by Jason Parker
Nightlocke put his arm around her shoulder. “Walk with me to my coach.”
“Of course,” she smiled. “I wouldn’t miss seeing you off.”
As they approached the coach, Nightlocke paused and looked at her. “ Listen, I'm really happy you found the courage to tell Ron how you feel. I think you two will be great together.”
Laurela’s eyes lit up. “Thanks for the encouragement. I can’t wait for him to join me in Arcanta. Good luck to you and make sure you visit us soon. You're always welcome. And, watch out for that creepy man.”
“I'll make it a point to,” he assured her. “On both counts.”
Laurela joined him on the last few yards to the coach door. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek then stepped inside. The coach was full. As he settled into his seat, he scanned the faces of the other passengers and saw no sign of Laurela’s creepy man. A few of the other passengers were Institute students. He nodded toward them politely. He knew their faces but wasn’t close to any. It was just as well. He planned to sleep during most of the eleven hour journey to Lyraton, the next stop on the way to Brighton.
Within fifteen minutes of the steam coach’s departure from Crossroads, Nightlocke drifted asleep. He snoozed through the stops at the break stations where tired horses were swapped for fresh ones and passengers were allowed to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. He awoke to the ringing sound of metal striking metal and the nascent light of dawn. By his reckoning, he slept more than eight hours.
Nightlocke's bladder was pressuring him to be emptied, but judging by the time of day he estimated they were twenty to thirty miles outside Lyraton—well past the last break station. To distract himself, he looked out the coach window and located the source of the metallic ringing. Not too far from the road, a small army of workers were arranging railroad tracks perpendicularly along a series of parallel wooden planks and attaching them with iron spikes. The steady rhythm of sledge hammers pounding the spikes filled the air. Nightlocke found the rhythmic pulse relaxing despite his discomfort.
He turned his attention from the window to the man seated next to him. He was a clean shaven, dark haired man, graying at the temples dressed in a brown pinstripe suit. The man cringed every time a sledge hammer blow echoed through the coach.
“This is fascinating isn’t it? Seeing the construction of a new railroad,” Nightlocke said to the man.
The man wrinkled his face as another hammer clanged. “It will be nice when it is done. The din of the construction gives me a splitting headache.”
“Do you travel this route often?” Nightlocke asked.
The man narrowed his eyes and glared at Nightlocke for a moment. “Yes, I live in Corava, but own a business in Crossroads. The new train line will make my travels considerably shorter.”
Nightlocke rubbed a finger along his temple. Lyraton was a mid-sized town about seventy miles from Brighton and the Delon coast. The town was significant because it was the only stop along the railway line between Egenton, the Delonian capital, and Corava, the capital of the unified nations of Harkovia, Tarkania, and Caleria. The new railroad between Lyraton and Crossroads would be a boon for merchants and business owners.
“I read a book about railroads,” Nightlocke said. “According to the histories, the railroads were created by the great wizards during the Age of Magic. I have my doubts about magic, but the book claimed mystical energies powered the trains and enabled them to travel at speeds over a hundred miles per hour.”
The main raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
Nightlocke nodded. “After the Vladrik War most of the railway lines survived with little damage. The trains, however, were inoperable without a power source. The book claimed this was due to the disappearance of magic, but personally I think it was because important raw materials were consumed during the war. Anyway, when the Delon and Tuvir Science Institutes were founded by the remaining great wizards more than two hundred years ago, one of their first priorities was to create a new power source, not only for the trains, but also for the necessities of everyday life.”
“I’ve heard tales about the Age of Magic, but I don’t put much stock in them,” the man scoffed and waved his hands in a brushing motion.
Nightlocke scratched at his neck. “I understand that. I like to think of the Age of Magic as a time of advanced science. I think the great wizards were really great Scientists, something like the Master Scientists of today.”
The man curled his upper lip and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Perhaps.”
“Two of the surviving great wizards, the brothers Jamis and Calvor who founded the Tuvir Institute, discovered incandium in the southeastern deserts of Caleria,” Nightlocke continue. “A few years later, the Delon Institute founders, Touchstone and his wife Araphel, developed a steam engine that used red incandium as a power source. Touchstone and Araphel redesigned the old trains to work with the new steam engines, and soon the railway system was once again operational.”
“Interesting,” the man mused, “but if what you’ve read is true, the top speed of our trains is half of what it was during the Age of Magic.”
Nightlocke smiled. “Ah, so you’re a man who likes speed.”
“Well of course,” the man shrugged. “Time is money, especially to a businessman like myself.” He motioned toward the coach window. “The Gandany Alliance of Business Owners, of which I am a member, is funding this new railroad line.”
“That’s cool,” Nightlocke responded with a nod.
The man sniffed. “Yes. We’ve wanted it for years, but had to wait for the so-called Scientists at the metal works in Caleria to redevelop a grade of steel strong enough to support the trains in addition to a large scale process for forging and shaping the rails. The rail line should be completed within two years.”
Nightlocke frowned. “I’m a Scientist and the new grade of steel developed by the Scientists in Caleria was a remarkable achievement.”
“Humph,” the man sneered and turned his attention to the magazine resting in his lap.
When the steam coach finally arrived in Lyraton, Nightlocke left his backpack and shuffled with quiet desperation to the public men's room at the station. He awkwardly staggered along accompanied by the muffled laughter of bemused onlookers. When he finally made it to the urine trough and let loose, he felt absolutely euphoric. After an eternity, his bladder was finally empty. On his way to the station exit to retrieve his backpack, he felt a tug on the back of his jacket and heard an old, leathery voice creek, “Hey, you there.”
Nightlocke froze for a moment, fearing it was Laurela’s creepy guy. When he turned around, however, he looked upon an elderly man slightly shorter than himself. Based on his look and smell, the man was transient. His shoulder length gray hair was matted and disheveled. He wore a dingy, threadbare white robe mottled with stains. The robe marked him as a priest or initiate of the goddess Keyaul, but his unkempt appearance was a stark contrast to the usual pristine mien of the clergy.
“Can I help you with something?” Nightlocke asked hesitantly.
“There’s something about you, boy. I can see it,” the man replied staring at him intently with dark blue eyes.
The man’s piercing gaze unsettled Nightlocke. He nervously glanced around the station looking for an excuse to extricate himself from the man. Finding nothing he rambled, “Look, I respect Keyaul, but I’m not in a position to make a donation right now, so if you’ll kindly excuse me.”
“It’s not the blessed Keyaul’s mark on you, boy,” the man said continuing to fix Nightlocke with his eyes. “It’s something else. I can see it.”
Nightlocke wanted to walk away, but couldn’t. The man’s gaze seemed to hold him immobile. “I…I don’t understand,” he said.
“You wouldn’t. Not yet, but I can see it. Take this, put it on and never take it off,” the man said handing him a leather cord. It glimmered with a coin-sized triangular piece of gray metal attached to it. Embedded in the gray metal was a dark indi
go colored gem.
Transfixed, Nightlocke briefly examined the medallion, looked at the tattered priest, and then slowly placed the leather cord around his neck. When he looked up, the man was gone. He rushed out the station exit and looked along the street, but saw no one in a white robe.
He shook his head and then located his backpack on the platform. “Strange,” he muttered.
Nightlocke checked the coach schedule and to his delight discovered one of the steam coaches would be continuing on to Brighton in about an hour. Since Brighton was only seventy-five miles from Lyraton he would arrive with ample time to find the home of Dagan Garris before dark.
He reentered the station looking to no avail for the old man and sat down at the station bar. After the long journey from Crossroads, Nightlocke was hungry and, despite the early hour, decided he could use a beer as well. He ordered ham, eggs, bread, and a pint of beer.
When the barkeep returned with his order, Nightlocke asked, “What’s the news?”
The barkeep wiped his hands on a towel and said, “Nothing too exciting. The Triumvirate continues to petition King Vonador to unite Delon with their three nations. The King continues to refuse them and sits on his throne laughing as his coffers fill from the taxes on all the goods moving through Crossroads.”
Nightlocke stabbed his fork at a chunk of ham. “So it’s essentially just a standoff?”
“Seems that way,” the barkeep shrugged. “Word is the Triumvirate is becoming increasingly frustrated and has threatened to use force, but King Vonador insists they are just bluffing.”
“What do you think?” Nightlocke asked then took a slug of beer.
The bartender wiped at the polished wood of the bar. “I'm just a simple barkeep, so it don't matter what I think. Public opinion in Delon, though, indicates staying separate is preferred, but that’s probably old-fashioned stubbornness.”
A brown haired man with large ears and a long angular nose seated several stools to Nightlocke’s left stood, picked up his beer, and reseated himself in the stool next to Nightlocke. “It’s refreshing to see a man who’s not afraid to have a drink before midday.” He tipped his mug toward Nightlocke, spilling a little on the bar.
Nightlocke flinched at the stale scent of alcohol on his breath.
“Leave him alone, Jerryl,” the barkeep said. “Don’t scare away the customers.”
“It’s fine,” Nightlocke said with a dismissive gesture.
Jerryl drained his mug and slid it toward the bartender. “Fetch me another, Bailey.”
Bailey glared at him then snatched the mug and walked away to refill it.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” Jerryl said turning back toward Nightlocke. “We Delonians are a stubborn group, but I can’t see where being independent or united would make much of a difference. Hell, unless you ask, you can't tell where anyone is from, anyway. We've all mixed around so much. I, for one, would not be willing to engage in a conflict to preserve a false aura of independence.”
Nightlocke subtly fanned away the almost visible cloud of Jerryl’s breath. “I tend to agree. I think of myself as just a Gandanian more so than a Delonian. I know the histories say Delon was established after the Vladrik War as an open state with little government interference and no religious obligations, but much has changed since then. Churches are present in Delon and the number of worshipers is growing. The King’s government is certainly involved with most aspects of society.”
“Exactly,” Bailey agreed, returning with Jerryl’s beer.
“So, politics aside, is there anything else of interest going on?” Nightlocke asked and stuffed a chunk of bread in his mouth.
“Hold on a moment,” Jerryl interjected. “Let’s go back to your point about the role of the King’s government.”
“No. Stop,” Bailey said, shaking his head at Jerryl. “He was politely trying to change the subject. Take your drunken ass back to your usual stool and leave him alone.”
Jerryl tipped his mug toward Nightlocke, again spilling some of its contents onto the counter. Bailey scowled at him as he slid off his stool and shuffled down the bar.
“Sorry about that,” Bailey apologized as he wiped up the spilled beer. “Jerryl tries to engage anyone who will listen to him in philosophical discussions about politics. He’s a regular and he pays his tab, so we put up with a little of it.”
Nightlocke poked at the remaining eggs on his plate. “It’s okay. I understand.”
Bailey slapped the towel over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. “There is one other thing you might be interested in. A month or so ago a ranger woman flew through here,” he turned to mix a bloody mary for a waiting patron and continued. “A striking woman with a long mane of hair so blonde it was almost white. Anyway, she claimed the tribes north of the Auldhurst Forest were being attacked by an army of mindless savages. She said if you were bitten by one you would become infected and turn into one of them.”
Nightlocke’s eyes widened. “Unbelievable!”
Sliding the drink down the bar, Bailey said, “She claimed she was the only survivor of her tribe and had to kill a number of her tribe mates who turned bad. After spreading warning to the other tribes, she went running to Egenton to tell her story to King Vonador and implore him for aide.” The bartender turned to reach for a bottle of rum.
“What happened?” Nightlocke leaned into the bar. “What did King Vonador do?”
The bartender turned back and shrugged. “She said he gave her a dismissive, ‘I’ll look into it’ and that was that. Then she said she was on her way to Corava to speak to the Triumvirate.”
“That’s interesting,” Nightlocke said as he chewed some egg. “I’ve never met a ranger. I understand they can be eccentric but spreading tall tales is counter to what I have heard about them.”
Bailey nodded as he poured a glass of water. “She was genuinely concerned. I can tell you that, and she said the word 'Vladrik' was scrawled in blood on the walls of many of her tribe’s huts.”
“Vladrik?” Nightlocke fumbled with his upraised mug and dribbled beer across his face. He wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Oh my! Someone is really digging deep to try and spread fear.”
“That’s what I thought,” Bailey agreed. “At any rate, I’ve heard nothing more about it since she left—so, take it for what it’s worth.” He shrugged with a friendly smile.
As Nightlocke finished the last of his breakfast he asked, “Have you seen an old man around her recently. He’s scraggly. Gray hair dressed in a white robe? Clergy?”
“No,” Bailey responded.
Nightlocke drained his mug, paid for his meal, thanked the barkeep, and then walked outside to the platform. The mid-morning sun was bright and the day was growing warm. He saw white puffs of steam rising from his coach to Brighton. A few passengers climbed aboard. When he entered he found an empty seat and noticed two families shared the coach with him. They were dressed in colorful clothes. Beach vacationers. None of the students who had been with him on the ride from Crossroads were riding this leg. Leary of the creepy man, Nightlocke glanced from side to side. None in sight. None that he could feel.
As the coach pulled away from the station, Nightlocke sighed. The barkeep had filled him in on some interesting news. A frantic ranger. A strange infection. Vladrik. He shook his head. Worries for another day. Anxious to get back to work on his force beam, he read his experiment notes, scribbled formulas, and jotted down ideas. He hoped everything would go well with Dagan Garris so he could get started as soon as possible. He did not relish the thought of this turning out to be a big mistake and having to trek all the way back to the Institute.
CHAPTER 10
The wood floor creaked as Wexworth paced about in his office. He winced as his polished black boots crossed a particularly squeaky spot and stomped on it to no avail. He took a deep breath and glanced in the brass framed mirror on the wall next to his desk. A slight smile escaped him as he admired his crisp white shir
t, forest green jacquard puff tie and complementary forest green brocaded black waistcoat. He sighed and busied himself with rearranging a perfectly ordered stack of papers on his lavish oak desk.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Aaaahh!” Wexworth jumped and scattered the papers across his desk. He turned to see the stubbled head of his hulking assistant, Jurg, standing in the doorway. Though he wore a black lab coat, Jurg was not a technician. He handled other matters for Wexworth.
“I’m just reminding you your appointment with the Triumvirate is in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m well aware, thank you, and don’t sneak up on me again,” Wexworth admonished as he gathered the papers back into a pile.
Jurg wrinkled his pitted face. “You seem a little on edge, sir. Is it about your meeting with the Triumvirate? I thought you were on good terms with them, particularly Lord Vergilus.”
Wexworth smoothed his black and green waistcoat. “I suppose I am, but they are a complex group and I’m quite sure they’re not going to like what I have to tell them.” He eyed Jurg. “What do you know of them?”
“The Triumvirate?” Jurg asked with raised eyebrows. “You know I’ve never met any of them. All I know is who they are, the joint rulers of the unified nations of Harkovia, Tarkania, and Caleria. Before the unification Lord Vergilus ruled Harkovia, Lord Markov ruled Tarkania, and Lord Tyval ruled Caleria.”
Wexworth nodded. “More or less correct. The current Lord Markov, Dumare Markov, assumed the place of his deceased father, Armont Markov, five years ago.”
“Okay,” Jurg shrugged.
Wexworth massaged his temples. “Jurg, if you are to continue as my right hand, I need you to be more…aware.”
Jurg shrugged again. “Aware of what?”
“All problems can’t be solved with a sword,” Wexworth sighed. “Often people are more useful alive than dead. You need to know their strengths, weakness, and motivations so you can use them to your advantage.”
“My strength is making people dead,” Jurg grinned as he pulled back his lab coat to reveal the glint of his sword hilt.