Legends II

by Ian Whates

  He was standing on a metal catwalk between the pistons. He could see the glow from the slave-fed firebox that heated the boilers. There were a number of dwarven engineers, second-class citizens in the CSA but freemen, supervising the slaves as they shovelled coal to feed the Pride of Jupiter’s steam engines, all six of them. All were surprised by Sabin’s sudden shotgun-wielding appearance.

  One of the soot and oil-stained dwarves had complained about having to do ‘slave’s work’ when Sabin had put them to work to clear part coal beds. Sabin had explained the dwarf’s choices, using the business end of his shotgun as emphasis. He glanced nervously at the watch again. Sabin suspected that he probably should have got the slaves to help shovel coal but he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to do that.

  He felt something bump the ship. It didn’t feel all that different to the numerous times that the paddle steamer had hit logs. Then it was followed by a disconcerting grinding noise. The dwarves were looking up nervously at Sabin. The slaves didn’t look too happy either. There was a thump. It came from directly beneath the paddle steamer.

  “What in the hell have you done?” the belligerent dwarf he’d threatened with a shotgun earlier demanded over the thunder of the engines.

  “Okay that’s enough. Get out of there,” Sabin told them, gesturing with the shotgun. He turned to the slaves. “When this happens all hell will break loose. Stick with the other slaves they’ll know how to get north.” The slaves nodded.

  “You an abolitionist?” the verbose dwarf demanded. Nothing so grand, Sabin thought. “If the slave catchers don’t nail you up the Klan will.”

  “I’m just a thief, sir,” Sabin told him. The dwarf opened his mouth to retort but screamed instead as a spinning, steam-powered, saw blade, accompanied by a horrific whining noise, burst through the wooden hull of the paddle-steamer from below. The blade cut a circle out of the deck.

  “Is that one of them submarines beneath us?” the dwarven engineer yelled at Sabin.

  “Sort of,” Sabin muttered.

  “We’ll sink!” the dwarf screamed, the rest of the terrified-looking engineers and slaves nodding in agreement.

  “Not immediately, there’s a seal... It’s complicated,” Sabin told them, by which he meant he didn’t fully understand it himself. “Just don’t panic.”

  “Something just cut a hole in the bit between the boat and the water! It’s kind of hard not to panic!”

  The circle of wood had dropped down a few feet but no water had flooded in. There was a lot of swearing coming from underneath the cut out piece of hull.

  “Get that out of there, now!” Sabin snapped, gesturing with the shotgun. “And believe me you’ll want to do it quickly.” The slaves and the dwarven engineers rushed to comply. The removed piece of hull revealed a leaking, accordion skirt of rubber and iron surrounding a pile of wet sandbags atop the carapace-like copper-plated wooden hull of some kind of craft. The steam saw mechanism was mounted on a circular rail.

  “It worked!” the hunchbacked, ginger-bearded, grimy-looking dwarf shouted from a hatch in the top of the craft. He was wearing heavy leather aprons, thick leather gloves, a pair of protective goggles that somehow magnified his rheumy-looking eyes, and what appeared to be an armoured bowler hat. Sabin stared at the dwarf. “I showed them bastards in Charleston I could do it!”

  “What do you mean it worked?” Sabin demanded angrily. “You mean there was some doubt in your mind?” The elf considered turning the shotgun on Red and giving the dwarf all three barrels. The only problem was that neither he, nor Sigrid, had any idea how to pilot Hephaestus’s Crab (Sabin had tried to talk him out of the name).

  “Where’s Odedra?” Red asked looking around. “Time’s a’wastin’.” Sabin couldn’t believe that the dwarf had just used Sigrid’s real name like that. Though it was a good question.

  “She’ll be here in a moment,” he said, not entirely convinced himself.

  “She?” Red asked confused.

  “How well did you cut those fuses?” Sabin asked showing Red his watch. The dwarf opened his mouth to answer. “Get out of the damned hole!” Sabin shouted.

  “Oh right,” Red said and climbed out of the hole cut through the hull and into the engine room. He did so with some difficulty due to his deformity, the result of voluntary exposure to the powerful forge magic of his twisted patron god. Sabin helped drag him away from the hole, holding the shotgun with one hand, covering the slaves and the engineers.

  “Get back!” he snapped at them, herding them away from the Crab, dragging Red. “Later you and I are going to discuss appropriate times for experimentation.”

  “But I’m a genius, you see the weight of the Pride of Jupiter is actually helping to maintain the seal, and I’ve mounted rollers on the top of the...” This last was drowned out by the sound of the explosion. First the dynamite glued to the ceiling of the cabin Sabin had broken into went off. Then the circle of dynamite on the floor of the same cabin went off a moment later. A hole appeared in the roof of the engine room, the explosion’s partially tamped pressure wave knocking them back a little and rattling teeth, and a heavy iron safe fell through the hole and onto the sandbags on top of the submarine. Sabin already had the bag of grave dirt in his hands. He had a moment to recognise the Hermetic, high magic symbols engraved into the iron before the lemures, shades of the unquiet dead necromantically bound to the safe as guardians, swarmed all around, trying to tug the life and vitality out of him. Sabin flung the grave dirt over the safe. The dirt had been taken, in exchange for offerings, from the graves of those deemed to be Union heroes. It had then been blessed by servants of Charon, and coins had been sacrificed to the Ferryman’s sub-church, so that the lemures could be guided to Hades. The shades faded to nothing. Those of the slaves and dwarves who weren’t too terrified to do so started to pray to their gods. Sabin heard the first screams, cries of alarm, a bell ringing, and over all of it the unmistakeable sound of gunfire.

  “Well shit,” he muttered.

  Sabin stepped out onto the deck. He had left Red supervising the prisoners to lowering the safe into the Crab at gunpoint. Sabin was aware of the CSS Redeemer steaming up alongside the Pride of Jupiter to offer assistance. He knew that they didn’t have a great deal of time. The engine room would be one of the first places that Bourbonne’s people would look for the source of the explosion. Fortunately most of the panic was going on in the saloon and balcony above, as the rear lower deck of the paddle steamer was mostly for the slaves. Blood ran down the deck from the gladiatorial arena. There were more gunshots. They sounded as if they were coming from the slave quarters. Sabin rounded the corner onto the blood-slick gladiatorial area. Two guards, rifles at the ready, crouched by the thick door to the quarters, a third lay on the deck missing a face. As he appeared they turned, detecting movement. The muzzle flash lit up the humid night, the thunder of the shotgun echoed once, twice amongst the cypress trees that lined the banks. The two guards stumbled back, falling to the deck. A bullet whistled past Sabin’s neck, catching his hair, he swore as he felt the heat of the bullets passing and spun around. There were uniformed Confederate riflemen on the deck of the Redeemer firing at him. Sabin cried out as splinters from a bullet impact opened up his cheek. He yanked the door to the slave quarters open and threw himself inside.

  It took him a moment to take in the situation. Two dead guards. Doc either dead or senseless on the floor next to his table, which was dripping with fresh blood. The remaining slaves were out of the cages and gathering the guards’ weapons as well as the gladiatorial weapons. Spiculus had Sigrid by the neck, her feet a good four feet off the floor.

  “Let her go now!” Sabin said, pointing the shotgun at the ogre. The escaped slaves all turned to stare at him. This would get messy if they rushed him. One of the African-descended human slaves levelled a guard’s coach gun at him. “I’ll spread your brains all over the ceiling if you don’t let her down right now!”

  Sigrid held up her hand,
gesturing to Sabin not to fire. Sabin heard footsteps behind him and moved out of the way as the door swung open. The orc fired one of the stolen coach guns and the first guard was blown backwards through the door and into the guard behind him. The orc took a shotgun blast to the chest for his troubles. Sabin squeezed the trigger on his shotgun. The pellets, at point blank range, took most of the top of another guard’s head off. A pistol fired and another guard dropped. Sabin let the empty shotgun drop on its sling and fast drew one of the Colt Armys, fanning the hammer, firing the revolver in quick succession three times. A fourth guard staggered back and fell to the ground. No more were in evidence. Sabin drew the other .45 and cocked both the revolvers with his thumbs, pointing one at Spiculus and another in the general direction of the slaves.

  “Let her go please!” Sabin was all but begging. “I know you might not think it, I know you can’t trust someone with skin this colour, but we fight each other and the guards and we’ll all get killed.” Then he noticed that Sigrid, who was still being held up by Spiculus was holding her .41 calibre Colt Lightning pistol in her right hand. She’d shot one of the guards whilst Spiculus had been strangling her. The ogre lowered her to the floor almost gently and then let her go. Sigrid massaged her neck.

  “I had it handled,” she managed hoarsely after several attempts.

  “Oh I’m sorry, honey,” Sabin snapped as he holstered one of the Colts so he could reload the other. “This isn’t a rescue, we’re just running a little behind and I thought I’d come and ask you to hurry up.”

  The big ogre was just staring down at the much smaller elven woman. The other slaves seemed to be looking at Spiculus for leadership despite the fact they had been due for slaughter at his hands up until a few minutes ago. Sigrid recovered her shotgun and handed Spiculus some pamphlets.

  “Can any of you read?” A couple of the slaves nodded. “This has got directions to find people who can help you, but you can’t let it fall into anyone else’s hands, so remember what you need and then destroy it, okay. Take the other slaves with you if you can.” The big ogre just looked at her.

  “It’s okay, take your time,” Sabin said, reloading the shotgun with three new shells and then snapping it shut. He was sure they were blown. Bourbonne’s people had to be in the engine room by now.

  “Spiculus?” Sigrid asked.

  “Dijon,” the big ogre said, his voice was surprisingly high pitched.

  “Tebrin,” Sigrid said, telling the ogre her real name. Sabin stared at her.

  “Why don’t you just take out an advert in the Picayune?” the male elf demanded.

  “Like the mustard?” Sigrid asked Dijon, ignoring Sabin.

  “Like the place in France,” Doc said. Sabin felt the barrel of the cap-and-ball pistol against his head, heard the hammer pulled back. Sigrid was already moving. “Darlin’ I will turn his head into a doughnut if you don’t get still real quick.” Sigrid froze.

  “A what?” she asked.

  “It’s an American thing, fried dough... never mind it has a hole in the middle,” Sabin tried to explain. The ogre turned to face the doctor. Sabin kept on glancing at the door but he couldn’t hear if anyone was outside over the sounds of panic and the constant bell ringing. He thought he heard someone shouting orders in the distance, however. A few of the slaves were moving, the guard’s revolvers in hand, trying to get a clear shot at Doc. Sabin wasn’t sure he liked that as an idea either.

  “This your doing?” Doc asked.

  “Yes,” Sabin said.

  “You’re not abolitionists, are you? You’re common crooks,” Doc said.

  “There’s nothing common about us, darling,” Sigrid said. “And so you know, anything happens to him I’ll make you suffer before you die.” Doc nodded in understanding.

  “Freeing the slaves was just a happy aside,” Sabin said.

  “A diversion you mean?” Doc asked.

  “Well it’s not turning out so well.”

  “So innocent people get put in danger so you can get richer?”

  “The only innocent people on this boat didn’t have any choice in coming aboard,” Sigrid spat.

  “And their wives and their kids?” Doc asked. Sabin wondered when he’d stopped caring about things like this. He just stared at the door, wondering when the next armed guard would come through it. Was Red already dead?

  “Come on, Doc, you don’t seem the type to condone this,” Sabin said.

  “Ever wondered what happens to these boys you’re freeing when the slave catchers and the bounty hunters catch up with them?” Doc asked. “Or did you just make that decision for them yourself?”

  Sabin opened his mouth to reply and then closed it again.

  “That’s not a good reason for inaction,” Sigrid pointed out.

  “I will leave many slave catchers dead in my wake, more of them than the slaves I killed,” Dijon said quietly. The orcs and the Africans were nodding in agreement. “They will not take me again.”

  Sabin breathed a sigh of relief as Doc lowered the hammer on the pistol and removed the barrel from the elf’s head. The old human went back to the blood-stained table and poured himself another glass of whiskey and knocked it back.

  “We’re not all like this you know,” he said. “Go on, get out of here.”

  They went along the other side of the paddle steamer this time, staying away from the approaching CSS Redeemer and its riflemen. It sounded as if the passengers were being kept in the saloon, guarded by the majority of the gunmen and women to keep them safe from the slaves whilst they determined if the Pride of Jupiter was on fire, or sinking. Sabin and Sigrid reached the door to the engine room.

  “They have to have gone down there by now,” Sabin said. Sigrid nodded but they had little choice. Morally freeing the slaves had been a good idea, practically he was less sure. “Still, no good deed goes unpunished.”

  “It wasn’t a good deed. It was supposed to be a diversion, remember,” Sigrid muttered. Sabin wasn’t quite sure how to respond so he turned the lever on the engine room’s door and pushed it open. The pair of them were down the steps quickly, shotguns at the ready. They found a vastly overconfident Bourbonne with a long nosed, Colt Bluntline Special clapped to Red’s head. The grimy, hunchbacked dwarf was down on his knees looking sorry for himself. The elven tycoon looked angry. The revenant was stood next to Bourbonne. The engineers and the slaves were nowhere to be seen.

  “Oh you’re gonna’ pay,” Bourbonne said, shouting to be heard over the roar of the engines, his accent slipping a little. “Put the shotguns down, now!”

  “After you’ve told us we’re going to pay?” Sabin said. “That would seem unwise.”

  “Okay,” Sigrid said and put her shotgun down on the metal catwalk.

  “You too!” Bourbonne all but screamed at him.

  “You need to remember something,” Sabin told him.

  “What’s that?” Bourbonne demanded.

  “You shoot the dwarf and your little empire here, sinks.”

  “You’d best do like your lady friend did!” Bourbonne screamed. He didn’t seem particularly rational, which would explain why he wasn’t down here with his remaining gunmen. He was taking this personally. Besides, he’d probably underestimated Sigrid.

  “She only put the shotgun down so she could do this,” Sabin said. Sigrid fast drew the Colt Lightning, fanned the hammer to cock it, and fired from the hip. The revenant went for both his Le Mat revolvers, he was fast but Sabin already had his shotgun in his hands. The elf fired, moving sideways. Bourbonne cried out as Sigrid’s shot caught him in the shoulder. A cloud of dust and black river sand exploded out of the back of the revenant as Sabin’s shotgun blast hit it. Red cried out as a stray pellet grazed the side of his head. Bourbonne was moving, running for cover behind some of the engine room’s machinery. Sigrid cocked the Lightning and took a moment to aim before firing the revolver again. There was a cry from Bourbonne and he went down behind one of the massive pistons. Sabin was
moving sideways as he fired the second barrel of his shotgun. The revenant seemed to jump back in another explosion of black sand and dust but he was still on his feet, aiming one of the .42 revolver/20-gauge shotgun hybrid pistols at Sabin and the other at Sigrid. Muzzle flashes lit up the engine room’s interior as the revenant fired at the same time as Sabin. There was a horrible scraping noise and the paddle steamer rocked as though it had collided with something. Sabin was aware of water spraying out of the hole where the Crab had breached the paddle steamer’s flat bottom. Sabin’s shotgun blast caught the revenant in the upper arm, reducing his black trench coat to frayed tatters as it marched towards them firing. The revenant’s shot sparked off machinery next to where Sabin’s head had been. Sabin ran down the narrow catwalk between two of the massive pistons. He was aware of Sigrid doing something similar on the other side of the engine room. The revenant reached the catwalk junction and fired his pistols at each of them just as Sabin reached the corner closest to the hull. He cried out as one of the .42 calibre bullets creased his shoulder, forcing him to drop the empty shotgun and sending him staggering into the hull. He threw himself around the corner, drawing the two Colt Armys. The revenant was following him. Sabin sped up. The unliving might have been fast on the draw but it moved as if it was in no hurry, and he didn’t think it was terribly bright. He ran back to the central catwalk and circled behind the revenant. The unliving realised what he was doing and started to turn. Sabin thumbed the handles on the Colts, firing one and then the other, advancing on the revenant, aiming for its head, or more specifically its mouth. The unliving staggered with every shot but it still advanced on Sabin, raising the two Le Mats, flipping the lever on the hammer with its thumb and firing the central 20-gauge shotgun barrels at near point blank range. Sabin cried out as buckshot caught him in the upper right hand side of his chest, and tore off the left hand side of his face. He dropped both of the empty revolvers, his right arm useless now. Somehow through the pain he had the presence of mind to draw one of the Siblings with his left arm and hammer it into the revenant’s right-hand wrist. The hand axe drove the undead’s hand against the machinery and nearly severed it from the wrist. The revenant hit Sabin in the face with the butt of the Le Mat revolver in its other hand, breaking the elf’s nose, making him feel instantly nauseous and causing him to see flashes of light. Sabin sat down hard. The revenant worked the lever on the big revolver’s hammer again and lowered the weapon to finish off the elf. The shotgun blast nearly decapitated the revenant, disintegrating its jaw, sending the reanimating hydra’s tooth flying across the engine room. The headless revenant sank to its knees. Sigrid was standing behind it, her retrieved shotgun smoking.