The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  “Isambard?”

  “You are mistaken,” a voice rasped close to his ear. Nicholas leapt back, just as Jacques brought up his lantern and slammed the metal bracket across his face. Reeling, Nicholas cracked his spine against the metal ladder. He kicked out with his boot, but he was disoriented and the blow glanced off Jacques’ shoulder.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” said Jacques, and Nicholas heard the slice of a rapier being drawn.

  He had no time to fetch his own sword, still sitting on the floor next to Brigitte, so Nicholas let go of the ladder and flung himself at Jacques. The Frenchman fell backward, hitting the grating with a crack, Nicholas’ full weight bearing down on top of him. Jacques’ lantern clattered across the grating.

  Nicholas pinned Jacques’ sword arm with his knee and slammed his fist into the Frenchman’s face. He felt no fear at all, no anger, only an odd sense of calm, as if he were merely a spectator to the fight instead of a participant. Jacques tried to rock his body over to free his arm, but Nicholas landed another blow to the side of his head and he slumped back down.

  Something moved behind Nicholas on the grating. “I’ll grab the sword!” Brigitte cried, rushing to his side and grabbing Jacques’ arm.

  “No! Go back!”

  He turned and saw her prying Jacques’ fingers from the hilt, but as he turned, his weight shifted, allowing Jacques to free his left arm and land a blow on Nicholas’ cheek.

  Brigitte stomped on Jacques’ wrist with the heel of her boot, and he howled. Nicholas felt his arm slacken and knew without turning that Brigitte had freed the sword. He pinned both Jacques’ arms again, and landed another blow across his face before he heard more footsteps clanging across the grating.

  How foolish I’ve been. Of course Jacques wouldn’t come here alone.

  Hands grabbed him, pulled him up, away from Jacques, whose cries of pain turned into peals of laughter. He shouted a warning to Brigitte. She stood her ground, sword raised, eyes defiant, but though she swung and thrust and opened a deep cut across a man’s cheek, other men closed in around her and overpowered her with ease.

  Nicholas struggled against his captors, but it was no use. They wrenched his arms tightly around him, and he watched, helpless, as Jacques — blood gushing from his nose — yanked the sword from Brigitte’s grasp and held it to her throat. She whimpered as the blade pressed against her skin.

  “Leave her be,” Nicholas cried. “She has no part in this. It’s me you want.”

  “Ah,” said Jacques, smiling, and Nicholas’ blood turned cold. “And by your very admission, Monsieur Thorne, I conclude she is exactly the person I want. Does not our situation here seem familiar to you? It does to me. Two years ago you murdered my wife — the woman who was carrying my child. I held her in my arms and felt the life drain out of her, while you ran into the forest like the coward you are. And so, tonight, I will murder the woman you love, and you too will know the pain I’ve lived with ever since.”

  He spoke to his men in French, and they grabbed Brigitte’s limbs and pinned her to the grating, her arms and legs spread wide. With a slash of his blade Jacques split open her dress. Brigitte screamed, but he silenced her with a slap so hard it jerked her head right back. Nicholas’ eyes met hers, and he saw his own fear reflected there.

  Nicholas gathered his strength, kicking and thrashing against the men who held him, but they did not loosen their grip. Memories flashed before him — another woman he loved, another life he had not been able to save. Jacques raised the sword high above his head, the blade glinting in the dim lamplight.

  “No!” Rage burnt in Nicholas’ limbs, and his vision darkened with spots of red. His anger welled in his stomach, growing larger until it took over every limb, every pore, until it pushed out all other thoughts.

  And, when his mind was clear, the mind of something else entered his body.

  The thoughts slammed into his with such force his whole body jerked forward. The rage disappeared, replaced by a burning hunger that seemed to squeeze his muscles, wringing every shred of strength from him. His vision swirled and changed, the colours disappearing, replaced by a flowing, bubbling mass of wafting scents and energy. As he looked again at Jacques, he no longer saw the man who had hunted him for two years, a man who at this moment raised a sword to his beloved Brigitte.

  He saw dinner.

  Nicholas could only stare through the eyes that weren’t his, a stranger in his own body, as the mind inside him pushed, pressed against some invisible force. Jacques drew the sword higher. Brigitte screamed.

  The gangway lurched to the right, and Jacques — arm in the air, mouth open in silent surprise — fell back against the railing. Two giant rows of teeth clamped around his body, as a dragon rose up from the depths of the Wall to meet him. His leg exploded in a geyser of blood, and his sword clattered over the edge.

  Jacques’ scream echoed from every metal surface. The men holding Nicholas cried out, slackening their grip as they took in the horrid scene.

  As quickly as it had come upon him, the dragon’s mind left Nicholas, expelling with it the gleeful rapture to hunt. He fell to his knees, his head devoid of thought, his body without sensation.

  The dragon swung his head up again, bones cracked, and the scream was cut off abruptly. The men seemed frozen, unsure of what to do. With a final heave, Nicholas freed himself and took a step across the swinging platform toward Brigitte.

  Brigitte got on her knees and crawled across the grating — now slick with Jacques’ blood — to collect Nicholas in her arms. The scent of her — warm with sweat, and very much alive — slowly brought him back from the blur of his thoughtlessness. He clasped her to him and pulled her down, shielding her body with his in case the dragon should return for another meal.

  Jacques’ men, their confusion giving way to terror, fled back the way they’d come, only to find the corridor blocked with Isambard and two of his Boilers, short hoses attached to their blow-off valves. Isambard reached behind and pulled a lever, and a shower of scalding water met the men, sending two of them sailing over the crumpled railings to meet their deaths twenty feet below. The dragon growled, snapped its teeth, and the men no longer screamed.

  One man remained twitching on the grating, his chest, arms, and the right side of his face turning as the scalding water worked its way through his skin. His screams resonated around the chamber, like some horrifying spectacle of industrial worship. Isambard stepped over his writhing body, and the Boilers simply rolled over him, mangling his corpse into a bloody pulp.

  The Presbyter’s face appeared before Nicholas, his mouth drawn in concern. Isambard’s hand — always impossibly cold, despite the heat in the room — cupped Nicholas’ forearm. “Go back up the ladder to the room,” he said. “The Boilers will take care of our friends here.”

  After helping a shaking Brigitte up the ladder, Nicholas clambered back up himself, his thoughts slowly returning, and the full horror of what he’d just seen finally reaching him. The way that dragon had risen up from deep in the Wall, filling his mind and body with its malice. The sensation of feeling what it felt as it closed in on its meal. The sound it made as its teeth closed around Jacques.

  “Great Conductor be praised you both are safe,” said Isambard, swinging himself up the ladder after them. “I’m only sorry I didn’t arrive sooner.”

  “You arrived perfectly on time,” Brigitte said, gathering her torn skirts around herself and burying her head in Nicholas’ chest.

  “I brought you that blade for a reason,” Isambard said, pointing to the rapier still lying in its scabbard against the wall of the room. “You should’ve guessed he’d come down here after you.”

  “But how could he know we were here?”

  The Presbyter’s eyes darkened. “Stephenson has been helping him, which means Jacques had access to the extensive network of Navvy spies operating throughout London. One of them would’ve seen Buckland bring you here, or me coming to find you.”
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br />   “And the dragon? Why are you keeping a dragon inside the Wall?”

  “He was a present from Quartz and the Stokers in the swamps. The King wishes only to keep the dragons out of the city. But I wanted to understand why they desired to come here in the first place. If the Council caught wind of my experiments, it would be the end of me, so I hired Buckland and set up workshops inside the Wall, so he might conduct his experiments without interruption—”

  “What experiments? Why the sudden interest in biology?”

  Isambard smiled. “Your friend Buckland once said something that stuck with me — that if man ever wanted to create the perfect machine, he had only to look toward a living body. The intricate workings of vessels and veins, the heart like a great bellows, pumping blood around the body, the reactions and behaviours of the four humors … these are machines created by the Gods. If I can understand them, think of what I too can create.”

  Nicholas crossed the room and shone the lamp into the corner. “There’s a vent here,” he said. “And this goes out across the gangway and down to the floors below. Your dragon must have caught the scent of men from his pen.” He pressed his hand against his temple, remembering the sensation of the dragon inside him, but one look at Brigitte’s tearful face and Isambard’s glazed, faraway look told him it was not yet time to reveal his secret.

  A bang and crash outside revealed the dragon was still wandering around under the gangway. Isambard picked up the sword and made to return down the ladder. “I must see to my dragon,” he said. “The cages will need reinforcing.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Presbyter,” sniffed Brigitte. “But we’ve had quite a fright, between our fight with Jacques and that dragon … all that blood .… But now there’s no question Jacques is gone. I wonder if you think it safe for Nicholas to return to his home?”

  “Of course,” he offered his hand to her. “I forget, sometimes, that there are more pressing matters than my engineering projects. With Jacques dead, Stephenson has no argument against you — at least, not one that will hold up in court. He certainly won’t risk the lives of any of his Navvies. I will have two Boilers watch your lodgings — did I tell you they can now be set to perform basic guard duties? — and you should be safe in the city.”

  ***

  James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

  I crouched in one of the sculpted flower beds that lined the road leading to the King Henry VIII gate. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and a crisp breeze rustled through the leaves. Fresh dew dripped onto my trousers, much rumpled from my night’s sleep on the scullery floor. Beside me, little Cassandra held my hand tightly, her breath coming out in nervous gasps. Rebecca clutched my other hand, her warm fingers stroking my palm.

  “I see him,” Miss Julie said, from the branches on the other side of me. “Quiet now, we mustn’t alert him to our presence.”

  A night sleeping next to the cellar door and listening to the snarling below had convinced me I could not have escaped that way, but Miss Julie’s plan was no less foolhardy. “A farmer from the village comes every morning at 5am,” she explained as she roused me from my fitful sleep. “He brings a delivery of fresh blood from the abattoir, stored in barrels to prevent suspicion. The blood feeds the Sunken, though they are never sated. That is why they snap and snarl so, all day and night. The farmer unloads the barrels and loads the empties, then leaves by the same entrance. But tomorrow when he passes through the gates, we shall all be hiding inside the barrels.”

  “But why would they feed the Sunken on this, of all mornings?”

  “You don’t know the strength of them! If they’re not fed before they’re moved to the train, they’ll tear apart the carriages before they’re even out of the station,” Miss Julie said. “I heard the Prime Minister place this morning’s order with my own ears. Hurry, we don’t want to be late!”

  Her original plan had relied on her either bribing or threatening the man into allowing them to hide amongst the barrels. Having met Miss Julie, I could immediately see that she had great skill in both these areas. But with me joining their party, we now had another option.

  “Here he comes,” Cassandra whispered, squeezing my hand.

  The wheels rolled past, slowing as they rounded the corner toward the castle. Miss Julie sprang up, and raced after him.

  Seconds later, I heard the thud of a familiar rolling pin, and something warm and heavy was pushed down beside me. Miss Julie and her girls worked quickly, tossing the unfortunate man’s garments into my arms. “Quickly now.” Hands yanked at my sleeves and grabbed at my buttons.

  I pulled on the man’s coarse clothing, bundling my lieutenant’s jacket into his satchel and covering it with his paper-wrapped lunch. I left my other clothing items in the garden, and climbed up on the footplate. My three passengers had already concealed themselves inside the barrels. It was up to me to drive them from the grounds without attracting suspicion.

  And therein lay the plan’s greatest flaw. I’d never driven a carriage in my life, nor indeed even ridden a horse, and to begin now, a blind man charged with rescuing not just himself but three plucky ladies who’d placed their lives in his charge, had me paralysed in fear. I sat for some minutes, the reins slack in my hands, the horses snorting in impatience, wondering how I could possibly manoeuvre the carriage through the garden complex without attracting suspicion.

  “Mr. Holman, you really must get a move on.” The muffled voice of Miss Julie from the barrel behind me jolted me out of my stupor.

  “Of course, of course.” I clenched my fists over the reins and pulled them toward me. The horses sprang to life, jerking the carriage forward so hard I nearly slipped from the bench. Steadying myself, I held the reins loose in my fingers, focusing on the tugging as the horses trotted away.

  “Steady now,” said Miss Julie from inside her barrel. “If we dash away the guards will think something’s amiss.”

  I found the clop of the horses’ hooves against the wide path served the same purpose as the tap of my walking stick, and I managed to navigate down the path toward the gate without running over the flowerbeds. I was just beginning to enjoy myself when Miss Julie hissed at me to stop the carriage.

  “We’ve reached the gate,” she said. “A guard is approaching on your right.”

  Panic rose in my throat as I pulled the reins up, bringing the horses to an abrupt halt. Heavy footsteps approached the carriage, and I felt the weight shift on the axles as a man leaned against the footplate.

  “What do you think you’re doing, aye, chappy?” barked a Royal Guard. Stray droplets of spittle splattered against my cheek. I fought to keep my voice calm as I spoke my answer. “I’m returning these barrels to the abattoir—”

  “Not today you ain’t. No one leaves the castle grounds. That’s a direct order.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll draw this sword on ye if I have to.”

  “Lieutenant Robbins, what seems to be the trouble?”

  All the swagger left his voice as he replied, “Nothing, sir. This man, sir, he wants to leave the castle grounds.”

  “Well, is he a servant of the King or isn’t he?”

  “I’m a farmer,” I cut in. “I deliver barrels from the abattoir every morning, and I’m returning—”

  “Let him through,” the officer barked. I let out the breath I was holding.

  As I bent down to pick up the reins, the officer’s voice rasped close to my ear. “When you’re outside, give those horses hell, do y’hear? Don’t stop no matter who comes after ye. I aim to save one life at least today.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I picked up the reins and drove the horses forward, listening to the clop of their hooves against the cobbles. I sensed the great arch of the gate and we drove under it, then the turn in the road as we passed over the threshold of the castle and continued down the hill.

  “Are we outside?” came a muffled voice from behind me.

  “Ssssh!” I strained my ears to listen. The gate hadn�
�t been locked. I could hear the soldiers arguing. I drove the horses into a trot.

  “We need to turn right at the—”

  The thunder of hooves erupted from the gate behind me, followed by the clap of a cannon that landed on the road beside the carriage, cracking the cobbles and starting the horses into a run. I grabbed the reins and gripped them tightly, and behind me Cassandra screamed as the carriage tore around the corner at speed. Two of the empty barrels tumbled out and crashed against the ground.

  Hooves beat toward us, single riders, probably cavalrymen with rifles and sabers. They would overtake us easily. Another cannonball buckled the ground beside us, and my own horses squealed in protest and careened off the path. We bounced over green lawn, and I gripped the reins as tightly as I could. I had lost all control — we were completely at the mercy of the horses.

  Miss Julie threw off the lid of her barrel. “They’re gaining on us!” she cried. “Quick, toward the village. If we dump the carriage we may lose them in the crowds. Cassandra, Rebecca, get out of those barrels.”

  My teeth clattered together as we rumbled over the rough ground. We rattled over a steep drop and landed hard on a cobbled road, the wagon groaning in protest. Men yelled obscenities at us as they swerved their vehicles to avoid a collision. Miss Julie clambered in next to me and tore the reins from my hands.

  Hooves pounded on either side of the carriage. I heard a swoosh as a blade hissed through the air, missing my head by inches. I pulled myself down, pressing my head against the dasher, hoping Miss Julie could keep us on the road.

  Our carriage swerved hard right, and a horse cried out in pain as our wheels collided with its flanks. I heard the crunch as the rider was thrown to the ground. “Sterling work, Miss Julie!” I cried. That only left one more soldier, the man who swung his sword wildly, and who now drew up beside us for another swing.