Bal Ezra And The Fall PROLOGUE ​A gust of wind swept under the carriage, rattling all the copper levers and gadgets in the haul. The white slave fiddled with his knife as he admired the short-patched sail flapping in the wind. The Old Man looked weary, as if he didn’t believe the stories, as if this was just a waste of time. His bald black head glinted in the sunlight as he managed the helm. ​“Oye, Bal Ezra!” the Old Man shouted. Bal Ezra, that’s what they called him in the slave camps. It apparently translated to “white demon”. It didn’t matter though, being called a white demon, Bal Ezra was going home. ​“Yah, Old Man, what is it?” The Old Man would do that sometimes, call out to him but say nothing. ​ ​The captain folded his gloved hand over his eyes to shade the sun, squinting tightly so that thousands of tiny wrinkles cracked across his face. He merely shook his head and muttered something in their tongue. ​Bal Ezra rubbed his thumb across his wrist, feeling the raised letters branded into his skin. Two brands on each wrist, one tattoo just below his right eye and a carved glyphic on his chest: his souvenirs. He wasn’t sure what they all meant, but he knew the tattoo below his eye was unique, as was the glyphic carved into his chest. He received the tattoo shortly after being named the White Demon. It was that tattoo below his eye that caused the other men to avoid him. ​They whispered to one another in their own tongue at the bow of the carriage as they lounged below the hull, avoiding the sun and wind. They didn’t know the old tongue, the language Bal Ezra spoke; they only knew the common drawl. They were slaves too, six of them at least. The little boy though, Tarrik, was the Old Man’s boy, and he was not a slave. Bal Ezra glanced around to look for the boy. Tarrick stood at the stern with his bare back towards the crew, pissing a steady stream into the sky with his foot propping the floor hatch. He shook it twice and released the grated hatch, letting it fall and snap close. He caught Bal Ezra’s eyes and smiled. ​“Bal!” he grinned, “tell me about the new world.” He kicked a sand bag over and squatted next to the White Demon. No fear or judgment. ​“Well,” Bal Ezra began glancing at the Old Man, “It’s a lot different than your home. More trees. And way colder.” He winked, “You wont get away with dressing like that where we’re going, bud.” ​Tarrick laughed, “What, like this?” he snapped the leather suspenders on his shoulders, watching them ripple down his bare black chest. ​The Old Man only glared, “And what if this stretch of trees and cold is just some bullshit that these white folk cooked up? It’s probably just as desolate as Variah.” Tarrick frowned and looked away. He pulled a small copper lever dangling over his shoulder, turning one of the sails slightly as he shook his head in silence. The Old Man had reason to be pessimistic about the whole voyage. ​“Of course it exists, Old Man. Do you believe I just came of thin air? Now, if you ask whether we’re headed in the right direction, of that I cannot be certain.” Bal Ezra stood up, letting the wind slash at his chapped face. “Hopefully this map is accurate, or we’re fucked.” ​The ship lurched suddenly and Bal Ezra tumbled into the hull. As he recovered he felt a tug at his shirt and turned to see the Old Man, red faced and angry. “My son made this map. This is all I have left of him. Well, and…” his voice trailed off as he watched Tarrick man the helm. Bal Ezra knew the story well enough. The Old Man’s son never returned from one of his voyages, leaving Tarrick behind and his father alone. Their eyes met. Bal Ezra caught the Old Man’s eyes flickering over his tattoo. After a tense moment of silence, wrinkled hands released the demon. ​Bal Ezra knew what it was like to lose someone important. It was that pain and anger that earned him his tattoo back in Variah in those slave camps. Thank the#moonhe was sold to the Guild, to the Old Man and Tarrick. But he couldn’t dwell on that anymore. Not when he was so close to home. How close was he? He looked to the hull where the copper latches were, where he carved a dash for each new sun. Twelve. ​He looked toward the stern, behind the sky hatch where they stored the water. Only one of the three tins still had water. Behind the empty tins was a large basin filled sea water, covered with a thin fabric. A stone sat atop the fabric, drooping directly above a smaller tub fixed in the center of the basin. Clever. The black men used the sun to cleanse the sea of salt. He still struggled to understand exactly how, but it was marvelous nonetheless. His thoughts were interrupted, however, as Tarrick called out to the Old Man. ​“Pahpu! I think we’re close,” the boy shouted. The Old Man reached into his coat and retrieved a bronze instrument, one Bal Ezra had never seen prior to this voyage. A sextant, it was called. The Old Man pulled the device to his face and peered through the scope. ​“Ah blast,” he muttered, “Tarrick, we need to get lower. Heavens be damned, clouds everywhere, I can’t see the horizon.” The boy barked a few commands to the slaves, waving his hand and pointing at ropes and pulleys. They swiveled the foremast quickly, lodging a copper bar in the center to hold its place. ​“Tarrick! Tell them thralls to close a few vents from the furnace. Two should suffice,” he scratched his thick white beard in deliberation, “Better yet, make that three. Close three!” Tarrick nodded in compliance. ​Two slaves trudged past Bal Ezra behind the helm to a circular steel furnace. The furnace was fed some sort of oil or gas, Bal Ezra wasn’t too sure, and the expelled gas travelled up a copper pipe to the alloyed balloon above them. Dangling from the balloon were a dozen or some copper levers, each controlling a vent. They yanked on three. ​Within minutes, the airship lurched and began to slowly descend. Bal Ezra reached for the hull to maintain his balance, as puffs of cloud drifted by. ​“That’s it, a little lower,” the old man mumbled. He saw the vents close tight as the slaves yanked the levers into place. Then Bal Ezra heard the clunk of the sextant, bouncing down by his feet. He grabbed it and stood up to hand it to the Old Man, but then he saw it. Land. Green mountains, low ones flourished with pines and evergreens. The Palisades, he knew. ​He was home. ​The Old Man grabbed his chest in awe. By now, the other slaves noticed the land as well, pointing out and chattering excitedly. Tarrick held a steady gaze, his eyes wide and mouth hanging. ​As the airship inched closer, Bal Ezra could make out the distant towers of Dia. He imagined the ruby red flags that would be ripping from above them. Tarrick noticed them too, gasping, “Pahpu, look! A castle!” ​Tears streamed down the Old Man’s wind cracked cheeks. He stepped from the helm and looked at Bal Ezra, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “It’s real. This is real.” ​Bal Ezra just nodded, his thoughts elsewhere, wondering what would happen when he crash-landed with news of invasion. Would anyone believe him? Hell, would they even recognize him? Scarred, tattooed and branded, he was not the same man who sailed from Numaria so long ago. A flock of speckled bellies swooped under the ship, squawking loudly as Bal Ezra permitted a moment of excitement to escape him. Home. He glanced at the Old Man, allowing himself to smile slightly. The Old Man had the strangest look upon his face. Despite the stream of tears pouring, Bal Ezra had never seen a man so at peace. ​“I’ve seen it all now,” he said as he approached the hull. He flipped the copper latches and slid the bar away, casually stepping off the edge, like the last step on a staircase. Bal Ezra neither heard him hit the water, nor the screams of the child. He just saw that last look on the Old Man’s face. The look of a man who had lived: a mixture of accomplishment, pride and peace. Happiness too, and a glimmer of sadness, something he could never recall seeing in his #life. ​That moment. That glimmer. It was then that he understood.