The Last Spellbound House: A Steampunk Dark Fantasy Thriller

by Samuel Simons

 

  ‘Res’? That’s a new word from you. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s remembering things every time I use the Serpent’s Tongue.

 

  As Pyke and Jenna drew closer to the House, Pyke noticed a cluster of five horses which had been hidden by the fog until now: they huddled together for warmth under a balcony encircled by a stone railing. The balcony was supported at one end by the House itself and at the other by two massive pillars of grey stone which stood like sentries fifteen metres apart. Its upper surface was accessible via a doorway on the house’s third storey. Underneath it, central to the building and not far from the horses, a pair of wooden double doors stood halfway between the pillars: the main entrance.

  Pyke noticed one of the horses still had a saddle on, and no bag of feed at its mouth. “Jenna. Is that your mare?”

  “Oh, thank the Flame,” Jenna murmured, emerging from her reverie. She let go of Pyke and hurried over to run her hands down the horse’s face. “Smart girl, Rione, heading straight for work.”

  “Will she be safe out here? Left unattended like this, the horses could be stolen.”

  Jenna tore a strip from her riding skirt and began brushing the worst clumps of dirt out of Rione’s coat and mane. “I’m not worried about that.” Discarding the makeshift brushes, Jenna pulled the saddle off of Rione, then used one of the loops of leather attached to the saddle horn to affix the mare’s reins to a wooden fence. As she did, she pulled Rione’s lips back to get a good look at her teeth, nodding with satisfaction at whatever she saw. “Thieves are superstitious sorts, and they avoid the House.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Jenna hummed by way of reply, seemingly more interested in checking Rione’s legs for injury than in producing a more eloquent response. She lifted each of the mare’s hooves to inspect them, then let out a relieved sigh.

  “Against all odds, she’s all right. I hope you don’t mind if I use your coat as a horse blanket,” Jenna said, shrugging the jacket off. She draped it over Rione’s back and tied the sleeves around the horse’s chest. “She needs it more than I do. I’m late for work, so I’ll come out with a replacement blanket and brush her down properly on my lunch break.”

  “I see.” Pyke had to admit he knew little about horses.

 

  Thanks, Voice. Trust you to be versed in horsemanship on top of everything else.

  “Pyke?” Jenna stepped closer to look up at him.

  “Mm?” Pyke’s gaze flicked to her upturned face. Then he looked away, studying the faint tracery of erosion on the balcony’s pillar supports. He wasn’t about to give the Voice another easy shot about staring.

  “Thanks again. For rescuing me.” Standing on her tiptoes, Jenna kissed Pyke on the cheek, then hurried over to one of the double doors and pulled it open, slipping through before he had time to decide how to respond.

 

  I have no time for that. Pyke tried to ignore the invigorating sensations which fluttered and rushed somewhere in his chest. And besides, she’s in no state to make such a decision. Give her time to recover, and she’ll swiftly realize she was only attracted to a sense of safety.

 

  That sounds like a polite way of saying you doubt it, Pyke grumbled internally, crossing the sheltered patio and pulling the door open.

  On the other side of the doorway Pyke found an entry hall two storeys tall, with a ceiling which didn’t quite reach the height of the balcony outside. The only light came from a burning torch in the mouth of a corridor leading away to the left, and from windows in the left-hand wall of that hallway.

  The floor was hardwood, scuffed and damaged in a trail leading to the left. The remainder of the entry chamber was almost untouched, and grew increasingly dusty with distance from the main doors. The architecture was symmetrical: ahead were two curving staircases with black metal railings framing a small set of double doors across from Pyke. The stairs traced twin semicircles which ended on a landing above those double doors, and a hallway on that landing projected straight ahead, deeper into the manse. The remaining exit from the room was a dark corridor to the right, mirroring the hall to his left from which came the distant sound of voices.

 

  Pyke nodded his agreement as he turned to the left and headed for the hallway. Aimlessly wandering an ancient manse seemed a reckless, last-ditch sort of plan: experience had taught Pyke that following in the footsteps of pioneers at first was prudence, not cowardice.

  The hall was wide enough for three people to walk abreast, and its ceiling was twice Pyke’s height. On the floor were the remnants of a carpet, clumps of pale brown warp and weft fibres clinging to one another: nothing else remained after decades of trampling feet shaking the old rug apart. The path forward was lit by crude torches wedged into the ornate metal candelabra on the walls every ten metres. The corridor followed the exterior wall of the manse for a short while, passing four windows which looked out onto the foggy grounds. Then it elbowed once, to the right. As Pyke rounded the corner, the voices resolved into the din of a large crowd, including laughter and the clinking of glasses.

  Pyke followed a second short corridor to an archway which opened onto a baroque hall. Lit by candles placed along five banquet tables, the hall was fifty metres in length and almost as broad, leaving plenty of room for the two-hundred-odd people seated there eating, drinking, laughing, and to Pyke’s surprise, reading.

  Three chandeliers of blackened iron, each one five metres across, hung from the rafters far overhead. They were covered in wax drippings and dust, having dangled unused on their chains for many a cycle. At one end of the dining hall, another entryway opened onto a brighter space which by the clatter of pots and pans could only be a kitchen. Pyke’s guess was borne out when a woman in her forties emerged through the doorway, wearing a brown apron over her muslin dress and carrying a platter loaded with trenchers of food and tankards of ale.

  “Can I help ya find a seat?” asked a serving girl, interrupting Pyke’s appraisal of the space as she bustled up to him. She also wore a brown apron over her clothing, and looked to be no older than seventeen.

  “Thank you, I’ll make my own way.” Pyke strode past her, focused already on the conversations he could overhear.

  Jenna’s information continued to be of use. She had mentioned there were only two reasons anyone came to the Last Spellbound House. Some visitors were here to buy the objects of magic discovered in the sunless Void. The rest made their living on journeys north to seek such Relics.

  Jenna had also suggested some of this latter category failed to return. Pyke’s practiced ear had identified a group whose conversation indicated they were the type of people who might know more. The glint of metal armour from underneath one or two of their cloaks indicated they were as ready as they could be for the dangers of the Void.

  “How long d’ya figure the lantern oil’s gonna last, Eiten?” asked one of them, a woman with an eyepatch and a coolly violent tone to her voice. She wore a chain shirt under her thick winter cloak, and a metal helmet covered her head and the nape of her neck.

  “A hundred hours, no more,
Merana. Ration it carefully,” responded a smooth-voiced man whose hood remained raised, hiding his features.

  Merana lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “A hundred hours is enough if we use it fer emergencies. Rationin’ oil’s only any damn good if we can get the Ash-curst dark-vision Relic workin’. Vino?”

  “It’s working again, but now I can only get it to cover one person at a time. I can’t seem to figure out the lateral flow to extend it beyond the user,” grumbled a man in a tense, thready voice. He had an overbite, his eyes were sunken, and he wore a dark brown cloak stained with splotches of unknown liquids. “It was fine before our last outing, but…”

  Merana cut him off with a curt jerk of her head. “Then we just gotta make peace with goin’ tied together, an’ follow the one wearin’ the damn thing, like we did when it cut out on the way back from— can I help you, stranger?”

  Pyke came to a halt facing her, and sized up the Relic-seekers. Besides Merana, Eiten, and Vino, there was one who hadn’t yet spoken. This fourth adventurer was a bald-headed mountain of a man in heavy leather armour studded with squares of iron. A two-headed battleaxe rested in a sling at his side with its grip close to his hand.

  One-eyed Merana looked the part of a mercenary or other soldier of fortune, right down to the eyepatch, helmet, and hands covered in scars. The hooded one, Eiten, had few notable features, which was in itself notable. Vino stood out as the only one with a brown cloak instead of black, and his belt pouches and pockets alike bulged with bits of metal and porcelain, marking him a Risker: the closest thing there was in the Phoenix Kingdom to an expert in Relic use and other magical lore… at least, aside from an Antiquarian.

  The muscle, the rogue, and the dabbler in little-understood magics. None of them your usual leader archetype, which leaves Merana speaking for the group.

  the Voice added.

  “May I ask whom I’ve the honour of addressing?” Pyke asked formally. There was no sense in beginning impolitely.

  “No, you may not, Un-Guildsman.” Merana’s tone indicated she both recognized and disliked the gear-and-lens patch on the shoulder of Pyke’s cloak. “Begone.”

  “As you wish.” Pyke turned to leave. “But your friend may want to know his Relic is more likely to blind you all permanently than to work for much longer… at least, without a recalibration.”

  Merana’s hand came to rest on Pyke’s shoulder. “Wait.”

  Pyke took a step away from the mercenary. Although the weight of Merana’s hand stayed on his shoulder, her fingers didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, tighten to stop him. More support for his theory: this place’s enchantment of safety was real, and it was thorough. He stopped and looked back, schooling his expression and raising his eyebrows to indicate neutral interest. “Yes?”

  Merana dropped her arm to her side. “Vino. Is he lyin’?”

  “W-w-well, he, umm, he could be right, given the interactions at work, but technically speaking there’s no way to confirm without—”

  “Enough,” Merana snapped. “Ya made yer point, Antiquarian. What’re ya here to say to us?”

  “Guild regulations require me to submit a report to the Fiend Hunters regarding use of potentially heretical Relics by an unauthorized party.” Pyke met Vino’s nervous, sunken eyes directly, ignoring Merana. “However.”

  Pyke paused to ensure the Relic-seekers understood both the threat and the implication of an alternative before proceeding. “It may be some months before I return to the nearest Antiquities Guild outpost, and such things have been known to slip Antiquarians’ minds. Especially if information is shared with them which is suitably... distracting.”

  Merana scowled, the scar tissue around her eyepatch creasing and bunching under her tight-fitting helmet. “And what kinda info might ya find distractin’, Un-Guildsman?”

  “I might be distracted by the opportunity to inspect and repair a damaged Relic,” Pyke offered with a smile which didn’t reach his eyes. “But only if that opportunity were accompanied by a wealth of information about the source of the Working, or rather the enchantment, on this place.”

  “Enchantment?” Merana asked, raising the eyebrow which wasn’t hidden behind her eyepatch. “I know of no enchantment.”

  the Voice interjected unnecessarily.

  “Of course you don’t,” Pyke agreed, donning a sardonic attitude to echo Merana’s unimpressed tone. “And I suppose I’m to believe it’s by your benevolence alone that your friend with the battleaxe there hasn’t already hacked me limb from limb for raining on your little party.”

  The brute in question tightened his white-knuckled grip on his weapon. Merana made a gesture with one fist above her shoulder, and the huge man subsided with a grumbled curse.

  “Thanks fer the backup, Wolder, but it seems our new friend knows he ain’t got nothin’ to fear from you, at least.” Merana’s expression grew crafty. “I can see ya did yer research, Antiquarian. Perhaps we oughta take this somewhere private. Outdoors?”

  “I would much prefer a side room. Less drafty,” Pyke responded, a knowing smirk playing about his lips. Evidently, the Relic-seekers knew as well as he did that the magic only functioned indoors.

  “A side room, then, friend.” Merana smiled unconvincingly. “It’s so very good of ya to offer to solve this Relic problem for us.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” grunted Wolder. Slinging his axe across one shoulder, the big man turned and led the way through the crowd toward an archway in the far wall, which Pyke hadn’t noticed with the House’s many clients blocking his view.

  The other Relic-seekers trudged along behind Wolder, with Pyke bringing up the rear. The arch led into a wide corridor, and before long a wooden door in the right-hand wall became Wolder’s target. The impatient man wrenched the portal open and held the door while Merana and the others walked through. Pyke followed after a brief glance into the new room.

  The furniture, like everything else in the unused portions of the manse, was covered in dust. A square table at waist height separated three hardwood chairs, each of which had a grimy red cushion fastened to its seat with hammered-flat metal bolts. Arranged around the walls were bookshelves: the pages within the books’ brittle leather covers were either covered with mould or gone to dust. A threadbare red-and-brown rug sprawled underneath the table and chairs, with worn-through bald patches in it where the legs of the furniture rested.

  Wolder slammed the door behind the group, then leaned against it and dropped his axe’s head to the floor with a loud clatter. He balanced the handle against his hip and glared wordlessly at Pyke.

  “I believe ya were gonna fix our ailin’ Relic?” Merana took a seat in one of the chairs, which creaked loudly in protest and sent up a cloud of dust.

  “All in good time.” Pyke removed his cloak and draped it around the back of another chair. “First, I’d like to know what distracting facts you have for me about this place.”

  “The fog is lifting,” said a voice from amid the mists. That voice’s pitch was neither high nor low. It was melodic and possessed a natural vibrato on the open vowels, like flutes and the thrumming strings of a lyre.

  “Art thou certain? It is a veil as ever to mine eyes.” The timbre of the second speaker’s voice was thunder rumbling and shale sliding, a harsh growl in the low alto range.

  “I can tell. The air grows drier,” sang the strings and flutes.

  The larger of the two led the way as they trudged south along the Old Road. The mists hid much, but by the silhouette in the morning light this one wore bulky pants and a winter coat with fur at the edges of the hood, collar, and sleeves. The jacket’s sheer mass would have hidden the presence of breast tissue at her chest had she cared to tighten it. On a strap across her broad back she ca
rried a heavy sack, and at her waist hung a club.

  “I have never been inside a cloud before. Do the storms of these lands possess no teeth at all? Have the humans, in their avarice, learned to bring low the very hail and sleet?” she demanded to know, shrugging the sack higher on her back with a clink of metal on metal from within it.

  “‘Tis doubtful that they control the weather. The sun is most likely responsible for the water in the air, for humanity’s command of Workings is minimal to nonexistent.” The silhouette with the melodic voice was slender and less than half the height of the other. The rest of their figure was stark against the fog: devoid of the markings a human might have used to assign a gender, and devoid also of the suggestion of clothing. “But what an opportunity, to finally meet the beings who may have thrown down the Ancients!”

  “Careful, lest they decide that thou also couldst do with throwing down.”

  “I surely hope not. I came prepared, you see. I have studied all the human lore there is to find north of their Comet’s light, perhaps even enough to blend in amongst them.”

  The larger silhouette grunted out something suspiciously like a bark of laughter. “I know not how a human looketh, yet still I doubt it be much akin to you.”

  “Hold— methinks I spy our destination ahead,” the smaller one sang.

  The warrior shaded her eyes with one hand against the weak glare of sunlight illuminating the fog. “Squint as I might, I cannot see it, for I am unused to brightness after a century of darkened skies. I must trust thy sight.”

  “I am of the Seers of the Deep. You can trust my sight more than any, and I say we are mere hours’ travel from that which we both seek. Let us away: south, and swiftly!”

  A grunt in response. “Try to keep up, or I shall carry thee again. I slow for none.”