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Welcome to Deep Cove
by
Grant Reed
Vellian Mysteries:
Welcome to Deep Cove
Something Stinks in Deep Cove
Something’s Brewing in Deep Cove
By Grant Reed and Gary Reed:
Vellian Heroes:
Funny Fruit
The Cassadian Chalice
Also by Grant Reed:
Shadow of the Makarios
Visit us @ www.grantreed.ca
Email me: @ [email protected]
Cover illustration by Grant Reed
Prologue by Gary Reed
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Welcome to Deep Cove
Copyright ©2014 Grant Reed
This book is protected under the copyright laws of Canada. Any reproduction or other unauthorised use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written consent of the author.
Prologue
The wet shaft smelled of death. Visible fumes seeped across the floor above a trickle of water and green slime. Turning to his men, the lead operative made a fist and nodded. Each of the fifteen soldiers went from silent mode to deadly silent mode. Hardly a breath was drawn for fear of disturbing the dark tunnel.
Behind the soldiers, a rusted iron grate lay to the side of the tunnel. Outside, a steady sheet of rain fell across the opening. Beyond, a vertical drop of six hundred yards fell to the sea: a deadly climb, made even deadlier by the adverse conditions his men had toiled in. Obviously, cover of night and storm was a must for an operation such as this. It was expected, and welcomed as a challenge. Commander Edward Rowgar lowered his arm and swiftly proceeded up the tunnel. His men followed as a single entity. These were men of shadow, silence, and death.
Reaching the end of the tunnel, Rowgar stopped. A faint light crept through the bars ahead and in the gloom, a skinny man sawed furiously. Exploding forward, Rowgar grabbed the wrist of the inmate who dropped his wooden spoon in surprise. Pulling the man tight to the bars, Rowgar held him in a single handed grip of iron. Pressing his lip to a dirty ear, he whispered. “Cease that activity. Give us two minutes and we’ll be right in.”
The startled man recovered quickly. “You can’t be serious,” he whined through his thick beard, “nobody in their right mind wants in. I’ve spent years trying to dig my way out. Do you think you can just barge in here and steal my glory? I’m going to be the first to make it out alive. They’ll sing songs about me in every tavern.” Rowgar assessed the man. Was it delirium or insanity?
“Jack the convict went down the hole, thrown in prison for the bread he stole. Through a crack, he never looked back; the Poncemen lost crazy old Jack.”
Rowgar tightened his fingers on the man’s throat signaling an end to the man’s song. “You’ll bring the guards down on us,” he growled.
“Don’t mean to be rude, but there is no one down here except me and the rats. The prison is five stories above,” confided Jack.
“So, you’re a bread thief,” whispered Rowgar fumbling at his belt.
“I am… was, a wheat dignitary. I was responsible for Vellian exports.”
Rowgar grunted and released his Svindinbom knife from his belt with his free hand. The tool was ingenious, containing everything from sharpened blades to a small saw. His men crouched at the ready as he released the lockpick tool.
As he worked, Rowgar’s thoughts returned to the men behind him. Already they had made him proud. A three mile trip in rowboats on stormy seas, followed by a two mile hike over rocky shores in full gear had been nothing compared to the climb. Not once had any man faltered or complained. It was an honour to lead such men. It wasn’t his company or their abilities that concerned Rowgar though; it was the mission itself.
For two years now, Rowgar had warned the top Vellian brass about the consequences of an unwarranted strike on any of Ponce’s compounds. It was no secret the treaty between Vellia and Ponce was stretched to its breaking point.
“If the wrong general so much as breaks wind in Ponce’s direction, we’ll be looking at war,” he had cautioned them. Up until last week the Vellian high command had seen fit to listen to the wisdom of their Svindenbom allies. Then without warning, Vellia ordered a pre-emptive strike on the coastal prison compound known as Chateau Gibet. Rowgar had not been informed about the attack prior to the offense, and now he had been sent in with his elite soldiers in a secondary offense on the same compound. It made no sense. The Ponce guard would be on high alert and expecting them, he knew. Exhaling a deep breath, he calmed himself. There was nothing to do now but follow orders. ‘This is what we have trained for. I must be strong for the boys.’ Deep down inside he felt empty.
“Ulas,” he hoarsed as the lock gave way under his pick. “You blink that loud again and I’ll have Tyas cut off those lids to shut you up.” Still holding Jack tight to the grill, Rowgar pushed forward into the adjacent square of tunnel.
Behind Rowgar, the men shuffled after him. Ulas mumbled a “Sorry Chief,” under his breath as he passed.
“I know you fellas,” whispered Jack. “You’re from the Hard Hawks and the King’s First Balloon Division. You’re the most famous paratroopers in the Royal Airborne. Dropped in to free the hostages and kill the command of the prison, have we?” Rowgar’s deadly gaze met Jack’s, and though he didn’t speak, his message was clear. Jack swallowed, but continued nonetheless. “I happen to be a distant cousin of the queen’s mother, a man of importance to the Vellian Empire and its grain negotiations, as I mentioned.”
Rowgar’s fingers encircled the prisoner’s throat again and he forcefully pushed Jack to the floor as two of his soldiers took up positions on either side of the inner cell door. Releasing the man, Rowgar stood. His eyes swept the gloom of the cell and the soft light coming from behind the inner door. “Did you hear that cannon fire a week past?” he snarled. “That was the Hard Hawks, or what happened to them anyway. Recon was bad. They said there was light fire to be expected from the upper cliffs, maybe some six pounders. The weather forecast was also botched. Cloud cover was too light. Between the griffin riders and the cannons, the Hard Hawks and their balloons didn’t stand a chance. We’re your last hope now, dignitary, so stay close and stay quiet.”
Rowgar slid a sleek, black, crossbow from his back and slipped a bolt into place. “Ravens, load up.” Fifteen men readied their crossbows and prepared to deal death in a non-negotiable way. Rowgar made a fist and pointed across the cell. The men moved out in pairs.
Making their way into the higher dungeons, crossbows clicked quietly as the compound’s guards were encountered and dispatched. Charges were planted and slow-burn fuses lit. These men worked well under pressure. No one had expected an easy mission, and most had wanted it that way. Thirty minutes was all the time they had to gain access to the upper cells, set their charges, and get out – while meeting the mission directives. The prime directive was to bring down the gates of the compound. The second directive was to destroy the griffin stables and rider quarters. The third directive, and least important, was to get the hostages out.
Rowgar climbed toward the last iron door leading into the upper compound. Dousing the burning lantern beside the arch, the men backed against the tunnel walls and stood waiting in the darkness. From the other side of the door a high pitched voice uttered something indecipherable. The door opened and a thin attendant stepped onto the landing at the top of the stairs. He fell to the stone spilling lantern oil and blood as three crossbow quarrels hit him in the chest. Immediately, six of Rowgar’s Ravens were through t
he opening, crossbows firing as they cleared the guardroom.
Rowgar raised his hand and all movement ceased. “Ulas, take Vigor, Annette and the twins, and go wake the good warden. Tyas, I know you are itching to avenge your brother. Take Redford, Bellings, Night Soil and Johnny, and level that damn griffin stable. The rest of the men and I will set our charges and hold the passage into the lower levels. Go now.” The men slipped from the room and into the prison without a word of acknowledgment.
From below, a violent explosion rocked the complex, shaking mortar from the ceilings and knocking Rowgar and his men from their feet. A second explosion shuddered throughout the compound, sending a large cloud of dust up through the tunnel behind them.
“What in God’s name?” The charges in the lower mines were going off. The lower tunnels would now be impassable. As he picked himself off the floor, a moment of fear touched Rowgar. “So much for surprise,” he quipped. “Gilk, find Ulas and have his men make for the stables. The rest of you start praying we reach Tyas before he sets his charges. If I have a choice, I’ll ride a griffin before I practice my cliff diving.”
“But Chief,” said one of the men behind him. “You’re the best swimmer in the corps!”
Rowgar’s head bobbed at Jack. “By the smell of him, he’s not as fond of the water as us.” The soldier nodded in agreement and reached for another bolt.
1
License to Bill
The door to the office was opened and Garrett Willigins stomped into the reception area. At thirty-one, Garrett retained a healthy physique, and the door flew inwards under the strength of the man’s arm. Inside the main room a small green and orange dragon – no more than half Garrett’s size – reclined in his leather chair, his feet planted on a desk, an open newspaper occupying his attention. “Disgusting, Merle. I told you not to sit like that. I can see your baubles,” chastised Garrett.
“Pardon me,” replied the dragon. With a great show of effort, he slid his feet from the table. “Did you see this article in the gazette about the Hard Hawks?”
Garrett nodded solemnly. “The whole town is talking about it.”
“Shot down across the Ponce border,” squealed Merle. “This is big! We could be looking at war again. Not to mention this took place over a month ago and they’re just confirming it now! Who knows what the Poncemen have been up to for the past few weeks?”
“You know the military,” said Garrett. “Deny, deny, deny…” Crossing the room to his worn desk, Garrett shoved a stack of books to the side and retrieved an envelope from inside his leather jacket. He tossed the packet onto the desk before removing his coat and throwing it at a nearby coat rack. The jacket caught one of the pegs and oscillated violently. Rubbing at his temples, he frowned when he espied one of Merle’s adult magazines within the pile of papers he had thrust to the side. “What if we had clients in here?”
“Clients?” snorted Merle dropping the newspaper to the desk in front of him, “That would imply we were getting paid.”
“Things have to change around here,” continued Garrett with another frown. “Not everyone who comes in here will be as blind as old lady Wichuster.” Reaching into the top right drawer of the desk, he pulled out a small mirror and angled it beneath his nose.
“That reminds me,” said Merle taking a sip from his coffee cup. “She was in this morning. Said Piddles ran away again.”
“How many Piddles does that make now?” asked Garrett, adjusting the mirror.
Shoving the newspaper aside, Merle located a small notepad and flipped through its pages. “Let’s see. There was the original Piddles who disappeared last April. He was replaced by the tabby. When the tabby got run down by Earl’s carriage, you caught that calico in Rudy Wilson’s barn.” Merle licked his claw and flipped a couple of pages. “We had two black and whites, a persian, and then there was the chihuahua when we couldn’t find a stray. When she started questioning the barking, you substituted him for that old siamese from the Wang’s.”
“Right,” agreed Garrett, rummaging in his top drawer again. “Hasn’t he taken a liking to her wooden leg?”
“Mr. Wang?”
“The cat. Pervert.”
“He uses it as a scratching post,” agreed Merle. “And he pisses all over the place too. You know, the old battle axe might be three quarters blind, but she’s still got a nose on her Garrett. She’s been bothering me to get the apothecary to look at the damn thing, because she insists he has a bladder infection.”
“Okay,” snapped Garrett, “no dogs, and no male replacements. I’m not the only one to blame on that score though; we knew that old tom liked to mark his territory, and it was you who pointed out the original must have been named Piddles for a reason!” Removing a set of tweezers from the desk, Garrett attended his nose again.
“It was only an observation,” sulked Merle. “Let’s go with another calico this time. The first one lasted quite a while.” The little dragon watched as Garrett inserted the tweezers into a nostril and yanked at a wayward hair. “And you call me disgusting,” he remarked.
“It’s been bothering me all morning,” confided Garrett. “It’s hard to have a conversation with a hair waving about in there.” He set the tweezers down and shot a withering look at the dragon. “Besides, disgusting was finding another of your scales in my bed this morning.”
“Uh,” stammered Merle, “I uh… well… you were gone for a couple of nights and I didn’t see the harm in moving down from the loft. Your bed is bigger and softer. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well I do mind, Merle. And another thing, if I find you’ve had one of your lady friends over in my bed…”
“Hey now, don’t be jumping to conclusions on me. I would never be that disrespectful.”
“Yes you would,” insisted Garrett. He tucked the mirror back into its drawer. “That scale was pink, Merle.”
“Your bottom is pink, my friend,” huffed Merle. “I’ve seen you in the shower, so don’t deny it.”
Garrett shuddered. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? At least if it was green or orange, I’d assume it came from your arm.”
“Okay, I get your point,” conceded Merle. “Now are you going to find something else to complain about or are you going to let me know how you did?”
“My application,” said Garrett knowingly.
“Come on buddy, did you pass or what?”
“Well, first there was the outstanding issue of my assessment. I received my papers by courier last night. King Renli has absolved me of any wrong doing while away on crusade and the assigned counselor has agreed to clear me for active duty.”
“Wow. Even that thing with Emperor Ho-Chi’s daughter?”
“Let’s put it this way,” said Garrett, “we won’t be practicing in Ho-Horaan any time soon, but as far as a clean record here in Vellia, we’re good to go. Renli advises we steer clear of the imperial courts of both Ho-Horaan and Sung-Ti. They do have close political and military ties, as you know.”
“Yes I recall,” agreed Merle. “Thanks to our little stint in his Majesty’s Armed Services, I also recall their unpleasant fondness for dragon meat. Once you’ve faced down an angry Sung-Ti chef with a cleaver in his hand, you have a little more respect for the fare put on your table.”
“You’re not going vegetarian on me, are you little buddy?” asked Garrett with a wink. “I was there too, remember? Do you think it’s any easier for me to consider Gronar’s exotic menu these days? It’s bad enough I find little pieces of you in my bed. Believe me when I say it’s the last thing I want on my plate.”
Merle’s gossamer wings buzzed into action as he lifted himself from his desk and settled to the floor. Waddling toward Garrett, his tail snaked across the tiles. “And your meeting this morning?” he prompted. “Tell me you held your tongue this time?”
Garrett beamed a smile and reached for the envelope he’d tossed on the desk. “It wasn’t easy. That woman has a way of getting under my skin!”
Pulling forth the document, he held it up for the tiny dragon to see. “We’ll need to get this framed. We’re finally official, Merle. Check out the cool badge I have too!” Holding his certificate in one hand he tipped up the envelope and caught the shiny pin as it fell. The brooch was rounded on the bottom and shaped like the king’s crown across the top. In the center, the words Vellian P.I. were engraved.
“Excellent news!” breathed Merle. Jumping on Garrett’s desk, he leaned in close to get a better look at the document. “Where’s my badge?” he asked.
“Uh…we’ll get you an assistant one made up.”
Merle scowled and then nodded after giving it brief consideration. “I guess that’s okay. You are the one who had to deal with that counselor and all. At least we can finally get some decent work. Who needs old lady Wichuster’s pennies now?”
“At the moment we do,” sighed Garrett, pulling the paper back from Merle’s dangerously close coffee cup. “And don’t feign ignorance either, Merle. I know your math is far from perfect, but even you must realise how close we are to getting kicked out of this place.”
“You’re right,” groaned Merle. “I’ve been reading back issues of Dirty Drake for two months.”
“Poor thing,” exclaimed Garrett.
“Oh right! Speaking of dirty, Conn Carlson was in.”
Garrett exhaled, a visible shudder running through his frame. “More manure?” he asked.
“I think so,” said Merle. “He’s always got some kind of compost or fertilizer for us to bag.”
“Us? Last time, I could hardly get you to hold the sack while I did all the shoveling. I haven’t seen a woman whine so much about a broken nail.”
“I need these things for survival,” snapped Merle. He held his hand up and gazed lovingly at his perfectly trimmed claws. “Have you ever seen a woman disembowel a bull in self-defense? I didn’t think so.”
Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3) Page 1