Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The youngsters had followed their aunt like a pair of homeless urchins, and their dark eyes grew large with excitement. “Are there feathers on your horses’ bridles?” asked the eldest.

  “There are,” the earl whispered, smiling as he bent down to look into her hopeful faces. “And I think there’s a picture book, as well, with lots of exotic animal lithographs.”

  “Are they hand-coloured?” asked the younger.

  “They are indeed! And many of the wilder animals I’ve seen with my very own eyes!”

  The girls gasped as though imagining such a marvellous feat of bravery.

  “Does the book belong to your children?” the younger girl asked innocently.

  “I’m unmarried, actually. Twas my sister left the book in the coach last week.”

  “May we go with him, Grandmother?” the elder implored.

  “Are you certain, Lord Aubrey?” the widow enquired, inwardly hoping he’d answer in the affirmative. “They can be quite rambunctious.”

  “Who isn’t when young? Besides, I’d enjoy their company. Ladies, shall we escort your Aunt Cordelia to the carriage?” he asked them, donning his hat to take their small hands.

  “Let’s,” the younger child said very seriously, her cherubic face alight with hope. The butler fetched woolen cloaks for all three Wychwright ladies, handing one to each.

  Cordelia paused, looking back at her brothers and mother as they reached the door. “Is it really all right if I go?”

  “Yes, of course,” William answered, though his words failed to counter the stern look in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be all right? Go along, now. See you shortly.”

  Baron William David Wychwright stood in the open doorway, keeping watch as Aubrey led Cordelia and the children down the smooth limestone steps to the waiting coach. Once all had settled into the comfortable interior, the baron shut the door and looked at his mother, a strange expression on his face.

  Constance frowned. “Whatever is the matter, Will? Surely, you see the wisdom in pursuing an alliance with the Aubrey fortune.”

  “He’s trouble,” declared the captain as his two, ne’er-do’well comrades entered the foyer.

  “Wasn’t that Aubrey?” asked a dark-haired man in charcoal grey. “Do tell me he isn’t the scoundrel Delia talked about!”

  William hushed the effete fellow with a dark scowl. “Not here. We’ll talk later.”

  The second, taller man stood slightly over six feet with curling red hair and a pencil moustache. “The hearse is here, Will. Time to start the show, old boy.”

  “Thanks, Richard. Ned, Thomas, fetch your coats. We have a long day ahead of us with all of Parliament watching. What we do today will ripple into our futures for decades. Come now, men! Make me proud.”

  Ned Wychwright ran a sallow hand through his mousy thatch of hair. “Shouldn’t we try to make Father proud, Will? It is he who died, after all.”

  The baron offered no reply, for the butler had just admitted a stout man in a dark suit one size too small for his broad shoulders and thick middle. “Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord. I’m Jarvis from Cooper and Price. I jus’ wants ya ta know tha’ we’s ready ta go.”

  “Mother, shall we?” William said, not bothering to acknowledge the driver with anything more than a quick nod.

  The dowager baroness kept her counsel, but she worried that her eldest hadn’t leapt with delight at Aubrey’s obvious affection for Cordelia. She would wait to discuss it later—tomorrow, after the will was read.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Montmore House Gardener’s Cottage

  “He’s in here,” Salperton told Haimsbury as the alienist unlocked the door to the ivy-covered cottage. The morning’s sunshine promise had given way to iron grey skies and the threat of rain. Despite the cooling temperatures, flies buzzed persistently round the fading blossoms of Montmore’s spectacular gardens.

  “Mr. Rush?” he called as he pushed through the door. “Mr. Fisher? Is either of you here?”

  The sound of heavy footsteps reached them first, followed by a stout man with yellow hair and a long chin. He wore casual clothing: olive-coloured shirt of cotton and wool blend, checked trousers with narrow cuffs, black braces and an open waistcoat with a button missing. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows, and a well-used briar stuck out of his left trouser pocket.

  “Mornin’, Doc. I didn’t reckon on seeing you before afternoon. Fisher’s out fetchin’ more wood. Mr. Jack’s been complainin’ of the cold, sir.”

  “It is rather chilly in here,” observed the alienist. “Avery Rush, this is Commissioner Charles Sinclair, Duke of Haimsbury. Duke Charles is the man I mentioned to you and Mr. Fisher regarding our Jack.”

  “Jack?” repeated the duke.

  “It’s what we call him, Yer Grace,” answered Rush. “We got no name to speak of, but as the Hammersmith police call him ‘Bleedin’ Jack’, it seemed better than none. Can I take yer coat, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll keep it for the moment. You may call me Commissioner, if you prefer, Mr. Rush.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Is Jack still asleep?” asked Henry as he hung his own coat on a brass hook near the entry.

  “No, sir. He woke ‘bout half an hour ago, and he’s been ever so quiet since. Just sittin’ by the fireplace, tryin’ ta keep warm—in his own sort o’ way, o’ course. He’s an odd duck ‘bout wearin’ clothes. Claims they make the faeries angry.”

  “Faeries? He’s calling the voices faeries now?” asked Henry.

  “Aye, sir. Says they talk to him all the time, but it’s them dragons what hurts.”

  “Dragons? You’re sure of that?” repeated the duke.

  “Jack talks of all sorts of things, Commissioner. I reckon one would, if you was mad.”

  “Yes, well, let’s see if our odd duck has anything more to tell us,” the physician told Sinclair. “Come through, Charles.”

  The men crossed the parquet floor of the entry, through a somewhat low and unassuming hallway, and then into a friendly little parlour. Appropriately enough, the Montmore gardener’s cottage had a faery-tale look about it, with four broad timbers spanning a peaked ceiling, running from wall to wall. A creek rock fireplace ran all the way to the ceiling, and a warm log fire danced within its spacious hearth. Charles felt the odd flush of familiarity, and he had to pause for a moment. The room looked eerily similar to the cottage from the Stone Realms, right down to the swing-armed, pot hook mounted into the creek stone firebox. He half-expected to see a loaf of Bannock bread cooling nearby. Tied bundles of dried herbs and floral bouquets hung from the rafters, and Charles could even hear the faint cawing of birds from somewhere nearby.

  “Charles?”

  He felt a hand poking his shoulder.

  “Charles? I say, is everything all right? You’ve gone rather pale.”

  “Henry. Oh yes. Sorry. It’s just this room looks like... Never mind. Do go on.”

  “Why don’t we both sit?” the alienist suggested, keeping an eye on his friend. MacAlpin took a position nearest the madman, just in case Jack grew violent. Sinclair chose an upholstered wingback. The pattern in the damask was of trumpet vines and bluebirds. At least they’re not ravens, he thought.

  “Hello, Jack. It’s Dr. MacAlpin. Do you remember me?”

  The man dubbed ‘Jack’ slumped against a wooden chair closest to the fire. Though he complained of the cold, he wore no shirt, and the sparse chest hair had greyed from its original dark brown. His knobby feet were bare, and his only attire consisted of patched woolen trousers and black braces. A tartan blanket covered his thin shoulders, and he stared into the yellow flames as though dreaming.

  Jack had been handsome once, though his face now had the seamed, leathery look of a man who’d suffered hard times. His shoulders and forearms hinted at glory days when they�
�d bulged with sinewy muscles, but weight loss and lack of exercise had left the fibres feeble. Loose, dry skin hung like sagging paper from the long bones, and his cheeks were hollow from lack of food. Rows of red gashes ran from elbow to wrist on each forearm, where he’d repeatedly sliced into his veins.

  “Jack?” the doctor repeated. “I’ve brought a guest to meet you. His name is Charles, and he’s interested in hearing your story.”

  The madman’s face turned towards the duke, the listless eyes blinking languidly beneath furrowed grey brows. “Charles? I know a Charles. Is it really you?”

  The duke felt as if he knew the man; or rather, knew something inside him. “Yes, I’m Charles.”

  The man’s cracked lips parted. He had but two teeth remaining, and his thick tongue lolled as he laughed. “You’re him! That’s right. The faeries say so. You’re him! You’re that boy, ain’t ya? Really and truly him!”

  Henry interrupted. “I think you misunderstand me, Jack. This man is Charles Sinclair.”

  “That’s right. He’s that boy,” the madman insisted, his hollow eyes growing keen; lips quivering. “You’re the one the Dragon’s after. Ain’t that right?”

  Salperton started to argue again, but Charles spoke first. “Why do you call me a boy, Jack?”

  “Cause that Dragon calls you one. Says you’re special. Like no other boy ever born, he reckons. Told me to wait here, an’ you’d be callin’.” The strange man began to laugh, his purple lips opening into a toothless oval. “Reckon he were right ‘bout that!”

  “Look here, Jack, you really shouldn’t...” Henry started, but Charles interrupted again.

  “That’s all right, Henry. Let him talk. Tell me, do you remember your true name? I assume it’s not Bleeding Jack,” Charles asked.

  “Names don’t matter none. Like that bird said, everybody’s got lots o’ names. Some got meanin’. Others don’t. Charles means ‘man’. Nemo means no one—backwards, it’s omen. Captain o’ the world. You sure is a special sort o’ man, Charles Robert Arthur Sinclair. You rememberin’ yet, boy?”

  “What should I remember, Jack? How do you know my full name? How do know about Captain Nemo?”

  The madman leaned forward, his rheumy eyes turning to fixed points of shining black as they focused on Sinclair’s face. “I remember everything, boy. Every dark thing that ever happened. Every dark word ever spoken. Every minute of every dark day you’ve ever lived. Don’ you wish you could remember it? Ain’ no memory stones to help here, human. Not a bleedin’ one! You wanna know who you really are? Ask the bird. Talk ta Uriens. He’ll tell ya without riddles.”

  “How do you know Uriens?” Charles asked.

  The man turned back to the fire, his eyes returning to normal.

  “Who is Uriens?” Charles asked again. “Describe him.”

  No reply.

  “Jack, can you tell us about this fellow Uriens?” asked Henry. “Please, won’t you help us?”

  “No time, no man,” the madman whispered. “Captain o’ nothin’ and leader o’ the world. Time will stop when you use the clocks. It’s hickory dickory, Doc.”

  “Stop this, Jack,” Henry ordered his patient.

  “The crypt is found, and the doll is too. Bones o’ children break in two. Babies die and mothers, too. Hickory dickory doo!”

  “Stop it! Jack, this isn’t funny at all!”

  “Hey, diddle diddle, the wolf’s in the middle, and the duchess fell into a trance. The digger appears with the dolly she fears, and the Captain loses his chance!”

  “Jack, stop this now!” ordered MacAlpin, signalling to the attendant.

  “Little boy black made the dark mirror crack, and the Dragon emerged with a cry. The rider and horse, see the woods, o’ course, and the rider will probably die!”

  “That is enough!” the physician shouted angrily as the attendant brought a leather medical bag containing morphine and syringes.

  “I ain’t Jack,” the madman growled, his eyes a pair of dancing flames. “I ain’t nobody at all.” He looked directly at the young duke. “They’re coming, boy. They’re all coming! A fool’s about to open the first gate to hell. Ain’t nobody can stop it. Not even Samael.”

  “What do you mean?” Sinclair shouted. “Is there truth to your hateful rhymes?”

  “The answer’s in the puzzle room, boy. Two clocks, two rooms, two futures. Tick-tock. Time is running out. Arthur’s asleep and the Dragon’s eyes are opening. And soon the whole world will run red!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Branham estate, the cavern beneath St. Arilda’s Abbey

  Far away in Kent, two foolish Cambridge men stood before a mysterious brick wall, staring at the rectangular opening. “Damned if it isn’t a door, Worthy!” Patterson shouted, holding his lantern aloft.

  “I reckon we’re invited in,” declared Wentworth as he set the pick-ax against the cavern wall.

  “Invited by what? Old Danny’s ghosts?”

  “I dunno. Rats, maybe.”

  “Bell-ringing rats? I don’t like this one bit, Worthy,” Patterson complained. “I think we should head back up and let the colonel deal with this tomorrow. Let’s go have lunch with Holly, eh?”

  “Holly’s a spy, and I’ve no intention of letting him share the glory or the bonus money.”

  “You’ve been down here too long, Lionel,” the shorter man pleaded. “You’re not thinking clearly. Maybe the air’s unhealthy.”

  “The air’s fine. I’m going in.”

  “Wait,” his friend begged. “At least, let me tell him where we’re heading.” He shouted again to Seth, who’d been sketching a detailed illustration of the bird statue near the first crypt, when his friends had suddenly abandoned him. “Holly, put down your charcoal and get down here! We need your help!”

  No one answered the shouts, for Seth Holloway had fallen into a deep sleep in the middle of sketching the statue’s disquieting painted, yellow eyes. His auburn head lay against the statue’s three-toed feet, close to the claustrophobic tunnel used by Wentworth to reach the granite gallery. Holloway’s dreaming mind now wandered in a gloomy land of talking birds, shadowy spiders, and living stones where every wild tale, every inexplicable experience, every rumour of the spirit realm focused into a single beam of uncomfortable truth: The Devil and his minions were real. Demons were real. A netherworld existed and could be accessed by humans. And if evil existed, Holloway reasoned as best he could in so senseless a place, then its opposite must also exist. Surely, the Old Testament stories of God and angelic warfare were true, and if God existed, then perhaps a Saviour did as well.

  Deep in the throes of the terrifying nightmare, Seth Holloway fell to his knees, pleading for mercy and forgiveness from Almighty God and from the Risen Christ, whom his father had taught him to deny.

  Elizabeth Stuart had tried many times to sway his heart, but it took a journey to hell to achieve it. He thought of her now; wishing he’d believed in Christ that May, when she’d nearly accepted his marriage proposal. He’d argued that superstition was fine for the uneducated, which had caused her to bristle. It was a low, ungentlemanly remark, for Elizabeth knew more of science and the arts than most university dons. If she could place so great a faith in Jesus Christ, then surely, there must be something to it. Perhaps, that’s what had so rankled.

  Seth longed to take back those hasty words, for it had caused a cooling of their friendship. He prayed for her now, his spirit and soul changing from its old paradigm into something new, something brighter, something far more hopeful.

  Deep inside the most terrifying dream he’d ever experienced, Seth James Edward Holloway, 9th Viscount Paynton, had become what he’d once derided: a firm believer in Christ.

  Completely unaware of their companion’s life-changing predicament, Pitt turned to Wentworth. “I give up. Holly must have left the area. So, what do wan
t to do now?”

  “Do?” Wentworth mocked. “We go in, Mr. Patterson. That is, unless you’re too timid. If you want to crawl back to Cambridge with your tail twixt your legs, then do so, but I do not shrink from adventure. Silver Spoons men lead, old chum. Numquam receptum, numquam exieris! Never retreat, never surrender! Are you a Spooner, or no, Mr. Patterson?”

  “I am!” shouted his friend.

  “Then, what say you?”

  “I say, lay on, Macduff!” the younger man declared.

  Wentworth grinned, finishing the Shakespeare line as he entered the opening. “And damned be him that first cries, hold enough!”

  Thus, the naive students passed through the mysterious portal into doom.

  The mineral oil lamps cast swathes of dancing yellow against the dank cavern walls as they proceeded forward. The beautiful writing and graven images they’d seen upon the exterior of the door belied the abyss beyond, where the stench of centuries-old animal waste and rotting corpses assaulted their sensitive nostrils. Near the far end, dark shadows, the size of hideously misshapen dogs with arched backs and crooked legs, scuttled about as though sniffing for prey.

  “Do you see that?” Patterson asked Wentworth.

  “It’s a trick of the light,” the other declared, but only half-heartedly.

  “Be careful, Worthy. This place is probably crawling with all manner of vermin. Flint’s map shows a maze of tunnels below Lion Hall, but not this one. We’ve no idea where this leads.”

  “Which means another bonus to each of us, right?” Wentworth declared.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen, and finally twenty. They’d proceeded deep into the passage, when their lanterns suddenly brightened; or it seemed to Wentworth they had.

  “Look there, Pitt. See that up ahead?”

  Patterson’s hazel eyes struggled to focus, and he wished he’d not left his spectacles at the inn. His vision overall was clear enough, but an irregularity in the left cornea sometimes caused lines to double at a distance; especially in low light.