"To me it seems little force was needed,” said Renard. “Have the gates never tripped of their own accord?"
"Once, yes,” said Tordral. “With lead weights on the trip levers, the gates were indeed forced to open and close by the extra impetus from the weights’ motion."
"But there is a delay of one fifth of the impeller's heartbeat, due to the extra time the lever takes to swing when weighted,” explained Guy. “In that time La Hachette is without the impeller and has no impetus. She would stop."
For a time there was silence, except for the clank-clang, hiss, chuff as the gatemen worked La Hachette's mechanical heart.
"Can someone explain something nautical to a poor, ignorant French sergeant who knows only bombards?” asked Renard.
"And English women, English ale, English—” began Ward.
"Let him speak!” called Tordral.
"Why does a barge not stop when the rowers finish a stroke and draw the oars forward for the next?"
"Because it has impetus."
"Then why should La Hachette stop while the weighted trip levers are swinging?"
"Why because...."
Tordral's voice trailed away. Guy scratched his head again, aware that everyone might have missed a very important point.
"Am I right to suggest that we could have had La Hachette's heart beating six weeks ago?” asked Tordral softly. “Suddenly it's as obvious as, as...."
"Garlic on Renard's breath?” suggested Ward.
"You English, you eat candle fat, then insult the finest cooks in the world, who are we French."
"Enough!” shouted Tordral. “Guy, bring a lamp. See how I tie a lead weight to the top of dexter's tag lever. Kindly do the same for sinister."
"Should we also tie lead weights to the impeller pipe water gates?"
"They are much bigger. I did not bring enough lead."
"Will two bags of iron scrappery do?"
"They will have to."
Once the four weights were attached, Tordral hesitated, more to put off almost inevitable disappointment than for any other reason. The steam guards hissed steadily.
"Master, you have steam,” prompted Guy.
"Then let us again attempt the impossible. Gatemen, to your stations, Steam Warden Grace, are you ready?"
"Aye Master."
"Dexter gateman, close watergate."
"Dexter declares watergate closed."
"Sinister gateman, open watergate, confirm steamgate closed."
"Sinister declares watergate open, steamgate closed."
"Sinister gateman, stand clear. Dexter gateman, open steamgate."
"Dexter declares steamgate open."
"Dexter gateman, stand clear."
They chant another spell of iron magic, taught by trial and learned by error, thought Guy. Steam hissed into the dexter impeller pipe, forcing the water within it down and back.
"The lady is moving,” reported Renard.
"Ladyship, ladyship, come to life,” pleaded Tordral softly, kneeling on the deck, hands clasped, and not caring what anyone thought.
"Flower of the Company of the Spiral Briar, bloom for me,” said Renard, as gently as if coaxing a lover to remove her robes.
With the last of the water gone, the steam chuffed out of the dexter impeller pipe. The pressure within fell, so the steam gate dropped and closed, pushing the trip lever into motion. It swung slowly, so slowly that La Hachette began to lose speed, but when it hit the other steamgate, it triggered a release of steam while tripping sinister's watergate locked. Water now gushed out of the tail of the sinister impeller pipe, while water flowed into the bow end of dexter. There was a chuff of steam from sinister, then the trip levers swung back ponderously, and water began to gush out of the dexter impeller pipe again.
"Did anyone touch anything?” asked Tordral breathlessly.
"Hav'nae touched dexter,” said a gateman.
"Got me hands clasped,” said his companion.
"It works,” breathed Tordral. “God in heaven with all his saints and angels, it works! Heart of iron, blood of water, breath of steam, soul of fire, my lady has life without living, her heart beats."
"She has not perfection, La Hachette loses a little speed with every beat,” began Guy.
"Guy, we have not perfection!” said Tordral, standing up. “You are missing a full quota of teeth, Ward curses at his piles every time he visits the privy, I have crippled eyes, and the briar rose we sail under looks a victim of the Inquisition's torturers, yet all of us have life. Gatemen, present yourselves to the yeoman of archers and gonnes. When there is light to steer by, we steer for Faerie."
The Yeoman
First light was glowing in the east as La Hachette glided north across Derwentwater's dark and placid surface, casting smooth bow waves and trailing smoke and sparks.
"Quarter mile to Derwentwater outflow,” called Renard.
"The portal is close,” said Tordral. “Company of the Spiral Briar, lie down, lest you fall. Sergeant, what status?"
"Bombard loaded ready, slow match alight."
"Yeoman Ward?"
"Six gonners ready, weapons loaded an’ slow matches alight. Four archers ready with bows strung."
"Steam warden?"
"Ready, Master,” called Grace. “Lil and Mag are feeding logs ter furnace."
"Powder warden?"
"Spare gonnes and two bombard breech chambers loaded ready,” drawled Meg. “Anne an’ Mary are ready to load black powder an’ shot as needs."
Ward settled down on the deck with his sword across his lap. He felt strangely confident, even though they were facing the unknown and attempting the unprecedented. La Hachette and Tordral would look after them. Tordral, the twisted stem, and La Hachette, the flower growing out of it.
"Company, attend me,” called Tordral. Everyone turned. “We are about to fight an entire world. I trust all of you absolutely, yet can you trust me thus without knowing my face? I am going to raise my visor, for the first time in seven years."
"We know your deeds, that's enough,” protested Ward, but the visor was already up.
The face beneath was lean, pale, finely featured ... and familiar.
"Upon my word, ‘tis Sir Gerald!” exclaimed Grace, squinting in the half-light.
"Sir Gerald was never so pretty,” said Renard. “I am French, I suspected. Only a sister could have played upon his feelings so well."
For some moments there was no sound, except for La Hachette's heartbeat.
"As Mayliene, I was given nothing better than seven years of sympathy,” declared Tordral. “As Tordral I hid my figure under chainmail and my face with a helmet, I gathered you all behind me, and I built La Hachette. Now I fight back. If any will not fight beside a woman, jump and swim, there is still time."
"Women, they are fine leaders,” said Renard. “I fought beside Jeanne of Armoises."
"And probably tupped her, besides,” said Ward. “I'm with you too, ladyship."
"Alone, you might win against half our world, but against the whole of Faerie you need a little help,” said Grace.
For a moment everyone seemed to be glancing to everyone else.
"Nobody's inclined to jump,” said Ward.
"The outflow, I see it!” called Renard.
"Listen one, listen all!” shouted Tordral. “Portals to Faerie are found in boundary places. Where Derwentwater becomes the Derwent River is a boundary place, and this hour of half light is a boundary time."
"The river, it looks narrow indeed,” called Renard.
"I've measured it, we fit,” replied Tordral. “Remember, within the portal our strength will desert us. Without elfin magic no mortal is proof against this weakness, but we have something better. La Hachette has iron muscles and an iron heart. She will take us through."
"To the river, thirty paces!” called Renard.
"Chaining tiller, sitting ready!” said Tordral.
Violet fire blazed out around La Hachette as she left Derwentwate
r. The air around them screamed with a sound that was all at once outrage and terror. Shapes like monstrous, glowing curtains of spiderwebs stretched and tore all around them, and netting spun from luminescence as thick as hawsers ripped apart amid cascades of bright blue and silver sparks.
"What am I, who hath no eyes yet sees all knowledge?” thundered out of the background of blackness. “Speak the true answer and pass, die if your wits are not equal to my riddle."
Clank-clang, hiss, chuff was La Hachette's reply, and although a taloned hand the size of a cottage struck the ship, the fingers burst apart like oak timbers infested with the death-watch beetle. A roar of dismay echoed and died somewhere out of sight. Chill air washed over Ward, air so cold that every breath was like needles of ice in his lungs and nose. He counted the twenty-fifth beat of La Hachette's heart, holding onto hope by clinging to the sounds of the steam impeller. Out on the water, Ward thought he saw Tordral's tiny sufflator boat, marooned in the boundary waters, its steam spent.
Total darkness replaced the glowing filaments for a time, then luminous water splashed over La Hachette's sides as huge tentacles wrapped themselves around her, only to crumble. Her heart kept beating and the hiss of steam declared that the furnace still burned. Water sprites placed kisses on Ward's lips and caressed his cheeks with their breasts. Trying to enchant me with their beauty, he thought, but enchantment requires time, and they have little time. Ward could see right through their hastily wrought bodies, and those fluttering around the spiral briar above him had the form of fanged bats. He counted the forty-seventh heartbeat of the impeller—and suddenly they were through the portal. Even the half-light before dawn now seemed unnaturally bright to Ward.
"Company, take stations!” ordered Tordral, unchaining the tiller.
"Stokers, attend the furnace,” said Grace.
"Bridge full ahead, bridge with archers!” warned Renard.
"Destroy it, Renard, smash it!” ordered Tordral.
"Bombard elevation, down, down, down,” said Renard.
"How did they get here so fast?” cried Ward.
"The bridge has a garrison, I saw it when I was returned,” replied Renard.
"And you tell us only now?"
"You might have jumped."
Ward hurriedly assessed their plight. The bridge was a long, elegant arch of interlocking stones. Standing ready upon it were tall, svelte archers, and beside them huge, chunky creatures holding rocks the size of trebuchet balls. Oddly shaped things no bigger than children milled about, all ready with pails of burning oil. Goblins? wondered Ward. Elves, trolls, and goblins?
"We can't pass under the bridge if it stands, Renard,” cried Tordral. “Bring it down!"
"We cannot decrease the bombard's elevation enough,” replied Renard. “Only at fifteen yards can we fire."
"At fifteen yards they could piss on us, French sot!” shouted Ward.
"You do better, English brother of livestock."
"Form up, gonners, archers, full ahead!” shouted Ward, pointing with his sword. “Gonne row, fire!"
Six gonnes belched dozens of shards of iron at those on the bridge. At two hundred yards they caused no fatalities, but sharp iron in faerie skin burned like acid and caused instant chaos.
"Gonne row, take reloads!” ordered Ward, and the spent gonnes were swapped for charged. “Gonne row, fire!"
This time one of the trolls dropped his rock and several of the goblins ran screeching.
"Archers, fire!” shouted Ward to his four bowmen, as arrows from the elves on the bridge began to strike in and around La Hachette. “Gonne row, down between volleys."
Ward had been told of the magical accuracy of elfin bowmen, yet only two arrows were in the deck, and a third had landed in the spiral briar's pot.
"Archers, fire! Again.... Archers, fire! Next time aim! They're barely a hundred yards off. Archers, fire!"
"Charged gonnes to hand,” cried Meg.
"Gonne row, stand. Gonne row, fire!"
This volley broke the morale of the goblins, although a few thought to fling their burning oil into the path of La Hachette as they fled. Five of the trolls remained ready with their rocks. Discipline was no longer quite what it had been among the elves, but most were still crouched and shooting.
"Archers, fire!” shouted Ward. “Gonne row, down! Meg, hurry the reloads."
"Stokers, help with reloads,” cried Grace.
"Clear behind bombard!” shouted Renard without turning. “If you would live, clear behind bombard! Jon, have you the slow match?"
"Aye sergeant."
"Bombard, fire!"
The five-inch iron ball, fired at fifteen yards, hit the keystone of the bridge. The stone shattered, because it had been chosen for its coloring rather than hardness. Deprived of support, both sides of the long, low, elegant arch collapsed into the river, sending spray and a surge of broken water cascading over La Hachette. She rocked and pitched, but remained afloat.
"Fire at will!” shouted Ward as they passed between the stumps of the bridge, but those of their enemy who were not by now swimming were fleeing.
"Yeoman, stand lookout!” ordered Renard, as he and his crew reloaded the bombard.
Ward went to the bow. Ahead was not the familiar hills, flood plain, and fields that lay between Derwentwater and Bassenwater in the humans’ world. This broad river flowed into a placid sea that reached to the horizon. To the east, a gleaming bead of the sun's disk announced the end of half light. Farther down the coast were three ships at anchor, and on a forested hillside a quarter mile inland was a palace of delicate, graceful towers, partly enshrouded by morning mists. Every color, every gleam of light seemed curiously intense.
The Castellerine
The elfin castellerine looked from the ruined tower of her palace to the sea. Part of one of her ships was visible above the surface, but the other two had reached deeper water before they had been sunk. The intruder ship had come to a stop, still pouring black smoke into the air. A gig boat was being rowed ashore.
"How could something so small do so much damage?” she asked one of her knights.
"We showered it with arrows, but few struck home, highness,” he replied. “Arrows guided by enchantment lose direction near that thing."
"And it destroyed the Wylver Bridge?"
"With one shot."
"And Darvendior?"
"I spoke with the bridge keeper, Darvendior had not returned from Earthlye when it fell."
"In Earthlye he is safe for now, the danger is here! Five thunderbolts to sink three ships. Three more to bring down the Glamoriad Tower at half a mile. Who are these people?"
The boat reached the shore. Five figures got out and waited.
"I believe we are expected to go to them,” prompted the knight.
"Me, a castellerine, pay heed to mortals?"
"They are victorious mortals, highness."
They set off, and as they neared the intruders the castellerine saw that the leader wore chainmail and a domed helmet. The visor had triangular eyeslits.
"The iron warlock,” said the castellerine. “I expected Sir Gerald, not his minion."
"Lady Mayliene of Ashdayle, as it happens,” Tordral replied, raising her visor to reveal a lean, almost elfin face. “Don't bother bowing."
"Gerald's sister!"
"Do pardon the visor,” said Tordral, lowering her visor and folding her arms. “My spectacle lenses are built into it."
The castellerine fought to keep her composure.
"Answer me three questions, and I shall—"
"Uh-uh,” said Tordral as she raised her arm. “Ask but a single riddle, and I shall wave. Should I wave, my bombard sergeant will fire upon your palace again. His name is Renard, I believe you know him."
"Renard! That filthy swine—"
"He angered you? How gratifying."
"I'll not talk of him,” muttered the castellerine. “Speak your petition."
"Demands, not petition. Fourteen years ago,
a stranger of disturbing fairness appeared to me in my very own garden. I called to my brother, but he lay englamored and helpless. The comely stranger paid me court. I replied that I preferred books to lovers. His amusing little revenge blighted my vision, so that I could see little else but books."
The castellerine swallowed, then rallied. “Elfin men are proud. Some are cruel besides."
"Restore my sight!"
Being unaccustomed to demands, the castellerine considered laughter, scorn, a haughty sneer, or a snort of anger. None seemed appropriate, or safe.
"I cannot,” she admitted.
"If cannot really means will not—"
"No no, I cannot, I swear, I cannot. Think on the spiral briar, your company's symbol. A young stem is soft and pliant, it can be bound into a spiral around a pole. Take the pole away months later, and the stem will be turned to wood in the shape of a spiral."
"Which cannot be straightened?"
"Ah ... no."
"Behind me is a man named Ivain, who was englamored to love some elfin tease—"
"He can be restored, only three weeks have past,” babbled the castellerine breathlessly, desperate to tell Tordral any good news. “Take him to my palace. My wizards—"
"So, it was you."
The castellerine stared at the ground and bit her lip.
"Your people built curious machines. Why should I not spy?"
"Bring your wizards here."
"But why?"
"You would hold Ivain hostage in your palace."
"You intend to destroy my palace!"
"No. I already have what I want."
"But your sight—"
"Revenge will suffice in its place. The elfin knight who twisted me is trapped in Earthlye, so—"
"Darvendior is my brother!” screamed the castellerine suddenly.
"Ah, truth, squeezed from reluctant elfin grapes by the winepress. The longer Darvendior lives in Earthlye, the older he becomes. My eyesight for his immortality, a fair exchange. In seven decades we shall leave, when he is wrinkled, bald, impotent, toothless, and drooling—if he lives so long. My brother is stalking him."
"I'll rebuild Wylver Bridge."
"I also destroyed the Earthlye bridge."
"Damn you. Then I'll cross to Earthlye through another portal and—"
FSF, April-May 2009 Page 4