Absolute Heart

by Michael Vance Gurley

  On the table, heavy hand cannons held down large maps of the region at each edge. Black line marks indicated the projected course that led safely past British blockades. He grabbed one gun and ran through the room to the back door to the escape skiff. Guns were never of much value in the castle, but he felt like he should take one with him, and he rarely went against his instincts. When he did, things had a way of working out badly. His mind’s eye had seen where to go, but he shrugged and took the map just the same.

  The skiff, a sleek sailboat of six feet, untied from its moorings along the port stern and slid off the edge of the ship. It had been imbued with magick to be used as an escape, and Orion knew it would stay aloft a good while on its own. Orion threw his items onboard and hopped onto the small deck, feeling the energy needed to float the ship, and eased it away from the mighty but slightly aflame Spanish galleon.

  He didn’t venture too far from the sides of the ship. He knew he’d never escape without doing more damage to the big cruiser armed with cannons. And a warlock. He had momentarily forgotten about that little fact. Under direct attack, the flight warlock would be tasked with tracking him down.

  Orion focused and felt the tug of another warlock probe the air for his presence. He knew how to block this, but there was little point of that. Orion raised his skiff so he could see inside the ship through the windows, where cannons were being loaded. He considered a warlock’s inability to fly without a ship below their feet. If they managed to aim one of those guns at him, it would be a long way down to the ocean for him to rethink his mistakes.

  Holding the little ship aloft, Orion felt with magick for the opening he needed until he saw it. A crewman carried a lit torch toward the cannon. He surely meant to light wicks and launch the deadly balls at him. Feeling the drain of using so much power, Orion needed help. He raised the heavy wooden handle of the hand cannon he had stolen, cocked the hammer back, aimed with a little aid of magick, and fired.

  The shot zipped through the open porthole window, past the big cannon, and struck the man in the arm. His torch fell into a pile of armed cannon balls. He hoped they had stored magick as well, which would make them all the more destructive to aid in his escape. It was, after all, common to place power in items to be used by laymen. The horror on the man’s face was palpable. As the flames fell, Orion hoped they would be able to staunch the fires and sail the ship back on the waves. They did not need to suffer the coming storm. It was his risk and his mission alone.

  He lifted the skiff and pulled away from the smoking galleon. He needed to get far away from the impending blast. That’s when he saw the flight warlock. His flowing robes, a deep red velvet, were flapping in the wind. He pushed the massive ship around to keep the skiff in line with the big cannon. The warlock reached out a hand as if to grab Orion, and the skiff stopped in midair. Its wood shook in the wind and under the strain of the warlock’s power.

  Orion pushed hard against the galleon’s hull. He needed space, and lots of it. He had to get away, but the flight warlock held the skiff with incredible resolve. Orion stared at the warlock. He knew the warlock was better than this, better than taking gold from pirates, and deserved respect and glory like all sons of Éire and the Ceann Kingdom. He did not want to hurt him but needed to go. He felt his mind form dragons of green fire, much as he had in the castle courtyard during the trials. Gooseflesh popped up all over his sweaty body, his breath quick, shaky. How could he conjure dragon forms?

  An explosion from the cannonballs cascaded across the center of the majestic Spanish galleon. The entire amidships was engulfed in flames. The skiff jolted forward. Orion was knocked out of his spell casting. He was forced to grab the main beam to avoid being thrown overboard.

  The little skiff straightened. Its sheets unfurled as Orion steadily worked the ropes and concentrated on floating the ship to steer it to the green lands far off in the distance. Behind him Orion could hear the screams of men and the crack of beams as the mighty ship fully succumbed to the flames and fell to the unforgiving Irish Sea.

  Tuatha Dé Danann

  “FAERIES!”

  Shrieks from the crowd behind Landa and Lucas, still in Masheck’s irons, had grown deafening. Ordinary people who had been enjoying a good shopping day were thrown into madness when faerie warriors came into view. They flashed into the air as if from nowhere, above and right next to them. Their swords, fast as lightning bolts, whisked through the innocent bystanders.

  The faeries were bedecked in warrior armor, black and dense. The suit covered one arm and shoulder, the other open to swing a sword. It ended at the perfectly honed exposed midriffs of each warrior. It seemed to both shine bright and absorb light at the same time. Intricate circles of light, blue and green mostly, emanated from within the armor on their shoulders and on the matching gauntlets. An intricate tree root system flowed across the body and connected each piece of armor down to their pants, as if it were a living entity protecting them.

  The faeries were generally tall and lithe, lean with muscle. Their red scarves tied loosely around their necks, the sign of a warrior, flapped in the wind as they spun wildly around each of their victims. Their hair, which threatened to be as wild as the attack, poked toward the sky every which way. Those unlucky enough to be caught were unable to defend themselves against the onslaught.

  Landa and Lucas had instinctively crept behind Masheck. Her big hat and her dirty face poked out from behind him to see the carnage. Wish, who had not quite reached them, stood stock-still, as if terrified to move. Masheck had turned to the market square already and swung his gun toward the attacks.

  “Sonofab—” His gun roared an ear-shattering boom. The sound ripped from the end of the barrel, which sent its massive projectile toward a faerie. Before the invader could register what was happening, his chest exploded with a splatter of red blood and black ichor. He fell dead.

  “What the fuck is happening?” Lucas shrieked.

  “Tuatha Dé Danann.” Masheck’s gun blasted another cannon shot at the assailants, who turned from the unarmed Londoners and looked at him and the kids attached to his waist by metal cables. Another faerie fell in a pool of his own blood, dead.

  “Tuatha what?” Lucas shouted.

  Boom!

  “Faeries!” Landa shouted. “Tuatha Dé Danann are Irish faeries. Bloody deadly ones at that.”

  Lucas stared at her, unmoving. Landa struggled against the agent’s coils.

  “Let us go,” Landa yelled at him.

  “No.”

  “Are you bleedin’ kidding me? Look, you idiot. We are at war again!” Landa yelled.

  “We haven’t been at war in years,” Lucas shouted.

  “Look, child. This be war,” Masheck deadpanned.

  Landa struggled against Masheck’s cables. She twisted her body around him and thrust her hand in her bag, which he had taken from her. He reached for her, but in the tangle of coils and bag straps, he was too late. She pulled her gun from the bag and aimed it toward the faeries.

  Masheck tapped on his arm, and a key came up out of the metal. He turned it twice, and the coils released, freeing Landa and Lucas. “You kids need to get to cover. Run.”

  “But…,” Landa interjected, her gun pointed.

  Masheck’s rusty eyes bored into hers. For a tick she was sure she saw something whirling around inside of them. “Run now!”

  He looked back toward the square. A dozen male faeries, their green eyes ablaze in anger, had started running toward the group, hatred dripping from them. They sliced through people. Dozens were already sprawled at awful angles on the blood-soaked ground. All who were left alive were panicked, doubtless wondering why the faeries chose now to attack when England had done nothing.

  “We need to get to the airfield at Marble Arch,” Landa said to Lucas as she ran.

  “Wh… why the airfield?” he said gasping.

  “Gavin. Whenever he gets upset, that’s where he goes. That’s where the soldiers will be too, mounting a d
efense against this attack.”

  “Hey!” Landa and Lucas jumped out of their skin when hands reached out and grabbed them by the shoulders and yanked them behind a giant tree.

  “Whoa,” Wish said, lifting his hands in surrender when Landa turned her hand cannon on his face.

  “I could have killed you,” Landa said.

  “She could have killed you,” Lucas agreed. “Did you see what is going on back there? My God, man. Faeries are killing everyone.” Lucas stopped, his face white with fear. He had been gripped by panic, his mind drifting to a scary place, his body losing its ability to control movement. His mouth started moving before sound emanated from somewhere deep, and then it came. “Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my—”

  Landa slapped him. He stared at her in disbelief until tears gently dropped from his eyes. Landa almost apologized until Wish cut her off. He grabbed them each by the arm and led them away from the action.

  “Cry later, ponce. We have to get the hell out of here,” Wish commanded.

  “To the airfield,” Landa said.

  “Gavin will be there?” Wish asked.

  “Gavin will be there,” she replied.

  “And so will the navy… and….” Wish dropped his thought.

  Landa sighed. “I know.” She too feared who or what else they might find there. Lucas looked at her, his expression broken from the terror to reveal something deeper.

  Wish led them both down a narrow alley between shops. He pushed one of them in front and kept a tight grip on both of their hands as he propelled them forward.

  MASHECK REMEMBERED these… these things. He knew their bloodthirsty ways.

  He kept up his onslaught, blasting at them. A few fell. He threw himself behind bushes and a brick staircase that led up to a beautiful brownstone home. It provided excellent cover. He sprang up at intervals, shooting into the crowd of oncoming faerie, their war cries shrill vibratos intoned with magick that pained his ears. It made him dizzy. He managed to duck as one of their javelins smashed into the house above his head, sending a spray of mortar and brick into his face.

  He looked around to see horrified faces draw curtains closed in the windows in the building behind him. So there were people in there. That ruled out leading the faerie into the house. They were a few meters away. He put his gun into his flesh hand and adjusted his metallic arm until it clicked to life, bringing a spinning circular blade to the tip. Its jagged edges promised to kill anything it touched.

  He leapt from his cover to run, shooting repeatedly. He ran for the opposite side of the row toward the backs of the shops. They were on him quickly. The forward warriors swung their blades at him with clear intent.

  An incredibly loud boom sounded in the market square, followed by an all-too-familiar whoosh. Masheck recognized it from his years on the battlefields in Ireland. A steam cannon had fired and the incoming bombardment would be awful. He grabbed the nearest faerie and pulled it down atop himself as he lay flat to the ground.

  Shrapnel blasted into the attacking faeries that had gone after Masheck. It ripped their troops in half, body parts torn from them and flung across houses. Something powerful slammed into the faerie that lay across his body. The creature screamed a shrill cry directly against his ear. He felt the thing go limp in his arms just a tick before the sharp pain began in his belly.

  Dense black smoke filled the air from the cannon. Masheck’s ears rang and buzzed from the deafening roar. He flung the dead faerie off him. He winced as he tried to roll to his feet. His mechanical blade stopped spinning, the hand device replacing it. He clutched his belly wound, which poured blood.

  In the distance he saw a copper running for him. The stout muscular man looked used to physical exertion as he barreled down the row. Masheck’s vision clouded and then refocused.

  “Sir!” the officer shouted, his bushy mustache and sideburns blown by the wind. His flat sergeant’s hat managed to stay on as if it had been plastered there.

  “Help me to my feet, Sergeant.”

  “Agent, I don’t think—”

  “Never mind that,” Masheck said, wincing. “We need to get to my walker and to the airfield at Marble Arch to tell command what is happening.”

  The bobby helped him onto unsteady feet. Droplets of blood dripped from the copper’s hand. “How… how did you—”

  “Right,” the officer interjected. “As soon as the bastards started their attack—and we were shocked, I’ll guarantee you that much—well, as soon as I could, I ran for the steam cannon….”

  Faeries began howling somewhere close. Masheck’s hearing became overwhelmed with the high-pitched ringing that made him grimace in pain again.

  “Sir?”

  “How?” Masheck powered on.

  “Nails. That cannon hadn’t been fired in a long time, well, not with a real ball in it, anyhow, so after we built up solid steam pressure, I scooped up a bucket of nails from the scaffolding in front of the chemist, see, and chucked the whole thing in. I tied in the main steam line….”

  Masheck’s powerful rust-colored eyes locked onto the officer, which stopped his explanation cold. Masheck said, “That is some fine work.”

  “Thank you, sir. I aimed to shred the bastards in the square. My men were fighting them off in the streets while I… until, well….” The copper dropped his eyes. “I might be just as stiff now if they hadn’t… well, if they hadn’t all turned on you.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “I’m Abberline, sir. Sergeant George Abberline. And we need to get you to medical.”

  “Come now, help me to my walker. You can patch me up on the way, Inspector.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Yes, unh.” Masheck grabbed at his belly. “I’m promoting you to inspector, Scotland Yard, attached to the Council. To me, of course. You’re handy in a pinch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Abberline said, hauling the wounded agent over dead faeries and corpses of men, women, and children for what Masheck felt was ages. There was a lot of carnage. “My God. I’ve never seen anything this ghastly.”

  “Unfortunately I have. Here it is.” Masheck weakly pointed when they reached his steamwalker.

  “I wish I’d known this beauty was stationed over here earlier,” Abberline said. “I would have routed them much earlier, what!”

  Abberline opened the door of Masheck’s steamwalker. Its ironclad hinges creaked as it swung wide. The steam-powered walker had four long legs covered with metal, each independent of the others, a central body that hovered over the spring-mounted chassis, and a small cannon on top. The driver controlled forward motion and could steer without much help, but the cannon needed another person entirely.

  Once Inspector Abberline helped Masheck up into the cabin, he shut the door behind them. Masheck directed him to the field medical kit behind the seat, and Abberline got to work on his belly wound.

  “I think I can manage a cannon. I might have some experience with those, what! But you might want to show me the leg controls.”

  “I’ll be driving.”

  Abberline laughed. “No. No, you won’t. Not unless you want those poorly sewn stitches to break open and send your guts to the floorboards.”

  Grunts of acquiescence preceded a quick explanation on how to manage the two levers that controlled forward, the two that controlled backward, and the pedals that controlled sideways motion.

  The vehicle lurched forward. Abberline proved himself a natural at providing a steady gait. “What’s your name, agent? What shall I call you?”

  He grumbled and quickly instructed, “Never mind my name. We need to alert the Council and find out what started this row in the first place.”

  “Yes, of course, but come now. I held your guts in my hand. I’d say that provides us with a certain level of familiarity.”

  “Special Agent Granville.” He stared out the window a moment before he added, “Masheck.”

  The Magic Arrow

  GAVIN’S BROW dripped sweat as he ran
from Parliament, his eyes were fuzzy and blurred. He wiped moisture away from his face to see the streets in front of him. They were clogged with people, even though it had barely reached midday and students needed to be in classes and workers at their jobs. He stumbled in his blindness directly into the back of a vendor who pushed a cart full of apples.

  “Watch yourself, young man,” the elderly cartman chastised.

  “So sorry, sir,” Gavin eked out. He tried to keep his balance to continue to run. Did everyone know his secret? People were watching him. It really felt like he was being watched. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, other than the fact that he needed to run away. But to where? To what? He only knew the airfield would straighten him out. Always did.

  That was where he always found his home, his safety. Safety. Landa. He could go to Landa. But what of her fate, then? She would be back at the school, blowing things up, no doubt. He could go there. They could flee the country, but why should he poison her future with his own problems? No. He thought he would steal an airship to get far away. He just had to run, no matter how weary his heart, no matter how many blisters his big black boots caused his aching feet.

  Only he couldn’t keep running. His legs would not let him. He fell, exhausted, on a park bench. His sudden arrival scattered the birds that roosted on the statues surrounding the edge of the park. His chest heaved and mind raced faster than his feet could carry. Tears sprung from the corners of his scrunched eyes. He desperately tried to staunch their flow. It was too late when his sobs took his breath.

  “I say, young man. Here now. Let’s have less of that,” said an approaching shopkeeper, handkerchief in hand.

  Gavin squinted up at the man and his greasy, stained apron. He noticed the equally smeared handkerchief that was offered. He waved his hand at the gentleman, whose face emanated concern. Gavin did not think he needed any level of scrutiny for even one tick.