The 13th Paragon Part I: Scrapper: Odyssium, #1

By C.A. Bryers

Salla Saar was a promising explorer once, living a whirlwind life of adventure alongside his partner, Natke Orino. One bad day was all it took to shatter that life to pieces. Now, he's a scrapper—a pirate riding the wild seas of the Odyssan Archipelago.
 

His crew's latest job is simple: escort members of a shadow syndicate called Gargazant Ikahn to a clandestine meeting, no questions asked. However, that simple job turns out to be but the opening gambit in a long-dead empire's return to glory…and Salla has unwittingly played a part.
 

There's only one path to redemption, and that road leads him back into the past, to Natke. If he can't set things right and stop the syndicate from reaching a lost city of untold power, there is only one outcome: WAR.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.A. Bryers
• Release date: Feb 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781536525793

C.A. Bryers

C.A. Bryers is the author of the Odyssium series, which began with THE 13th PARAGON duology comprised of SCRAPPER and FROM ASHES OF EMPIRES. When not writing, C.A. Bryers enjoys sculpting, spending time with his family, and experimenting to find the magical number of minutes chocolate chip cookie bits should sit in applesauce before they are appropriately mushy and ready for consumption. He currently resides in frostbitten Minnesota--the exact opposite of the tropical paradise that is his ideal (at least part-time) place to park his flip-flops. Until then, he is moderately content writing about such locales.

Book preview

1

Windchimes sang a tinkling song as the air miles out to sea blew through the open window. From his bed, Salla Saar stared up at the ceiling of a living space that was a stateroom in name only, one that any captain worth his salt would reject out of hand if offered. But even though Salla was indeed captain of this tough old girl, the Mayla Rose , he wore that title like clothes stolen from a dead man.

Sitting upright, he pushed his fingers through his hair, which inevitably caught in the tied kinks of his knotlocks. He had to remind himself yet again that he was nearing the end of his twenties, nearing the termination point in a man’s life when he could convincingly wear such a youthful hairstyle. He couldn’t believe it. It seemed like he’d just taken to the sea six weeks ago and, as some might say, thrown his life away to become a scrapper.

Six years out here, he said with a grumble and cast his eyes to the bedside table.

An empty bottle rattled back and forth inside a crudely fashioned holder. Beside it, his comm crackled, even if the transmission light didn’t work anymore.

"It’s getting to be that time, Sall. We’re all set out here, so you might wanna scoot your skinny cheeks off that bed and join the party."

He smirked. Good ol’ Dao. Dao Zhan was the Rose’s primary helmsman, whose nature was so jovial and frank that Salla had to work hard not to grow too fond of the big Shozoan.

Grabbing the comm, he clicked the transmission button. Be right down.

Salla shambled over to the closet door, his head feeling as if it was stuffed with cotton. Through the fog, he tried to remember what the plan for today was as he buckled his belt. When it came to him, he plucked a thin white shirt from the closet floor, gave it a sniff, and slipped it on without bothering to button it up.

With that, he opened the door and trudged down the staircase that descended alongside the pilothouse. The side door opened and Dao appeared, all six and a half feet and over three hundred pounds of him. As if his size alone was deemed by nature too imposing to fit in with the rest of society, Dao had chubby cheeks and a boyish face that had an astounding capability of putting others at ease. It was early in the day and the sun had only just begun to beat down upon the Rose, and already the tattooed mound of flesh that was Dao Zhan was gleaming with sweat.

What do you think? the big man asked with a sweep of his hand across the deck.

Salla scanned the deck of his eighty-foot cruiser. Old salvaged lounge chairs had been placed here and there, and lights had been strung from the roof of the stateroom to angle down to the deck. Brightly colored tattercloth had been draped over the protective metal plating that had been retrofitted onto the railings. As music thumped from the decrepit intercom system on the pilothouse, Salla took in a deep breath of salty air and nodded his approval.

Makes me feel like I should have a drink in my hand. Seems wrong that I don’t.

Is that a hint? Dao just laughed. Too bad for you, then. Gotta keep that spongy gray thing in your head clear, right?

Too late, Salla said under his breath, fixing his eyes upon a shape reclined upon one of the lounge chairs.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that his head was still foggy from last night’s revelries, the sight of Kitayne threw an extra dose of chaos into the mix. Over the past two years, she’d been an ever-present drug that had caused as much pain as it did pleasure. Being Salla’s friend, however, Dao had made it his mission to make him go straight.

Though he could hear Dao’s grunt of disapproval beside him, Salla admired the thoughtful placement of each of her many tattoos that accentuated the luxuriant curves of her almost naked body. Her long, wild hair—a vibrant red today—was slung over the back of her chair as she bathed in the radiance of the late morning sun.

He felt a tug on his arm, but with his mind and body in two separate places, he felt it distantly, like being roused from sleep.

I should probably get some lotion for her, he said with a dreamy smile, and the phantom shaking became more insistent.

Salla, Dao’s voice came in a low growl.

What? He shrugged, still staring. "That sun’ll give her a nasty burn and fade her tattoos. I’m only thinking—"

I know what you were thinking. We got work to do, remember?

A figure appeared from the forward hatch leading below, the entirety of his attention focused on not spilling a single drop from the drinks he held clutched in each hand. As he passed alongside Kitayne, however, that unerring focus slipped, and the young man almost tripped over one of the lounge chairs before regaining his balance.

Um, Dao? He leaned incrementally closer to the big Shozoan. Who is that and why is he on my ship?

That’s the new kid. Hired him on yesterday afternoon. Name’s uh…Kisherman? Kitterton? Dao shrugged. Never mind. Ask him yourself.

The young man beamed in exuberance as he approached and took a sip. "You’re the captain, I take it? I’m Croe. Croe Kidson. Let me start off by saying that this is the best job ever. I mean, how lucky am I that not only do I get to work salvaging operations with all of you on this beautiful ocean every day, but you welcome me aboard with all this? he said, sweeping one arm out across the festivities just as Dao had. I’d say I’m speechless, but obviously I’m not, so…well, so thank you, Captain. Once we get to work, I’ll make sure you don’t think of me as just some rook for very long."

Salla traded an uneasy glance with Dao. You did tell him—

But the young man was gone, turning to amble toward one of the chairs just as another figure roared past him, knocking one of his glasses across the deck. The running man did not slow but instead used one of the lounge chairs as a ramp to launch himself over the railing and out into the sea. Peering over the side, Salla watched Lodi bob to the surface amid the white froth surrounding him, his shaggy, dusty brown hair plastered to his head.

Stay close to the ship, you hear? Dao shouted down at him.

Lodi offered up a half-present laugh in return. Just doin’ my thing, boss.

Salla shot Dao a look. Did he just call you the boss?

It’s Lodi, you know? Dao gave a helpless gesture. Brain’s been baking in the sun for so long I’m surprised sometimes he even knows who I am. Not the brightest kid to begin with, but just saying.

"Whoa! a voice from behind called out. Look at that!"

The new recruit stood with one hand dripping wet, the other still holding fast to the remaining drink as he stared skyward. Overhead, the bluish-white glow of vertical propulsor jets rippled the air beneath, distorting the vast underbelly of the air freighter. Four enormous propellers whipped furiously from above the decking to aid in keeping it aloft. It cruised along sixty feet above the water without slowing, leaving the idle Mayla Rose in its wake.

Wave to the nice people on the nice ship, Kit, Salla called out, offering a limp wave of his own.

From the water off the port side, Lodi howled and shook his hands in delight. Dao leaned over the railing, his voice urgent.

"Lodi, get up here now."

So, Salla said, watching the air freighter drift off into the distance. Do you want to do the honors, or do you want me to?

You’re the captain, the big man said, indifferent.

Inwardly, Salla recoiled from the word as he strode across the deck, ensuring he kept his pace cool and casual. He tapped his comm.

Distance looks about right. Got the generator all juiced up, Quiss?

The comm crackled, and Quiss’s low, gruff voice responded. "Same as it’s been for the last few months. It builds a charge like it’s got gum in its guts. Might need another minute or two."

Salla eyed the freighter as he walked, still waving dumbly. A small group was gathering at its aft railing. Two or three appeared to be simply curious. It was the other four that had him concerned. Of their number, two were watching them through optiscopes. Then, one darted off toward the bow.

Time to move it or lose it, Quiss. They’re getting twitchy up there.

"Then move it, he said, though what followed was drowned out by squeals and static from the comm. …as soon as I can."

Good enough.

Salla put on a burst of speed. He tore back the tattercloth from the railing at the bow, revealing the grappler cannons. Pulling back on the handles flaring from each side like the tusks of a monstrous othrocci boar, Salla trained the barrels upon the air freighter’s broad stern.

The wind carried distant shouts of alarm down to the Rose, but it was too late. Salla squeezed the triggers and twin harpoons shot into the sky, trailing thick cables that sliced through the air. A second later, the massive shafts embedded themselves in the tail of the fleeing vessel.

A cheer rose up from the ranks of the Rose, all except the new recruit. Croe stood with his mouth slung so far open he was in danger of tripping over it. The glass tumbled from his hand, and shattered across the deck.

W-what’s going on? he wondered aloud, eyes brimming with a newfound terror as he looked from face to face.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Lodi leaped over the railing, his body dripping seawater as he tore his protective vest from one of the deck coolers that had stopped working years ago. Across the deck, Kitayne was strapping her vest on as well and then withdrew her slide-action rangoshot from a hidden sleeve on the back of her lounge chair.

Just as Salla was about to arm himself, the Mayla Rose gave a massive, heaving lurch. Everyone was thrown backward as the bow lifted upward like a breaching whale. Striking his back hard on the unyielding deck and tumbling backward, Salla had to grab hold of one of the stray cargo lines to keep from sliding any further aft.

He hammered the button on his comm. Quiss, hit it now!

"They made a run too fast, Salla. Slack got taken up too quick, and now I’ve got torn wiring down here. Stand by."

The Mayla Rose bounded across the chop as it was dragged mercilessly behind the air freighter. Instead of catching the freighter, now they were the ones who were caught. If Quiss couldn’t fix the lines running to the grappler, they had no choice but to sever the cables connecting them to their would-be prey.

"Zhan! Put some speed on and take the tension off between us and the ship!" Quiss bellowed through the comm.

The engines were roaring halfway through Quiss’s barked command, and like a wounded dog, the Rose limped forward at first before finding a rhythm and charging ahead. Her bow started to dip back down toward the sea, and the taut cables sagged.

Salla relinquished his grasp from the cargo line. Quiss? How long’s this gonna take?

Sparks flew from the metal portions of the decking, and wooden sections exploded in bursts of splinters. Scrambling for cover, Salla raced aft, as did Lodi and Kitayne. Croe Kidson, on the other hand, stood paralyzed in horror.

Hey, man! You’re gonna get shot out there! Lodi called out from behind the pilothouse.

I think he knows that, Lodi. The dumb kid just can’t do anything about it, Kitayne said, flustered. She pounded an open palm against the back of the structure. Salla, I know he’s been with you from the start, and I know he’s like a hundred and ninety years old now, but I think it’s time to retire Quiss from pushing one single damn button to send the takedown pulse up the grappler lines, don’t y—

Salla darted from behind the shelter of the pilothouse, shielding his head with his arms from the gunfire descending upon the ship, as if it would do him any good. When he was close enough to the catatonic rook, Salla wrapped his arms about the newcomer and threw him to the deck. The pair landed at the edge of the hatch leading below deck and tipped straight into it. The adrenaline was flowing so freely, Salla didn’t even feel the impacts of his body against the steps on the way down.

With a grimace, Salla extricated himself from underneath Croe and tapped his comm. Dao, how are we holding up?

"Our girl’s tough, but she’s taking a beating. I thought—"

The Mayla Rose rocked as if shoved by a giant’s hand, and Salla stiffened. What was that?

Mother’s bones, we’re gonna die, Croe said, his voice almost a wheezing squeak.

"Hang on, Sall. A long bout of silence followed. So, yeah. Kit says that was part of your stateroom’s roof. They’ve got heavier armaments than anything mentioned in the intel Ninso gave us."

Salla’s thoughts went black. If we knock this ship down, Ninso’s finder’s fee is going down with it. Quiss! How much longer?

When no answer came, Salla looked down the hall, back toward the engine room. A few feet to his right, handles of the rust-splotched cable cutters bounced against the wall upon which it was hooked. Leaden thumps pounded from the decking overhead, each bullet strike acting as a hammer’s blow upon his resolve.

Dao, I think we need to cut those cables.

"I was kind of thinking the same thing, truth be told. Those gunners are chewing us up pretty good."

He drew in a deep breath and pulled down the cutters. Okay. Tell Lodi I need some suppression fire. You got that?

"Got it, Sall. Good luck."

Planting one foot on the bottom step and his free hand on the railing, Salla waited for Lodi to make his move. But as the seconds ticked by, the gunners aboard the air freighter continued to pelt the Rose. Something whistled past his right arm, and he saw daylight through a hole just over his head.

Dao, what’s going on up there?

"Pulse firing in five seconds. The voice that responded on the open channel was not Dao’s but Quiss’s. Three…two…one."

A huge whomp filled the cramped subdeck hallway. The air seemed to crackle about Salla, and he could smell the faint whiff of a sudden, massive electrical discharge. In that instant, the gunfire from above ceased.

He scrambled onto the deck just in time to see the vertical propulsor jets go dark. The overhead propellers slowed, and distant, scattered wails of dismay called out across the ocean as the air freighter began to fall from the sky. It hammered into the sea with a great whoosh, the whole of its frame disappearing behind an explosion of white froth that was thrown in all directions upon impact.

When it was visible again, the air freighter remained afloat, though it was listing heavily to its starboard side. Salla let the cable cutters drop to the deck as he turned to face his crew.

Gentlemen! It seems we’ve happened upon a ship in need of salvage!

They erupted into another round of cheers. In their midst, Salla spotted the rook whose name he’d already forgotten. His face was a sheet of white and went even paler when Dao planted one of the older rangoshots in his hands.

Don’t get too excited, now, the big Shozoan told him. These are loaded, but just for show, you got it? Point the noisy end that way, tell ’em what to do, and we sail away a little bit richer, right?

Croe stared at him, unblinking. Then his cheeks bulged, the rangoshot clattered to the deck, and he bolted for the railing. A second later, he was chumming the waters with his breakfast.

Salla sidled up to Dao. "You did tell him what he signed on for, didn’t you?"

To be honest, the other said with a scratch at the back of his head, he was so excited and talked so much, I’m…not really sure I got the chance.

With a shrug, Salla turned back toward the fallen freighter. Bring us to her, Dao. Let’s get to work.

2

Only a few hours had elapsed since night had laid its blanket over the Odyssan Archipelago, and the Rose was still and silent. There were a few lanterns left glowing at this late hour, and fewer crewmen still were up and about. Salla Saar reclined on a bench with his back to the railing, his face listless and eyes staring across the deck. The light from a full moon bathed his surroundings in its pallid glow and danced off the undulating waves, which glinted like a field of gemstones.

Over a week had passed since the Mayla Rose had taken the air freighter. Now, the ship lingered at the outskirts of Odyssan waters like a boy fearful of his father’s reprisal, waiting for tempers to calm and for memories to lapse into forgetfulness. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t.

Salla’s hand absently played at the gathering of mismatched necklaces hanging just below his collarbone. Tired of thinking of the predicament the Rose had found herself in, he retrieved his tjell from beside his feet. He held the bowl-shaped acoustic chamber in his fingers, looking it over as if deciding whether to fumble around with it or to remain ensconced in silence. His thumb brushed across all eight strings, eyes peering into the black hole in its center. Sighing, Salla nestled the instrument against his abdomen and plucked out a few notes.

Still in tune, he thought, which encouraged him a little further in his efforts. He strummed the tjell from top to bottom and let his left hand thump out a bit of percussion on the flat wood underneath the strings. Drawing in a deep breath, he let his instincts and memory do the rest.

The song that flowed from the tjell was slow and languid, much like the seas tonight. It was driven and filled with purpose one moment, and then it sank into a depressive refrain the next. There was hope there—plenty of it, in fact. But there was also loneliness and hurt, and the sense that things just might not end as sweetly as one would like. The last lingering chord sang out into the world of Odyssium, and as the silence swallowed it, Salla’s open palm batted out two final beats.

When his trance-like state abated, Kitayne was standing there as if she’d materialized out of the air. She smiled then, her face aglow from the yellow cast of the nearest lantern. The breeze wafting across the deck of the Mayla Rose billowed her hip-length sheer black nightshirt, and she took a seat on the bench beside him.

She looked unlike he had seen her in months. There was a sense of innocence to her tonight. Perhaps the time spent lying low this last week, away from anything to do with scrapping, had brought out a side in her that was seldom seen. Knocking down the air freighter had been profitable—of that there was no doubt. But it also threatened the days ahead for the Rose and her crew.

Kitayne sidled closer, stripping off her coarseness and the sometimes vicious slant to her personality as easily as a snake shedding its skin. She looked much like she had the night he’d met her two years ago or thereabouts—soft and enchanting. And of the spectrum of colors she liked to dye her hair, tonight she’d chosen to revert to her natural shade, a honey blond. It was even styled more conservatively than usual. No wild, tangled mane that gave the impression she might be a stray Crullrider from a distance, but drawn back into a tail that accentuated the graceful beauty of her face.

He knew better than to trust it. Kit had a cutthroat side to her, one she kept on display more often than not. When he’d first seen the harder edge to her personality, he’d thought it was an armor worn to protect herself. After all, scrapping was a dirty, ugly business teeming with all manner of unsavory sorts.

But as time passed, it had become all too apparent that the hard and fierce armor Kit had seemingly donned was no armor at all. It was who she was, through and through: a woman of violent passions and ruthless greed. As to the unsavory sorts with whom they often dealt, Kitayne had proven that she could be as merciless as any of them.

Kitayne laid her head against Salla’s arm, and he could feel the prickling of the closely trimmed sides of her head on his skin. Salla stiffened the way he might if he’d discovered insects crawling inside his clothes. He couldn’t remember the last time she had been affectionate in this way. What he was accustomed to was normally a hasty, hungry affair bereft of any true feeling. Now, with his suspicions at their saturation point, Salla had wondered long enough.

Can I help you?

I heard the song, she admitted. Haven’t heard you play that one for ages, so I thought I’d see if there was anything the matter.

An eyebrow lifted. Since when have either of us cared if something was wrong with the other?

Kitayne just laughed. Oh, Salla. You always know how to tickle me.

I have elevated tickling to a high art, Salla said, letting his guard down a bit.

He knew why she was acting this way. Kitayne was well versed in all the tricks of getting out of trouble. It didn’t matter who she angered or offended, or how deep she’d gotten herself. Kitayne was an eel, and she could squirm her way out of anything. Her reasons for engaging in this little ploy could not have been more transparent.

Certainly there was blame to go around for getting the crew in their current predicament, but most of it belonged to her. Although the air freighter had been Ninso’s find, Kitayne was the reckless whip-lasher who’d pursued the lead to its misbegotten conclusion. She had been the one to dismiss Quiss’s warnings, and when Salla had shut the prospective salvaging down cold, she had been the one to convince him otherwise.

The memory of her tactics to do just that brought a mirthful smile to his lips. But another glance at her brought him to the present, and he shelved the recollection for another time. She could play innocent and coy like no one else. He didn’t believe it for a second, of course, but she wore it so well that any man would want to believe.

Wanna head upstairs? she purred in his ear. We’ve got a great view of the sky now.

The offer was tempting, and there was little reason to say no. He wasn’t mad at her. After all, how could he blame her for what she’d done? Kitayne was simply being Kitayne. To behave otherwise would be a betrayal of her very nature. She was manipulative and underhanded, and if anyone were to admit to trusting her, even Salla would be hard pressed not to call him a fool.

Still, there was love for her. A sort of love, he supposed. Not the blissful storybook kind—nothing of the sort, in fact. Instead, it was based on a unique kind of companionship, a commodity that didn’t require too much from one or the other.

Well? she prodded. "Mother’s bones, Salla, you aren’t still upset about all this, are you?"

Salla sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "You know how I am, Kit. Things don’t get to me. Sure, the Odyssan Watch managed to catch up to the Aurele and throw her whole crew into a shackledown after robbing that pleasure cruiser, but who pays attention to that sort of thing? Not me."

Oh. You are upset.

"Then there was the Gallast Mach last month. Salla laughed. Those Garnocks probably had it coming, though. You know why?"

Kitayne shrugged, feigning ignorance. Bad manners?

Come on, Kit, you know this. How do we stay low in the sights of the Odyssan Watch, or anyone else?

She glared at him. We subdue and salvage the ship. Her crew walks away unharmed every time.

Now, cast your mind back. Come on, close your eyes. His fingers gently brushed her lids shut. It’s a sunny day, gulls are singing, and air freighters are falling from the sky. Remember?

Her half-hearted grin sank a few degrees. Sure, Salla.

Picture it, Kit. We’ve taken the bridge. Hands are up everywhere, and Lodi comes up from below. He scratches his head in that lovably dimwitted way he does, and says there’s something wrong with the cargo, Salla drawled, casting his hand across the sheet of stars overhead dramatically.

Salla, please…

"Me, being the hands-on captain I am—and I know what you’re thinking, don’t think it, Salla joked, watching the bored look of a lectured child leave Kit’s face momentarily. I ask what the problem is. Lodi takes me down to the hold. All the ship’s systems are still sizzling, so we break out the handbeams. He leads me to the crates, and then he shows me the manifest."

"I know, Salla. Shipment to Empyrion Prime. Government property belonging to the Majdi Order, Kitayne finished for him, tired of the little game. Most of the cargo was theirs."

And see? Look at my face. He brushed his lips across her cheek as a reassurance. Doesn’t jar me for two blinks.

They both knew what it meant in their profession to stumble across property belonging to the Majdi Order. It was to be left alone. The Majdi were a benevolent, some might say mystical people whose way of life had changed the course of the Odyssan Archipelago.

In a region festooned with dictators using armies as both sword and shield, the Majdi had been summoned not by the leaders of these islands, but by the people. The armies and dictators had fallen one-by-one in a campaign that endured for more than a decade. That campaign later became known as The Quelling. It took decades more to root out a handful of entrenched dictatorships, but these last many years had been the archipelago’s most peaceful in generations.

Look. I don’t like having this talk any more than you like hearing it. Point is, the Quelling’s over and most of the little skirmishes that came after it are done with too. The Majdi are looking at smaller problems now—mercs and scrappers, and we have to do what we can to keep our heads down. But that freighter—

"It was a mistake. I get it Salla. Quiss got his old man shivers going because he thought it was too big, but Ninso said it was privately owned. We both know that makes it fair game." Kitayne shuddered as a harsher breeze cut through her thin nightshirt.

Salla chuckled. And he was right.

Kitayne nodded, but not without rolling her eyes. Yeah, yeah. But if he’d bothered to dig deeper, he would’ve found out who contracted the largest capacity of space aboard the freighter.

"Ninso’s too lazy and too caught up in his own problems to be a quality sneak for us. That means we have to be the ones looking into whatever info he brings us and send him back out again if it’s too shallow."

Kitayne gave a carnivorous smile that was all teeth. Salla, if you keep this up, I’m going to withdraw my invitation.

And if I don’t keep this up, I’m never going to hear the end of it from Dao about me going easy on—

"I don’t want you to go easy on me."

Salla cleared his throat, his train of thought careening off the tracks. We’re almost there.

"Almost nothing, Salla. Let’s cut to the end. The teasing and tempting dropped away, and Kitayne’s face went hard. Lodi said whose cargo it was, and I said we smear the crew. But we didn’t, now did we?"

You were overruled, Kittie.

What did I say about calling me that? she snapped.

And what did I say about cutting down crews during a salvage job?

A glimmer of mischief crept into the anger that overshadowed her expression. That it’s bad manners.

Salla gave her an appraising look, as if deciding whether to take her in his arms, or to unburden himself of all the trouble and have her thrown into the nearest shackledown. Each option seemed as logical as the next.

She heaved a defeated sigh. I’m going upstairs alone, aren’t I?

I’ll be up soon, Kit, he promised, taking her hand in his own.

She let the hand slip like a dead fish from his fingers, and sauntered back up to the stateroom. He watched her go, his eyes following that lithe, cat-like body as it slunk its way up the stairs.

He was almost inclined to change his mind then and there, but let his fingers drift again to the tjell. He plucked out a more intricate set of notes this time, a rising and falling melody that resonated with a sense of wistfulness. It was an appropriate choice of song. Not one that he had chosen consciously, but one that came to mind unbidden—the whisper from a muse.

Salla thought of Kitayne as he continued to play into the night. When the tjell called out its final note, Salla’s hand left the instrument to slip into his thigh pocket. Setting the tjell down with one hand, in the other he held a small object wrapped in a dusty brown strip of cloth. Gingerly, he began to unravel it. He was eager to look upon it anew and perhaps glean from it some clue that might identify what it was he had discovered.

Once the wrappings had been discarded, Salla stared at the item in his possession. It was shaped in bronze, only about four inches in length. With wings raised so high the feathers were almost touching, the bird in his hand appeared ready to fly from his grasp with one downward beat of its wings. The sculpting