The ‘Timour Dream’ measuring 155 feet by 33 feet may have been an opulent passenger vessel in her time but you would never have thought that to look at her now. Even without the listing deck and pervading stench of rot, the walls dripped with damp, elaborate patterned wallpaper either peeled near the roof or bulged near the base. Patches of pale grey mould crawled across the shadier places and assorted fungi grew in the corners of the room far from the pale shafts of green light that filtered through seaweed-coated portholes.
The sloping deck, warped and in places rotted through, made any rapid progress about her decks treacherous. Discarded casino furniture lay shattered, card tables and roulette wheels smashed to pieces by the collision of the two vessels. Indeed, the only furniture to survive the accident were benches fixed to the deck, of which only a few seemed in good enough condition to bear any weight placed upon them.
An ornate mirror hung askew on the wall, its reflective surface drawing the eye from the dreariness of the room. Half of the silvered backing had flaked away giving an appearance of pubescent acne to anyone foolish enough to gaze into its depths. As Miguel’s eyes focused on the glass, the main door of the lounge bumped open, making his reflection appear to shiver within the frame as Cornelius staggered through. The lizard’s huge scaled arms carried items of salvage collected from the hold of the ruined riverboat.
Miguel stared at the detritus deposited before him, as if the items might offer insight to his clouded mind. A fine china teapot and cup, several bottles of fruits and vegetables pickled in a clear liquid and sealed tightly. A leather beaver hat, a rusted sabre, a pair of men’s boots, too small to wear. A long coat unfortunately torn, a fistful of patterned porcelain buttons from dresses long rotted away, a bottle of French perfume in a cut-glass bottle and a wooden keg. Clearly, there was not much inspiration amongst these items.
He leaned over and placed the beaver pelt hat on Horatio’s head then rolled the keg towards himself. The seal seemed fine, the wood of the keg not showing signs of deterioration, sweating or rotting. He tapped the keg with the hilt of the rusted sabre and sloshed some of the nutty liquid from inside into the salvaged teapot then had a sniff. His eyebrows raised in surprise when he recognised the liquid was ale. Maybe his luck was improving after all!
The lizard’s long tail curled around and dropped a further item on the table, a sack, containing a roll of oilcloth with something hard wrapped inside and some sort of dog-eared logbook. Miguel raised an eyebrow in surprise. Why would the lizard have brought this to him? He took a long draught from the ale and moved to adjust the flame inside the spluttering lantern mounted on the wall beside him, before lifting up the book to investigate its curling cursive text.
He flipped through the pages, weary eyes scanning the words before him without taking much of it in. Slaves collected in one port, cotton at another. Trades and deals made, profits and losses recorded, dodging the ice, sand banks and submerged tree roots and the treacherous weather that plagued the ship as she plied the Mississippi river.The pirate’s eyes narrowed when he noticed a particular passage near the end of the ledger, written in a less refined hand than the previous entries.
‘It has fallen upon myself, Robert Atkins first officer of the ‘Timour Dream’ to document this tale of woe, in lieu of our Captain Shamus Hennasy, taken before his time by the midnight hounds we have all come to fear.
We spotted a strange vessel late on the evening of April 14th, 1856 after a night of terrible storms. She had dropped anchor near Swallow’s Turn, almost completely obscured by a veil of thick yellow fog. Lanterns on her starboard side alerted us to her presence and helped us avoid a collision. Captain Hennasy ordered full stop whilst we took in her profile. The cabin boy Jenkins swore it was a Spanish galleon straight from history class but with two tall masts where there should have been three; occupying our river space in a time period she had no right to be.
Captain Hennasy ordered that we advance with caution, rumours of ships carrying cholera were rife on the river and as First Mate, I was also concerned for our welfare and suggested the captain allow the men to bear arms. I confess I feared that if what Jenkins stated was true, she could only be a ghost ship, somehow marooned between worlds. We advanced in silence, using the current of the river to power our momentum and as we drew ever nearer, we heard strange voices upon her decks. Jenkins swore he spotted a column of smoke on the aft castle with red demon eyes floating inside but we just thought he had taken too much ale from the captain’s table.
A disturbance drew our attention to a man floundering in the river. None from the huge galleon moved to help him or voiced the call ‘man over board’ so as good Christian men we moved to assist the ‘drowned rat’ from a drifting log as we passed; indeed, once we fished him from the river, he introduced himself as Plantation owner Miles Downey. The Galleon had apparently abducted two of his slaves without due payment and he meant to have them back.
With a promise of much reward and future rights to exclusivity in transporting Mr Downey’s goods, the men took up arms and prepared to board the strange ship when the strangest of happenings occurred. The mighty sails of the galleon afore us appeared to billow and crack, before filling when I swear no wind did blow. I followed the Captain’s orders, observing that the engine room stoked the boilers as we set out in pursuit, only for the mighty galleon to part the very air before her, opening some sort of gateway into a world that smelt of brimstone and had a sky the colour of mustard.
The men were afraid to follow, believing the ship we followed to be cursed, steered as it was by a horned devil seen by Jenkins’s very eyes. Yet the captain had his mind on the profits he was yet to make and would not listen to the warnings given, instead he threatened to put us all off ship at the next dock, without work or profit, if we did not do his bidding. Therefore, with no choice, we pursued the galleon of the name ‘El Defensor’ into hell and soon wished we had not.
That was nine days ago. Our ship now lies mired in the wreckage of other crumbling hulks, the paddles snared with a thick weed that appears to grow almost as fast as we slice it from the hull. Some vessels about us are of strange design, others appear ancient, their function as mysterious as the facts that their decks are empty of crew or purpose. Every time we send men to try and free the ship they fail to return, despite being armed with musket and powder. The Captain Hennasy was taken yesterday. The men debated a rescue effort but were afraid. May god forgive our cowardly souls.
The hounds that took him are ravenous beasts, sleek, black and possessed with a single-minded purpose. They are like devils hunting the ruins for offerings to their satanic master. Jenkins states he has seen glowing coloured lights amid the ruins yet he swears he has taken no more of the Captain’s ale.
The demon dogs are becoming more confident in their attacks. I fear it will not be long before they attack in numbers and in our own weakened state, I fear the outcome will not be a positive one. I record this passage so that others searching for our remains will know of our fate and enclose the Captain’s prize possessions so they can be passed down to his rightful family as is only fit and proper.
Robert Atkins First Mate
Timour Dream
23rd April in the year of our Lord 1856.’
Miguel closed the book with a thud.
“It apparently did not end well for the crew of the Timour Dream.” He muttered to himself. Things were starting to make more sense. Thomas Adams and the crew of the El Defensor had lured others to this godforsaken place in the past. It was as if his nemesis were some kind of siren, paying his way in souls for rites of passage through this scrapyard of floating hulks. Just how long had he been doing this? What kind of a monster was the man? Well he knew one thing for sure. When they got out of here, he was going to make Thomas Adams pay.
He picked up a porcelain button and rolled it between his fingers, deep in thought. They needed to find a way out of this place. If only they could get their hover skiff back an
d working, it was the best transport available but he needed to get the repulsor engines functioning again and there was only one person he knew who could do that; Pheris.
A smile slid across his face as other elements of the plan started to form in his mind. Of course, he needed the cyborg as he had computed the complex mathematics necessary to open the gateways. The problem was that Pheris lay somewhere back on the huge passenger liner The Neptune. Once Malum, he with the glowing lights and sharp claws, realised there was very little meat on the cyborg and that his powers had faded leaving him inert, Pheris was discarded, left in the corner, a mass of broken circuit boards and body parts. The thought made Miguel’s blood run cold.
The Neptune was Malum Okubi’s lair. What if the monster found him there as he tried to salvage Pheris? What if he used his annoying mind trick and took over the will of his lizard again? There had to be a way of making sure the monster was far away from them before they dashed for the liner. No, it was all too dangerous! He had no means of defending himself if caught and had a feeling Malum was not one who liked his prey to escape. So, how was he going to manage this apparently impossible task? It was all so damned frustrating. He brought his fist down on the table with such force that the button popped from his grasp and bounced down the front of his coat, leaving Miguel fumbling to recover it amidst the useless empty holsters and bandoliers he had strapped there. The button fell free, despite his efforts and bounced onto the soggy curtain roll.
Scowling at the lost button, Miguel reached out and dragged the oilcloth over, parting the roll of material to discover a long slim box carved from warm mahogany. He lifted the latch and opened the lid, then gasped at what he beheld. The plan Miguel had been forming in his mind suddenly became more achievable.
He tapped his finger on the table and looked across at Cornelius who was busy sticking his forked tongue into one of the glass jars and hooking out some of the pale looking preserved fruits from inside.
“Hey Cornelius, were there any other kegs in the hold, smaller ones with black powder inside or maybe little balls?” The lizard gulped down the fruit and licked its snout before tilting its head to one side as if thinking carefully.
“Hello!” the pirate shouted. “Small kegs, black powder, balls?”
The huge lizard nodded his head in confirmation before returning its total attention to the glass jar. Miguel closed his eyes, working out the timings and the complications that could occur. It would be difficult and not without risk but if they could re-float the skiff and power open a gate… he could put this nightmare long behind him.” He staggered to his feet and tried not to wobble too much on his ale infused legs, before reaching into the walnut box and pulling out the two beautiful flintlock duelling pistols that lay within.
“Boys, I really do believe I have a plan.”
* * * * * *
Kerian stared out across the striped desert dunes, his eyes straining to catch sight of any hint of Octavian, or the beast he had become. The dunes had turned black and white under the light of the full moon, giving the whole setting a stark and surreal feel. The winds had dropped to a low hiss, amplifying the snorting and jostling sounds of both the horses and donkey as the animals jockeyed nervously for position upon their blanket.
Ripples of movement zigzagged across the sand, emphasising the movement of the sleek silver serpents just beneath the surface. As Kerian watched another ‘v’ shaped ridge slithered towards his sanctuary of stone then disappeared as the creature dropped lower and waited patiently for its prey to step from the stone and reveal itself.
The dropped sword mocked Kerian from fifteen feet away, its blade reflecting the moonlight and gleaming invitingly, its location so tantalisingly close, yet frustratingly out of reach. The knight recognised he had no other weapon to defend himself, no way to respond to the creature when it returned and he knew with a grim certainty that the creature would indeed be back.
Toledo snorted loudly and pawed at the ground, turning about in concern, eyes rolling, head shaking from side to side, as the stallion tried to free itself from the stakes in the ground. Dorian began to bray loudly in protest and Octavian’s horse leant back against its stake jerking its head anxiously from side to side, haunches trembling with the effort. Kerian realised the actions for what they were. The mounts had scented something bad was coming towards them and that could only mean Octavian.
A supernatural chill raced up Kerian’s spine causing him to tremble and lick his lips nervously. He reached behind and freed the circular shield from his back, slipping one arm through the straps, before pulling his cloak closer around himself and stamping his boots to ward off the penetrating cold that came from more than just the desert night.
Kerian slowly turned, putting the horses at his back as he looked out over the tumbled stonework slabs and back towards the ruined watchtower. It was possible he could jump from slab to slab and get to relative safety, hold up until morning but this would mean abandoning the horses and he was not willing to do this. It was also possible that he might find a makeshift weapon somewhere in the ruins but it was a longshot at best and more likely wishful thinking on his part.
The sand shimmered at the edge of the stone slab, the surface becoming more agitated as the creatures below grew in numbers. Kerian’s hand itched for the sword abandoned on the sand but to even consider attempting a rush for the weapon was tantamount to suicide and he had worked too hard and too long to give up on living now.
The beast struck as Kerian turned away. He had a split second of warning, barely enough to raise his shield. A scream from one of the horses, a flash of movement from the side, a harsh guttural cough and then Octavian was upon him.
Sparks lit the night as the creature’s claws scored across Kerian’s shield. The knight ducked instinctively as the monster hit him, the force of the collision spinning Kerian around, his boots skidding across the stone slab as he tried to halt his unexpected motion, the loose grains of sand upon its surface making his footing precarious as if he were on ice. One boot came down on soft, yielding sand and Kerian felt something squirm violently beneath his sole before he snatched his foot back in horror.
On reflex, the knight lashed out with his shield, hoping to force the beast back, halt its attack and give him space to brace and prepare for further assaults that were bound to follow but there was nothing to hit. Octavian had disappeared.
Kerian tried to calm his racing heart, the shock of the encounter making his pulse boom loudly in his ears and his breathing come in ragged gasps. His hazel eyes nervously scanned the desert landscape as he peeked out from behind the limited protection of his shield, his breath fogging the mirrored surface within. He knew he had to quell his panic, needed to focus on the situation and not succumb to the temptation to rush for the dropped sword.
By Adden! Where was he? Sinister shadows flitted about the eerie landscape, distracting the eye, fooling Kerian’s perception and making it impossible to spot the creature that had attacked him. Alien shapes of blue and grey rippled over the dunes as the clouds danced to a private symphony that only they were at liberty to hear, their joyous passage unaware of the tense drama unfolding beneath them. Even the persistent wind had dropped to a low murmur, as if holding its breath for the terrors yet to unfold.
“Come on, show yourself.” Kerian muttered, continuing to turn, straining every sense for a clue to the monster’s location. His eyes scanned the dunes, the scattered stonework, the ragged palms and straggly clumps of grass struggling for life around the star speckled oasis. The knight paused, taking in two pale blue spots of light within the shadow of one of the clumps of tall grass. Was it the eyes of the creature, a glimpse of the oasis beyond? He could not be sure.
The horses started to shift again, nostrils flaring, nervous shakings of their heads, a rising tension that Kerian felt deep within his chest. Was that Octavian lying in the shadows by the ruins? Could he be the strange silhouette up high upon the toppled watchtower?
Kerian spotted the sleek explosion of movement and instantly decided that his current position was no good for staging any kind of defence against such a charge. He judged the distance between the slab beneath his feet and the next partially submerged block of stone over towards the ruin and leapt across the gap, throwing himself through the air with his heart in his throat. He landed on tiptoes, teetering, windmilling with his arms to make himself fall down and hug the cooling ground.
The scream behind him sounded almost human. Kerian spun about from his prone position, bringing his shield up, only to realise that he was never the intended target of this attack. Octavian tore into the horses on the blanket, claws slashing to inflict a vicious laceration to his own stallion’s rump, splashing its black and white hide with crimson droplets, before turning to lunge at Toledo.
“No!” Kerian screamed, powerless to assist the stallion as the monster leapt forwards, snarling and spitting and Toledo pulled back heavily against his tether. “Over here. I’m over here you bastard!” He needed something to throw, something to distract the beast; a stone, a piece of bleached wood, a clump of soil and grass, anything to divert the creature’s attention back towards him and away from his terrified steed. However, this was a desert, hammered on the anvil by the sun during the day and frozen solid during the night. There was nothing to throw.
Kerian briefly considered his shield, then disregarded it just as swiftly. It was the only thing likely to save him this night and he had no intention of throwing it away! He moved towards the edge of the stone slab, determined to leap back towards the horses only to note the sands shifting inches from his boot and a silvery serpent head emerge, its cold black eyes emphasised by its glowing skin. The snake hissed in warning, its head gently swaying as several other small mounds of sand parted to reveal other slender snouts with flickering tongues as the sand between the stones undulated before him. There was no way he was going to make the jump. His starting stone was higher than the one he now occupied so he was doomed to fall short.
The Labyris Knight Page 60