My admiration and liking for the shrewd, fat, soft-spoken little Perushtarian increased with the arrival of every new shipload of gear and provender. Kaamurath knew the value of a diol (as the basic monetary unit of Thanator is known) as well as any wealthy merchant-prince. He knew also that the conquest of his city would cost a million times what this generous outlay was worth. And he knew that victory over one’s enemies is a bargain at any price.
The armada of the Three Cities was manned with the fighting strength of Tharkol and of golden Shondakor.
But we flew on wings of gold. Soraban gold.
At last the time had come and we were ready to depart. The men were fully trained, well experienced, and in fighting trim. All was in readiness to launch the first multi-national air armada in the history of this planet.
At my side on the control belvedere of the Jalathadar, the flagship of the new sky navy, stood my most gallant and trusted comrades―Prince Valkar, Lukor the Ganatolian, Koja of the Horde, stout, gruff old Ergon, and the savant, Zastro, wise man of the Ku Thad. It was suspected that his keen intellect would be needed on this expedition, for on this venture we crossed swords with cunning and clever foes. As well, a gallant youth named Tomar had joined the ship’s company in a Thanatorian naval rank comparable to that of an ensign. This youngster had acquitted himself admirably on a former adventure, when it had been his quick wits and fearless daring alone had saved the Jalathadar from destruction at the hands of the unscrupulous traitor, Ulthar. Lukor, who had conceived of a paternal fondness for the youth, vowed he would prove himself an asset on the quest.
It was a clear and brilliant morning: the skies burnt fierce gold in the weird, sourceless dawn of Callisto. The populace of Shondakor had turned out in all their thousands to salute us as we set sail over the world’s edge. In brilliant robes, crowned with nodding plumes, decked with flashing gems as if for some high festival, they waved and cheered as the signal flags ascended the shrouds and the anchor lines were cast off, setting us free upon the winds.
From the great tier of the palace at the heart of the Golden City, I caught my last look at my beloved. Darloona, with our infant son Kaldar in her arms, crowned with a coronal of starry gems, blew me a kiss. The baby cooed and gurgled and kicked his heels, delighted at the color and pageantry of the magnificent scene. Beside my wife and child, tall, lordly Yarrak, Darloona’s uncle and the senior peer of the realm, returned our salute as the mighty galleon rose above the crowded streets, her huge bat-ribbed wings catching the brisk morning breeze; and we were aloft.
Behind us from the naval yards the mighty bulk of the Xaxar ascended in our wake, her banners streaming, spread wings booming as they caught the rising winds. On the cupola atop the pilothouse I caught a glimpse of that great warrior, Zantor. Alone of the corsair captains of Zanadar, he had shown mercy towards his captives, and gentleness towards the helpless. The Sky Pirates had made him a slave―a gladiator, to fight savage beasts and wild men in the arena for their bloody sport: but I had made him a lord of Shondakor, and was proud to call him by the name of my friend. Grim and somber, impassive of mien, with brooding eyes, Zantor was a silent, thoughtful man; but this morning, with its rich color and music, flags rolling on the wind and cheering throngs on every rooftop and balcony, I saw him clearly, and he was grinning with delight.
Like immense, graceful birds, or flying dragons from the mist-torn skies of some lost dawn age, the two immense galleons rose into the air. With the Jalathadar in the fore, the Xaxar trailing behind, we glided in a great curve through the sparkling air. Twice we circled the towering spires of the royal palace of Shondakor in a stately circuit―and a third time.
Then we veered away to the west and a few points north.
The mighty metropolis shrunk behind us to a cluster of dolls’ houses. Gold fires of dawn flashed in the glittering length of the river Ajand as in the mirror-bright blade of a slim scimitar. The crimson fields of the Great Plains filled our vision; the city dwindled astern, and was soon lost to sight in the distance.
The adventure was begun!
Chapter 4
The Armada Assembles
As the Golden City vanished in our wake, I turned to the pilothouse where Captain Haakon stood behind the young officer, Karan of Tharkol, who had drawn first watch.
“Captain, if you will take her up to the two-thousand-foot level,” I said.
He saluted crisply.
“Two thousand feet it is, admiral!” The signal was flashed to the mid-deck and relayed to the wheel-gangs below. The rate of our wing-beats increased; at the same time, trim-gangs drew taut the guy-stays on sturdy winches. The trim of our ailerons sharpened. At the bow, the rudder-gang threw their levers over in response to signal flags flashed from the fore belvedere. And we ascended by some five hundred feet to the height I had requested.
“Very good, captain,” I nodded. “West by northwest, and steady as she goes. Call me in thirty-five minutes; I will be below in my stateroom.”
Acknowledging his salute I turned and led my entourage down narrow, winding stairs within the forecastle to a long, low-ceilinged room where round ports, sheathed in glittering crystal, gave forth on a stupendous vista of crimson, rolling plains. Here, seated at a long table amidst a clutter of books and charts and scrolls, a plump, short, little man frowned up at me irritably.
He was red-skinned and bald, with sharp black eyes filled with ill-humor, and you would have thought him a pureblooded Perushtarian had it not been for his amazing beard. This hirsute appendage clung to the very tip of his fat double chin and thrust out, sharp and waxed to a point, in a stiff tuft. Since his face was otherwise as hairless as an egg, and, on the whole, much rounder, this jutting thrust of beard lent him a ludicrous appearance.
It looked, in fact, for all the world like a billy goat’s beard! But the possessor of this amazing appendage was inordinately proud of it. I suppose, to paraphrase an old adage, in the country of the bald the wearer of even a billy goat’s beard is king.
At any rate, my entrance was viewed with distinct displeasure. The little plump red-faced man darted an unwelcoming look in our direction and voiced a little sniff of peevish temper.
“How go your cartographic labors, Dr. Abziz?” I inquired, taking no notice of the little man’s disrespectful manner.
“They would progress much faster, Prince Jandar, if I might not be continually interrupted by great hulking warriors clanking about in all their steel and leather, with their great boots and clumsy hands!” the little man replied sharply.
I smiled, but refused to be made angry. This officious and sharp-tongued little gentleman was a distinguished cartographer, loaned to us by Prince Kaamurath from the famous Academy of Soraba. He was considered the foremost of living experts on the science of geography―or should it be “callistography”?―and held himself, evidently, in the highest personal esteem. I found him quite the most amusing little pedant it had ever been my fortune to encounter, so amusing, in fact, that it was nearly impossible to be offended by his peevish snapping tongue and puffed-up self-esteem.