The Sky Smith
By
Mark Thorne


Copyright © 2011 Mark Thorne
Cover Design by: Mark Thorne
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The Sky Smith

“Human action is purposive conduct … a display of will.”
~Ludwig von Mises~

General Deimos applied the whip liberally to a nearly naked slave who fell to the ground writhing. He pointed to the overseers who pulled the slave away by his heels and began to shout at others – lagging and emaciated – to speed up their efforts. Additional whips cracked.
He turned away from the rising, darkened palisades with a grunt of satisfaction.
“We’ll build this development on schedule, from the defenses to the barracks! Just you watch it happen, Mellor, eh? …” he added with a peculiar exclamation he sometimes used.
“The Synod has sent me to do that.” Mellor agreed, smiling slightly. “One day, the Bright’ll realize we’ve taken complete control.”
“Not yet. They’re weak and foolish and it only occurs to them slowly.”
“True, but the Bright continues to fade as the Dark expands. They won’t use slaves to build their defenses.”
“No, they don’t keep slaves.”
“So their stupidity helps us,” Mellor mused. “We grow stronger as they weaken.”
“They’re lazy and ineffective. We’re building factories under the Synod’s direction – and our efforts our growing. They’re building without planning or strategy, as they usually do.”
“Aye, their Hamlets are shrinking.” Mellor said, sounding the naval officer he once was. “Of course, we’re forcing them to ground everywhere. The Dark dominates.”
“Still, they run across the ocean instead of standing up to us,” General Deimos said with a brooding look settling over his hawk-like features. “Though, there’re some who won’t leave. One lives in this settlement.”
“Sure. But he’s old now.”
“It’s his Hamlet – one of the last great sky settlements. The Synod has plans for him we need to carry out … We want them – all of them – to come to ground.”
“So what d’you intend to do?”
Deimos thought for a moment, then explained his plan.
“Good approach,” Mellor said. His broad face broke into a smile. “Won’t be difficult. You say her house rides low.”
“Our spies say so.”
“Then, he’ll come?”
“An old man, eh? But one who used to be a hero!”



“Yes, I’ll go,” Alexander said loudly to Haemon the next morning. The two communicated between houses via ponderous cry-cones, bronzed and swiveling. “Now that Jodene has gone to ground,” he added.
“We’re not sure … what happened,” Haemon pointed out from his porch in his hesitant way. “We need to know. One or two should reconnoiter. ‘Course it’s unfair to ask you … Are there any others who’d go to ground?” he asked after a moment.
Silence. Only whispering wind between the houses.
From his own porch, Alexander smiled to himself. He expected nothing more.
Now shouted comments came in a torrent, some indecipherable and some clear.
“A trap! They’re luring you below.”
“They’re testing us.”
“Alexander, don’t leave…”
Alexander held up his very big hands.
“Let ‘em take an ol’ man and his wife,” he said in his informal way. “What’d be the point?”
“Report back!” Haemon cried, suddenly. His tunic flapped in the breeze as if trying to fly away from his narrow, nervous figure.
“’Course.” Alexander waved.
As he turned away, he managed deliberately to trip over the base of his sturdy cry cone, dropping down on one knee like a spent wrestler. He could feel their eyes upon him, watching with interest or alarm. Spread the word, he thought with satisfaction. Alexander’s not what he was. A plain spoken sky-smith turning into a senile fool.
As his great weight hit the deck, the surface trembled. Kneeling, he adjusted his cream-colored tunic, listening to the buzz above – suddenly less solicitous.
The statements were hard to make out; yet, he could imagine them.
“He won’t frighten anyone, the fat, old codger!”
“Bright syndrome, they say he has …”
He restrained the urge to jump directly to his feet. His belly was far bigger than it had been when he was a young man, his frame more generously padded.
He rose slowly and limped away toward the stable. Nice touch.



Jessica was waiting for him, floating in front of their great, white house with its half-furled sails and broad deck. Her white robes fluttered in the breeze, and her pale face was puffy as if she’d been crying. But her expression was still defiant.
He hadn’t wished to bring her, but she’d insisted – and he did understand why, given that it was her mother who’d gone to ground.
The horses he’d brought from the stable wore wide cinches – bellybands – into which were placed bronze ampoules (change of spelling) containing oleaginous Bright. The amount of Bright exposed to air could be manipulated by sliding the ampoules open or closed. Jessica and Alexander each had ampoules of their own, lodged in wide leather belts.
Carefully, he helped Jessica onto her mount. No further conversation was necessary. She would come and he would object no further.
Down they drifted, chargers churning front legs gently. Fans of thin bronze were strapped to their forelegs, helping to propel them forward through the thick atmosphere. They manipulated the opening and closing of ampoules via a separate set of reins.
The air was bracingly fresh, almost sweet, and Alexander inhaled deeply, smiling despite himself as they descended. From here the view was serene, despite what waited below. Though it was still early, the pale sun covered fully a quarter of the sky, seeming to press upon the much smaller, multicolored moon that hovered near the horizon. The smaller orb was dimpled on its dark side. Beneath them, a blue-green world of farms and fields rolled away in all directions save one. There, the Dark divisions had begun to scar the earth with barracks, warehouses, defensive emplacements and other structures.
 The sight disturbed him. He had dedicated his life to stopping the Dark. He might as well have tried to stop the waves from rolling.
Above them, houses circled lazily, tethered to stables, or shops and vast floating gardens containing sun-ripened fruits and flowers. Each building was supported by large quantities of Bright in barrels strapped to their foundations. They drifted with the wind.
Like pilot fish, small covered carts floated up from the neat farms below ferrying supplies and returning with provender. Many of the houses had been brought to ground over the years to add decks fore and aft, prows and sterns and masts bearing sails. Then they’d lifted off again. The older ones had attracted a mist to their foundations and rode through the sky like shining ships at sea.
“There.” He leaned toward her and pointed to Dark palisades. From the gloomy place came an occasional booming sound that seemed to shiver the heavy air.
“Oh, my poor mother!” Jessica cried suddenly, guiding her mount close to his. “She went to sleep and her house fell down! I’m sure it was horrible for her, and she’s so frail.”
“Jodene’s house usually rode near the ground,” he comforted her. “So maybe she didn’t hit too hard. But we don’t have the whole story. Anyway, most of the others are far higher and harder to spot.”
Once on the ground, Alexander dismounted, folded the flanges on the horses’ forelegs and snapped them shut. He remounted and nodded to Jessica. They rode down the road that led to the encampment.
Farmland gave way to a sudden up-thrust, jagged palisade of gigantic naked wooden pikes. Occasionally, from beyond, a large, dark object would streak up and disappear from view behind clouds in the north.
A gate opened slowly and several soldiers emerged, supervising a work crew of slaves, all chained. Leaving Jessica behind to secure the horses at a hitching post, Alexander hailed the soldiers who were supervising the crew.
“You know if a house come down near here?” he said asked the nearest.
The soldier surveyed Alexander suspiciously. He was dark-skinned and wore a dark tunic and greaves, and his eyes were fogged by Dark. A throw-stick and spears were slung over his back.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
Alexander gave his full name. Then he gestured to Jessica behind him. 
“It’s her mother’s house,” Alexander continued, trying to focus the man’s attention.
“There’re no females here,” the soldier said, waving at the chain gang. “Use your eyes, or d’you have in mind joining us?”
“My eyes are open, Sirrah!” Alexander said.
“Then try looking!” the soldier said roughly, not acknowledging Alexander’s politeness. “You come to ground yourself, obviously – why don’t you find her on your own? The gate’s right there. Unlocked. No one stoppin’ you.”
“Thanks for the invitation,” Alexander said, working hard to stay calm. “Were you involved in some way? Did you help?”
“By the Dark Demons below!” the soldier swore, “Your head’s emptier than air!”
Alexander’s wide face flushed. He pointed one large finger in the man’s direction. “You’re denying what’s clear? Why not tell the truth – my poor wife’s without a mother … or her mother, anyway, now come to ground.”
The soldier grunted in incredulity and took a step back.
“Go look elsewhere! She’s not here …”
Alexander took a step closer. The soldier reacted, swinging forward a gloved hand and batting Alexander’s out of the way. Alexander winced as the Dark-dyed glove came in contact with his wrist. His hand began to swell. He clenched both fists and the soldier took a step back.
“The sky drizzles the infirm and insane,” he said. “Watch yourself, old man!”
“Old man!” Alexander cried, pulling at scraggly locks of graying hair.
It was the reaction he wanted, however.
Alexander forced himself to lower his arm. He took deep, panting breaths, trying to control his emotions. Steady now.
There came suddenly a blow to the back of his head, as the second soldier hit him from behind, striking the nape of his neck with the flat of a sword. The contact between Bright and Dark was explosive. Alexander was thrown forward, falling forward stiffly like a tree, bouncing and settling face down, stunned. He tried to gather his thoughts. It felt as if a white-hot lance was penetrating the back of his skull.
Jessica gave a cry and darted forward, leaving the horses she’d hitched.
“Alex!” She looked up at the soldier, her expression accusing.
“Your husband’s an idiot,” the soldier with the sword told her dryly. “Instead of the gate, he chose dirt!”
Alexander sat up, groaning and holding the back of his skull. As he did, a tall but slender man exited the fortifications. His tunic was a dark, almost purplish color, as were the breastplate and greaves upon his legs. Set into his belt was a Dark ampoule.
One of the soldiers stepped forward and, standing at attention, addressed him.
“Representative Mellor, this cloud-crawler attacked us!”
Mellor looked at Alexander, who moaned again, and Jessica crouched beside him.
“My husband was hit from behind by these … goons! See for yourself.”
Alexander spoke up thickly, introducing himself. His head ached and one of his wrists hurt.
“We come for her mother, Jodene.” He gestured toward the gate. “Her house was brought down near here.”
Mellor’s dark eyes flickered back and forth between the two of them, widening as he took in Alexander’s size.
“The sky-smith?” he questioned.
“So you know the name,” Jessica said. Even angered, her tone retained its preciseness. “And this is the way you choose to treat him!”
Mellor looked round at the soldiers. “Dismissed, mates!” he said.
The soldiers turned away and one began barking orders to the slaves.
A whip sounded.
“I’ll take you to the commander, General Deimos.” Mellor told them.
He walked away without looking back.
After a moment, they followed, Jessica with her head held high. Alexander followed, surveying the scene.
He traveled slowly, slumping his shoulders as if to diminish his height and powerful build. He could feel many eyes upon them as they passed through the center of the fortifications. Around him were emplacements anchoring large engines that hurled giant bladders of gaseous Dark into the sky.
He was surprised by the range, if not the accuracy. There were several dischargers that looked markedly different from the others. They had bulky bronze midsections wherein Bright and Dark – fed by barrels on either side – apparently mingled, causing a fiery explosion that catapulted the bladder high into the sky. Alexander had heard that the Dark divisions were experimenting with such devices, and he would have liked to inspect them further, but he had neither the time nor opportunity.
There was a sour, fetid smell in the air, one Alexander associated with the fortress. He breathed shallowly as they traversed the vast yard.
They followed their guide, finally, to a rectangular headquarters built of the same darkened, rough-hewn wood as the palisade that fronted the fortifications.
Already, thanks to the Dark used liberally in its construction, the headquarters was widening, rooting and calcifying at its base, so that it was difficult to tell where the wood left off and ground began.
Their guide pointed to a door, then pushed it open to reveal a spacious interior that seemed to serve both as an armory and anteroom. He guided them through the crowd of officers, soldiers and the occasional slave to an office toward the back.
Mellor spoke briefly to the officer behind a desk, and then moved near the door. He took an erect, military position, legs spread, standing at attention.
The man Mellor had spoken to had been using an ornate dagger to open some correspondence, but he put it aside and came round the desk. He was fairly young, dark with a clean-shaven head and angular features nearly sharp as the corners of his desk. His black tunic was elaborately woven with glinting silver threads; his eyes hooded with Dark gave him a brooding look.
“You’re General Deimos,” Jessica said, breaking the silence.
“Sit … please” the young general said with surprising politeness. He pointed to chairs behind them, then leaned back against the desk, looking down upon Alexander, who had levered his large frame uncomfortably into one of the seats.
“I heard you had some difficulty outside,” he said. “My apologies.”
Alexander recognized the elite affectation. It brought back memories.
“Was nothing, Sirrah. A misunderstanding.”
Deimos peered directly at him and his eyes lightened momentarily.
“So you’re the great sky-smith, eh? Who doesn’t know about you – besides a squad of ignorant soldiers!”
“You’re too kind,” Alexander said.
“It’s the truth,” Deimos said. ”My father knew you. He said you were brave, and modest, too. You didn’t choose to lead, but leadership chose you!”
“Perhaps so,” Alexander said uncomfortably, “but those days are long gone, though I sometimes wonder if the Dark Divisions want to relive them.”
Deimos squinted slightly, as if surprised.
“The Dark expands – that’s how it is. We should live as one people.”
Alexander nodded. “Not all of us are traveling across the sea.”
“It’s time for your people come to ground, and join us,” Deimos continued in a friendly way. “We’ve made many improvements in the last cycles. We have great farms and wonderful engines! We’re expanding throughout the land … our progress is never-ending.”
“I’d like to learn more,” Alexander lied.
“You can build your farms down here, even your greenhouses and your shops. You can continue your lives. Together we’re far more powerful and wealthy than each on his own …
“You need to explain to your Council,” Deimos added quickly. “Tell them we’ll make it very easy for them. We’ll even pay resettlement expenses!”
Again, Alexander nodded. “Your face is familiar,” he said after a moment, trying to change the subject.
Deimos looked surprised. He leaned more stiffly upon the desk. “Maybe my father’s face.”
Alexander flushed, straining to recall.
Deimos spread his arms in a cordial way. “I’m glad to have your company,” he said. What can I do? Tell me.”
“It has to do with my mother,” Jessica said suddenly, her voice was strained, her face even paler than usual. She gave the general her mother’s full name, and added, “You took her to ground. You must have used your dischargers to do it.”
“I don’t believe so,” Deimos said. “I think the house came down on its own. Maybe it was damaged.”
Jessica seemed startled. “I don’t think so. It was well kept up.” Her fragile hands twisted in her lap. “Is she all right, then?”
“Oh, certainly she’s fine. I’ve been to see her myself.”
“Well, I’d like to go now,” Jessica said, her voice dropping until it was barely a whisper.
“Of course.” Deimos said. “But just so you understand, it probably wasn’t skyworthy. The fundaments exhibited rot.”
Jessica touched a hand to her pale throat. “How could that be?”
“We’re seeing more of it with older Hamlets,” Deimos said solicitously. “It’s the Bright that does it, unlike the Dark, which is a stable strengthening agent. The Bright. forms an excrescence around the barrels our experts say. All the Hamlets are unstable.”
“I don’t believe it!” Jessica said. “We’ve lived all our lives with Bright. Surely we’d have detected it.”
“From down here, we easily see,” Deimos replied. “Our researchers have developed a special kind of Near Lens that penetrates the Bright at the base of your older houses. This is technology we may be able to provide to you.”
“Sounds useful, Sirrah!” Alexander interjected.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Deimos told him.
“It is ancient,” Jessica said. “My mother’s house, I mean. It was one of the first aloft. But we never noticed problems.”
Now Deimos’ eyes moved back and forth between them. Under his scrutiny, she rose.
“Can I go to her?” she asked.
Deimos stood. “Mellor will take you.”



Accompanied by several others, Mellor led them, as Deimos had asked, to Jodene’s house – where it had come to ground.
It took them a while to travel beyond the fortifications, an unfenced area in back where the bare, packed earth gave way to fields. Alexander breathed more easily now, the stink of the fortress subsiding. He smelled the loam and brush.
These were mostly division lands that had once been farmed without much success before going fallow. Now it seemed as if they were being prepared again. Slaves worked on the horizon, some naked, entirely exposed to the swollen sun. They wielded picks, axes and shovels and were urged on by the cries and blows of soldier-overseers.
Just above the horizon, Jessica and Alexander saw the mast-tips of Jodene’s house. Beyond that were the mountains and a gigantic scar in the earth, where vegetation grew only grudgingly.
Legend had it that a small piece of the moon had broken away and crashed there. Stories of animals swimming toward the sky and trees burrowing into the soil had led to exploration and then mining. Eventually a vein of Bright matter was located, and somewhat later the Dark. The Bright and Dark had two significant effects, one lifting up, the other pushing down. A third element – Ambi – neutralized the other two. No one knew exactly how it all worked.
Gradually, the house revealed itself more clearly. It had landed in the middle of an upward-sloping field, tipsily cantilevered, one side lower, grounded like a titanic houseboat. It was one of the oldest and largest high houses in the region, with a wide prow and stern and four masts jutting at various levels through the roof.
At the bottom of the house was a crumpled skirting constructed at the time when the house had first been raised. The wooden barrels that held the Bright had been crushed in the impact, and Alexander could see shattered pieces of tubing, beams and staves poking out between the flowers and brush where insects buzzed.
One corner of the house was charred as if from an explosion of some sort.
Jessica began to run, her robes swishing. She ran right up the front steps and pushed the door open.
Alexander walked behind. Up the porch steps he went, as well, into the hot gloom of the house, which smelled of polish and Bright, fruited and flowery.
Hearing voices and following them, he found Jessica standing in front of her mother in the gloom of a chaotic parlor. Heavy, expensive furniture had been thrown about by the impact of the landing. Several bookcases had toppled and scrolls were strewn about the intricately colored carpet on the paneled floor.
Tiny though she was, Jodene sat regally on a wide, padded chair near the fireplace, seemingly untouched by the chaos. Her small frame was luxuriously enrobed, almost swaddled, her white hair done up in bronze pins. She had arranged her canes on her lap in front of her.
“Oh, Alexander,” Jessica wailed. “They did bring her down. It wasn’t an accident!”
Alexander inclined his head in ritual respect.
“Sorry, Madame,” he said. “But you seem fine.”
“I’ve survived worse.” Her voice was raspy, though she spoke with her daughter’s precision.
“Weren’t we fortunate it occurred before the help arrived?” she continued. Even in the gloom, her face was a narrow oval, seamed with wrinkles that traced the prominent bones of her features. Her eyes were radiant with Bright, her nose wide and her lips protuberant.
Perched on her chair like a tiny pond-hopper, Jodene seemed at once out of place and entirely in control, despite the distressing – even shocking – situation.
“My dears, you didn’t have to go to all of this trouble. In fact, I wish you hadn’t come.”
“What else could we have done?” Jessica asked.
“I expected Haemon to send a delegation,” Jodene said, her voice rising a little. “Perhaps that was too much to expect.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Jessica soothed. “And wouldn’t. He barely sent Alexander. General Deimos said – ”  
“I’ve met him, child,” Jodene interrupted. “He and several others were here almost immediately. An intimidating man – dark as a half moon.”
“He left you like this?”
“I asked for privacy. They withdrew, saying they would return with physiks. They wished to evaluate me.”
“Yet, you’re not ill,” Jessica said.
“They speak of a syndrome of the Bright,” Jodene said.
“They’ll find something,” Alexander observed. “Or look until they do.”
“I’d hoped a delegation would get here first,” Jodene said. “Why did you indulge such foolishness? Don’t you see what you’ve done? The consequences are clear.”
Jessica stiffened.
“Consequences?” she asked rhetorically.
“Oh, you always were a self-absorbed child,” Jodene said. “Even now, you see only what you wish.” She made an impatient sound. “Houses have been brought to ground before. It’s not a new occurrence.”
“Well, yes there probably are ramifications,” Jessica said, emphasizing the word.
“All the more reason for the involvement of the Council. But you’ve taken the bait, Alexander.”
“Did I have choice?” he asked.
“There’s always a choice!” she said. “You know what they seek. It’s surely occurred to you by now.”
“Maybe so,” Alexander said.
“What is that?” Jessica asked.
“His martyrdom,” her mother said.
“What?” Jessica cried. “What did you say?”
When her mother didn’t answer, she grew agitated; her mother would not repeat herself.
Alexander said nothing.
“Will you come, then?” Jessica demanded, finally.
Her mother stood unsteadily, propping herself on her canes.
“How about some tea?” she asked. ”They took all the Bright in the house, and I’ve had no way to fetch any.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Bent over as she walked, she began to make her way out of the parlor, one step at a time, her canes leading the way with tiny, resolute clicks. She passed her daughter, the top of her head barely coming to Jessica’s chest.
Alexander thought he saw Jessica’s hands twitch as if she would have liked to bodily extract her mother from the capsized house right then. Instead, she followed.
In the kitchen, Jodene set an intact brazier down in the fireplace, then filled an ornate teapot with water from the tank beneath the sink, also unbroken. She placed a silver tea set on the counter along with sugar and bottled cream from the cooling-cabinet.
Jessica stood in front of the cabinets that were above the stove and adjusted her ampoule. She floated up gracefully, gathering her robe around her, and retrieved the tea.
Jodene placed coals beneath the stove and filled the teapot. Jessica and Alexander sat at the demi-table, waiting. Jessica’s fingers drummed on the table.
Soon enough, Jodene arrived with a tray containing sweet honey and cream and placed it in front of them. She filled silver, bell-shaped infusers and placed them in the cups, and soon the tea smell mingled with scents of Bright.
When it was ready, the tea was served. Jessica drank slowly.
“Finish, child,” her mother said. “It’s a calming drought.”
Jessica’s eyes rolled in exasperation and the cords in her neck tightened.
Jodene had that effect on her.
“I don’t understand,” Jessica said. “Here we squat on the ground, and my mother’s worried about etiquette.”
Her mother snorted more in a ladylike way, and turned from them, her shoulders shaking ever so slightly, as if she were laughing silently. Eventually, she set down her cup.
“I think I’ll try the white next time,” she told Alexander.
“The green was good, Madame.”
“It’s time to leave,” Jessica urged.
“The white’s cultivated in fields far away,” Jodene rasped, as if her daughter hadn’t even spoken, “the green nearby. In both cases, the farmers do business with both the Dark divisions and with us.”
“Sure, that’s well known,” her daughter said.
“It may be so, but it’s changing. More and more the farmers of High Hamlets seek the business of the Dark. They’re growing, we’re shrinking.”
“We’ve had this discussion before,” Jessica said, “That’s why so many sail away. But you wouldn’t go.”
“There was no need at the time.”
“There was always a need.” Jessica said.
“Not for me,” Jodene observed. “This is my home. My mother was born here and so was I. I met your father here, bless his soul – long before he was important on the national Council. I raised you here. Ours was one of the first High Houses.”
“You go days without seeing anyone except the maids and myself,” Jessica said, her voice suddenly shaking with emotion. “You rode low for their convenience.”
She stood up suddenly. “This time, we’ll leave!”
“If you say so.” Her mother turned and clicked out of the kitchen.
Alexander followed. He opened the front door for her, and she limped onto the porch to face Mellor, who had stationed himself there with the two guards, each as dark and erect as he.
Jessica wanted to go out, too, but Alexander put a hand on her shoulder. They waited at the doorway.
Mellor glanced in their direction and nodded to Alexander.
“He may go.”
Jodene turned to Jessica. “You see?”
“Your husband can go wherever he wants,” Mellor said, as if to emphasize his point.
Jessica blinked rapidly, as if slapped. “And I’m a prisoner?”
Mellor didn’t answer.
“There’s no precedent for this,” she said. “No treaty, no codicil.”
“The syndrome of the Bright may have affected your mother, too,” Mellor said in a low voice.
With an effort, Alexander kept his hands from clenching.
“Maybe you think Jodene is sick, but not Jessica,” he said.
“Could it be catching?” Mellor countered.
Alexander steadied his breathing with an effort.
“Your local council is welcome to come to ground here whenever they wish,” Mellor continued. “It could happen again. We may bring the structure to ground, regardless. We have that ability.”
Alexander took a stride past Jessica out onto the porch, blinking in the bright light. The vast sun was at its zenith; the distorted moon was low, only half visible.
“A very broad mandate …  Sirrah.”
Mellor took a step back. The guards distanced themselves, and stood in menacing crouches.
“I need an escort,” Mellor insisted. He put a hand on Alexander’s arm. Alexander shook it off. Again, anger surged – an anger he had once unleashed on the Dark divisions. “Remove the guards,” he said quietly.
 “Wait for our experts, mate.”
Mellor put his hand on Alexander’s arm once again.
“Your experts!” Alexander nearly spat. He shook off the dark man’s touch with increasing anger. Mellor took a step back toward the guards. Alexander stood even straighter, chest heaving.
“I’ve been called Smith because of my shop … and Smyte because of how I fight.” He thumped his vast chest. “I’ll be back with Council representatives. You’ll hear from me again.”
“Yes, tell your Council what you’ve seen,” Mellor said coolly. “Tell them your Hamlet has to come to ground. All of it! It’s time you became part of the Dark hordes, efficient and disciplined like us …”
“By all means,” Alexander said in a sarcastic tone he could not restrain.
Mellor opened his mouth to respond, but Alexander stopped him with a rude sound. Fury grew inside of him as it had not for thirty cycles, too long denied.
Without warning, he charged.
At the last moment, a shred of logic prodded him. He managed to avoid Mellor and bore down on the guards beyond. As they advanced, he met them.
Spreading out his arms with a roar, he knocked them both down in an instant, one after the other. They tumbled off the porch onto the ground beyond. Alexander leapt of the stoop like a great beast and pursued them.
Kneeling over them, and unable to restrain himself, he began to smash his fists down on first one, then the other. After a moment, the first guard managed to free himself and clawed Alexander’s back and broad shoulders, trying to pull him off the other.
Alexander stood then, blinking as if overcome with surprise at his transformation. The man still harried his back, and with a great grunt, he cast him aside, as if he was just a child. The other soldier rolled to his feet and pulled his sword. Seeing this Alexander grabbed a splintered, foundational beam heavily coated with Bright from where it lay – thrown off from the house and shattered – and faced the two soldiers. He handled it easily, as if it were a branch.
Mellor stood frozen nearby. His men faced Alexander with weapons at the ready. They tried to circle round him. To prevent this, he backed up against the side of the house.
The standoff was tense; Alexander watched closely, knowing he could take them both out with a single swing, but willing himself to remain in a defensive posture. He had lost control, but he could still recover. He strained to remain calm. He would fight slowly now.
Let them come to him, he thought. And they did, coordinating a charge.
Almost casually, Alexander levered the heavy beam forward, swinging it into the belly of the first, and then the second.
The effect was explosive: The Bright beam struck, and the soldiers were thrown backward ten paces or more, high into the air. In the thick air they took a long time to come down, but when they did, they landed awkwardly, dazed.
Alexander watched them fly. And then he waited, watching the two downed soldiers as if they had all of his attention.
Mellor came up slyly from behind, but Alexander willed himself to keep still, as if he did not sense the danger. Foolish sky-smith!
Jessica and Jodene called out, but too late. Mellor struck in a cowardly manner without warning, cutting through Alexander’s tunic and scoring his broad back as if with a crimson ribbon.
Even though Mellor had slashed him only lightly with a long, careful stroke, the Dark that coated his sword sent the giant crashing to the ground in shock, doubling over as he went. He spasmed there, his eyes rolling up into his head.
He lay unconscious, breathing shallowly. 
Mellor called out to him. There was no response.



Mellor watched as soldiers flung Alexander on the ground in front of his horses, which were still tethered just outside the fortifications. The earth seemed to shake as Alexander hit the ground. The sky-smith was so large it had taken four soldiers to transport him. The two he had injured were now in the infirmary.
They had carried him wrapped in an Ambi-soaked sling so that they would not be directly exposed to the Bright, nor make contact with it. Now he lay face up like a great, unmoving sack. It was hard to credence the attack he had made recently.
Mellor gave a snort of disgust and turned away. Let the sky-smith recover, if he would, and return to the high houses to tell his tale. The arrival had been predictable but troublesome, and he was glad it was over. 
He left Alexander with the guards and retraced his steps through the fortifications to Deimos’s office. Deimos looked up from his desk when Mellor entered. A lump of hardened Dark, half carved, sat in front of him, and he held his silver dagger in his hand, hovering over his desktop.
He stabbed the dagger into the desk. It quivered. He nodded and Mellor sat.
“Where’s our guest?” Deimos asked. “Gone?”
“Aye, he says he’ll be back. But first he’ll bring our message to the Council.”
“Senile old men!” Deimos began to laugh. “Led by an idiot with a bad back who’s lost his wife and mother-in-law.”
Mellor repressed a smile. “How unlucky is he really?”
“Unlucky or not, he’s carrying our message. We planned for his arrival. Now he leaves, after seeing our power.”
“He’s got courage,” Mellor admitted. “He attacked both guards. He fought fairly well but neglected his stern. I was able to come up behind him. He likes to boast, but his skills have eroded.”
“My father mentioned him,” Deimos said thoughtfully. “He was a member of the Synod, then, and they met face to face. You’ve seen his size, eh? His greatest quality was to be consistently underestimated.”
“He’s still a big one, though. That’s mostly what’s left. Size.”
Deimos was silent. Then he sighed. “Perhaps. Or perhaps we still underestimate him. Maybe I should just arrest him and get him out of the way.”
“You did well. You handled it correctly. My report to the Synod’ll make that clear.”
Deimos seemed please. “I’m going to send the rest of the soldiers back to base camp. We’re already behind schedule. And we’re not the only settlement underway.”
Now Deimos lowered his voice. “You and I stand at a critical juncture. If all goes well here, plans will move forward – and the Dark divisions will continue to take the land right from under the Bright. If not, resistance will strengthen within the Synod. The high houses would receive a reprieve and there would be hesitancy in the Synod about pursuing them overseas. We could be delayed in our takeover by a generation or more.”
Mellor gave a soft chuckle. “I’m sent by Synod as an observer and am not supposed to influence your efforts or comment on them. But you surely know more than I do.”
Deimos rustled the papers he had just signed.
“Here’s the order for release,” he said. “I’ve initialed it, you can see.”
Mellor, stood and bent over the desk. “We move!” Deimos said.



Alexander rode upward. The day was lengthening; the breeze blew. His back burned from the Dark sword swipe, and his face felt bruised and swollen. He had left one horse, Jessica’s, down below, moving it further away from the Dark encampment.
Having placed the other in its stall, he limped into the Smithy, connected to the stables, to greet Athen.
The floor bobbed slightly as the wind picked up. Silhouetted in the dimness, the youth’s broad size suddenly reminded Alexander of his long dead younger brother. As Alexander stepped forward, Athen looked up – immediately concerned with the sky-smith’s condition.
Alexander explained what had occurred, adding: “I need to report to Haemon. I’ll say more after the Council meeting.”
“Wait!” Athen called.
“Later, lad.” He floated toward the house in a sky stance, legs closed and stiffened. Wind blew, and the swollen sun had moved markedly toward the horizon. The mottled, misshapen moon was rising.
Now he wandered through the sun-dappled rooms, expensive carpets and furnishings. Aware of his mortality, he saw it with new eyes.
There was much that he regretted, yet little he would change.
He stood in the kitchen near the sink and the broad barrel of Bright beneath. He had thought he must be hungry. And certainly it was a good idea to eat. Throughout the years, it seemed to him he’d never not been hungry for his meals – often large and long. He had fed his anger liberally, hoping to smother it. He was not hungry now.
His fists clenched and unclenched. In the kitchen, he bathed his back and applied neutral Ambi to draw out the Dark. The pain gradually subsided.
Ascending to the bedroom, he put on a clean tunic and entered his study next door. Out the window it seemed the sun had begun its slumber. Day slipped toward dusk. There was little rest for him. He began to work, kneading his brow in concentration. He sorted through the papers that needed amending and concentrated on what needed to be done. It was difficult for him, for he wrote laboriously.
Eventually, he mounted the long, curved balustrade and then entered the walk-in armory on the third floor. He removed the weighty greaves, heavy sky sticks carved with deadly purpose, helmet and other items he had made years ago for just this purpose.
Holding the armaments, he walked downstairs and outside, then shoved off, depositing them in a heap on the Smithy deck.
Haemon’s house was nearby; his High Honor hailed him, standing in front of his crying cone, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “Where’s …  Where’s Jodene,” he inquired in his hesitant way. “Are they releasing her?”
“Haemon, if I explain it to you, then I have to explain all over again.”
“But it went smoothly?”
“Sure it did.”
“You’re hurt?”
“Hardly a scratch. Happened when they captured me. Then they let me go.”
“That’s … unlike you.”
“Don’t worry,” Alexander said easily. “They think I’m an old man who doesn’t have what it takes.”
Haemon considered this. “I suppose you must report to the Council.”
“Probably not,” Alexander said. “Let’s speak to the High Houses instead.”
After a moment, Haemon nodded and scrambled inside. Soon a pale flag went up, fluttering.
Alexander stood on the balcony of his high house as the others gathered. They drifted together with deliberate slowness, great, ponderous sky-boats trailing mist in their wakes.
Alexander stepped in front of his cry cone. He spoke briefly and clearly.
He told them of how he and Jessica had gone to ground and what they had found there. Also, of the meeting with Jodene and how Jessica had been kept behind. And of Mellor and General Deimos.
“They want to bring us to ground,” he concluded. “There’s no doubt about it. They’ll shoot us down if we don’t cooperate. And they have some kind of new technology as well. I’ve seen if for myself.”
After a moment’s silence, a clamor rose.
“An incitement to war!” … “Tell ‘em what we want!” … “Who would descend?” … 
“Nah, nah … I’m going back down” Alexander broke in loudly, waving his broad hands. “They want me to take their message to the High Council. But we’re freemen and won’t be pushed around.”
“They’ve taken hostages!” someone cried. “Release them first!”
“Ah … Don’t provoke them, Alexander.” Haemon cried worriedly. “We’re far weaker than we were years ago.”
“Yes, I know,” the sky-smith said. “But we have to show we’re not afraid. They respect strength and attack areas of weakness.”
“You want us to issue our own ultimatum?” Haemon called.
“D’you have a message?” Alexander prodded.
His High Honor spoke, finally, in a squeak.
“What’s that?” 
“Tell them we need to … talk,” Haemon said almost inaudibly.
Alexander threw up his hands. “Some ultimatum!”
Haemon said something else that was lost in the general hubbub.
Confusedly, houses released their moorings and sails half-raised, began to drift away. It hadn’t been a good meeting and was not ending well.
Haemon remained on his deck. “I need to speak to you,” he called.
Alexander looked away. He had no more patience.
Without answering, he picked up his greaves, helm and shield and carried them into the Smithy attached to the house, and leaving Haemon behind. He knew what he needed to do.
It was cool and dark in there, as before. The annex swayed slightly. Squinting, he made out the squat anvil, the bellows resting beside along with hammer and tongs, and bronze bars awaiting smelting in the forge itself, beyond.
On the workbench to one side, he sorted the armor: greaves, leggings and fittings over his sandals.
Athen sat near the door inspecting a pile of bronze cladding, meant to protect horses during battle and everyday tasks.
“I closed the rest of the shutters, but I heard a lot of it, anyway,” Athen said. “Just more talk – and none of it bringing them back.”
Alexander glanced at him. “I’ll do as the Council asks.”
“What then?” Athen queried, honestly confused.
Alexander shook his head; he didn’t answer.
“You brought battle gear.” Athen gestured to the pile on the workbench.
Again, Alexander did not respond.
“Tomorrow, if I’m not back,” he said finally, “I want you to go into my study and open the cabinet near my desk. There’re important papers. You read the one addressed to you.”
Athen looked startled. “What d’you mean if you’re not back?”
“Go have dinner.”
Athen shook his head.
“I see what you have in mind,” he said in a low tone. “I’ll come with you. We have armor for me, and I’m nineteen now.”
“I know how old you are.”
Athen continued as if he hadn’t heard, “You want to go alone, one against many. But it’s my debt to you …You apprenticed me seven cycles ago and always helped me. Since then, I’ve lived in your house like your own son and Jessica’s been like a mother.”
Alexander stared but made no response.
“Let me ask a question,” Athen said. He looked away as if uncomfortable gazing directly at Alexander.
“This is what I’d like to know … Is there any chance that … someone … might be caring for his brother’s child? That is, if his brother had died in war, and his brother’s woman died in childbirth, neither of them acknowledging the father … ” He trailed off.
“You mean my brother who’s dead 20 cycles?”
“I’m not talking about anyone in particular,” Athen said, still not looking at Alexander. “Uh … this man … he might even marry later, with the woman past childbearing. He might watch over the child, yet not claim any relationship. Maybe he would pretend to be old and feeble, even if he wasn’t. He’d do it so the Dark divisions might hear how he’d declined and take him less seriously. Maybe this is part of what I’m not supposed to understand.”
Athen’s voice had grown lower and lower and even in the dimness his face seemed flushed, though he still looked away.
Alexander shook his head. “You’re assuming a lot, lad.”
“You were always patient with me, and kind. You spent all your time with me, even when you had other things to do.”
“I did what I needed,” Alexander said gruffly. “If I’m not here, someone will have to take this house across the sea.”
“You want me? …” Athen whispered, trailing off.
“Some still want to remain,” Alexander said. “But it won’t work out. The Dark Divisions are taking over. It’s just not come to a head yet.”
“Yes,” Athen said. “You told me that … Something big has to happen. A rallying point.”
“An event,” Alexander said slowly. “Maybe an unexpected one that will wake people up.”
Athen shook his head. Alexander saw he was remembering.
“You said a martyr!” he whispered accusatorily.
“Did I?” Alexander asked. “Don’t remember – though something or somebody must pry them loose before it’s too late.”
“You’re the logical choice,” Athen said.
Alexander did his best to laugh. “Me! … an old man! And a martyr?”
“But something needs to be done,” Athen said, ignoring the question. “The High Hamlets can’t stay here much longer. The Dark has grown too powerful. Let me come with you!” He sounded close to tears.
“I think of you as a father,” he added, flushing even more darkly.
“You’d be a fine son,” Alexander said after a moment. “But, I don’t know who he is, Athen. It could be my brother, as you’re implying, but maybe not. Your mother wasn’t sure, either. And they’re both gone now, bless ‘em. There’s no one to ask.”
Athen seemed taken aback. “You really don’t know?”
“I’m sorry, lad.”
“I feel so … stupid,” Athen whispered. “I’ve thought about it for so long and talked about it, too.”
“There’s only one fool, here,” Alexander said, “I left questions that might have been answered.”
Athen sighed. “Let me come with you,” he said again in a low tone.
Alexander didn’t bother to answer.
It seemed as if Athen would continue to press the point. Instead, he rose and walked slowly over to the great hulk of the older man. He leaned down and embraced him with considerable effort.
“Fetch something to eat,” Alexander told him gruffly, trying to disengage. “Go on, then … We’ll speak tomorrow.”
The youth stepped away. “I’m sorry.”
That made Alexander smile.
“Nothing to forgive,” he said. “You’re in my papers, I told you. I’ve made you my heir.”
Athen backed up as if struck. His mouth shaped words, but he only groaned, a sound at once grateful and upset.
With one arm over his eyes, he suddenly fled.
Alexander sighed. His big belly grumbled;  there was bile in the back of his throat. 
He needed some air. The great sky-smith!
He rose slowly and cleaned and his equipment. Then he put on the Ambi-bathed greaves. He carried his helmet at his side. He packed his broad leathern quiver with sky spears, narrow and light, laced with Bright.
Far away in the stables, shrikes sounded, fiery-winged and restless.
On impulse, he set down the quiver and left the swaying smithy, which was connected to the stables moving uneasily as well. He walked the length of the stables to the coop. One shrike had returned with a message from the High Council. Spreading his legs for balance, he opened the small scroll strapped to its leg, read, then crumpled it angrily. They want two passes? Anger rose in him once more. Do they wish to make a martyr out of me?
They wouldn’t ask him outright, of course. Devious old men! But there was no doubt they hoped he would be injured or captured. He felt a dull resentment. Had he not always been compliant, so faithful and grateful? Who else in his position would do what they asked?
Hadn’t he and his family paid the price already, and more? None were unscathed, not Jessica who had lost her child-bearing years to her parents’ Dark sickness, and not his younger brother, so full of life – his passion and practical jokes – who had perished fighting against the Dark, gagging on an ampoule spearing his throat.
No, I won’t do it. I’ve served faithfully and well. Now they ask for my blood. Let them spill theirs!
Muttering to himself, he fetched and dressed his charger, the largest of the four, in Ambi-bathed greaves. It was lively as could be, and snorted as he worked.
When he was done, he rode through the sky back to Haemon, who waited there on his deck, as Alexander knew he would be, his upturned face blank as a platter.
“I … hardly recognized you,” Haemon told him.
“I don’t think so,” Alexander said coldly.
“Your helm and shield are quite bright,” Haemon said – seemingly wary all of a sudden, “like you just polished them … And your sky stick, and your greaves.”
“Just how the sun hits,” Alexander said casually.
“You going to the High Council, are you?”
Alexander shook his head.
“Why so dressed up?” Haemon asked flatly. “You’ve got something up your sleeve. I know you, Alexander! You’re thinking about doing something rash …”
“Me? Not at all, Sirrah.”
“You’re riding your best charger with war cladding!”
“Why shouldn’t I dress him up occasionally?”
“You intend a provocation. I feel it.”
 “You’re imaging things.”
“I’ve only seen you dressed up like this once before, when I was a very young man. You were leading half the army then, and setting out for the great battle in the mountains … remember? The one where you fought the Dark day and night until they agreed to parley.”
“Can’t say I do,” Alexander told him. “It’s all a blur … the past.”
But it didn’t appear as if Haemon had heard him. “I remember how you rode at the head of our High Host! … You rode up toward the clouds and everyone watched from behind their doors and pointed. I showed my wife, and she said she envied Jessica’s marriage.”
“Haemon, I’m, surprised! My fighting years are finished. When I stand, I’m dizzy. When I sit, my side aches. When I bend, my back hurts.”
“There is no syndrome,” Haemon said with an odd astringency – a certainty that was unusual for him. “Or very little. It’s mostly a myth – from you for some reason!”
That made Alexander smile. “Wish it were so, Haemon … ”
“You’re a most mysterious man,” Haemon continued in a rush. “What friends d’you really have? Sky shrikes fly regularly from your stables! I’ve seen them headed to the High Council, and even to the Synods of the Dark from time to time. Secrets! Riddles! There’s a lot you won’t tell.”
Alexander suppressed a laugh. “Curious, Haemon? Let it go …”
“You’re a hard man,” Haemon told him thoughtfully. “I admit … I worry for you.”
“Your Honor,” Alexander said formally, “thanks for your concern.”



He went to ground. The neck of his high horse was arched.
Rested and eager, it pranced energetically. Front legs carved the air and cladding clanged like cymbals.
On its broad back, Alexander carried himself erectly, sweating slightly in the last of the day’s dim radiance. Lightly, he wore his heavy greaves, the weightiest he had ever forged. His helmet and shield glowed as if with fire.
The very circles of the dying sun dipped him in flames, so he descended alight, glowing like the outer edges of the great orb itself.
Sitting stiffly near a window, watching his descent, Athen wept.



Far below, Mellor burst into Deimos’ office, his broad face flushing.
“You’re just in time for dinner, Mellor,” Deimos said, ignoring the interruption. “Join me?”
“No, no! You must come!”
“What’s the rush?”
But he rose. Mellor was obviously upset.
They went outside. The fortifications were fairly empty; most soldiers and slaves had been withdrawn.
They stood virtually in the vast space looking up.
Far above was a burst of light, a small flicker of flame like a warning, growing larger and brighter.
It was like a slow comet falling.
“By the damned half-dark moon!” Mellor swore, “It’s him. Don’t you see?”
“The sky-smith?” Deimos asked in astonishment. “What? … He should be on the way to his High Council by now!”
“Should I call back the men?” Mellor inquired, his tone sounding a bit desperate. “I could ride fast, though it’s probably too late. They’re already far away.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Deimos muttered. “Why’s he coming back, eh?”
“Soft in the soft head,” Mellor said hopefully.
“Not likely. Maybe he thinks he can take us by surprise.”
“Aye, one man against all? And we have his women.”
“This fool is starting to bother me,” Deimos said. “When he gets close, let the batteries go, all of them.”



The big bladders began to sail past him with a sickening, whooshing sound. Some were nearly as large as he. They came higher and harder than he remembered. His greaves were coated with Ambi to ward off the results of a strike, but if one hit him squarely, the resultant explosion might well deal him a mortal blow.
He fended some off with his shield – they were glancing blows that bounced away harmlessly – but fortunately most did not come near.
He reached behind and used his bronze-ribbed throwing stick to launch spears. He threw hard and fast, with a certain relief that after so long he was free to strike. He felt liberated.
For too long he had been suffocating under a weight he could not describe.
Each sun spear he flung contained a delicate bronze flask that ruptured on impact. And each spear that landed yielded a miniature explosion. As he continued to throw, fire licked first one and then another emplacement. The squat dischargers anchored there rocked and smoldered as soldiers ran in terror.
He felt a certain savage satisfaction and was ashamed.
Yet he lusted for more. His blood burned.
He landed outside the fortifications, relieved to find nearby the horse he had left behind. He dismounted, hitched both tightly so they could not wander, and started to run, slowly at first, but building speed.
As he went, he hurled several spears at the stout, Dark-drenched palisade looming in front of him and the reaction resulted in large explosions. Sections of fencing simply swooned and fell. As the flames unfurled, he ran faster. The massive gate loomed, weakened by fire and concussions but still formidable. It slowed him not at all. In an instant, he burst through and inside.
He located the first emplacement and advanced on foot. Soldiers, regrouped, confronted him, but he must have moved more quickly than they expected, for his spears caught three of them and sent two into immediate convulsions as Bright met Dark. The third he settled with a single sword thrust. A fourth hurtled desperately toward him, but to no avail. Alexander used his shield with brutal efficiency, knocking his opponent sprawling with little effort. He didn’t look back, confident in his deadly skills, but advanced onto the second emplacement.
More soldiers rushed him, hurling spears with throw sticks of their own. Alexander plunged forward with a roar, his vast frame aglow with adrenalin and anger. The Bright suffused his limbs and he moved like a berserker – as if he were young again – in an unpredictable, unstoppable wilding rage.
Spears hurtled past continually, but those that were about to find their target he cast aside with his shield. He parried until he got close enough to cast his own spears again, flinging them powerfully with his sky stick. With only a few throws, he managed to strike bladders stored under several emplacements, causing explosions that tossed soldiers about and deposited them unmoving on the ground. Others broke and ran.
But spears pursued them with deadly results. The third emplacement loomed and then a deadly explosion ruined that as well. Again, few soldiers were left. Two fell, choking, their throats filled with blood, thick as Dark. A few more broke and ran, weeping with fear, and he caught them coldly and efficiently from behind. And still others … 
The smoke swirled and thickened. Alexander was beginning to think that there would be no more opposition – that all must have fled – when a group of soldiers charged suddenly from the smoke.
They were a motley crew, less than a dozen; survivors, perhaps, of all three blasts, smoke stained and lacking in some armor, equipped mostly with short swords. It seemed to him that it was their intention to close with him. They advanced in a clumsy inverted V. Rather than risk encirclement, he moved quickly to one side and engaged the first two. He grabbed one blast-stained wretch by the arm and swung him into the second, unbalancing both and a third as well. He pulled his own short sword – heavy nonetheless and longer than theirs – and slashed down, dealing deadly blows first to one then another – finally the third as he turned to flee.
Three more closed from behind. Sensing, rather than hearing them, he turned and gashed one in the stomach. The two others came at him almost simultaneously. He gave one a backhanded cut across the breastplate and then stabbed forward with the tip of the heavy bronze blade, sliding up the breastplate of the other into the neck.
With a horrible death rattle, fountaining blood from mouth and throat, the man staggered back, choking. He pirouetted dazedly, then was spun brutally out of the way by one of the final four attackers. They came at Alexander in a coordinated manner, wary yet desperate, from left and right. Alexander didn’t wait, but picked up the soldier in front of him, still stunned and groggy. With a roar, Alexander slammed the man against the two nearest attackers, sending them tumbling. He dropped the stunned soldier and sliced him brutally across the throat to make sure. Letting his momentum carry himself backward after the blow, he ended up facing the final two from a short distance away. He closed with a furious rush, swinging the sword like a club first right and then left, knocking away the blade of the second. The man turned away as if to flee, but as he did so, Alexander slashed his legs so that he fell to knees, and then tumbled backwards in a disjointed way, writhing on the ground.
Alexander picked up his sword and faced the final attacker. The grim-faced soldier looked at Alexander and then the sword. His mouth opened in a grimy O, and he turned to run. Alexander slung the sword, point first. It caught the soldier directly in the nape of the neck. He toppled stiffly, dead before he hit the ground.
Surrounded by bodies bent in the grotesque attitudes of death, Alexander stood in the center of the fortifications, bespattered by gore and breathing hard.
Now it was very quiet, the silence broken only by the crackle of flames and the cracking of emplacements as their braces burned.
The fire burned more fiercely, fueled by Dark, joining its flames with the crumbling palisades. Despite the flames, the stench of death was already in the air. Still panting – for indeed he was not a young man – he took inventory as best he could. Many were burned to death, and others lay still as well in various postures, grotesque or peaceful; they were likely lifeless though he could not approach them because of the fire.
It seemed to him, as he scanned the battlefield between oily clouds of smoke, that he had indeed won the entirety. Only one discharger remained partially unscathed – and that only because it had been flung from its moorings and tipped to one side.
He surveyed the scene once more, slowly. He felt no triumph, however, only a terrible weariness expanding within him like the fire about him. He was no longer ea young man, and he’d had his fill of bloodshed and killing.
I should make a tour, he thought. Just one to be sure.
For some reason he did not. Oh, he was tired. He couldn’t remember being so weary. 
He turned to fetch his horses.



As Alexander departed, Deimos and Mellor emerged from where they had hidden, crouching in terrified stillness behind the remaining discharger.
Their faces were gaunt with shock and slick with sweat and soot.
“By the darkest cycle of the sun,” a bloody Deimos raged quietly, “how’s this possible!”
“He tricked us!” cried Mellor, whose tunic was in tatters, wholly ripped on one side and revealing a surface wound stitched intermittently down the length of his torso. “He’s no old fool! Just look what he’s done! The Synod’ll have our heads, and then our hides.”
Deimos seemed to have conquered the worst of his anger, his eyes narrowing and his breathing calming. “Yes,” he agreed, calming down. “We can’t go back, not like this.”
”What about the settlers?” Mellor asked. “They begin coming tomorrow.”
Deimos spat. “The Synod’ll hang us!”
“He’s still well known to them,” Mellor said desperately. “Knowing him, they may agree we did what we could.”
Now Deimos snorted. “By letting him take down an entire fortification single-handedly?”
“He was failing, the senile old fool! Everybody knew! Our intelligence confirmed it. And we took his wife …!”
 “Not that it helped!” Deimos noted, remembering what his father had told him.
“What does he want now, d’you think?”
“He may think we’re dead,” Deimos said, “and fetch his horses.”
“The guard won’t stop him,” Mellor muttered. “Swabees!”
“But perhaps he’ll return! Let’s hide ourselves, Mellor. We’ll try another attack. The new dischargers have a range he may not suspect.”
Mellor pointed. “The one that stands is a prototype. But it’s lost a wheel.”
“Can’t we compensate with the range?”
Mellor looked surprised. “Sure … sure, we could.”



Jodene and Jessica watched as Alexander rose. The dark moon shone on his helm and his high horses’ cladding.
He rode one and guided the other.
They had taken turns looking from a window on the upper floors. The guard below who had confiscated Jessica’s belt and Bright – and who had then seen what they had – paced the length of the deck. He drew his sword and sheathed it in a nervous gesture.
Jessica, too, paced the room, her robes swirling.
“He’s slain them all,” Jodene said, trying to calm her. “None left to fight, and the land below is a smoldering ruin.”
Jessica remained distraught. “He can’t fight so many. He shouldn’t have returned!”
“Child, use your sight. You’re speaking nonsense. He’s born for this!”
Jodene pointed to the horses soaring above the conflagration. “There’s greatness in him, if you choose to see.”
“I see my husband, the sky-smith, and he’s always had a foolish, stubborn side.”
“You see what he wants you to see. Athen, too.”
“You think the boy is his nephew,” Jodene said finally. “But Alexander’s not sure. Anyway, he never wanted to make the boy a target.”
“Well, that’s true,” Jodene admitted. “For a sky-smith, he has many enemies.”
“Too many.”
“But you chose well. I didn’t think so at the time. He was a poor lad and came from the farms below.”
“He wasn’t poor when I met him,” Jessica said. “I think he married me because others would not.”
“Nonsense! You could’ve had your pick! First, you chose him, then circumstances did so.”
“Maybe,” Jessica admitted. “Perhaps if he’d lived in a different time, he’d have been happy with what he was.”
Jodene pointed. “Look! He’s landed!” Now her words came more rapidly. “He leaves the horses untethered and moves quickly. The guard doesn’t know what to do!” She laughed shortly. “He’s running away, poor man. The spear is launched … oh, look! … The poor guard lies there. Our Alexander walks away … A hard man, hard enough for what’s necessary! Now he mounts the porch. Listen ... call him. Go on!”



Alexander heard. He ascended the stairs lightly like a young man and found them on the third floor. The door was locked. When he burst through, Jessica threw herself upon him and hugged him and kissed him wildly. “Oh, you shouldn’t have returned!…”
He looked down at her as if mildly surprised.
“Mother dreamed it wasn’t a good idea,” she said softly. “Days ago, she took a nightcap of white tea and dreamed you were in danger. I never told you.”
He made no answer to this, but stepped back to examine her.
“I guess I should make one more survey of the fortifications,” he said. “It’s what the High Council wants.”
“Oh, no! You come straight back with us!”
“You’d do what the High Council asks you after all this time?” Jodene fumed from the window seat. “Cowards!”
He turned directly toward the window without answering and in a single stride reached Jodene. He levered her up on one broad shoulder despite her complaints and carried her downstairs, canes and all. Behind him, Jessica clattered.
Outside, he placed Jodene on one great horse. She had ceased to speak, momentarily, but he was astonished to see that her ancient face was wet.
“Idiot,” she cried. “You’re playing their game! And they could care about you and less about your family! Oh, fool, fool! You’d leave my daughter without a husband and your nephew without an uncle!”
Her words shocked him.
For so long he had avoided a conversation about Athen that he’d thought it might never come. Not knowing how to respond, he busied himself with Jessica, helping her secure Jodene with scarves he had brought for that purpose.
Jessica mounted behind, and leaned over her mount, holding him tightly.
“I know you won’t do anything silly,” she whispered. “My mother’s just worked up.”
“’Course she is,” he said. He wrapped his belt around her with its ampoule of Bright. 
She kissed him – again and again, her face dampening like her mother’s. “What would we do without you! What would I do?”
She held her mother tightly against the saddle.
“I’m right behind,” Alexander told Jodene, moving away to mount his own high horse.
“A liar as well as a fool,” Jodene croaked, without a backward glance.
Alexander swung his leg up. He spurred the charger, leading them straight up into the sky. He spurred his mount.
Up they went, already out of range, even were there any survivors.



On bloody knees, peering into his near lens through the smoke, Deimos pointed. Mellor followed his directions, pushing hard as he could, using a series of stiff levers to reposition the carapace of the discharger. He was weak from loss of blood.
“Look what he’s done,” Deimos cried, rocking as he brought the lens down from his eye. “How could anyone do all of this? He never missed, not once!”
“He’s hardly human,” muttered Mellor. “A murderous machine! But if we bring him down now, we can still recover. The Synod’ll understand.”
“I’m not so sure,” Deimos said. “The Fort’s a ruin.”
He tracked the sky-smith.
“Here he comes!” he cried. “And a second pass! He’s giving us a target!”
He called out the position as necessary.
Mellor cranked, adjusting his sighting as the prototype swiveled.
“Hold,” Deimos cried. “Hold … hold … Not yet!”
Mellor groaned with effort. “They’re at the edge of our range.”
“Good, eh? Let’s take him by surprise!”
At the last instant, Alexander seemed to see the two and spurred his horse as if, seeking to rejoin Jessica and Jodene.
Deimos shouted anxiously. Mellor pulled hard on the levers.
Above, the figure drew back a heavy arm.
“Stand back!” Mellor screamed. He opened the cocks of both barrels and streams of Bright and Dark passed into the engine’s midsection. The two flung themselves away just as the elements mingled in a terrible explosion that threw the bladder high in the sky.
Alexander launched at nearly the same instant. The bladder, almost as large as the great figure of the Smith himself, passed over the speeding spear.
Down it came. Mellor yelled in terror for he saw where it had been aimed – at the last available bladder of swollen Dark, stored directly beneath the engine. “Deimos, look out!”
Even as Mellor yelled to his general, the spear hit the bladder, puncturing it as the fragile vessel of Bright – attached to the shaft – shattered.
A flame shot up from the engine’s emplacement, rupturing the barrels of Bright and Dark and causing further explosions as the discharger’s bronze belly shattered.
Two fiery figures ran in shaky circles around charred ground near where a conflagration raged. An additional explosion caught the one that Alexander recognized as Mellor and blasted him upward. Down he dropped like a great weight, and was still.
Deimos – for the other was the young general – continued to dance around jerkily in a disjointed way. Suddenly, he brought something bright and sharp from waist to throat, and sliced, rupturing an artery, which spurted bright blood. Deimos sagged to his knees and then toppled altogether. He rolled twice and came to rest and was still, sightless eyes gazing skyward. Crimson stained Dark soaking the ground. All this, Alexander saw in an instant as the great bladder soared directly toward him.
He spurred the charger forward once more to intercept it, lifting his shield.
“Alexander, watch out,” Jessica called from a distance. “You’ll move into its path!”
“Go away!” he shouted back.
“Alex! It’s traveling too fast – you can’t block it!”
Even as she spoke, the bladder burst soundlessly about him. And fast as it happened, it seemed to him to go very slowly. Its explosive, incandescent bursting was not painful, merely shocking.
He was blown off his horse … but perhaps not. He felt no pain, only confusion. His charger – where was it?
Was that the sun, above him or below?
Far away, he though he made out Jessica, arms outstretched, her face etched with infinite grief and horror. He floated above an ocean, foam tossed and white tipped. Was he dying, or dead?
The sea swirled far below a flotilla of high houses, sailing forth. He stood with three others upon the forward deck. Athen threw back his handsome head and laughed. Jessica embraced him. Jodene sat at the very front of the portico, looming like a tiny gargoyle in the mist and fuming about his foolishness …
In his mind’s eye, he smiled at them, and each in the high houses behind – for how he loved them! …
And fell from the sky.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR



He has written two popular, interview-oriented books on investing for John Wiley & Sons and Simon & Schuster and his short-fiction has been published in collections in the US and internationally. He has run several free-market oriented web-sites gaining up to 400,000 unique viewers a month and founded a publishing firm producing over 100 financial and fiction titles in a five-year period.

To learn more about the author and his next book release, please visit his blog:
http://www.markthornebooks.com/



If you enjoyed The Sky Smith, we have included a portion from Mark's next book, Action Man:

“Only the individual thinks.  Only the individual reasons.
Only the individual acts.”
(Human Action ~ Ludwig von Mises)




PROLOGUE

“You understand what this means?”
“I do, Dark Mistress!”
“There’s no turning back. Harrumph, harrumph … "
“But I’ll work every day?”
“Yes, you will.”
“It’s a deal!”



A prophecy is made  —  1995


That fateful morning, Noah Waters took off on his rusty bike to visit an abandoned industrial site for a class project.
He traveled on a twisty country road past fields planted with summer corn. He took off his shirt and tied it round his waist, revealing pinkish, peeling skin on his back and shoulders. (He didn’t tan especially well and was prone to freckling.)
His travel was not entirely free-spirited but was, in fact, connected to school, which was not his favorite enterprise. He was a mediocre student, not because he didn’t try, but because he lacked the skills to stand out. He was neither exceptionally inquisitive nor formidably quick. (He might have been gifted, but most schools are not set up these days to determine such things.)
He peddled faster and faster, as if he could outpace a vague concern he felt, perhaps over his school project or maybe over bigger life issues that he couldn’t quite verbalize. By the time he arrived at his at his grassy and lightly wooded destination he was feeling fairly winded.
He walked the bike into the underbrush, reaching an area far enough off the road so that no one would be able to see it or him. After leaning his bike against a stunted tree, he lay down amidst tall grass and weeds, achieving — ironically and without any forethought — a primary life-goal, which was, frankly, to be unobtrusive as possible.
He was tired from the bike trip, and it was cool in the shade. The underbrush was soft where he lay, mossy and fragrant. After a while, he dozed.
For a while he didn’t feel anything.
But then he woke with a shudder. In front of him, dappled by sunlight, was a huge male figure. He was the largest person that Noah had ever seen, and looked to be the strongest.
He was almost nude, clad only in a breechclout, and his magnificently delineated musculature would surely have put almost any observer in mind of a youthful Arnold Schwarzenegger. The most notable thing about him was that his body appeared to be covered in flame — a golden, flickering fire that disappeared and then reignited depending on his movements. His face remained in shadow despite the sunlight. He carried a small sword in a sheath, thrust through his breechclout, and appeared to be a warrior of some kind.
Noah decided he was still asleep and dreaming.
“Who are you?” he cried. “Identify yourself!”
He stood almost directly over Noah, now. A lash of flame licked out from between his lips like a fiery tongue.
Oh, this was definitely a dream, Noah thought. The only trouble was that it felt all too real.
“Noah … Noah Waters,” Noah stammered. “Wh-what d’you want with me?”
“Impossible!” the giant shouted, locks of golden hair smoking. He squinted, and smoky eyes sparked. “You can’t be Waters!”
“But — but ... ” Noah muttered, trying without success to use his elbows to back up.
“Surely, not ‘He Who Is Chosen?’ Ah, wait, you’re in disguise.”
He turned round and tensed his back muscles, showing Noah an astonishing musculature.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed, then posed like a bodybuilder, tightening his impressive stomach muscles and making his sun-dappled ‘lats ripple. Then he stuck out a long leg stuffed with muscle.
“The symmetry — there! Look at the cuts ... look at the size!”
“Very nice,” Noah said in a small voice. “Uh ...   uh ... ” He ran out of words. He’d always been a touch asthmatic and was having a little trouble breathing.
“Now your turn!”
“Wait a minute,” Noah said. “I don’t look anything like you. Sorry, I really don’t.”
“Don’t be modest!” the youthful figure replied. “He Who Is Chosen — Rise! Reveal your true and glorious form!”
A branch suddenly cracked and fell as if to emphasize the demand. Noah felt sick and tried to take deep, steady breaths.
“What a joker! Don’t want anybody to know, eh?”
“No, you don’t understand.” 
The golden figure waved his large and muscular hands at Noah while puzzlement rippled across his handsome face. “Quite an impressive getup. Muscle manipulation. Bone loss. Flaccid skin tone.”
“Flaccid skin tone!” Noah sputtered. “What!”
“Uneven features, dull, greasy hair and a rigid posture ... Well done!”
“I’m not in disguise!” Noah exclaimed, raising his own quavery voice. “And what does it mean to be Chosen, anyway?”
“You’ll find out!” the golden one said. “You’re really what you appear to be?”
Before Noah could respond, he furrowed a dappled brow and recited Noah’s family address.
“That’s me,” Noah confirmed, “where I live.”
“This is some mix up!”
“Oh, glad to hear,” Noah said. “I’m certainly not Chosen.”
“Oh, but you are!” the radiant youth said in a commanding tone. “And I’ll get the blame for it! Can you at least shape-shift ... ” he asked with a hint of desperation. “Or get bigger?”
“What do you mean bigger?”
“As, say, that mountain over there on the horizon?”
“As big as a ... mountain?” Noah repeated, wondering if he had heard right.
“As big as that tree?” he asked hopefully, pointing to a large, nearby oak.
“No, sorry.”
“Can you gnash your teeth and rend limbs?”
Noah shook his head.
“Death and destruction follow behind you?”
“Not that I’m aware,” Noah said in small voice.
“For the love of the Dark Dragon Himself! What a mess!”
“Yes, yes,” Noah said eagerly “A mistake’s been made.”
“Of course it doesn’t really matter,” the Schwarzenegger look-alike responded, shaking his head. “You’ll still have to make a choice whether or not to fulfill the Prophecy. And if you choose to fulfill it you may cause the death of millions, no billions.”
“What? Death? Did you say  ... uh, what did you say?”
His confronter spat on the ground, as if in disgust. Where his spittle landed a small coil of smoke curled.
“I’m just a kid,” Noah cried wildly, “a silly young dude. I’m not even popular. I keep a low profile. Do I look like someone who would be picked to fulfill a Prophecy?”
“Look, I agree with you, you have no idea how much,” the giant said. “But, after all, I’m only the messenger.”
“When is this supposed to happen?” Noah asked, struggling and failing to sit up. He lay there breathing hard.
The other held up thick digits, counted and snapped his fingers. Another branch broke.
“The blink of an eye,” he said more loudly, “from a cosmological point of view. Longer for you, of course.”
“Wait!” Noah lifted up his arms, for the youth had taken a graceful step backward. It was like watching Schwarzenegger and Nureyev rolled into one.
“Too late, my friend. For some incredible, impossible, misguided reason you have been tapped!”
Shadow and brightness swirled more fiercely around his upper body. “Oh, one more thing … And believe me, I could do without this part!”
He took a step to one side and bent over a still-paralyzed Noah. His mouth seemed to widen grotesquely. Between now-hideous swollen and disjointed jaws, a large dagger or small sword flickered out like a tongue. It stabbed near the sternum before falling away. A sharp, glancing pain invaded Noah’s breast. But before he could say another word, or even cry out, the magnificent young man vanished.
For years, Noah tried to convince himself it was a dream. The scar on his chest said otherwise.



Assignment accepted  —  2011


When Glorious Ones came down it always seemed as if there was not enough room in the Observatory. Now this was saying something, as The Observatory itself was actually an infinite chamber with massive aether-activated telescopes aimed at Earth and manned by Watchers. Somehow, the Glorious Ones were apparently even bigger and incandescently radiant.
The funny thing was that if you looked at a Glorious One straight on, you saw only a regular-sized person clad in white robes and, maybe, white sandals. Only when you looked their way out of the corner of your eye could you glimpse the majesty of what actually was, the infinite size, limitless radiance and aching, infinite forgiveness and wisdom.
The other funny thing was no matter how you looked, you could never fully make out their faces. Radiance, subdued or otherwise, seemed to get in the way. You could make out a nose, or an eye or the odd ear, but not all at once. It was very hard to tell, therefore, whom you were speaking with or whether you had met them before, though often they seemed fairly old.
The Watcher knew these two well. In fact, Glorious 100,237 and 100,238 (they eschewed names — the aggrandizement of self — for the anonymity of numbers) were in a sense his caseworkers. Once settled, they seemed to be regular sizes, though Seven was bigger than Eight. That was how he told them apart, along with the pitch of their voices.
It always seemed to him that they came from the same general region. They spoke uninflected American-English (unlike the Watcher who’d ended up with a cosmopolitan accent and used occasional British phrases).
Without knowing (it would have been rude to ask) he had a suspicion they’d grown up somewhere in the northeastern United States, maybe in the Puritan era. He also thought they were related by marriage or blood, perhaps cousins or even sisters — at least spiritual sisters. Seven was the more dominant of the two. She had a file folder with notes on her lap. It had gotten considerably thicker over time.
“Hades’ Gates, Your Excellency!” the Watcher said finally when a temporary silence caught up to him. He pointed to the folder. “You’re writing a book or something?”
“Please don’t curse,” Seven reproved. “You’re well-aware that every time you make progress, you undermine yourself with your attitude. You DO want to advance?”
“Not sure he does,” Eight broke in. Protective of Seven, she was not the Watcher’s biggest supporter, as she often made clear. He often wondered what he had done to arouse her suspicions. Seven was quite the opposite, usually giving him the benefit of the doubt, for which he was grateful.
“I surely do,” the Watcher insisted, feeling uneasy. He smoothed his robe, which was blue unlike the Glorious One’s pure white. The two had that effect on him. “Maybe I’m just not perfectible.”
“There you go again,” Seven said. “What did we say about negativity?”
“To banish it,” The Watcher sighed.
“It has to do with your approach,” Seven said.
“Yes,” Eight said reprovingly. “Your job as a Watcher is to observe the Groundling — inevitably in a moral crisis — and then suggest alternatives. You’re supposed to bring the situation to a kind of crisis and then resolve it.”
“A clarifying function,” the Watcher said. “I understand — winnowing Good from Evil, determining true intentions and all that.”
“Of course, that doesn’t mean you follow the path of least resistance,” Seven said.
“You’re supposed to help them struggle to find the true path of goodness and light,” Eight added.
“I know, I know,” the Watcher said a little sullenly, as if aware of what was coming next.
“Oh, come now!” Seven said, laying a consoling hand on his knee. It was an electrifying touch. “We can always improve. I see evidence of haste recorded in your file. We send you down to Earth for a given period of time — a week, a month, even a year — because deadlines help concentrate the mind and spirit. But that doesn’t mean that you should rush the job.”
“Why would I wish to do that?”
“The deadlines are there to encourage a resolution, not free time,” Eight reminded him. “What about this young woman, an agoraphobic who wasn’t able to care for her family ...”
Eight sighed as if she didn’t want to continue. Seven leaned back, breaking the physical connection.
“You chartered a small aircraft,” Seven reminded him, “and then pushed her from the hatch. If we hadn’t reached out to her and extended Ourselves to catch her, she would have died.”
“So I misplaced the chute,” the Watcher said, aware the excuse sounded weak. “All ended well, didn’t it?”
“Don’t think that’s the point,” Seven said with such great empathy that the Watcher felt melancholy himself. “You were in a rush because you wanted to finish the assignment early.”
“Much of your spirit remains Earthbound,” Eight said reprovingly.
“Listen,” the Watcher replied. “I’m most delighted to take the assignment, whatever it is. Hopefully, it will elevate me to the next level.”
Seven cleared her throat and rocked forward once more.
“This is one of the most important assignments in human history,” she said. “We’re putting our trust in you, all of us, even the Higher Ups.”
“You’re giving that to moi?” the Watcher blurted in a shocked tone.
“It has to do with redemption,” Seven continued. “I fought for this — for you — for months, even years. That’s how strong my belief is in what you can do. Eight was also most helpful. We both believe in you.”
The Watcher didn’t believe her about Eight for a minute.
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Eight said. “Seven was warned about you to begin with and she’s made you a special project ever since. I have a different opinion, as you can tell,” she added, looking straight at the Watcher. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t apologize,” the Watcher said uneasily. “You may be right this time — not that you’re not right on many other occasions,” he added hastily.
Eight shook her head. “He’s incorrigible. He’s never been Watcher material. It’s not his fault, of course.”
“He was Sorted, nonetheless,” Seven pointed out, “even before he was given to me.”
“He’s sensual and materialistic, sister. Put him among the Groundlings and he takes advantage. He can’t help himself! We’ve seen this how many times?”
“Perhaps Eight is correct,” Seven said, sounding a bit downcast. “But I prefer to see your behavior as something to overcome.”
“Oh, I can try,” the Watcher said. “I can certainly try.”
Being quasi-Immortal, and therefore unavoidably honest, he was inclined to grant Eight’s point. But he didn’t want to hurt Seven’s feelings.
Seven waved a frail right hand, trailing a kind of incandescent mist that rapidly dissipated.
"Never wish a thing done; do it!" she said, with enough passion to fuel his suspicion once more that the two of them had belonged to some sort of Puritan sect. He’d spent time in the Observatory’s library reading up on such things. The two were yet a mystery to him.
“I have endless faith in you,” Seven added. “I know you can do this. You have special qualities. This is your destiny. I believe in you!”
Eight let out a little groan. Seven ignored her, saying, “You’ll get a folder shortly. Dark Ones are involved, unfortunately. The location is in the Northeast US.”
“Oh, bloody dogs!” the Watcher muttered with sudden passion. “Uncultured oafs. How about setting me down on some islands in the Mediterranean? I can recall a dozen off the top of my mind. How about Thera?”
“You see?” Eight said, twisting her radiant head slightly. “He can’t help himself.”
“He’s just nervous,” Seven remonstrated gently. “Listen, it’s called Santorini these days. And don’t be so judgmental.”
“Just a suggestion,” the Watcher muttered. 
“You may want to pack,” Seven added. “You start immediately.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Within the next several years I would think.”

You are invited to write a review, offer comments, and take a look at my other books at:
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