“Or worse,” Luthor remarked. Mattie turned knowingly toward him with sympathy reflected in her eyes.
“I’m begging you,” Simon continued. “Don’t do this.”
The chieftain stopped before a collection of warriors. Her gaze never left the tribesmen, even as she addressed Simon. “You can revel in your cowardice if you want, but that’s not the way of the wolves.” She drew her sword and raised it over her head, her voice rising in pitch as she yelled to the warriors. “Wolves aren’t cowards. Let Gideon come and we’ll tear his throat out with our teeth!”
The warriors howled excitedly. Across the group, men and women stripped away their furs until they stood naked, carrying only the weapons they had in their hands. Luthor averted his eyes even as Simon stared on in fascination. With clawed hands, the warriors reached to their skin and tore away large swaths of flesh, stripping away the skin from their forearms or chests as though it were paper. White fur jutted from the exposed wounds, even as they dripped with bright red blood. Piles of flesh joined the piles of furs at their feet until snow-white werewolves replaced all the once human warriors. Loud barks and howls filled the air as they prepared for battle.
The chieftain turned toward the two men and frowned. “Stay if you want, though your departure would be preferable.”
“We should go back to Haversham,” Simon said. “Can you get us there?”
Kidnip looked away. “A tribesman will take you by sled. I don’t expect I shall see you again.”
Simon sighed, thinking about the implications of an entire tribe of werewolves being thralls to the demon. “I most certainly hope not.”
The chieftain tore away her skin, growing in stature even as she did so. As she stood upright once more, the werewolf she had become towered over both Simon and Luthor. She raised her sword over her head once more.
“We march on the oil refineries,” she yelled, though her voice was far more guttural than it had been before.
The other werewolves howled in response and turned, strapping weapons to bandoliers and belts as they dropped to all fours and sprinted from the village.
Mattie stepped forward to follow, but Luthor grabbed her arm. “You don’t have to do this, Mattie. Please stay here. You know what he is, and you know what he’s capable of. If he’s truly waiting for you, then Kidnip is going to be leading the whole tribe to a slaughter.”
Mattie appeared genuinely saddened as she turned toward the apothecary. “The tribe has spoken,” she replied morosely. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
She slipped free of Luthor’s grasp and bounded down the hill after the retreating werewolves. In mid-stride, she slipped off her fur parka. Luthor turned away from her nakedness and didn’t watch as she transformed into the wolf.
Simon placed a hand on the apothecary’s shoulder. “Come on, Luthor. We need to devise a new plan.”
The sled bounced over the snow, leaving Simon feeling nauseated once more. He had certainly hoped that their last trip to the refineries would be the last time he would have been strapped into a sled, bouncing merrily amongst the snow dune. He raised a handkerchief to his lips to cover the clammy sweat beading on his upper lip.
“Be honest with me, sir,” Luthor said over the howling wind. “How much of our prior plan hinged on the inclusion of the werewolves?”
Simon patted his lip once more before removing the handkerchief. “Damn near all of it, I’m sad to say.”
“Then when you said we needed to devise a new plan, you weren’t speaking in vague generalities?”
Simon shook his head, though he immediately regretted moving even in the least. “No, I meant quite simply that our previous plan has turned to absolute rubbish.”
Luthor turned toward his mentor. “Is it safe to assume that within your massive cranium, you’re already formulating a new plan?”
Simon arched an eyebrow but kept his gaze firmly locked on the horizon. “Firstly, my head is not at all abnormally large. Secondly, of course I’m already formulating a new plan.”
“Will this be another situation where I’m not privy to your plan until later in the future?”
“Don’t be preposterous, Luthor. The plan as it stands is absurdly simple. We’re going to send the telegram to the Inquisitors. If the werewolves won’t assist us, then we’ll rely on those who will.”
“Sir, isn’t contacting the Inquisitors exactly what Mr. Dosett wants? Isn’t bringing more of the Inquisitors here the exact thing we didn’t want to do?”
Simon nodded, moving his head as little as possible. “You’re absolutely correct, but what choice is left to us? We can’t face the demon and his army alone, and we have no one on which to rely left in Haversham. The best we can do is to warn the Inquisitors of the threat so that they might arrive prepared.”
Luthor fell silent and returned his gaze to the endless snow ahead. The walls of Haversham were quickly approaching to their right, though their angle of approach was clearly away from the main city gates and toward one of the numerous tunnels that led underground.
The sled slid into the shadow of the tall walls as they slowed. The tribesman pulled on the reins connected to the dogs and yelled something indecipherable. As one, the sled dogs slowed to a trot before coming to a stop. Simon quickly climbed out of his seat and rubbed his lower back. He never thought he would miss the wicker seats of Mr. Parrish’s sled until he had to go without on this trek. Everything ached, which only further fueled his queasiness.
They collected their belongings, to include their weapons that had been returned once the tribe had marched toward battle. Simon swung the saber in a graceful arc, feeling glad to have its familiar weight in his hand. He slid the blade into a sheath at his side, where the hilt of the sword pressed against the concealed revolver on his hip. Luthor stuck the tip of his cane in the snow as he adjusted his bowler cap.
Simon bade the sled driver good day as the man turned the dogs and raced back onto the tundra. The man had hardly said a word throughout their trip, which had suited Simon perfectly well.
The two men turned back toward the wall. At the base of the large stones, a dark recess marked the entrance to one of the underground tunnels. Neither man knew if it was the same tunnel from which they’d emerged the few days prior. Leaving hastily and at night had hardly been optimal conditions. Even Simon’s sharp mind was cloudy on the exact passages and turns they had taken.
Simon led the way down the steep incline leading into the rocky tunnel. The entrance was dark, though he could see electric lights in the distance as another tunnel bisected the narrow entryway. The entrance was slippery with ice, and they were forced to hold onto the wall as they walked. Simon swore silently to himself, promising that he would purchase shoes with far better soles once they completed their mission in Haversham. Though, he realized, it would be practically a moot point by then. Once he left Haversham, he had no intention of ever returning to the abysmal city.
Beyond the initial entry, the ice disappeared, replaced by the more familiar loose-packed dirt that made the floor of many of the side passages. Though the way directly in front of them was dark, Simon kept his eyes firmly locked on the illumination in the tunnel ahead.
He stopped abruptly as a shadow passed between him and the lights in the distance. The silhouette was large enough to block most of the illumination, though Simon clearly saw the reflection of light off the polished metal blade in the man’s hand.
The shadowy guard rushed forward wordlessly, raising his sword high above his head. Simon shoved Luthor aside as he stepped against the wall. The sword passed cleanly between them, and the blade struck hard on the ground in the middle of the tunnel.
Closer, the man’s features were more apparent. Though Simon didn’t recognize him, his gubernatorial guard uniform was unmistakable.
The guard turned toward Simon and tried to bring his sword to bear, but it struck the wall of the narrow tunnel. Swinging overhead had been simple enough with the tall ceiling but the closene
ss of the sidewalls made maneuvering difficult.
Simon tried drawing his blade but frowned as the hilt struck the far wall before the sword was fully out of its sheath. He turned in a panic as the guard shifted his position and drew the blade over his head once more.
Before he could swing, Luthor grabbed both the man’s arms, pulling them painfully over his head. Simon could see the strain on the man’s face as his triceps and shoulders were stretched beyond any reasonable level of comfort. The guard tried to turn and address the new threat, but Simon was far quicker.
He pulled his blade again, knowing that it would still be difficult to fully remove it from its sheath. Instead of drawing the sword as he would have normally, he drove the hilt forward like a club. The pommel struck the guard in the bridge of the nose.
Blood flew from the broken nose, dripping freely down the guard’s face. His knees buckled as Luthor kicked him in the back of the leg, dropping the guard to his knees before Simon. Replacing his blade, Simon brought his knee forward, catching the guard under the chin and lifting him from his kneeling position. The man groaned once before falling limply to the ground on his back.
Luthor pulled the man’s sword out of his limp hands and tossed it further down the passage. He knelt forward, checking the man’s breathing and pulse.
“I presume he’ll survive?” Simon asked quietly between hitched breaths.
Luthor nodded. “He’ll live, though I don’t envy the pain he’ll feel in his face when he wakes.”
“I think this is what we can expect throughout our infiltration back into the city. Gideon knows we escaped, but he also knows we have nowhere else to go. His minions will be awaiting us at every turn.”
Luthor stood and brushed the dirt from his pants. “Then where do we go from here, sir? If Gideon is waiting for us, then we are moving blindly into a hostile city.”
Simon nodded in the darkness. “You’re right, of course. We’ll need to find somewhere to establish a base of operations near the edge of town until we can properly examine the city. He may have most of the town under his thumb, but he can’t guard everything all the time, can he?”
Luthor shrugged, unsure if Gideon did have the capability to guard all the major entrances in and out of town.
“We need to find a way to the surface,” Simon said, turning toward the lights in the main passage. “Preferably an entrance far away from the estate.”
The two men paused at the intersection. Simon peered around the corner and was glad to see the tunnel abandoned in both directions. They both took a deep breath to calm themselves and Simon ran a hand through his hair, pushing it from his face, before replacing his top hat. When they stepped into the passage, they looked once again like the dapper gentlemen they had been upon their arrival in Haversham.
The tunnel wound its way underneath the city wall before they were able to find an ill-used surface stairwell. Dirt and snow accumulated among the spiraling stairs as they climbed, which were to Simon’s liking. They emerged in a small, outlying building near the city wall. The tunnel exit showed the same level of disrepair that they had noticed on the stairs themselves.
They stepped onto the street into deep shadows. The sun was setting behind the wall, leaving the nearest roads cast in a premature twilight. A few people walked the streets, though little gave a second glance to the two gentlemen taking a casual evening stroll.
“They don’t seem hostile,” Luthor remarked while barely moving his lips.
“It would be absurd to think that Mr. Dosett had managed to cast his spell over everyone in the city. Quite unfortunately, it will only take one or two of his thralls to alert him to our presence.”
The streets quickly began looking familiar to both men. As they turned a corner, they found themselves in an open marketplace, the same one through which they had passed when paying a visit to misters Orrick and Tambor. Indeed, across the square was the inn at which they had shared a drink.
“Do you think it’s safe to enter?” Luthor asked.
“I don’t know of another inn within Haversham, so I don’t see that we have much of a choice. Regardless, it was where Orrick and Tambor had found sanctuary before becoming thralls, so I would think it the safest option at this point. After all, beggars can’t be choosers.”
They walked into the tavern, letting the small bell jingle overhead as they entered. A few faces turned toward them, though the expressions were inquisitive at the sight of strangers rather than aggressive. The bartender nodded to the two men before returning to the glasses he was cleaning.
Simon led them both over to the bar. “Excuse me, sir. We’re looking for a room for the night.”
The bartender set down his glass and threw his stained towel over his shoulder. “We have some available. Just for the night, then?”
Simon nodded and retrieved a gold coin from his pocket. He placed it on the table, to the amazement of the innkeeper.
“Sir, you realize this is far more than the room itself is worth?” the bartender asked.
Simon nodded. “I do, but I’m not merely paying for a room. Discretion is the watchword for today. Do you understand?”
“For this coin, I could understand whatever language you wanted to throw my way.”
“Excellent. I appreciate a man with a keen understanding of the finer points of business.”
The bartender retrieved a key from underneath the bar and set it on the wooden table in front of him. “Room three, at the top of the stairs. Please let me know if either of you fine gentlemen require anything further.”
“Your silence is good enough,” Simon replied.
The man made a motion as though placing an imaginary lock over his lips. They turned away and climbed the stairs at the back of the tavern. Mostly oil-burning lamps lit the upstairs and the pungent aroma stung their eyes. The walls above the lanterns were stained black with soot. Simon wrinkled his nose at the sight but continued to the upstairs landing.
Their room was one of only four upstairs, the fifth room being a communal bathroom and water closet. Simon unlocked their door after giving a cursory glance around the upstairs corridor. The room itself was compact and offered few amenities other than a narrow window through which they could see the street below. Simon took his over-the-shoulder bag and set it carefully on the bed. Luthor set his doctor’s bag on the room’s small writing desk, resting his cane against the chair.
Simon walked to the window and glanced over the city. His view mostly consisted of the street below and the unlit windows of the building across the cobblestone road, though he could catch the faintest of glimpses of the estate between the sloped roofs. The sun was already setting and the long shadows of the wall now stretched over most of the city.
“What are we to do now?” Luthor asked as he tossed his hat onto the bed. “Shall we turn in for the night?”
“No,” Simon replied as he leaned against the windowsill. “Our first priority is notifying the Inquisitors. The longer we wait, the more likely they are to send someone to investigate our silence, people who will arrive completely oblivious as to what is really transpiring here.”
“Will the telegraph office even be open at this late hour?”
Simon turned around with a broad smile. “Does it truly matter if they are or are not? One way or another, we need to send that telegram.”
Luthor picked up his hat from where it had so recently been discarded and placed it back on his head. He grabbed his cane as well, spinning it deftly between his fingers. “Shall we then?”
Simon adjusted the sword at his hip before patting the top of his top hat. “Let’s be off.”
The bartender looked up as they came back downstairs but true to his word, said nothing at all. They exited the tavern and emerged onto the street as the electric street lamps flickered to life. Their glow pulsed as it intensified, illuminating the street.
Simon led them back through the square, remembering the telegraph office as being only a few blocks away. They
walked as though they were hardly out of place taking an evening stroll, though their eyes darted constantly toward every approaching man, woman, and child. Simon loathed the thought of fighting either a woman or child but saw no other alternative, if they were pawns of the demons.
Without incident, they reached the intersection of streets that would lead to the telegraph office. Simon pulled Luthor against the nearest building before peering around the corner. His anxious expression collapsed into a disheartened frown. Six men stood guard at the front of the building. They carried an assortment of makeshift weapons, to include pickaxes and haphazardly constructed clubs.
The other passersby glanced oddly at the unmoving men, clearly put off by the sight of the uncharacteristic guards. Despite the stares, the men said nothing and moved only when shifting their weight.
Luthor stole a glance around the corner as well, furrowing his brow at the sight. “Is that Mr. Tambor?” he remarked, pointing at the heavyset man.
“It is, and Mr. Orrick beside him.”
“Then the motley crew is in the service of Mr. Dosett?”
Simon stepped back around the corner, pulling Luthor along. “It would seem so. It appears that Mr. Dosett has anticipated our move. He’s a shrewd tactician.”
Luthor glanced back around the corner, appraising the guard force. “Could we defeat them in a fight?”
“No doubt,” Simon replied, “but we won’t. Defeating six men who aren’t trained in combat is hardly difficult… if I were allowed to use deadly force. A well-placed blade can easily slip through clumsy defenses. Defeating them while only subduing them, however, is a different argument. I can’t guarantee their safety, or our own for that matter, if we only use non-lethal force.”
“Then what is our recourse?”
Simon sighed and pointed back the way they had come. “We move on to plan B.”
Luthor furrowed his brow. “I thought this was plan B, or potentially even plan C at this point.”
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 22