by Wade Ebeling
The hardening potion was, by far, the most temperamental of the bunch to make. Any variance in heat, moisture or timing during the brewing would turn the potentially life-saving potion into an excruciating end for the imbiber. Quite literally, each component needed to be of the highest quality and handled with the utmost care. With an ingredient list the length of an illuminated scroll, the concoction used a base of old world digestifs and herbal remedies. This slurry was then combined, in a multi-part process, with various bark linings and the enhanced powders of corundum and diopside. If done properly, the potion gave an effect quoined ‘scale skin’ by the Hittite Builders that would temporarily prevent the penetration of crossbow bolts, the preferred weapon of the Camaraderie, or even a direct musket shot. Truth be told, far beyond his own skill and daring, this potion was the reason why Marcus had made it out of Boston alive.
With there still being no hint of Catherine, Marcus moved to the kitchen and retrieved the prepared food parcels. Piercing the silence of the empty school, voices could be heard when he returned to the common room. Grenaldt Thressor had finally reappeared. It was a stark dichotomy showing between the two as they chatted. Catherine stood tall with her chestnut hair tightly pulled up, clothed in beautiful sky-blue petticoats adorned with a dainty lace apron and full fichu tied around her neck. Grenaldt was hunched over in exhaustion, grime smearing his leathers and matting his unruly gray hair. Catherine smiled easily when she saw Marcus, while his master’s scowl hardly changed.
“Sir …,” Marcus began brightly, more than willing to show the relief he was feeling.
Grenaldt stopped him cold with one raised finger. Something he whispered to Catherine made her look at Marcus and smile. Grenaldt cleared his throat before stating, “The time has come, my friends. The Deacons have breached the first barrier within the Redeemer church above us. They do not yet know it, but anyone coming down those stairs, that I myself molded many moons ago, will meet a truly gruesome fate. But, alas, that will only deter them for so long. As much as I despise their ilk, you must admit that they are a tenacious lot.”
Looking at Marcus’ backpack and Catherine’s small suitcase, Grenaldt nodded approvingly before continuing. “I hope you are prepared for this. I’m quite sure … well, that the opportunity to return here will … let’s just say, will be longer than you can imagine right now. My work is nearly complete. Do not ask, Marcus. Everything will be explained to you upon opening the envelope I gave you. You do still have it, right? The seal unbroken?”
Marcus nodded affirmations to both questions while walking to stand by Catherine, handing her one of the parcels of food stuffs. She opened her pale red suitcase on one of the tables and attempted to cram the wrapped bundle inside, finding the task unmanageable.
“I still have a little room in mine,” Marcus offered, shucking his pack from his shoulder and opening the top flap. Catherine handed the parcel back, ensuring that their fingers brushed while doing so. Marcus chuckled and grinned gawkily, she managed to smile kindly in return.
“Well, I see that you two have … come to terms with the situation …,” Grenaldt said silkily.
The hillside shuddered. Once. Twice. Then, a series of dull thuds came from above them, like a Mesopotamian giant had suddenly appeared and begun a relentless march forward. Dust showered down in the hallways with each reverberance as unseen items rattled inside cupboards. Far beyond this, the most frightening indicator of a looming, immediate danger were the cracks forming in the polished dome of the common room.
Running toward the front of the school, Grenaldt yelled, “Get out! Now!”
Almost as if remembering something of great importance, the suddenly spry man stopped in his tracks, looking at his students one last time. Instead of speaking, Grenaldt Thressor, Headmaster of the Stone Sanctuary and one of only three Grand Wizards within the Prodigious Order of Builders, smiled. The affectation was laced with paternal pride, with a deep sadness and obvious meaning. A cheeky, two-fingered salute later, the greatest man they had ever known vanished into the murky darkness caused by the dust.
“Do you have everything?” Marcus yelled over the constant drone.
Eyes wide with adrenaline, Catherine answered by grabbing a perfectly matched coat with large toggles and bolting for the rear passage. The intensity of the rhythmic rumbles lessened as they ran away from the source. Even as the distance grew, the bigger shocks could still be felt shooting up through their feet. Whatever the Camaraderie’s Deacons were using to break down the portcullis was big enough to shake the whole hillside.
Coming to a standstill behind Catherine, who had reached the blockade of raw granite, Marcus reflexively touched the owl-sight charm before barking, “I hope whatever Master was working on is strong enough to stop that damn monster! What in the name of the second world could those bloody crosses be using?”
“My guess would be some sort of battering ram,” Catherine answered quickly, showing that she too had been trying to deduce an answer to that very question. After hurriedly putting her coat on, only binding two of the seven claw-shaped toggles, she held the case close to her chest. Catherine then squeezed her freshly-branded shoulder and groped the rough stone face. Focusing herself by drawing a deep breath, she began to meld into the wall.
Moments after the last wisp of sky-blue material vanished, an enormous crash resonated up through the narrow hallway just before it darkened. The walls no longer emanated their ghostly light, signifying a disruption from the eternal flame. Deafening silence and blinding darkness followed. Marcus could now hear his own breath, haggard and short, over his pulse pounding noisily within his neck and ears. Every fiber of his being wanted to go help his master. He knew he could be of help, knew he had accrued skills fit to decimate any intruders brazen enough to enter the school. Regrettably, the silence and darkness gave no clue as to what had just occurred. Still fresh in his memory, the initial jolt felt exactly like when the Assembly chambers in Boston collapsed. With no input that could sway his decision-making process one way or the other, he just stood frozen.
The fear started in his solar plexus, thieving away every third breath. With great effort, Marcus forced himself to feel around for the unfinished stone, giving him a sense of direction within the inky blackness. A quick slap on the still throbbing welt gave him more than enough internal power to chase through the wall after Catherine. All the angst and panic that Marcus had been plagued with was instantly replaced by relief. Catherine stood waiting for him to emerge, holding aloft a small piece of burning cobalt.
“What took you so long?” she demanded. The fear had come to visit her as well.
“Did you not feel that? I’m certain that the tunnel collapsed behind us! What could possible cause that? Do you think it was … Master? There is no way those bastards could do anything like that,” Marcus wondered aloud.
“I’m quite certain that I do not know. The only absolute right now is that we need to keep moving ... There was never any chance of going back, Marcus. Master Thressor has other things in mind for you and me,” Catherine said measuredly.
With heavy resignation, Marcus ducked past Catherine and made two sets of piles and puddles to cross the chasm. Taking the lead, he made it across the void without realizing it. So many were the questions and concerns rattling around in his head, not one single thought could be focused on. The malaise was short lived, only lasting until Catherine laid her hand on his uninjured shoulder.
“Are you going to open it?” Catherine asked. The question was posed lightly, fully understanding the reason for the pause.
Realizing that he had just been staring at the mineral seep connected to the stairwell, Marcus replied sheepishly, “I will now. Just needed a moment, I guess.”
“It’s alright, my love. We just need to be ready. No telling what’s out there waiting for us,” Catherine whispered soothingly.
Her words steeled Marcus. She had called him something that fortified both body and mind. Something often longed for
. Something that he did not realize, until just this moment, how much it would mean to hear. A new purpose for his life suddenly emerged. Marcus had no way of knowing what the future might hold. What he did know, with zero uncertainty, was that it would be fiercely fought for.
“I’m ready,” Marcus promised. It was a statement of fact, now and forever.
The stairs slid open. Leery of an ambush, they waited a moment before stepping out. The noontime sun revealed a scene of utter chaos down by the waterfront. Bells rang in alarm as several three-mast ships burned ferociously along the southern piers. The whole landscape seemed to move as people scurryied this way and that. It was painfully obvious to Marcus and Catherine what had happened to the town. Both knew in an instant that the Camaraderie had set a portion of the harbor ablaze to gain a distraction for their endeavors. Using the well-timed act of arson as cover, not a single eye from town took notice of the Deacons besiegement into the church on the hill.
“We need to get to the north side of town. Procure a boat … I think that is our best chance of getting out of here alive. If we can get up river a bit, say to Shelburn or Norwich, we can see about further arraignments from there. Dressed like this, we don’t dare walk the roads like the common poor … Just draw more attention to ourselves that way,” Marcus reasoned, once he saw that getting to the swarmed stables of New London was out of the question.
“Is there an outpost in that area?” Catherine asked clearheadedly.
“A small one. It should at least get us over to somewhere more connected. Might even lead us all the way to Wallingford. Don’t really know for sure. We can make for New York from that point. Get back on the rivers, maybe. All we know right now is to head West,” Marcus answered, the stairs settling back into place behind them.
“I trust your judgement,” she finally muttered, but only after internally debating the pros and cons of other forms of travel and not coming up with anything better.
They carefully made their way down the stairs and past the low well. The commotion in town not only helped hide the Camaraderie’s activities, it helped conceal the new couple slinking through, arm in arm. Hardly a sideways glance was given to Marcus and Catherine. This was because they were dressed far too well for anyone to expect them to help quenching the fires on the docks. In addition, any shop owners still around did not see them as possible plunderers taking advantage of the chaotic situation. As to the rest of the townsfolk, they had their hands more than full trying to prevent a full-scale inferno from breaking out.
Chance favored them alongside a northern pier. A moored ships dinghy sat untended, oars tucked neatly under the gunwale. With just a quick scan, it was quite apparent that no one was currently standing station at the harbor master’s booth. Marcus quickly lowered Catherine down into the vessel and then handed her the luggage. After untying the bow line and giving his owl sight button a good long squeeze, he dropped down into the three-yard stilted boat.
Sitting on the center thwart, Marcus pulled the oars through the rowlocks. As he maneuvered them out past the reeds and cattails, the alarm bells suddenly stopped ringing. In a concerted act of determination, the town had prevented true disaster. This was accomplished by towing two cargo ships out into deeper water, leaving them there to burn and sink. Marcus and Catherine watched the boats crackle and pop for a moment, it was a sight neither had seen before. Crossing to the far side of Winthrop’s Cove, they had to maneuver south a bit to get around a jetty. Once this was skirted, staying well out of the main current, Marcus rowed them north along the New Thames River and into the unknown.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Charged with over watch outside the Redeemer church, Charles Thomlinson was what others would call a true zealot. Named the Vicar Forane within the Camaraderie, the towering, gangly man with an oddly tense face was tasked with preserving Canon law within the colonies. Renowned for his interrogation skills, Charles was asked to leave the Bastion and sail from Boston to New London, while the rest of the forces marched north after the destruction of the Builder’s complex was complete. He loathed being on the water, especially after a dreadful trip over from London, but dared not refuse the honor of traveling with the English arch-bishop, who had been named commander of the operation. It was just as well anyway, the project that he had been devoting himself to had somehow managed to escape his clutches, making the diversion a quite welcome one.
Charles took his orders quite seriously, so he had not taken his icy-blue eyes off the courtyard at the bottom of the hill. Any townsfolk, or Builders coming as reinforcements, would have to approach by way of Hempstead street then ascend Mountain Avenue to get close to the church, or they could take the winding stairway that he observed. With most souls tending to the fires along the wharf, the sudden appearance of the colorful pair had perplexed Charles for a moment. The man in green and the woman in blue seemed to have been spat out by the hillside itself.
“Had they been sitting out of sight for over an hour?” Charles wondered. As, this was how long he had been watching the courtyard. “Could they have somehow gotten past me and the other low-level Deacons, making it all the way down the stairs without us noticing? Could I possibly be hallucinating?”
Subconsciously, Charles fondled the large flask of paregoric hidden within his black cape. Made by combining camphor oil with a tincture of opium, it was his personal drug of choice. Years ago, he only sipped at the concoction to help him sleep or to deal with the chronic headaches that sometimes plagued him. This practice had grown to the point where Charles now took several mouthfuls of the potent painkiller daily. Easily procured from any number of medicinal brokers found in every corner of every major city, his only real concern regarding this addiction was being caught by other members of the order.
When the intriguing pair turned north, away from the smoldering waterfront, Charles suddenly figured out who they were. He frantically blew the prepared warning and was quickly surrounded by four Deacons. Taking command of the situation, he ordered one of them to alert the arch-bishop that there must be a rear entrance to the Builder compound. Charles then gave a brief description of the pair before sending the others off, two down the stairs and one along the road.
Almost immediately after the men’s matched heather-gray cloaks were out of sight, Charles took advantage of the new-found solitude to quickly sneak a larger than usual dose of the paregoric. His body shuddered with glee more than in revulsion to the bitter taste. The first Deacon returned in a panic with word from the arch-bishop. Despite the man wheezing and rambling a bit, the sentiment was quite clear to Charles. He was to oversee the search for the escapees.
Leaving the man to watch for more absconders, Charles bound down the stairs, concentrating hard on maintaining his balance. Blood pumped through his veins, rushing a wave a nauseous euphoria from the opiates to his brain. This was his chance, years of waiting patiently were about to pay off. If he could kill or, better yet, capture two members of the detested Builders, his standing within the Camaraderie would undoubtedly soar. It might even be rewarded with an instant promotion to Suffragan or Coadjutor, he reasoned.
Following the trail of the man and woman, Charles looked for a Deacon to question. The arch-bishop had given him direct charge over the four underlings, making him eager to flex new muscles. As the friendless man strutted through the streets, he was quite amused by the scurrying peasants trying to save their hovels. The paregoric had hit him hard. Everything was being viewed through the lens of his own superiority and bemusement.
The general downward slope to the town inexorably pulled Charles toward the riverside. Making it to Water Street, he turned north, just to avoid the commotion on the southern piers. He saw no one matching the description of the man in green and woman in blue. Instead of this discouraging him, it seemed a good sign to Charles. It would undoubtedly be that much easier to spot the unique pair on near empty streets. With four sets of eyes scouring the town, it would only be a matter of time before the distinctive whistle of th
e Deacons was blown and all agents converged.
The wind shifted, causing a waft of burning wood and canvas to assault Charles’ senses. He hastened his pace along the smaller piers jutting out from the north side of town. Few people were around, most others having been drawn to the flames like moths. The Deacon running toward him through the smoky haze made Charles grin widely. All his accolades were coming soon, no doubt.
The man was winded, managing only to say, “I … I found them!”
“Good man. Where are they, then? Wait … Why haven’t you blown your whistle?” Charles praised then admonished.
“They are … on the … water. Didn’t want them ta know … I had seen ‘em,” the man replied, pointing out into the bay.
“On the water? Where do they imagine they can get to?” Following the man’s finger, Charles saw the pair in a small vessel on the far side of the bay. “Alright, they only have a small jump on us. Alert the others. We will go run them down in our dinghy. Easy enough.”
“But, sir. That is our dinghy,” the man said contemptuously.
Right as Charles recognized the gold filigree on the departing boat’s transom, another of the Deacons approached. Following their gaze, the man dubiously asked, “Is that our jolly-boat?”
The trio stood in silence as the pair turned north along the New Thames River.
“At least I have a direction of travel,” Charles said softly to no one in particular, failing to convince himself that the arch-bishop was of the forgiving sort. Charles’ next course of action was clear, at least to him. He would blame the Deacons. It was their failure, not his. The accolades were only postponed, not lost forever.
The last Deacon joined them as they trudged back uphill. Charles’ temper was tested as the men kept insisting on asking all sorts of dull questions about the matter. Questions that there was no earthly way for him to possibly answer. Finally, after listening to them blather on and on about what the arch-bishop might do to them as punishment, he hissed for them to be quiet. Their shared fear, like the contagion it was, threatened to spread. Charles Thomlinson, while being many nefarious things, was not a coward. He knew that it was all in how the information was given. The right inflections here, the perfect amount of outrage there, nothing to worry about, he convinced himself.