《Voyage Flounder》


 One

    Dawn light streamed across the waterproof canvas of the Flounder''s top tent. The wrongly named airship swayed bloatedly in the sky, its cloud sacks and ballast at equilibrium with the warming air of the morning. Grath groaned stiffly and pulled himself upright from his hammock, nearly toppling but expertly rebalancing himself at the last moment to land on his feet in a lazy crouch. He yawned and stalked out of the canvas tent into the ship''s topside. His ever-present tether dragged reassuringly behind him. The Flounder resembled a narrow teardrop from the top, its dragging tail keeping its blunt face angled into the wind. In profile, the ship''s main body resembled a sort of anvil shape, rounded at the top with an eel-like tail and hanging weights at the base of the anvil. Essentially, it was a lighter-than-air, fluff-filled sack with a tail and heavy stone weights to keep it upright in strong winds. The top of the ship only had a little flat space to allow Grath to maneuver from the helm to his tent. His tent was perched at the ship''s prow above the Flounder''s face. It was built into the frame of the ship from light pine wood and covered in waterproof canvas. The whole ship''s frame and skin were constructed from light pine and cotton cloth. Grath surveyed the morning sky; he was drifting east, far from the eastern edge of Prattian territory. "A little further and I''ll be out of patrolled skies," he noted.  His mood was excited, but he controlled it. The lawless skies of the East were home to pirates and sky beasts. Piracy was common enough in areas where the kings'' patrols were prevalent, but out here, no one would come to help if your ship''s burning smoke trailed through the air. Sky beasts were also far more prevalent than in patrolled territories. Grath shook off the concern and set to work. The Flounder needed constant maintenance. He checked the four lift balloons strung in size order, largest to smallest, along the craft''s meridian line. All wood release latches were accounted for. Next, he checked the main balloon envelope for any signs of damage. There were no tears, only some bird excrement... the flimsy cotton straps securing the envelope were holding, for now. No cloud wool had leaked in any noticeable capacity. A perusal of the folded canvas pectoral wings showed the ship''s glide functions to be in good condition. He would double-check them from underneath later. Grath reached for the familiar fiber straps acting as a ladder at the ship''s face. Climbing carefully down the Flounder''s nose and keeping a watchful eye on his tether line to ensure it didn''t tangle, he passed the mid-deck cabin, reaching the weighted keel jutting below the Flounder''s belly. The light pine shaft that formed the front breastbone of the ship truncated at a heavy set of galena-filled sacks. The rock weights and their corresponding release lines were all intact. Finally, he returned to the mid-section cabin and inspected the weight release system. Everything looked good.


    If he was lucky, this would be another lazy day. Grath watched the rolling foggy landscape below. Except for the occasional bird or gargantuan tree that breached the cursed fog, there was nothing notable. A few of the massive trees showed signs of docking, old anchor scars ugly against the otherwise soft bark. All the cloud cedars had their fluff sacks plucked clean for this season. Heading out in late fall was risky; it was hard to resupply on cloud wool when other ships had already pilfered any to spare. He looked up to scan the skies above. Grath had goals in mind that made the risk worthwhile. Elixir number... his mind passed mid-thought. Way up in the sky above, he spotted a star-shaped flower. It was large, perhaps the size of his tent. Its petals looked to be purple; he couldn''t tell from this distance. But the unmistakable puffy look of the flower''s petals and the bulb below them¡ªalong with the many connecting tendrils¡ªtold Grath it was a species of klienah flower. Not the elixir number he was looking for, but still a decent find. Klienah flower nectar is a potent stimulant. In the battle of Proud Plateau, the militia of the Vaultstop Republic fought for four days and nights without rest. Some died of exhaustion mid-flight, their bodies starved of food and water, but they had won the day thanks to that nectar: Elixir 5, later called Proud Potion by some. Grath didn''t care to use the stuff, but selling it wouldn''t bother him either. He quickly checked the Flounder''s supplies and found a watertight skin and a few very thin glass jars. Every excess pound was precious on the Flounder. Thicker glass jars were too heavy. "Alright, I got the gear," Grath mused. He looked at the flower again, "Time to make some money." His hands shook with excitement as he strode to the Flounder''s back. Step one: release the lowest weight level. He pulled hard on the appropriate release lever at the ship''s spine. The corresponding series of wooden pulleys whirled into motion, and the clasp holding the smallest galena weight sack let go, unceremoniously tumbling the heavy stone bag into the foggy landscape below. The Flounder slowly began to gain altitude, its balloon of cloud wool bearing it higher into the air. Grath quickly released the Flounder''s pectoral wings; the rough gray weathered canvas flapped lightly. There are two ways for the Flounder to glide rather than float, and both require a force and a counterforce. The first force is the nearly ever-present wind at this altitude. Generally, the Flounder floats on this wind, following its tail. But when weight is released, the Flounder stops being neutrally buoyant and begins to travel up. At this point, reverse gliding can be achieved by catching the wind force and deflecting it with the buoyant up force of the rising airship. Grath angled the pectoral fins using the series of guiding ropes built into them. The pine skeleton of each wing was pulled rigid against the slight draft of air the craft rose into. Slowly, the Flounder straightened out from a lazily wobbling float to only slightly less lazy glide upwards. Reverse gliding is quite slow unless you drop a whole lot more weight than Grath could afford to. He reached a good height above the floating flower and then nervously reached for the main balloon''s drag-line release lever. It took a significant tug to activate the lever, one of the few safety mechanisms the Flounder possessed. CLACK WHIRRR. The main balloon leaped free of the Flounder''s back, a thin line, barely noticeable by comparison to the balloon''s bulk, unreeled after the main balloon. Trusteen caterpillar silk, one of the toughest threads available. The particular breed Grath had afforded was less reliable, but it was cheap and had held up so far. The Flounder dropped, the main balloon unreeling a little faster than the Flounder fell away from it. Now Grath''s reverse glide switched rapidly to a regular glide. He switched the pectoral wings'' position to catch the wind properly and floated like a fat leaf across the sky. Grath''s drag line measured about one royal strand, the same measure standardized to most Prattian Empire ships. Only a few merchants used other units, like glide segment. Expertly, Grath wheeled the ship''s tail rudder and wings, riding the wind and circling wide towards the klienah flower.


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 Two

    The noise of beating wings was subtle, but it boomed on Grath''s ears like thunder. He whirled around, dagger raised, nectar jar sloshing in his left hand. A massive black-clad vulture landed gracelessly on the Flounder''s mid-deck cabin wall. "HEYYYY!!! NOOO!!!" Grath shrieked at the giant bird. His blood ran cold as he set the jar down and picked up his tether rope in his left hand. Grath''s right hand gripped the dagger, his knuckles white on the wood and leather-strapped handle. Common LeatherHead Vulture. Average height standing fully stretched: 9 imperial digits. Roughly a digit taller than Grath. Wingspan: 26 imperial digits. The vulture turned its wrinkled red head towards Grath''s shout. It eyed him coldly, then turned back to the cabin. It extended its neck through one of the cabin''s many windows. Grath sprinted across the flower. It was here for his dried meat. Fogborn monster, Grath cursed in his mind. I should have paid better attention to the sky. If it eats my dried meat and bread... He reached the edge of the flower and leapt to the ship. Descending the net of straps around the main balloon, Grath shouted obscenities at the bird. With a squawk, the vulture pulled its head free of the cabin''s cloth and pine walls. Its shoe-sized beak latched onto a bag of dried meats. It flipped backward from the ship, its talons releasing awkwardly and tearing long slashes in the ship''s cloth. The vulture tumbled momentarily, then righted itself with a series of wild flapping motions and soared up wide of the ship. Grath watched it. He knew better than to expect it to leave. Leatherheads are like a lot of giant carrion birds in that they will kill you before they give up on a good haul. Another vulture or eagle could scare it off, but a single human... No matter how dangerous Grath thought himself to be, the vulture would risk tussling with a lone traveler. Grath scrambled for the top deck, nearly tangling his tether line in the process. The klienah flower would help keep the Flounder stable, so at least he didn''t have to worry about that. He needed better armaments. He reached his sleeping tent and drew his paddle sword and crossbow.


    Splinters and Sulfur, it had fought humans before, Grath realized as the bird wheeled towards him. The crossbow wasn''t loaded yet, and the bird knew it?! Grath dropped the crossbow and drew his dagger in his left hand. In his right, he raised his wood paddle blade. The black walnut blade was less than 2 digits wide and roughly 3 long. Its leaf-like shape was designed as a club of sorts. Unlike the obsidian-edged blades of pirates and soldiers, the paddle sword was made to not accidentally damage your own ship in a fight. It was short enough for close combat. In other words, a terrible weapon to fight a vulture. A spear or long cutting blade would have sufficed better. The vulture did not dive like an eagle. It landed a few steps shy of Grath and ran like an angry hen, its wings beating furiously. It hissed and snapped at him, its long neck snake-like. Grath swung at its head with his sword and stabbed repeatedly at its wings with his dagger.

 Three

    Grath bemoaned his lost food and injuries as he floated blearily across the sky. Damage to the mid-cabin had been minor, thankfully. His sewing skills were mediocre at best, but the patched-together cloth would hold. His gashed leg had not developed gangrene thanks to his meager supply of disinfectant alcohol. The thought of having to apply it again tonight was not pleasant. His shoulder ached but seemed to be mending fine. He couldn''t afford healing elixir among the long list of things he couldn''t afford after buying the Flounder. So, old-school healing was it for now. But... Grath had captured one bottle of wild klienah flower nectar. Outside of Proud Plateau, this stuff didn''t come easy. It would sell for a good price. In case of pirates, he had unseamed a section of the main balloon briefly and buried the nectar deep within the cloud wool of the Flounder. Pirates weren''t always bloodthirsty; if he was outnumbered, he might let them raid his gear over a fight. He had been waiting and watching the sky nervously for any signs of Harsh Forefather, the arbitrarily named largest pine of the Prattian nation. Because it was on the borderline that marked Prattia''s eastern border to no man''s land, Prattian royalty claimed it, but territorial patrols didn''t come out this far, so it was a weak claim. It was often a landing point for pirate trades and "discussions." But it also stood out as an excellent landmark as opposed to the fog-covered, thick forest below. Grath''s calculations based on the stars weren''t very accurate; it would be nice to get a better indicator. He hoped he hadn''t passed it in his sleep.


    Midday brought more boredom. Grath practiced sword skills. He knew only a few forms. Could Shrike style was something his dad taught. It was an old sword system that predated the Prattian empire itself by roughly 200 years. The form was high aggression with many flurries and whirls of the blade. It resembled a dance characteristic of older weapon schools. Grath wondered, with the advancement in elixir alchemy, if sword styles would become even more obsolete. Crossbows were dangerous enough these days. Loading a number of small ones and holstering them across your body was an effective strategy. Glass splitter bolts were capable of piercing most modern armors. Grath shrugged, For now, expense and reloading delays kept his archaic sword style in value. That, and... gargantuan birds wouldn''t be brought down by a splitter bolt. He shuddered thinking about the leatherhead he had fought already. A piercing bolt or splitter could have brought that bird down, but it had caught him off guard. He desperately wanted to leave his crossbow cocked at all times, but the flexible wood bow would slowly lose its springing power.


    As Grath''s mind wandered, he spotted Harsh Forefather. The massive pine broke through a patch of lazy white clouds, its branches stretching like lightning out across the sky. Cloud wool sacks would usually hold the branches and their trillions of needles aloft, but the sacks were plundered every year en masse. The tree, in truth, was dying. Its branches sagged and cracked. Fist-sized termites ate away at much of the ancient tree, and bark hung like ribbons from it. A zombie of its former glory. Before the Prattian empire, this tree was suffering. Someday it would dry out enough, and a single spark would consume it in a fire so fierce that the cursed fog would thin for strands around it and the ground beneath the trunk would blacken and warp from the heat. Grath saw sparks now!? Tiny candle-like lights flashing in the distance. Pirates! A vessel with no raised flag glided nimbly through the branches of the great tree. Like a swallow on the wind, the black-flagged pirate ship chased it. Twin ballistas fired one after the other from the pirate ship''s prow. Smoking lit bolts the size of spears sped after the fleeing vessel. Grath gripped his sword, a harsh look blotting his already grim features. Pirates, scum of the earth, the pillaging weasels ever stealing the hard-bought gains of the common folk. They didn''t have the guts to take on a military vessel. Grath''s stomach clenched, but he knew his next move. He released the dragline on his main lift balloon. As the balloon reeled out, he urged the Flounder into a dive. Harsh Forefather had an updraft of wind perpetually around its base. With a little luck, he could reel in the balloon there while the wind pulled him up. Each fleeting moment ticked by like an eternity as he watched the fleeing ship. It was a farming ship, likely. Probably an insect harvester, judging by the wicker cages at its side. A haul of ground elytra powder was worth a good sum. Harvesting the dye was difficult, dangerous work done near the cursed fog. He watched in rage as a single flaming bolt struck the hull balloon of the farming vessel. A figure on board scurried to put out the flame. It looked like two people were on the farm vessel as far as he could see. The pirate ship had three at least¡ªtwo manning the ballistas and one on the ship controls. The pirate ship''s fins were large; it relied on them for superior gliding. Its balloon lift was inferior, but getting elevation was too risky for the farm ship. Floating up was slow, and steering would suffer if it tried that. At this range and with the tangling branches around it, their only chance was to run until...  NO, they couldn''t outrun a superior glider! Grath loaded his crossbow. One splitter bolt he put in it; five splitters and three piercing bolts he strapped to his back in a bandolier. He set his sword at his left hip, dagger at his right, and crossbow at his feet. He steered hard against the gusts of wind, plunging his ship ever toward the tree''s base. His dragline finally caught, and he bobbed openly in the wind. Quickly, he reeled it back in. Once he was nearly done, the first of the updraft current struck. The ship bobbed like a cork on a wave. Grath reeled in even faster, his arms burning from exertion. Once the balloon was locked in place, he released the smallest lift balloon. It drifted up lazily, and the Flounder drifted down. Grath turned the ship''s tail and adjusted the wings, turning it around and directing the Flounder''s face into the updraft. With a groaning and creaking of wood, the Flounder began to rise on the wind, borne aloft like a fat pigeon.


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    Wfshhhhhh!!!!


    A ballista bolt whizzed past him, cutting a hole in one of the pectoral fins. They had spotted him!

 Four

    Grath stared up at the pirate ship as it glided in a lazy, wide spiral above him. He had lost sight of them among the branches, but now they had peeled back from the tree and their pursuit of the farming vessel to fight him. Military camo designed to match the sky or to match the cursed fog below was illegal in most countries. Neither the Flounder nor the pirate ship sported it. Grath, because to his detriment he followed the law, and the pirates probably were not using camouflage in order to slink through royal ports without attracting attention. Oh well then. Grath whirled the ship, spiraling on the updraft; he pulled the release lever on his next galena sack. It fell, smashing against the great tree''s trunk below. The wind bore him up. Now that he was neutrally buoyant, he would have no means of gliding and be at the mercy of ballista rounds... Under normal circumstances... That last bolt was a shredding bolt. He could tell by the tear it left in his wing. They weren''t going to burn him out like the farming vessel. They planned to loot his ship... why had they been burning the farm ship, though? Grath pushed all thoughts aside and flung his anchor line at a massive branch, and... it struck! The cord pulled tight, dragging the ship hard towards and over the branch. The Flounder creaked and groaned, its pine skeleton begging him to stop. But he held his cord cutter back. The small, serrated glass hook trembled in his hands; two more bolts whizzed past him. They had corrected for his change in direction, but not enough. They missed by over 40 digits. Grath finally cut the line. Flounder bobbed upright, rocking wildly. Grath pulled release lever 3. Another galena sack fell away.  Now he was lighter than air. The next anchor toss would pull even harder, but Flounder could take it. He had 2 anchors left. He was in the main branches now, but they would thin out as they went up. If he just got above the pirate ship, his superior lift would carry him up faster than their glide. Harsh Forefather''s updraft would give out soon, and then it was balloon lift alone.  He had no intention of running. Grath was only baiting out their next move. His heart pounded like thunder in the center of his storm of taut sinews and muscle. The pirates took the bait. Realizing he would pass the branches and drift above them into the open air, they had a few choices to make. They could: burn his balloon to bring him back down (too risky, his loot could fall into the fog), drop a huge amount of weight to gain altitude on him (a useless gamble as the Flounder had superior lift and he had way more weight to spare), or... harpoon him.  If they harpoon me, I can throw fire jars. Of course, I don''t have many of those, but they don''t know that so they won''t keep their distance, which brings us into close combat. They will try to kill me then loot the Flounder, Grath worried over the possibilities. The pirate ship glided down, plunging towards him through the thick branches. Ballista bolts tore his wings, clipping his ability to glide. Grath braced for the harpoon bolt. He clutched his weapons to himself, crouching low to the top balloon of Flounder; he hid behind its primary lift balloon. For a second, panic struck him.  They might try shooting the lift balloons with a cutter bolt?!  He brushed the thought aside, no chance that would risk his loot if they clipped too big a balloon.  The harpoon bolt took flight, its near-invisible thread glinting behind it as it flew. Even with the lightweight silk line, the harpoon quickly lost speed, but its arch sustained it. Its shale-barbed tip pierced deep into his mid cabin.  They were professionals; he would give them that. Piercing the balloon could have ripped it badly.  One of the pirates began to reel him in; the ships drifted towards each other. Despite its lithe shape, the pirate''s ship dwarfed his own, its wings casting a bleak shadow over Grath''s Flounder. Patches and gashes scarred its canvas and wood. He realized immediately, if they had wanted to burn his ship down instead of loot it, things would have played out differently.  The pirates still had altitude on him. Grath struggled to calm himself and get the timing right.  If he left the balloons too soon, they would shoot him.  He could see a burly man on one of the two front ballistas aiming directly at him. A scrawnier pirate with a greying beard dragged the ships together rapidly.  The old pirate''s sky-weathered and spotted skin belied the speed at which he dragged the ships through the air. Grath could not see the pilot from here.  Hopefully 3 was their total number.  He kept waiting.  His ship would be above theirs soon; they hadn''t shot him yet because the balloons protected him, but once they went level with each other, that would change.  He stepped back, keeping the balloon between him and the ballista man. Then he scrambled back even more until he was scrambling down the Flounder''s main hull balloon. Then he stopped. He was unable to see the pirate ship now.  Mental clock would have to suffice, 1.. 2.. 3.. 4... NOW!!!  He scrambled madly up the balloon and ran. The ships had passed level. The pirate ship was falling briefly beneath him. Grath charged across the Flounder''s top deck and leapt!


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    Ballistas can''t easily tilt up past a certain angle, and besides that, the ships had been drifting towards each other.  Their momentum carried the Flounder''s hull balloon to overhang the pirate ship. Grath plummeted down. Shouts rang out behind him as he crashed into the upper deck''s spongy balloon. He ignored the two men behind him and ran full tilt towards the pilot. The man''s skin was deathly pale, almost grey.  Grath hadn''t expected that and in his gut he instinctively new this oddly pale man was the captain.  Hardening himself Grath unleashed his sword in a flurry of cuts. The captain was no slouch; his glass-edged blade was ready and bit back at Grath. Glass cracked against blackwalnut wood. The glass teeth studded into the wood of the captain''s sword shattered and flew as they clashed, but there were dozens more of them. A single slash would leave Grath maimed. Grath pulled back, still facing the captain he swung his free arm back towards the crewmen behind him.  Aiming his crossbow towards the sound of running feet, Grath pulled the trigger... He never took his eyes off the captain''s blade as the splitter bolt let fly.


    Ftshhink. AGGGGHHHGHHH!!!!!!


    A scream echoed out across the sky, resounding off the branches of Harsh Forefather.

 Five

    A splitter-bolt, true to its name, fragments into multiple glass shards in flight. A brewer, who was also a scholar of glass, discovered fracture glass (later known commonly as splitter glass) about 30 years ago. Splitter glass breaks rapidly when cracked, blowing itself apart with a small pop. With care it can be etched into thin, finned bolt heads. When fired from a crossbow, an installed quartz crystal point near the crossbow''s front splits the bolt, sending a hefty salvo of glass shards at your target. The glass is commonly weighted with lead to give it the extra punch needed to cut through flesh and bone.


    Grath''s little feint had worked, but he was still surrounded on two sides. He stepped sideways and rotated on his heel, facing his two uninjured opponents: one to his right, another to his left. The third pirate, the burly man, was doubled over, blood spilling from his chest and gut. He didn''t have long. The lean, older pirate aimed his own crossbow. His eyes narrowed. He had been waiting for Grath to move. Shooting Grath before would have risked hitting his captain; now Grath was almost clear. The lean pirate lunged sideways to get a better angle. The captain leaped clear in sync with his subordinate. Grath flung his sword with all his might. The flat blade cleaved through the air, striking the crossbow. The splitter-bolt jolted free of the crossbow and tumbled through the air. The lean pirate recoiled a bit. It looked like the blade hit one of his hands. Maybe he broke a finger? Grath fumbled for his dagger at his waist. The captain lunged at him. Grath barely blocked with his dagger before falling back. He continued to block feverishly. Fragments of shale and glass whizzed out into the sky as blades collided. Grath could barely block and was forced to keep backing off. He couldn''t take the glass blade head-on. The captain saw this and pushed harder. He swung a full-force slash for Grath''s chest, forcing him to block or back-step even more. Grath chose to back-step, but the balloon was too steep. He fell, tumbling backward. He landed on his back on one of the pirate ship''s pectoral wings and struggled upright. With the semi-taut fabric bending under him, it was impossible to move quickly. He looked up. Cloudless death and foggy grave, the pirates stood above him. The lean old man leveled his reloaded crossbow. The splitter bolt aimed dead center at Grath''s chest. To add insult, he carried Grath''s sword in his spare hand.


    FWSHINKKK!!!!


    Grath pulled his knees to his nose, flung his arms around his head, and curled into a ball so abruptly his feet left the ground. Glass shards ripped through canvas with a series of eerie "skkrrchh" sounds like a giant cat ripping a tapestry... but he was NOT HIT!!!!... What? Grath looked up. The lean old-timer looked like a red-spotted leaf in fall. His clothes dripped with crimson. The canvas of the deck under him was torn in twenty or so places. One singular shard of glass still dripped with blood as it stuck loosely out of the man''s gaping chest... And up, up, on the Flounder''s deck, a young, short man stood. He held a heavy, lever-action, bone-handled crossbow in his hands and silently began to draw the large single lever on it back. The strong wood of the bow bent back as the lever forced it to arch. Grath looked up at the captain. The captain looked at him and then sprinted and dived towards his comrade''s dropped crossbow. Grath''s own sword had fallen down the ship''s side and lay only a few strides from him. Grath swan-dived for it. Cloud Shrike style, modern defense method... fan. Grath whirled the flat of the blade between him and the crossbow. The captain unleashed his bolt. Splitter glass sped through the air and embedded itself deep in Grath''s blade. At this range, the spread was barely larger than the blade''s width. A few shards slipped by... Grath had turned his body sideways, barely enough. A shard ripped his chest, cutting a line through his skin and surface muscle before streaking past him. When splitter bolts had first been invented, the idea of wearing full-body wooden armor was immediately brought up... and abandoned. Piercing bolts hit a heavy slow target more easily than a light unarmed one, and piercing bolts ignored even the hardest wooden defenses that weren''t more than half a digit thick. So shields and broad leaf blades were still employed... to varying degrees of success.


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    The captain rushed back along his ship to the safety of the lift balloons. The farmer atop Grath''s ship was still reloading his massive crossbow. "THROW THE FIRE JARS FROM MY TENT!!!!" Grath screamed up at the Flounder. The farmer nodded, shuffling back towards the tent, still loading his crossbow simultaneously. Chitonbrain!! Go Faster!! Grath shouted mentally before sprinting to his own ship. He climbed nimbly up the middeck cabin wall, leaping inside to gain cover before carefully reaching a single arm out to cut the harpoon line. And!!... his shale knife was way too dull. Even on a good day, when its edge hadn''t been dulled by striking glass, that wouldn''t likely have worked. Grath cursed his stupidity and scrambled for his cord-cutter, scanning the pirate ship as he did for any sign of the captain. He cut the line with a tug, and the Flounder began to rise. The captain reappeared with another loaded crossbow. He leveled it towards the Flounder''s top deck. "HE''S GOT ANOTHER CROSSBOW," Grath roared, "DON''T STICK YOUR HEAD OUT." He heard no reply from the farmer. The captain scowled at Grath. His unusually pale skin ghost-like even in the bright day sun. He leveled his crossbow, but Grath leared back at him. If he fired, he would have to waste time reloading. Grath was certain he could duck before a bolt could reach him anyhow. Only his head was exposed in the mid-deck cabin. The two surveyed each other, one captain to another, then a fire jar splashed down from above. Its twirling arc was significantly off. It had likely been thrown blindly. But flaming liquid spilled out like a cloak of sunset as it fell. The jar splattered mostly on one of the pirate ship''s broad wings before rolling unceremoniously off the ship and into the branches below. The pirate captain sprinted for his top balloons and cut one of them loose. He was running now. Grath scrambled up to his top deck, desperate to help throw jars, but... judging by the smoke as he reached the upper deck, he surmised he was already too late. The pirate ship had cut its losses and dove out of range. Without flaming bolts, they couldn''t retaliate. Grath set to work ensuring his escape was true and quickly steered his ship higher above Harsh Forefather''s now flaming upper branches. The great cloud pine had been no match for the fire jar. Finally, it had irrevocably caught fire. Its heat grew like a blooming flower. Soon the flame would spread, and the updraft of the inferno would lift Flounder like a cork on a tidal wave.

 Six

    Heat radiated across the hull of the Flounder. Grath pulled multiple release levers in rapid succession. Galena sacks fell away from the ship, and it lifted up, bucking and wobbling madly like a duck on a wave. The worst was yet to come. Kind Forefather, the fifth largest tree in Prattia, had burned three years ago in a terrorist attack by the Kholglian raiders. One hundred-odd ships were caught in the gale-force winds the flames generated. Kind Forefather was a popular merchant and tourist dock. It had been a holiday as well. Harsh Forefather was taller; it carried far fewer needles, though. Its prime had long been stripped from it. But it could burn nonetheless.


    "Should I cut weight?"


    The farmer looked at Grath expectantly. Grath shook his head.


    "I barely got anything to cut loose. Run fire watch. I got suppressant dust in the middeck cabin." The young man nodded and shuffled away to climb down the balloon. His small bulk alone weighed more than Grath''s nonessential supplies. Grath had dropped as many weight sacks as he dared. He was down to one. It was time to ride it out. He could cut balloons and glide away, but from what he remembered, the updraft when the fire grew would suck the surrounding low-lying air towards the inferno, dragging the Flounder along with it. It probably would not drag them into the fire directly, but the Flounder would get hot enough to turn his flesh to steam and ignite the balloon''s cloud wool long before the flames touched it. That left reverse gliding. That was slow... Grath gritted his teeth and stared towards the flames. They spread across one entire massive branch now. The heat was already rising on the breeze. His breath felt dry in his throat. His heart pounded, and his hands shook. The farmer stood by with a sack of suppressant dust. The material could put out most fires. Scholars were constantly improving their liquid and powder suppressants. Expensive ships even came with fire-resistant fabrics. Those were heavier, though. Grath couldn''t afford that kind of weight and... actually, he couldn''t afford that fabric to begin with. He kept drifting. It was a slow reverse glide away. Getting up above the branches had been easy because of their sparseness, but now he just hoped he could get free of the flames'' heat. The fervent moments ticked by. Sweat dripped down his brow, and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest, but finally, the air began to cool. Grath let out a sigh of relief. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he collapsed on the ship''s canvas top deck. Way in the distance, he could see the pirate ship gliding low to the ground, away from the flaming tree. It was perilously close to the flames. Smoke still whispered off its one wing from where the fire jar had struck it. Grath stared down, rubbing his still gashed ankle half-hazardly, his eyes focused on the ship''s top deck. He could see a speck of white skin as the pale captain scurried about, like a pale beetle on a leaf. The captain fought the heat desperately. He refused to go inside the pirate ship''s middeck but pushed his glide as best he could. He cut more and more lift balloons. Soon his ship would be plunging like a heavy stone in water... But the updraft was already too strong for that; unless he cut the main balloon open, there was no way to increase weight. The pirate ship would keep floating up, Grath realized, as he watched the situation unfold with voracious interest. Every captain knew cutting the main balloon open meant certain death for most airship crews. If you lost too much cloud wool and ran out of lift, the cursed fog would claim you. The pirate ship stopped plunging and slowly began to drift backward... and up. The rising air sucked it in towards the tree''s inferno. Small dust devils swirled to life in the woods below the great tree, some catching fire and becoming small tornadoes of flame before they swirled out into nothing at the base of Harsh Forefather. More took their place. The air was so turbulent, such a mass of atmosphere moving all at once. The pirate ship spun into the roiling updraft.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story."There he goes."


    The farmer sat down next to Grath, muttering grimly. He slung his giant crossbow across his lap and hunched over it. They watched in silence as the pirate fought madly. Suddenly, he split the hull balloon, sending wool like a cloud into the blistering air. The pirate ship dove abruptly, heading straight for the fog below. As his ship plunged again, it was nearly a true glider instead of a dirigible. The captain twisted the ship''s wings and tail, urging it down, down, down. He reached the ring of cursed fog spread out like a carpet of snow at the great tree''s base. The ever-present fog had for once been melted back by the heat of Harsh Forefather''s inferno. The pirate ship skimmed over it, arching up just enough to not submerge in the fog.


    "He''s going to pull it off?" Grath leaned down, peering over the edge of the Flounder''s top deck, forgetting momentarily that he was not tied to his ship tether. He knew the pirate was stuck in glide mode now, but maybe he would ride the air currents away?


    "Watch out," the farmer asserted and raised his crossbow just to the side of Grath''s right shoulder. Grath yelped and flinched to the side.


    "What are you doing? Don''t waste your glass!" he exclaimed.


    TWANG-SHHHHT!!!


    The bolt left the crossbow. It wasn''t a splitter; Grath was unsure what tip it had. At this elevation above the pirate ship, it was possible for the bolt to reach its target, but with the roiling winds... Grath watched the bolt sail out and then dip as gravity took over. It became too small to see among the rippling heat haze and bits of floating ash. Still, he watched where he had last seen it vanish. The pirate ship was floating too fast to the north; the arrow should pass just south of it... but.... the wind changed! Abruptly, the pirate ship rocked from a slight buffet of wind and drifted a few digits south on its westerly course. The captain''s pale figure, ghost-like and hunched over the helm, suddenly rocked. He fell sideways, rolling down the hull. Blood splattered like a tiny brushstroke of red on the deck''s dark, ash-dusted surface. Grath looked at the farmer in awe, and the farmer nodded awkwardly in response as the pirate ship spiraled over and face-planted into the fog below.

 Seven

    "Soooo... if you feel like it, you can''t miss?"


    "You are making it sound dumb."


    "But you said it''s like a feeling? Could you feel that way all the time?"


    "No, not that kind of feeling."


    Grath furrowed his brow. His unexpressive guest was hard to converse with. Grath was patching the Flounder''s pectoral wing with his sewing kit as he spoke to the farmer. It turned out the man''s name was Reetrarn, or Trarn for short. Grath had been trying to strike up various conversations with him for the last three days after the pirate attack. During the struggle, Trarn had crashed his flaming ship into a tree branch. His only other crew member, whom he refused to speak about, had died in the crash. From there, he worked his way through the branches and managed to board the Flounder during Grath''s fight with the pirate crew.


    It turned out his legendary shot at the pirate captain was thanks to elixir number 2, aka Cloud King bone broth. Consuming the bone broth of a Cloud King condor is such a rare occurrence that Grath had discounted elixir 2 as irrelevant. It wasn''t that he thought it was not real; the elixir was the second one ever discovered and well documented, after all. But Cloud Kings are so rare and difficult to hunt that the broth may as well be a myth. On top of that, elixir 2 only lasts an hour... unless you are part of the Cloudkin family bloodline. Which Trarn was! Grath''s questions had garnered him much info over the past few days. Cloudkin rarely got a chance to drink elixir 2, but if they did, its effects were permanent and sometimes even passed on to their children. Even more curious, the effect could skip a generation or several. Which is why Trarn was named Reetrarn. The "Ree" signified a recurrence of elixir 2''s effect. Unfortunately, Trarn was not nobility, so him having the "Blessing of the Cloud King" was taboo. Grath hadn''t learned much directly from the untalkative Cloudkin, but he estimated Trarn was out by the Prattian border, far from the Cloudkin territory because of this taboo. Why keep the prefix "Ree" in his name then? Grath wondered. It made little sense to him, but Prattians had their own weird customs. Maybe changing your given name would hurt Trarn''s pride, he guessed. At any rate, he prodded a different line of questioning:


    "I am drifting East till I reach the Eathean Prairies. Elixir 8 is my goal out there. Combined, we don''t have enough food to loop back on the upper winds from here. You will have to drift with me until the prairies and get a different ship to take you home at one of the outposts. That work for you?" Trarn nodded without answering. Grath took that as his answer and decided to give Trarn a break. He felt bad for how hard he had pushed Trarn for a decision. Losing a crewmate was a terrible experience. Grath hated pirates all the more for their encounter. Luck had saved him, but dying while killing those scum would have been a decent end, in his opinion. They kept drifting East. The Flounder was beat up but functional. It was low on lift balloons and galena weight sacks. Getting wool from a cloud pine wouldn''t be too hard. Wood logs would have to replace the lost galena sacks; the chances of finding stones for weight, let alone galena, above the cursed fog was near impossible in this region, so clunky logs it would be. On top of that, Grath was low on rope for the release systems, both for the weights and balloons. He sighed deeply; it was going to be rough piloting for a while. He hated balancing the weight of logs against new lift balloons. It was a laborious task.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.Trarn grieved and Grath worked on the ship. The Flounder drifted lazily with only brief stops at rare unplucked cloud pines. Food had to be rationed, and hunger made the two men irritable. Finally, they reached the Eathean Prairies. Home of elusive elixir number 8 and common elixir number 7. Elixir 7, or float soup, is only considered common by comparison to other rare elixirs. It was still harder to get than klienah flower nectar, entirely because klienah flowers can be farm-raised at Proud Plateau. Elixir 7 is impossible to farm as of yet, though many attempts have been tried. The soup is made by rustback spoonbill storks exclusively at the boiling lakes of the Eathean Prairies. Early explorers and later Prattian scholars documented the storks'' method of making the soup. First, the storks collected 8 to 9 types of herbs from around the shores of the boiling lakes (Fortunately, the boiling lakes'' steaming water dilutes the cursed fog around them, making the shorelines not a death sentence for researchers). Next, the female storks craft crude bowls made from woven leaves and grass. Then, the herbs and a small amount of water are placed to float haphazardly about the lake. The male storks guard the bowls aggressively from rival males as a form of mock battle to impress the females. The surviving bowls are considered done cooking after around 20 minutes. Researchers replicated the herbs and bowls and used the boiling lakes to cook them, but to no avail. The reigning theory is that rustback spoonbill stork saliva may be the key. So far, all attempts to raise captive storks for farming the soup have been unsuccessful. Elixir number 7 must be harvested directly from the storks'' bowls after they finish cooking it. A few outposts, both Prattian and foreign, are built amongst the lakes. The people manning these outposts, apart from the soldiers, specialize in extracting elixir 7. Many merchants from across the world journey to the boiling lakes every year, especially during peak season.


    King Trosh would love to get his grubby hands on the entirety of the boiling lakes, Grath mused, if our military weren''t stretched thin enough pretending to own half the world, we might have gotten the boiling lakes by now. As it was, the boiling lakes remained a tumultuous place; harvesting elixir 7 outside of the outposts was risky business. Elixir 8 was a whole ''nother task entirely.

 Reetrarn

    Trarn sighted down the crossbow at the floating balloon as it bobbed on the breeze. A round stone lay on the crossbow in place of a bolt. It was slung into a pouch made into the training crossbow''s drawstring. Actual arrows were not budgeted into the Cloudkin military training. Trarn was of age. At year 14, all males of the Cloudkin nation were required to train in the military wings of the Cloudkin Empire for 3 years. Trarn angled the small crossbow uncomfortably and loosed the stone at the floating target.


    ...


    "MISS!!!"


    Trarn jumped as the drill leader shouted from the back of the constructed range. The man''s voice echoed across the mighty trunk of the great cloud pine on which the shooting range was constructed.


    "FLEDGLING TRARN, DO YOU WANT TO BE A CABIN SCRUB YOUR WHOLE TOUR!!!"


    "No, Leader."


    "SPEAK UP, FLEDGLING; YOUR VOICE MISSES MY EARS."


    A few other fledgling soldiers snickered but did their best to stifle their mirth. No one wanted to attract the drill leader''s attention.


    "NO, LEADER, I DON''T WANT TO SCRUB DECKS!"


    Trarn belted out, his hands shaking. My family ship was so much quieter; I hate it here, Trarn moaned internally.


    "THEN HIT THE UNDER-SUN TARGET, YOU DENSE, INBRED BEETLE SCRAPER!"


    The insults usually involved Trarn''s close family being farmers. The drill leader wasn''t particularly creative.


    Trarn cocked the crossbow''s draw lever. At least that was easy enough. He was used to big farm crossbows for bringing down pesky leatherheads or beetle snatchers (a hawk variant that primarily eats large beetles). He loaded another round stone and aimed at the nearest bobbing target. Suddenly, a target far off across the archery range caught his eye. It bobbed in the breeze at the edge of the giant tree branches. At least half an imperial strand away, it looked so tiny from there, but for some reason, Trarn felt like he could hit it if he wanted to. He didn''t notice his instructor''s sharp inhale.


    "What were you looking at just now?"


    Trarn nearly jumped out of his pants.


    How did he know?


    "Uhh, the far targets..?"


    Trarn almost questioned his own memory. The drill leader leaned forward past Trarn''s right shoulder, pointing towards the target balloon Trarn had looked at.


    "Take a shot at that one."


    "But I-"


    "DID I STUTTER?"


    That was more like the instructor to yell. Somehow the roar in his ear had felt less frightening than the quiet focus he had felt moments ago from the man. The other fledglings chuckled; the drill leader must be busting Trarn over for failing his practice, they thought. Trarn ignored them as usual and took aim. He had the distinct feeling that he could hit the target. It was odd, like the assuredness of lifting a spoon off a tabletop or plucking elytra from a brass beetle. It was the feeling of something routine. He pulled the trigger on the crossbow. The stone flew well out of sight, shrinking to less than a speck as it sped over 400 digits in less than a second. But in that time, the target had moved. A little wind buffeted it lightly a few digits to the left. Trarn grumbled internally. What''s the point if it¡¯s going to move after I shoot?


    Pfup....


    The balloon rocked as its canvas skin was struck.


    I hit it?


    Trarn realized, the rock must have arched a little left in flight, likely due to some spin on the stone when I shot it? But I didn''t account for that. Stones never fly straight; even arrows deflect. How did I? He turned around. The drill leader looked at him with a broad grin. The other fledglings looked confused and surprised. Trarn didn''t know what this meant, but he had a feeling something was wrong.


    Trarn later learned why he had felt unsettled. His military stay was cut short fairly quickly, and he was sent home. Family drama ensued. Trarn hadn''t known, but he learned quickly. The reappearance of the cloud king''s blessing was rare, especially four generations removed. It was so rare, in fact, that many in Trarn''s family just assumed he was the illegitimate offspring of a Cloudkin wing feather or even a talon (designations for nobility in the Cloudkin nation). This sparked drama of the worst kind. Trarn would bitterly remember, multiple times a day, how his father''s brother had approached the development.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Trarn was working at his home ship when his uncle''s ship approached from across an expanse of clouds. The family watched the ship with apprehension. Ever since Trarn was dumped out of the military, visits from Cloudkin ships had been less than cordial. They didn''t fear pirates in this region. Flying over the no man''s land of the northern jungles, the Cloudkin nation moved as nomads. Pirates steered clear for half a hundred strands in any direction when the Cloudkin eyes roamed the clouds (the "eyes" are the dual kings of the Cloudkin nation). The ship docked quickly with their home ship. His uncle was wealthy, and his ship dwarfed Trarn''s father''s ship by nearly triple. Servants and guardsmen manned the decks and cleaned and maintained the silken balloons of the massive vessel. Cloudkin respected military prowess above all else, and through war, Trarn''s uncle had become the 100th feather (though he was yet to receive the cloud king''s blessing).


    "So," were his first words after stepping off the docking board. He was not a big man, but his presence loomed over the family. His white hair was wild and windblown back behind his head.


    "Reeeeeturned, a gift to us?"


    He dragged out the "reee," his voice jubilant. Trarn grinned with excitement, stepping forward. Finally, someone excited about his newfound gift! But his father knew better. He spoke up quickly, "Atran, you don''t visit your lowly brother often. What do you want?" Uncle Atran feigned pain, his face twisting into a superficial look of dejection.


    "Come, brother; I am excited to hear this gift has made it to us, regardless of how it may have happened."


    Trarn''s joy fell, and in its place, rage burned up hot. He had had enough of the conjecture. His father had bent and taken the passive slights. His mother would object but only passively. Neither dared to show strength to the military, to their relatives, to the agent of the royals who had come to verify Trarn as Reetrarn, the name he had been overjoyed to take.


    "You''re just envious," he spoke what he felt. Trarn rarely had the courage before, but things were different now. Strength mattered most; his uncle would come to know that!


    "Care to repeat that?" Atran looked down at him. Trarn was still not yet 15. His uncle overwhelmed him in reach and strength.


    "If you wish to slight my family, you slight me," Trarn spat out the words.


    "Trarn, hold your mouth shut," his father tried to run damage control but went silent immediately at a glance from Atran.


    "You know the price of disrespecting a feather of the cloud kings," Atran now glared sincerely. Cloud king bone broth was rare. Hunting the bird was the Cloudkin nation''s ever-present quest. A sighting of the gargantuan condor in small kingdoms could spell disaster for the inhabitants if the Cloudkin nation heeded the call and swept in on the winds like locusts. Atran might never receive the precious elixir. He could die a feather that was never blessed. His rage smoldered visibly under years of patience and want. Trarn nodded in response,


    "Crossbow duel, you choose the ship."


    The traditional duel was in his favor as it was designed to support those royals blessed with cloud king bone broth. Strength by birth or strength by merit mattered not to the Cloudkin. "Violence decides who is right; history simply remembers." This is the creed of many a Cloudkin child''s upbringing, though not Trarn''s.


    "My ship at dawn."


    Atran accepted without hesitation, surprising Trarn. He exited their ship just as quickly.


    "What have you done?" Trarn''s mother practically shouted. He only looked at her with rising detest. My father and mother have no spine! This duel was to protect her honor, and yet she still scolds me. Trarn''s thoughts turned away from his parents as they scolded him, his resentment turning to ambition. If he defeated Atran, what titles would he acquire? 100th feather was a guarantee, but at his age and with the blessing... why stop there? He could shoot for 50th feather, then 10th... then. The possibilities arose before him. He just had to win this duel!

 Reetrarn Continued

    Dawn came, and Trarn was worse for it. His confidence flickered like a tallow lamp, but he held to his ambition. Beetle-raking farmers were low class, barely above Cloudkin slaves. His father had bent himself, breaking his own body, twisting it through years of pulling up cage lines for the beetle traps. All for what? To be sneered at? To be the downfeathers of the great bird that was their people? Enough of that! To his surprise, his father met him early, before the sun broke the cursed fog. By lamplight, he helped him prepare, speaking only a few words:


    "Your uncle is one of the best swordsmen in the sky. By rule, he won''t have a blade on him, but mind me. When you shoot at him, do it while he doesn''t see you or at a range under 30 digits. Otherwise, you may as well be shooting smoke."


    Trarn nodded. He wondered at first, but then he knew, his father wouldn''t fight for anything, but he would support what he desired so long as skin wasn''t in the game. That alone made Trarn seethe a little. He tried to rally the anger to his strength as best he could. At the training grounds, military loudmouths and brats from 50th feather families had always teased and pushed him around. It irked him and threw off his game, but here. I have trained with a full-grown man''s crossbow since I was twelve. Not those weak things they had us training with. His quiver was loaded with glass bolts. Not splitters, not piercers. Just common glass. But the draw strength alone could send his bolts through two leatherhead skulls back to back; there was no shield Trarn knew that would stop him. His hands still shook, though. Every desire, every reassuring thought he brought to his mind to try to comfort himself. But one thought pushed past his meager fortification: Uncle Atran accepted so readily. What did he even gain from squashing some cuckoo nephew? Dawn light rose, casting a pink glow over the few clouds. The tallest of the jungle trees occasionally rose above the cursed fog; their upper foliage shimmered pearl pink and green. From this altitude, the massive kapok trees looked like tiny sprouts of broccoli poking up from a bed of mashed potatoes. Today, few clouds adorned the heavens where the ships sat. The two crafts hung suspended and alone. It was as if the sky itself waited for Trarn''s fight. Then, two small vessels approached on the winds, gliding into view of the match. Trarn and Atran had both signaled with smoke all of the previous day. Without a witness, the fight could not have proceeded. Trarn eyed the two ships; they looked like farm vessels. Their stubby wings made them barely more than balloons. Trarn felt sure their captains would not lie if he won. Farmers were less likely than officers to side with Atran. At least Trarn hoped. Cloudkin were supposed to be above cheating...


    Once the ships were docked and informed of the rules, the time had arrived. Trarn took his place on his uncle''s ship. He was at the back end of the vessel. It was a high glide, low buoyancy ship, same as most combat-class ships. Shape-wise, this meant a relatively small balloon (it was still massive) with big wings. Cloudkin vessels had a coveted design feature: stubby tails. Every other combat-class ship available to other nations had bigger tails. This meant each ship needed a heavy counterbalance at its face. Instead, Atran''s ship looked like a fat vulture with no head. The top of the balloon housed a canvas control tent with a wide slit running entirely about its middle. The slit was constructed at eye level to allow for piloting with protection from standard crossbows. There was no cover on top of the ship otherwise. The lift balloons were too high up to hide behind. If Trarn wanted to get better cover, he would have to climb down the ship''s balloon to the mid deck. That deck was massive by mid deck standards, like a small house. All Atran''s servants and family had been moved to his father''s ship. So, that route was tempting, but he didn''t want to risk his one shot in close quarters. Despite what Trarn''s father had said, Atran could close the distance and make it a slugging match. Or... they might both shoot each other and tie in death... It would be better for him to stick to the top deck. Trarn could see Atran through the circular gap in the control tent. The fabric of the tent was silk composite weave; it could stop his uncle''s bolts, but his should pass through. The problem was they would deflect at odd angles. Trarn swung his crossbow from his back. His hands shook as he pulled the hefty bone lever.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.Click.


    The mighty crossbow cocked. Memories flooded through his mind. His father had given this to him on his 12th birthday. Trarn remembered with shocking clarity what he had said then:


    "This isn''t a toy, son. If you shoot a leatherhead, be sure no one is standing behind it."


    Tears welled in Trarn''s eyes; he felt so foolish and weak suddenly. What in the beneath am I doing? I am about to fight my own uncle probably to the death! This bow can kill a giant vulture in one hit to the chest. A single bolt, and uncle''s organs will be shredded!


    "READY!"


    Atran''s voice rang out from the ship''s face. Trarn''s blurry eyes could still make out his uncle''s imposing figure through the slit in the control tent.


    "READY!"


    He shouted back, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. His voice cracked, but something in him had to do this. He could not back down. They both waited for the signal. Trarn leveled his crossbow at the slit and leaned forward to charge. Atran held his dual short crossbows loosely at his sides.


    "FIGHT!"


    The signal rang out. His father had refused to call the fight. It was one of the witnesses from the farm vessels floating above Atran''s ship who gave the signal.


    Trarn sprinted forward. Atran ran low to the ground. He kept his body below the slit as they both charged the control tent. Trarn was closer, but Atran was faster. They would reach it about the same time. Trarn knew he couldn''t get that close! At that range, those small crossbows could be brought to bear much faster than his large one. The further back he was, the better. Atran likely had splitter bolts. If Trarn kept his distance, the glass shards would spread too much and might miss him or only hit him partially. He ducked low and scrambled off the side of the ship. Neither contestant had a tether line, but Trarn ignored that and clambered under the ship''s right wing. He had to let his crossbow swing by its chest strap, and he hoped to heaven that the bolt''s front catch didn''t slip loose and drop it from the crossbow. Under the wing, he held still and tried to quiet his breathing. His heart pounded like drums in his ears...

 Reetrarn Halted

    Below the wing... why did I choose here! I should have gone below the cursed fog while I was at it! Trarn cursed his choices but held onto his position nonetheless. Most balloons have a net of thin rope slung over them to help the pine skeleton maintain the balloon''s shape, but also so the crew could do repairs anywhere on the ship. Trarn clung to this net with his left hand. His feet were dug in as well. He held his crossbow pointing up. With how the ship''s balloon curved up, he had a good angle to shoot through the wing at anyone approaching down the balloon. It would be difficult for an attacker to climb down face-first, especially carrying two crossbows. He would wait for the sound of Atran climbing down, then shoot. The canvas was too thick to see through, but Trarn had learned a thing or two about his newfound powers:


    1. The more skilled he was at archery, the more the "window" would appear.


    2. There was no requirement that he see his target; hearing worked just fine.


    With these two factors, he could do it. Atran could climb down this way or search in a different direction. If Atran climbed down over Trarn''s wing and Trarn heard him, Trarn was fairly certain the window would appear. In the months after discovering the blessing, Trarn had trouble sleeping. He had been restless in his military hammock at the cloud pine training camp. So, he would get up and roam the branches, listening to bats flitting about him. Then one night he thought, what if I tried to knock one out of the air? His chances of hitting a bat in flight, in the dark of night, were zero. And in the morning light, hitting a bat in flight proved very difficult for Trarn. That was at least how it was without the blessing. But after numerous mornings and nights of practice, suddenly the window began to open. At this point, Trarn could pick off a bat in flight in pitch darkness by only the sound of its wings. The window only appeared every few minutes. But when he closed his eyes and listened to the clumsy students and teachers walking about the tree, windows appeared every few seconds. Sometimes more than one at a time.


    The absolute desire for combat prowess that permeated the Cloudkin empire beat within Trarn''s chest. Gambles and reckless abandon were the start of legends. He held tight beneath the wing, waiting as terror and excitement mixed endlessly within him. But as time passed, apprehension grew. Atran was not following through. He had to have climbed down somewhere else. That''s alright, chances were 50/50 that he would come this way, hmmmm... What to do next? Top deck again; going down was too risky. Trarn climbed carefully up again. He poked his head around the wing carefully. No sign of Atran. Trarn climbed quietly up past the wing, cradling his crossbow lightly in front of his chest. He was unsure what to do next. Ship boarding was more of an art than a science... at least Cloudkin considered it such. Prattians were more analytical about everything. Trarn weighed his options. Middeck was still a bust; the front end of the ship would offer him more range than the tail had. He could try his luck there. It would be scarily simple. Unlike an actual vulture, the ship lacked a neck or head; it was more like an owl in that respect. But it did have a prow spike rooted directly into the ship''s pine skeleton. Trarn could stand on that and maximize his range. It was about 30 digits in length. Built to pierce into enemy ship balloons, it facilitated boarding. He would be an easy target for piercing bolts, though. Trarn had a solution for that. He would have to be quick. Moving to the control tent next to him, he drew his glass cord cutter and quickly went to work cutting the stitches holding the composite weave. The ship had been through a few battles in its time, and the stiff cloth had been patched in multiple sections to fix ballista bolt holes. It was to Trarn''s benefit; cutting the composite weave was difficult. But the stitching he could cut loose. He hurriedly removed a patch about the size of a baby blanket. It was smaller than he wanted but good enough. Trarn focused his ears and eyes about him, casting out his senses as best he could... Nothing. He was apprehensive, but he moved towards the ship''s front spike, dragging the nearly 3/4-digit thick cloth with him. Composite weave was tough and expensive, but it was also heavy. Effective composite weave armor was still a pipe dream for nobility. He reached the spike. Trarn was more vividly aware of his lack of a tether line as he scrambled out onto the narrow pine spike. Its singular, grey, glass point bobbed lightly in the wind as Trarn struggled with the unwieldy cloth. He stopped only 20 digits out and turned around quickly. Here, the mast of wood was barely thick enough to protect him from below. Trarn wrapped himself in the composite weave, and its weight pushed down on him, suffocating but protective.


    Now he waited... and waited... and... the sun slowly wobbled its winter course across the Northern sky. It was about 9 in the morning now, if he had to guess. Trarn had declared the duel, so if it reached sunset with no victor, he would be shamed but alive. He wondered what the onlookers thought of him?


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences."HEY, COWARD!!"


    Atran''s voice rang out across the ship. He was at the tail end, probably near the top deck.


    Perfect!


    Atran surfaced, nimbly leaping up onto the balloon''s surface. His crossbows were holstered, one on his chest and one on his back. In his hands, he carried a broken table corner. The large hunk of wood covered more than half his chest. It was pine wood or a similar light wood. Weight was essential for military vessels. No matter how ornate the carved bevels of the table corner were, it was still light wood. Trarn''s bolts could pierce it. Trarn took aim. Atran charged, shouting as he did:


    "YOU CHOSE CROSSBOWS,


    YOU CHOSE TO DUEL ME!


    BUT NOW YOU DRAG THIS OUT, YOU KREEN COWARD!"


    (Kreens are a flightless bird often kept as farm pets by lower classes. They became a swear word of sorts most used by Cloudkin who culturally abhor ground-based living).


    Trarn leveled his crossbow, dropping the fabric to his chest and steadying the weapon with both hands. Atran was running straight towards the control tent again. Trarn could not hit him. He concentrated, waiting for the moment Atran would round the tent. But that moment did not arrive. Suddenly, the ship dipped forward slightly as its main drag balloon reeled out. Moments later, two of the larger lift balloons released. Now the ship began to float down rapidly, its tail and wing flaps adjusting the vessel into a forward dive. Atran was piloting them down! Trarn flailed about, sliding backward down the front spike. For a few terrible moments, he grasped desperately at the smooth pine surface. His fingers finally found purchase, but he lost hold of the composite weave. It tumbled away from him into the sky below. Atran reappeared from the tent''s doorway holding a crossbow in one hand and the table corner in the other. He fired his first bolt. It whistled past Trarn''s head narrowly. Trarn had his legs wrapped around the slanted pine spike now, hugging himself to it with one arm as he raised his crossbow with the other. He felt the window appear; he could make the shot! As his arm strained and shook, holding the large weapon up at arm''s length, he pulled the crossbow''s trigger. Atran didn''t move. The bolt zipped toward him, but he stood still. Only his right arm moved. As the bolt sped the nearly 100-digit distance between them, Atran brought the table corner up at a slight angle in front of his chest.


    SKRSSST!!!!


    The bolt skidded down the face of the makeshift pine shield, deflecting past Atran off into the sky.


    No....!


    That was it... that needed to work!


    Trarn''s mind reeled. His hands reflexively moved to reload his crossbow but stopped abruptly as the tilting ship prevented him. Atran was too fast anyhow. He was charging forward again. Years of experience allowed Atran to draw his already cocked crossbow from his back. He was closing the distance to make sure he didn''t miss this time. Trarn felt cold sweat coat his skin. This was it. He was going to die like this, like a cornered Kreen in a farmer''s pen. His own arrogance had fattened him up. One last thing he could do, though... The last resort of skyfarers. Trarn let go.


    He tumbled free of the mast, falling far faster than the airship. Atran looked after him in surprise. He almost looked disappointed. Trarn flipped away, twirling wildly through the air. He heard a shout behind him, but the wind roaring in his ears drowned out its coherence. Trarn had practiced this a little at the military training camp. Then he had been plunging into cloud cotton crash pillows, but not at this speed. He stopped his twirl by spreading his arms and legs. Then, with a deep breath to steady his mind, he pulled! Gripping the edge of his shirt cuffs, he forced the excess fabric sewn into his tunic to pull taut. A scholar native to Prattia discovered something common knowledge to Cloudkin centuries before the two nations met: squirrel suits. They were standard now to many skyfarers in the jungle regions and in combat roles. A last resort of sorts, the baggy flaps strung from his wrists to his ankles had been hard to adjust to as he ran on ship decks as a child, but now he was half gliding, half falling towards the great trees below. Tilting his arms slightly, he changed the direction of his fall. Hurtling towards the largest treetop he could see jutting up from the cursed fog. At this speed, I am going to be... Trarn didn''t think too hard about it. He had only three trees in range to choose from, and this one was the best... probably...


    Trarn hit the foliage at a blinding speed. His body whipped through branches. Leaves sped by, cutting his face like knives. He hit something hard abruptly with his left shoulder and flipped head over toes. Consciousness left Trarn as the shock of the impact knocked his mind into darkness...

 Eight

    Elixir number 8, the drink of legends. It had the power to turn the tides of war. Finding it was enough to make one a legend. It''s not particularly hard to locate its sources. Almost every nation that owns land has a region dedicated to farming the drink. But the Eathean prairies are one of the best places for amateur elixir hunters to go. Elixir 8 is made from the gizzard of burrowing owls. Unfortunately, these owls spend the vast majority of their lives below the cursed fog, only occasionally surfacing at night sometimes to hunt bats in the giant willows native to the grassland lakes of the Eathean prairies. Breeding burrowing owls proved fruitful in Prattian studies, but... human-raised burrowing owl gizzards did not render elixir 8. Scholars theorize that the owls must actually stay in the cursed fog in order for their gizzards to be usable. Attempts to raise burrowing owls in the cursed fog proved less than fruitful. Since humans are unable to handle fog exposure for more than a few seconds without dying, and since burrowing owls are quite capable of breaking free of most harnesses and cages when unsupervised, farming elixir 8 was still a pipe dream. Many more hundreds of thousands of Prattian silk notes (aka "red leaves" the Prattian currency) would be poured into that research this year alone. Grath shuddered to think how the world would be once that nut was cracked.


    Grath glided the Flounder''s patchwork wings towards the outpost. It would be the second time in a year he set foot on solid ground. Trarn shuffled about the deck nervously. Cloudkin weren''t known for socializing; they had no cities. Grath wondered if Trarn shuffled because of an old injury. He had never seen him truly stride anywhere. Trarn had agreed to watch the ship while Grath exchanged the klienah flower nectar for supplies. Bartering wasn''t either of their strong suits. Grath hated haggling. Why not just sell at a fair price? We both already know what''s fair! But that was not the nature of trading out in no man''s land. Together, the two young men tied the ship to a massive docking pole in the ground. It was a huge oak log buried deep in the dirt. Much larger ships than the Flounder could be held by this log. Grath unrolled and climbed down the Flounder''s hanging, knotted descending rope; then Trarn pulled it back up behind him. He looked towards the town ahead. The sandy dirt of the steaming lakeshore felt so odd beneath his feet. It shifted not at all. There was no give or rocking to it. One time, Grath had been aboard a massive Prattian sky-giant class ship. Its living quarters were the size of a mansion. That was the closest to land an airship could feel. He shook his head and marched towards the outpost gates. Guards eyed him as he entered but let him through. They carried lever-action crossbows capable of firing 30 bolts a minute. Anyone who acted up would be shredded, and law was blurry out here. Grath nodded at them and passed the pine posts of the gate. Inside, merchant ships were docked here and there amongst the driftwood and dirt buildings of the locals. The particular lake this outpost rested on, Grath knew no name for, but the outpost was named "Saltback." Grath reached the town center. Sulfur-smelling mist from the lake blew all over the town, and the stench of spoonbill stork carcasses and fish stank almost as much. Grath gritted his teeth and breathed through them, trying not to use his nose. He stepped up to a stall with tables covered in salted fish and bird stork meat. Let the haggling begin. Two hours later, he was stocked up on enough compact meats and breads to supply the Flounder for two months. Fresh patching cloth and thread were also restocked. Fruit he still had enough of for a while. He headed back to the ship. Trarn looked bored but perked up when Grath approached.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "I had a thought."


    "What''s that?"


    The two worked on loading the ship as Trarn explained: "I want to stay and help you on the Flounder, but..."


    He paused. Grath looked at him confused. "What?" He wasn''t too surprised Trarn wanted to stay; they had discussed the possibility of Trarn hitching a ride back after Grath finished hunting for elixir 8. But it wasn''t like Trarn to drag out things. Then again, Grath didn''t really know what this guy was like. He just knew Trarn hated pirates, and that was enough for Grath to get along.


    "Elixir number 8. You can''t get it from hunting burrowing owls."


    Grath laughed. "Oh, is that it? I know it''s almost impossible to kill one, and it''s not a guarantee they have a good gizzard, but I am going to give it a shot. Don''t try to convince me. I know the odds."


    "No, you literally can''t get number 8 that way. It''s a myth."


    "What?"


    "I am serious." Trarn looked like he hated having to have this conversation, and Grath was beginning to hate it too.


    Trarn continued: "Doesn''t it seem weird to you that gizzards have to be processed by scholars in laboratories to get elixir 8? I mean, why are gizzards not farmable too? It''s... a lie."


    Grath stared at him incredulously before striking back. "It takes a lot of distilling and refining to get elixir 8 from a gizzard, and I think the owl has to be above a certain age." He couldn''t believe he had to explain this. Are cloudkin really this behind modern research? Grath felt sudden annoyance. Trarn barely ever spoke, and now he was actually talking... just to shut down Grath''s whole mission to the Eathean prairies.


    "Look, I am hunting for them whether you are coming or not. I didn''t ask for your help. I saved your life; you saved mine; we are even."


    "I never agreed that you saved mine."


    Grath stopped packing the dried meats, his right hand still holding a salted fish wrapped in wax paper. He clenched his knuckles, almost snapping the dry good in half.


    "Get off my ship, you ingrate."


    "I am sorry, fine, I take it back."


    Why does this muckbrain want to stick around so bad? Grath grumbled to himself while packing the crushed fish away in the mid-deck cabin. "Just go buy yourself bolts or something for that beetle-raker crossbow," he spat angrily. "We''re airborne before sunset. I am not risking one of the kreens sneaking aboard my ship."

 Nine

    Now that they were at the Eathean Prairies, traveling was more difficult. Grath couldn''t let the Flounder drift lazily east anymore. He had to drop down into the storm cloud zone to pick up the northern crosswinds. In theory, a balloon can travel to any corner of the world just by raising or lowering to catch a different altitude wind... in theory. In reality, some winds were too high up in this region to be practical. Going that high would result in the "giddy death" or "breathless gasping," as it was colloquially called. Low-lying winds risked storms. Lightning was bad, and water soaking was even worse. The Flounder''s balloon was wrapped in cloud cotton cloth, dusted with a water repellent called "RainReject" dust. But at the price Grath could afford, the repellent wasn''t something he could rely on. Finally, wind maps were not reliable; wind currents weren''t always where they were supposed to be in no man''s land. The time of the year affects wind position and strength, and poor or intentionally bad cartography makes matters worse. Grath headed down into the storm zone, hoping and praying that the wind would be good. It was mediocre. The Flounder and its crew of two drifted north across the prairies. At night, they took turns staying up to watch for storms. With time, the wind increased, and more rapidly they gained ground. Day by day, they passed boiling lakes and swampy grounds with occasional giant willow groves. They were all taken, though. Hunting ships of all sizes and shapes, from the sleek bird-like military vessels of the Prattian Empire to the fat, heavily armed, and armored merchant vessels of no man''s land. Those merchants had to have special licenses to trade with Prattia, armed as they were. Grath even spotted a Bobber ship. They were mercenaries known for their combat prowess and their ship''s unique design. Apart from its tail, a Bobber ship was a near-perfect teardrop shape, with the teardrop''s tip pointing down. They offered unparalleled lift, with ballista decks that pointed out and down in every direction. Like the Flounder, Bobber ships were best for gaining altitude over their opposition. From the vantage of height, they would rain fire on anyone who dared to attack them.


    On a whim, Grath asked Trarn, "Could you bolt any of those guys down there right now?" He pointed to a few of the ships drifting below amongst the giant willow strands. Trarn answered almost immediately, "Yeah, about five right now." Grath stared bleakly at the specks below moving about, less than ants in their view.


    "Why don''t you take up mercenary work? Or bounty hunting? You''d be rich."


    Trarn shrugged his usual nontalkative shrug. Grath grumbled under his breath and went back to piloting. He was already sick of eating dried fish and getting sicker of Trarn''s too-cool-to-care attitude. After much drifting, lifting, diving, and repeating, the Flounder floated to a small mucky lake with a single giant willow sprouting from its bank. The massive willows can''t rival the colossal size of the cloud pines, but they are still much larger than any non-giant class tree. The once-advanced Republic of Tryne had birthed the "grounded gigantism theory" during the early 4th century. It postulated that massive variants of all life were possible so long as they lived the majority of their developmental stages in the low atmospheric range, aka (the cursed fog altitude). So far, no giant creature or plant could be raised to its gargantuan size at higher altitudes. Even klienah flowers begin their growth cycle far below the lofty heavens of their adult stage.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Grath didn''t think about such things now. His father''s endless stories and scholarly curiosity were far from Grath at this moment. This lone tree will be our hunting ground, Grath thought as he grinned broadly. He brought the Flounder down to anchor among the floating tendrils of the giant willow. Unlike its smaller cousins, giant willows do not "weep"; their leafy strands are lighter than air and float upwards, helping to hold their massive branches aloft. Grath was careful not to let the Flounder get tangled. He anchored just above the topmost strands. Grath and Trarn were hunting far from other ships, not because they were more likely to see a burrowing owl if there were fewer ships and people (though that was also a reason), but because the chances of having their prey stolen were greatly reduced. The willow tree and its surrounding bank were barely free of the cursed fog. The two makeshift adventurers knew if the wind moved suddenly in their direction, being on the ground would spell death. They opted to keep their hunt in the mid-branches. Grath released the rope ladder and clambered down into the tree''s bendy limbs. He had his dagger, crossbow, and sword strapped to him. Trarn followed soon after, his great-crossbow and shale dagger strapped to him. The two young men surveyed the tree. Far down at the tree''s base, multiple holes had formed in the mighty trunk. Like the baobab of the northern jungle and far northern savanna, most giant trees form natural holes or even caves in the clefts of their trunks as they grow. This tree likely held bats, a good sign. Grath and Trarn returned to the ship. They would come back down at the cover of night.


    The hours slid by like lazy snails, but finally, the sun began to set. Without torches, they quickly headed down into the branches while there was still light. Both men were armed with splitter bolts. Mosquitoes swarmed them, stabbing them wherever skin was found. Grath gritted his teeth against the bites and swiped lightly at the insects, trying not to make too much noise. The bats weren''t shy. They flitted about in the cool night breeze, gobbling up mosquitoes greedily. Grath hunched down on a branch, drawing his baggy shirt up around his bare neck. He grumbled internally and looked about. The moon was weak, and the night was cloudy.... That was not optimal. Burrowing owls are a little louder in flight than other owl species, but they are still far quieter than a bat. Grath realized how stunted his efforts would have been without Trarn as he watched the flitting shapes. He could follow them a little, but bolting a small creature in flight was a different matter. They waited out the night, taking turns keeping watch for owls, and as dawn returned, it was Trarn who spotted the pair of glowing eyes watching them in the dawn light.

 Ten

    The eyes of a burrowing owl reflected light in an orange hue, like smoldering coals of fire. Grath, for all his knowledge, had not known this. It was unsettling to be watched. From a little hollow dug into the lake''s bank, the owl observed them. It was small, probably only about the height of Grath''s waist (maybe 5 or 6 digits tall). Its burrow was just at the edge of the cursed fog. Trarn watched it from the branches, then slowly leveled his crossbow. The glowing eyes moved, rotating in the air as it cocked its head at them. Trarn fired. With a click, the bolt sped on its way, disappearing into the humid air.


    SHREEEEEEEEEIIIIIHHHHHH!!!!!


    The bird wailed, its voice piercing the night like a glass bolt through wet leaves. "I think I hit its leg," Trarn muttered. Grath nodded in excitement. The two young men clambered down the tree. They reached the ground and cautiously approached the cursed fog. Grath hesitated. From the air, the burrow had seemed clearly in the safe zone of the lake''s protective steam, but now he wasn''t so sure. He couldn''t easily see where the magenta haze of the cursed fog began or ended. It was not thick enough to tell exactly where it started. Grath''s mind burned with fears: What if the fog had shifted while I was climbing down? Or what if in the dawn light I hadn''t seen its edge clearly? If I go there, will I be blistered and scarred for life or worse? Grath pushed the thoughts down and pressed forward a little closer. There was blood at the tunnel''s entrance. Trarn had hit the owl for certain. The blood led inside the narrow tunnel. He would have to go in crouched over or on hands and knees. Grath drew his dagger. He had come too far to stop now. Trarn was shorter and would be better suited to the tunnel, but Grath would not ask him to go in there.


    "Wait here and call to me if the cursed fog rolls in."


    Grath strode forward. He heard Trarn start to say something, but words did not arrive. Grath took a deep breath and held it. In encounters with cursed fog, it was said that holding your breath could buy you a little more time. In the first days, as far back as history went, to the very first decade, it was noted in written scraps of brown leaf paper:


    "The ground is cursed that none should walk it. The gods have punished man for his arrogance, and for his greed they have banished him from the face of the world. The fog will burn his skin and boil his breath in his chest should he dare to walk the forbidden land."


    Now Grath dared; he sprinted to the tunnel, then dropped to all fours. Shambling along, his dagger gripped in his shaking right hand, he felt no burns or blisters, but he held his breath for another 30 digits into the tunnel''s depths, then he breathed out with a hushed tone. It was dark now, and the tunnel twisted ahead. Grath grimaced. He hadn''t thought this far. Fighting a maimed burrowing owl in pitch black darkness... not a great idea.


    "Trarn, can you climb back up to the ship and get a glowvial?"


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.There was a moment of silence, then Trarn''s voice called back evenly:


    "Yes..."


    The tone sounded annoyed, like a child at school being told there would be extra homework. Grath didn''t blame him. He stayed in the tunnel, waiting for his comrade to get the glowvial.


    "I am tossing it!"


    "Go ahead."


    Grath crawled back to the tunnel entrance and retrieved a ball of cloth Trarn had thrown there. He unraveled it to reveal a glass vial with no cork. Inert glow-concoction had been poured inside, then the vial had been melted shut at the top. Grath shook the vial, and green light sprang from the previously gray liquid inside. He could see the trail of blood better now. It was a lot of blood. The owl couldn''t live long injured like that. Grath followed the trail, his light held in his left fist. The vial only shone a little way ahead. He crawled through a right-hand bend, then back to the left. His heart pounded as the dark ahead of him taunted him with images of slashing talons and gouging beaks. Finally, Grath emerged out of the narrow tunnel into a wide room. The roof was a little higher; he could crouch now. The screeching began almost immediately. Somewhere just outside the half-circle of his light, two birds shrieked a cacophony. His ears pleaded with him to flee, to get far from the screeching, piercing wails. But Grath''s ambition and reckless abandon held up to the battering. He stepped forward. His light found a large, partially built circle of grasses and twigs, dried animal dung as well. It was the start of a nest; no eggs though, that''s unfortunate. Grath stepped over the low wall of the nest directly toward the middle of it. Two glints of light appeared, green in the light of his glowvial. The owl leaped, its wings ghostly silent in the air as it flapped toward him, talons outstretched toward his face. Grath barely reacted in time. He arched his chest and head back, bending at the knees as he did so. In the same motion, Grath stabbed up at the owl''s center as it hurtled over him. His stone blade caught in its lower body and dug deep. One of the owl''s talons tore into his right shoulder. Both bird and man crashed to the floor in a cyclone of flailing wings, talons, feathers, and dark blade. Grath stabbed over and over. As claws tore at his chest and arms, he drove the blade home. The bitter cold shale dove raggedly through skin and muscle, cutting arteries and loosing blood. Moments later, Grath gasped for air after the brief melee had left him breathless. The bird was dead. He had put all his power into those strikes and stabbed it full of holes. Somewhere else in the room, the owl''s mate squawked weakly. It was the one Trarn had bolted, and it was bleeding out. Grath found it and put it out of its misery. He dragged the two birds out of the tunnel, one after the other. Crossing the treacherous ground near the cursed fog, he brought them to Trarn, and the two of them butchered and cleaned the birds. They took the claws, feathers, beaks, and gizzards and returned triumphant to the Flounder.

 Eleven

    Grath dried the gizzards in salt and stored them deep in the heart of the Flounder''s hull balloon. It was a good haul. They had been incredibly lucky. The next step to acquiring Elixir 8 would require luck as well. But to Grath, luck was just rolling dice, and if your first roll goes poorly, you can roll again so long as you are alive. Of course, in gambling, you would run out of money before you might make it back, but in adventuring... he was low on money there too... At any rate, Grath needed to get the gizzards processed by Prattian laboratory brewers. Hopefully, the two organs would produce a light golden-colored oil, aka Elixir 8. Statistically, it had a success rate of 1 in 5, so the odds were Grath would fail and have to come back to the Eathean Prairies. But that was a risk he was willing to take. This quest had been a lifelong dream, but with Trarn''s help, it became so much more real. Braving the pirates, bringing down the elusive burrowing owl. Grath was excited, trying to contain himself. Trarn was still skeptical of the owl gizzards, but Grath held out hope. It might take a few tries, but they could do this!!


    Grath dropped a little weight from a bag of galena gravel in the mid-deck cabin, urging the ship up slowly. The Flounder dragged skyward. If his wind map was accurate, he should be able to catch the northern winds again and then ride them up until they reached the northern jungle. From there, the great dividing line of the winds and seasons, known as the "Middle Gap," had to be crossed. There were other routes, but if he passed the Midgap, Grath could ride the west winds back in a quick loop back to Prattia.


    Up the ship drifted and north it floated. Clear skies held up, then storms rolled in like waves over the prairies. Grath and Trarn avoided the worst of the rolling thunder. They pushed the limits of their lungs to top some of the giant rain clouds. On one such trial, Grath lay sprawled by the controls. The smallest lift balloon, he gripped grimly with one hand. The balloon had an overlapping flap, and any minute now he would release some stuffing from it. He eyed an altitude meter near to him. The little silver liquid in the device''s vials expanded as they rose. Every few hundred feet, it would rise past another tick mark in its little glass tube. There was a red line not too far from where it was now. If it reached that, Grath knew his breath would fail him shortly. The hull balloon was misted slightly with tiny water droplets. They formed together on the Flounder''s water-rejecting surface. Occasionally, one would grow too big and slide down the side of the ship to tumble into the depths below. Grath''s head ached, but he pressed on. Trarn was sprawled not far from him. The two spoke no words but suffered in silence. At last, Grath cocked his head suddenly, looking through the misty air of the cloud top. Barely visible in the cloud-mist, a ship drifted not 300 digits from them. A pirate hulk! Grath leapt to his feet. Stars immediately spun in his vision, and he collapsed back to the balloon top. His vision blackening sharply at the edges, Trarn looked up quickly and gasped. Rolling over, he scrambled like a lizard towards the top deck tent. He scurried past Grath, wincing repeatedly as he did. Trarn had some kind of back problem, Grath had determined. It stiffened his spine and sent him into spasms on occasion. Right now, Trarn ignored the pain as best he could and crawled into the tent to load his crossbow. Grath finally regained his breath and focused his mind. The ship was huge. Its black flags matched large black ribbon tails floating from its lower balloon. Ribbon tails, modeled after goldfish tails, are semi-rigid ribbons constructed of cloth and rods woven to a singular thin shaft. The ribbons run along the ship''s side until they connect directly to the ship''s deck. There, the flexible shaft is secured to a vertical pole built into the ship''s skeleton. The shaft continues well past the securing pole and now acts as a massive handle of sorts. Crews of trained men pull and push the long handle back and forth, causing the ribbon to ripple and undulate. This drives the ship.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Right now, the pirate ship did not move. Working their slaves or crew to drive the ribbons at high altitude would kill the hapless rowers. So, in this moment, it hung there, a gargantuan mass of water and fire-rejecting cloth and lumber. A small town could be built from its skeleton. What''s going on? Grath wracked his brain for several perilous moments as he slowly moved his fatigued body into a crouch, then it came to him: The odds of us running into a single fortress-class pirate ship in the sky are basically none, but when a fleet of ships, pirate or otherwise, goes through clouds, they spread out to avoid bumping into each other. It''s very likely we are inside a swarm of pirate ships! We are doomed!


    In the year 756, two rival empires, the Grons and the Rieghlightons, went to war. Few towns existed in those days. The cursed fog had forced early man to the skies in terror, and who could blame them? So, the empires boasted massive fleets. For the Grons, their fleet ships operated as both their homes and fighting vessels. Whole families crewed one ship, raised for war. Riding their ornately carved ships on the cold air of the winter southern winds, the Grons advanced towards the north, and the Rieghlightons brought their military¡¯s heavily armed vessels on the eastbound winds to intercept them. The cold front of the southern winds formed a massive blizzard of unparalleled proportion called the "Heavens'' Frost Gale." All ships were caught in the gale. The Grons'' ships were believed to have outnumbered the Rieghlightons by 50% and their total crew members by double. So, as the ships careened in the lower reaches of the storm or floated in its frigid heights, Grons harpooned, grappled, and boarded the heavily armed and armored Rieghlighton ships. Their formidable long-range ballistas rendered useless by the storm''s blinding snow. When the blizzard cleared, the Rieghlighton empire was bereft of its fleet. Their empire fell not long after. The Grons were victorious, but... due to the loss of Grons mothers and daughters in the battle, the next generation of Grons was heavily altered by the relations of Rieghlighton concubines and wealthy Grons warriors. This spawned the white-haired tan people that, after many civil wars, conquests, and name changes later, became the Cloudkin empire.

 Twelve

    Pirate ships, Grath glanced to and fro about the Flounder as if he could already see them massed like hornets about a wounded ant. "We got to drop altitude," Grath breathed, barely audibly. Trarn nodded as Grath reached for the large drag balloon''s lever. He pulled the lever.


    Click, clunk...


    The quiet sound felt like the crack of distant lightning in his eardrums. The balloon reeled out rapidly, and the Flounder dropped away, falling deeper into the cloud. Cloud mist whooshed by; a slight breeze buffeted them about, but otherwise they seemed to be in the clear. Grath took deep breaths and collected his weapons: dagger, paddle-wood sword, cord cutter (that one was always on him). He was ready. Grath burned to fight pirates to break the monsters on his blade. But as much as he had taken risks, this was one too far. They stopped their descent after falling an imperial strand''s distance. Then they reeled the drag balloon back in. This would pull them up some of the distance they had fallen but not all of it, as the larger Flounder took more power to move than the balloon. Drifting along, they plotted their next move. Grath spoke first:


    "We gotta get distance."


    "Drop a balloon and glide?"


    "We go too low we risk rain and sopping."


    "Doesn''t this class of ship have good lift?"


    "It does... but I hate storm riding."


    "More than pirates?"


    Grath contemplated this. The Flounder had the lift. If they tossed all big weights, it could handle a major rain soakage. Lightning and winds were more risky, but it could handle the strikes... probably...


    "Alright, let''s drop it in. You get the rain reject dust and look for wet spots. I''ll pilot."


    "Okay."


    Grath went back to the small balloon he had been dumping cloudwool from earlier and pulled more of its fluffy guts out. As they fell slowly down, darkness fell over the little ship...!


    Wait, we haven''t dropped that much; it shouldn''t be this dark?!!


    Grath looked up abruptly! Above them, a massive ship hovered, blocking out the weak light of the sun that barely penetrated the dark cloud. Its lower decks alone were larger than the Flounder. Ballistas stood in rows at its flanks. Its black flags and tail ribbons rippled lightly in the wind. He heard a small sound from the ship''s belly: a shout, like a tiny squeaking mouse across the expanse of clouds. Then men appeared like ants crawling out of a disturbed mound. Ballistas began to rotate down and towards the Flounder!!!! Grath judged the distance in precise terror. They were too close, he knew. He struck out, his hands flying, releasing the drag balloon and every lift balloon except the second to smallest one. The Flounder creaked and drifted down sharply. The first ballista bolt slammed into the hull balloon 30 digits from him. Grath ignored it, feverishly turning levers and pulling lines; he forced the Flounder into a spiral. Trarn aimed up and loosed a splitter bolt towards the pirate vessel. Screams rang out. Multiple screams? How many people did he hit with that one bolt? Grath pushed the thought aside.


    "Keep it up!!!" he shouted. Letting go of the controls, Grath left the Flounder in its spiral and ran towards the ballista bolt stuck in the Flounder, as multiple more ballista bolts rained down at random across the ship. Each with a tiny silken line attached. Grath sprinted about, cutting lines all across the ship. But he would be no match for them soon. Trarn loosed bolt after bolt. From the cover of the top tent, he cocked the giant crossbow lever and let loose glass salvoes again and again. Each splitter bolt sent a flurry of glass shards, and each time they flew, two or even more pirates were struck. Even if the pirates ducked behind their armored hull for cover, Trarn would hit them as soon as any part of their body was exposed. He was like a rain of death. But it will not last. The pirates had not been aiming to kill. At first, they meant to take them alive and make them slaves, but with every death of a pirate, this possibility dwindled. Grath knew he had little time. He panted desperately. The air was thicker now, but he was exerting himself well beyond what his lungs could keep up with for long. He rasped ragged breaths as he clambered down the Flounder''s side to cut yet another line. But suddenly, the line went taut. The Flounder rolled violently, flipping Grath up into the air. He came down hard on the Flounder''s side and bounced so forcefully he was flung free of the craft. His dagger came free of its sheath, spiraling into the abyss. He clutched his sword and cord cutter. Only his tether line saved him. He swung violently from it. The line tied about his waist threatened to tear Grath in two. He screamed under the gut-rending pressure before slamming into the Flounder yet again. There he clung like a drowning rat holding to a piece of driftwood. The Flounder was strung up now. Five different harpoons with twisted cords were plunged into the Flounder. Grath gasped desperately for air, then fumbled in his coat pockets. He pulled a small vial of klienah flower nectar from where he had left it tied. A little he had kept after selling the rest. With shaking hands, he uncorked it and slurped it down. The effects were not instant. He scrambled to the harpoon cords for now.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.Trarn was tired too. The ship''s tent had kept him from being flung free like Grath had been, and few ballista bolts had come near him. He knew better than Grath; the pirates weren''t going to try to kill him. And they wouldn''t give up easily either. Blessed Cloudkin are a rare commodity¡ªone worth a few lives to pirates used to risking it all for plunder. But Trarn would not go easy. He loaded a flat wide-headed glass bolt. Now that the Flounder had stopped spiraling wildly, Trarn''s accuracy was even higher, and the pirate ship was even closer. It likely had a lift bladder as well as the top lift balloons, but this would still slow them down, Trarn assumed. He unleashed the broad cutting bolt directly for the largest remaining balloon''s connecting cord. It floated away quickly; as the cord separated, the pirate ship drifted down more rapidly now. Rain began pelting both ships as they descended into the storm cloud''s lower depths. Trarn groaned, visibility was getting worse. He loaded his second and last cutting bolt and aimed at the next largest balloon. But suddenly he spotted a harpoon bolt arching up from the top of the pirate ship. It stabbed deep into the free-floating lift balloon he had cut loose earlier and began to drag the balloon back down!

 Thirteen

    Trarn watched the pirate balloon he had just cut loose swing slowly back and forth on its newly harpoon-pinned line. More harpoon lines punched into the Flounder from above. He had stopped bolting the lower deck pirate crew for only a few moments, and the Flounder was already irreparably caught. I need another target! Trarn whirled his eyes about. Dozens of windows opened and closed in his field of view. Possibilities, all poor. The pirate hulk was built with so many redundant defenses. Its rudder fin and wings had far too many and too thick ropes to bolt loose. Only the lift balloons hung by single lines, but they were heavily protected, and there were too many of them. Suddenly, his eyes alighted on a massive cut in a singular thick line. The hanging weights! The largest one had a cut in its line. The pirate ship had been through a fight recently. There were patches in its balloon and fresh replacement ropes for steering and wings. But they hadn''t gotten to that rope yet. He knew he could hit the line. But would it break? One way to find out. Trarn''s last cutter bolt hurtled out across the misty air. It struck the gash deep in the twisted silken fibers. The gash widened massively. A few dozen strands now held the massive bag of galena. Splayed fibers wound out from the cord like twisted tree roots. Its remaining strands stretched, but they held. Trarn was so intent on that one perilous rope he didn''t notice the ballista-launched net until it struck. The Flounder''s top tent rocked and crumpled from the impact. Trarn kicked and scrambled in the mess of fabric suddenly wrapped around him.


    "GRATH, THE PIRATE WEIGHTS!!!"


    Trarn shouted as loudly as he dared. Fibrous strands pinned his arms to his chest, and he couldn''t reach his glass knife easily.


    "Hi, little archer."


    A jovial voice spoke somewhere above the mess of fabric and net. Trarn froze; a large hand grabbed him by the tunic on his back. The fingers gripped a fistful of his tunic and flight suit. Trarn struggled, but the hand shoved down. It pinned him, bending his ribs. He couldn''t breathe! Terror shook him as he kicked his legs madly. His back spasmed from the exertion, and sudden agony shot up his spine like lightning.


    Grath heard Trarn''s quiet shout. He spun towards the pirate ship, glancing at its weights. Its lowest, heaviest weight sack hung by a few strands. Grath didn''t have his crossbow, though. And he could never land that shot if he did. The Flounder floated sideways like a dying fish. Even after he had cut 3 harpoon lines, 7 more had replaced them. Worse still, pirates had started boarding. Two ziplined down the harpoon bolts. One leaped nimbly from the pirate ship, falling slowly towards the Flounder. He was under the effects of float elixir, no doubt. Grath knew they wouldn''t take him alive. I am not cloudkin or another valuable "commodity." At most, they might pause to confirm that I am not, if I am lucky. Ahhh, well, the time has finally come, then. I haven''t been avoiding death. Grath felt the klienah elixir flowing through his veins now. All the injuries, new and fading, that he had received¡ªthe leatherhead vulture''s bite to his ankle, that one shard of glass from a pirate splitter bolt that sliced across his chest a month or so ago, the recent talon gouges to his shoulder from the burrowing owl¡ªfell away. The tightness of those scars and the still-fresh pain of those wounds vanished like smoke. Like adrenaline but more focused, he bypassed the pain and nausea of altitude sickness. He would fight until he collapsed. The pirate still falling for the next few moments, Grath ignored. The other two... One was a little larger than Grath; he wielded a slavers'' cleaver club, a single-edged, wedge-shaped blade with a fist-sized stone lashed to its thicker side. It was probably ironwood. The other, a smaller pirate, about Grath''s size but bulkier, carried a glass-tipped short staff. Both men held shields with no emblem, and their skin was copper-tinged. Raegon pirates. They were one of Prattia''s biggest obstacles in conquering the Eathean prairies. Raegon used to be a small kingdom formed around the largest Eathean lake. But once that lake suddenly dried up 70 years ago, the cursed fog claimed Raegon''s homeland. The small nation became refugees, mercenaries, and slaves in a mere few months. Oh, and pirates too. Grath charged across the sideways hull balloon of the Flounder. The cotton material bulged here and there under his feet as the sideways pine skeleton of the ship struggled to contain the massive balloon. Grath had to avoid stumbling in the rain-slicked cotton cloth. The spear man was not as close, so Grath charged the big man first. Black walnut, wood-paddle blade met ironwood cleaver.


    Stolen novel; please report.CLUNK!!


    Grath''s arm shook, his hand ringing from the impact. But he only rode the recoil and whirled the blade in a series of circles.


    Clunk, clack, click, clunk.


    Like a woodpecker on klienah nectar. Grath struck again and again. The big pirate''s defense was good, but Grath spotted a flaw. He struck hard against the pirate''s shield, changing his strike into a shove at the last second while keeping the man''s shield between him and the ironwood cleaver. The shove unbalanced the pirate. He stumbled. Grath didn''t relent. In a flurry of blows, he broke the man''s shield arm at the shoulder, then his jaw, then his skullcap. The spear man was almost to him now. He stopped short, 20 digits away, and swung his spear. The man was way too far away to reach Grath, but the spear''s head detached and hurtled towards Grath like a glistening glass dart. Grath hadn''t expected this. He threw up his arms to block, and the glass dart bit into his left forearm, piercing nearly through it. Beneath, my misty grave! Grath swore internally. He quickly dropped his guard and began to sprint towards the man but was stopped short by a sudden grisly tug on his arm. Grath had misunderstood the pirate''s odd weapon. The staff acted as a sort of fishing pole. A near-invisible silk thread of the finest quality now led from the staff''s tip to a barbed glass spine in Grath''s arm. With a sickening grin, the pirate whipped the staff back. The shard ripped out of Grath''s forearm. Blood splattered across the Flounder''s balloon. The pirate wasted no time in spinning the shard in a wide loop and back at him. Grath could barely perceive it slicing towards him from the left; it was almost invisible in the misty air and rain. He ducked by sheer judgment alone. The glass shard sliced through the rain above his head. With all his might, Grath lunged forward. The whip was still on the backlash. He just had to close the distance. With 3 steps, he was nearly in range. The glass shard whizzed back around, hurtling towards him too fast to see. Grath brought the flat of his blade up to shield his left side. With a loud thockking noise, the shard stuck deep into the wood. Grath yanked the slack thread to himself and cut it with his cord cutter in one clean motion. Now he faced the staff-wielding pirate head-on. Blood dripped from his left arm, and behind that man, the falling pirate was just landing fresh and uninjured, wielding two short ironwood paddle swords...

 Fourteen

    A staff is a tricky weapon. Most unskilled wielders use it from its middle, expecting the benefit of better defense. But unless you know the proper forms, this method is foolish. Wise opponents use the staff as a spear and a long club, interchangeably switching to suit their needs with blinding speed. The pirate swung his like a two-handed club for Grath''s head. Grath deflected the force of the staff past him with the flat of his blade before kicking the pirate in the throat a split second later. The man stumbled away while his ally leapt over him towards Grath. This was the pirate with the dual swords. He twisted his body through the air like a cyclone. With the added effect of elixir 7, he skimmed through the air, feet barely touching the balloon beneath him. Grath blocked slash after slash. Wooden blades clicked and clacked like a chorus of fiddler crabs. His sword was larger and had more "mmph" to it, but his opponent moved like a hummingbird, zipping about him on the deck. He harried Grath, keeping him from finishing off the staff-wielding pirate, who was doubled over on the balloon, holding his throat and desperately trying to breathe. Grath switched tactics. He couldn''t catch this opponent with a heavy cut, but maybe he could beat him in speed. Taking his own sword''s hilt in both hands, he twisted his blade into a myriad of back-and-forth half circles. Now it was speed against speed; Grath began to lose. His opponent was quick on his feet to the point where if he was ever in danger, he could easily backstep out of Grath''s range. But any time Grath missed a block or misjudged a feint, his own backsteps were barely passable. He took a glancing blow to his right forearm, and his wrist muscles sang from the blow. If it weren''t for the klienah nectar flowing in his veins, Grath would have dropped his sword. But he held on. His bones had not shattered.


    Gotta change tactics!


    Grath decided on "Last Ruin." This technique is not exclusive to Cloud Shrike style. He again clenched his sword in both hands and brought it up, forcibly relaxing his chest as much as he could. The dual swords pirate stepped back, expecting the blow but then stopped just out of striking distance.


    "That''s a fool''s gamble," he chuckled, grinning broadly.


    "Not if I am quicker."


    "Quicker''s got nothing to do with it."


    Grath watched the throat-kicked pirate with the staff getting up slowly, and worse, above him, ballistas began pointing down towards him.


    Twunnnnng!!!


    One ballista fired at Grath. A weighted net hurtled towards him. It spread like a malevolent jellyfish as it flew. Grath grinned broadly; he lunged to the right, practically diving to the ground but pushing himself up at the last second. His free left arm reached out and gripped the edge of the net by one of its trailing galena weight sacks. The net hurtled in a mad arc as Grath whipped it around and back towards the dual sword pirate. The man was ensnared in a moment. Grath was at him a moment later. The staff wielder tried to stop him, but Grath fended him off with his sword and landed a hard kick to the snared pirate''s head. After that, the fight with his staff-wielding opponent was quick. When Grath shattered his left arm, he fled.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation."BOLT HIM!!"


    The man shrieked in panic as he fled unarmed across the Flounder. Grath wanted to pursue him, but the multiple ballistas trained on him changed his mind; he dropped to the deck. Twenty-seven ballistas loosed glass shards simultaneously. Grath was already heaving the unconscious, netted, dual sword pirate up to shield his body. The shards rained down like hail. A large section of the Flounder''s hull balloon and the pirate covering Grath were cut to ribbons. Grath felt dozens of shards pierce his flesh. Most are shallow; wait, no, my stomach! The pirate had been conscious enough to try to shield his own body with his ironwood paddle swords. At least that''s what Grath would later guess. But much of the splinter glass had still gone through. And, of the bigger pieces, at least one had pierced deep into his gut. Grath felt the cloud wool beneath him buck and flutter lightly. The cloth was so torn, bits of wool were floating out through the holes. This is my chance! While they recock the ballistas! Grath whirled his left arm about himself. With his cord cutter, he sliced a massive circle in the cloth. Wool tumbled loose, floating into the now pouring rain of the storm cloud. The Flounder began to sag even harder, its weight dragging on the harpoon lines.


    Swtchhh!!!


    Grath barely noticed the sound of the pirate''s heaviest galena sack, the one Trarn had mostly severed, finally tearing free. But the difference was instantly noticeable. The Flounder dropped hard away as the pirate hulk lifted up into the cloud. With a whining noise, the ballista harpoon reels began to wind out, the sudden weight too great for them. Grath stared about in surprise. What''s going on? Dumping a little cloud wool wouldn''t be enough for this? His eyes settled on the heavy pirate galena sack snared in the Flounder''s top deck! It had fallen directly from the pirate hulk to the Flounder! Grath''s giddy focus broke into feverish terror.


    "NO NO nooo!" He exclaimed, charging across the balloon as it sagged and continued to eject cloud wool. The harpoon lines began releasing all over the Flounder with a series of loud twangs like broken harp strings. The next volley of ballista rounds was weak. Many of the ballistas were yanked in odd directions by the harpoon cables, and the Flounder was twirling wildly as it fell. Some pirates resorted to shooting crossbows, but the shower of glass largely missed Grath. A small piece dug into his back.


    TRARN, BURY YOU, GET THE WEIGHT OFF!!!


    Grath cursed as he stumbled to the balloon. Blood now poured from his stomach. He didn''t feel it. The elixir was the only thing keeping Grath upright. He cut at the tangled wing lines of the Flounder''s left wing where the weight had landed. His hands shook horribly, and he missed the cords twice, but with a dozen quick motions, he cut it loose. The sack lay in the balloon now, its galena stone bulk bending the fabric beneath it. Grath bent his back against it. Where was Trarn?! Was he dead?! Grath heaved with all his might, his feet sinking into the balloon. The weight moved slowly, deforming the balloon as it rolled. As it approached the Flounder''s turned-over top deck, it began to sag the cloth at the balloon''s edge so much that it rolled and tumbled over the brink and away into the abyss...