“But I’ll also feel safe and brave when I face my fear, right?” Mace glanced at the sliver of bone. “Will it hurt?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wiggins, returning to his old man form. “The skeletons said it rests right above your heart. They were surprised it had leaped out of your chest.”
“Do you need to cut me open?” Mace stared down at Bixby, moaning and bloody on the floor.
“No,” said the doc. “Easy out. Easy in.” Without warning, he pulled the boy’s robe aside and stabbed Mace below the collarbone so forcefully that the bone fragment completely disappeared. Only a single spot of blood spotted his white shirt.
Mace stood paralyzed and sweat broke out on his forehead. Jack moved toward the boy, but Mace’s eyes opened wide in panic and fear.
“No!” Mace tore through the room, his black robes fluttering behind him. He rebounded off a one-eyed purple alien ingesting Jack’s sideboard and continued wailing as he wrenched the door open and disappeared into the darkness.
“Well,” said Mr. Wiggins, “you do give the best parties, Jack.”
“Thank you,” said Jack. Maybe he should carve a frown on the back of his head so he could spin it around to show he wasn’t happy all the time. He’d miss Mace.
“Come on, Jack,” said Mr. Wiggins. “Let’s get you something strong to drink. You did a good thing here tonight.”
“Yes.” Jack watched the doc lift Bixby to his feet. “I think we helped the boy.”
“But no humans next year, okay? They ruin Halloween for everyone.”
Jack sighed and looked out the open door. Behind him, the party showed no signs of winding down anytime soon, and he really should see to his guests. He linked arms with Mr. Wiggins on the way to the bar. “You’re right. They’re all scary little monsters.”
About the Author
Tom Howard is a fantasy and science fiction short story writer who lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. His muses (or amuses) are his children, his friends, and the Central Arkansas Speculative Fiction Writers' Group.
Siphoning the Flames of Life
Kelly A. Harmon
Branson Luc woke to the sound of water boiling over in the hearth—sizzling on the fire dogs—and pink smoke erupting from the communications cauldron. The smoke coalesced into a flat missive, then wafted back and forth in the air as it settled to the packed-dirt floor. Though the smoke was contained, it still filled the air with its burnt-paper smell.
He rubbed his eyes, then pulled on his prosthetic right leg—a stout oak branch padded out with sheep’s wool—and eased out of bed. He lit a lamp with a brand from the fire, then retrieved the ragged-edged smoke-paper from where it had landed under the table. The message surprised him: Tinker/Large Animal Doctor needed at Oakmoore Cauldron Factory. Well paid for services rendered. Come quick!
Doctor and tinker, Bran thought, something is wrong with the coke ovens.
Lifting a cinnamon candy from the table’s dish, he popped it into his mouth, hoping it would alleviate the smoky taste. The candy bit into his tongue with a fire, softened by sugar, and left his mouth strangely cool, the lingering taste of cinnamon stinging the tip of his tongue.
He stood and limped to the window and looked up at the Great Oakmoore Mountain. Clear purple skies of early morning glowed in burgeoning sunlight, devoid of the usual cloud of smoke rising over the oak trees. The entire steel-making process had ceased.
So, was it mechanics, or dragons? He couldn’t know unless he investigated.
But would they want him there?
He was a good mechanic, and a fine animal doctor. He couldn’t be blamed for the accident. He’d told the abbey they needed to take more safety precautions—and when the worst happened they’d blamed him instead of owning up. And he was the one who’d lost a leg. It wasn’t his fault—and yet, few seemed willing to trust him.
So would the witches want his help?
Well, the law was the law. They couldn’t turn him away—unless the job was complete when he got there. And since he lived so close to the mountain, he might be able to arrive before anyone else—if he hurried.
If he could fix the ovens for the witches, maybe he could pull his reputation out of the cesspit.
Branson packed quickly, tinkering tools and doctor’s bag—omitting the obvious items the witches should have on the premises—and including some things they probably would not. And just for good measure, he wrapped the rest of the cinnamon candies in a napkin and shoved them into his pocket.
Then, he saw to the horse and wagon.
It was always a challenge getting to the Oakmoore Mountains, even when the witches knew you were coming. Even when they invited you. You still had to cross the poisonous Shadow River, and make it up the slippery slope leading to the factory’s front gate. But once you got directly on the path, things were usually all right.
Thank the one-eyed god it was springtime. He’d hate to have to do this in winter.
The trip was slower for him than it used to be, since he could no longer sit a horse. At least that allowed him to carry more equipment.
As he passed over the narrow, swinging bridge at Shadow River, he looked west to the docks where the cave-mouth opened over the water; the place where the witches loaded the cauldrons aboard ships for delivery. Deserted. This wasn’t just the witches’ problem. It affected nearly everyone in the area.
Branson slipped on the steep, gravel walk, catching his balance, the acute stabbing pain of the wooden prosthetic digging into his hip. He rubbed at the pain—sharper in the cooler air of the higher altitude—and approached bare, steel doors, built directly into the side of the mountain. He yanked on the overhead bell chain, with its tiny steel cauldron dangling from the end. Behind the doors, a bell-tone rang, bah-dah, bah-dah, bah-dah. Six beats of a ball-peen on three different-sized cauldrons, the pitches ringing higher every second beat.
A young witch answered the door, the pointed, green tabs on her collar announcing she was a novice.
Bran held out the pink-smoke missive. “I’m here to fix the ovens.”
“Are you a tinker, or an animal doctor?” the witch asked.
“Both.” Bran said it with pride. Not many tinker-doctors in the area.
Her smile died. “You must be Branson Luc.”
He nodded, confirming her fears—and confirming his own suspicions about his reception.
The witch started closing the door. “Sorry—we’ve already someone working on the problem.”
“I can wait.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
Branson stepped forward, leaning precariously on his prosthetic, keeping one booted foot on the threshold. “I believe the law says that you must let me try if your current help can’t do the job.”
The witch sighed—clearly having her orders if he’d pushed the issue—swung the door open wide and pointed to a bench. “Come in. You may wait right here.” She started to walk away, but turned back to him. “Are you here in your capacity as a mechanic or a doctor?”
“Both,” Branson said, knowing it would annoy her. It also gave him two chances to fix the problem. He lowered himself to the bench on his good leg, and waited.
A short time later the novice came back for him. “It’s your turn. Please do not kill the dragons—or burn the place down.”
The last crack was completely unnecessary. If anyone would burn the place down, it would be the dragons. But Bran didn’t want trouble, not when he had this chance to clear his name.
“What’s the problem?” he asked her.
“We can’t keep the ovens hot enough to burn the coal,” the witch said. “The temperatures keep going down.”
She led him through a set of smaller, double doors into the factory.
Bran had never been inside before. It was larger than he thought it would be, stretching as far as he could see in both directions in the dim light, the walls carved out of natural rock. Coal wagons, heavy with ore and still as statues, lined one side of the factory
. He’d bet his good leg they zoomed on their rails when everything was operational. Empty shelves lined the other side—for finished cauldrons?
This is where the magic happened—though not literally. Here, the witches forged the best steel cauldrons in the world—able to withstand a range of temperatures that no other cauldrons achieved. You could boil molten iron in them—if you needed to—then toss them into the snow to cool them off—no harm done. Neither would the cauldrons rust, due to the finishing spells the witches cast on them. They were a work of art.
But if the ovens weren’t working, no cauldrons could be made.
The novice delivered Bran to the factory floor, to the foreman-witch in charge. Her long dark hair was pulled back and loosely braided. Her face was pale, like she’d never seen the outside of the factory. Maybe she hadn’t, Branson thought. Behind her in the distance, loomed the three large coke ovens, like stone sentries, overlooking the entire process.
Bran approached the witch. “I’d like to see the dragons first, if I may.”
“Why?” She looked irritated, brows furrowing, her lips turned down.
“If you can’t get your ovens hot enough, the problem might be your heat source.”
“Who said the ovens weren’t hot enough?”
“The novice at the door.”
The witch shook her head, and several strands of hair escaped her loose braid to curl around her face. “The heat source is fine—but it fluctuates. We shouldn’t be seeing such large dips in temperature in the ovens, especially when we’re trying to bake the coke. If things don’t heat evenly we’ll get volatility. Not good. There’s definitely something wrong with the ovens.”
“I’d still like to see the dragons first—just to rule them out.”
She looked mutinous.
“If there’s nothing wrong with the dragons, it’s only a ten-minute check,” Branson said. “Would you want me to spend hours on the ovens only to learn that one of your dragons is ill?”
“The dragons can’t be sick,” the witch said. “They’re—”
“Why don’t you let an animal doctor decide?” That silenced her. He knew the witch meant well, but she was just getting in his way.
The dragons rested in the caves below the coke ovens.
A small, rough-hewn passage circled downward at a gentle slope, but even the moderate angle aggravated Branson’s hip. He’d regret this in the morning—and for days to come.
The dragon cave sparkled with iridescent flashes, torchlight bouncing off dragon scales—red, blue and green—of the three towering giants lounging on a great pile of gold. Branson wiped his arm across his brow, sweating in the warm, humid air of the cavern. He was glad he hadn’t donned his protective gear.
Branson bowed to them—three separate bends at the waist—three separate pains in his hip. “Good morning, kind friends. I am Branson Luc, a doctor of animals. I have come to check your health.”
It is not time for our annual check-up, thought the red giant. Branson heard the response in his head, deep and low, but obviously feminine.
He bowed to her again. “I know, grandmother, and I am sorry for the intrusion. May I take your temperature?”
The green interrupted with a shake of his beard, his voice booming in Branson’s head. WHY DO YOU WISH TO CHECK OUR HEALTH?
Branson smiled, covering his confusion. Had the witches not informed them why they weren’t working? He had to tread lightly here. One false remark and the great serpents would stand mutinous against him.
Branson bowed to the green dragon. “Grandfather, the coke ovens are not as hot as they should be. The witches are concerned for your well-being.”
A scrabble of the gold coins they lounged upon heralded the entry of the blue dragon into the conversation. He rolled a gold coin over the knuckles of his claws and back again. Then he spoke. “The witches think we’re taking a vacation, do they? Perhaps they should return to cutting down trees for their fires.”
“Oh, no, Ancient One,” Branson said, bowing lower than before. His hip would be purple before he finished this examination. “They make no such accusation.” Would blame and groveling on his behalf soothe this beautiful, temperamental creature? He tried. “In fact, it was my suggestion. A quick test of your inner temperatures would quickly prove the problem resides in the oven mechanics. If you would be so kind to allow it, then I’ll bother you no more.”
The dragons looked to each other. There was nodding and shaking of heads, while tinkling coins rolled down the heap of gold and clattered to the cave floor. An unfurling of wings—just a quick shake—enough to wash a cool breeze over Branson as the red got to her feet. She turned to him, resigned. Where’s your thermometer? It must be warmed before you proceed.
Branson smiled. Had that been the problem all along?
“Relax, grandmother.” He pulled a band of treated, woven cotton from his bag—his own invention. “I need only touch it to your neck to take your temperature.” He limped closer to the dragons. “It is difficult for me to climb the ladder. Would you do me the honor of bending?”
The red dragon stepped forward and bent, huffing moist breath the flavor of beef in Branson’s face. Branson wrapped the cotton around the dragon’s throat and watched as the thermochromic properties kicked in. The cotton warmed to blue, then deeper blue, to green, and finally a bright red, indicating that the red’s temperature was perfect.
The blue and the green dragon were fine as well.
Branson bowed and thanked them, and made his way to the factory.
Before the witches employed the dragons to burn coal into coke, they’d used up most of the trees of the forest on Great Oakmoore Mountain. Employing the dragons changed everything.
It really was an ingenious system, Branson thought, while walking back to the factory floor. Shifting to dragon heat freed the witches from having to spell the wood to burn hotter and without oxygen—saving them both time and effort.
Now, the ovens were filled with coal and completely sealed. Dragons breathed flames into the ovens through special openings, burning the coal and creating the coke, a small amount of sulfur that the witches used for other things, and gas that they siphoned off the top.
The gas fueled the rail system above the ovens—opening and closing the oven doors and allowing coal to be dumped in or coke to be pushed out.
But the coke was the important thing. It was used as both a fuel and a reducing agent in the blast furnaces for smelting the iron ore. No smelted iron—no steel. No steel—no cauldrons.
Branson approached the three tall ovens, waiting for the heat to hit him. But he realized they hadn’t worked for so long they were completely cool, making examination easier. He couldn’t have asked for a better situation. Smiling, he pulled out his tools and started looking.
Three hours later, he leaned against the cavern wall, staring at the coke ovens. He hadn’t found anything wrong.
He was doomed.
The witch-foreman came along, her braid now tidied. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Not sure yet.” Branson hated to admit that. “But I’ll find it.”
“There are others waiting.”
Branson ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I know why your temperatures are falling, I just can’t figure out where it’s happening. I need a few more minutes.”
The foreman nodded and walked away. “Half an hour.”
It was generous.
He’d checked the seals. He’d checked the gas pipes. He’d checked every port and opening that might allow air in and heat to leak out.
Where was the heat escaping?
Branson combed through the coke and ash and coal left remaining in the ovens, sweeping it away from the bottom edges, looking for something in the hardened steel of the ovens. Could there be a minuscule crack? Maybe something that only showed up when the oven was hot?
He sighed, wondering if he’d have to heat up the ovens to find it. He didn’t want to bother the dragons again.
“Time to go, Master Luc,” the foreman witch said behind him. He startled, having been so engrossed he hadn’t heard her arrive.
“Another moment.” He had to see this through.
“Your time is up. You will be paid, of course, for looking over the dragons.”
And then he saw it, the scat, the smooth, tiny ovals on the underside of the coal, so small he’d almost missed it. And if the ovens had been cool for a few days, they were starving.
“I know what’s going on,” he said, limping to his bag and retrieving a flask of lamp oil and a shallow dish, which he set just outside the oven door. The strong, varnish scent of the oil stung his nostrils as he poured a little into the dish and struck flint and steel together to light it. Purple flames licked across the surface of the oil. Branson waited.
“This better not be a trick.” The foreman crossed her arms on her chest, looking as though she’d like nothing better than to turn him into a toad.
“It’s not.”
He limped away from the ovens, leaning on the rock wall near his tool bag, and pulled the napkin from his pocket. A cascade of cinnamon candy got loose and skidded across the floor to the ovens. He bent and stretched for the nearest, then stilled.
An orange nose, no bigger than one of the cinnamon candies peeped from inside the coke oven. The nose twitched.
As fluid as the flames in the dish, the neon-yellow lizard snaked out from behind the coal and raced to the nearest piece of candy.
Surprised, Branson grabbed another shallow dish from his bag, poured the remaining candies into it, and pushed it toward the salamander.
The salamander lifted his head, breathing in the cinnamon scent and scuttled to the dish. He lifted his head over the rim and plunged his blunt snout into the candy, the hard ridge above his nostrils clacking against the crisp, red, candies. He chomped on them one-by-one, crushing the spicy sweet to dust between flat teeth, saliva-turned-red dripping out of his maw like blood.
Fell Beasts and Fair Page 24