The Conquering Dark: Crown

by Clay Griffith Susan Griffith

  “Dr. White abused her, broke her, mutilated her into an inhuman thing. The doctor was under Gaios’s command. Gaios has no respect for humanity.”

  Kate pressured her horse with her knee and faced him away from the groaning cadaver, back toward the way they had come.

  Simon said, “That’s odd talk coming from the mouth of a reanimated murderer.”

  “Archer, you know we are different. We’re magicians. We aren’t truly human. Most magicians choose to hide, but some, like Gaios, prey on the weak. And some, like us, protect the weak from such predators.”

  “Like us?” Simon laughed.

  “We may be allies of convenience,” the dead man said, “but we are allies nonetheless. We must band together or we will be obliterated separately.”

  “You surely know that I have been banished from the aether. I have no power for you to exploit. Do you have a scheme to stop Gaios that doesn’t require magic?”

  “There are ways to make you what you were, Archer. There are ways to reconnect to the aether. I have spent these last few months since our encounter with Ra, studying the possibilities. You see, when I was reanimating Rowan Barnes, I lost some of my powers when the filthy magic-eater touched him. However, I found a way back, and I can bring you along that same path too. Look closer at my condemnation.”

  Kate looked at Simon, confused. Then she heard the note pinned to the cadaver’s chest fluttering in the breeze. Housebreaker. Kate nudged her horse closer to the dead man as Simon’s hand slipped to his cane’s handle. She took the paper carefully, pulling out the heavy needle that fastened it to the shirt. She flipped the paper over and gasped.

  Simon rode closer because Kate sat in the saddle staring down with intense concentration. When he drew near, he could see the sheet wasn’t simple paper. It was vellum. It had once been a scroll and appeared quite old. The vellum was crowded with handwritten words in peculiar script.

  “Medieval?” he asked.

  “German. Probably ninth-century.” She nodded without looking up. “It’s blood magic.”

  The cadaver said, “It is called the Womb of Schattenwald. It will restore your magic, Archer. It is my gift to you.”

  “I don’t practice blood magic,” Simon replied icily.

  “I can instruct you.”

  “I mean I won’t do it.”

  “It’s your only way. Without your powers, you stand no chance against Gaios. He will kill you and everyone and everything you love. Only blood has the power to open the road to the aether. You have been changed by some of the most powerful magic in history.”

  “So a little blood will wipe away the magic of Ra? I find that hard to believe.”

  “A little blood? No.”

  Simon growled, “Do you truly believe I would lower myself to sacrifice some innocent just to regain my powers?”

  “Not some innocent.” The hanged man swung silently in his noose for a moment until dead eyes fell on Kate. “It must be the blood of someone who loves you.”

  Simon shouted in sudden rage. His hand swept up with a flash of steel and he sliced the cadaver through the neck. The dry thing’s body parted just under the jaw and the torso dropped to the ground. The head tumbled through the night air to fall into the grass and roll a few feet against a rock. Aethelred pounced forward, barking loudly at it.

  Simon stood in his stirrups, chest heaving, trying to determine if he would trample the body into dust. The fact that he was thinking about it meant he wouldn’t do it. He reined his horse back and dropped his sword arm. His voice was ragged with anger. “Kate, leave that damned thing and let’s go.”

  “I think we should keep it,” Kate said.

  “What?” Simon turned to her in surprise.

  “Spells can be refashioned.” Her gaze fell on the German script again with undisguised curiosity. “We should study it.”

  “Kate, it’s from Ash.”

  “We can’t be afraid of her.” She glanced up at Simon. “That seems like something you would have said once.”

  Simon said nothing now. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Kate, or even himself for that matter, but magic this black had a way of tainting any who even touched it. It was why he had always cautioned Nick about using necromancy. With power that vile, control was an illusion. And now they were bringing it into their home, bringing Ash into their home. They might as well bring in Satan himself.

  He kicked his mount into a gallop up the dark road. They rode the way they had come with the diminishing sounds of late-summer frolic in the background.

  Chapter 6

  An armored wagon creaked laboriously down the street despite the fact that a brace of powerful steeds pulled it. The bed was tented with steel plates, hiding some sort of unseen cargo. The wagon attracted attention and, even though the moon hung high in the sky, gawking traffic was thick along Borough High Street. London never slept.

  From the wagon’s bench, Simon scanned the shifting masses clogging the streets around them. Beneath his dark frock coat he wore a breastplate, and he hid his hands with their steel gauntlets under a blanket. Beside him, Nick maneuvered the team around a broken-down cart and continued east. To their rear rode Malcolm on a stocky black Friesian, while Kate rode a steady bay gelding ahead on their right. She was dressed as a man, her long auburn hair braided and stuffed under a tweed cap.

  A voice came from behind Simon as a head popped out of a small hatch in the top of the wagon’s iron chamber. “Are we there yet? It’s hot in here and I’m sticky from that stuff Miss Kate smeared on me.”

  “We’re all sticky, Charlotte.” Simon reached back and opened another plate section to allow more air inside. “Not long now. You’re not standing on the Stone of Scone, are you?”

  There was a lengthy pause. “No.”

  Simon’s eyebrow rose. Behind Charlotte inside the wagon was Penny, mopping her brow. She pulled the child back inside with a halfhearted scolding. “That stone is a relic!”

  “But you said it was a—”

  “Hush now,” Penny shook her head as Charlotte folded her arms crossly and glared at the young woman.

  Imogen gave a low chuckle from the shadows.

  Simon turned away, smiling at their affable antics, but his expression turned serious quickly enough. His eyes scanned the dark streets around them. It was quite possible they were being watched. The enemy was likely waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

  London Bridge appeared through the waterfront factories and warehouses. Actually, there were two London Bridges and it was the glorious new bridge with its high wide arches that came into view first. It had only been open a month and was still pristine with flags flying from its pinnacles. Wagons and pedestrians flowed over its new stonework.

  Just downstream, like a forgotten less successful sibling, was Old London Bridge. The empty bridge was set to be demolished in just a few months. The roar of water rushing between its arches could already be heard. At the base of the bridge’s stone piers, every piling was surrounded by a veritable wooden island, or starling, which narrowed the space for the river to flow under the bridge into cramped sluices. During low tide, as was now approaching, water upstream of the bridge was six feet higher than down, and the river became dreadful falling rapids as it thundered through the constricting arches.

  There was no movement on the old bridge as Nick guided the wagon toward it, which made Simon nervous. Sweat rolled down his chest under the steel breastplate. “Are you sure Tommy got the word out?”

  “You doubt my ability to spread gossip?”

  “About a loose woman, no. About a rock, yes.”

  “Have no fear.”

  Simon leapt down and unlocked an iron gate that blocked access to the bridge. Kate held her nervous horse in check as it pranced past. Simon waved Nick on, and his friend expertly drove the wagon through. After Malcolm passed, Simon quickly closed and locked the gate.

  The wagon rolled up to a gap cut into the balustrades which was the entrance to
the cofferdam that sat in the water between the old and new bridges. It was a circular island made of upright timbers lashed tightly together. From it rose tall poles that had once held pile-driving machines for breaking the foundation for the new bridge. A stretched canvas awning covered it and the bright colors of the flag billowed in the wind that swept boldly down the river.

  Union Jacks atop the cofferdam snapped stiffly in the breeze and startled Kate’s bay gelding, but she kept her seat admirably and turned the shying horse away from the noise. Malcolm’s mount barely batted an eye at the commotion, large hooves clopping over the stones. The big Friesian’s calm demeanor soothed the bay. Malcolm’s attention, however, was on the far end of the bridge.

  Simon thought at first the vibrations he felt came from Malcolm’s massive horse. However, when the mounts stopped moving, he still sensed the thuds through the soles of his shoes. It felt like the rhythmic pounding of pile drivers, but Simon knew for a fact that the equipment had been dismantled.

  “What in holy hell is that thing?” Simon stared off the eastern side of the bridge.

  Penny poked her head out of the wagon and followed his gaze. Her jaw dropped. “It’s … beautiful.”

  A dark leviathan rose from the water. Spindly legs worked like long pistons adjusting for the river’s depth. At their tips were diamond-shaped daggers that drove down one after another as the strange machine approached the bridge, practically flowing in a mechanized process.

  The rotund body of the machine rivaled their wagon in size. Inside a bulbous eye of convex glass could be seen intricate gears that moved and whirred like a massive brain. Tubes jutted from various spots on the body, but all gathered up behind the eye where they vented clouds of hot vapor.

  Penny gasped at the alien nature of the contraption. Where Penny’s creations resembled actual life, this did not. She climbed out and stood atop the wagon. Imogen clamored up beside her.

  The mecha creature drew close with a uniform clicking and huffing sound. It waded against the torrent of water pouring through the arches. One single long jointed arm extended from the body and grabbed hold of a stone pier with three tendril-like fingers that were colored bright red, as if they had been dipped in blood. The machine began to climb out of the river. The pointed diamond legs impaled the stone, adjusting again for the new terrain. It moved like a centipede, legs rolling forward in a sequential motion as each one grabbed or pushed itself over the uneven surface until it landed atop the bridge. The machine squatted slightly as pistons relaxed and stilled. The great pipes vented a torrent of steam. The machine waited.

  Kate snapped her crossbow open and slid from the saddle. Malcolm swung off his mount too and they slapped their horses’ hindquarters to urge them out of harm’s way. He quickly unhitched the team from the wagon and sent them clattering off.

  “At least they waited until we got here, as I hoped,” Simon said. “I didn’t want to risk innocent lives in this mad gamble.”

  “What about our lives?” muttered Malcolm.

  “You have never been innocent,” Simon pointed out.

  With a grunt Malcolm drew his weapon. “The Irishman is here.”

  The outline of a figure could be seen in the darkness walking toward them from Fish Street Hill on the north end of the bridge. The two horses trotted past him, wandering through the demolished gate into the city. The steeple of St. Magnus the Martyr rose into the night sky behind the approaching man. There was no mistaking the glowing aura of fire surrounding Ferghus O’Malley. They were trapped between the elemental and the strange machine.

  “Good evening, Mr. O’Malley,” Simon greeted the Irishman pleasantly.

  Ferghus leveled a hard stare through blazing red eyes. “We weren’t expecting resistance at Westminster. That’s not the case tonight.”

  “What? No pleasant chitchat before fisticuffs?” Simon sighed.

  “I’m here for one thing only and since you’ve been so obliging as to deliver it, I’ll take it and go.”

  Simon shook his head. “That won’t be happening.”

  “Bloody hell,” cursed an agitated Malcolm. “Let’s just fight.”

  “I agree with Scotty,” snarled Ferghus. The flame coating on his hands flared.

  “With pleasure then.” Simon shouted orders, “Nick! Go with Kate and Malcolm! Penny, with me on the machine.”

  In a billow of white vapor, the weird mechanical thing lifted a leg and slammed forward, impaling the bridge with a seismic shudder. One leg after another lifted like daggers and the behemoth came at them.

  Penny raced after Simon, pulling the stovepipe cannon from her back and shouldering the long tube. “What’s the plan?”

  “I need you to determine that thing’s weakness.”

  Penny gave a faint laugh. “Oh is that all?”

  “You’re our best shot at bringing it down.”

  The machine clattered nearer, towering over them. Simon suddenly felt like David against Goliath. He had to remind himself that the young giant-killer had needed nothing but a stone.

  Simon slipped a canister into Penny’s blunderbuss as she dropped to one knee and took aim. She let the shell fly. It struck the glass eye true and the explosion rocked the creature back on its rear legs, pistons whining madly. When the smoke cleared, it stood upright again with nary a crack in the glass.

  “Well, that ain’t good.” Penny bit her lip in frustration as she scrutinized the thing, seeking a chink in its complex armor.

  Simon asked, “You think the glass eye is the way to go?”

  “It’s all I have at the moment,” she admitted.

  “Then we need to get you inside of it.”

  Penny brightened at the prospect of getting up close to such an incredible machine. “Sure, but how?”

  Simon pushed the blunderbuss’s muzzle down. Penny gaped at him, but then just as suddenly relished the idea. Simon loaded another shell and she fired at the spot where the monstrosity stood. Stones flew and the machine tottered, then tumbled into a cavernous crater. Penny let out a whoop of triumph until long red fingers curled around the parapet, and it hauled itself back onto the bridge.

  “That thing is more agile than I gave it credit for.” Simon scowled.

  “Now what?” Penny looked at him expectantly.

  “Keep firing until something breaks.”

  A long steel leg lifted over them and they dove in opposite directions. It struck the spot they had just occupied in a shower of stone and rubble. Simon stretched his fingers bringing a small charge of electricity to arc across his gauntlets. He reached out to grab the steel leg that was the size of a tree trunk. Spiders of electricity crawled out over the metal, but they seemed to find no purchase and dissipated.

  “The Baroness must’ve insulated it!” Penny shouted. “Bloody genius! Look out!”

  A shadow loomed over Simon as another leg lifted. He rolled aside again, but jammed against a pile of rubble. He tried to get to his feet, but he knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. A blur of grey fur collided with him, carrying him beyond the impact. They tumbled to a stop.

  “Thank you, Charlotte,” he gasped as soon as he caught his breath. They were under the machine and the heat of the engine felt like the mouth of an erupting volcano. “Look for a way inside. A hatch. A seam. Anything. Make one if you have to.”

  Charlotte howled with far too much enthusiasm. She leapt, her powerful haunches propelling her straight up onto one of the legs swinging overhead. She crouched and another leap sent her atop the bulging head. Her claws struggled to find purchase on its smooth surface. Then Simon lost sight of her.

  Another wash of flame made Simon’s skin prickle. It came from behind him on the north end of the bridge.

  Kate dodged a bolt of flame. She was sweating in the scorching heat. The canvas over the cofferdam was ablaze and lit the entire area. She wasn’t able to get close enough to Ferghus to do anything. She followed Malcolm’s example and tried to shoot the fire elemental, but the man was wise to f
ighting such weapons. He continually erected a flash heat shield in front of him. Swift lead balls turned to slow worthless chunks of slag.

  “Come on, you cowards!” Ferghus’s words slurred slightly. “Or I’ll burn you where you stand.”

  Kate’s brow furrowed. “The man’s bloody drunk.”

  “That should make things easier.” Malcolm fired off another round.

  “It makes him more dangerous, not less,” Nick said. “He burned down London in one of his drunken rages.”

  “I’m not drunk enough for that, Barker, you lying sack of offal,” Ferghus spat. “But I’ll welcome turning your corpse to ash and raise a dram about it later.” The flame from one of the flickering gas lamps jumped to his hand and a blast of fire burst from his fingertips toward Kate. She dove to the ground under the blistering stream, but it was hot enough to catch her long coat. She slapped at it frantically, but the fire would not go out. Ferghus’s laughter rang in her ears. Her hands fumbled on her bandolier as the flames licked at her waist. Nick stood over her and, to her amazement, the flames fled from her clothes to his hand. He threw the ball of flame coiling across his palm into the river.

  Ferghus unleashed a torrent of fire at the two of them. Kate cried out, but Nick didn’t flinch. He held up both hands and the flames split around them. He swung his arms and the flames gathered on him. Kate scrambled away as Nick became wreathed in fire. He continued pulling the flames away from Ferghus, but Kate could see the ferocious strain on him. Nick had not used her fire gel because he often used flame as a weapon, but she feared he would be consumed by it. He was adept at most mystic arts, but a true master of none. Ferghus had been a fire elemental for centuries.

  Kate shot a vial at the Irishman as he struggled to regain control of his flames. Black treacle splashed him in a dark sticky shroud. He shouted in surprise. Nick let loose the flames straight back at Ferghus. The man caught fire. Kate gasped. She hadn’t expected that, but her treacle was a tar-based substance. However, the flames did nothing to Ferghus. He laughed, wild-eyed, his form shimmering in the heat. He leveled another ball of fire at her.