by A. C. Cobble
Oliver held up a hand. “Swinpool can’t be any more dangerous than Westundon. I know you and my brother are meant to address the senior ministers tomorrow, and I wouldn’t consider taking you away from your responsibilities. I’ll look in on Taft and let you know what I find.”
William frowned at him, his hands clutched tightly together.
“I’ll be all right, Uncle,” assured Oliver. “Perhaps one day soon, Lieutenant Taft will be the one surprising you. I’ll let him know you’d like to see him, and if he’s amendable, I’ll even put him on a rail headed your way.”
“You do that, then,” said William, leaning back. “There are not many of us left from the war. Not many at all. I’d give a lot just to know where he is.”
Oliver smiled and stood. “The moment I find him, I’ll dash off a note on the glae worm filament. You’ll know when I do.”
“You,” said Oliver, frowning at the girl standing in the middle of the rail platform.
“Me,” she agreed.
“Did Bishop Yates send you to accompany me again?” he asked. “I wasn’t told anything about it.”
“Something like that,” replied Sam. “Do you not want my company?”
Oliver shrugged. “I’m just surprised, is all. To be honest, we are winding things up on our end. This is the last little bit. Then, I’ll hand it over to the inspectors and, I suppose, your fellow priests. I’ll be leaving for an expedition to the Westlands in a few days.”
“Well, while you’re here, I’ll stick by your side if that is all right with you.”
“It’s all right with me,” said Oliver, giving the girl an odd look. “Come on, then.”
“All aboard!” a conductor cried. “Hurry up now before… Ah, sorry, m’lord. I didn’t recognize you. Take your time, m’lord.”
“I don’t mean to hold everyone up,” said Oliver. He waved Sam toward the first railcar.
“I don’t have a ticket,” she admitted, shooting a glance at the waiting conductor.
“Neither do I,” replied the duke dryly, “but I’m a duke. Let’s go find an open cabin.”
He climbed aboard and walked along until he spotted an empty first-class compartment. Sam joined him, and a moment later, the car lurched as the locomotive tugged it into motion.
“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” asked Oliver.
“It does,” agreed Sam. “Where are we going?”
“You don’t know?” questioned Oliver. “Did the bishop not… He didn’t send you, did he?”
“Not exactly,” admitted Sam. “I came looking for you and heard a rumor you were going to the rail station. I rushed to meet you before you left. We’re not going far, are we? I didn’t pack a bag.”
“No, not far,” he confirmed.
They sat quietly as the train gathered speed and plowed through the fog that descended over Westundon each evening. The powerful locomotive blasted an open tunnel through the chill mist. The car jerked as they met a switch and turned down a curving section of track, taking them out past Westundon’s harbor, through a half-league long tunnel, and then back out onto the coast.
“We’re going south,” said Sam, looking out the window at the moonlit sea flashing by.
“We are,” confirmed Oliver. “Swinpool.”
“Another murder?” inquired Sam. “Or is it Company business this time?”
“Why are you here, if you don’t know where we are going or why?” asked Oliver, frowning at her. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “I’m going to interview a military man, a former lieutenant. He led men against the Coldlands and pursued the raiders across the sea. My hope is to learn what he saw and if he has any insights that can help us understand what we saw in Archtan Atoll.”
“Knowledge is valuable,” agreed Sam.
“And becoming rare,” grumbled Oliver. “After my uncle, Lieutenant Taft is the only military man from the campaign that I can find still living.”
“Your uncle, the prime minister?”
“He was a battalion commander before my father inherited the crown from their father,” explained Oliver. “While my father and the airships did the bulk of the work from above, William led the men on the ground. They tracked down what wasn’t bombed into pulp, killed the Coldlands raiders that survived, or chased them into places they knew they wouldn’t. William led the men both in Northundon and then when the army crossed to the Coldlands themselves. He even took the fight down into the United Territories and forced the treaty which made those nations our tributes, though everyone knows the airships had more to do with that than anything else. Still, it was several years of hard campaigning. They told me stories about it when I was a boy. These days, it seems neither my father nor my uncle has anything left to say about it. It was dark times, I know.”
“It was,” agreed Sam. “I remember.”
“You do?” questioned Oliver. “You said something about that before, no? But you couldn’t have been more than, what, ten winters?”
“Twelve,” replied Sam. “My mentor took me north when the first wave of airships crossed the Sheetsand Mountains and approached Northundon. We were there, and we saw…” She paused. “You should speak to him, to Thotham. He’d know more about what the Coldlands were capable of than any of your military officers. If that’s the angle you want to pursue, he’s your best resource.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” asked Oliver. “Not that I don’t appreciate your company, but why you and not him? Harwick, Archtan Atoll, and now. I’ve seen you fight and have no doubt of your skill, but if this man mentored you and knows what we’re up against — more so than you — then why hasn’t Bishop Yates sent him to us instead of you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Sam. “I’ve asked Thotham the same thing.”
“What did he say?” wondered Oliver.
She shrugged. “He sent me. He said I needed to be ready. Said to help you in whatever way I could. He’s worried, I think, but I don’t know why he isn’t here himself. He claims he has other assignments from Bishop Yates, but… It’s not like him to listen to the bishop. Not like the man who raised me. I wish… I wish he’d tell me. My hope is that maybe he’ll tell you. You’re Duke Wellesley. How can he not?”
“When we return, I’ll speak with him,” promised Oliver. “I just wish… I wish I knew what was going on. These murders, those things we saw…”
“Sorcery,” responded Sam. “Dark magic like Enhover hasn’t seen in two decades. The Church says it’s impossible, but we’ve seen it. Countess Dalyrimple, the governor, Captain Haines, even the officers in your uncle’s command. It is not a coincidence or some accident. Everyone who touches this is dead. This is real.”
“We’re not dead,” said Oliver. “Yet.”
Sam laughed, brushing back her jet-black hair and grinning at him. “Not yet.”
If Harwick had a sister, Swinpool was it. Perched on the opposite side of Enhover, the place looked like it had been designed by the same master planner. The buildings were limestone instead of granite, thatch on the roofs instead of moss-covered planks, but the same small structures rose from an identical-looking harbor. They fished for cod instead of whale, and while southwestern Enhover wasn’t quite as chill and bleak as the northeastern shore, the overpowering scent of the sea and the claustrophobia-inducing cliffs rising behind the village were much the same.
Staring up at the cliffs, Sam complained, “Can’t they find some nice, sandy shore for these places?”
Oliver grinned. “Steep cliffs on shore mean steep drop-offs under the water. Deeper harbors mean bigger ships. Fishing, shipping, whatever it may be, a village will spring up where the ships can anchor. Not to mention, man has never figured a way to make thicker walls than nature. Before our time, when Enhover and Finavia were locked in constant skirmishes, the extra protection of cliffs behind a village meant there was only one way they had to watch for raiders.”
“Oh,” murmured Sam. “I didn’t know all of that.”
&nb
sp; “It’s my job,” said Oliver. He looked up and down the stone-paved street. “An inspector who served with the former Lieutenant Standish Taft claimed he’d been on holiday here and saw the man. When I was requesting the inspectors find anyone who’d served with my uncle, Taft was the only one it seems that is still alive. He’s been in hiding, though, and I worry he may not be happy to see us.”
“So, where do we find this Standish Taft?” asked Sam.
“A tavern in Swinpool,” replied Oliver. “The inspector was a little vague about which. He clearly recalled that Taft owned a tavern here, but it’d been a few years, and I suspect there was more than a few drinks involved. He couldn’t for the life of him recall which tavern it was.”
“So, your plan is to just drop into every tavern in this village until we find the one Standish Taft owns?”
Oliver shrugged. “I figure we ought to stop in, order a drink, and observe the place until we can figure out who the proprietor is. Let’s feel out the situation before we approach Taft or let anyone else in the village know we’re looking for him. The man’s not collecting his military pension. I checked. That means he doesn’t want to be found. What do you think? Do you have a better idea?”
“Spend all day loitering in taverns and drinking?” replied Sam. “No, I don’t have a better idea.”
Five taverns later, the sun was setting, igniting the surface of the sea like a field of a thousand candles. The sky above was glowing shades of orange and gold, and Oliver was feeling rather loose.
“Was that ale?” asked Sam, blinking heavily. “It packed a punch.”
“You had two of them,” reminded Oliver. He ran his hand over his hair, checking to ensure it was still bound tightly behind his head, and then commented, “Why does a village this small need so many damned taverns?”
“There’s just one more,” muttered Sam, “unless those sailors at the last place were lying.”
“The last one,” grumbled Oliver. “Want to bet the last one is the one Taft owns?”
“What’s the wager?” asked Sam as they walked toward the open door of the noisy pub. “You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t own this one, then he doesn’t own any of them, and this entire endeavor was a waste.”
“A waste of time or not, we’re here, so we ought to make it interesting.”
“What are the stakes?” asked Sam, eyeing the tavern doubtfully.
“One hundred pounds sterling?” suggested Oliver.
Sam coughed and stumbled.
“What?” he asked, grabbing her arm and helping her upright.
“That’s a lot of sterling. Who has one hundred pounds to splash about?” she barked.
“I—”
“Never mind,” she said, shaking herself free of his grip and glaring at him. “How about this? If we find the lieutenant in here, I’ll buy a round. If not, you give me one hundred pounds sterling.”
Oliver chuckled and then led them inside. There were a handful of patrons huddled close around tables. The bar was open, and Oliver nodded to a broad-shouldered man behind it. The man had wispy hair, somewhere between blond and silver. His arms and shoulders were thick with muscle, and his belly was thick with fat. His skin was lined from years out in the elements.
“This could be our man,” murmured Oliver under his breath.
“He could be a former fisherman, too,” retorted Sam just as quietly. They weaved through the half-full room to the bar, and both took stools and leaned on the worn surface, elbows nearly touching. “If it’s him, and he’s been in hiding, how will we know?”
“Standish,” snapped Oliver. “Two ales.”
The man behind the bar ducked and came up with two empty mugs. He turned to his taps and then stopped.
“Standish Taft,” said Oliver.
The man looked back at them, the mugs still held in his hands.
“We need to talk,” said the duke. “Is there somewhere private we can go?”
“I think you must have me confused with someone else, son,” rumbled the man. “I don’t know of anyone by that name.”
Oliver smirked. “Yes, you do. Come on now. We don’t have time for this. Some things have happened, things that haven’t happened since you served in the Coldlands.”
“I can’t help you,” growled the man. He set the mugs down on the bar, empty. “I can’t help you, and I think you oughta leave. Leave right now.”
“No.”
The man crossed his arms, and Oliver saw heavy muscle and old, pale scars bunching beneath a thick mat of blond hairs. A glower was fixed on the man’s face and his lips were pressed tightly shut.
Oliver waited, meeting the man’s eyes, knowing that eventually he’d crack.
Finally, the old soldier asked, “How did you find me?”
“I asked around,” said Oliver. “One of your friends from the campaign in Rhensar said they’d seen you here.”
“Not a friend if they was talkin’ to… who are you?” asked Taft. “What do you want with me?”
“You’re not an easy man to find,” continued Oliver, “but I don’t understand why not. Why don’t you take your military pension? Why don’t you remain connected with your old war mates?”
The man kept his arms crossed, his corded muscle taut underneath battle-scarred skin.
“You have children around?” guessed Sam, her voice slow and slurred. “That’s why you’ve stayed in Enhover, so you could see them.”
“It seems you know who I am,” said the former lieutenant, glancing between the duke and the priestess. “I won’t deny it, but I don’t see as how anyone would have any business with me. The war was a dark time, and I’d forget it if I could. I don’t talk to my old mates because… because that’s the only thing we talked about. I’m done with that life. I paid my debts and moved on. Now that we have that clear, what do you want with me?”
“As I said,” replied Oliver, “we need to ask you some questions. This is Sam. She’s a priestess with the Church. I am Duke Oliver Wellesley, and we’ve been investigating a series of bizarre—”
“Duke Wellesley,” hissed the man. “One of William’s nephews?”
Oliver nodded slowly.
Taft’s eyes were darting wildly, looking behind Sam and the duke. “You shouldn’t have come here. You don’t know what—”
Suddenly, he ducked, and when he came back up from behind the bar, he was holding two brass-barreled blunderbusses, one in each hand.
“Duck!” screeched Sam, flipping back off her stool and falling to the dirty, sawdust-covered floor.
Oliver was a heartbeat behind her, and as he dropped below the edge of the bar, twin eruptions shattered the air above him. The spit of fire and billow of burnt powder flashed over the bar.
Temporarily deafened by the explosions, Oliver barely heard the screams of surprise and pain behind him. He snapped back up, drawing his broadsword as he rose.
On the other side of the bar, Standish Taft had apparently ducked after firing and was rising again as well, this time a thick-bladed short sword in his right hand and a clay sphere gripped in his left.
“Is that— Duck!” screamed Oliver, flopping back down and landing heavily on Sam, who was in the process of pushing herself off the dirty tavern floor.
She collapsed under his unexpected weight and began a stream of distressingly foul curses until another blast rocked the room, and this time, they were showered with a hail of debris.
Oliver looked up, confused. The grenado Taft had been holding hadn’t landed anywhere near them. If it had, they’d be dead. From the look of the room, the munition struck near the doorway, shattering the frame, blowing the door off its hinges, and scattering the wooden tables and chairs that had sat near it. Half a dozen men and women were lying on the floor crying out and bleeding. Several more appeared to have fallen outside on the street.
Half a dozen innocent people maimed or killed. Enraged, Oliver began to stand, but before he could spin and leap over th
e bar at the former lieutenant, his attention was caught by a cloaked figure who strode confidently through the ruined doorway.
A black mask covering his face, the man ignored the dead and dying that littered the floor. He ignored the cries and wails of the wounded, the scattered debris, and the small flames that flickered on ruined furniture. Instead, the figure stalked directly toward the bar. From underneath a dark wool cloak, the man removed a forearm-length golden scepter. It was capped on each end by the circular ouroboros symbol, similar to the one they’d found in Archtan.
“Uh, Sam…” muttered Oliver, gripping his broadsword, thinking about how he’d rather be behind the bar than in front of it.
“Duck!” screamed the priestess, and she kicked his feet out from under him.
Oliver crashed back to the floor. With jaw agape, he watched as the cloaked figure snapped the scepter in two over his knee. The golden rod shattered like hollow crystal, and the man threw the two pieces onto the floor.
“What is—” He didn’t need to finish. He saw.
Billowing shadow swirled up from the two pieces of broken rod, twisting together, forming one column of dark smoke. Thick but not entirely opaque, it surged into the air like smoke from a fast-burning fire. The cloud boiled higher before suddenly stopping. It hung in the air, writhing as if it was being burned, and twisted into a humanoid shape, though it was a pace taller than Oliver and twice as wide.
“This isn’t good,” mumbled Sam, pushing his leg off of her. She made no move to rise, though.
Oliver shifted, clambering to one knee, allowing her room to stand, but she still didn’t.
“Shouldn’t you—”
The shadow-monster, or whatever the frozen hell it was, lunged forward, moving with shocking speed and running straight toward them. Oliver raised his broadsword, but the thing vaulted over him, the heavy thud of its foot on the bar behind him belying its insubstantial form.
Behind the bar, Standish Taft began to scream.
Sam bolted up and whipped her two kris daggers free. She wasn’t facing the monstrosity attacking Taft, though. She was squaring off against the cloaked figure in front of them.