Blaze of Glory (39 page)

Aubrey held out his arm for his grandmother. She
smiled at him and together they led the others to Lady
Fitzwilliam's drawing room.

When Sir Darius rejoined them, he had a dusty bottle.

'Over a hundred years old, this port,' he said. 'I've kept
it for a special occasion.'

Lady Fitzwilliam smiled. 'You didn't have time to go
down to the cellar to fetch it. You must have brought
it out earlier today.'

Sir Darius smoothed his moustache with a finger.
'I may have had it ready. Just in case.'

'You were confident,' Mrs Hepworth said.

'Of course,' Aubrey put in. 'We were always going to
win.'

'Always?' Sir Darius said. He opened the bottle. After
an instant, an aroma like dusty, sun-warmed leather filled
the room. Sir Darius nodded happily and then poured
the port into small crystal glasses.

Lady Fitzwilliam distributed the port and waited for
her husband.

'To all of you,' he said, raising his glass. 'To Rose,
for your fortitude and love. To Mother, for your high
expectations and your understanding. To Aubrey, for
your courage and intelligence. To George, for your
loyalty and bravery. To Caroline, for your dauntlessness.
To Ophelia, for your bravery and in recognition of
your loss.'

Aubrey held his glass high. 'And to all of us, to the
future!'

'To the future!'

A
UBREY HUMMED A LITTLE AS HE LOOKED OUT OVER
the Hummocks training course. He shifted the
straps of his pack so the weight sat more evenly, and he
realised he was disappointed that the weather was mild.
A breeze blew across the course and the subtle smells
of summer turning into autumn came to him – leaves
beginning to dry and crisp, the wan scents of the last of
the summer roses, acorns ripening.

'Are you ready, Fitzwilliam?' bawled the same Warrant
Officer who'd witnessed Aubrey's previous, unsuccessful
attempt on the course.

Aubrey straightened. 'Sir!'

Twenty yards away, George was leaning against the
fence. He tipped back his hat and mock-saluted. Aubrey
grinned.

'Enjoying ourselves, are we?' the Warrant Officer
barked. 'Get started, then!'

Aubrey trotted off, the pack settling with each step. He
felt good, better than he'd felt at any time since the failed
experiment.

He slogged up the first mound and down the other
side. While his body worked, his mind was abuzz.

Caroline came first in his thoughts. Aubrey's mother
had offered her a position as her assistant, working at the
museum on weekends. There was even the prospect of
both of them going on an expedition to the polar sea,
spending three months looking for new seabird species
on the remote, icy islands. He readily admitted – to
himself – that he'd miss her.

He was starting to breathe heavily, but he felt none of
the telltale signs that meant he was in danger of dissolution.
In fact, he was enjoying the strain of his muscles and
the gritty discomfort of the uniform. It reminded him of
how alive he was. He wondered if his condition had given
him an appreciation of small things like that. He had cause
to be grateful for much, but it hadn't ever occurred to him
before to be grateful for simply being alive.

Halfway through his second lap of the course, Aubrey
was not so happy.

The minor discomforts had intensified into throbbing
feet, aching shoulders and a feeling of burning exhaustion,
to a state where lifting his head to see the course in
front of him was a major undertaking.

Nearly there
, he told himself, repeating the phrase for
the thousandth time. He didn't believe himself, but it
had become a chorus, a chant, something to cling to.
Nearly there.

Aubrey couldn't hear anything apart from the shuffle of
his feet. All that mattered was the small stretch of beaten
earth that was the trail he was following. His whole world
had narrowed; the only important thing was putting one
foot in front of the other.

It was an ordeal, but Aubrey told himself it was only a
physical struggle. He could cope. He could succeed. After
all he'd been through, he could tolerate mere bodily
discomfort. It was torture, but it was tolerable torture.

Aubrey remembered the way he had dragged his soulself
against the pull of death. It had been an impossible
task, resisting his end like that, but he'd done it by doing
it little by little, stubbornly refusing to give in. It was a
lesson he'd learned: sometimes the best way to slay a giant
was to nibble it to death.

He could do it again.

By this stage, his movements were mechanical. He
continued to plod forward, his rifle held extended, the
straps of his pack cutting into his shoulders.

He adjusted his grip on the rifle. He gritted his teeth,
refusing to surrender.

The path beneath his feet angled upwards. He felt
crushed beneath the weight of the pack, but pushed on,
lost in the effort.

Downwards, almost slipping, digging in, balancing the
weight, pressing on.

Up again, knees bent, leaning forward, elbows spread,
ankles aching.

Doing it little by little. Refusing to give in.

A
THOUSAND YEARS LATER.

'Aubrey! You can stop now!'

'George?'

'Here, let me help you.'

The weight was lifted from his back and Aubrey almost
fell over. He loosened his grip on the rifle and used it to
support himself. He looked up. 'I did it?' he croaked.

Atkins, the Warrant Officer, scowled. 'Yes.'

He marched off.

George gripped the pack and thrust a water bottle at
Aubrey. He drank, took off his helmet then poured the
rest of the water over his head. 'Another trial, George,'
he said. 'Another test.'

'Yes. But you did it.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Was there ever any doubt?'

Michael Pryor has published more than twenty fantasy
books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction
to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has
been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards,
has been nominated for a Ditmar Award and longlisted
for the Gold Inky award, and three of his books have
been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable
Books. Michael is also the co-creator (with Paul
Collins) of the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles.
He is currently writing
Time of Trial: The Fourth Volume
of The Laws of Magic
, as well as the final book in the
Chronicles of Krangor series.

For more information about Michael and his books,
please visit
www.michaelpryor.com.au

Read on for a sneak preview of Aubrey and George's adventures in

T
HE
S
ECOND
V
OLUME OF

The Laws of Magic

A
UBREY
F
ITZWILLIAM KNEW THAT CRISIS WAS
another word for opportunity. He simply wished
that he saw more of the latter and less of the former.

A
UBREY GRIMACED, TIGHTENED THE LAST VALVE ASSEMBLY
and closed the ornithopter's cowling. He stretched,
wincing, just as his friend George Doyle spoke up.
'Aubrey?'

'Hm?'

'What's bright orange and floats through clouds?'

'Riddling, George? Really, you need to find something
more worthwhile to do.'

'It's not a riddle, old man. It's what I'm looking at right
now.'

While Aubrey had worked on the ornithopter, George
had spent much of the evening lounging on a bench,
propped on one elbow and reading the newspaper.
Now, he was peering out of the window of the workshop
at the night sky. Aubrey wiped his greasy hands on a rag
and strolled to see what had caught his friend's attention.
'Where?'

A pearly-grey blanket of cloud hung over Finley Moor
Airfield and stretched to the south, where it reflected
the many lights of Trinovant, the heart of the Albion
Empire. Thunder growled nearby.

'There. That glow.' George pointed to the north-east,
past the control tower – dark at this time of night – and
the dirigible mooring masts. Four long grey cigar-shapes
bobbed at rest. They were the pride of the Albion airship
fleet, the 800-foot-long Imperial class, the most
advanced lighter-than-air craft in the world.

The orange light was coming from something in the
clouds – something large. Aubrey frowned, trying to
make out what it was, then he gaped as it burst through
the clouds. A flaming dirigible staggered across the sky, its
nose angling downward, losing lift and sagging in the
middle. Fire had enveloped the front third of the stately
airship, puncturing the internal gasbags. Flames lit up the
airfield and the countryside in a ghastly hell-light.

Aubrey's tiredness vanished. He sprinted out of the
hangar, a thousand decisions competing for his attention.
He flung open the door of the nearest ornithopter. It was
a Falcon model, not his favourite, but it was a six-seater,
with a largish cargo bay, and that was what he wanted.

George caught up and seized his arm. 'What are you
doing, old man?'

'That's a Gallian airship, an RT-401.Twenty crew members
are going to die up there unless we do something.'

'You've never done a night flight before,' George
pointed out.

I know
, Aubrey thought.
And I flew solo for the first time
just two days ago
. 'How hard can night flying be?' Aubrey
vaulted into the pilot's seat. 'It's the same sky, after all.'

'It's not the sky I'm worried about.' George squeezed
his broad-shouldered frame into the co-pilot seat. 'It's the
ground waiting for us if you make a mistake.' He shook
his head. 'This is madness. Shouldn't we send for help?'

'No time. Those poor souls don't have long.' Aubrey
ran through his pre-flight checklist, decided it would take
too long in the circumstances, then pulled the ignition
lever. The engine coughed into life and he seized the
controls.

The great metal wings creaked and stretched. Aubrey
used the foot pedals and the landing gear whirred into
action. He felt the bird-like craft settle, tense, and then a
stomach-dropping thrust as its legs kicked upwards. The
wings twisted and beat, noisily driving upwards.

Aubrey forced the craft to climb almost vertically. He
flicked his black hair as it fell in his eyes. 'Where is it?' he
shouted over the crashing of the metal wings.

'Left!' George shouted back. 'Port, I mean! Over there,
past the sewage works!' He pointed. Aubrey dragged the
wheel around until the dirigible came into view
overhead.

He pulled back on the wheel with all his strength, and
sent the ornithopter into a testing climb. Then he levelled
off and swept toward the crippled airship.

A huge gout of fire erupted from the nose of the dirigible.
Aubrey gritted his teeth and wrenched at the
controls. George shouted as a jet of flame reached for
them, a wave of heat screaming like a flock of harpies.
Their craft staggered and heeled, the port wing canting
while the starboard wing flailed wildly. His heart
hammering wildly, Aubrey held on, glad for the belt that
kept him in his seat.

From behind them came the shriek of struts protesting
under strain. Aubrey held his breath and eased off the
controls. The rending noise slowed, but then he heard
the sharp pings of rivets giving up and popping loose.
Immediately, metal crashed against metal, grinding
horribly.
Not a good sign
, he thought. With little choice, he
ignored it and concentrated on keeping the craft steady.

The Falcon was approaching the dirigible almost
directly head-on. Aubrey banked the ornithopter to port
and swooped along the vast flank of the airship. The
Falcon bucked a little, but Aubrey anticipated and held
the line.

The entire front half of the dirigible was ablaze. The
smell of burning rubber was harsh in Aubrey's nostrils
and he grimaced. He eased the Falcon toward a tight turn
around the stern of the airship, aiming to glide along the
other side.

George shouted and grabbed his arm. The ornithopter,
delicately responsive, dipped and shuddered. Aubrey had
to strain the controls, adjusting wing pitch and attack, to
right it again.

'Don't do that!' he shouted.

'Someone's in the back!'

Aubrey risked a glance as they rounded the tail of
the aerial behemoth. A stocky man in the uniform of the
Gallian Dirigible Corps was standing in the rear observation
cockpit, waving desperately.

'We'll come back for him.' Aubrey steered toward
the bow, where the gondola clung to the belly of the dirigible.

The gondola was the long cabin where the captain
controlled the airship. If he was able to come alongside,
he might be able to get the ornithopter to hover long
enough to take on survivors. The Falcon could carry four
passengers, but Aubrey was sure he could manage six,
then shuttle back for the rest.

He licked lips that had suddenly gone dry, and began
to edge closer to the dirigible. He clenched his teeth and
concentrated on keeping his hands steady.

A mighty groan came from the airship, followed by the
sharp, bright noise of metal reaching the end of its
strength. Automatically, Aubrey sheered off and dropped
away. Then he climbed, not wanting to get caught in the
rain of debris falling from the crippled dirigible – struts,
wire, shattered glass, burning fabric.

He glanced up and, to his horror, saw that the internal
frame of the airship was collapsing. Tormented metal
screamed and buckled. One of the motor units wrenched
loose and fell, still whirring, to the ground far below. Then,
without warning, the entire gondola tore away. It tilted and
hung, attached along one side, then it plummeted.

Immediately, the remnants of the dirigible lurched
upwards, much lighter now. The clouds opened around it,
then swallowed the flaming leviathan of the air.

Sickened, Aubrey closed his eyes, grieving for the lost
crew. Twenty brave souls, gone in an instant. He banged
the instrument panel with a fist, cursing his failure to
save them. Should he have gone for help as George
suggested? Was he simply being too rash, too overreaching
– again?

'What now?' George shouted.

Aubrey narrowed his eyes. He could still do something
to help. 'The cockpit. The survivor.'

He scanned overhead and saw the remnants of the dirigible wallowing out of the clouds, shuddering like a great
whale in its death spasms. The remaining motor units
were whining desperately, but the dirigible had begun its
final plunge.

Aubrey realised his jaw was aching from the tension.
George grunted, then swore as oil sprayed across the
windscreen.

That's all I need
, Aubrey thought numbly. He couldn't
see a thing through the streaks and smears of black muck.

Doing his best to stay calm, he ran through the
commonplace spells he'd memorised since he'd begun
learning magic. He seized on one he'd used for practical
jokes, an application of the Law of Attraction. The
elements were straightforward, the duration easy to
handle. Usually the spell was used to make things hard
to separate – to humorous effect – but this time Aubrey
inverted the spell. The oil fell away from the windscreen
as if it couldn't bear to be near the glass.

The ornithopter bucked, then dropped in the turbulent
air caused by the burning dirigible. The flames had
almost engulfed the entire airship and the heat beat on
Aubrey's exposed skin. The ornithopter shuddered, then
slipped sideways. He caught it with an upward wing beat,
but the strain was causing the metal laminates to shred
and peel. There was no natural way to bring the
ornithopter close enough to perform a mid-air rescue.

It'll have to be magic, then.

George pointed. The tail of the airship had tipped
upwards, like the stern of a sinking ship. A figure was in
the cockpit, pressed up against the glass.

Aubrey flinched as violet-white light flashed through
the cabin. Hard on its heels was an immense crack that
made the ornithopter vibrate like a gong. Dazzled, with
coloured specks dancing in front of his eyes, Aubrey
groaned. As if they didn't have enough to contend with,
the storm was closing in. The ornithopter quivered, as if
it were a real bird caught in a storm.

Feverishly, Aubrey's mind seized on the comparison.
The Law of Similarities came to him, the well-established
components blazing across his mind, clear and sharp.

The ornithopter was like a bird. With an effort, and the
properly constructed spell, he could make it more so.

He chanted the spell, dropping the values into the
unfolding formula in the way that fitted best. He
announced each element as crisply as he could while
trying to hold the bucking craft steady.

'Hold on!' he barked to George. The interior of the
ornithopter began to glow, but it was different from the
dirigible's flaming red and the harsh glare of the lightning.

Streaked with green and yellow, every surface began
to shimmer, a spiky phosphorescence that reeked of
magic. Aubrey's magical senses jangled in response.

Another boom and the ornithopter was again rocked
by thunder. Aubrey wrestled controls that were growing
increasingly sluggish and dragged the craft around the
nose of the sinking dirigible.

George let out an oath as the substance of the ornithopter
rippled. Wide-eyed, he clutched at the control
panel, seeking something to hold onto, then jerked back
as it flowed underneath his fingers. His face was rigid
with terror as the substance of the machine shifted shape,
threatening to dissolve and pitch them both into the
ferocity of the storm.

Thunder bellowed, a burst of heat erupted from the
dirigible and then they were no longer in the cabin of an
ornithopter. Wind screamed and plucked at them as they
lay flat on the back of a giant metal bird.

'Hold on!' Aubrey shouted – unnecessarily – and
scrabbled for a handhold.

Aubrey was excited. The spell had worked. The
ornithopter had been encouraged to assert its similarity
to a real bird, to become more than a machine. Exposed
to the elements, a long neck thrust out in front of them
while a fan-like tail spread behind. Great brass wings
feathered in the shifting turbulence, keeping them
tracking alongside the stricken dirigible. Aubrey could
see that the glass of the windscreen had become the
glinting eyes of the creature, while the hydraulic pipes
and electrical wiring conduits had merged into the body
of the bird, making tendons and muscles.

Aubrey looked down and gulped. The ground was a
long way away. He narrowed his eyes against the
whipping wind, the heat of the flames and the smoke. His
fingers dug into the metal feathers and he was thankful
the bird's back was broad.

George stared at him and down at the metal bird, then
grinned and gave a nod of approval. 'Don't worry, I'm not
letting go!'

The metal bird clashed its way toward the observation
cockpit. Aubrey urged it on.

The dirigible had finally given up the struggle. Huge
rents ran across the metal skin, exposing the interior
fabric and aluminium skeleton. A gasbag ripped free and,
intact, shot up through the clouds. Deprived of this lift,
the dirigible sank even more swiftly.

The metal bird slid sideways, then banked right in a
turn that had both Aubrey and George scrabbling to stop
themselves sliding off its back. Just when Aubrey had
jammed his left foot against what he suspected had once
been a fuel line, the metal bird plummeted and his
stomach tried to find its way out of his ears.