The Curse of the Winged Scorpion
Disturbing occurrences inside an airship

Vedecawas still more or less in one piece. Fantel peered suspiciously up at the bulkof the ship as she picked her way over the still faintly glowing ground. Theship was deeply buried in the trench it had torn in the ground. The hull was intact, with no obvious tears or dents. The wings were similarly undamaged, theends just touching the outer edges of the trench walls on either side. Shecouldn’t see the state of the phantasma coil engines, which were attached tothe undercarriage, but had they ruptured the entire ship would have exploded onimpact. If she hadn’t seen it fall out of the sky Fantel might almost believeRashari had meant to land the ship on this moor.

“Bloop,”Smith urged her forward. Fantel saw that the boarding door had been partiallyforced open; there was just enough space for her to slide in sideways. Fantelreached out to haul open the door so she could climb aboard. The moment shetouched the ship a she felt a jolt like a static charge. It stung all the wayup to her elbow.

Wrenchingher hand away Fantel slipped in the mud and landed on her rump in the trench.The shock of contact with the fading crystals at the bottom of the trench wasnothing in comparison to the shock Vedeca had given her. The ship was in pain. Fantel had felt it. She could feelthe ship’s pain as clearly as she could feel the hot ache in her shoulder orthe bruises blossoming over her ribs and back. No machine should feel pain like this.

“Alive,”she whispered. “The ship is alive.” Helplessly she turned to Smith.

“Bloop,”Smith replied. Fantel remembered the winged scorpion she had seen when Vedecahit the ground.

“Smith?”Fantel reached out a hand to touch the pitted surface of its – his? – outershell. Smith thrummed with power, a gentle hum that tickled her palm. She hadnot noticed it before now how Smith quivered with magic, or rather she had, buthad dismissed the significance. Smith was alive with a subtle echo of the samepower flowing free of Vedeca even now. It was not natural that constructs ofmetal and wire should think and feel, yet Fantel could feel nothing malignant aboutVedeca’s pain or Smith’s attentiveness. Whatever strange power gave Smith andVedeca their animation, it was not phantasma.

“Whatare you doing?”

Fantelleapt up. Rashari slid down into the trench beside her, the space barely ableto fit them both. He held a sack in his right hand and his expression was tenseand pinched.

“Theship is in pain.” Fantel told him.

Heblinked, startled. “You can feel that?”

Fantelstared at him. “Who are you, truly? You pilot a ship with a soul and yourautomaton is alive. When Vedeca fell I saw a winged scorpion, a creature ofmagic, protect the ship from harm.” To Fantel it looked as Rashari had stoppedbreathing, he was so deathly still. “There is but one power that could do sucha thing,” she said, “a seraph.”

Silencefor a beat of several heartbeats. Fantel could smell blood and sweat and fearrising from Rashari. “What are you?”She asked him, not quite an accusation. He was not human, she thought. Whateverhe was he could not be entirely human. There were too many strange things abouthim. He had survived a necromantic bullet to the shoulder. He knew secrets noone else knew. He flew a magic ship and his robot helpmeet was far more thanjust a clever machine.

Rasharismiled then, a cold twist of lips. “I am...a long and complicated story, MadameChimera.” He turned to look over his shoulder at the sky. Distantly Fantelheard the drone of an approaching airship. “One we don’t have time for rightnow.”

“Youwill explain,” Fantel told him, very much not a request, but for now sherelented and climbed aboard the ship.

Therewas very little light inside, the glow in the walls had dimmed to a dull throbof dark, dark purple, pulsing intermittently. Smith’s eyebeam illuminated anopen doorway – one of only two sleeping cabins aboard Vedeca. Smith seemed tobe waiting for her just outside the cabin. Rashari slipped into the engine roomwithout meeting her eyes.

“Bloop,”Smith attracted her attention. He had floated into the small cabin and thelight from his eyebeam revealed a flat bunk bolted to the wall, a small basinadjacent and a built-in wardrobe set into the wall opposite the bunk. Thelingering scent of pipe smoke and old leather hung in the air. When she crossedto open the wardrobe she found an array of men’s frock coats, hand-darnedshirts, sturdy trousers, and thermal longjohns folded neatly inside purposebuilt cubbyholes. The size and cut of the clothes did not match Rashari’sbuild. Pulling out a pair of brown suede trousers, thick yet supple, and along, well worn cotton shirt, greying and frayed at the edges, the underarmsingrained with yellowed sweat marks, Fantel realised that this must have beenRemus’ cabin. She put the shirt back in the wardrobe, sifting through the pilesuntil she found a white shirt with a wide neck that, at the very least, smelledclean. A pair of travelling boots, the soles thick and the leather hardy, satat the bottom of the wardrobe. Fantel retrieved them and a heavy, waxedtravelling coat and stripped off the blood soaked shift. When she had finisheddressing she crossed to the mirror set over the sink.

Inthe light from Smith’s eyebeam Fantel gained her first glimpse of her ownreflection. Most of her face was a mask of blood, black as pitch in the eerieviolet light. Her eyes were blown wide and her canines were still lengthened.Her hair, cobweb fine, had contrived to stir itself into a writhing mass framingher skull, except for the pieces that had become plastered to her cheeks andjaw with blood. Shame, electric and total, seared through her veins. A Chimerawithout the Echo of the Mother was little better than a beast after time, thatis what she had always been told by those who had sought to keep her fromwandering far from Aashorum. She certainly looked the part, but she did notfeel like a monster; even as she had torn into Tomah she had felt her ferocityjustified. Tomah would not have hesitated to kill her – and Rashari –killing himquickly was only sensible to protect them both. Her teeth and her claws wereher best weapons and so she had used them to their fullest. But maybe that wasthe point; maybe she was a monster and just did not know it.

Fantelshook her head, annoyed at her self. Now was not the time for such thoughts.She had two cuts on her arms. One long slice beginning just above her rightwrist and ending at her elbow and another, small puncture in the meat of herupper arm. The longer slice along the inside of her forearm was relativelyshallow, and had missed the vein. It stung, as clean cuts always did, but wouldheal well enough. The wound to her upper arm was deeper, closer to a stab thana cut. It oozed sluggishly. She pressed the flesh around the wound with her fingersand felt an answering jolt deep inside. She found one of Remus’ old shirts andtore it into strips to bind her wounds. She was still tending her wounds when abooming voice rang out from somewhere outside the ship.

“Thisis the Aramantine Air Patrol,” a loud male voice called, the flat vows of thestandard Imperial tongue distorted by loudspeaker, “Is there anyone aboard?”

‘Bl– up,” Smith quivered and zipped toward the outer corridor. Fantel hastilyfinished wrapping her arm and threw on the heavy coat. She hurried out of thecabin, feet weighed down by the dead man’s boots she wore. Rainbow lanternlight flickered around the edges of the boarding door. The patrol was rightoutside. A moment later a head appeared around the propped open door.

“Godsabove,” a young man with a head of golden curls blinked in surprise when he sawher in the corridor. His head ducked away again. “Lieutenant – there’s asurvivor!” She heard the clamour as the youth scrambled back up the trench,calling for the rest of the patrol. Fantel hurried down the corridor toward thecockpit.

Rashariwas slumped over in the pilot’s chair, cheek resting against the unlit controlconsole. His left arm was crooked at an awkward angle, elbow jutting uprightand forearm imprisoned in the technomantic interface. His eyes were closed,lips slightly parted and cheeks scorched red with fever. The hoarse rattle ofhis breathing filled the silent cabin, and the only illumination came from theinterface; every node burned with a dark and angry blue fire. The empty sacklay discarded on the co-pilot’s seat. When Fantel stepped forward the toe ofher ‘borrowed’ boot connected with the hilt a necromantic dagger lying on thefloor. She spotted a scattering of bullets and a discarded pistol lying underthe console.

Fantelhesitated, eyes rooted upon Rashari’s back. He breathed as if he’d beenrunning. There was a strange chill in the air, emanating from the cockpit. Thecloser Fantel stepped the colder she became. The chill seemed to reach out toher, wrapping her in tendrils of clinging cold. She sensed the presence ofphantasma – or at the very least the aching presence of death. She stared atthe interface. Icy blue light traced each filament and set the glassy nodesafire. As she watched the control console began to light up, gauges and dialscoming back to flickering life. She heard the engines sigh as a breath of powershuddered through the downed craft, in contrast to the sharp spasm of pain thatcrossed Rashari’s face. The lights came on again throughout Vedeca, waveringand dim, but Rashari didn’t lift his head. Fantel inched closer and croucheddown on Rashari’s right side, wedging herself between the curved wall and hischair, as far from the interface as she could get. She reached out, tentatively,to shake his shoulder.

“AirPatrol – don’t move.” A human man appeared in the doorway to the main cabin. Heheld a small, high powered phantasma torch in one hand and a pistol in theother. He wore a large bulky canvas satchel across his body and his face wasshadowed, the light from his torch blinding. Fantel grasped Rashari’s shoulderto pull his body a little closer to her.

“Youthere,” the patrolman swung his torch so that the beam fell on her, searing hereyes. “Who are you? What happened here?” Fantel hissed, turning her face fromthe painful iridescent light. Her muscles quivered with the urge to dash acrossthe cabin and strike the torch out of his hand. Rashari remained insensate. Shedidn’t know what he’d done to restore power to Vedeca – at least she didn’twant to acknowledge the suspicionbubbling in her mind – but whatever it was it had taken the very last of hisstrength to do it.

“Lieutenant!”The young man Fantel had seen before, briefly, appeared in the doorway behindthe patrolman. Fantel could just make out the glimmer of his curls around thedazzling phantasma glow. “We found another survivor in the other ship. He waschained up in the holding bay – and guess what? It’s a slaver ship! It hadcages and everything. Marda says the man we found is one of them Dha-hali – a Raider. And! He keeps ranting about aChimera. Can you believe it?”

“Dane,” The patrolman hissed at theyounger man. The youth came to an abrupt halt, words dying on his tongue whenhe saw her; he sucked in a harsh breath, eyes very wide, he almost choked on amouthful of spit.

“Wow.”

“Dane,” The senior patrol repeated,evident warning in his tone as he thrust the torch into the youth’s hand andpushed the pistol back into the holster hanging from his belt. He took acareful step forward, “You there – Chimera – get away from that man.”

Fanteldid the opposite. She seized hold of Rashari and dragged him sideways into herarms. He was heavy and ungainly as only deadweight can be, and his head lolledso that the crown of his skull came to rest in the natural curve of her neckand shoulder. Fantel bared her teeth at the two men, putting her arms aroundRashari to keep him in place. Even through his clothes she could feel that hisflesh was unnaturally cold, at odds with the rapid beating of his heart and thequick rasp of his breathing. His vest was wet with his blood and he seemedcoldest on the side of his wounded shoulder. His left arm stretched awkwardlyacross the console, his hand and forearm still captured by the interface, whichat the very least, had stopped glowing and filling the cabin with the coldlight of death.

Herreaction seemed to give the patrolman pause. He stopped and considered her fora long moment. His stance shifted from hostile wariness to something a littlemore conciliatory. He held up his hands, palm outward. “I’m a trained healer.” hesaid in a tone so forcibly reasonable it grated on her nerves. “I can help yourfriend.” He took two steps forward and Fantel could finally see his faceclearly. He had a strong boned, honest face, a thick pencil straight moustacheand heavy, bushy sideburns. Intelligent eyes flicked from Fantel and overRashari’s prone form. “I’m here to help.” He repeated carefully. “I’m going totake a look at your friend. He’s hurt and I can help him. But you need to letgo. Do you understand me?”

Fantelsneered, lip curling in disdain but she grudgingly unwound her arms from aroundRashari as the patrolman knelt on the other side of the pilot’s chair andreached up to pull open Rashari’s vest. Fantel watched him suspiciously.Rashari’s head was still nestled against her shoulder. The patrolman pulledaway the blood-stiffened cloth and the soaked bandages covering the bulletwound. His eyes widened when he saw the wound and he sucked in a sharp breath.The puckered gash was bleeding freely but the truly alarming sight was thediscoloured flesh all around the wound. Rashari’s chest was streaked with blacklines, marbling the surface of his skin, tracing outward from the wound likethe rays of a black-hearted sun. Fantel could barely believe her eyes. Therehad been no trace of necromantic poison in his veins at the Firefly Inn.

“Necromancy,”The patrol man hissed echoing her own fears, “Pit damn it.” He stripped off his leather gloves, reachingout to check the pulse point at Rashari’s neck. “It can’t be a bullet - he’d bedead by now. Doesn’t look like a knife wound.” The patrolman glared almostaccusingly at Fantel, who scowled wordlessly back at him. Her silence wasn’tdefiance or even strategy. She simply didn’t know what to tell him. She hadheard of wounds from necromantic blades causing lingering death, as the ghostpoison spread slowly through the body, but she had never heard of a ghostbullet causing a delayed reaction like this – and Rashari had been completelyfine before the crash.

“Dane,”the patrolman snapped, sharp and commanding, “tell Marda we’ve got two othersurvivors, one with necro wounds – get her to contact command. We’ll need totow both these vessels back to base. And she needs to let Arundel know. I havea feeling he’s going to want to have a look at these ships – and talk with thesurvivors.” He pursed his lips tightly. “Assuming any of them will talk,” he added darkly eyeingFantel even as he pulled a small, delicate looking scalpel from his satchel andran the blade across his palm.

“R-right,”The youth – Dane – stammered and twisted on his heels, all ungainly enthusiasmand too much haste, dashing off to fulfil his orders. The elder patrolman paidthe junior officer no mind. His eyes were closed and he held his cut palm up,the blood welling to the surface. Fantel felt the swell of anima – life energy– stir within the patrolman. He was tapping into his own life-force, using thecut in his palm as a focus for the rejuvenating power within his body. Fantelleaned forward, curious despite herself. Humans, cut off from the greatersources of anima and divorced from a close connection to Mother Aldlis, couldonly heal through pain. It was dangerous and potentially fatal for the healer,yet many humans had overcome their limitations to wield their life energies toextraordinary effect. Cut off from her own magic Fantel was almost envious asshe watched the patrolman rest his uninjured hand against Rashari’s woundedchest, eyes still closed, his expression caught in a mask of quiet concentration.

Thepatrolman hissed and his expression morphed into a rictus grimace of horror asthe pulsing dark pull of ghost poison spread from Rashari’s flesh up into thepatrol’s hand and arm, spreading like ink through water. Eyes wide and afraid,the patrolman’s mouth opened in a silent ‘o’ of shock. There was a flash ofintense cold and the patrolman cried out, trying to rip his hand free, butunable to.

Awave of power like nothing Fantel had ever experienced before seemed to risefrom Rashari. Cold and sucking like a tornado trapped in a bottle it clawed atthe air, dragged at the warmth of her breath, dug invisible, intangible, clawsinto her soul and pulled at the life energy inside her core. Fantel’s visionblurred to grey. She felt something huge and listless stir deep insideRashari’s body– something beyond hunger, beyond cold. Something without form ordimension, an aching void that longed to fill the world. There was a hole wherehis soul should be. In that deep and sacred place Rashari had only a hungry,bitter emptiness; an emptiness that threatened to swallow her down into itsdepths. Fantel slumped, falling forward against Rashari, the freezing chill ofhis skin holding her like a magnet. Rashari’s eyes snapped open and he surgedupright.

“…No!Gods no…get away from me!”

Hismovement broke the spell. He pulled free of her hold and Fantel fell forwardagainst the chair arm. Rashari struck out with one arm, knocking the patrolmanback. The man fell to the floor, gasping like a landed fish.