by C. B. Ash
“He said he’ll speak for us. Captain Wilhelm has already sent word to one of the best barristers in London to defend us,” Anthony replied, then smiled. “I am truly not surprised the old weasel has a man on the ready for that. I’m glad he’s willing to help.” Hunter sighed. “I only wished it was more. So many lives lost … so many. I honestly feel overwhelmed … where do you begin making things right?”
The first mate let out a slow breath, then looked up at the stars. From the corner of his eye he watched the lithe form of Angela Von Patterson cross the deck quietly. The young girl was in her human form and clothed in a proper clean green dress, wrap, and bonnet. Without a word, she crossed to a section of the railing alone and watched the flames below, a look of abject sadness on her face.
“You ask,” Krumer replied and tapped Anthony lightly on the shoulder to point out Angela, “and the spirits reply. This time I believe they are trying to tell you: ‘one innocent at a time’.”
Anthony looked where Krumer pointed. On seeing Angela, he frowned, then glanced to his first mate.
“Go,” Krumer said with a wry smile; “you asked, the spirits answered. What more do you need?”
Anthony’s eyes turned back to the distraught girl standing alone. Straightening from the railing, he put a firm hand on the orc’s shoulder for a moment in thanks. Without another word, he walked across the deck towards Angela.
The young werewolf looked towards the Captain as he approached. Her eyes were puffy and filled with tears. The wind caught her green dress and stirred it around her ankles while she hastily wiped her eyes on a kerchief.
Hunter made to speak, but found not a single word. Instead he stood silently next to her and watched the inferno below slowly consume the bulk of the Revenge.
“I saw Mr. Wilkerson,” Angela said in a tiny voice, barely heard over the light wind. “I heard what they were saying. He’s going to die… all because of me.”
“What?” Hunter replied, surprised. “No, I doubt that’s the case at all.”
She nodded, fighting back sobs. “It is. It so is. I wanted to stay with him. I could have snuck away from Mother to find him. I know I could have helped him. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be about to die.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Anthony put a hand on her shoulder, patting her gently. Without another word, she turned and buried her face in his side. Her shoulders shook while she sobbed into his coat.
“I just don’t understand,” Angela said in a muffled voice, thick with exhaustion. “Why? People dying, being hurt, being killed. Why? I close my eyes and can still hear the people aboard the Fair Winds. All those people who will never be home. I see the Fomorians trying to hurt them, hurt me, hurt Mother. Why?”
Hunter closed his eyes. “Angela, I,” he began then let out a slow breath to steady his thoughts, “I really don’t know. In your life, you will find there are those in this life that revel in the misery of others. They crave what they think is power. A sense of control. They lie, cheat, steal, and even kill for it.”
“I hurt people, I clawed several Fomorians. Some fell into the flames and died. I saw it,” Angela replied with a thick voice. “That means I’m a monster? I’m like them?”
Hunter knelt by the young werewolf. He held her firmly but gently by the shoulders. For a moment he looked searchingly in her eyes. He shook his head.
“Never,” the Captain said firmly. “You mark me on this, young lady. You are not a monster. You never will be. When those real monsters stood up and spoke with one foul voice, you stood up against them. You had the courage to write that note we found. You struck out on your own to find your mother, and you did. For every innocent voice that was silenced, you stood up to make sure those innocents would be heard.”
“But …” Angela replied, confused, pointing at the burning wreck of the Revenge.
Hunter interrupted her. “The Fomorians made their choice long before you did. They chose the easy path to destroy. You took the harder choice and spoke up against their villainy. You risked your life to make people know something was wrong, as best you could.” The captain paused, holding the girl’s gaze. “What you did, what we did, saved hundreds of lives. We held the Fomorians here long enough that the proper authorities could be told.”
Angela sniffled. “So the church, the one Mr. Wilkerson told me about in Edinburgh, is safe?”
Anthony nodded. “Yes. They caught the only shipment of bombs before it even entered the city. You see,” the captain hesitated, his words catching in his throat. “That is all any of us can do. It’s what Dr. Llwellyn did, Moira did,” a tear stained the captain’s eye. “It’s what Ian did. They stood by their honor, and spoke up for what’s right. Do you understand?”
The girl sniffled again, and nodded. “Yes, I think so,” she replied with a quivering voice. “But, how do I make the pain go away?”
Hunter smiled sadly, “Simple. Live well, right, and full, Angela. Guard your honor, and protect what’s right. The rest will have to fall as it may. Remember, you’re among friends. We’ll always help you carry the painful burden, until it fades in time.”
Angela glanced over her shoulder at the flaming wreck. “What now, Captain?”
Hunter gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now? Now we take them home. I’d be ever so honored to have you help me, if you’re able?”
Angela looked back at Hunter and managed a weak smile amid the tears. “Yes, Captain.”
“Brilliant,” Anthony said with the first, genuine heart-felt smile in many days, “now begins the hardest part of all: recovering the pieces of what the Fomorians have smashed, and starting the rebuilding of all the lives they have shattered. It will take time, but we’ll find a way. And then, perhaps, a bit of peace.”
Epilogue
The Leith Docks outside Edinburgh were alive with mid-day activity. Metal saws scrubbed against wood, mallets slammed against nails; each filled the air with an orchestra of carpentry. Airships sailed across the soot-stained soft blue sky, some either coming to rest in the River Forth, or leaving for a foreign destination.
Held in drydock, the Brass Griffin sat captive by various cranes, ropes and supports used to keep her secured for repair. Teams of workmen, assisted by the occasional steam powered, spider-like ambulatory cranes, slowly pulled down charred or broken bits of the Griffin’s hull. Timbers and planks were slowly replaced with new ones, and the fresh repairs given a stout layer of lightweight metal riveted to her outside. This dock was a hospice for ships, and the shipwrights here were giving the best care they could to heal the Griffin of her war wounds.
Captain Anthony Hunter reflexively stretched his still sore shoulder while he walked along the dock. The Griffin loomed overhead, already looking more healthy than when she had limped in the day before. Hunter allowed himself a brief rest from his current set of thoughts. He smiled at the sight of sunlight glinting proudly off the new steel armor on the ship’s hull. She would be a fine sight, once repaired.
While Anthony stood by watching the refit, not unlike a worried parent observing their child being bandaged after a bad fall, the captain heard the distinct sound of a cane tapping on the wooden planks behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Dr. Thorias Llwellyn approach, the doctor leaning heavily on a black wooden cane topped with a brass knob for support.
The doctor was dressed in a fresh gray woolen suit with a white shirt. If it were not for the dark bruise around his left eye, a cotton bandage around his right hand, and a noticeable limp, Dr. Llwellyn might have looked the picture of health. Instead, he looked more like a portrait dedicated to the practical use of medical science.
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were remanded to bed rest by that doctor at St. Mary’s Hospice?”
“Him?” Thorias snorted. “Bah, he doesn’t know an ear canal from a nose hair! Besides, whatever happened to ‘physician heal thyself’?”
Anthony chuckled, then returned his gaze to the work being done on the Griffin. “Quite
likely the very thing that befell ‘a doctor makes the worst patient’.”
Thorias smirked, then joined his long-time friend next to the railing. They stood in silent observation and watched the work crews as they struggled to bring the airship back from near-death.
When the silence became overpowering, it was the doctor who spoke up first. “Has Arcady found you? He was bursting at the gears to tell you what he discovered. Specifically, what he snatched away from the flames.”
Anthony nodded. “Indeed. Diagrams, formulas, all manner of horrifically familiar designs.”
“How so?” the doctor asked. The captain gave his friend a surprised look.
Thorias shook his head. “I’ve not seen or spoken with Arcady since his little adventure,” the doctor explained. “I’ve been forcibly detained by exuberant nurses. They kept insisting on that mythical activity you keep referring to as ‘resting’.”
A brief grin touched Anthony’s face. “Ah, that explains it, then. While you were laying about on holiday, Arcady relayed to me, in detail, his expedition to locate Ian. From what I judge of the timing, he was well inside when you were wrestling with those war machines on the battlefield.”
“Ah, I see,” was all that the doctor said.
The captain clasped his hands behind him. “Inside the ruin, Arcady uncovered not one, but several small laboratories. Some no more than a nook with a still and chemicals, others much more elaborate in design.”
“In what way?” Thorias asked curiously. “Elaborate as in well stocked, or with a wealth of equipment?”
Anthony shrugged. “Given the detailed descriptions he recited, I’d be hard pressed to choose. Ghoulish things, operating theaters with all manner of experimental implants: highly advanced joint replacements with rubberized muscle tissue backed by pistons, clockwork hands with hidden compartments and detachable fingers, and multi-chambered pumps and valves designed to be nestled around a heart. He even managed to make off with a few diagrams that instructed on the best means of implanting these valves in the chest of a patient.”
The doctor briefly turned pale. He was silent for a full two heartbeats. “Pardon? Did I hear you clearly? Miniature valves implanted in a patient’s chest?”
“I thought that might stir your interest.” The captain said. “Yes, valves in the chest. The diagrams were not Fomorian design. They were postmarked ‘Edinburgh’.”
Dr. Llwellyn frowned. “So the Fomorians, evil-minded bastards that they are, had a correspondence with that beastly vivisectionist from Edinburgh?”
“Her or another like her,” the captain replied calmly. “A consistent and steady one, at that. Mostly comments on technique, mind you, but still.”
“You’ve informed Scotland Yard of this?” Thorias asked quickly, his constitution still shaken over the news.
Anthony Hunter let out a slow sigh. His eyes followed a stack of lumber hauled aloft by a crane; lumber specifically bound for a hole currently in the side of the Griffin. “Yes, I did. They appreciated the information, too. They felt it was in all good interests that I turned all of the papers over, and so on. It seems there’s a bit of difficulty around whether the Yard, its Special Branch, or a Naval inquiry will take the lead on this, and in what direction the investigation will go. They assured me the evidence would help immensely.” The captain let a meaningful silence drop between them for a moment. “I’m sure they’ll sort it out in good time,” he finally said.
Thorias watched his friend carefully. He was not sure precisely what gave him an uneasy feeling. Perhaps it was the tone in the captain’s voice, or even the guarded look in the man’s eyes. In any case, the sight of his beloved Brass Griffin in dry dock could not at all explain the unusual attitude. The doctor took an educated guess.
“You did leave the information Arcady brought back with the constables, yes?” Dr. Llwellyn’s question was tinged with suspicion.
“Of course,” Captain Hunter replied. “They have the original articles, and Arcady’s own recordings. Hopefully, they’ll not dismiss it out of hand due to his status as a thinking Clockwork.”
The doctor frowned at the comment. “Anthony, we are not constables. Why did you keep any of that?”
“I felt it wise to keep copies, because similar processes were described in the journal we found in the High Fens relay station. It seemed a sensible precaution to remain informed and prepared,” Anthony explained.
Thorias slowly shook his head in disbelief. “Informed? Prepared? Fine, I understand your reasoning about luring the journal’s actual owner out to see if other copies of that monstrosity exist. I question using yourself as bait, but we’ve beaten that horse to death at this point. This, however, strikes me as different. Just what of that information do you need to catalogue?”
“The progress being made on the process itself,” Hunter replied in a flat tone.
“The progress being made?” Doctor Llwellyn’s repeated, his words trailing off. “Anthony, this isn’t our problem to investigate, nor have we been asked to. That infernal woman has been incarcerated and will likely hang for those hellish vivisections she performed in Edinburgh. This correspondence with those drug-addled Fomorians will simply add nails to her coffin, and the impetus to round up the rest of the Fomorian rabble. It strikes me as a bit unhealthy to dwell on the progress being made on such a nightmarish idea.”
Anthony sighed again. “Thorias, humor me. I’ve not taken leave of my senses, nor have I become obsessed. It’s a private inquiry, nothing more. I know RiBeld is involved in this.” The captain held up a hand a moment to forestall the doctor’s rising objections. “Please, let me continue. If he wishes to make an issue of it, he’ll make himself visible and seek me out. At that moment, I’ll have crystal clear proof to hand to the constables. Proof they can use to actually keep RiBeld caged for what we all know he’s done.”
The doctor studied his friend for a long moment. “Very well. Just so long as you take one small matter into consideration.”
“Certainly,” the captain replied.
“RiBeld, as you’ve said, has done many vile things. He also has tried to kill you more than once, as well as attempted to destroy the Griffin and all aboard. So, believe me, I do understand your strong dislike of the man, and indeed share it in large doses. Just be certain of the reasons you do any of this. Are you trying to protect others? Or are you simply indulging in a selfish spot of vengeance? Which path are you following? Whichever it is, you take us with you. Never lose sight of that.”
Anthony watched the workmen continue their efforts on the Griffin’s damaged hull. “I understand.”
Thorias watched his friend, who looked as resolute as a stone statue. The doctor shook his head slightly once more. He flexed his sore hand when an ache reminded him of his current delicate condition. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the exertion has left me a bit fatigued. I’ll leave you to your thoughts, while I seek out a spot of tea.” With a last look at Captain Hunter, the doctor turned and slowly walked away.
Once the doctor was out of hearing, even that of elven hearing, Anthony set his mouth in a thin line, his face tense. “Which path, old friend? A very good question. I think to protect others against RiBeld, but in truth old friend, I can’t completely say I’m not motivated by some revenge as well.”
About the Author
C. B. Ash holds degrees as a Physical Scientist and Computer Scientist. Since college, he has run his own networking business, worked as laboratory technician, taught martial arts, and traveled for several years as a software engineering consultant. Currently he shares his time between software architecture, web design and slaving away over outlines for new manuscripts … when he's not keeping his cat off his keyboard.
During that time he has written several fantasy and science fiction short stories, a fantasy/murder mystery novel and several poems. One of which garnered him the Emily Dickinson Award in Poetry. His first novel, Kinloch, was published in May, 2004. Tales of the Brass Griffin: Dead Men's T
ales is the fifth in the Tales of the Brass Griffin series. To find out more, visit: http://BrassGriffin.com.