Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “Back to the boats. Move, move!” Tycho holstered his weapon and ran with his marines at his sides. They darted down the center of the road, avoiding the shadows, and leaping clear of the thin wisps of aether seeping out into their path.

  At the bottom of the road they struck the waterfront and turned right, ran another block, and clambered down the stone stairs to the water’s edge where their two dories bobbed, lashed to a rusting iron ring. The boys leapt into the boats and Tycho climbed in as quickly as he could, and a moment later they were rowing swiftly out into the Strait once more.

  Tycho sat in the bow of his boat, staring back over the boys’ heads at the receding shore, but he couldn’t see the mist or any other figures walking in the shadows.

  “God in heaven, it’s true,” Lycus whispered. “The deathless ones. The army of the dead. They’re real. They’re here.”

  Tycho nodded slowly, but then frowned as he tried to remember exactly what he had seen stepping out from the dark alley. “He wasn’t dressed like a soldier, though. No uniform, no armor, no weapons. I think he was barefoot.”

  “He was,” Lycus said. “I saw him. He was just wearing a shirt and pants. Nothing else. And they were torn up, too.”

  “What kind of army goes around barefoot in rags?” Tycho muttered.

  “What kind of army goes around dead?” Lycus asked.

  The other boys were nodding and muttering in a quiet panic.

  “It’s all right,” Tycho said loudly. “We’re all safe now. I doubt anything that clumsy and slow can swim, or at least not as fast as we can row.”

  “What about the aether?” Lycus nodded toward the Palace of Constantine and the three Furies where the aether lay like a thick cloud all across the channel.

  “We’ll just have to stay ahead of it,” Tycho said. “We’ll head up the Strait and stay away from land. If the aether keeps following, then we’ll just have to keep rowing, all night if we have to. And if you boys get too tired, then I guess I’ll just have to grow giant arms and row for you.”

  The marines grinned sheepishly.

  “What about the Eranians?” Lycus asked. “If the aether hasn’t reached Stamballa yet, they might try to capture us to find out what’s going on. There’s only six of us, sir, and we’re low on ammunition. We can’t take on anything too big.”

  “I know.” Tycho turned to squint across the water to the bright lights of Stamballa on the far shore.

  What the hell happened to Salvator? It’s not like Radu to take a messenger hostage, let alone kill him. He’s too refined, too proud, too honorable. And besides, he knows it’s something that his brother would definitely do, which is all the more reason for him not to. So where is that smug Italian?

  “Change of plan. No one wants to row up the Strait all night, do you?” Tycho pointed at the distant lights. “We cross the channel and have a little chat with our friends over there.”

  “Sir?” Lycus winced. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m still one of the Duchess’s ambassadors. I have every right to talk to them on her behalf, and every right to an armed escort. And how can they possibly object to six young men in wet rags?”

  Lycus didn’t smile. “We can’t protect you from the Turks with these empty guns and a handful of knives for very long, sir.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that.” Tycho eyed the billowing cloud of aether slowly expanding across the Strait from the Seraglio Point. “I have a feeling that tonight, the Turks will be the least of our enemies.”

  The boys at the oars set to work and the two dories slowly crept across the Strait. The bright shore of Stamballa grew closer and clearer, and the dark shore of Constantia slowly faded into the shadows and mist, punctuated by distant screams of terror.

  The crossing was quiet and clear until they reached the center of the channel and saw a small ironclad gunboat puttering toward them from the east. Tycho told the boys to go on rowing and so they were well into Eranian waters when the gunboat drew near and a small but bright lantern cast its light on the two small boats. But when it did, Tycho was already standing in the bow with his empty hands raised in greeting.

  “Good evening,” he called out in Eranian. “I am Major Tycho Xenakis en route to meet with my colleague Salvator Fabris, who is currently a guest of the holy prince.” He deliberately avoided using Radu’s name, just in case his marines had not yet heard the rumor that the Vlachian lord now commanded the Turks. The last thing he needed was more friction between his Hellans and Vlad’s northerners.

  “You will follow us to port,” a man yelled down from the gunboat, and the lantern switched off.

  Tycho nodded at Lycus and the others, and they proceeded to row toward the Turkish shore with the gunboat growling along beside him. He could see the sailors on its deck, each one with the distinctive outline of a Numidian rifle slung over his shoulder.

  As they reached the dock, Tycho whispered to the marines, “Whatever you do, you all need to act like my official escorts. You don’t speak to anyone but me. You don’t even look at anyone but me. And you damn sure don’t give up your weapons to anyone at all.”

  “Yes sir,” the youths answered.

  They tied up the dories at the bottom of the pier as the gunboat idled behind them and two dozen young Eranian soldiers trooped down to the water to meet them. Their commander said, “Major Xenakis, we were not expecting you. Your men will surrender their weapons and we will escort you to the embassy for the remainder of the night. I understand that the holy prince is quite busy this evening, so it is unlikely he will see you before the morning.”

  Tycho climbed up onto the pier and the marines scrambled up beside him in two crooked lines, all with blank stares. “My men will be keeping their weapons, as per usual, and you will take me to see the prince immediately. We have a crisis on our hands, sir, and if something isn’t done about it this very hour, a great many people are going to die.”

  “That isn’t my decision to make,” the officer said.

  “Then let me make it for you,” Tycho said. “You’re stationed here at the waterfront. When the fighting begins, if the fighting begins, the first area to be shelled into oblivion on both sides will be where, exactly?”

  The Turk frowned. “I will see what I can do, major.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Turks escorted the Hellans through the brightly lit streets of Stamballa, between houses full of clinking plates and glasses where voices laughed and sang. Tycho frowned at each one in turn.

  Constantia should be like this right now, instead of a shrieking tomb.

  The walk was long and hard as much of it was uphill, but Tycho struggled along as quickly as his legs would allow and his marines, God bless them, kept their own pace to match his, which in turn forced the Turks to keep theirs.

  Finally they reached the iron gates of a modest estate and the soldiers from the waterfront turned over the Hellans to the soldiers from the house. Tycho repeated his urgent need to speak with the prince, and a few minutes later, after some heated discussion and exchange of papers between the Eranian officers, the Hellans were allowed inside the gate.

  When they reached the doors of the main house, a massive white building of soaring columns and tiled floors, Tycho loudly declared that his men would remain there while he met with the prince. He shared a pregnant look with Lycus as he handed his Mazigh revolver to the youth, trying to silently order the young marine to only make good decisions while he was gone. The boy looked back with grim confidence, but Tycho had no idea whether that was a good thing.

  Inside the house, a young man in a crisp white evening jacket escorted Tycho to a small vestibule, and left him there. The room was empty, but Tycho was familiar enough with it. The door behind him led back to the hallway, and the door ahead of him led into the prince’s office. There was often a guard here as well, but at the moment Tycho was alone.

  And now the waiting begins.

  But after only a few minutes he
heard shoes clacking sharply on the floor outside, the doors opened, and Radu strode inside. The prince’s jacket was open, his shirt unbuttoned at his throat, and there was a certain disorder to his oiled black hair that Tycho found disconcerting.

  He’s usually the very picture of nobility. This is bad.

  “Major.” The prince strode past and opened the door to his office, and disappeared inside.

  Tycho hesitated, glancing back to see if any of the usual guards or clerks would be joining them, but there was no one else about. Tycho entered the office.

  Radu sat behind his desk, his hands on the arms of his chair, a tired scowl on his face. “Fabris is in a cell, there is a bullet in his stomach, and neither will be coming out any time soon.”

  So he’s still alive, for the moment. I suppose that’s something.

  Tycho nodded. “May I ask what happened?”

  “He threatened me with a sword.”

  “Oh?” Tycho struggled to keep his voice calm. “I thought he always left his sword at home when he visited you.”

  “He did. He helped himself to a seireiken, right here in this very room.”

  “I see.” Tycho glanced quickly across the floor but saw no signs of blood or other damage. “I trust you are well, Highness?”

  “He tried to negotiate for Koschei’s release, which I had expected, of course. Then he threatened me with fairy tales about witches and nightmares,” Radu said. “He was desperate, practically raving. I’d never seen him like that before.”

  “Yes, well, he had good cause.” Tycho glanced out the window, but the glare from the lamp on the desk made it difficult to see anything outside in the darkness. “Highness, at this very minute your warships off the Seraglio Point are drifting at anchor. Half of Constantia is already shrouded in darkness and silence. What Salvator told you is true. Baba Yaga has gone insane and is at this very moment covering the land and sea with a cloud of aether that drives anyone mad with fear when it touches them. And at this very moment, that cloud is stretching out across the Strait. It will be here within the hour.”

  Radu showed no reaction. “Then I will tell you what I told your friend. Let it come. The Empire of Eran will not be threatened or intimidated by a sad old woman or a light fog, major. I’m disappointed in you.”

  Tycho nodded slowly. “Fair enough. I suppose if I were in your position, I wouldn’t believe a story like that either, especially coming from an enemy.”

  Radu waved impatiently. “Is that all? Is that why you came tonight, to repeat this pathetic lie?”

  “You’ve been sending scouts across the Strait,” Tycho said loudly as he stared out the dark window. He still couldn’t see anything out there but he often found it easier to talk to the prince when his back was turned. “We know you’ve sent scouts up into Thrace. We’ve captured one of them. I assume there were more.”

  “Naturally,” Radu said.

  “You’ve sent them to Saray.”

  “And farther north, as well.” The prince smiled.

  “And we have scouts throughout Turkiya and Syria and Babylonia,” Tycho replied. “That isn’t the point. The point is, what have these scouts of yours reported? What have they seen in the north? They’ve told you about the army, the deathless ones, the army of the dead, haven’t they?”

  Radu shrugged. “They report on many things.”

  “Ah.” Tycho glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t believe those stories either, then?”

  “Of course not. This army of the dead is nothing more than a band of killers and thieves dressed in filthy rags to frighten Hellan farmers.”

  “Did they frighten your scouts as well?”

  Radu didn’t answer.

  Tycho came back to the desk. “Highness, you may not want to hear these things, you may not want to believe them, but they are true all the same. If a man had never seen a gun before and you pointed one at him from across a room and said it would kill him in an instant, he would be well within his rights to think you were lying. But he’d die all the same.”

  “So I should believe you now? I should believe that an old woman from Rus is going to bring the entire city of Stamballa to its knees tonight?”

  “She’s already brought a third of Constantia to its knees, and I have no doubt that the aether storm will continue to spread. Look across the water, Highness. See for yourself. The city is dark. There are no candles, no lanterns, no fires, not even smoke from the chimneys. Every man and woman and child in the southern part of the city is lying on the floor, paralyzed, and screaming in terror.”

  Radu fidgeted with a pen on his desk.

  “As for the army of the dead, if you don’t want to believe me, believe your own scouts, believe their reports,” Tycho said.

  The prince dropped his pen and sighed. “And if I do believe you? I should set Koschei free, yes? That’s what you want. You want your precious immortal back.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” Tycho said. “The cloud has already swallowed the palace and your ships. There’s no one left standing to set Koschei free, and no way for us to reach him.”

  Radu threw up his hands. “All this time you’ve been trying to get Koschei back, and now you don’t want him?”

  “I don’t give a damn about Koschei. The man’s a pig and a butcher. But yes, if you had set him free this afternoon, it might have saved us from this disaster, but now that disaster is here,” Tycho said. “I’m here to help you, Highness. You need to evacuate this district, and be prepared to evacuate more.”

  “I won’t leave my city undefended,” Radu said sternly.

  “Then get the civilians out! Save the children, for God’s sake!” Tycho snapped. He paused to tug his jacket down and run his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Highness, that was uncalled for.”

  Radu smiled just a little. “I believe you. Maybe not entirely, but enough for the moment. All right. I’ll have the district emptied immediately, civilians only.”

  “Fine, good, thank you,” Tycho said. “There’s probably nothing else we can do about the aether tonight. We’ll just have to weather this storm as best we can. But in the mean time, there is something else you should do. Send your scouts across the Strait at the northeast end of the city and have them check the area just north of Constantia.”

  “Check for what?”

  “For the dead.”

  “You think this army of the dead is closer now?”

  “Highness, I myself shot a walking corpse in the street not an hour ago. The dead aren’t coming,” Tycho said. “They’re already here.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes. But there is hope on that front, Highness.” Tycho smiled grimly. “From what I saw, we can kill the dead.”

  Radu’s face tried to convey the confusion and distrust and disgust and curiosity warring in the man’s heart as he stood up and began writing orders on several pieces of paper. The next few minutes were a flurry of papers and clerks and messengers, and when it was over Radu was striding off to an emergency meeting with his military advisors and Tycho was being escorted back to the foyer where his underdressed marines stood surrounded by mustachioed Turks in blue uniforms.

  “Your business is concluded, then?” the Turkish officer asked.

  “Yes. Did you see the prince just now? Did he give you your orders?” Tycho asked.

  The officer frowned. “I did see the prince leave just now, but he gave me no orders.”

  “Yes, well, it’s going to be a busy night. You’re to take us to the cells and release Salvator Fabris into my custody, immediately.”

  The officer went on frowning. “You have this in writing?”

  “No, of course I don’t, the prince said he would tell you himself. Are you calling the prince a liar?” Tycho said as Lycus handed him back his white-handled Mazigh revolver.

  “Of course not.” The officer hesitated, then snapped his fingers and indicated to his men that they were leaving. The Turks and Hellans marched back out
into the night and after a quarter hour they came to a squat stone building near the waterfront where a lengthy and heated exchange in Eranian took place between the Turkish officer and the Turkish jailer. Tycho missed some of what was said, but they were both quite fixated on paperwork for many long minutes.

  Finally the jailer went back inside and moments later produced his prisoner.

  Salvator Fabris stumbled out into the street, his hands clutching his belly, and his face dripping with sweat. But he managed to straighten up with a sneer on his lip and he glared down at the jailer. “I told you so.”

  The jailer went back inside and slammed the door.

  The Turks then escorted the Hellans back to their two dories by the pier and all the while Tycho exchanged confused and angry glances with his pale Italian partner, but neither said a word until they were all in their boats and safely away from the shore.

  Salvator frowned at the southern waters where the great white cloud of aether hid the entirety of the Point and most of the far shore. His breathing was thin and labored, and his hands and shirt were painted in blood. “So it’s happened then, has it? Everyone has gone mad?”

  “It would seem so,” Tycho said.

  “And you left in the middle of that crisis to rescue me? I’m touched.”

  “No, I came to save the people of Stamballa. I convinced the prince to evacuate the civilians from the waterfront district, and to send more scouts to check the walls of Constantia for the dead army. We saw them tonight. The dead. We shot one.” Tycho grimaced.

  “And how did you convince our friend the prince to set me free? I was fairly certain they were going to execute me right next to Koschei tomorrow,” said the Italian. “If I lived through the night.”

  “I didn’t convince him.” Tycho grinned over his shoulder at the bright shore of Stamballa. “I just told the guards that those were the prince’s orders. You should know better than anyone, Fabris, that if you lie with enough conviction most people will do what you say.”

  The Italian grunted. “Good for you. Good for me. Bad for the Turks. What do we do now? And does it involve finding a surgeon any time soon?”