"Do you hear that?" he asked, brow hunched in confusion.
"Hear what?" I asked. "Nothing but crickets."
In the moment after our shared glance, we both realized at the same time that the badgers had gone silent. Right as I looked to the cages, I heard the sound of wings. Something about the size of a hunting dog swooped out of the gloom and hit Voltaire right in the chest.
The stream of sorcery from my outstretched hand went wildly over the creature, shattering the lantern, but driving the garguiem away. The sudden unexpected use put a spike of pain through my temple, but I ignored it the best I could, leaning against the carriage for support.
Plunged into darkness, I scrambled towards Voltaire. He was soaked from head to toe, choking lightly. When I touched his arm, he cried out. The beast had mauled his arm.
"I'm not dead, not dead," he muttered through his coughs.
"We will be if that creature returns," I said, opening the carriage door. I helped him inside and we slammed the door behind us.
"Merde," I muttered, "I can't see. Are you gravely wounded?"
"My shoulder is bleeding, but I'll survive," he said.
"Are you certain? You're covered in blood," I said, touching his arm, which was soaked.
"Not blood," said Voltaire. "Water. The garguiem drowns its victims by spewing water into their mouths after it's knocked them down."
"Drowned? What madness is that?" I asked, fully knowing the answer. Then I understood why Voltaire called it a garguiem, which was similar to gargouille, the structures placed on buildings to keep the water from wearing the mortar away from the stones. The Americans called them gargoyles.
"Madness or not," said Voltaire, "we're trapped now."
He was right. The badgers were silent, probably from exhaustion, and I couldn't restart the steam engine without getting out of the carriage.
"We can't stay," I said. "We need to get to Kings Mountain by the full moon."
Before Voltaire could answer, the garguiem landed heavily on the carriage, denting the roof in. A claw ripped a hole in the metal, and before I could respond with sorcery, the garguiem flew away.
"If it attacks the steam engine, then we're stuck here. I must defend the carriage," I said.
"How will you do that without sight? This thing seems to see as well in the dark as in the light. It'll tear your head off," he said.
"Is there anything about it you haven't told me yet?" I asked, desperate.
"Pisser dans un violon," muttered Voltaire.
We waited in the carriage until the garguiem attacked again. The back window exploded, sending shards of glass across us. The creature retreated as soon as it'd struck, leaving no time for a counterattack.
While I picked glass out of my shirt and jacket, Voltaire kicked the back of the driver's bench with increasing frustration. When he was finished with his tantrum, he leaned against the side, pushing his hand through his hair and tugging on it.
Great. He's as useful as a cracked bowl.
Rather than wait inside and watch the carriage get destroyed around us, I climbed out, closed the door, and placed my back against the cool steel.
Ignoring Voltaire's muttering inside, I focused my attention on the sounds around me. The badgers, while not screaming, were moving in their cages, claws scraping against brass. The crickets had resumed their nighttime dirge.
I kept the well of magic in my head at the ready. I held my hands before me, rotating back and forth, listening for wings.
It came from the left. I threw power in that direction, a wave of ghostly purple light that hit the winged creature full in the face turned to black mist upon impact. The garguiem whirled through the air and hit the ground near the badger cages.
The garguiem cried out in pain, its voice sending stabs of guilt through me. It rolled about, thrashing its claws and wings, slapping them against the ground.
I crept within a few feet of the garguiem as it gasped. My blast had collapsed its chest, and I could hear its raspy breathing, anguished cries that sounded almost like pleading.
It was near pitch-black, but I could see the faint outline of the creature on the ground. It clawed at the air, desperate for breath. Before it expired, I heard a sound come from its inhuman lips that sounded like the words, "Save me."
With the garguiem dead, I retrieved the lantern, refilled it with whale oil, and sparked it to life. Voltaire joined me outside the carriage. The golden light revealed our villain. The membrane covering its wings had been shredded from the impact with the ground, but otherwise they could have come from a bat. Its snout was long and toothy and I shivered thinking about what it could have done with those teeth on my unprotected flesh. Overall, the garguiem was exactly as he described it: a winged jackal.
"I am in your debt, Miss Dashkova, for saving me once again," said Voltaire as we stared down in wonder at the creature.
"You'll have time enough to pay me back as my second. Now what are we going to do with the body?"
He shrugged, a gesture made mostly with a tilted head. "Let the beasts have the body. What do we care now that it's dead?"
"I'd prefer to study it, to better understand what we'll encounter in Otherland, or worst case, if they unleash more of these monsters on the city," I said.
"We can wrap the body and bury it beneath some rocks, retrieving it when we return to Philadelphia," he said.
It took the rest of the night, but we were able to find enough rocks from a nearby creek bed to cover the body. After we were finished, with a nimbus of light shading the horizon, we left for Kings Mountain. We arrived late afternoon the next day.
The innkeeper recognized me from the previous visit, as did the ruffians in the village who had attempted to vandalize the carriage. I noticed one of them was missing a finger. He gave me a searing look when I waggled my five fingers at him.
After a dinner of smoked salmon, various greens plucked from the mountain, and a bowl full of radishes, I set the trap Djata had given me for the steam carriage. It was a small metal box with those strange designs on it that made me feel dizzy when I looked at them. I left it on the roof of the carriage, careful to keep it away from the fist sized hole from the garguiem's attack.
Voltaire and I retired to our room until we could leave under the cover of darkness. I tried to sit on the bed and close my eyes for a bit of rest, but Voltaire beat me to it. He snored like a king after a feast, leaving me awake, agitated, and trying not to think about the consequences of failure. If I lost these contests then I would be in Neva's eternal service, a fate I had no wish to entertain.
Chapter Nine
Voltaire complained the whole way up the mountain. I thought the screaming badgers had been insufferable, but in his own way, Voltaire was much worse. And not because he abhorred physical effort; he seemed to enjoy the robust hike—especially after his nap—but he gave his opinion on who the seventh member of the Transcendent Society should be in excruciating detail.
"...a rueful shame that Diderot is not alive today to enjoy the benefits of Franklin's powder, for his Encyclopedia provided a central repository of knowledge until the aristocrats took it upon themselves to arrest him. Did I tell you about the time that we pissed in the boots of some Austrian viscount? Oh, of course not, you were one of them once, still no matter—"
"Voltaire," I said, cutting him off midsentence. "See that light through the trees."
The light-filled mist hung between the trunks, beckoning us forward. When it was clear enough to see where to place our feet amongst the undergrowth, I snuffed the lantern.
Voltaire followed at my heels and remarked upon passing into the clearing. "I can see how one might think these lands are ruled by faerie. I feel a headiness as if I've had too much to drink."
"It might be a lack of air from your unending talking," I said.
He snorted lightly. "I think better when I'm speaking. Quiet is a blank page that I despise."
"Keep sharp around this Neva," I said. "I fear she's
more dangerous than we imagine."
It wasn't long before we were stepping carefully over the discarded antlers. Voltaire picked up a large specimen with two long tines that stretched the width of his chest.
"These are a sign of death and change," he said, tossing it into a pile. The clatter made me flinch.
We came upon the hut. It was crouched low to the ground. A rope ladder made of goat hair allowed us to climb onto the front porch. Voltaire peeked under the hut to see the chicken legs before pulling himself up.
The door opened when we neared. The room was the same as I had left it, except Neva was seated around a hookah pipe, puffing smoke out the side of her mouth while waving air across the coals with her hand.
She smiled deliriously when she saw us. Her gaze was distant.
"I thought you'd never arrive," she said, then snapped her fingers and the effects of the smoke on her disappeared.
Before her gaze had been unfocused. Now, it was as sharp as a barber's blade. She snapped her fingers again and the door closed behind us with a resounding boom.
She made no mention of Voltaire replacing Ben, only giving him a ho-hum glance before addressing us, which I thought was odd.
"The others are already at the start," said Neva. "But it will be another day until you arrive."
"Is that fair that they should have an opportunity to understand the lay of the land before our first contest? If this is how you plan to stage these Nightfell Games, I want no part of it," I said.
Her lips curled back in condescending glee. "Your protest is duly noted and ill-advised as you've already agreed to the terms of the Games. And secondly, did you learn nothing upon your first visit? You will arrive at our destination only moments after your opponent. Thus is the joy of traveling between universes."
Voltaire cut in before I could express my confusion, "Why, that cannot be."
"How can you look up into the infinite night sky and not guess that the world outside your little planet is more complex than you can even conceive?" said Neva. "This is possible because the universe we occupy at this very moment moves at a torpid pace."
"So in a sense," I said, "you can travel through time."
"In a sense," she replied.
"Can you travel backwards?" I asked, then remembering her earlier lesson, "To a point before you exist?"
"It's a possibility, but nearly impossible to accomplish. While there are universes that travel in the opposite direction, the magic required to move through them is astronomical," said Neva. "But we're not traveling through time, only skipping past the boring parts."
"And what will we do when we arrive? Can you tell me about the contest?" I asked.
"I wouldn't want to give anyone an unfair advantage," said Neva. "I may be a mercenary, but I live up to my end of the bargain, even if it costs me in blood and treasure."
Voltaire snorted. "Somehow I doubt that happens very often."
Neva winked. "You may rest here for the duration. Do not leave this room. I cannot vouch for your safety if you take it upon yourself to delve into the mysteries of my hut."
"We've both read enough fairy tales to know what a foolish endeavor that would be," I said.
Neva left without another word.
"Do you trust her?" asked Voltaire, once we could no longer feel her presence.
"Not in the least bit," I said. "But as she said, she's a mercenary. But that doesn't mean she won't find a way to deal us to the devil within the rules of the agreement. I assume I'm going to be busy with this contest. It's your job as my second to make sure both parties are abiding fairly."
He looked at me soberly. "Why are you doing this?"
"The contest? It's the only way we can get to Russia," I said.
"But you know the reason Ben's going to Constantinople. Why would you place yourself at risk when there is a better way?" he asked genuinely.
"I didn't know about that until after," I said.
Voltaire reacted, his brow tense. "He didn't tell you?"
I felt suddenly anxious and strode away to examine the partition, tracing the angular mountains depicted on the painting with my fingertip. The surface was cool to the touch, soothing.
I glanced back, and Voltaire avoided my gaze. He knew what he'd revealed, that Ben had manipulated me into agreeing to the contest by holding back that there might be another way.
I thought to Chloris' warning, and took a deep and cleansing breath. Being manipulated should come as no surprise, I reminded myself. Even my beloved Catherine maneuvered me, and I her, to achieve our private purposes. In this case, Ben Franklin was trying to save the world, and who was I to disagree with his intention, even if it meant I might spend many lifetimes in servitude to Neva.
Unable to rest, I spent the remaining time examining the contents of the room. I sniffed the hookah pipe, which smelled like cinnamon and made my nose twitch. The partition I examined at length, wondering if it were Otherland, her homeland Trevalorian, or some other location entirely.
Many hours later, Neva returned and instructed Voltaire to come with her to discuss his role as the second and negotiate any points of order for the contest. He addressed me before he left, taking my hand unexpectedly and kissing it as if I were an empress.
"Katerina, though we have not always seen eye to eye, let me be the first to apologize and admit pigheadedness. I am a stubborn man who has spent his life objecting to the unearned privileges of royalty and being persecuted for it, so please understand the pedestal upon which I judged you, however unfairly, or harshly. That you have placed yourself in a danger more severe than death has made a sizable impression on me. I hope I can live up to being your second," he said.
Words fled from my lips as Voltaire turned and winked.
"Adieu, Katerina Dashkova," he said. "I will see you on the other side."
After they left, I was alone with my thoughts, pacing around the room, checking my weapons more than once. The oestium rapier appeared at the slap of my palm. The bullets in my pistol gleamed with intention. Sorcery frothed in the well of light in my head, rambunctious as it wanted to slip the barriers and flood out of my hands.
To alleviate my agitation, I practiced spinning my rapier on the floor using sorcery alone. The delicate weapon scraped and rattled as I clumsily applied magical force. When a knot formed at my temples, I tried sleeping again, to no avail.
What would happen in the contest? Who had they sent to oppose me? Would I know them, or they me?
I laid my head on the cushion, my eyes finally drifting closed when Neva returned.
She had changed. She was taller, leaner, and stringy like old meat. Her nose commanded her face. Her long neck was shielded with a crimson metal gorget above a pale silk wrap that held to her thin body like a tube.
"It's time," she said in a commanding voice.
"Where is Voltaire? I thought I would get to speak to him before we began?" I asked as I climbed to my feet, refastening the weapons to my hips.
"He has taken his place for the first competition. Come, we have arrived and you have little time left, unless you want your opponent to have an advantage," she said, sweeping out of the room.
Leaving the room gave me a bout of vertigo. I held myself steady using my palm against the cool wooden walls. We cut through passages that seemed to circle back upon themselves, sometimes walking through doors and then turning around to walk through them again. Neva had been truthful when she'd warned us not to wander.
The doors we passed made me wonder about their contents. Each one was decorated with signs or symbols. One seemed to be made of feathers, while another from old nails weaved together. Occasionally I sensed something beyond, but the feelings were vague, brushing against the prophecies like a soft breeze.
In one passage, we passed an archway in the wall, covered in blue raised symbols that reminded me of the drawings in the Thornveld. Though it was only a meter high, the door had an imposing quality as if it held back something extremely dangerous. Suddenl
y, the urge to open the door nearly overcame my good sense, though I doubted it would have opened easily.
Before long, we were outside. A chill wind threw my ponytail into my face. After spitting the strands out, I tightened the binding as I examined my surroundings.
My initial impression was that I'd been shrunk down to the size of an ant and deposited on a battered cannonball. The horizon bent away from my vision. Angular hills with faces like the chips on an arrowhead cut across the jagged sky, which resembled the orange smoky glow of a blast furnace.
Smoky haze filled the air above our heads, though I detected no sulfurous smell as I shivered and rubbed my arms through my jacket.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Turn around and you'll see," said Neva.
A gasp fled from my lips. The modest hut from the forest with the chicken legs crouched on the hard surface of the planetoid. Behind it, leering above the hut, making it insignificant in comparison, was a towering monolith that scraped the sky.
"The Jinn-Se-San," said Neva, looking on wistfully. "The Shard of Time."
"What is it?" I blurted out.
Neva leaned her long neck back, peered at the jagged monument, and frowned. It displeased her. Maybe even wounded her.
"Some call it the puzzle at the end of the multiverse," she said. "There's nothing beyond those clouds. This is a universe collapsed to nothing. The hrevanti have whole universities dedicated to the study of the Shard, yet they know almost nothing."
The Shard shifted, the dark gray surface avoiding my attempts to pin down the edges with my gaze.
"Is it moving?" I asked.
Neva raised an eyebrow. "Perceptive. Most do not notice that at first, even though the movement is plain to see, for the Shard is an enigma. You are not deceived easily. It is made from the hearts of collapsed stars, carved out and assembled at the end of time. By whom, or what? No one knows. What is known is that it moves and shifts, forms patterns then destroys them. At times pathways open up that invite investigation, only to close later, sometimes trapping the unwary. The Uthlaylaa believe the movements of the tower are random, without meaning, while others believe some sentience drives it. Minor alignments happen from time to time, turning the Shard into something else, while major alignments are almost unheard of, and dangerous to witness. Once there was a hrevanti that was here during a major alignment. He returned to the Thrice-Tenth Kingdom as mad as March."
Nightfell Games (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 5) Page 7