The Duel in the Iron Sky

As I cut into the morning air over Caelus Spire, the storm-powered wingsuit hums on my shoulders. Lightning crackles through capacitors, powering the mechanical wings that keep me floating in the infinite sky. The floating metropolis spreads out like a scattering of pearls, with merchant airships anchored to docks like sleeping whales, their load balloons swaying in crosswinds, and brass towers catching the sunlight. I feel the weight of my storm-blade on my hip as I bank wide around the eastern spires. I can see the city's lifelines: watchtowers perched on floating rocks, ships herding slow convoys, and trade channels etched through sky-lanes to protect them. My chest binds as thunder crackles across the horizon. Darius yelling my name as the raider's storm charge exploded is the sound that reminds me. I can still hear his voice piercing the breeze, five years later. My wing-brother died as a result of my hesitancy. I shook my head, pushing the memory away. Instead of me drowning in ghosts, the city needs me here. A trade convoy darts across the lower skylanes far below. Agile skiff guards accompany three cargo balloons. Although their formation appears to be solid, storm haze forms grey walls over the southern horizon. Weather raiders enjoy hiding in the shadows. I changed my flight for a better vantage point. With cargo nets secured and his lead ship flying steadily, the convoy skipper exudes confidence. Escort skiffs, however, stray too widely apart. Sloppy arrangement. They will be dispersed if unrest arises. In the storm haze, movement flickers. Like predators rising from deep water, jagged shapes pierce the grey. Raider kite-ships leapt at the convoy with hawk-like accuracy, their hulls slashed crimson. My hand reaches the hilt of my storm blade. The invaders have altitude as the skiffs rush to intercept. As they get closer, grappling hooks gleam in the twilight. I should go for a dive right now and hit first. The handbook states as much. Imagine what Darius would have done. Rather, I pause. Do the maths. Two miles to the north is the closest watchtower, from which I could call in troops. However, that costs valuable seconds. Now the convoy needs assistance. The cost of those seconds was enormous. With a kite-wing that cuts through canvas like a blade through silk, the lead raider crashes into the convoy's cargo balloon. A second raider follows, grappling hooks digging deep into the hull, and fire erupts across the merchant ship's rigging. Burning pieces of sailcloth peel away in the wind as the cargo balloon lowers dramatically. People cling to railings. The screaming air carries their shouts to me. As I plunge toward pandemonium, lightning bursts along my wings. Electricity dances down the double edge as the storm blade sings from its sheath. With his scimitar shining, a raider banks toward me and pulls away from the blazing merchant ship. Metal screeching against metal, we crash into each other in the broad sky. At the crossguard, his curved blade catches my storm-sword as we plummet into empty air. The wind rips at my visor. With every heartbeat of our descent, the flaming convoy below gets bigger. Spittle flowing from cracked lips, the raider snarls something in an ancient dialect. I shove my blade up into his ribs after twisting it free. Steel breaks, and his body becomes rigid before vanishing into the clouds. I've lost altitude, though. Time lost. With a thunderclap, the cargo balloon of the merchant ship bursts. As the falling craft plunges towards the cloud floor beneath Caelus Spire, rope and canvas pour behind it. Before the ship disappears into gray, I see glimpses of faces in windows, passengers pressed against glass, their mouths open in mute screams. I became lost due to my hesitation. Three metallic figures, wearing wingsuits polished to a mirror brightness, streak past me. The Knights of the City Watch arrived just in time. After a quick salute, they separate to pursue the fleeing raiders. The gesture is nothing more than professional courtesy. However, I read the judgment on their formation: they wouldn't have been necessary if I had taken action sooner. Like injured animals, the remaining convoy ships huddle together. Sailors shout 'thanks' over the wind as they wave from decks. Someone yells, "Storm Knight!" Our rescuer! The words are blazing. I raise my storm-blade in acknowledgment and feign a nod. However, my gaze remains focused on the blank area where the merchant ship vanished. This is just one more failure. My damned indecision cost me another life. I went home, letting City Watch take the lead. My wingsuit's thermals took me in the direction of Caelus Spire's gleaming turrets. The Chancellor's words over Darius's grave five years ago are still audible to me. "A knight must strike first, or not at all." It's not too difficult to say. More difficult to live. Something catches my eye as I get closer to the docks. Although the canvas One Raider kitewing, which is torn, remains visible, it dangles twisted around a mooring mast. A rough emblem of a wolf's head with its jaws open to eat lightning is painted on tattered sailcloth. The Wolf of the Storm. The mark of Draegor is a powerful symbol. My blood becomes icy. After the Battle of Keth Morah, Warlord Draegor's fleet dispersed. He was pronounced deceased by the council. His name became a legend, then a ghost story. However, raider ships aren't painted with sigils in legends. Ghost stories do not burn merchant convoys. I inspect the wolf sign while hovering next to the wreckage. The paint appears new recently. It wasn't just any sky pirates who struck that convoy. Someone has rebuilt Draegor's fleet. And if that is the case, the threat to Caelus Spire is substantially greater than that of sporadic invaders. I have wolf eyes painted on my face, and the morning heat strikes my visor. A regular patrol turns into the beginning of something evil. I ought to have been ready for this.