Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5)

by C. B. Ash

  The doctor instinctively gasped from the ache of his wounds while he slowly got back to his feet, revolver at the ready. Peter did the same. Across the table from the two, Angela backed away, clutching the clockwork monkey to her protectively. Moving with nervous care, she dragged a nearby chair, placing it between her and the Fomorian. At the guttural scrape of sliding wood, the large man turned toward the sound, eyes narrowed. The giant snarled at her at first, then smiled slowly.

  “Ah, ist the fraulein,” the giant rasped with a German accent. He paused, considering the girl a moment, out in the open as she was. With a victorious sneer, he lunged forward. “Give me the servitor!”

  “No!” She snapped back.

  “Angela! Find Tonks!” the doctor shouted. Stepping back, he aimed, then fired twice. However, the Fomorian was waiting, and the giant threw himself aside, then squatted down beside a table. When the beast stood back up, he held the table by the legs, using it like a large, round shield.

  At the front door, two of Fitzcarin’s men burst through, hoping to catch the Fomorian off guard. Unfortunately, they were the ones caught, as the giant snatched up first one chair and then another, flinging them at the guards the moment they both appeared. The first man was battered against the wall, where he slumped to the floor. His partner took the brunt of the chair thrown at him to the chest, the force of which promptly knocked him back out the front door.

  While Angela raced around behind Peter and Thorias to sprint for the stairs, the doctor stepped back until he was standing next to the shopkeeper.

  “How are you on proof?” the doctor quickly asked.

  “I’m feelin’ rather convinced at the moment,” Peter replied, wincing from a bruise on his arm.

  “Capital!” the doctor said, shoving one of the tables, sending it crashing onto its side. Immediately, the feeling of white hot knives lanced through his chest from his ribs. He leaned on the table, and the room spun drunkenly around him. Taking a deep breath, he blinked as the light-headed moment dripped away from his mind.

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asked quickly.

  “Nothing,” the doctor snapped back quickly. “Nothing of concern for now. Help me brace the table with a chair.” Following his words, Dr. Llwellyn slammed a chair under one of the exposed table legs, forming a crude barricade.

  “That won’t stop the likes of him!” Peter said, alarmed, before taking another shot at the Fomorian. The bullet slammed into the meat of the giant’s right shoulder, causing him to howl like a wounded ape before spinning around to face the two men.

  “No, but it might slow his assault,” Thorias replied, backing away, “and we could use all the advantage we can find. Before, I had a pit at my disposal. At this moment, we’re a touch shy of such equipment.”

  The doctor and Peter managed to each fire off a shot, both of which embedded into the table, ripping splinters yet sparing the Fomorian. With a triumphant laugh, the giant rushed forward, crashing and tripping over tables and chairs.

  “He can’t follow both of us!” Peter exclaimed as he ran for the left side of the room.

  “Good point, look for anything heavy to trip him with, something to get him off his feet!” The doctor replied, running for the side of the room that housed the bar.

  The blond Fomorian stumbled over their makeshift barricade, then barreled forward. However, instead of chasing either Peter or Thorias, the giant stopped and sniffed the air. Immediately, he turned for the stairs!

  “What? Where’s he going, eh?” Fitzcarin asked confused.

  “Blood and sand!” The doctor swore bitterly, “he’s onto Angela’s scent!” Taking swift aim, the doctor fired. Instantly the bullet hammered into the Fomorian’s left rear hip. The same place he had shot the Fomorian in the warehouse.

  The giant bellowed in pain, stumbled and collapsed. He glanced behind him with an ugly, evil look. Dr. Llwellyn noticed a movement at the front door, where Angela suddenly appeared and waved frantically. The doctor smiled.

  “Ah, so do I have your attention?” The doctor said cheerily. “Brilliant! I suppose we all have our soft spots. Well, consider this: if you try and accost that girl, I’ve at least one more bullet, and you’ve a fresh side to your posterior!”

  “I’ll kill you!” The Fomorian shouted as he rushed forward in a terrifying blur of speed, ignoring the bleeding wound in his hip.

  Across the room, Fitzcarin fired once, then twice, but both bullets just missed their mark. Thorias, however, held his ground until the last moment, then threw himself aside.

  Unable to stop, the giant man crashed into the bar, his right shoulder bearing the brunt of the blow. The entire building shuddered with the impact, then was still. With a dazed groan the blond Fomorian looked up and into the angry, burning dark Spanish eyes of Rosalita.

  Abruptly, she bashed an iron skillet across the man’s nose and jaw with a ferocious snarl. She was rewarded with a crunch followed by a howl of pain as the Fomorian fell backwards from the woman. He grabbed his nose with one hand to staunch the flow of blood, and with the other he swung at the air in an attempt to keep the angry Spanish lady at bay.

  Heady with victory, Rosalita raced around the demolished bar, brandishing her iron club. No more than two steps away from the bar, Peter Fitzcarin halted her advance, scooping her up as he and Thorias ran for the front door.

  “What? No!” Rosalita yelled in rage, “he destroyed my place! That peasant will answer for that!”

  “And he will, Doña Alvares, he will,” Thorias replied, panting slightly from the exertion. “Right now we need to head outside.”

  “Why?” the proprietor demanded.

  “The young girl’s waving like a loon, it must mean something,” Peter replied.

  “It means we’ve a plan,” the doctor explained. “At least I’ve the hope of one.”

  The trio burst through the front door and into the street. There, Angela gestured for them to join her off to the side. As the group came within arm’s reach, she thrust the clockwork monkey out at Dr. Llwellyn, who instinctively took hold of it.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Thorias asked, confused, staring in surprise at the monkey he held at arms length, who stared back at the doctor in turn.

  “Our plan!” the young girl replied quickly. With a painful snap and shiver, she transformed into her brown fur-covered werewolf form.

  “Whose plan?” the doctor asked.

  That very moment, the Fomorian, blood streaming from his nose, screamed in rage as he tore out of the front door. He stopped on the street, glancing around; a near insane rage burning in his eyes.

  “Sirrah Wilkerson’s!” the young werewolf replied in her rough voice, leaping up to bound off the wall and careen onto the back of the Fomorian. The moment she landed, her claws dug in, ripping into both wool coat and cotton shirt to reach the broad muscular back of the giant.

  The large man screamed in pain, then in rage, as he swung first left, then right. Desperately, he reached around behind him to try and grab the girl. Angela, however, was too small and quick, and she deftly avoided the Formorian’s attempts to touch her.

  “Sirrah Wilkerson!” Angela yelled in almost a howl. “Now!”

  “Backs to the building, and be ready to duck,” Thorias said matter-of-factly.

  “What for?” Peter asked confused.

  “I don’t know,” the doctor replied, “it’s one of Ian’s plans. Best to be prepared.”

  Rosa shoved her way free of Fitzcarin’s grip. “The doctor is right, Señor. I know this from experience.”

  Just then the air was filled with the sound of metal crashing, like an avalanche of gears and parts sliding off a tin roof. From around the corner, just out of sight, came a giant skeletal Clockwork Augmentations Suit, running at top speed with Ian Tonks Wilkerson at the controls! On seeing the Fomorian, he grinned wolfishly and pumped his legs harder. Sparks flew from the backpack and the device raced along at a terrifying speed!

  “Hey!” Tonks
yelled, ramming a mechanical shoulder into the giant. As he struck, Angela leaped away, first bounding off the side of the boarding house, then onto the street in a flutter of her blue dress as it gathered around her.

  Visibly shaken by the blow, the Fomorian staggered back, gasping for air. He shook his head, yelled, then swung a massive fist at the CASS and its pilot. Tonks shoved a metal arm up to block the punch, then responded with one of his own across the point of the giant’s chin.

  The giant’s eyes rolled as he staggered backwards and slumped to his knees in a daze.

  “Now, lads!” Tonks yelled.

  From around the corner, four men raced into view, each carrying the end of a stout net. They tore around the CASS and hurled the net over the Fomorian, just as the giant lurched forward emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ice cold road. The brackish, oil-dark bile pooled on the ground under the stricken giant.

  The net fell down around the giant, but he ignored it. He visibly shivered, mumbling in between violent moments of being sick. Immediately, painfully, he began to change.

  “My … word …” Dr. Llwellyn said in astonishment, holstering his revolver. The doctor walked forward slowly, cradling the monkey against his undamaged side. The simian-like clockwork wrapped its tail loosely about the Welshman’s arm, and chittered curiously.

  Rosalita walked close behind the doctor, equally amazed. “What is wrong with him?”

  “I couldn’t begin to say,” Peter said in a hushed tone. “I’ve never seen the like before.”

  They stepped between the four men who stood still in shock. Under the net, in a under a minute, was not the giant, ape-like Fomorian. Instead, it was an average-sized man with tangled blonde hair, dressed in the rags of clothing. As the man slumped over onto his side unconscious, a set of small bottles, each filled with a yellowish fluid, tumbled out onto the road.

  Dr. Llwellyn quickly knelt down and checked the man’s pulse. It was thin and weak, but present. He glanced over his shoulder to the others.

  “Quickly, I need a place to work,” the doctor said. “This man’s life depends on it.”

  Peter thought for a moment, “If it’ll get me answers, I know just the place.”

  “Answers? I should say so,” Dr. Llwellyn replied. “I think we’re all due.”

  Chapter 22

  The place Peter Fitzcarin had in mind was a modest, two story wooden building that was both adjacent to the dock master’s office and only a short distance from Peter’s shop. The structure had, at one time in the past, been a both a tavern and a stable. However, the only evidence of either that remained was the sturdy iron bars that secured the windows, the tarnished metal sheets bolted to the outside walls that bore the faded stenciled words of ‘livery’, and the even older words of ‘spiced wine’.

  Inside, the furnishings had been replaced to suit the current purpose of the building: detention cells, a locked storage closet strong enough to secure valuables, a gun cabinet, and even a new heating system tied into the station’s steam exhaust. The walls and two interior doors were a smooth russet-colored wood. One door lead to a series of holding cells in the back of the building, and the other to a storage room that, at the moment, acted as a hastily-assembled chemist’s lab.

  It had been two hours since Peter and his guests had arrived. Once there, the bulk of Fitzcarin’s men – those not in need of medical attention – reported in with the station’s dock master before drifting off to their own jobs and lives. Some returned to the Crow’s Wing Boarding House to begin repairs under Rosalita’s watchful eye.

  Those not in such good health were escorted to cots and other available space around the office and empty cells. There, Dr. Llwellyn treated each one, bandaging and setting broken limbs that needed it. Others he merely prescribed a dosage of laudanum for the pain and sent them on their way.

  The Formorian who had so abruptly turned normal in front of the boarding house had not regained consciousness, but had begun to occasionally shiver violently. On his arrival, he was immediately deposited into one of the cells, where Dr. Llwellyn promptly went to work.

  A little while later, the doctor, satisfied his patient was sleeping quietly, walked out of the door to his makeshift lab, shutting the door behind him. He grimaced as another jolt of ache gnawed at him from his side. Ignoring that as best he could, he made his way across the room and over to the wooden stand where he had hung his woolen coat and medical bag.

  Peter Fitzcarin looked up from the table where he and Tonks were discussing the previous hours’ events in detail. From somewhere, Tonks, who happened to have a small notebook with him and the stub of a pencil, had produced several pages of notes. They paused their conversation, looking up as the doctor entered.

  “Any luck, doctor?” The orc shopkeeper asked. “With either our ‘guest’ or his choice a’ drink?”

  The doctor retrieved an empty glass vial from his bag. “I can tell you his ‘drink’ is certainly not even as entertaining as a whiskey, though it is rather interesting. As for our new friend, he’s not highly talkative. I believe what few words he’s spoken at all are in German, and those I am positive were rather ungrateful. However, he’s recovering, despite the beating he took as his, er, other self,” the doctor explained.

  “His wounds are remarkably well-healed, though the shakes, I surmise, are a result of this.” He swirled the yellowish fluid around in the small bottle for emphasis. “As is his remarkable ability of transformation.”

  “An elixir?” Tonks said in surprise. “To turn a man into what we saw? Until now, I’d think whoever told me that was tellin’ me rubbish.”

  “I sympathize,” Thorias replied. “However, we all witnessed the same thing. Until now, I thought only someone of Angela’s persuasion was capable of any such ability.”

  “I do not turn into that,” Angela said, her voice flat with a faint undercurrent of disgust while she watched the monkey in her lap. The monkey, however, ignored her and looked around, chittering quietly to itself.

  “Indeed you don’t,” the doctor said, crossing over to the table to join the others. “I managed to separate this into what I believe are its components. I’ve identified Liver of Sulfur, among others. Though they are all base chemical ingredients, and quite toxic on their own, I’ve yet to find what the catalyst is. This fluid remains as large a mystery as ever. How are you both getting along?”

  “We’ve been productive,” Tonks tapped his notebook. “Those two buggers that came after us? Seems they’ve been around quite a bit. From what Peter has been tellin’ me, they’ve been spotted before.”

  “Nothing so open as this, eh?” Peter added with a shrug. “Up until now, it’s been a figure spotted at the end of an alley. A glimpse of a huge shape not long before a person went reported missing. The lads or I would spend part of our days chasin’ rumors all over the station.” He shrugged. “At the time, we couldn’t figure a way for someone that big to stay hidden. I never dreamed of what we saw outside the boarding house.”

  “But why all this now?” Thorias asked the group. “They are interested in Angela and that servitor of hers. We know this. However, why tear openly through buildings to get her. Especially, if they’ve been operating so successfully in secret, deftly avoiding the attention of your group,” the doctor indicated Fitzcarin.

  “Coast Guardsmen,” Peter corrected.

  “Guardsmen?” Tonks echoed, “this far off Her Majesty’s shores?”

  “We’re volunteers, eh?” the orc replied. “Enough kidnappings and you’ll be surprised who’ll volunteer. Especially, when the Admiralty has taken a close interest.”

  “Ya report to the dock master, then?” Tonks asked.

  Peter shook his head, “No, to Captain Clark aboard the HMS Intrepid.”

  “Interesting,” the doctor replied, filing that bit of information away in his mind. He set the bottles on the table, then began to pace slowly around the room. “Nonetheless, why be so open now? So randomly destructive? The
only thing I deduce is young Angela and her clockwork servitor. It’s changed their plans in some way.”

  Angela released the monkey, who scurried up onto the table. The young girl sat upright, clearing her throat. “Pardon me,” she glanced wide-eyed at the three men, trying not to blush as they turned to look at her. “I … I was wondering, how did they know? About me, I mean. I feel like they knew all along. The way they talked, it’s almost like … I don’t know … they have been searching for me this entire time.”

  An icy silence settled over the room. The three men exchanged a look. Peter spoke up first.

  “I hadn’t thought on that,” he said uncomfortably.

  “How did I miss that?” the doctor said sternly. “The very moment the Fomorian burst in on us, he demanded you be turned over, Angela. Perhaps you’ve been seen running about the station?”

  “I was trying to be careful,” she said glumly, watching the monkey meander across the table.

  “I’m sure ya were,” Ian replied. “This just means they’ve more eyes out and about the station than we realize.”

  Peter frowned, “It’d explain why we’ve not caught any of ’em.”

  Thorias folded his arms over his chest, then winced from the motion, as his wound was still very tender. “It doesn’t explain why they so fervently want the young lady, but you’re quite right, it might explain these elixirs. This isn’t something easily made. A well-stocked chemical laboratory aboard a station like this would be noticed.” He gestured to the vials. “The base chemicals used have distinct and noxious odors when being processed. Liver of Sulfur itself is especially dangerous as it burns so very easily.”

  “Mustard!” The monkey said in a squeaky tone, snatching up the vial with the yellow fluid.

  The doctor immediately reached for the vial but the monkey scurried to the middle of the table, then stared at its prize. The fluid sloshed about the vial as the monkey swirled it around in front of its face.

  Peter and Tonks sat up, ready to make a grab for the monkey if it tried to leave the table.