by Neil Enock
Then, for some inane reason, I blurt, “Don’t worry about the mail.”
The octopus starts. Its eyes flit over the mess of spilled bins, unopened sacks, and a small pyramid of letter bundles yet to be sorted. It tentatively flexes long, ropey arms.
One arm snakes out so fast it cracks like a bullwhip. With very fine suckers on the end, it seizes an oversized manila envelope. Moon-sized eyes zero in on the address, and, on the instant, the piece is flicked into a slot. With that, all eight arms start a purposeful writhing, and simultaneously eight letters find a cubbyhole. Faster and faster the arms move, as if each one is controlled by a separate brain, and each brain is twenty times faster than a human’s. The arms whirl so fast that they blur and hum like a hive of agitated bees, but never do they tangle or knot. They fan the cold air, now decidedly tainted with brine. Inside the whirligig arms, the central mass of the octopus spins like a mesmerizing top.
I’ll help with Halifax. Double promise. Super promise. On my mother’s grave.
If only his mother could see him now.
In fifteen minutes it’s all done. A quarter hour that would have taken two trained men several hours. Not a bloody paper clip is out of place.
Magic. Pure, God-awful sorcery.
But Salty is wheezing real bad. His octopus skin has a deathly, ashen gray pallor. He’s … dying.
Toooooot. Unless I miss my guess, the Ocean Limited just chugged through a busy crossing on the outskirts of Bedford. I glance out the windows and see a pallid, cheerless dawn. “Salty, hang on buddy, we’ll be slowing for Rockingham in just a couple of minutes.”
Thinking fast, I wrench open a back-door sticky with frost and, risking frostbite, scoop up handfuls of dry snow. I sprinkle the snow over Salty. It doesn’t melt, and I guess the miserable on-the-fritz heater is good luck now. Moisture and intense cold, they might make the difference. On the third trip, I glimpse between denuded maple trees a line of rusty cargo ships anchored in a line. Convoy ships on the Bedford Basin, readying to exit Halifax Harbor and transit to England. We’re nearly there.
“C’mon Salty, we only have five minutes once stopped.” It’s icky, clammy business, but I drape a few of Salty’s new arms over my shoulder and, with this improvised harness, start to shift him an inch at a time toward the rear door. My plan is to exchange mail in two seconds flat, oust Salty out the back, drag him over the snow to the Basin and get him in the freezing ocean.
From the Ocean Limited to the ocean. I giggle; that’s how far my nerves are gone.
Salty’s a dead weight, and I bless years of grueling RCAF morning calisthenics, the toughest drill on God’s green earth. I have him on the rear platform just as the train brakes for Rockingham station, which is hard by the Basin. Drawing ragged breaths, I rush to the front door just as the train shudders to a full stop. I fling out the Rockingham sacks, making all kinds of “no time, we’re well behind” comments. This is totally believable, and the guy below double times the process. Finished, I dash back toward the hind door which, as I said, is the last door on the train because some snafu nixed our caboose.
Only, Salty is not on the darned platform where I left him. He is about ten feet away, comfortably resting on the titanic shoulders of a nine-foot-tall Goliath. A more faint-hearted man would pass out dead on the spot, but after the last few hours I am immune to trauma.
The giant wears a gray mottled sealskin coat. Leggings and boots are tailored of a grainy, tough material, sharkskin perhaps. His gruff Jehovah-like beard is iceberg white, and his skin is colored a hard Royal Navy blue. Eyes are pure radiant silver, and they chill my spine, for they are otherworldly, far from human. To top it off, he wears a crown seemingly adorned with golden sea urchin spikes.
“Sa-S-Salty,” I stammer, because to say I am totally gobsmacked is an understatement.
The giant — is this Poseidon? — holds out an impatient blue hand. I’m at a loss, but then it hits me.
I run back inside and return with the half empty stone bottle, the source of all this craziness.
“Special Delivery. From Artemis,” I mumble.
Poseidon snatches it with ill grace. Without as much as a howdy-do, he about faces and strides for the Basin. He’s at the frozen shore within a dozen paces. He eerily sinks into the bone-chilling water with scarcely a ripple. From my poor vantage point I think I see Salty slip off the giant’s shoulders and tentatively bob on the surface. Then, in an energetic froth, he squirms off into the depths.
At least … at least he doesn’t have to worry about busted ankles anymore. That strangely cheers me.
The Ocean Limited jerks, starts rolling. Halifax station is not fifteen minutes off. Time enough for me to concoct a cover story.
“He just walked off the train in Rockingham. Made off with another ocean-going type of guy. I think he up and quit, sir. Gone AWOL.” The supervisor curses a blue streak, but does not seem at all surprised.
“He likely joined up with the Merchant Marine, went back to sea.”
“Went back to sea.” I nod in fervent agreement. “Truer words never spoken.”
—— « o » ——
Dwain Campbell
Dwain Campbell is originally from Sussex, New Brunswick. After his university years in Halifax, he journeyed east to begin a teaching career in Newfoundland. Thirty-six year later, he is semi-retired in St. John’s and studies folklore in his spare time. Contemporary fantasy is his genre of choice, and Atlantic Canada is a rich source of inspiration. He is author of Tales from the Frozen Ocean, and has contributed stories to Canadian Tales of the Fantastic, Tesseracts 17, and Fall into Fantasy 2018. Neil Gaiman is his hero of the moment, though he will reluctantly admit to a lifelong fascination with Stephen King.
The Cake Run
by Nick Svolos
Reddeth plucked a hunk of burning coal out of the firebox with a pair of tongs, lit his cheroot, and tossed it back. Fethro, the engineer, kept an eye on the engine’s gauges, his hands busy making adjustments, and still managed to glower his disapproval at Reddeth as the train powered into the downgrade.
The orc twitched his massive shoulders. “Beats stickin’ my head in there.”
The dwarf sneered, “Ain’t you got somewhere else to be, greenskin?”
“Yeah. But your boss is payin’ me to be here.” Reddeth levered his bulk up the ladder out of the engine and found a refreshingly dwarf-free spot on the tender to wait out the long, dull ride. Thick smoke and steam billowed past him, but he didn’t mind.
“Freekin’ dorfs,” he muttered. This wasn’t his sort of job, but insolvency had provided Reddeth with a powerful incentive to lower his standards. Low enough to babysit the weekly coal shipment from Mount Fumidor to Karith Dundol. Reddeth grimaced as the dwarfish names crossed his mind, making it itch. He wished there was a war going on. A way to make enough money to buy passage out of this Bog-forsaken country for someplace decent, with ceilings at a proper height. He’d had his fill of walking around in a stoop all the time.
Still, sitting up here in the sun, the wind whipping by and threatening to pluck away his cigar, he had to admit, this was easy money. It wasn’t like someone would actually rob a shipment of coal. The only enemies he had to worry about were boredom and the train’s crew. Dwarves weren’t much for the company of orcs, and the feeling was mutual. Too much bad blood. The bearded little runts loved to dwell on grievances, and his people had a talent for their manufacture.
To Reddeth, these guys all looked the same from the neck up, just grumpy masses of hair with noses and eyes sticking out. Half the time, he couldn’t even see that, just the bottom of a tankard. Their women weren’t much better.
About an hour later, nature called, so he took a walk down to the end of the train. From his position on the caboose’s roof, he found himself gazing at the sky behind them to pass the time.
Three dark pinpricks hung susp
ended in the pale blue of the sky. At first he thought he was just looking at a few hawks. Only, they weren’t in a gyre. Hawks don’t hover out here, do they? Naw, must be somethin’ else. Reddeth mulled this over and noticed another detail.
They were getting closer.
He squatted down and knocked on the roof. “Hey, Grayson, wake up down there. Ya see this?”
The brakeman called back, “What, you’re askin’ if I seen you pissing off my roof? You did a fine job. Hardly any splash back at all. Congratulations.”
“No, you idiot. Look at the sky.”
The three objects were close enough now that Reddeth could pick out a few details. Large wings, sharp little spikes sticking out from where the bones joined. Their bodies, muscular and reddish-gray, sported patches of thick black fur on their shoulders and atop their horned heads.
Nope, Reddeth thought, those ain’t hawks.
Grayson let out a dwarfish curse, loud and perverse, and shouted into his speaking tube, “Pick it up, Fethro, we got incomin’!”
Reddeth barely had time to brace himself before the engineer leaned on the throttle, pushing the train into headlong flight across the valley floor.
A burst of escaping smoke from the engine enveloped the orc, and he lost sight of their pursuers until it cleared. They were still coming, closing the distance to the racing train despite its increased speed.
Reddeth unlimbered his axe from the scabbard strapped to his back and spat out the long-dead cigar stub he’d been chewing on. “‘Bout time I got some zoggin’ entertainment.”
The lead creature seemed to have a death wish. As the trio got close enough, it tucked in its wings and dove at the train’s guardian, giving Reddeth a clear target for his axe. Too good to resist. Reddeth swung his weapon in a wide arc, aiming for the fool’s head, only to cleave air as the thing extended its wings, caught the draft, and let the wind pull it back out of reach. The orc recovered his balance in time to hear the other two creatures land on the coal car behind him. Their faces split into cruel grins as they tucked in their wings and advanced on him with taloned fists.
“Nice trick.” Reddeth adjusted his stance to account for the multiple attackers. “Smart. That means you got brains. Can’t wait to get a look at ‘em.”
The thing on his left spoke in a voice dark, low and vile. It made Reddeth want to wash his ears. “This is not your fight, orc.”
“Oh, so you’ll just let me be on my way, then? That it?”
“No. My master wants you to know that you’re dying for nothing.”
“It’s as good a reason as any.” Reddeth charged at the talkative one, drawing his axe up for a quick slash. The creature deftly hopped out of range, laughing.
The laugh’s on you, bub, Reddeth thought as he planted one boot on the lip of the caboose’s roof and hurled himself backward. He pulled the axe in, hard, and caught the third guy in the midsection with the hilt. Foul-smelling air burst from the creature’s lungs and he collapsed into a heap on the steel roof. Before the blasphemous thing could recover its senses, Reddeth solved that problem for him with a quick stroke. The creature’s head rolled off the side of the car while thick, black ichor spurted from its neck.
Mr. Talkative howled with rage and hurled itself at the orc, while its fellow tried to circle around to Reddeth’s flank. Talons lashed out at his face, and Reddeth ducked. Not quite fast enough. One of the claws dug an agonizing, burning furrow across the top of his bald scalp. Letting the pain spur him on, the orc jerked the axe head up, removing the offending arm at the elbow. The creature screamed and took to the air, clutching its stump.
“Guess I’ll have to start callin’ him Mr. Screamy.” Reddeth smiled at the last attacker, who seemed to be having second thoughts. “How ‘bout you, pal? Whatcha want on your tombstone? I’m thinkin’: Mr. Didn’t-know-when-he-was-beat.”
The final attacker extended his wings and fluttered off the train. “We’ll be back.”
Reddeth called after him, “Well, if that’s what you want, Mr. We’ll-be-back. But, I gotta warn you, it’s too jokey. People’ll think you went out tryin’ to get one last laugh. Comes off a little needy.”
He turned to the corpse on the car’s roof. Whatever it was, it was built for power, not beauty. If it still had its head, it would be about a match for Reddeth in terms of height and musculature. In addition to the clawed hands and wings, it had hooves, and sharp ones at that. Judging by the musculature of its legs, the creature could probably drive one through a guy’s chest if it had a mind to. Reddeth rolled it over onto its back for further inspection.
Grayson poked his head up from the brake car. “Is it over, then?”
“Yeah. Thanks for all your help.”
“Hey, they don’t pay me to fight.” He climbed the rest of the way up. “Great Digger, what the hell is that thing?”
“I was hopin’ you’d know.” The orc leaned in for a closer look, risked a sniff, and regretted it straight away. “Oi, that’s foul! Like rottin’ garbage and bad sex.” He gulped a few deep breaths of fresh air. “Whatever it is, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of ‘em. Better get yer buddy on that talkin’ tube of yours and figger out a plan before round two starts.” Reddeth gave the creature one last look before kicking it over the side.
“Here.” Grayson handed Reddeth a bit of burlap.
“What’s this for?”
“You’re bleedin’.” Grayson pointed to the top of his head.
Reddeth grinned. “You’re not goin’ soft on me, are ya?”
“Hardly. Don’t want that green glop drippin’ on th’ controls.” He climbed back down into the brake car.
Now that his attention had been called to it, the wound on his scalp re-announced its presence. Reddeth winced as his hand went to the gouge. His body bore the scars of many such injuries, but this one felt different. It burned, but not like fire. That would be clean and wholesome compared to this. It felt more like malice, if such a thing could be given physical form. Maybe it was some kind of venom, but it felt alive. Whatever it was, his orcish physiology seemed to be immune to it — it was all but impossible to take out an orc with anything other than steel or booze — and that just made the toxin angry. He could feel it in the wound, seething with impotent rage as his seeping blood forced it from his body.
Reddeth affixed the makeshift bandage and joined him. Grayson already had Fethro on the horn, describing the incident.
The engineer didn’t sound happy about it. “Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do. I can make this thing go fast or slow. Take your pick.”
“Let’s go with fast. How long ‘till we’re outta this valley?” Reddeth asked.
“Top speed, maybe three hours.”
“That’s how long we got, then. Time for you guys to level. What’re you carryin’?”
Grayson’s head shot up. “What? Coal. That’s it.”
“Bullshmuck, dorf. Whatever them things were, they weren’t after your coal. Coal don’t need guardin’, and dorfs don’t part with a copper unless there’s a damned good reason for it. Out with it. What’re they after?”
The dwarves went mute. Reddeth let them simmer for a moment before grabbing Grayson by the collar. “Have it your way. Grayson an’ me’ll be up there in a second, Fethro, and then I’ll ask you one more time. Only, I won’t be so amicable about it.”
“Wait!” Grayson cried. “Alright, alright—”
Fethro interrupted him. “Grayson, you shut yer yap!”
Reddeth pressed his nose against the brakeman’s. “If you want to keep your yap, you better use it.”
Words spilled out of Grayson like ale from a freshly-tapped keg. Smelled a bit like that, too. “It’s something the miners found. Some kind of artifact. Don’t know what it is or what it does, just that it’s worth a lotta gold.”
“Keep goin’.”
“That’s it! That’s all I know.”
“Grayson, you’re tryin’ my patience. Those guys didn’t seem the type to share our mutual admiration for the profit motive. What’s this thing do?”
The dwarf shook his head in dismay. “I really don’t know.”
“Alright, let’s try this a different way. Who’s takin’ delivery?”
Grayson looked lost and worried about his prospects for a long life. Reddeth calibrated how hard he could hit the little guy without disconnecting something he’d need to answer questions.
Fethro saved him the trouble, his voice coming over the speaker. “The Order of Gereth. They’re supposed to have an escort waitin’ at the platform.”
“Gereth? Who’s he?”
“It’s not a ‘he,’ greenskin. It’s a secret priesthood. They protect the realm from dark magic. Demons. Whatever our cargo is, it’s important to them.”
Reddeth ran a hand over his face. So that’s what the red guys were. Demons. “Dammit, I ain’t gettin’ paid enough for this.”
“That’s your lookout, greenskin. If it’s any comfort, we’re not gettin’ paid much more than you.”
Like hell, Reddeth thought. The greedy runts were probably getting a big, fat bonus for this. “Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do. Where’s the artifact?”
Grayson jerked a thumb toward the head of the train. “Buried at the bottom of car seven.”
“Right. Fethro, stop the train. We’re gonna dig it out.”
“What? Why?”
“So we can throw it overboard. That thing back there said somethin’ about a master, and whatever it takes to boss around a buncha demons is way outside the bounds of what we signed on for. Time to cut our losses.”