The sky above Goldendale had the color of cold ashes. Lennar Sjöberg, barely eighteen summers old, stood on the foredeck of the Vigilantia, his coat collar turned up against the biting cold that was common at this altitude. The Order had set sail with the largest ship at its disposal, and what the gigantic steel box lacked in travel comfort and elegance, it made up for in armour and sheer power. Beneath him, Lennar felt the vibration of the six engines, pulsing powerfully like the heart of a giant. Violent gusts of wind ruffled his hair and carried the smell of burnt grain. With a frown, he leaned forward to peer over the railing.
He had heard stories about the island – of endless fields whose stalks danced golden in the wind, of magnificent orchards and vineyards, of villages that glowed like little candles on distant hills on balmy summer evenings. But now the Granary of the Cloud Islands lay shrouded in hazy darkness. Lennar felt the ground beneath his feet begin to tilt as they entered a gentle descent. The Vigilantia lost altitude slightly, and after passing through the cloud cover, the crew’s destination came into view in greater detail.
They flew over a landscape that would have looked like something out of a storybook of rural beauty – if it hadn’t been for the dirty grey smoke rising into the sky everywhere. Hungry fires ate their way through the fields, licking at the edges of the settlements. A large windmill, the pride of the surrounding villages, was ablaze. Between the billowing clouds of smoke, Lennar could make out the outlines of burnt-out warehouses, while only charred skeletons remained of other buildings. Just as they drew closer, one of the burning mill wings broke off and shattered on the ground below in a shower of sparks.
A deep voice snapped him out of his observation. ‘First time on Goldendale, Sjöberg?’ Sixten Runvar stood next to him, arms crossed, his tanned face half-covered by a rust-red beard. ‘Yes, Master,’ Lennar managed, trying not to stare too much. With his angular chin, grey-blue eyes and long red hair, shaved at the sides and tied in a knot at the back of his head, Runvar looked as if he had been carved from a block of stone. A black woollen coat with heavy buckles hung over his shoulders, and a silver rune pendant adorned his broad chest.
‘You probably imagined it differently,’ he muttered. Lennar nodded. ‘I always thought you should only burn the fields after the harvest,’ he said with a grin, ‘but what do I know?’ His master let out a thunderous laugh and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Jeg håper sverdet ditt er like skarpt som tungen din!’ he thundered, and the familiar sound of the dialect of the Storm Islands, where they both came from, caressed Lennar’s soul. ‘Det vil vise seg,’ he replied, tightening the strap that secured the Ventusstick to his back. For months, Lennar and his fellow defenders had trained with the sticks, which, at the push of a button, sent out an impulse towards the enemy and could sweep them off their feet if aimed correctly. His swearing-in as a defender of the Order had not been long ago, yet Lennar was already allowed to carry the throwing discs that allowed for long-range defence from the pilot’s seat – they glinted silver on his belt.
Behind them, the Grand Master stepped out onto the deck of the Vigilantia. The high winds tugged at Eva’s midnight blue cloak. The embroidered fabric caught the cold morning light, bringing the vines and stars to life. Underneath her cloak, she wore a high-necked uniform jacket made of storm leather. She was barely older than Lennar, yet he stood at attention and saluted. With a quick hand gesture, the Grand Master instructed him to move. ‘We’re landing in a clearing near Dreybergen,’ she said tersely. ‘There’s a camp in the village of Odring.’
Three densely wooded hills now emerged from the banks of clouds, pointed like ancient sentinels. Mist hung over their peaks and the wind carried the smell of earth, smoke and wet wood. Dreybergen lay on the edge of the vast wheat fields of Hochsaat, where the gold of the crops gradually gave way to green shadows. Wild trails wound their way between gnarled oaks, hornbeams and ancient chestnut trees, where you could find rabbits, wild boars and even the shy fog deer. For the inhabitants of Goldendale, the area was simply known as the ‘Old Forest’. Here, small charcoal kilns could be found, their smoke rising thinly between the treetops, and scattered throughout the depths of the woods were tiny villages, hermitages and taverns.
The Vigilantia began its descent. A brief safety command echoed across the deck, prompting Eva, Sixten, and Lennar to hook their carabiners onto the rings embedded in the railing. On smaller ships, trained pilots like those of the Order could usually compensate for turbulence without any problems, but a colossus like this ship was not so manoeuvrable. A single drop in air pressure was enough to knock anyone who was not secured overboard with a single blow.
The ground was getting closer and closer, and suddenly a clearing opened up from the dense forest below them. Lennar could see tents and roughly constructed wooden shelters, while the stone houses of Odring appeared between the trees. The downdraft from the mighty ship swept through the rows of tents, whirling up dust, straw and ash. Men and women held their hoods over their faces as the metal hull of the airship descended onto the clearing. With a dull roar, the landing struts touched down. A jolt went through the deck, then silence. Only the quiet panting of the engines could still be heard.
Carabiners clicked everywhere, and Lennar also detached himself from the ship’s railing. He followed Master Runvar and the Grand Master down the lowered ramp. Eva was the first to cross the dusty square, with Sixten and Lennar close at her heels, followed by other men and women of the Pilots‘ Order. A large wooden hall rose up between the trees, built from freshly felled trunks, and the smell of resin still hung in the chilly air. A skilfully carved coat of arms proudly adorned the ridge: three hills. There’s always time for a bit of home-town pride, even when your homeland is literally burning away beneath you, Lennar thought mockingly.
Inside, there was a muffled babble of voices. Torches cast flickering light on the rough beams and long tables around which crowds of people were gathered. Many were wounded, but they stood bravely upright. Eva strode without hesitation to the centre of the room. ‘I’m looking for Gunhild,’ she called out in a firm voice. Gradually, all eyes turned to the small delegation and the murmuring subsided.