Part 2 – Aloft

Harvey had carefully planned the route they would take around the southern rim of the Great Bane Desert where the scorched sand was penned in by a vast razored ridge of glassy rock. True to his word, Rosenhatch had ensured that their hunt for the Crystal Finches would be conducted in style. Harvey’s complaints about the malice of the region were well founded and Rosenhatch had no intention of dying before they had even found the birds, let alone returned with the prize. There were other, far richer fans and enthusiasts of exotic and possibly mythical fauna whom Rosenhatch could tap.
The airship was sixty feet of colourful balloon carrying an elegant cradle of brass and glass. She was a beauty and the proudest possession of Lord Emmaline Corshorn. He was a patron of the university and had supported several of Rosenhatch’s wilder exploits. More importantly, Lady Corshorn had an especial fondness for beasts of the air and after hearing Rosenhatch’s impassioned expedition pitch had demanded that Emmaline lend the explorers his airship. The point blank refusal that followed was eroded by glacial marital disharmony into reluctant acquiesence.
Lord Emmaline’s consent to use The Dove’s Eye was conditional on his captaining the luxurious vessel. He also supplied the crew, which was fortunate since Rosenhatch’s knowledge of flight extended as far as climbing the gangplank. He was an initially grumpy host, but separation from his wife and the extraordinary cigars and whiskey that Rosenhatch had brought aboard won him over. The pair stood upon the airship’s deck watching the sun set through the Corrigible Mountains, its vivid red and orange flowing through the tips of the peaks. They sipped whiskey from Corshorn’s priceless crystal glasses and tapped cigar ash into the air below.
“So, hoping to bag a few Finches, eh Rosenhatch?”
“We think we’ve got a good chance, yes Lord Emmaline.”
“Planning to pop ‘em in those, eh?” Corshorn waved his cigar at the peculiar cages stacked and strapped down at the other end of the deck.
“Quite. Harvey has some fascinating theories about the Crystal Finches. It’s said that they emit their own light, which is then diffracted through their feathers.”
“The same light that will burn the flesh off a fellow’s bones?”
“Well yes. So they say. I rather hope that might be a part of the story that actually is a myth. However, we certainly expect our eyes to be sensitive to them.”
“We won’t know until it’s almost too late,” Harvey’s ominous tones made Lord Emmaline stiffen and slosh whiskey over the railing.
“Dammit man, you don’t need to sneak up on us.”
“My apologies Lord Emmaline. It’s the carpeting in your cabins.”
“Well, wear a bell or something.”
“Ha ha. Only Maxwell gets a bell, and then only when we’re at home,” added Rosenhatch.
“The Finches,” Harvey continued undaunted by Corshorn’s rudeness or discomfort, “perpetuate their own light. It is to them as your blood is to you,” he gestured to his own segmented thorax with a pair of legs, “or my ichor is to me. They at once depend on it for life and use it for hunting. My plan is simple. I have designed these boxes which as you can see are comprised of mirrors and crystal shards. The angles will reflect the Finches light back at them and contain their lethal rays. I have also constructed goggles for each member of the party. I have every expectation that they will protect our eyes from the Finches’ harmful emissions. Maxwell is trying his out now.”
Maxwell rolled out onto the deck, alternately stepping and clawing at the mask strapped over his face.
“Of course, in Maxwell’s case the goggles were difficult to fit,” Harvey pointed at the clasps holding the mask into place over the cat’s head. Maxwell fell into a heap of hissing and kicking in an attempt to remove the offending articles. “Now, don’t scratch the lenses.”
“Can’t see properly,” declared Maxwell, rolling over and kicking at the straps with his hind feet.
“Stop making such a fuss. You’ll be glad of them when we reach the pass.”
Harvey and Rosenhatch had painstakingly mapped out the trails of the desert traders whose rumours of the crystalline beasts had initiated the project. All of the original trade routes had passed through a narrow valley that punctured the Corrigibles before opening out into the desert itself. The mountains jagged up almost to the clouds, which scudded violently away from the dagger blades of translucent rock. From the peaks a mean grassy scrub flared out into thick forestation that vanished into the valley. Below that the lush vegetation died away into the desert landscape. The valley’s likely climate seemed to match the preferences of the common finches, and it fit with the other worrying accounts of those early voyages into and across the Bane.
“Well, we’ll be there by morning I should say,” declared Lord Emmaline, tossing back his whiskey and hurling the glass at the ridge they followed. He wandered off back to the helm where he bawled a few directions at his lieutenant and retired for the evening.
Rosenhatch scooped up Maxwell and scruffed his fur while he undid the straps. Maxwell examined them closely for scratches. They stood there for a while with the cat purring in the man’s arms, and together they watched the sun slip below the peaks.
Next Week: Part 3 – The Sharp Lands

Part 1 – A Man May Have A Plan

The sun glowered furiously overhead. It sapped what little moisture there was and flung it back with humid venom. Three figures cringed beneath its relentless glare. Their tracks distinguished them easily: a man, his footsteps dragging on the dry earth; a cat, weaving but nimbly staying within the diminishing shadow of the man; a giant centipede, his many feet stroking curling waves into the dust. The trio had come from the Great Bane Desert and shadows followed them out of that grim place. Anyone unfortunate enough to be heading in the opposite direction would have seen them slowly resolve out of the heat haze. The man was tall, despite his thirsting and exhausted posture; his once-fine expeditionary clothing was torn and sand-filled, rasping against his red burned skin. The black, white and ginger streaked cat limped faintly, his ears pressed against his head and his eyes were squeezed half closed. The enormous centipede’s chitin armour was scratched and abraded by the fierce desert wind but it seemed otherwise unaffected by the aggressive climate.

“Are we nearly there yet?” enquired Maxwell (the cat), with impeccable timing. He had managed to find the absolute bare minimum interval between his otherwise infuriating questions to ensure maximum irritation and yet still receive a response. The quest and practice of such perfection kept him occupied. Neither Harvey nor Rosenhatch Traverstorm had guessed at the cat’s simple game, and both replied in the same weary voice that they had done countless times in the past three days:

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

Satisfied, Maxwell returned to counting out the seconds. It distracted him from his thirst. His fur was thick with sand which gave him the ghastly stripes of red but he had quite lost interest in attempting to groom the grains from his fur. With horror he considered that it might even be necessary to get wet… His tongue furled in sympathetic imitation of lapping at a delicious cool bowl of water. He hopped once more to lurk in Traverstorm’s shadow.

Maxwell doubted that this particular trip would be commemorated in the university’s hall of fame. Not that it had been badly planned; he himself had spent most of the preparation phase curled up on the maps, so he had a good sense of how much debate and argument Rosenhatch and Maxwell had needed to present to qualify for the grant. Maxwell only took an interest because he knew that he would be accompanying his eccentric servant (cats have a clear view on the roles and responsibilities of those who offer them food and shelter), and it was better to be prepared.

Some months ago, Harvey’s contacts on the edge of the Bane had alluded in several letters to the existence of a species of Crystal Finch previously only described in the folk tales of the traders who crossed the Bane centuries ago. The Crystal Finches were near-mythical creatures who colourfully populated the old tales as spectacular beasts wreaking havoc with their beauty. However, the only extant species on the colonised end of the continent was a dull chalky colour hardly meriting the glorious description. In addition it was grumpy and prone to sulking to death. Rosenhatch had literally bounced with excitement at the prospect of proving the creatures’ existence and closing (or poking open, depending on your scholastic alliance) one more hole in the accepted zoology of the Northern Continent. He had shared his proposed expedition immediately with his intimates. Harvey’s views had been clear and bluntly put forth:

“The Great Bane Desert will kill us all.” His segmented back undulated with displeasure at the prospect of venturing into the great wasteland.

Traverstorm had of course been of an entirely more optimistic attitude, which was unsurprising given his present status at the university. Traverstorm’s stock was at an all time low following yet another disastrous expedition into the heart of the Barrow Reef. They had lost (at the last count) thirteen men and women to the slow-acting poison of the Manticore Urchin, as well as a ship, supplies and even the lighthouse itself that secured safe passage through the Reef for merchants (and fools). This was neither unprecedented or unexpected; Rosenhatch Traverstorm’s career had been launched by a series of blind luck discoveries which had him ridiculed and lauded in roughly equal measure by academics and the public respectively. The consequent political pressures had ensured his continued employment and the contempt of his newfound peers. A lesser man would have been humiliated but Traverstorm continued to invite the research fellows round for Bumblescrape Whiskey and a hand of cards.

Traverstorm evaded Harvey’s sensible objection with just one phrase, a phrase which would enable ease of transport, safety and even speed to their expedition, that would romanticise the journey of even the hardest soul and give gentlemanly respite to the most ragged and rugged explorers: “we travel by airship.”

Next Week: Part 2 – Lord Corsham’s Airship