The Call of Darker Skies

By Chris Bannor, Callum Pearce and Tim Mendees

Unease stirs around the world. The time has come. Something calls. 

It starts as an itch. A need to move. A compulsion to explore. It leads you on by car or train. By ocean liner and airship. But what will you find at the end of your travels?

 

You are invited to join these nine writers on an epic st

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chronicles
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9789189853140

Book preview

The Obsidian Chest

David Green

You ever think of giving all this up? I mean, we’re getting pretty damned long in the tooth, Captain.

Captain Solomon Langridge raised an eyebrow at his first mate. Fine fellow is Zachariah Potter, if not more than a little sour. He closed his eyes as the wind swept through his firebrand beard, almost with enough strength to pull his purple-velvet top hat from his head. Breathing in, he could taste life. It ran strong up there, in the heavens. His skyship, The Dauntless, cut through the air, a band of pirates on her tail.

Solomon corrected himself, a wry smile, a memory of one really, dancing on his lips. He’d stolen their booty, an obsidian chest, sight unseen—treasure’s treasure, his old man used to say—a chase seemed fair. What am I if not a pirate meself? And a damned fine one.

The chest bloomed in his mind. It seemed to call to him, a faint voice tugging at him. He pushed the sensation away.

A volley of musket fire sailed wide of The Dauntless’ mast. So far, luck and range had favoured Solomon and his crew, but wisdom and experience dictated he couldn’t trust those fickle mistresses would shelter them forever.

Opening his eyes, he favoured Zachariah with a grin, white teeth flashing amongst the flames of his beard. Never!

Strapping on his clockwork goggles—lenses letting him zoom in across distances as well as shield his peepers from the whipping wind—Solomon spun and hopped onto the rail, clutching the rigging for balance. His gilded gold and red jacket caught the air and streamed behind him like a cloak, revealing his cutlass and trusty steam-powered revolver. An inspiring sight, if I don’t say so meself. And I do!

He scanned the horizon; three skyships followed in pursuit, each smaller than The Dauntless, but no less of a threat if they worked together. Not virtues pirates often boasted, but Solomon couldn’t rule it out. He fiddled with the magnifiers in his goggles, examining the riffraff giving pursuit. Angry faces and drawn weapons met him.

Solomon laughed. The thrill of the chase! The freedom of the skies! The razor’s edge between life and death! Give this up? I’d throw meself overboard right now if I had to. The Divines strike me if I tell a lie.

Orders, Captain? Zachariah cried above the cracks of gunfire from the pursuers. We can’t hope to last long against three skyships!

Solomon laughed as a gush of steam from The Dauntless’s engines hit him, swinging him off his feet. He rode the plume, nothing but clear air between his feet and the green-blue lands below. With practised bravado, he manoeuvred the ropes, arcing back onto The Dauntless and landing with cat’s grace behind the tiller.

His crew cheered. Of course, they did. How could they not? Pirates gathered around Captain Solomon Langridge like moths to an angry, undying flame. He promised adventure, thrills, the spoils of a pirate’s life. And he delivered.

He threw Zachariah a wink. A grin broke out on his first-mate’s face. I always get to you in the end, don’t I? You sour dog! Damn fine pirate, though.

The villains give chase, Solomon bellowed, drawing his cutlass and holding it to the heavens. Sunlight caught it, causing the steel to shine, and we’ll answer. Crew, man the starboard cannons. When I give the word, aim at the skyship to our far right, and unleash hell on them. Then quiet the forward thrust engines and deploy the landing set at full throttle!

Joyous whoops that started with the word ‘hell’ gave way to confused mutterings.

Quiet the engines, Captain? Full throttle? Zachariah called, confusion plain in his face.

You heard me. Take the steam from our sails. Trust me, we don’t want to be in the way. You do trust me, don’t you?

Aye-aye, Captain! They didn’t hesitate. Why would they? Old Solomon had never let his crew down.

Smiling once more, he jammed his cutlass into its sheath and turned to the tiller, glancing over his shoulder at the skyships gaining on them. Blood roared in his veins; his heart pumped against the confines of his chest. Solomon tossed his head back, letting loose a booming laugh; one daring fate to turn her fickle regard his way.

A pirate’s life for me, till the day I die. Make no mistake, he whispered, closing his eyes and gripping the tiller. Rough wood met his calloused hands as he ran them across the wheel. The Dauntless had served his family for generations. Served them well. He’d upgraded her, fitted new cogs, gears, weapons, but the old girl had seen the Langridges through thick and thin. Don’t let me down, love. Not now. Not today.

Opening his eyes, Solomon spun the tiller…

… then held on with all his strength as The Dauntless skidded sideways through the air, its starboard side facing the pirates giving chase.

Fire!

A hail of projectiles, smoke, and steam answered Solomon’s command as Hell ripped from the bowels of The Dauntless. Orange hues lit up the creases in his face as the volley slammed into the chasing pack, his magnified goggles highlighting the bodies flung from the explosion on wood, metal, cogs and the conflagration as the skyship tore itself apart.

Solomon held his breath, then released through his teeth as he grinned. The centre ship acted in just the way he wanted.

Seeing the explosion, it veered hard to the side, away from the ruined skyship… and right into its fellow sailing beside it.

Still the engines and fire the landing thrusters!

The Dauntless’ forward engines died, and the ship dropped as the explosion of three pirate vessels colliding together racked above it, careering through the sky where Solomon’s crew sailed not moments before.

And still they dropped. Solomon’s stomach rose into his brains, his brains into his hat as his ship plummeted.

He gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the tiller. Bring us back—

The Dauntless rattled and shook. Steam shot from its sides, a white blanket catching the ship and halting its fall. It hovered in place, serene and living to fight another day.

The crew cheered as Solomon pushed away from the tiller, turning his eyes upward as he watched the demise of his pursuers.

Beautiful, isn’t it? he murmured as pirates fell out of the surrounding sky, making their quick journey to the land below. Pity we’ll garner no spoils.

Aye, Captain, Zachariah muttered. Solomon eyed his paler skin, tinted green. He couldn’t blame the man for feeling fishy around the gills. His own stomach had just taken its rightful place again. A fine manoeuvre, make no mistake. What now?

Solomon clapped him on the shoulder. Now, we let the crew make merry while we take a peek at this booty, this obsidian chest. See what all the fuss is about!

The look on his first-mate’s face gave him pause. He expected Zachariah to smile at least, not look beyond him, panic spreading through his twitching muscles and into his eyes.

About to ask him what in the Divines had gotten into him, the words died on Solomon’s lips as a deep shadow covered Zachariah.

He turned, a slow, defeated, heavy lurch.

A ship, four times The Dauntless’ size, blocked the sun from the sky. Hundreds of canons swivelled as one, slaved to some fancy mechanism, and pointed their way.

Damn it, Solomon groused, tearing the goggles from his face. He didn’t need to see the bright yellow uniforms of the men standing at attention on the deck to know what assaulted them. He recognised the ship. The Undying. The Hectorate’s flagship. A fight meant oblivion. Give the order; lay down arms. Let’s hope words’ll work where muscle won’t.

***

Two blonde-haired, statuesque Soldiers of the Hectorate led Solomon through the depth of The Undying. One male, the other female, he fancied them twins, sharing the same high-cheek bones and haughty stare. Though same could be said of any of the Hectorate. Smug bastards.

Their long black coats, made of leather patchworks and gilded with gold thread, appeared immaculate. The entire bloody ship did. The sneer Solomon worked hard to keep from his lips fought its way there again; The Undying, with its gleaming marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and clockwork lanterns, smacked of opulence. Not of the Ways of the Sky, the life of adventure, thrills, and freedom. To Solomon, it resembled a floating mansion.

One with a crew of two-thousand and almost as many cannons.

Solomon gave the order to stand-down with The Undying looming over them, fire reigning from the skies, cutting their victory short. Hectorate soldiers boarded soon after, securing the deck while a squad headed to the captain’s quarters, leaving with the shining obsidian box Solomon had lifted from the now perished pirates.

A sensation tugged at him as they passed, an urge to throw off the iron-like grip at his elbows and strike down the Hectorate bastards carrying the hard-won booty. Something inside demanded he view it, drink it in. Let it fill his eyes. Solomon closed them and tried to capture the feeling… it proved elusive, but a smell lingered. One he hadn’t experienced in some time.

Wet grass. Morning dew. The land below.

His detainers led him further into the belly of the beast, passing soldiers in the long corridors who paid the procession scant attention.

My crew, Solomon muttered, allowing them to pull him along. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to fight—the Hectorate conquering the country of Tallis, his great-grandfather’s place of birth, had put the Langridges on the pirate’s path—but his people on The Dauntless relied on him discovering calmer air. You promised they wouldn’t be harmed.

For now, the woman sneered without looking at him.

We’ll see about later, the man smirked without breaking his stride.

What do you mean?

The woman pointed to a set of red-mahogany double-doors at the end of the corridor. Depends on how your conversation with the Imperiator goes, scum.

Cogs whirred. The massive doors inched open, puffs of steam jetting out from the hinges, revealing the room beyond. Solomon’s handlers marched him in without pausing. An ominous bronze desk dominated the space, a clean one with no-one sat behind it. A clock ticked on its surface with nothing else displayed save for the obsidian treasure chest. Solomon’s eyes fell on it. He blinked to pull them away so he could take in the rest of the Imperiator’s quarters. A high-backed blood red chair with golden armrests stood behind the desk, and beyond that, length-way windows running the width of the cabin. They boasted an unparallelled view of The Dauntless, its crew all on deck and kneeling before Hectorate soldiers.

Solomon pulled his eyes away from that too, before his boiling blood burst aflame. They’re relying on me, man. Keep calm!

The ticking of clockwork dominated the silence. Solomon swept his gaze, looking for any hint of the man he dealt with. He’d heard of Imperiator Goodall, of course. Everyone had. But few laid eyes on him. The cabin offered little help. Sky maps hung on the wall, charts of the airways above every realm and sea. If I glean anything, it’s that Goodall is fastidious, clinical, and well-prepared. In other words, a Hectorate through and through.

He filled his mouth with phlegm, intent on spitting it on the cream marble floor. Sour glances from his guards persuaded him to swallow with a grimace instead.

A door Solomon’s inspection failed to notice opened in the room’s corner. A mechanical owl swooped through the open portal, hooting before landing atop the clock. Despite himself, the pirate captain marvelled at the cogwork creature. Made from silver, it cocked its head at Solomon, its wide, shining eyes blinking before hooting again. He reached out a hand before he knew it, and the cogwork owl hopped onto it. Solomon gasped. It weighed less than a pouch of ten diariads of gold.

Bookgon’s an impressive creation. Doesn’t often take well to strangers, mind, and never pirates. Count yourself lucky. Solomon blinked as he located where the voice had come from. A lilting, firm, but high-pitched accent. Female, and not what he expected. Imperiator Ninian Goodall.

You’re a woman!

The Imperiator stood in the doorway and looked down at her body in mock surprise. She wore a long, fitted crimson coat and knee-high black combat boots. A golden belt fastened across her waist, a silver cutlass and steam-gun hanging from it. Well, knock me down. So I am!

She threw Solomon a wink and moved towards the desk, settling into her chair with a sigh, a smirk on her wrinkled face. Her emerald eyes twinkled as she eyed Solomon, running them over him, just like he did her. She clicked her gloved finger, and Bookgon launched from his hand, and landed atop the clock once more.

You may leave us, Goodall commanded, not taking her gaze from the pirate captain. He met her stare and discovered steel there.

The guards saluted and turned on their heel without question, leaving the cabin, the heavy doors closing behind them, leaving Solomon alone with the Imperiator and her mechanical wonder.

And the box.

It lurked in the corner of his vision, urging for him to turn to it. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead with the effort of refusing.

Yes, Goodall murmured, eyes fixed on the pirate captain, you hear its call. Good. Excellent.

What do you want from me? Solomon bit out. Hectorate zeppelins hovered in the distance. He stood statute still, like one of the soldiers lining his decks below, and forced himself to relax. A ruse to project confidence. His cutlass jangled at his hip, widening his eyes. They didn’t even bother to disarm me! Arrogance or supreme assurance?

Goodall looked over her shoulder, then back to Solomon. A fine manoeuvre, that, defeating three pursuers as you did. I watched from afar, of course. You realise the chase brought you into Hectorate skies?

Solomon shrugged. He didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to let that slip. He assessed the woman sitting before him. Older than he by at least a decade, she appeared strong and lithe, but Solomon fancied he could take her. Years had passed since anyone had defeated him in the dance of swords. They chased us. Believe you me, I prefer to keep far away from people like you.

Be that as it may, Goodall smiled, leaning back into her chair, you’re in my territory and this trinket, which you no doubt gained through illicit means, is mine. As is your ship, your crew… and you, pirate.

No, Solomon growled. His head spun; limbs ached to act. He fought to control them, even though his fingers twitched. His blood rose like the dead seas, alive once more. Like a steam engine revving on The Dauntless as it lay in dock, Solomon’s body craved release. The crew. Remember the crew, man! One word from Goodall is all it needs, and they’re done for.

Expression bled from the Imperiator’s face. "Freedom is an illusion the Hectorate allows for your kind. You’re useful, in a way, but make no mistake, the pirate’s days are numbered. Solomon tore his eyes from hers as rage built, its whisper to act building to a shout. Then he saw it. The intercom, on a strip of wall between the long windowpanes. If he could stop Goodall from reaching it… One day soon, Captain, the Hectorate will crook its finger, and all your pirate brethren will crawl to our feet, showing your bellies like the cowards you are."

Solomon moved like a skyship slicing through clouds, leaping across the table and drawing his cutlass, the sound of steel sliding against leather ringing out through the quarters.

Goodall flowed like silk.

One moment she sat there, expressionless, eyes cold. The next, she’d rolled from her seat, sword in hand and in a fighter’s stance as Solomon’s cutlass pierced her high-backed chair.

Snarling, he yanked his weapon from the seat it had skewered and wheeled towards Goodall, swinging the blade above his head and bringing it down in an arc of glinting silver. The Imperiator’s met it, sparks flying from the metal on steel as they scraped together. Solomon broke away, then attacked again, feinting high, then aiming a slow thrust.

Goodall sidestepped it, causing Solomon to stagger. She brought the pommel down on the nape of his neck. He absorbed the blow, shrugging off the deadening pain, and turned his fall to a roll, coming to his feet and spinning Goodall’s way.

She didn’t wait for him to attack. Faster than his eyes could follow, the Imperiator slid like quicksilver, batting aside a weak defensive thrust from Solomon and stepping into his guard.

This is it. I’m bested.

Pain exploded in his groin. Focused on the blade, he hadn’t thought of his own until his balls entered his stomach. Wincing, his gaze fell to Goodall’s knee wedged into his fruits. Tears stung his eyes and strength left his limbs. With a clang, his cutlass fell to the floor. Goodall nodded, and pulled her knee away, letting Solomon follow his weapon to the ground.

Groaning, he watched as Goodall sheathed her blade and moved behind the table. He reached out in vain. One word, that’s all it would take. His crew would die or find themselves enslaved because of his arrogance, his temper. Through tears, Solomon watched as Goodall approached the intercom…

… and passed it by, taking her place in her wounded chair, like nothing had happened.

Take your time, man. I understand a knee to the soft bits takes the wind out of a fellow.

Does she smile? The Divines take me she does!

Solomon forced himself onto all fours, sucking in breath through gritted teeth. What do you want with me, woman? You’ve had ample chance to kill me or throw me in the brig. Out with it!

Sit. Goodall fixed him with an iron-like stare. I won’t take no for an answer.

What choice did Solomon have? The woman, the Hectorate, outmatched him, and insubordination would get him nowhere fast. He sat, his bottom lip forcing its way forward as he sulked like a teenage cabin boy told to stop drinking and swab the deck.

You’re starting to see sense, Captain. Good. Difficult men vex me. She glanced over her shoulder at The Dauntless’ crew still held hostage, then back to Solomon. You don’t want to vex me, do you?

He shook his