There is a place where we will go
that only the Defiers know.
They wait for us far, far below,
and we shall call them master.
Just wipe your eyes,
say your goodbyes,
and follow me ever after.
The rhyme in the book had two noticeable differences from what Abigail had scrawled in her notebook a month earlier. The first was the order of the lines having been switched, though she couldn’t see that it impacted the meaning. The second difference was the revelation in the capitalization of Defiers. Arguably a small thing, but she found the implication of a formal name significant. When she had heard Karianna Rose recite the line, she had thought of it as a simple descriptive term. She had not found any direct mentions of the Defiers elsewhere, though she had some tantalizing leads and had begun assembling potentially connected folktales.
She had been both surprised and delighted that the same book containing Karianna’s rhyme also contained the symbol branded on Nicholas Boden. The details regarding the symbol were vague, and it appeared on only a single page alongside a story involving an immortal child and a piper who led disobedient children astray.
She ran her fingers over the circle and the crude face contained within. Then she closed the book and stood. Her bruises and scrapes had healed, and the last she saw of him, Kincaid was on the mend, too, having suffered a pair of broken ribs when he’d been struck with the door during their escape. She had expected they might speak more, having gone through such an ordeal as a team, but afterward they had drifted back to their respective interests, each awaiting the next case to pull them together.
The rain was still falling steadily. She crossed the room and drove the window up in its frame so the droplets came streaming through the opening. It was a nice night, even with the rain, and she looked out at the streets of Ceryl. She was glad to call it home. Even at this late hour, strangers walked the streets under umbrellas, their heels clicking rhythmically on the cobblestones and the lamplight casting their forms as silhouettes.
Abigail breathed deeply, wanting to inhale the night itself. Then she heard it, faint at first but then unmistakable: a soft, familiar voice sung the words that had become her obsession.
She held her breath, enraptured as the distant notes filled her mind with a shared sense of longing and grief. Then the song faded into the distance, leaving her heart pounding. In a few more moments, she felt convinced she had imagined it. She shook off the feeling and shuttered the window, closing as well all thoughts of Karianna and her unanswerable pain.
— CASE 3 —
THE CURSE OF CASTLE RAELTHORNE
By Douglas Seacat
Caspia, mid-autumn
PRINCESS KAETLYN DI LA MARTYN perched at the edge of an ornate chair positioned before the large mirror on her dresser while one of her ladies-in-waiting adjusted the jeweled necklace around the princess’ neck. Kaetlyn adjusted her coiffure, ensuring all stray strands of hair were pulled back and secured and that her coronet was perfectly situated atop her brow. She was attired in a considerably more elaborate gown than was her habit, preparing for what promised to be a long and tiresome state dinner. She would strive to be pleasant and amiable, despite the deeper concerns she held regarding the fate of Llael, her distant homeland, which was once again being torn apart by war.
The lights in the chamber flickered low before slowly rising again, and she glanced sharply at the gas-fed lanterns behind her. Jyless, her maid of honor, paused and turned to glance at them as well. Kaetlyn’s eyes narrowed as the normally steady flames within the polished and cut glass seemed strange. It was the fire itself that was moving oddly, not holding steady but wavering and undulating as if the flames were slowed. Then they began to gutter lower and lower before several went out to cast the room into near-darkness and shadow.
She was still looking into the mirror, but a movement attracted her attention, and her eyes focused not on something behind her but rather on the mirror itself. A growing darkness, like a spill of ink across the center of the reflective surface, and within it emerged a pair of gleaming points of light that in a moment resolved themselves into eyes. Not her own but other eyes staring and the hint of a mocking smile, a twisted and impish face. The mirror cracked with the sound of splintering glass.
She gave a startled noise and leapt back, nearly knocking over Jyless, who scrambled to avoid falling and to steady her mistress. The room went dark, and Kaetlyn could not suppress a terrified shriek, even as she scrambled toward where she knew the door to be. Something was behind her, closing on her. The door to her chamber flew open, and her guards stepped inside. She ran through and past them.
• • •
SEATED AROUND THE LARGE TABLE deep within Castle Raelthorne were several of the most influential leaders in the realm. It was not the king’s entire Inner Council but a portion of that body held responsible for the most pressing and important matters of higher governance. The youngest by several decades was King Julius Raelthorne himself, seated at the head of the table and looking distracted as he listened to an argument between his key advisors. The most vocal were Navarch Galten Sparholm III and Lord Treasurer Lars Corumny, who were debating the merits of devoting a larger portion of the Cygnaran Navy to protecting the Mercarian League’s trade route to the continent of Zu.
“I’m not asking you to compromise Broken Coast patrols,” Corumny said. “But we need to make an example out of the most organized of the pirates sapping the kingdom’s economy.”
“The League’s own fleet is adequate to its defense,” Sparholm retorted. “Bear in mind some of the ships harassing the League have letters of marque from King Baird of Ord, and our involvement could strain relations with that kingdom while we’re trying to negotiate shared fleet actions against Cryx.”
Julius frowned and turned his head; he had heard an unusual scratching noise. His right hand rested atop the thick oaken table, and he felt something beneath his fingertips, a slight vibration. He winced at a high-pitched sound, like glass scraping on glass, followed by a popping noise and a flare of heat and light. He turned to see one of the glass-enclosed lanterns in the chamber as it exploded. He raised a hand, but none of the sharp fragments reached him. The other lanterns in the room guttered and failed while this naked flame leapt higher, dancing erratically. The men all stood in alarm.
“What the—?” Sparholm said, his hand going to where a blade would ordinarily rest at his waist, though even a man in his position was not allowed to attend the king while armed.
Julius felt a sudden cold sweep through the chamber, as if he were struck by a northern wind, though he realized the air was in fact very still. A tightness clenched his stomach, and he swayed, reaching out to the table to steady himself. The nausea passed. The chamber doors then opened as members of the Royal Guard stepped in to ensure the safety of their lord. One of their attendants checked on the lights while one of Julius’ protectors urged him to step outside until they could be assured the room was secure.
The king left as bid, though he felt more puzzled than alarmed. There was no sign of a threat, though as he left, his eye went to the vases and planters set around the periphery of the room. He barely noticed such décor under ordinary circumstances—but he could see the flowers and ornamental plants had blackened and died, dropping wilted leaves to the floor.
• • •
THE NIGHT AIR WAS SHARP AND CHILL atop the battlements surrounding the castle. The pair of royal long gunners marched at an even pace on their patrol, their steps making a clean, even rhythm. From their vantage, they could look out upon the sprawling expanse of Caspia, the capital of Cygnar, the famed City of Walls, where countless lights gleamed from windows and torches. Though the city itself was bustling with activity, even at night, from the great height of the castle walls it was quiet and calm.
“Heard some odd things going down of late,” said Sergeant Krofter, pausing for a moment a few paces from the nearest heavys
et tower door. He peered down over the edge of the wall as he placed his hands on the nearest crenellations.
“Yer tellin’ me,” Corporal Halgin said. “Some say the ghosts are stirred up. It’s no secret this castle’s seen a number of strange deaths over the years.”
“Like all those that had bad deaths in the Lion’s Coup,” Krofter agreed solemnly. “Could be burned alive, electrocuted, crushed to death, left to bleed out after getting stabbed in the gut. No thanks.” After a pause he added, “I’ve seen a ghost before. On these very ramparts, no less. Didn’t do nothing but stand there in the moonlight staring at me, but still scared the piss out of me. Had the look of an old soldier with a white beard, face haggard and eyes empty. It raised a hand and reached toward me, then—”
Halgin watched as Krofter’s eyes widened and looked past his own, over his shoulder, his own mouth now hanging open.
“Come on now,” Halgin said. “I’m not falling for that.”
But his resolve to ignore the other man’s reaction faltered when Krofter stumbled backward with a choked cry.
Feeling icy dread, Halgin turned to see something his eyes and mind could not reconcile. A bizarre and enormous serpentine creature rose from the darkness, its head festooned with wriggling black tendrils. Before he could do more than suck in a breath to scream, its slavering mouth opened, and it struck too swiftly for him to follow, crunching into his chest with a rib-shattering impact. The wind flew from his lungs, so he couldn’t even scream as he felt its teeth punch through his breastplate and take hold of his flesh.
• • •
WITH A SCREECHING OF METAL ON METAL and then a shriek of released steam, the train slowed and eventually stopped along the elevated platform of the central Caspian station. Duncan Grimes was one of the first to his feet, eager to be done with the swiftly chugging engine of death that had been barreling along the tracks at an ungodly speed for so many hours. Despite his fears, they had arrived safe and sound without being derailed and sent careening into a mountain or attacked by trolls or any number of other scenarios he had considered during the hours while the landscape swept by.
Mel gave him a cheerful smile and also stood, putting a hand on Kincaid’s shoulder to leverage herself up. “See, nothing to worry about. Safest way to travel! You are such a worrywart, Grimey. It’s not like you’ve never traveled by train before.”
“Unavoidable nowadays,” Grimes groused, cracking his knuckles. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
Kincaid smiled. “What’s not to like? Better than bouncing around on horseback or walking. You get to relax as the miles go by.”
Grimes just grunted.
Mel put her hands on her hips and looked back at the sizable stack of crates taking up the rear of their passenger compartment. “If you’d be obliged, I could use help getting all of this unloaded. I wasn’t sure what we’d be facing, so I brought everything I thought might come in handy.”
“That’s no exaggeration,” Grimes mumbled. But he was already moving to help Kincaid. The two of them had done the lion’s share of loading the crates in the first place. “Kincaid, I’ll follow your lead. Point me at a box.”
“That one,” the bouncer said, “and I’ll take the other end. Careful, there’s lots of glass in this one.”
“If everyone could help,” Mel added, catching Abigail’s eye, “it’d go faster. Elliot is exempt, of course.”
“Hey.” The pale and slender blond-haired man protested while in the middle of a stretch. He had managed to catch more than a few winks on the ride; he had demonstrated a remarkable capacity to fall asleep anywhere almost instantly. “I can carry something.”
“Something small,” Grimes said. “Last thing we need is you breaking those twigs you call arms before we reach the castle.”
Abigail disembarked the train first, carrying the smaller satchels filled with her own gear plus a tightly wired cage containing her cat Artis, who had also recently woken and was starting to make some suspicious noises.
Grimes took hold of one end of the crate while Kincaid took the other. They carefully pulled it down and hauled it out onto the main platform. A conductor eyed them warily while checking his pocket watch, applying silent pressure for them to exit the vehicle with what haste they could manage. Despite his posture, they weren’t the only ones offloading goods. Between their car and the engine, several others did the same, including merchants with their wares as well as military supply sergeants with crates filled with ammunition, rifles, boots, rations, and other gear. Military traffic made up a good portion of almost any train passing through Cygnar, Grimes considered with disdain. There had been a brief period of peace, but according to the news, war was on again up in Llael.
The team had made every effort to get to Caspia from Ceryl as quickly as possible, given the nature of the emergency summons from the local Strangelight branch. The worst part of the trek had been the wagon ride east out of Ceryl along the Twelve Day Road, pushing their horse team hard, racing past Demonhead Pass to reach a rail spur that took them to Orven, then on through the Wyrmwall Mountains to reach Cygnar’s capital.
The train portion of the journey had consumed most of the miles between the two great cities but had taken what seemed no time at all. Grimes had to admit the moment-to-moment experience of riding the rails—even that rickety stretch to Orven—was more comfortable than being rattled apart on a wagon. It was his own fault for reading in the news about recent rail disasters, though of course such incidents were in truth relatively rare.
On his way back aboard, Grimes almost ran into Elliot, who had stopped in his tracks immediately upon leaving the car, staring up in open-mouthed astonishment at the city. Abigail was alongside him, similarly frozen, her neck extended as she peered around her, her glasses exaggerating her wide-eyed wonder. Grimes turned to follow their eyes to the looming walls of the ancient city, each so large as to encompass entire buildings in its interior. It was a daunting sight, especially the first time.
“This is crazy,” Elliot said. “I didn’t think anywhere could be more city than Ceryl.”
“Out of the way, gawkers,” Grimes said, not unkindly. The pair was still standing there as he and Kincaid hauled the next box out. “Never been to Caspia, Elliot? Or you, Abigail?”
They slid aside and Abigail shook her head, “No, never. I’ve seen Corvis and Fharin, and I saw Ramarck recently, though that barely qualifies as a town. None of them can hold a candle to this.”
Kincaid added, “This is the farthest south I’ve ever been. I have a few mates who talked about heading to Caspia a few years back. I don’t know if they ever made it.” Grimes had gathered that Kincaid had “friends” in a lot of places, most of them acquainted with the more colorful and less legal aspects of city life.
Grimes had a few such old friends himself, though he’d lost touch with most of them since working for Strangelight. “Doubt we’ll have time for sightseeing,” he said.
Abigail made a disappointed noise and said, “If we settle things up quickly, I think we can delay our return long enough to look around before heading back.”
Grimes shrugged. “I suspect we’ll have our hands full. We’ll see plenty where we’re going.” He pointed toward the heart of the city, down the main road leading away from the railway station. The lane between the walls extended far enough so the great castle could be seen in the distance ahead, rising above the other walls like a brooding presence, a dizzying profusion of battlements and tower spires. It was the sort of edifice that would have looked entirely appropriate backed by crackling lightning amid a torrential storm. Given the nature of Cygnar’s war technologies, it seemed quite likely something that happened regularly.
“Can we assist you folks?” a cheerful but gruff voice asked.
Grimes looked up from where he was setting down his crate and inclined his head in greeting to Bornal Dungot, the dwarven scholar and arcanist who had accompanied them from Ceryl. It was hard to tell the age of Rhulfolk in general
, though Dungot had a dignified air, his beard and moustache gone partially to white. His broad-shouldered frame looked well heeled in a tailored suit and pristine greatcoat; he wore several silver rings on his fingers. and the chain of a pocket watch extended from his vest to his waist. The goggles he wore were relatively thin and well made, doubling as spectacles. A trained eye could tell they were built by the Workshop, as the lenses were ringed in latches and swivels, allowing the lenses to be manually turned and adjusted.
When Dungot had offered assistance with the crates, he was not volunteering himself but rather his assistant, Takal. She loomed behind him, standing an easy three feet taller than the dwarf. Takal was an affable ogrun who served Dungot as porter, carrying a sizable piece of customized luggage Grimes knew to be filled with books and tomes. She set this bulky load carefully down before joining them in hauling boxes from the train.
“What’d you think of the train ride, Takal?” Grimes asked her.
She shrugged. “Your ceiling and seats are too small. No one thinks about ogrun.”
That was probably true. Grimes had heard that in Rhul, where dwarves and ogrun lived side by side, things were built big enough for ogrun everywhere, which he’d always imagined was a bit strange for the much shorter dwarves. Their buildings had to be large, lonely, and drafty. It also made him picture a meeting hall with a bunch of short dwarves perched on oversized chairs.
Takal effortlessly lifted and hauled crates it would have taken two people to manage otherwise. Ogrun were among the tallest and strongest of people in the Iron Kingdoms. Takal being a woman didn’t matter, given her shoulders were broader than any human man’s. In addition to being a porter and a scholarly assistant, Takal was Dungot’s bodyguard and, if her reputation were true, a good one. Slung from her belt was a hefty leather-wrapped mace that looked normal on her but which Grimes expected he’d need to hold with both hands to wield effectively. It made the small watchman’s baton Kincaid carried look like a toy.
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