Clockwork Scoundrels 2: An Isle in Mist Page 6

  Another crystal went out. Something huge pushed forward, straining against the failing boundary until its long muzzle was only inches away. Sil gave it a mouthful of fire. It hissed, falling back. More shadows took its place. The Fog was rife with nightmarish silhouettes. Sil and his companions were fish caught in a net cinching ever tighter.

  “We must get to the raft.” Sil reloaded and tried pointing the pistols everywhere at once.

  “No, we’ll never make it.” Taul ripped a spear from the ground, brandishing it like a torch. The Fog rolled back from the pulsing Fairie Fire, and with it, the demons within. “The village—can she lead us there?”

  Freda nodded uncertainly.

  Taul thrust the torch at Sil. Taking it would mean he could only wield a single gun, but it seemed a necessary trade-off. If one crystal went out, they’d still have another.

  Sil took the lead, with Freda close behind. Taul came last, walking backward as he brandished a second torch.

  Demons blackened the Fog, mimicking their movements. They were three alone against a world gone perpetually midnight, trying to push it back with faltering light. The shadows resisted him, pushing against him with a great weight. His legs were quickly tiring, but more disturbing was the sense of malaise settling over him. How much simpler it would be to simply lie down and close his eyes.

  Freda clung to him, frantic. Sil was afraid that she was leading them in circles but could think of nothing to remedy the situation.

  Taul gave a sharp cry of alarm. He staggered into them clutching the frayed end of a staff. Blood ran from a cut across his brow, into his eyes.

  They pressed tightly together in a circle no larger than three feet across. The lone crystal dimmed from the strain of holding back the darkness on its own. Taul took the spear. Sil slung both pistols. He felt strangely cold, detached, as though his thinking mind had come untethered from his body. He could almost see the three of them, looking down from some safe distance above. He would fight, when the crystal’s fire darkened and blew out. Fight and die. But he could protect his friends as long as possible.

  He wondered, briefly, if he and Freda might not have been more than friends, time permitting. But time was ever against him, a constant tick-tick that numbered the remaining cycles of his heart. It seemed a travesty, an affront to whatever gods there might be, that he would expire with so many ticks left on his clock.

  The clock. He blinked, once again firmly rooted to his body. He might not be able to live beyond this mist-shrouded valley, but he could guarantee that his friends would.

  “Taul. See that the girl makes it home safely.”

  Distracted, Taul glanced down. “Hey?”

  Sil tapped his own abdomen. After a brief pause, Taul’s face hardened. Sil smiled. “It is what I was made for. Let me fulfill my function.”

  “Mister? What are you saying?”

  He ignored her. To Taul: “Please, my friend.”

  Taul nodded, placed a hand on Sil’s shoulder. “I will get her to safety.”

  “Then go. Put those long legs to use.”

  “Mister?”

  “Goodbye, Freda. Perhaps I will find you in the next life.” He kissed her fiercely, but briefly, then thrust her at Taul.

  “No, no—Mister!”

  Taul scooped her up, holding her against his chest. “He’s just going to be behind, is all.”

  “Wait!” Freda was pointing over Taul’s shoulder. “Fosis.”

  Sil paused with his hand half-way into his shirt, hovering over the bomb’s control panel.

  Taul scooped him up under his arm. And then he was running, somehow carrying the both of them and brandishing the failing light with only the one arm. His long legs ate up the distance. The Fog brightened noticeably.

  A dozen strides from the border, the crystal faltered, trembling, and then snuffed out. There was a popping sensation and then the Fog came rushing in. Sil fired at the swarming black shapes.

  The world brightened in a rush of blue light. Taul dove headfirst into the blinding radiance. And then the Fog, and its teeming monsters, was behind them.

  They landed just inside the Fosis boundary, atop the triple rows of stones that protected the clearing. Sil was on his feet at once, pistols primed. The demons crashed against the invisible wall but could not puncture it.

  Shouts sounded from within Fosis. The Stout.

  His eyes found Freda’s and they shared a smile. And then she was flying, yanked backward. She crashed to the ground, her arms pinned above her head. Blood ran where the manacles bit into the soft flesh of her wrists. The chain was taut, the opposite end in the Fog. A huge black shape had the chain in its long muzzle and was dragging Freda into the Fog.

  She screamed.

  Taul and Sil both leapt forward. The clockwork man was the faster, filling the air with fire and smoke. The creature shrieked, staggering. It took a step back, dragging Freda to the very edge of the Fog. She kicked and screamed.

  Long coat flapping behind him like a leather cape, Taul vaulted over the prone girl, into the Fog, brandishing the extinguished spear. He was screaming something as he passed into the mist. A battle cry of some kind. Or a final prayer.

  The rapid echo of boots on stone filled the clearing. The Stout, rushing to fill their duty, giants and dwarves and elves. Blue Fairie Fire glittered on razor-edged blades. Friend or foe? It hardly mattered: the Stout were too far off to be of any help. The matter would be decided not in whole seconds, but in the space between the turning of the hand.

  Taul flew backward, back into Fosis, the spear a splintered mess, his coat torn and bloody.

  Sil ducked Taul, rolling to a firing position.

  Freda yanked toward the Fog, the mist rolling down over her arms, inching toward her face.

  The slight reverberation up his forearms as the twin hammers cocked.

  The dry clap-clap-clap of boots too far off to be anything but a distraction.

  A violent tug of the chain.

  Freda, plucked off the ground, the shape of her mouth a giant ‘O’ as the Fog enveloped her.

  The hammers fell.

  The dragons screamed.

  No. Gods above, no.

  Red mist.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Stages of Grief

  Mel should have been angry. Not only had Sildrian disobeyed a direct order, but he’d gotten help in the form of her first mate. A Captain couldn’t tolerate such blatant insubordination and hope to keep a crew’s respect. She should have been angry, righteously so—in her opinion, the best kind of angry—but the fire that had burned bright when she’d discovered their treachery had sputtered out and died upon reaching dirt.

  Taul stirred in the bed, groaning in his sleep. Bandages were applied to his face and neck and chest, pale squares of cloth against his dark skin. His face was mostly covered by a clear mask fitted over his mouth. Hindral’s equipment crowded the bed: pneumatic pumps with jumping dials that rose and fell with each breath; steam-powered devices with yellowish tubing that drained into murky collection bins; smaller instruments for measuring vitals.

  A cabin had been set aside for them while Taul mended from his wounds, until it was safe for him to return to the Misty Morning. Altitude did funny things to the healing process, and it was Hindral’s opinion that Taul would heal faster and better closer to the ground. Mel didn’t care to linger in Fosis, not after what had happened, not feeling the guilt as sharply as she did. But she heeded Hindral’s advice. He was the doctor after all.

  Taul hadn’t wakened since the skirmish in the Fog, and by Hindral’s opinion, it was for the better. Some of the lacerations were deep, and he’d also cracked several ribs. Fresh wounds, atop ones still yet to heal. She was grateful that he slept, but not just because his body needed the rest. She’d never hear the end of it if he saw her crying over him.

  She sniffled quietly, scrubbing the wet evidence from her face, and exited the stuffy cabin. The sunlight blinded her. She scowled at it, throwing an a
rm up to ward it off.

  A pair of elves outfit in brown leathers flanked the door. Protection, but for whom? Amusement danced in their eyes. Elves were said to have keen senses, in the storybooks. Had they heard her crying, then?

  “Why not use the googles?” One asked.

  “Huh? Oh.” Mel slipped the dangling goggles back onto her face. Immediately the harsh sunlight dimmed to a more pleasant glow. She made a show of looking them over. They looked like twins, fair and lean and identical. “You boys are Stout, then?”

  “Yes,” they replied in unison.

  “Thadon’s boys?”

  They exchanged a glance. Mel thought one actually blushed, but it was hard to tell through the goggles. “No, never.”

  “Ah—dwarves and elves, right? They don’t mix. Recall I read that someplace before.”

  “That is absurd. It is true, the devotees of the Sacred Flame were all dwarves, but…”

  “Sacred Flame?”

  The speaker fumbled, looked down at his boots.

  Mel waited. She could be patient, when she needed to.

  “They are a cult,” the elf finally conceded. “Long rumored. None truly believed such a thing existed in Fosis. Surely the Seer would have foreseen it, and rooted it out. Only…” He shrugged.

  “Do you believe Flanagg is involved?”

  “Never.”

  The other elf shook his head.

  Mel felt inclined to believe them. But what if Flanagg’s confusion was only a ruse?

  Jarvis and Hindral stood beside a waist-high wooden fence, silently watching a small silver figure sitting at the Fog’s edge. Jarvis fidgeted with the onyx cube he’d gotten from Flanagg. Mud splashed his long coat and deep creases were pressed into his tailored shirt. The silly top hat was gone, left back on the Misty Morning in the chaos. Mel wished he had it.

  “How is he?”

  Hindral cocked a thin eyebrow. “Medically? There’s nothing wrong with him. The only wound is superficial, little more than a scratch.” He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “Whatever’s broken inside of him is beyond my ability to fix.”

  “I’ve never seen him so despondent.” Jarvis sagged against the fence. “He’s refusing wine, ale. Thunderclap, even. He only asked for one thing.”

  It didn’t seem like Jarvis was going to name the thing. Then, gripping the rail, the word came rushing out with a great sigh. “Crumble.”

  Crumble? The last time he’d taken that—at Mel’s hand—he’d nearly died. “Did you give him any?”

  Jarvis and Hindral both snapped their heads around, looking at her like she’d sprouted horns.

  “What? It’s an honest question. Been strange happenings lately. Lot of folks doing stuff they were better off not doing.”

  Even with all they’d been through in the last hours, Hindral’s indignation was plain. “I’m no poisoner. I’m a doctor, for Crown’s sake.”

  Mel thought to remind him of his own role in supplying Crumble to Sildrian the first time, but let the matter drop. She was too weary to dredge the past.

  Sildrian sat with his back to them, knees tucked under his chin. Sometimes shadows in the Fog drifted past. He seemed not to notice.

  Mel knew she should approach him, say something. This wasn’t her first brush with a heartbroken crewman, but never under such tragic circumstances. Every possible thing she thought to say sounded hollow and inadequate. What good was ‘sorry’ at a time like this?

  She was secretly relieved when the new leader of the Stout, a slender elf named Lith’eal, respectfully interrupted. Flanagg wanted to see her. It seemed he’d been asking after her since news of Thadon’s treachery had come to him, but Lith’eal was hesitant to approach “given the circumstances”.

  Flanagg’s tower was under heavy guard: a pair of giants flanked the entrance, and a half-dozen dwarves and elves lingered just inside the first floor common area. They looked up with thinly-veiled distrust, and more than one hand slid toward a sheathed blade. Mel took no offense. One of her crew had just killed a villager. Never mind that it’d been an accident, and had only come about while rescuing the girl from the clutches of Thadon, the Stout’s leader. Sometimes it was easiest to hate an easy target than look inside and take responsibility. But it was a truth the mind knew. The heart wasn’t privy to such knowledge.

  Flanagg was bedridden. Swaddled in a thin robe, shivering under a pile of furs, he no longer resembled any kind of leader. He looked like a thin, sickly old man. The air was thick with the reek of body odor and the stink of vomit.

  He tried rising, but could manage little better than coming up to his elbows. “Apologies for subjecting you to this, Captain. I am rather unwell.” He coughed, a wet catching sound. “I wish to offer my deepest condolences,” he continued once the coughing spell ran out. “It is a great tragedy for all.”

  “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “The girl…” A pained expression crossed his face, deepening the crag-like lines. He looked ancient, older than the earth, even. “I can’t recall her face. It is lost in the mists of my mind. I can’t See her.” He waved an age-spotted hand at Lith’eal. “Where is the leaf for my pipe?”

  The elf looked sheepishly at his boots. “We can’t find it, milord.”

  “Surely someone knows where Thadon kept it?”

  “It appears he only kept counsel with traitors.” Lith’eal bowed. “We will continue looking.”

  The elf’s long, split jacket swirled around his ankles as he fled down the stairs.

  “Flanagg.” Mel licked her lips. “There is something I must ask of you, though I recognize the timing is bad. Insulting, even.”

  “The crystals?” Amusement played along the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m that transparent?”

  “No, Captain. You are a puzzle, one I suspect would plague me even if I had my full faculties about me.” His smile faded. “I can’t See, and just now the pounding in my skull makes thinking difficult, but still I recognize your plight. You are lost, adrift in the Mist. If you don’t find the other end, you will die.”

  “Thanks for the optimism.”

  He sank back into his nest of furs, ignoring the jibe. “Leave me. I need rest. We will talk when I am well enough.”

  Mel wanted to ask when that might be, or what happened if he didn’t get better. If he got worse. But already his eyes were flickering shut and his breathing lapsing into nasally snores.

  She returned to Taul and sat and watched him sleep and thought about what to say to Sildrian. What words might heal his pain. She could find none.

  It was dark when she finally got up and went out, a sack thrown over one shoulder. She’d never had to kidnap crew before.

  Sildrian could shoot his way out of the bag, ‘course, but that was all right. Sometimes you just needed to show folks that you cared.

  CHAPTER 10

  Contemplating Dark Paths

  The mist shifted and the shadowy shapes of demons moved with it. It was like staring into the black heart of a storm cloud, crackling with dark energy. Poised for release. But unlike a cloud that must eventually crack open and pour down, there was no way of relieving the pressure building inside Sil. He had no tears to shed.

  That was the worst sort of suffering, he thought. Wishing to mourn but being incapable of it. There could be no release for him. He was not truly alive, not in the ways that mattered. Whatever gods had constructed him in their mad laboratory hadn’t deigned to give him tear ducts when they’d drunkenly breathed life into him. Why should a clockwork man cry? Why indeed.

  His wrists were flopped open. The blue light of Fairie Fire ran along the curved ends of his dragon pistols. What was the purpose of these things but to take life away? Why should he have that power, but be unable to mourn those that were gone?

  Freda, smiling at him. Touching his arm. Kissing him. He tried to recall the warmth he’d felt at her touch, but his lips were cold. Dead, like hers.

  An image circled around his min
d, like a scrap of cloth caught on a gear and whisked around to the same starting position every few seconds. Freda, prone on the ground, her wrists locked in manacles. The chain fed into the Fog, taut with tension. Freda flying through the air, the look of surprised horror on her face. The flash of the guns, the puff of smoke. Red. Red everywhere.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  It seemed the clock was skipping ahead somehow, wiping away great swatches of his life. If he sat there long enough, the clock would run out. Zero hour would come, finally. And then Sildrian, the horrific clockwork man that shouldn’t be, no longer would be.

  At his back, the yellow glow of lanterns offered scant light against the black of the moonless sky. Shadows moved along the stone paths in regular intervals. Stout, on patrol. Where had the patrols been when Freda had been snatched away by Fosis’ would-be protectors? Where were they when she was dragged screaming into the mist? Where were they when she was dying?

  In his brief period of life, Sil had come to realize that men, by their very nature, were weak creatures, susceptible to all manner of vices. Many lacked even the basic logic to understand the ultimate culmination of their path before it was too late. The sins had been sowed and the harvest was ripe and they were swinging the scythe.

  Though he wasn’t a man, Sil wasn’t immune to indulgences. He’d already recognized his penchant for alcohol would be a problem and had taken steps to curb his ingestion. So there was no denying where the present turning of his mind would lead him, ultimately. Why wait for the clock to reach zero, when one had such powerful guns at his disposal. Why indeed.

  Jarvis had left, to seek sleep or warmth or his own sort of end, Sil didn’t know or care. He was alone, and that was all that mattered.

  He lifted the dragon pistol to his head. Which to use? He switched arms and then, shrugging, put both to his head. Better to be sure. Suicide wasn’t the place for half-measures.

  The hammers slid into place with quiet clicks.

  “Sildrian.”

  He almost laughed. “You’ve impeccable timing, Captain.”

  Her shadow fell across him, blocking the glow of the town’s lights. “Meant to have a word with you.” She looked pointedly at the guns, still aimed at his temples. “Might be I waited too long.”