Sable Ashwick's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Sable Ashwick crouched on the townhall roof and counted the shapes in the clouds. Four kites, maybe five, sliding through the mist above Mosswood. Scavengers. They had found her map, or found her mouth, and now they meant to beat her to the wreck. She pressed flat against the shingles. The townhall was the tallest thing for a mile, stone base, timbered gable, arched windows glowing from the council meeting below. She had climbed up to catch the wind she needed. Instead she caught competition. Her family's sky-galleon had gone down in the storm belt above these woods twelve years ago, taking her father with it. She had spent every coin since on charts, fuel, and a patched glider strapped to her back now like a folded wing. The lead scavenger kite dipped lower. A hooked grapple swung from its belly. They were not hunting her. They were marking her. Once she launched, they would follow her glider straight to the wreck and strip it before she touched the deck. Sable pushed her goggles down. She could not outfly five kites. She could not hide a glider in open sky. So she would not fly to the wreck at all. Not yet. She unclipped the glider and shoved it behind the roof's stone chimney. Then she pulled the map from her vest, tore off the true coordinates, and swallowed them. The rest of the map she left weighted under a loose shingle, the false bearing circled in red ink. Her father had taught her that a decoy only works if the hunter finds it himself. She climbed down the arched window frame, dropped into the alley, and ran. Halfway across the square she stopped, cupped her hands, and shouted up at the clouds. "North ridge! Past the falls!" Her voice cracked on purpose. She let them see her look up, look scared, then bolt for the north road. She ran until the timber gable was small behind her. Then she cut sideways into the trees and doubled back low through the ferns. From the brush she watched two scavengers drop onto the townhall roof. They found the map. She heard one laugh. The kites peeled off north in a tight line, grapples swinging, chasing her lie. Sable waited until the sky above Mosswood was empty. Her hands shook. She had bought maybe a day, no more, before they hit the north ridge, found nothing, and came back angrier. She climbed the drainpipe, pulled the glider from behind the chimney, and buckled the straps across her ribs. The true coordinates sat wet in her stomach. East, not north. Into the storm belt her father had never come out of. She stepped off the roof before she could think about him. The wind took her east.