Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass

by Walter Shuler

  “Go ahead, Suldred, I’ll be along in a moment.”

  “My lord?” Suldred’s look was puzzled, wary.

  “I feel the need to walk, Suldred, the need to think. Thorne may or may not have ulterior motives, but I must decide what I will tell the king. The potential here is staggering, and I cannot afford to allow personal prejudices to color my judgment. The cool night air will do the trick.”

  “If you say so, my lord.” Suldred still looked confused. He saluted and walked toward their rooms.

  Haem stood still for a moment, hands gripping the balustrade, gazing out across the grounds of Brightwatch Keep as they marched toward the sea.

  Haem felt the urge to stroll, and let his feet carry him away from the keep. His thoughts were far away, with his family back in Northwarden, and he did not notice where his path was taking him. He returned from his reverie to find himself at the top of the stairs as they descended into the darkness of the courtyard below.

  The moonlight created a stark scene below, sharp-edged shadows and pale illumination. However, a glint of gold from the darkness caught his eye. In a fit of whimsy, Haem continued down the stairs, intent on investigating the glimmer.

  He was not sure what he had expected to find, but a row of metal automatons stretching away on either hand was certainly not it. Those silent figures standing motionless in the dimness were unnerving, to say the least. Now might be a good time to take a closer look at them, though. What better opportunity would he get?

  Gingerly, Haem reached out one hand, his forefinger tracing a line down the cold brass breastplate, following the whorls and angles of the runes etched deep into the metal. They were strangely beautiful in their silence, these metal men.

  He reached up to touch a burnished head when a sudden noise startled him. It came from within the confines of the courtyard. A small clank, as though a bit of metal had been jostled.

  Haem pulled away from the automaton he had been studying, overwhelmed by the feeling of being watched. He glanced down the row of metal men, but nothing moved in the courtyard. The sound of his startled breathing was loud in his ears.

  Nothing seemed out of place, but Haem was still suspicious. He walked the silent rank of metal figures, eyes attempting to pierce the shadows.

  One of the figures caught his eye. The metal man stood in his allotted place, but he was askew – turned a bit to the left.

  Leaning forward, Haem studied the automaton. There was a light coating of dust on the thing's arm, and scratches on the hand. Was this the one that had smashed through the stone wall at the demonstration?

  Haem reached out to touch the machine, to wipe dust from the thing's face. As his hand drew near, the clockwork man flinched back.

  "Please, sir. Please, don't hurt me!" The automaton's voice was high pitched, like a girl or a young boy. Haem's eyes widened and he jerked back.

  "Who are you?"

  "I am no one. I am lost," the small voice came again. "I… I had a name, once. But it's lost now."

  A dim red glow from the breastplate distracted Haem's attention. There, four glowing red lines described a rectangle in the metal. On a hunch, he pressed a spot near the bottom of the section, where the runes were curiously absent. He was rewarded with the soft snick of a catch releasing.

  Red light spilled from the automaton’s chest, pouring over Haem's face. He stared in wonder. There, inside the metal chest, floated a glowing red jewel the size of a large fist.

  "What is that?"

  "My heart."

  Unable to restrain himself, Haem reached his hand forward, forefinger extended. As soon as he touched the smooth, glassy surface of the stone, red lightning arced, knocking him backward. The automaton went still and silent, the glow of the heart stone fading to darkness.

  Haem wondered if he’d broken the clockwork man. He stood before the thing for another moment before gently closing the chest cavity. He turned on his heel, prepared to demand an explanation from Thorne.

  "My name is Aelfgar."

  Haem . The automaton was awake once more. It stared at him, head cocked to one side.

  "What do you mean?"

  "My name, sir. I'm Aelfgar. I remember you from earlier, at the arena. I woke up and saw you sitting with the bad man. There was dust everywhere, and my bones were echoing."

  "Bones? You have no bones. You're a construct – a bronze man powered by magic."

  "No," the automaton shook its head emphatically. "I'm a boy – I remember when the slavers took me and threw me in their boat. They stank of fish and ale." The voice wavered. "I wonder what mother is doing now. It must be harvest time… Do you think she misses me?" With that, the voice broke and great metallic sobs came from the thing.

  Awkwardly, Haem put his arm around the monstrosity's shoulders. "Now, now. It's alright, Aelfgar."

  The creature's sobs slowed and finally stopped.

  "Who did this to you Aelfgar?"

  "The man, the bad man that lives here." The metal head refused to turn toward the keep proper; Aelfgar stared hard at the stone floor of the courtyard.

  "You mean Mikael Thorne, the alchemist?"

  "It must be, sir. The reaver called him 'alchemist' down at the docks."

  Anger surged within Haem.

  "Come with me, Aelfgar."

  "Where are we going, sir?"

  "To find the truth."

  ***

  Thorne was in his study, surrounded by implements of his craft. Beakers, glass pipes, copper and brass gears – the room was a jumble of arcane bric-a-brac and strange technology. Thorne looked annoyed when Haem barged through the door, but that look changed when Aelfgar entered behind him, metal shoulders just clearing the doorframe.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Thorne demanded, face white.

  "You dare demand answers of me?" Haem was furious now, but that fury was cold.

  Aelfgar stepped forward, shouldering past Haem. "Please," he said, the small voice echoing across the room. "Please, I… I want to go home now."

  Thorne looked alarmed. He raised one hand, palm out. "Now, let's talk about this. They were nobodies – the children of serfs!" He ignored Aelfgar, speaking directly to Haem.

  Haem opened his mouth to issue a stinging retort, but Thorne's hand flashed, fingertips pointed at Aelfgar. A harsh, guttural word tore from his throat, and a blast of light caromed into Aelfgar's metal body, only to rebound toward the other side of the room. A bookcase and its contents burst into flame.

  Haem had left his sword in his room; was there a weapon nearby? A glance showed him nothing.

  Aelfgar launched himself toward Thorne. He was almost upon the alchemist when Thorne spat a string of unintelligible words. A protective ring of fire sprang into existence around the man and Aelfgar stopped at its edge. Haem could hear the alchemist's high-pitched laughter.

  Aelfgar looked from Haem to the flames, and came to a decision. Without hesitating any longer, he strode into the conflagration. Thorne shrieked in fear.

  "Aelfgar, wait! He's dangerous!" There was no answer to Haem's cry. He edged closer to the flames, feeling the hair on his arms singe off, and his eyebrows begin to curl.

  The wall of flame guttered, but did not go out. Through the flames, Haem could see both Aelfgar and Thorne. Aelfgar had the alchemist by the throat in one golden hand, holding him above the floor. Thorne's feet kicked for purchase, and his face was purpling. Aelfgar's right arm was drawn back, ready to deliver the killing blow.

  Thorne's mouth opened impossibly far, the sound of bone cracking echoed clearly over the roar of the flames. A boiling cloud of blackness billowed from the alchemist's gaping maw, descending on Aelfgar's form. It was thick and viscous, accompanied by a sizzling sound and an acrid tang in the air. An enormous boom shook the entire room, shattering windows and quenching the flames.

  The smoke and blackness soon cleared, showing no sign of the alchemist. Aelfgar lay on the stone floor, his metal body pitted and melted. The chest cavity was open, the gem
within dim and pulsing ever slower.

  Haem knelt beside the fallen automaton, gently touching one arm. Guilt ripped at him; he had failed the boy.

  "It's all right, sir," a small voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere at once. "It's all right. I can hear my mother calling…" The heart stone went dark.

  Haem rose slowly, knuckling his eyes. There was much to report to the king. There was also the question of the other automatons – did they all bear the spirits of children?

  THE END

  Interlude I

  Ah, I’ll bet you didn’t hear that version from your wet nurse, now did you? No, they like to claim that the Golden Legion was all down to those with royal blood, not some shameful thing like that. Old Haem Northwarden would weep if he knew.

  Still, the Legion is dead and gone now, innit? No more fear of monstrous brass golems smashing city gates and slaughtering peasants. Or so everyone says…

  Here, put some more wood on that fire if you don’t mind. Feeling a bit chilled myself. That’s good, that’s good – we don’t want to use it all up yet. The night’s still young and there are more tales to be told!

  What’s next? Oh, I’ve a good tale for you. I’ve a love story to tell you, of a sort. You’ve heard of the Shattersea Consortium, yes? Know much of the founders? Old Torgen Sen… now there’s a man what could inspire an entire world of stories!

  Behind the Red Door

  His fingers gripped the stone of the window ledge. It was slick with ice, and he hung there for a moment, his body rigid as he fought for purchase. A glance below showed howling blackness, punctuated by the roof of the gatehouse rising steeply into the night. Why in the hells am I doing this, he asked himself.

  Matthias (Matt to his few friends) knew the answer, though. This was THE mark, the score of all scores. After this night's work, he would never have to worry about the night watch again, nor bother picking pockets in Dog's Head Square. He'd set himself up somewhere warm, where snow was nothing but a distant rumor. He'd heard tell of such places, sun-washed beaches, warm breezes and no one to clap you in irons for looking at a noble the wrong way.

  Lost in his fantasies, Matt jerked back to the task at hand. The bitter wind whipped around his body, tugging on his tunic. A fall from here was a death sentence – his body crushed and bleeding on the cobbles or impaled on a roof spire below. He redoubled his efforts, frantically searching for purchase on the window ledge. The fingers of his left hand found a crack between two stones. It was barely worthy of the name, but Matt was used to making do. Gently, not daring to breathe lest he somehow pull a stone loose, the thief began the laborious task of hauling himself up to the window.

  Here I come, rich man, he thought. We'll see how comfortably you sleep after tonight!

  At last, Matt perched on the window ledge. Ice crunched beneath the soles of his boots, threatening to spill him to certain death below. The window itself was an ornate thing – beautiful panes of glass set within wooden frames. It was something new for Celadon. Torgen Sen was not one to be satisfied with convention, and had his windows custom made by some architect from far away Ollandra, according to rumor.

  It served Matt well, though. A simple tug and the entire window swung upward from the bottom, creating a gap large enough for the thief's body, though only just. If Matt had been a fat man, he'd never have made it. But then again, if he were a fat man, he never would have scaled the wall in the first place.

  Iharan had been as good as his word, though Matt had paid the servant enough that he should have murdered his own mother without complaint. He mourned the loss of his meager hoard as he slid down the interior wall into blessed protection from the wind and cold. Still, this night would recoup far more than the small stack of coins.

  Matt remembered to tug the window closed behind him, but did not latch it. He needed to get back out again in a hurry, and the window might be the only way without running the gauntlet of Torgen Sen's guards.

  Matt stopped to survey the room. It seemed to be a study; shelves of books lined two walls and an immense desk took up the majority of the space. The room was small, but warmly furnished. A heavy rug covered most of the floor and mitigated the chill somewhat. Only one door lead out of the room, and the only window was the one through which he had entered. All in all, this seemed the perfect place for him to enter the villa.

  The thief opened his tunic and removed a coil of rope. Choosing one of the desk's legs as his anchor point, he made it fast. Knotting the rope firmly, he tossed the remainder under the window. Matt wondered about the wisdom of just hanging the rope out the window now, but the fear that some random guard would spot it and raise the alarm stopped him. Instead, he settled for leaving it as close to the window as possible. He'd have no time to worry about it when making his exit. Ever cautious, he double-checked the knot. It would never do for it to come loose when he was dangling halfway to the ground.

  Matt stepped to the door and pressed his ear to the wood. He heard nothing from the other side. It seemed Iharan was right and the place was deserted. Matt decided to chance it, opening the door just a crack. Pressing his eye to the narrow slit, he could just make out a dimly lit hallway. A torch guttered in its iron sconce farther down, but no one seemed to be about.

  Easing the door open farther, Matt stepped through into the hall. All seemed quiet and the thief breathed a small sigh of relief. He would not have put it past the servant to have taken his money and promptly sold him out. No doubt the merchant would have paid a handsome sum for the knowledge that Iharan could provide. Either the servant was too stupid to have double-crossed Matt or the man hated Sen as much as he'd said.

  According to the information that the servant had given him, Sen kept his greatest treasure not in a vault or under guard, but locked up in a room on the top floor of his villa. Matt only needed to turn left at the next intersection and he would be almost there. Iharan promised there would be no guards at the door tonight. He was to go to the end of the hall and open the last door on the right – the red door. It all sounded a bit too good to be true, but he could not pass up the opportunity, not for a score of this size.

  As silent as fog creeping up the River Cel, Matt moved down the corridor. Low-burning torches sputtered along the way, but they were far enough apart that Matt did not fear discovery. He moved from one puddle of darkness to the next, calling on every ounce of skill learned stalking the streets of Celadon. More quickly than he had anticipated, he encountered the first intersecting hallway. Was this the one that Iharan had meant? A quick glance down the left branching showed him little. The darkness was deeper here, it's velvet caul pierced by only a single torch. The right passage was better lit.

  Sudden voices made the thief pause. The tromp of heavy boots followed and Matt retreated, pressing himself into the concealing shadows of a doorway.

  "Where's Sen at tonight then, Dineh?" a deep voice asked.

  Another male voice answered, "Dunno, Hathe, he don't check in with me before anything, now do he?"

  Matt could see neither of the speakers, but the sound of their boots grew louder as they approached the intersection. He held his breath, willing himself invisible. He could only pray that the shadows concealed him, and that the approaching men would take a different turning.

  He risked a glance past the edge of the doorframe to see two guards stop in the center of the intersection. Both wore Sen's arms on their cloaks.

  "Now Dineh, there's no need to be an arse," one said.

  "Weren't being an arse, Hathe, just pointing out that there ain't no way for me to know where the man might be. Asides, ain't tonight the anniversary of his lady's death? I'd imagine he'd be grievin' summat."

  "Oh," Hathe replied, seeming a bit crestfallen, "right. Forgot about that, so I did."

  "You might, bucko, but you can bet Sen ain't. Fond o'her, he was, I've heard tell."

  The two guards faced each other for a moment longer, then turned and moved up the central hall, away from Matt. They paid
no notice at all to the left hand hall. Matt would have sworn they chose to ignore it completely. As the pair moved down the hall away from him, Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He allowed his body to relax slightly, the tension draining from his limbs.

  So, Sen was occupied tonight. That explained why Iharan had insisted that it had to be tonight. The servant seemed to have a good head for this; perhaps Matt needed to revise his opinion of the man. It was possible he was not a total idiot.

  Unwilling to risk the guards returning, Matt moved swiftly out of the concealing shadows. Glancing around to make sure no one saw him, the thief turned left and made his way down the darkened hallway.

  The darkness grew deeper as he moved farther down the hallway, and the place smelled musty, unused. Sen must keep his servants away from here on purpose, Matt mused. Images of piled coins, heaped gems and that dream of faraway warmth and prosperity shot through his mind. Matt grinned and quickened his pace.

  Finally, he came to the end of the hall and there was the door, red and ornate. It was large, heavy and highly decorated. Intricate carvings ran across the face of the door, but there was something wrong with them. Matt's head hurt to look at them too closely, or focus on them too intently.

  Is this why Sen doesn't need a guard? Even as they repelled him, Matt felt curiously compelled to look harder at the jagged lines and swirling chaos that adorned the door. It took a conscious effort to force his eyes away, to focus on a different point. Matt cursed. Now what?

  He reached out one finger to touch the door, hesitant, testing. Nothing happened. Maybe they really are nothing but bizarre carvings, he thought. Without much hope, he put his hand to the latch and pushed. Nothing. Of course, he thought sourly. Well, there was nothing for it but to get to work. He pulled his kit from a small satchel and set to it. He prayed to all the gods above and below that the lock had nothing in common with the strange patterns on the face of the door. Matt selected a pick and inserted it into the lock, gently probing and prodding, feeling for the telltale sign that he had found just the right place.