The Rail Pirates_A Steampunk Novella Series

by Ed Zenith

  The Crimson Blade

  Episode II: The Rail Pirates

  By Ed Zenith

  © Word Nerd Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  Before We Begin4

  About the Author 4

  Other Works include:4

  1.5

  2.9

  3.15

  4.23

  5.26

  6.31

  7.37

  8.40

  9.43

  10.45

  11.54

  12.63

  13.68

  Want more?78

  Before you go...79

  Before We Begin

  Thanks for downloading this ebook.

  For more information on stories by Ed Zenith, click the link in the back of this ebook to sign up to his mailing list

  About the Author

  Ed Zenith is a multi-genre writer residing in the South West of England and living in his own mind.

  Find him at https://edzenith.wordpress.com/

  Or on Twitter: http://twitter.com/edzenithwrites

  Other Works include:

  The Crimson Blade (A Steampunk Novella Series):

  The Providence Engine

  The Rail Pirates

  It All Ends Here

  Cyberkillers (Techno Novella Series)

  Creation 1.0

  Cerebrum Validis

  1.

  Ash slept soundly, dreaming of explosions, freedom and hope. In the dream, Drew was alive and they ran free together on the Downs, laughing and playing as boys should. Then suddenly dream turned to nightmare as Iron Acton appeared, huge and menacing, angry with them for trespassing on his land. He strung them up and used hot coals to repeatedly singe their ankles…

  Ash woke with a jolt, the pain of the coals still felt on his feet. He wrenched himself up to examine the cause of the pain, knowing that the dream could not have caused any real feeling. Sitting up, he saw a small scruffy white and brown old dog, chewing at the leather of his boots, nipping his ankles. Ash cried out involuntarily. The dog was small, but looked as though it was more than capable of doing harm. Ash’s yelp caught the dog’s attention and the beast’s only instinct was to attack. It leapt up onto Ash’s chest, forcing him down on to the floor and remained there, growling and yapping, teeth bared.

  Ash was scared witless. His only previous experience of dogs was the vicious steam hounds at the Home and his reaction was to scream once more and freeze, fearful that the small animal might lunge for his throat. The two sat staring at each other. Ash began to try to formulate a plan of escape, but could not move past the image of his gullet being ripped in two.

  Just then a hand came from the side of Ash’s vision and plucked the dog from his chest. Thankful and yet still petrified, Ash looked up to the man standing over him.

  “What’s you playin’ at then?” cried the man in a loud voice. He was old, his skin wrinkled and tanned, with a small tuft of white hair on top of his mostly bald head. He wore dungarees and a shirt, which might have once been white, but was now filthy with coal, soot and oil. He looked more shocked than angry, but still frightened Ash, especially as he still held the drooling mutt in his hands.

  “Come on, what’s your game then, eh?”

  Ash gulped and managed to find his voice.

  “Please Sir, no games or playing Sir. I was just-”

  The dog barked, causing Ash to jump and shuffle back further, to the back of the cabin. The man saw the fear in Ash and clamped his hand over the dog’s muzzle, silencing it. He spoke again, his tone now quieter, softer.

  “S’alright boy. Just want to know what you’s doing way out here, s’all. You gave us a fright, lying on the tracks like that. Lucky it weren’t any darker, or I wouldn’t have seen you.”

  Ash’s fear began to subside, but he still had to be careful. He was, after all, on the run.

  “I slipped. Hit my head.” He reached to his temple, which he found bandaged.

  “You’s been out of it all night. We brought you up to the cabin, make you a bit more comfy like.”

  The old man placed the dog on the floor, tapped it once on the nose and said:

  “He’s alright. Leave him be.”

  The dog now sat contentedly, idly sniffing the air, unconcerned about Ash’s presence.

  “It…it won’t go for me?” stuttered Ash.

  “He won’t, no. Studley knows a good’un when I tell him. As long as you is honest, hmm?”

  “Yes Sir. Shall I go?”

  This seemed to warrant some thought on the old man’s part and he took his time, fishing a pipe out of his pocket and lighting it before he came spoke again.

  “No. Better not. Gaffer’d better hear of this.”

  “Gaffer?”

  “Him that owns this ‘ere beauty. Come on. He’ll want to know who’s been a guest for the night.”

  *****

  The man jumped from the cab down to the ground in one leap, his energy and flexibility belying his age. The dog leapt too, following obediently behind. Ash took the steps and looked around him, flexing his twisted ankle, which was sore, but would heal. It was a light but misty early morning, a thick fog lying heavy on the Downs. He considered running for it, but the low visibility meant that he would be running blind and the old man seemed harmless enough. He followed the dog along the track. Behind the engine was a trailer carrying fuel for the journey and behind that was a carriage, once grand and luxurious, now tired and old, with paint peeling from the side and wood rotting around the windows. The man stopped at the steps and waited for Ash to climb up to the carriage. Ash entered through the door and found himself in what seemed to be a living area, with a battered chaise longue and a wobbly standard lamp, fittings left over from the carriage’s previous incarnation. A desk sat to one side, with an account book open on the top, filled with scribbles and numbers that didn’t make any sense. Stuffed in a corner was a grand old trunk which caught Ash’s eye. It was large with robust fittings and locks, made of tarnished iron with patterns and shapes which seemed to swirl in and out of one another in a mind-bending way. The whole area had the air (and smell) of a place which was used frequently and cleaned rarely. A make-shift curtain was strung up behind all of this and Ash could make out some beds behind it. The old man passed by him and before stepping through the curtain, said something that struck fear into Ash’s heart.

  “You stay there lad and I’ll fetch Master Acton.”

  2.

  Christian Malford walked with trepidation through the darker, more dangerous streets of Swindon, dodging puddles of sludgy brown rainwater (at least, he hoped it was rainwater) and avoiding eye contact with the locals. It was fair to say that he did not fit in and he would be the first to admit it. Usually he would send a lower-ranked equerry to do his dirty work, but he couldn’t begin to explain to his subordinate that they were to go to a secret hideout in a secret location to deliver a restricted mission to a group of men, who for official reasons, did not exist.

  The Kings Regiment of Uncontrollable Mercenaries (KRUM) was formed under the reign of Henry VIII, where they were required to carry out covert and deniable missions on behalf of the crown. They were the cream of the British Military, considered not only exceptional in their field, but also quite ruthless. They did not respond well to the confines of army life and did not take orders well from stuffy Generals. All in all, the Regi
ment was a slap-dash affair and Malford had no idea how the Crown continued to pay for a group of unreliable thugs. They had their uses, he supposed, such as getting rid of annoying bishops.

  He came to a railway bridge and went to an unmarked door in the arches below the tracks. He knocked; three times, then once, then twice and waited, hoping that he’d remembered their special code correctly. He waited a little longer and then started to hammer on the door impatiently until it opened. A young, plump man with curly red hair answered with a grin.

  “Alright chief? What can we do you for?”

  “Finally. If you’ll let me in, I have orders from Her Majesty.”

  The plump man grinned, as if still waiting for an answer to his question.

  “Let me in please, there’s a good chap.”

  Again, nothing from the red haired gentleman. Malford began to worry if there was some pre-arranged password he’d forgotten.

  “Hmm? Sorry chief, I got things to do. Why don’t you come in instead of standing about there all silent like?”

  Malford stepped inside and followed the curious man down some steps. Unlike other railway arches, the ground below had been hollowed out to make KRUM HQ, a large open area that contained the sleeping quarters, training base, armoury and mess of the regiment. Malford reached the bottom of the steps and looked around. The red haired gentleman was walking off towards some sort of laboratory, where liquids dripped and bubbled in their flasks.

  “Ah, Mr Malford! I had no idea you were expected.”

  The voice came from a man wearing a wearing a fine pinstripe suit that Malford recognised as being tailored by the upmarket Old Sodbury’s Haberdashers in Swindon. He remembered this man from previous dealings. His name was Marston Meysey; KRUM’s second in command and someone Malford could get on with. Rumour had it, among the few people that knew about the Regiment, that Meysey had been educated at Eton, before being disowned by his father after his mother died when he was just fifteen. He had never been sure of his parentage, his father swearing he had never been truly certain that Marston was his own son. His upbringing in an aristocratic family and subsequent living on the streets in London meant he was well-placed to lead a double life as a spy in the service of Her Majesty. He had a handsome face that had been weathered a little through years of Eton boxing matches and London street brawls. He was also, Malford noted, charm personified.

  “Let me take your coat. Did Private Thrubwell let you in?”

  Malford shrugged out of his thick woollen coat. “Yes. Is he quite alright?”

  “Of course. You’ll have to excuse him, he’s a trifle deaf. One too many explosives I suppose and between you and me, he’s a tad simple. He’s an absolute genius when it comes to explosives though.”

  Malford looked over to the laboratory, where Thrubwell was working away, deep in concentration. “What’s he up to there?”

  “Very exciting actually,” said Meysey. “He thinks he’s developed a non-lethal explosive. See those two test tubes? If he mixes Iron Kethlide with Corethic Acid, the resulting reaction should create a vapour that would knock anyone in a ten yard radius unconscious. He calls it his ‘Kiss from and Angel’.”

  “Remarkable,” said Malford. “Does it work?”

  “He’s yet to test it, but we’ve every confidence. Like I say, he’s a genius with explosives and quite a whizz in the kitchen too,” said Meysey. He turned to the laboratory and yelled at the top of his voice, startling Malford. “NEMPNETT! A CUP OF TEA FOR MR MALFORD PLEASE!”

  Thrubwell gave a grin and a thumbs up and turned, knocking over a stanchion and Bunsen burner. Malford winced.

  “Is that safe?”

  “Hmm? Oh yes, probably. We just let him get on with it.”

  “What happened to that other explosives expert you had? Tall chap?”

  “Ramsbury has passed away,” said Meysey in a quiet tone. “But he remains with us.”

  “Ah yes,” said Malford sombrely. “In your hearts.”

  “No, on the ceiling. There are still some stains that won’t come out.” Meysey pointed to a dark red patch above them. Malford looked up in horror. “You’ll be wanting the Captain of course. This way.”

  They walked through the headquarters past bunks and rows of weaponry. They passed an open training area, where two men were challenging each other.

  “Oh, this’ll be fun. Watch this,” said Meysey.

  The two men were identical. So this must be the infamous Wick brothers I’ve heard so much about, thought Malford. They were young, 19 or so, with short black hair and handsome features. They stood opposite each other, about ten yards apart, one with a revolver in a holster by his side, the other wielding an unruly looking sword. Each nodded at the other and in unison they lowered a blindfold over their eyes and turned three times on the spot.

  Malford cast a worried glance to Marston Meysey, who responded only with a grin and a finger pressed to his lips, shushing the equerry.

  The brothers began to silently circle the training area like blind gladiators. Neither made a sound as they placed their bare feet on the floor below them. The circling continued for a few more seconds, until the swordsman’s blade brushed a nearby pillar, sending out a tiny ‘clink’.

  The marksman spun, locating the noise in an instant. His right hand blurred by his hip and there was a flash of smoke followed a microsecond later by an ear-piercing bang. In the same instant, the swordsman turned and arched his body, slicing the sword in a downward stroke.

  Malford was immediately startled, his hands shooting up to cover his face. When he managed to look again, he found Meysey in the centre of the training area, applauding enthusiastically and bending to pick something up off the floor.

  “Very impressive gentlemen.”

  Malford stepped closer and looked at Meysey’s outstretched hand. In it were two lumps of misshapen lead.

  “Y-you mean to say…” stammered Malford. “He sliced a speeding bullet in half?” The three soldiers nodded proudly.

  “Mr Malford, this is Haydon, our swordsman and Badbury, our marksman.”

  The twins nodded in unison.

  “I win,” said Badbury.

  “How’d you work that out?” said Haydon.

  “I shot first.”

  “But I ain’t dead, so you don’t win.”

  “Well I didn’t lose!”

  The bickering continued and Meysey lead Malford away.

  “That argument will take a while.”

  They came finally to the mess, an aptly named corner of the headquarters. Five green leather armchairs surrounded a log fire and a healthily stocked drinks cabinet glinted in the firelight. Its cosiness was a far cry from the rest of the functional HQ, with its whitewashed walls and steel furniture. One of the chairs was facing the fire and from behind Malford could make out a body resting there. Marston Meysey stopped Malford with a light touch on the arm.

  “Captain?” Meysey coughed politely.

  No response.

  “Captain?”

  Again, no movement.

  “Fitz?”

  “Yes Marston,” replied a deep cockney accent.

  “Mr Malford is here to see you.”

  Meysey disappeared without a sound, leaving the meek Malford alone.

  “Really? Well that can mean only one thing.”

  The man rose from his chair and stood, towering above Malford at six and a half foot. His head was shaved completely bald and muscles nearly burst out of his white shirt. His expression was hard, a face that had seen a thousand battles and would never give up their secrets.

  “Her Majesty needs me.”

  Malford nodded nervously. The giant extended his hand in greeting.

  “Captain Stanton Fitzwarren, at your service.”

  3.

  Ash stood stock still as the old man disappeared from view behind the dividing curtain. Acton, he had said. Iron Acton? The infamous thief and scoundrel? Surely not. Yet this was a locomotive in the middle of nowhere, As
h reminded himself. One which obviously wasn’t used to visitors. The tracks they were on had been closed down years earlier, so no legitimate train would be on them. It had to be Iron Acton in that carriage, Rail Pirate of the West, which meant that Ash would have to make a run for it.

  He made one step towards the carriage door, but Studley, the tiny Jack Russell, sat in the doorway, making his presence known by a low and continuous growl. You’re going nowhere, the growl said. Ash tried to move, but his fear of the dog didn’t allow him.

  Ash stood, caught between a ruthless criminal and a drooling mutt. He didn’t take his eyes off the curtain in front of him, where a pair of silhouettes sat whispering over his fate. Slowly, the figures rose and the silhouette seemed to quadruple in size as the owner approached the curtain. Ash remembered all the old tales he had heard in the Home, describing Iron Acton; black pointed teeth, over seven foot tall, with muscles the size of Hampshire.

  It seemed a lifetime before the figures came to him. First the old man, who offered a friendly grin. The second figure came around the corner and Ash closed his eyes involuntarily, not wishing to frighten himself more by gazing upon the muscles that would eventually snap his spine in two.

  “Alright boy?” muttered a staccato west country accent.

  Ash opened his eyes to find that Iron Acton was not in the carriage. Instead there stood in front of him a rather stout man with short curly brown hair. He had a round podgy face highlighted by two dimples set into his cheeks, which were currently stuffed full of food like a hamster. A semi-eaten sausage sandwich hung loosely in one hand and he chewed the rest of it open mouthed. He wore two-thirds of a brown three piece suit. Ash saw the matching jacket stroon over a nearby chair.

  “Wha’s s’matter?” chewed the man. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “You answer Master Acton now lad,” encouraged the old man.

  So this was Iron Acton? The Iron Acton? Ash felt a mixture of emotions; relief that Acton was not the muscle bound monster of his tales, but also disappointment that his expectations had been dashed.