Wings of Fire Ch. 17 - Teaser (Patreon)

The Den of Vipers had always been a place where appearances mattered far more than truth. From the outside, the Robles Brothers Flying Circus looked exactly like what its posters promised: a colorful traveling spectacle of daring pilots, exotic performers, and death-defying stunts meant to draw crowds from dusty towns and bustling border cities alike.

Bright banners hung from the support poles of the massive tent. Painted wagons formed a semicircle around the grounds. Lanterns glowed warmly as workers moved between them, carrying ropes, tools, cages, and crates. Laughter echoed and music drifted through the air from a gramophone near one of the wagons.

Children ran between the tents, chasing each other while performers practiced tricks or rehearsed routines beneath the watchful eyes of the circus managers. To the casual observer, it was simply another evening in the life of a traveling circus. But beneath the laughter and spectacle, something darker lived in the bones of the place.

Many of the performers who dazzled audiences beneath the big tent were not merely acrobats or stunt pilots, but killers. Men and women whose reputations stretched across borders in whispered stories. Cutthroats, smugglers, mercenaries, and fugitives who had found a convenient place to hide in plain sight.

A circus worker hauling rope was rarely questioned. A pilot performing aerial tricks could travel from town to town without suspicion. A clown could overhear conversations without anyone remembering his face. The Den of Vipers thrived precisely because no one ever bothered to look too closely at circus people.

Which was exactly how its leaders preferred things.

Inside a long wagon positioned slightly apart from the rest of the camp, Miguel Robles leaned back in a chair with his boots resting on the edge of a small wooden desk. Miguel was the elder of the Robles brothers and the man who truly ran the circus.

He was in his early forties, broad-shouldered and weathered by years of hard living. His dark hair had begun to show streaks of gray near the temples, though the rest of him still carried the easy confidence of someone who had survived far more dangerous situations than most men could imagine.

In one hand he held a cigar and in the other, a folded letter. He had already read the contents twice, and now he was reading them a third time. The message had come through one of his more reliable intermediaries earlier that afternoon. It was from the Flintlocks, who had requested a meeting, as they required his services.

Miguel exhaled a slow stream of smoke as he considered the implications.

Those bastards had crossed over from the American side of the border, bringing trouble with them like they always did. Word was they had gotten their hands on something extraordinary… something they had no business possessing. Not some battered smuggler’s plane or patched-together airship, but a flying carrier.

That carrier had originally been meant for the Indigenous Air Force before the Flintlocks had hijacked it. Miguel still wasn’t sure how they had managed that little miracle, but the result was the same either way. The Flintlocks suddenly had a great deal of power in the sky, but unfortunately for them, power had come with a price.

They had recently tangled with a mercenary outfit; one that had apparently given them far more resistance than they had expected. Over a dozen of the Flintlocks’ men had been killed or taken during the fighting, including a number of pilots and specialists who were not easily replaced. Which was exactly why they had come sniffing around the Den of Vipers.

Miguel tapped the letter lightly against the desk, knowing it made perfect sense from their perspective. If a gang of violent cutthroats needed new pilots and fighters, there were few places better suited to find them than a circus full of violent cutthroats pretending to be performers. The Robles Brothers Flying Circus catered to men like that and always had.

The Den of Vipers was practically built for it.

But the Flintlocks were not the only group showing interest in his people. Miguel leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, because there was also Chimera and their needs to consider. He knew perfectly well what Chimera represented and was aware of their ideology, ambitions and enemies.

Although Miguel had occasionally helped them when the money was right, he had never been foolish enough to fully bind himself to their cause. Money was a far more reliable master than ideology. Always had been and always would be. He took another drag from his cigar and leaned back again, staring at the ceiling of the wagon.

Balancing both groups was going to require careful handling.