months at least, for that was how long he had been given to complete his great task.
Who else knew? There was no way to know, but from the lack of panic and fear in the faces of those settlers he passed as he walked, he was certain that those in the know would be few.
Perhaps just the lord and his closest advisors.
His gaze went to the ship, damaged and grounded for the moment. Its hull groaned against the wind, the makeshift buttresses trembling. How long until they failed? How long to repair that ship?
That ship may well be the last hope of escape if he failed his task.
As the island sank.
He could not determine how, or why, but he was sure of it.
The island was falling towards the Black below, and should it be engulfed, then even the Lost would not find their souls.
