by Peter Oxley
Two tubes ran the length of the wall from balloons stored in the ceiling cavity, supplying air to the interior in the event that the vehicle found itself in a vacuum. Other than those, a couple of dials and a few strategically placed runes were all that was included within, with the main propulsive force being provided by our friend Joshua.
I stepped in and closed the door behind me, helping Byron to stow away the Warlocks’ equipment while Joshua readied himself for the spells and incantations that would transport us back home.
After checking that we were all in place and the equipment was stowed, the young man closed his eyes and started chanting. The runic sword strapped to my back vibrated in response to the words, a reaction that was becoming increasingly common when it was around kindred magical phenomena. While it was at first alarming, I had grown used to the sensation over the past few months and now found it almost reassuring, acting as an early indication that Joshua’s spells were working.
His abilities had grown in impressive fashion since we first met him, helped by a single-mindedness in his devotion to study and practice following his sister’s unfortunate death. I had assumed that he was using that focus as a way of coping with his grief and stemming the flood of emotions that would overwhelm him if he stopped to think about what he had lost, although Byron’s words had made me wonder whether there was a darker motive to all of this. Joshua would not be the first person to attempt to cheat death and bring back a loved one; I feared, though, that he might well be the first to actually be in a position to make it possible.
My sword’s vibrations increased in intensity as I peered through the slitted window and saw the world disappear, replaced by an all-pervading blackness. I tried not to focus too much on what was now beyond the fragile walls that encased us, for to do so was to invite my imagination to run riot. A wisp of mist floated by, and I fancied that I saw the shape of a face within it, hungry eyes and probing teeth seeking a way into our miniscule safe haven.
The mist dissipated, replaced with shuffling and moaning sounds that in turn receded quickly. I breathed a sigh of relief at this sign of our travelling at speed through that inhospitable place. Thankfully, any breeze making its way into our confined space was minimal, ensuring that our small lantern was still lit, a small mercy that saved us from the terrors of our imaginations. I shared a nod with Byron and we both looked to Joshua as his chanting increased in volume. The young man’s face was taut with focus and effort, the veins standing out in his neck as he made the final push to punch a hole through the Aether and back to our own world.
I held my breath, never enjoying that moment when we were at the mercy of so many elements, when the merest miscalculation or lack of focus could end with us being deposited on another alien land. Or worse: trapped in the Aether forever.
We stumbled as the vehicle landed with a jolt, sunlight streaming in through the narrow window. Joshua slumped to the floor, his face pale and his limbs shaking as the effort took its toll on him. We helped him back to his feet. “We’re back,” he said simply.
“Well done,” I said, feeling foolish and patronising even as the words left my lips. Joshua did not seem to notice or mind, instead taking a few deep breaths to recover his poise before nodding to us.
I opened the door and stepped out into the warm Hertfordshire sunshine, to be faced by a dozen rifle barrels pointed at me.
Chapter Three
I paced the cold stone floor of my cell, pausing only to kick at the damp walls at either end.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I bellowed, turning to bang on the solid wooden door with my fist. The sound of my hammering echoed down the hall outside and I listened in vain for any response.
“Mindless automatons!” I yelled at no one and everyone in particular. “Do you have any idea what you are allowing them to do? And how did you get to St Albans so quickly? Who tipped you off?”
If anyone could hear me they neither cared nor wished to reply, leaving me with just the distant echoes of my voice for company. With a snarl, I turned to recommence my pacing.
I wiped sweat from my brow with a shaking hand and stamped my feet in an effort to stabilise my feverish mind and weakening body. A shadow in the corner thickened and congealed in the half-light, and I fancied that I could hear a distant cackling.
I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, gritting my teeth against the wave of helpless nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. I was damned if I would give them the satisfaction of finding me in a vomit-splattered cell.
“Who is incurring the wrath of the great Augustus Potts this time?” asked an improbable voice from the corner.
I turned and marched away from the hallucination, hoping that ignoring it would hasten its dissipation.
“After all we’ve been through, and you won’t even give me the time of day?” tutted the vision of Andras, his harsh and demonic features off-set by a formal jacket, trousers and top hat. “Would it be more pleasing for you if I adopted this form instead?” His face shifted and solidified until it was that of my old friend N’yotsu.
The sight of that long-vanished figure stopped me in my tracks, the vision of the man Andras could be when he was stripped of his demonic elements and allowed to be human. I shook my head. “Do not do this,” I muttered, clenching my hands into fists. “Not him.”
“Too soon?” Andras again. “Wounds still somewhat raw?”
“You are not really here,” I said through clenched teeth. “You are not here, you are not him…”
“Correct,” said Andras, bending forwards to examine his clawed hands in a weak shaft of sunlight. “Although I will credit you this: the quality and detail of your hallucinations are second-to-none.”
I barked a short, sharp laugh and slapped my hand against the wall. “I am clearly going mad.”
Andras eyed me. “If you ask me, that happened a long time ago.” He tapped his finger on his pursed lips. “But what if this is a rare moment of lucidity, a flimsy raft of sanity after a lifetime adrift in a sea of madness? What if everything you believe you have experienced over the past few years was just a hallucination?”
“And I’ve been living in an asylum all this time?” I shook my head. “This is not an asylum; there’s not enough shit and screaming.”
“Not all asylums are the same,” he replied, wagging a finger at me.
“Just leave me be.” I turned to commence my stomping once more.
Andras watched me for a few moments, arms folded and a wry grin on his face. “You know, it is a lot healthier to discuss these things rather than just bottle them up.”
“So I should talk to my visions to stop myself from going mad? Is this an attempt at irony?”
He shrugged and then peered at me. “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look very well. Is everything all right?”
“You know full well it is not,” I muttered. “Kate is in the hands of the Almadites, and we are stuck here thanks to the stupidity of our pathetic excuse for a Prime Minister.”
“It seems to me that you are the authors of your own misfortune. After all, you disobeyed a direct order.”
“It was a stupid order,” I shot back. “Ordering us not to engage with the demons, refusing permission for us to travel through the Aether—”
“But if you had not gone over there, Kate would not have been taken…”
“Don’t you think I don’t know that?” I shouted, smashing my palm against the stone wall and wincing at the sharp pain before looking up, hoping that the sensation had driven away the hallucination.
I was sadly disappointed.
“Touchy, aren’t we?” grinned Andras. “Maybe chaos such as that which you have managed to cause was exactly what Prime Minister Gladstone was intending to avoid when he banned all travel into the Aether.”
Gladstone. I spat at the name as I mulled over my many misfortunes. Time was that we were fêted as the heroes of the hour, the only ones who could truly help to drive back the
threats from the demons of Almadel. But then the Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli and Queen Victoria had been exposed as having been—for a brief time—under the control of the demons. That was enough for the politicians to do what they did best: paralyse the country in endless debates and back-stabbing.
Disraeli had had precious little time to recover from the demons’ attempted invasion through the portal at St Albans—which I had helped to stop, dammit!—when he was unceremoniously ousted through a vote of no confidence, forcing the Queen to turn to the Leader of the Opposition, William Ewart Gladstone.
I remembered what Disraeli had said when someone had asked him to define the difference between a misfortune and a calamity. “If Gladstone fell into the Thames,” Disraeli had said, “that would be a misfortune; and if anybody were to pull him out, that would be a calamity.” Those were sentiments with which I wholeheartedly agreed.
Andras chuckled. “You still have not warmed to your new Prime Minister, have you?”
I glared at him. “He is an uptight prig who is more concerned with process, procedure and religion than dealing with the threats right under his nose.”
“Spoken like a true friend of Disraeli’s.”
“I grant you that my views are no doubt coloured by my association with Disraeli, but no one can doubt that life was a lot simpler when he was in charge rather than this… wet fish.”
“A bit harsh.”
I laughed. “Ever since Gladstone became Prime Minister, everything has ground to a halt. Nothing can happen without endless committee meetings, papers and discussions; anyone who shows even a mote of initiative is locked up.”
Andras chuckled. “It never pays to be one of the dangerous intellectuals, coming up with unwanted things like ideas, does it?”
“Certainly not these days.” I patted the wall with my hand, softer this time to avoid hurting myself again, and then sighed. “I would not mind, but arresting us for the simple act of going to the Aether, when we are the only ones standing between this world and the demons…” I drew in a shallow breath; it felt as though the air was being sucked out of the room.
“What makes you think you are the only ones who can fight demons?” Andras said.
“Do you see anyone else who could do it?” I asked, blinking to clear my vision. “The army’s movements are just as restricted as ours and you’re… well…”
He shrugged. “Maybe Gladstone has a higher plan, one to which you are not privy.”
I barked a short laugh. “The only higher plan he seems to have is that of boring the demons into submission.” I looked around in vain for some form of ventilation; the walls seemed to be closing in on me.
“Even so, if you had listened to your brother’s advice and not indulged in your pleasure cruise to the Aether, then Kate would not be kidnapped and you would not be under arrest for disobeying the Prime Minister’s direct orders, vis-à-vis travel to the Aether.”
I frowned through the fog at the hallucination. “If you are here to torture me with my own miscalculations…” I muttered.
The image before me shifted, and for a moment Kate was there, frowning at me with hands on her hips. “What’s the matter, Gus?” she asked. “Feelin’ guilty about summink?”
Then Andras was before me once more as I leant back against the wall to relieve the pressure on my shaking legs. “You really are looking slightly peaky,” he observed. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you are sickening for something.”
“I’m fine,” I managed, sliding to the floor and the welcoming coldness of the flagstones.
“Or suffering the withdrawal symptoms from an addiction, perhaps? Tell me, when was the last time you were separated from your sword?”
The runic sword. Just the mention of the weapon made my heart skip a beat in frustrated desire. For a long time it had been as much a part of me as my own hands, the first thing I reached for every morning even before my clothing. I frowned as I tried to recall a time when it was not strapped to my back or at least within arm’s reach.
“Poor man,” came a voice from far away. I looked up to see a huddle of white-coated men peering down at me, their faces blurred and obscured as though I were viewing them through a glass bowl. “He clearly does not have much time left. The attachment is too far advanced to allow him to operate without it for any length of time…”
“No!” I shouted, flailing my arms at these assailants before they condemned me as a lost cause. “Leave me alone! I don’t need you…!”
Rough hands grabbed me under the armpits and picked me up. “Gus,” barked a voice. “Gus!”
The world swam back into focus as another voice, to my right this time, opined: “If you ask me, he’s gone bonkers, sir.”
“I did not ask you, Private,” snapped a familiar voice.
I shook my head and blinked. “Albert. Captain Pearce,” I managed. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” I stared at his shoulder where he had slung a brown canvas bag. I felt the familiar pull of the runic sword from within the material, even from that distance giving me enough sustenance to rouse me from my fever. I looked round to see that the hallucination of Andras had disappeared.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pearce said, as a pair of manacles were clapped painfully over my wrists. “You’re coming with me for questioning. You’re in big trouble.” He nodded to the two soldiers who were propping me up. “Bring him.”
Captain Pearce refused to say another word as I was half-marched, half-dragged along dark corridors and down vertiginous flights of stairs. The chains that bound my wrists clinked and rattled as I walked, heaping further indignity upon me. I asked to at least be allowed to walk unaided but was rewarded with a hard shove in my back. This unjust treatment continued until we stepped through a large oak door and I emerged, blinking, into sunshine.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see the tall towers that lined the central square inside the Tower of London. The bulk of the White Tower loomed in front of us as we stepped around Tower Green and then past the Bloody Tower itself.
I continued my protests as I was hustled along towards a large carriage, practically a cage on wheels, inside of which I could see the manacled forms of Joshua and Byron.
“Wait!” called a voice, and my escort ground to a halt as we turned to see a moustachioed officer march towards us. “What are you doing? We have strict instructions that these prisoners are not to be moved.”
“I have new orders, sir,” said Pearce, handing him a piece of paper. “Signed by the Prime Minister.”
The other officer frowned at the paper, trying to find something at which he could pick fault. “This is most irregular,” he concluded.
Pearce shrugged. “I agree, sir, but ours is not to question, eh? If you are satisfied that all is in order?”
The officer grunted. “As you were.” He watched with a sceptical eye as I was bundled into the cage before turning to march off back towards the barracks.
“Afternoon,” I said as I settled myself onto the hard wooden bench. “And how is everyone?”
“Shut your trap,” snarled one of the soldiers who had joined us in our cage. I stared back at him with a half-smile on my lips, showing that I could not be cowed by him and his overbearing manner.
Pearce climbed up into the cab next to the driver and, fully laden with armed soldiers, we started off out of the gates. A half-dozen mounted soldiers gathered round to escort us, cutting off any thought we may have had of escape or rescue.
I looked over at Joshua and Byron, sharing short nods with each of them. While I could feel my strength returning, Joshua looked in a worse state than I had been when I was suffering in my cell. He still seemed drained by the exertions of our voyage through the Aether, coupled with the battle with the Warlocks. I shook my head; I had harboured a faint hope he could work some form of magic to help us break free, but it looked like we would have to either find another option or bide our time until he was strong enough to re-join the fight. In th
e meantime, it best served our purposes for us to stay quiet and observe.
We rounded Trinity Square and headed up Great Tower Street towards the City. The roads were as busy as ever, with costermongers lining the route and businessmen marching to and fro on whatever business it was that preoccupied them. A group of women paused their conversation to stare with barely disguised glee at the chance to glimpse some grand scandal or other, while a gaggle of children ran along the side of our cage, shouting questions and obscenities at us. The racket was enhanced by a gang of workmen standing outside a tavern, drink fuelling their confidence and repertoire of insults.
“Always a pleasure to take a turn round town,” I said to the others.
“Be quiet back there,” barked Pearce from up front. “I don’t want a riot breaking out on your account.”
I shrugged and turned my attentions to affecting an unconcerned air as though there were nothing in the world unnatural about my present condition or mode of transport. Our carriage looped round St Paul’s Churchyard and down Ludgate Hill, the crowds becoming less concerned with us the further we went. I grunted as I realised that we were headed down to Whitehall; maybe Maxwell could help us.
We clattered to a halt outside the familiar bulk of 24 Whitehall, and I watched as Pearce held a hurried discussion with the guard who opened the door; it appeared as though we were not expected. Pearce waved the man aside, ordering him to stand down while we stepped from our cage.
“I will take it from here, thank you,” Pearce said as the soldiers made to escort us into the building. “There are plenty of my men inside to keep them out of trouble.”
“As you say, sir,” said the Sergeant, stepping aside and handing Pearce a ring of keys.
We clanked our way through the front door and into the hallway, surprised to find the room empty. The front door slammed shut and Pearce darted past us. “Follow me,” he said, “quickly!”
Joshua and Byron glanced at me and I shrugged. We had precious few options although I was surprised at the amount of trust Pearce had in our sense of honour, given the circumstances.