Yasht to the waters of the sky: Chapters 1-6

Thought it'd be nice to be able to provide an all in one way for anyone interested in catching up to just jump right in! I post new chapters weekly and will do a consolidated post like this roughly every month and a half. These will be somewhat edited versions (though I am trying to move forward more than do too many structural edits at this point).

Chapter 1: Rossi

The prow dipped above the cloud line as the great ship rose. "Careful, lad;" the Marquis barked, "The Lily isn't a horse cart."

As the young officer at the wheel reddened, Goodman first class Rossi coughed to keep from laughing. Well, that was total nonsense. He shifted in place slightly to avoid the Marquis' eyes. Not too suprising though, the fool wouldn't know the first thing about horse carts. I doubt the rich sonofabitch can even remember ever seeing a horse. The Marquis was a young man of about thirty and five, with a round face and a kindly glint in his eye, even when angered. He was a good man, but oppressively naive. His nephew had only just been taken aboard during the muster, and was barely a teenager. I doubt the boy has seen beyond his own courtyard.

In any case the sentiment was correct, if the metaphor a bit strained. The ship demanded a steady hand and the boy had the gentle touch of a rutting bull. Despite being the oldest man in the room, Rossi was also the lowest in rank. Lower even than the ham-fisted snot currently in the process of rolling over in a wide turn to port.

"Hold it! HOLD IT I SAY!" the Marquis leapt forward, grabbing the wheel from the pale-faced youth, "TH-that, that’s quite enough for today, son." He's had every advantage, but he's still such a weasely little turd.

Rossi sympathized with the kid, to a point, but it was hard for him to see why the accident of birth should set such a useless man over his betters. Rossi's father had been born a serf, had scraped and fought and scrounged just to earn the right to be a freeman. Nonetheless he'd died in the same town he'd been born in. A whole life spent to earn his children the right to move to the next town over.

Still, if he wanted to keep his head, it was best to keep such thoughts to himself. Besides, a clever man could turn the weakness of his superiors into opportunity. Rossi straightened his jacket and bent to help the visibly shaken young man back to his station.

"Hands off me, dog." the lordling's nostrils flared as he pushed Rossi away, all but shrieking, "I can walk. I'm not an invalid." Rossi instinctively threw up his hands, then quickly bowed and backed away. A thousand pardons, you little shit. Gods forbid anyone should lay a hand on your illustrious person.

The years had not been kind to Cesare Rossi. He was nearly sixty, his back beginning to bow. They'd tried to convince him to be put up and stretched, but a year as a guard in the Duke's tower had given him a distaste both for men of medicine and the rack. He'd once seen a pair of arms pulled out, bones and sinew snapping, their owner kept alive and conscious by those very men. The screams were still with him. Still, when he was a boy a man of fifty had been rare indeed. He supposed he had those same cruel men to thank for still being alive at all.

"Mr. Rossi, take the wheel and hold us steady." the Lord Captain coughed slightly and leaned into Rossi's ear as he approached, "Do try to get along with him, he's my brother's boy. There'll be a place in Marchele's household for his favorites, mark my words. You could do worse than to be placed with a man in line for the Duchy of Albret." Rossi nodded and took the wheel, doing his best not to let his anger show on his face. Walking to the main window, the Marquis waved vaguely in the young man’s direction, "Marchele, you are dismissed." The boy's face darkened and he gave only the barest of acknowledgements as he left the bridge.

What a petulant, foolish child, thought Rossi. The Marquis was a bit of a fool too, but generally affable. Renau du Albret was a second son of course, all Marquis born to nobility were. His father had clearly doted on him. When peace had come to the lands of these Trosmer fops it had left many a spare heirs trained for battle and with little to do. The old Comte du Albret had granted Renau this airship and a small army, including Rossi himself, some ten years ago when the Marquis had been barely a man and the peace was still shaky. None of them but Rossi had ever been to war, they'd simply trained and pulled maneuvers to scare the neighboring Barons. It was all sabre rattling and brinksmanship. Violate enemy airspace for a just long enough for them to notice then back home by lunch. The Marquis still seemed to see this all as just another maneuver, a game to goad a neighbor into doing something stupid. Truth was, a naval infantryman was far more likely to die face down in the mud of a ruined field somewhere than he was to retire to a fat purse in a lord’s service. Rossi had worked his way off the line with his military experience and a reputation for unquestioning obedience. Even now though his life was only a sliver more protected than the rows of men waiting to deploy belowdecks. He was all too aware that even an old man like himself could find himself back down there in a snap if he even looked at an officer the wrong way. I have to be more careful around the boy. He could be the death of me.
Renau paced slightly in front of the main window, clearly impatient for any contact with the enemy. There was a quiet moment as he squinted down into the sea of clouds. Leaning forward and gesturing wildly he shouted, "Mr. Rossi, drop the scope." Pulling up the viewer he scanned the ground below. "Aha! The unwashed masses themselves at last!" Renau seemed almost to glow with the anticipation of sending his men to die, “We have a target, Mr. Rossi, several in fact. Alert the men!"

Chapter 2: Pient

Pient shifted uncomfortably against the wall of the infantry bay. Five minutes ago he'd been dead asleep in his bunk, and now he was dozing standing up in the drop bay as his knight barked orders at the entire lance.

As far as he could remember the knight’s name was Bareaux. He was a bear of a man, half a hand taller than any other man in the squad. Pient twitched with discomfort as sweat rolled down his back. The bay was hot with the press of bodies. Pient leaned against the bulkhead both for support as he dozed and to cool himself down. The wood was a comfort, but the reminder of just where they were made it hard to rest . Tamping down just how anxious it made him feel to remember how far up they were, Pient did his best to avoid the knight and his squires' eyes. Bareaux's was a merchant’s son. Technically he was no more noble than Pient. All the stories and songs said knights were good men of lowly birth that would rise to marry princesses and inherit kingdoms. What they didn’t mention was the requirement that you buy your own sword and armor, or that while knighthood afforded you the privilege of owning land, it came with none. Bareaux was quick to lord his title and his command over his men; but the same could have been said of many of the old men that slept on the sides of the roads back home, beneath the hedges. The sort that would still insist on being called Sir as they begged passerby for scraps. Bareaux surely figured that would never happen to him, or maybe he just never thought much about the future. Pient had rarely done much else.

A month ago he’d been slopping pigs for his father when the man with the Marquis' seal had seen him in the pens and waved him over. He was thirteen then, fourteen as of a week ago, but tall, broad-shouldered, and strong from farm work. His father had been furious when he found out. Since his growth spurt the old man had told him to always stay hunched over to hide his height when he saw the Comte’s men, but the fact was Pient wasn't that upset about being drafted. He'd played the same war games that all the other boys had played, imagined himself a brave and noble knight fighting to protect his king from the barbarous republican rabble. To go to war seemed like grand adventure compared to cleaning up pig shit.

Besides, before he'd been mustered he'd never been to the manor, never seen a locomotive much less ridden on one; now here he was on an airship, hundreds of miles from anyone and anywhere he'd ever seen, about to be dropped in an exotic foreign land. Sure he hadn’t eaten anything but rations for the last week and held a weapon he barely knew how to use, but this was adventure!

A low rumble in his stomach snapped him back to the present. He retched slightly, thankful for not having had the time to eat anything he could have thrown up. Bareaux finally stopped screaming and settled into one of the harnesses along the wall just in time for the door to begin to crack open in anticipation of landing. The wind whipped furiously through the chamber and Pient’s stomach did backflips as the door slowly revealed the drop below.

Chapter 3: Marchele

Marchele du Albret stalked down the hallway, headed for his quarters as the bells began to ring, signaling battle stations. He cursed quietly to himself; now uncle would want him back in his room for sure.

It wasn't fair that just because he would be Comte someday he couldn't be a part of the fight. He was going to miss it all and not be allowed to distinguish himself at all. His uncle thought of him as a child, but he was thirteen. Half their infantry were barely any older.

Father had been eerily silent on the matter of the war. The Duke du Albert had sent Marchele to deliver the message that the Comte needed to levy his troops.

Tolosa had been a vague memory. He’d been sent away at such a young age there were only random scraps left to remember it by; the undersides of tables and the inside of bushes in the garden. His father holding court, meting out justice. His armor shining as he prepared for battle. The descent into hallowed ground, the hushed tones and the half-glimpsed rituals of the temple. As an adult it was just another place. His father was just another man. Small, even.

When Marchele had delivered the pronouncement that it was time to muster his father had nodded once then dismissed the court and retired to his rooms. That was the last time he’d seen the man. Once again he'd been missing as Marchele boarded the Lily. The message had been clear, Marchele was no longer his son.

He felt a lurch as the ship dipped down towards the ground, and a low rumble as the bomb bays began to open, one by one. Evidently this was no drill. Marchele ran to the nearest window and leaned as far over it as possible, trying to catch a glimpse of marching men below, their pennants and regalia catching the sun, their mail glinting brightly. That was why he'd insisted to go to war; to lead men on a wild charge across an open field, standing together against the thundering enemy gunnes. To show his father and his uncle and the rest of the realm for that matter that he deserved their allegiance.

Instead he had been sent to his room to sit, safe, thousands of feet above the battle, while brave men fought and died for glory on the ground below. All because his uncle was afraid he'd be blamed if anything happened. Of course, he probably would be. He is the next in line.

Abruptly the airship lurched to the side tossing him to the floor. Marchele pulled himself back up to the window just in time to see a squad of four airplanes wheeling around and climbing for a second run on the ship. Airplanes? Does the Republic even have airplanes? I mean, I know they invented them and all, but how could a dirt-poor bunch of peasants...

The roar of the firebombs drowned out his thoughts as he was tossed to the floor once again.

Chapter 4: Rossi

"Hard to starboard Mr. Rossi, fifteen degrees down bubble. We have to drop off our boys before we're torn to bits up here." At altitude the planes were no threat. They simply couldn’t climb as high as an airship, and their only weapons were small fire bombs, more typically used to disrupt masses of infantry. No airplane yet built could hold a gunne, much less the systems needed to produce the pressure to power it. Even below the cloud line they were only a threat in large numbers. Barring a lucky shot, damage would likely be minimal. The captain bellowed over the wind rushing through the holes in the hull and the screaming hiss of the turrets, "and for God’s sake keep power to the engines!"

Rossi's voice was hoarse from yelling into the speaking tube already, but he couldn't be sure if anyone had heard him. The damage so far had not been severe. Last he'd been able to hear the envelope was holding, but of course there wouldn’t be much warning before things went very wrong. The light material that protected the hydrogen bubble could be treated to resist flames but it was not fully flame proof, and the vapor was very explosive.

He’d never met Iacopo, but they'd moved in the same circles. The man had been a genius, focused and obsessed with what he’d called the invisible universe. The week after his announcement of a major breakthrough they’d found him face down in his workshop, major burns across most of his body with no clear source of flame. Air, Rossi had heard it said, was both wet and hot. Iacopo simply removed the wet. He'd boiled it away, they said, until all that was left was a latent heat. Air on the brink of fire. No surprise it was lighter than other air.

With a dull thump and the crash of pottery glass from the windshield exploded onto the bridge. Rossi hit the deck, covering his head and hands with his coat instinctively. He cursed at himself for having thought about how unlikely this was as the wave of heat washed over him.

When he looked up he saw that Renau had not been so quick to respond. The Captain slumped to the ground, his mouth agape in disbelief. Rossi crawled to him and found a mercifully small shard of glass embedded in his right leg. Serious burns ran along his left side as well. It was bad, but maybe not deadly with treatment. Rossi tied off his jacket around the captain's leg as a tourniquet. You’d better survive, kid, or they'll make me pay for a new coat. The captain screamed in pain and rolled his eyes back in his head. Rossi struggled to his feet and was headed to the speaking tube to call for a medic when the ship lurched once again. He fell forward, tumbled over the captain, and was nearly tossed out the front window; they'd hit the tree line, hard.

Rossi struggled to his feet and began to scan the room for assistance. Flames leapt from surfaces not normally flammable. The instruments blazed, their glass cracking under the heat. Several of the bridge crew lay motionless, others raced to fight the flames. A young ensign Devart? rocked back and forth in the corner, his eyes glazed over in shock. The boy was maybe fifteen.

Wiping blood and glass from his hands Rossi grabbed the captain and began to drag him out of the room. “Get us back in the air!” He yelled to no one in particular. Devart stared dumbly at Rossi, clearly still far away. At least I’ve got what’s left of his attention “Now!” The boy began to stir. As Rossi turned the corner with the captain, he tamped down the panic rising in his chest. We’ll be in the range of their gunnes soon. They’ll rip us to shreds if that fool doesn’t get us some altitude. The opportunity to save the captains life, though, that was worth the risk.

Chapter 5: Marchele

Marchele strained against the bulkhead door as the men behind it screamed. He'd jerked awake to the sounds of impacting cannon fire and the smell of burnt flesh. This is it. My chance to prove I'm not some worthless child. He'd rushed to release the men, but with his hands wrapped in his coat to block the heat it was impossible to get a firm grip.

For a moment he stood helpless as the pounding from the other side of the door began to weaken. I'm not afraid. Dropping his coat and taking several quick breaths Marchele screamed as he grabbed the bare metal of the lock wheel and spun.

Finally the lock disengaged and the door burst toward him with a blast of heat, flinging him back against the far bulkhead as the men behind the door spilled out in a panicked mass. They were all burnt, but the last few were in the worst shape by far. Most ran by, their eyes blinded by terror. One noticed him and ran over, begging him for something. Marchele couldn't understand the man. It wasn’t clear if he was actually talking or just gibbering. His face had all but melted away.

Marchele shrieked in terror and edged backwards instinctively toward the door, tripping over the jamb in the bulkhead and crashing to the floor. Scrambling to his feet in a panic he ran full bore down the corridor.

His father had been to war as a young man. He’d even ridden a horse into battle, they said. It was all long before Marchele had been born though. When Marchele had seen him gear up it was to parade in front of the villagers in gilded armor much too heavy for any horse before touring the back lines to inspire the men. Marchele's older sister Paronelle had always shied away from his father in that armor. Even with his faceplate up the old man’s eyes had been hardened by darkness. His smile lines veiled in shadow. Paronelle would quail but Marchele had been so brave.

When he’d been sent away Marchele had cried bitterly. He didn’t like to think about how much he had missed his father. How kind he had always been. It didn’t occur to him until years later how most fathers treated their sons. How most noble children were raised by servants. His father had spent so much time with Marchele and Paronelle, even a boy of six had heard the whispers that they’d been spoiled.

Which just made it sting more that in all that time away his father had never written, never come to visit. He’d not even seen Marchele on the day he and Paronelle had been taken to the Ducal palace. The first time Marchele saw him again, father wouldn’t even look him in the eye.

When he at last regained his composure, he found himself outside another marine bay with men streaming through the hatch to secure themselves to the bulkhead. Alongside the sporadic patter of enemy fire impacting the hull was the cracking and beating of trees as they shattered against the hull and pushed through the bay door. Chunks of wood rebounded off the wall and splintered to bits. Men fell to the ground screaming, pierced with shards of wood. The knight and his squires did all they could to control the men and pull them back into the ship. A rolling thump silenced everyone, as the drop door burst fully open. They had cleared the forest.

Several men were tossed loose and fell screaming as they finally came in for a landing. Marchele balled himself up on the floor shrieking in terror as the ground rushed up to meet them.

Chapter 6: Rossi

Rossi set the captain down for a moment and wiped his forehead. If you die, you unbelievable bastard, I'll... Hefting the dead weight up once again, he laughed at himself as he began dragging, I'll make vague and impotent threats, I guess. The medical bay was right down this hallway, not much further. His forehead beaded with sweat and his breath came ragged.

It was only a mild surprise to Rossi as he felt the sinking feeling in his stomach that meant the ship’s descent was accelerating. Rossi was relieved to still be alive of course. He'd rather be alive than right. But he knew the cost. With the approach botched, the bays would be vulnerable to ground fire as they deployed lances. The fools in the bridge likely thought of the deaths as acceptable losses, though. The captain moaned as they stumbled together over the doorway into the medical bay just as the ship finally made contact with the ground.

The injured men in the medical bay were heaved upwards as the impact shuddered the room, straining against their straps. The medical staff and Rossi were tossed about the room, sending surgical equipment crashing to the floor. Rossi's head crashed hard against an upturned stool. Struggling to his feet he worked with the staff to get the captain strapped down in one of the beds. “Well?”

The doctor in charge clucked his tongue as he looked over the captain's injuries. “He's not dead yet. We may need to take his leg.” He turned to one of the apprentices, snapping his fingers. “My lancet, boy.” The apprentice scrambled around on the floor for a moment before coming up with a small surgical knife, wiping it on his apron as he handed to the doctor. “And the sutures. We'll do what we can.” Rossi nodded. His vision blurring, he braced himself against the bulkhead and lowered himself to sit on one of the beds. “We'll have a look at you after we've seen to his Lordship.” The doctor turned back to the captain.

I'm not staying here to be poked and prodded by these vultures. Rossi quickly rose to leave but the room swirled around him. Falling back into the bed his eyes began to close of their own volition. Maybe just a bit of rest. He had to get back to the bridge and get them back in the air. Assuming the captain survived, he'd owe Rossi quite a bit. A hero like that might even get to meet the Duke or the King himself. As Rossi's eyes closed he allowed himself a smile. At last, a chance to really hurt them.

When Rossi was young, the world had been a different place. Mostly a worse place, it had to be said. He'd never known his father as a serf, only as a freeman. The old man took such ridiculous pride in being exactly one rung up the social ladder from a slave. It was sickening.

Worse though was the contempt he had for his neighbors who were still tied to the land. To hear him tell it he'd earned his freedom saving the local Lord's son from being trampled by a bull. True or not, his father saw it as his greatest achievement. He certainly never seemed to care about blacksmithing. His shop would go days without the forge even being lit. Rossi had basically taken it over by the age of ten.

That same year the local lord had died. His son was widely known as a wastrel and a scoundrel, and it wasn't long before it was also widely known he was in debt. When neighbors were being freed by simply paying their impoverished Lord a pittance, Rossi's father never had anything but scorn for them.

"There they go, a jingle in their pocket so they don't have to worry about their duties no more. I tell you, boy, these men today. Nothing means a damn thing to them. They didn't earn none of it. They just took advantage. If I were his Lordship I'd toss the lot of the bastards." All said with a sneer of pure hatred. Rossi heard every word his father said, he certainly said it often enough. The words aside the real message was clear. Money could buy anything, even things that you didn't deserve.

When Rossi was fifteen his father had tried to arrange his marriage to some horse-faced daughter of a merchant from the town over. He'd left for the city that very night, what was left of his father's savings in his pack. He'd heard that any man could make a fortune there with just a few clever ideas.