Oracles of Aragret (a Steampunk Novel)

Oracles of Aragret

A Steampunk Novel

Published by Mark Whitney at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Mark Whitney

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CHAPTER ONE

The wind whistled through the creaking rigging of the big airship, Wind Dancer. She was sailing through a partly cloudy sky a couple of thousand feet above rolling, grassy plains dotted with patches of forest. A few puffy white clouds drifted by, but this far out from the nearest city, the sky was a deep blue with just the faintest trace of a dirty brown haze down along the horizon.

Adrian, the Wind Dancer’s thirty-five year old captain and owner, stood on the open bridge toward after section of the ship, watching his crew at work. Like most of his men, he wore a pair of brown leather boots, tan riding pants and a khaki jacket. A powerful .44 caliber revolver rode butt forward in a flap holster on his left hip and a pair of darkly tinted goggles protected his eyes from the wind and sun. The helmsman, Thomas, stood beside him, loosely gripping the polished wood and brass wheel. Several brass levers flanked each side of the wheel. They controlled the speed of the propellers and the pitch of the wings. A speaking tube snaked down through deck to the engine room.

Down below the main deck, the ship’s powerful steam engine thumped away with a steady rhythm driving the massive collection of gears, flywheels, pulleys and leather belts that spun a pair of propellers mounted outboard of the hull. Two men puttered around the drive, checking this piece or that, and squirting lube oil on the squeaking parts. Lookouts manned their positions on small platforms mounted fore and aft while the rest of the sixty man crew went about the daily tasks of maintaining and flying the ship.

Above them all, a large, reddish-brown gasbag, wrapped in heavy rope netting, cast its noonday shadow on the ship’s spotlessly clean teak deck. The bag was longer and wider than the ship itself.

Wind Dancer’s slender, one hundred foot long hull hung from four pairs of stout ropes that ran down from the gasbag above to large, steel ringbolts fixed into the deck at points on either side near the bow and stern. The lower parts of the ship were made from riveted plates of thick copper, while the upper parts were fieldwood to help keep the weight down. A black iron smoke pipe stuck out from the bottom of the hull, pointing to the port at a sharp angle. The ship left a trail of grubby black smoke in her wake as men in the stokehold fed coal into the boiler. The smoke pipe vented downward because it would never do for a spark or hot cinder to hit the gasbag with its thousands of cubic feet of highly explosive avirium liftgas. Fire and avirium were both needed to make an airship fly, but they had to be kept apart at all costs. Several heavy sandbags were slung from the railings along both sides of the main deck, serving as emergency ballast. Flying an airship meant maintaining a fine balance between the avirium liftgas trying to pull her too high into the sky and gravity trying to drag her back down.

For protection, Wind Dancer carried four Gatling guns mounted to the gunnels on either side of the deck. Steam pipes ran along the edge of the deck, from the boiler to the small turbines that rotated the multiple barrels when the guns were fired. Most of the crew carried personal side arms as well.

Adrian leaned against the brass and copper handrail that ran around the bridge, content and happy with the world. The day was not too cold and the air was smooth. He looked out over the world below, smugly content that he need not overly involve himself with the petty squabbles or the harsh life of the ground people. As an airman, an airship captain, he had a power that not even the wealthiest baron in all of Aragret could match: He held the secret of flight and thus owned the freedom of the skies. Like all airmen, he would defend that secret to the death.

The hold of his ship contained a cargo of very expensive and rare spices from the city of Ardriah, five hundred miles, and three days to the north. They were to be delivered to the kitchens of Baron Colsen, who would pay Adrian and his crew handsomely indeed when Wind Dancer arrived at his citadel the next day. A caravan of the tracked, steam-powered traction engines the ground people used would have taken much longer, even assuming that there were no mechanical breakdowns, attacks by highwaymen, or interference from the militias of other barons.

Captain, airships astern, a lookout suddenly shouted, jerking Adrian from of his thoughts. He turned and looked back past Wind Dancer’s after cabin. The lookout stood on a small, elevated platform that jutted out beyond the stern, pointing at a spot in the sky. Three dark-hulled airships swung out from behind a cloud a mile and a half astern, each flying a large, black flag from its rigging. Dense smoke poured from their pipes as they rapidly overhauled Wind Dancer.

Adrian grabbed a brass telescope out of a rack fixed to the handrail and snapped it open. Pointing it back at the lead ship he slid the well-oiled brass tubes back and forth until the focus was sharp and clear. The lens swept across the ship and Adrian swore under his breath. Dozens of heavily armed, rough looking men crowded around her bows. The ship mounted a dreadful looking three headed dog for a figurehead. It was crudely hammered and riveted together from copper plates, but still terrifying with fierce eyes and ragged teeth in three gaping mouths.

Adrian lowered the glass and turned to face his crew on the deck below. Pirates! he shouted. Man your battle stations.

Several men dashed to the Gatling guns and quickly checked them over. They opened steam valves, pressurizing the lines, and swung the guns towards the enemy. Others dashed below decks and returned, carrying powerful rifles including a few deadly, long range needle guns. One of them ran up onto the bridge platform and handed Adrian a wicked-looking steam assisted magpulse rifle. He took the heavy weapon, checked the magazine then fixed his eyes on the leading pirate ship. It was pulling closer by the minute.

Full speed ahead, he ordered the helmsman.

Full speed, aye, the man replied. He grabbed one of the brass levers and shoved it as far forward as it would go. The clanking and whirring sounds from the drive increased alarmingly.

The first officer, a weather-beaten man of about fifty named Gillard, leaned over a hatch grating and yelled down at the stokers, Put your backs into it. You want those bastards coming aboard?

Adrian felt the Wind Dancer pick up speed, but the pirate ships were still gaining on her. Sparks flew from their smoke pipes as their own stokers hurled coal into their furnaces. Evasive action, he snapped.

Aye, Captain, Thomas replied. He spun the wheel hard over and hauled back on one of the wing levers. The ship banked to the port as she swung onto a new heading, diving away from her attackers. He stole a quick glance back over is shoulder at the pirate ships and swallowed hard. They were still gaining.

Adrian started to reach for his telescope again, but no longer needed it. He could already clearly make out individual buccaneers manning their weapons and working their ships. They shouted jeers and threats, waving guns and boarding axes over their heads. The thumping of their powerful engines shook the air.

The pirate ships were all smaller than Wind Dancer, but each carried many more men and weapons. Adrian could see their large propellers flashing in the sunlight as dense black smoke belched from their smoke pipes. Jets of white steam leaped into the air as pressure relief valves opened and closed. The larger two marauders mounted their propellers on either side like the Wind Dancer, but the smaller one sported a single large prop in its stern. The big pirate airships spread out, chasing Wind Dancer from both beams while the smaller one nipped at her stern.

They’re closing fast, Captain, Gillard shouted.

I can see that, Adrian shouted back.

The nearest ship let loose a burst from one of its Gatling guns. Bullets screamed just under the gasbag, forcing men to duck their heads. Seconds latter another volley slashed across the decks. One of the engineers spun around, a bloody mist filling the air around him. He collapsed onto the deck, his chest and back torn open.

With a rush of steam, the Wind Dancer’s Gatling guns opened up. The barrels spun rapidly, jabbing long flickering spikes of fire out toward the enemy. Spent brass casings shot up into the air and fell to the deck like metal rain. Several of the brigands fell into a writhing pile on the deck of the ship with the three headed dog as the heavy slugs slammed home. The pirate vessel veered off but the second ship clawed up alongside the Wind Dancer’s port side, her crew shouting threats and insults as they took aim. They opened up with every gun that would bear. Bullets blasted holes in the railings and the deckhouse, blowing splinters in every direction. Men fell in heaps, one or two kicking in agony, the rest dead where they landed. More men ran to take their places, but they were instantly cut down. A burst of heavy fire tore into the airship’s side. A sudden explosion shook Wind Dancer to the keel, blowing hatch covers, pieces of deck, and dead bodies into the air. Geysers of searing hot steam jetted up from the blown hatches and out through ruptured hull plates.

Men down below screamed as the scalding cloud enveloped them. Gillard leaped clear and rolled across the deck. He staggered to his feet and cried out, We’ve lost the boiler!

Wind Dancer’s engine and Gatling guns fell silent as the boiler bled to death. She lost her headway and drifted slowly down wind, out of control. A burst of fire swept the bridge, narrowly missing Adrian, but hitting Thomas in the chest and neck. He staggered a few steps, then pitched over the side of the platform to land on the deck below with a sickening thud.

The closest pirate ship swung around, preparing to ram Cloud Dancer’s port side. A boarding party stood massed along its bow rails and taking cover behind its figurehead of a raised fist clenching a cutlass. They were armed with a motley assortment of guns, knives, cutlasses, and bludgeons. Several had grappling hooks at the ready. Adrian brought his rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim at the enemy helmsman, ignoring the shots hitting all around him. He pulled the trigger. His rifle went off with a loud whoosh-bang, kicking back hard. The bullet hit the helmsman full in the chest. The man’s face twisted in agony and he crumpled to the deck, still clutching a spoke on the wheel, pulling it as he fell. The ship’s bow swung around sharply, throwing its rapidly spinning starboard prop into Wind Dancer’s lifeless port propeller, tearing them both apart. Whirling bits and pieces of the shattered blades sliced through the air. The booms, drive belts, and rigging snagged together amid the cracking and groaning of breaking wood and twisting metal. The two airships pivoted about their mangled booms. Their wings tore into each other, ripping thin copper plates apart and twisting spars and ribs into a tangled mess. Overhead, the huge gasbags slammed into each other with a heavy thump and the hulls swung violently beneath them, crashing together at the bows. The shattering impact sent the brigands massed at the prow of the pirate ship sprawling. Three of them were hurled over the sides to fall, screaming and flailing, to the ground far below. Another pirate just managed to grab hold of a trailing rope. He swung wildly from side to side below his ship’s hull, desperately struggling to pull himself back on board, his feet kicking in the empty air. Gillard snatched up a fallen rifle and shot the man in the back, dropping him into the void.

Adrian fired his rifle again and again, peppering the enemy deck, hitting at least five men, until he heard the striker snap down on an empty chamber. The steam pressure gauge was almost at zero. Shouting with fury, he shook his useless weapon at the pirates, defying them to kill him as their ship drifted away, its bow planks and plates stove in from the impact and its wing and propeller boom dangling in ruins. With a loud groan of tearing metal, the elaborate figurehead toppled over and tore away from the ship, pulling most of the bow with it. The wreckage plummeted down toward the ground and smashed to pieces in an explosion of dirt and dust.

The deck under Adrian’s feet reeled violently and he staggered in to the railings, barely keeping his balance. He spun around to see the airship with the three-headed dog figurehead crash into Wind Dancer’s port quarter. Buccaneers hurled grappling hooks across, pulling the ships together in an embrace of death and destruction. Adrian dropped his rifle and pulled his revolver, standing his grounds as gunfire swept over his decks. He leaped down from the bridge, yelling at the top of his lungs and fired into the massed boarders. A pirate jumped in front of him and he shot him in the face, blowing out the back of his head. Another leaped across and Adrian fired into his guts, crumpling him to the deck. Dozens of brigands poured over the rails, yelling and shouting through the sharp reports of pistols and rifles. One loomed up with a small Gatling gun rigged over the stump of a long lost arm. He laughed manically as he cranked the weapon with his remaining hand, spitting bullets in all directions. A cutting blow suddenly sliced across the left side of Adrian’s head. He staggered and fell, his world going red, then black.

More pirates leaped across the railings, shooting, stabbing, or clubbing anyone who stood in their way. They surged over Adrian, leaving him for dead, and pushed the survivors of his crew to the very bows of the ship. Exhausted and hopeless, the last few of Adrian’s men threw down their weapons and surrendered.

**********

From a well of darkness Adrian felt a throbbing pain in his head. He struggled back to consciousness and tried to open his eyes, but the left one seemed to be glued shut. He lay very still, taking stock of his situation. His hair and face were matted with sticky, drying blood. He felt a burning sensation across the left side of his head, as if his scalp had been laid open. He tried moving, but found his arms stretched out and tied tightly to the forward railings of his airship.

Well, well, a gruff voice said from very close by. Look’s like this one’s finally awake. Somebody go get Captain Dillon.

Adrian painfully rolled his head back and looked around with his good eye. The sun was low in the west and the sky was dark blue beyond its golden red glow. Blood stained the decks and fixtures of his ship and the deckhouse was riddled and pocked with bullet holes.

Beyond the gunnels, Adrian could see the three pirate ships hovering around Wind Dancer, dark and forbidding in the deepening gloom. One of them was still trailing its damaged wing and propeller boom which, along with the destroyed bow, gave it a clumsy, wounded appearance. He looked to his left, and then to the right, finding thirteen of his crew still alive and lashed to the railings with him. Some were wounded to one degree or another, and all were splashed and splattered with drying blood. Gillard was tied up beside him, his shirt torn and bloodstained.

What happened? Adrian croaked.

You took a bullet across the side of your head, Gillard replied, his voice weak and weary. I thought you were dead, but one of them dragged you over here and tied you up.

Adrian nodded, instantly wincing in pain.

His men stared up at their captors with a mixture of fear, hatred, and anger. Dozens of pirates stood around gloating over their prisoners. Others roamed the deck of the ship, looking over their new prize and assessing the damage they had caused to it. They were dressed in a motley collection of ill-fitting clothes in all shades of faded colors. Most had boots. All had goggles dangling around their necks or pushed up on their heads, and every one of them was armed with at least a revolver and a dagger. Some had considerably more.

This one’s going to dance at the end of a rope before the night’s over, a highjacker said, poking one of Adrian’s men in the side of the head with a filthy, foul-smelling boot. We’re going to hang you over the side by your scrawny neck, boy.

Leave him alone, Pirate, Adrian ordered. Before this is over, you’ll be the one dancing the hangman’s jig. Every one of you will. I’ll see to it personally. You have my word on it.

That’s rather big talk for a man who just lost his ship, his crew, and his cargo, a tall, powerfully built man said, stepping up through the press of bodies clustered around the prisoners. He wore a long, seedy looking blue coat trimmed in faded gold frogging. The coat and the dirty, black hat he wore appeared to have once belonged to an Air Fleet officer whose fate could only be guessed. Black, unpolished boots reached to his knees and a pair of ivory handled revolvers were thrust between his belt and hard belly. "I’m Captain Dillon of the Hell Hound, and you unworthy chaps, are now my prisoners. By the way, thank you, Captain, for this fine vessel, he added with a mock bow and a touch to the brim of his hat. I think I’ll make her my new flagship once she’s been repaired and properly fitted out."

Fuck yourself, Adrian growled.

Is that any way to talk to your new captain? Dillon asked, feigning a pained expression. Look here, lads, he added, looking over the survivors. I’m going to offer you boys one chance to live. But I’m only going to make it once and once is all, so you better make the best of it. He walked up and down the bloodstained planks, his hands clasped behind his back, looking each man in the eye. You boys seem to be pretty good in a fight. God knows you killed enough of my mates and brothers. So here’s the deal. Who’ll join me? Which of you will be a part of my crew and replace a man you killed?

Adrian watched his men closely as a tense silence hung over Wind Dancer.

I’m waiting, Dillon said after a long minute. But I’m not a patient man, as you’ll soon see.

I will, one man finally said. I got nothing to lose.

Me either, another said. Let me go.

What are you doing? Gillard snapped. Goddamned traitors.

Silence, a pirate shouted, backhanding Gillard across the face. The stinging blow brought tears to his eyes and he blinked defiantly, cursing under his breath.

I’ll join you, Captain, another survivor said.

Aye, me too, yet another added. Cut me loose.

Alright, let these men go, Dillon said. As far as the rest of you, well, I guess I’ll let the lads have some fun tonight.

A couple of buccaneers stepped forward and cut the ropes binding the four turncoats to the railings and pulled them to their feet.

What are your names? Dillon asked.

Tanner, the first man answered.

Harwin, the next replied.

Williams, Sir.

Livingstone, Captain, the last man answered.

Dillon nodded, then turned to one of his men. Put ‘em to work.

Right away, Captain, the pirate replied. Alright, you two get aft and start swabbing those decks. And you two go below and have a look at that boiler, he ordered, shoving them along. You’ve gotta earn your place in this crew.

Dillon stood beside Adrian, looking down on the rest of the survivors. You, he said, nodding to Gillard. I think we’ll start with you. Lash him to the cranks, boys. First mate, eh? Well, let’s see if he remembers how to do an honest crewman’s work.

Several pirates cut the luckless man loose and hauled him to his feet, slapping and punching him from all sides. They dragged him over to the drive. A set of manual cranks were mounted to the main flywheel to be used when steam power was not available. They tied his wrists too tightly to the starboard handle, cutting off the circulation to his hands. In minutes they were numbed and blue.

It takes at least two men to drive a ship this size, Dillon called, ignoring the damage to the Wind Dancer’s port boom. Bring me another one.

They grabbed a man called Brice, dragged him over and tied him to the port side handle, facing aft.

Alright now, crank, you dogs, Dillon roared. He slapped Brice across the back of the head. Brice staggered under the blow and pushed the handle down sharply.

Crank, Dillon yelled again.

Gillard and Brice bent to their work, turning the remaining prop and driving the ship slowly forward.

I don’t think they’re putting enough heart into it, Captain, a stocky pirate with a round, pock-marked face called, laughing. He had long, thin, reddish hair and a scraggly beard on his cheeks.

Well, show them the error of their ways, Redford, Dillon replied. He moved aside, letting the other man take his place. Redford pulled a whip from his belt and cracked it across Brice’s back, ripping his shirt open and drawing blood. Brice gritted his teeth against the pain, but refused to make a sound. Redford stepped around the men at the cranks, looking them over with an expression of disdain. He swung his whip again, striking Gillard across the shoulders as he and Brice pumped up and down, struggling to turn the flywheel. With a grinding crunch the remains of the port drive belt suddenly snagged in the ruins of its boom, jamming the whole works. The flywheel locked up tight and refused to budge an inch.

Damnation, Redford shouted, looking down at the snagged belt. Is that any way to treat our new ship? Is it? He tossed his whip aside and pulled his revolver. He smashed the barrel down against Gillard’s head, laying his scalp open to the bone. Gillard collapsed, stunned. Blood poured from his head, drenching his shirt and splattering on the deck at his feet.

Get up and work, dog, Redford shouted.

Bugger yourself, Brice shouted. How can he….

Bugger me? Redford shouted back, cutting him off. Bugger this! He leveled his gun and fired, hitting Brice in the left thigh. The bullet tore through muscle and shattered the bone, before exploding out the other side, dropping him to his knees. Brice hung by his wrists from the crank, bleeding profusely, unable to move.

Gillard staggered back to his feet, but another buccaneer stepped forward and stabbed a dagger through his right hand, pinning it to the wooden handle of the crank. Gillard cried out in pain, arching his back, his face pulled into a terrible grimace.

Adrian thrashed and kicked, struggling against his bonds, shouting, Stop it! Leave them alone!

Ignoring him, a dozen or more pirates leaped toward the cranks, slashing, stabbing, punching, and kicking Gillard and Brice until their screams faded and died away to whimpering moans. Then all was quiet except the wind in the rigging. Their lifeless bodies hung from the crank handles, heads bowed down over their chests.

Goddamn you, Dillon, Adrian shouted, fighting against his ropes. Let me loose.

I don’t think so, Captain, Dillon sneered. Not yet. He turned to the remaining survivors. So, any of you want to change your mind about joining my crew?

I’ll join, one man said, his voice quivering. I’ll join.

That’s a good lad, Dillon said, stepping around the battered corpses hanging from the flywheel. Cut his loose.

A pirate cut the ropes holding the man and dragged him to his feet.

Come here, my worthy, Dillon said, standing beside the main hatch cover. And what’s your name?

W… Warren. Sir, he stammered.

So you want to be a pirate, Dillon said, sounding magnanimous. Well, let’s see how you make out. He nodded to a couple of his crew. They suddenly grabbed Warren by the arms and roughly shoved him face down on the main hatch cover. I told you before, you only had one chance to join us and you’ve missed it. But what say we make you look like a pirate anyway? Dillon sneered. A hook for a hand maybe?

No! Warren screamed, struggling against his captors. One pirate grabbed Warren’s right hand and stretched his arm out across the hatch cover. He shifted his grip, grasping his captive by the forearm, leaving his wrist and hand exposed. Warren clenched his fist and screwed up his face, turning his head away, knowing what was coming. Two more pirates pinned his shoulders down on the hatch frame, keeping him from moving. Someone handed Dillon a boarding axe. He held it up in the fading light, letting the last gleam of the sunset play off its blade. He turned and cast a cold glance at Adrian, then swung the axe down hard. Warren screamed and thrashed in agony as his severed hand flew across the deck to land in the scuppers.

And everyone knows a pirate needs an eye patch, Dillon shouted above the howls of his crew. Warren cried out, kicking and squirming in the grasp of the pirates as they hauled him to his feet. Blood spurted from the stump of his arm as Dillon grabbed him by the ears and forced his head back.

Adrian turned away, gagging as his man screamed in pain and terror.

Dillon held Warren’s head tightly as another pirate gouged out his left eye with his thumb. Throw this piece of trash over the side, Dillon said, letting Warren collapse to the deck. Two pirates hauled the sobbing, broken man to his feet and shoved him over the gunnels. His long, trailing scream faded into the distance.

Dillon turned his crew loose on the remaining six survivors. They tortured and killed them in an hours long orgy of violence and degradation, then tossed their torn and bloody bodies over the side. They untied the mutilated corpses from the cranks and dropped them over the rails as well.

Adrian slumped against the railings, sick and weak from horror. His mind reeled from the terrible things he had been forced to watch. Dillon strode across the bloodstained deck and stood at his feet, looking down at him. And now, he said, you, Captain, are all that is left.

Adrian looked up at him, his face a blank mask, beyond all feeling except hate.

I’ve always said a man who looses his ship does not deserve to live, but I’m not going to kill you, Dillon said. That would be too easy. I think I’m going to make you my personal property. Yes, a galley slave, if you will; a galley slave in what used to be your own airship. That’s a fitting punishment and maybe it’ll teach you a lesson in the stupidity of trying to defy me. He turned to his men. All he had to do was strike his colors and leave me have his cargo and none of this would have happened, would it, lads?

His men laughed and shouted, No.

Dillon shook his head in mock sadness, heaving an exaggerated sigh. Tie him to the cranks and put him to work, he said to Redford. We’ve been drifting with the wind long enough. And get that wreckage cleared away. I want this ship underway now.

Right away, Captain, Redford replied. He turned and shouted at the crew, You heard the Captain. Put this dog to work and clear away that boom.

Several men went to work hacking away at the ruins of the boom and leather belt. In seconds the whole mess broke free and fell away into the darkness. A minute later the distant crash of its impact reached their ears.

The pirates untied Adrian and dragged him to his feet, punching and slapping him mercilessly. They hauled him over to the starboard side of the drive, lashed his hands to the bloodstained handle, and left him there. A buccaneer walked up to the other side of the machinery and sneered, Get to work, dog.

Dillon turned and made his way aft, then climbed up onto the bridge. He stood next to his helmsman and shouted back down to Adrian, Put your back into it, slave. I’ve got myself a nice cargo to sell."

CHAPTER TWO

Babbling voices and the clatter of crockery filled the thick, smoky air inside the Duke’s Grace Pub in the town of Neston. Two serving girls pushed their way through the press of bodies. They balanced a tarnished pewter tray of ale and beer in one hand while fending off drunkenly amorous patrons with the other. Their high-pitched squeals of laughter mingled with the painful howling of several drunken mechanics in oil stained jumpsuits who were trying to carry a tune.

Three Wanderers sat around a small table near the center of the room, drinking ale from tall, pewter mugs. They wore heavy knee-high brown boots, baggy red trousers, embroidered yellow shirts, and red vests with bright, brass buttons. Each man had a large golden hoop earring in his left ear. Members of one of the nomadic bands from lands far to the south and east, across the channel, they still went by the old ways. They lived in tight-knit clans, going from town to town in brightly painted caravans pulled by oxen. They made their way in the world by putting on wild bazaars that featured games of chance, magic acts, and bawdy sex shows. With no allegiance to anyone but their own clan, they traveled freely across borders and frontiers. They were badly out of place in a room filled with oilers, mechanics, stokers, and other workers who tended the great machines and ever-burning furnaces that powered the town, but they did not seem to care.

Most people in Aragret had little or no use for Wanderers. It was widely known that they fight anyone, including each other, at any time, over almost anything. They were considered uneducated throwbacks to a more primitive time before the Great Revolution had harnessed the powers of fire and steam and electricity. The more modern people in the tavern eyed them with distrust, as much for the many weapons they carried as for their well-earned bad reputation.

Ignoring everyone else on the room, the three Wanderers had been drinking heavily for hours and the night was getting old. Nigel sat across from his clan chieftain, Edward, smoking his ornately carved, wooden pipe. Like most Wanderer men he had bright blue eyes, long curly black hair, a thick mustache, and a pointed goatee. At twenty-eight years of age, Nigel was skilled in knife fighting and a deadly shot with his Tesla pistols. He was also an accomplished thief who dabbled in the dark arts which he used to ply his trade. All in all he was well liked and highly respected in his clan.

A young man called Darren, who was barely out of his teens, sat beside Edward. Darren had a large pointed, hump-backed nose, but he could grown neither a beard, nor a mustache on his smooth face. Darren was a quick tempered braggart, but he could seldom back up his boasts. The crook of his ugly nose was a reminder of a day when his bluff had been called by another Wanderer. Darren had not learned his lessons, though, and his mouth still got him into trouble more often than not. His tiny, rat-like eyes were bleary with drink and his speech was getting more slurred by the minute.

The chieftain, Edward, who was about fifty, was not doing much better and his own eyes were unfocused and drooping heavily. Tall, powerfully built, and a fearless fighter, Edward had been the leader of his clan for almost thirty years. But tonight he was drunk and out of sorts. His head felt like it was filled with cobwebs, his eyes burned, and the noise in the tavern was beginning to grate on his nerves.

Nigel, for his part, had drank a few pints but made a point of keeping his wits about him. He took another draw on his pipe and blew misty smoke rings up towards the rafters.

I tell you thish mush, Darren said, far more loudly than necessary, these stupid blighters better watch… watch how they’re lookin’ at me. I don’t like it…, not one damned bit. I’m getting’ sick an’ tired of it an’ I’m gonna make ‘em sorry if they don’t…. don’t watch out. He swiveled around in his chair and pointed at an oiler sitting with several companions at the next table. Yeah, I’m talk’n ‘bout you, he slurred.

Be quiet, Edward ordered, holding his chin in his left palm while gripping his mug tightly in his right fist. Don’t go startin’ nothing. His head was beginning to spin and his mood was rapidly going downhill. The last thing in the world he wanted at the moment was to get into a fight with a bunch of angry mechanics and oilers, even though he had no fear of losing. We don’t need no trouble.

You there, Darren called out, ignoring Edward’s warning and still pointing a wavering finger, I could take your fat wife, your slutty daughter, an’…an’ all the money in your pocket any time I wanted. He broke out laughing, turned and buried his head in Edward’s shoulder.

Wanderer scum, one of the oilers shouted back, starting to stand up. Get out of town. His eyes burned with anger.

Yeah. We don’t want your kind here, another man snarled, pushing his chair back. You stink up the air.

Nigel shook his head, ignoring the insults and called back, We don’t want any trouble, friend. The boy’s just drunk is all. Can’t handle his cups. He flashed a disarming smile at the infuriated men, hoping they would back down.

The workers glared at the Wanderers for several seconds, then went back to their own conversations, muttering and shaking their heads. They threw a few furtive glances towards Nigel’s table, but they obviously did not want to push the issue any further.

Darren struggled to stop laughing and picked up his mug. Looking down into it, all he saw was trails of white froth clinging to the sides and bottom.

Hey, girl, he shouted, pounding the table with his fist. We need more ale here.

I think you’ve had enough, Nigel said.

I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, Darren countered hotly, an’ I ain’t there yet.

One of the serving girls came over and set three more mugs on the table, her sagging cleavage spilling over the top of her tightly laced corset. She might have been pretty ten years ago, but no more. It was obvious, however, that she did not realize the truth of the matter.

Darren eyed her swaying breasts closely as she leaned down over the table to scoop up the three copper coins Nigel tossed out, then swatted her hard on her plump bottom.

She shouted and jumped back, laughing. Hey, boy, she exclaimed. You should learn the right way to treat a lady. Maybe I could teach you a thing or two… She gave him a knowing look and a suggestive wink, then stepped back into the crowd.

Darren kept his barely focused eyes on her for a moment, then picked up his mug and drained it in one long gulp. He slammed it down on the table, then broke out laughing uncontrollably. He fell sideways against Edward, giggling and holding his ribs. She wants me, he gasped, trying to catch his breath. That fat bird wants me.

Get off me, boy, Edward grunted, pushing Darren away. You’re making a damned fool of yourself.

Darren pulled back, his laughter chocked off, his face suddenly dark and angry. He sat bolt upright in his chair and fixed an unsteady gaze on his chieftain. Did… did you just call me a fool? he demanded.

"I said you’re acting like a fool. Edward countered, anger edging into his voice. Pay attention."

A fool am I? the boy shouted, staggering to his feet. God damn my eyes if I’ll take that off you, old man. Your time’s coming. He reached for the hilt of the dagger hanging from his left hip. In fact, it’s here right now.

Darren, sit down and shut up, Nigel warned. His right hand edged over toward the butt of one of his pistols.

Or what? Darren cried, turning on him. You going to cast one of your dirty little magic tricks on me? Gonna turn me into a rabbit or something? Well? I asked you a question and I expect… expect an answer.

Sit down and shut yer trap, Edward growled, or so help me god, I’ll teach you a hard lesson in respect.

You don’t know a damned thing about respect, Darren yelled loudly, sweeping the mugs off the table and sending them clattering across the floor. All around them the room instantly fell dead silent. Call me a fool? Is that your idea of respect? he shouted. I want satisfaction, old man.

One more word out of you, Darren, and I’ll banish you from the clan, Edward said, swaying to his feet and ignoring the challenge. He towered over Darren, an ugly scowl on his weathered face. "Do you understand, boy? You won’t make it a day on your own without us. No Wanderer can survive outside his clan. No matter where you go you’ll be kicked around like a dog… spat on and cursed by everyone, everywhere. No one will have a cur like you. No one."

Nigel pushed his chair back, standing up too. Edward, he’s drunk. Let it go.

Yeah, Darren cackled. I’m drunk. But I’m not some stupid magic user an’… an’ I’m not some worn out old man who can’t show the proper respect for his betters.

Enough, Edward shouted. Get out of my sight, you useless piece of filth, you upstart afterbirth of a pig….

Edward, let it go. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, Nigel said again, reaching out to put his hand on the older man’s shoulder, trying to calm him down.

Get off me, Edward cried, turning and hurling a clumsy, roundhouse blow at him.

Nigel easily sidestepped the punch, then roughly shoved Edward back with both hands. Don’t start with me, he snapped, surprised and angry at his chieftain’s unwarranted attack.

Thrown off balance, Edward staggered and fell into the next table, knocking drinks and drinkers to the floor in a rolling crash. Two of the mechanics clambered to their feet, cursing and wiping beer and ale off their greasy coveralls. They glowered at Nigel and Edward, angry and ready for a fight. One reached down for the dagger he had stuck in his boot, but thought better of it as Nigel’s furious glance flicked across him.

Edward struggled to pull himself upright, ignoring everyone but Nigel, his fine clothes wet and stinking of ale. His drunken eyes glared with rage and his breath came in hot jets. Hit me, will you? he demanded, his voice deathly cold. Taking that bloody little cunt’s side in this, are you? I’ll have my honor, Nigel. By god I’ll have it right here, right now.

Nigel glared back, swallowing hard. He had no choice. A challenge had been given by a real man and it had to be accepted and dealt with, no matter what the consequences. So will I, he said, kicking his chair out of his way to make room. It skittered across the floor and knocked into a stoker standing a few feet away. The man booted it aside and glared at Nigel, but, wisely, kept his mouth shut.

Darren scrambled back out of the way, a look of panic on his rat-like face.

Stand where you are, you son of a bitch, Nigel snarled at him. When this is over I’m gonna deal with you. I’ll teach you some manners yet.

Nigel and Edward circled one another, each sizing up the other, looking for an opening; any advantage that might mean living past the next few minutes. All around them voices began to shout with excitement.

Duel! There’s going to be a duel, someone shouted.

I’ll put five quid on the big guy, another yelled.

I’ll take that bet. The other one looks plenty mean to me.

He ain’t got no chance.

You might be surprised, someone else put in. Looks like a scrapper to me.

Edward squinted, trying to lock his unsteady eyes on Nigel. Are you going to fight or dance? he sneered.

Say when, Nigel countered, his blood running hot. Ignoring his dagger and his brace of powerful Tesla pistols, he shoved his left hand in his belt behind his back.

Edward stuck is left hand behind his back too, leaving his own weapons untouched. When, he snapped, suddenly thrusting his right hand out and clamping it violently around Nigel’s throat, squeezing down hard.

Nigel gagged and grabbed hold of Edward’s throat, just below his heavy jaw, digging his thumb in deep, groping for an artery or the windpipe. Blood began pounding in his ears and all around him he heard men and women shouting bets and jeers. Gasping, his throat and lungs burning, he struggled to tighten his grip. His world began to shrink inside a deepening tunnel of darkness until all he could see was Edward’s bulging red face glaring back at him. Outside, in the growing shadows, the shouts, jeers, and cheers of the crowd became thin, shrill, and distant. Blackness swallowed him in a private universe of pain and terror. His mind screamed out into the darkness as his knees began to buckle.

Suddenly the terrible pressure was gone and blessed air poured down his burning throat. He let Edward go and slumped, gagging and coughing, against the nearest table. He struggled to remain standing, his knees wobbling and weak. Shaking his head from side to side, trying to clear the awful ringing in his ears, he looked down. Edward lay at his feet, dead eyes fixed and staring up at the smoky rafters, dark blood trailing from his nose and mouth.

I’ll take my five quid now, someone demanded.

Easy come, easy go, another said to the clink of coins.

Darren stood off to one side, his tiny eyes bulging, his mouth hanging slack in shock. You killed him, he gasped, awestruck. You killed Edward.

Nigel, still doubled over and panting for breath, looked up at the boy, not yet able to speak. His eyes burned with hate.

"You killed… no you murdered Edward, Darren said again, suddenly sober. You murdered our chieftain. You son of a whore, you murdered him. Darren backed away from Nigel, his eyes fixed on the dead man laying on the floor. Murderer! he shouted. You’re going to pay for this, Nigel. So help me god, you’ll pay. Wait till the others get here. They’ll kill you for sure. Darren cast a panicked glance around the pub, backing toward the front door, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Nigel. You all saw it, he cried out to the crowd. You saw him murder Edward. He turned back to Nigel. They’ll kill you for sure, Nigel. I’ll see to it. You killed Edward in cold blood. Everyone in here saw it. He turned and threw the door open, then ran off into the night, shouting, Murder! Murder!" at the top of his lungs.

Nigel pulled himself upright and looked around the room. Cold, hard stares met his gaze from every corner. Several patrons turned their backs on him, refusing to even look him in the eye. Clutching his bruised and swollen throat and wheezing for air, he took a moment to look down at Edward’s body laying dead at his feet. Darren was right about one thing, he brooded: The others would kill him for sure. Edward was the most popular chieftain the clan had ever had. By the time Darren had filled their heads with his own twisted version of what had happened, they wouldn’t give Nigel two seconds to tell his side. If he stayed around much longer, he’d be a dead man.

He knelt down next to the body and gently closed Edward’s eyes. Sorry, old man, he rasped. On a sudden impulse, he reached inside the dead man’s vest and pulled out his wallet. You won’t be needing that anymore, he whispered as he clambered back to his feet.

I won’t let you do that, a hard voice warned.

Nigel found a filthy stoker standing in front of him, his hand on the hilt of the knife thrust through his belt. It’s not enough that you murdered that fellow, but you’d steal from him too? he demanded, his face dark and angry. Not in my town, you Wanderer scum.

Nigel sighed painfully, then whipped one of his pistols from his belt and leveled the barrel right between the stoker’s eyes. He thumbed the hammer back, releasing a puff of steam from the holding tank into the weapon’s tiny turbine. It spun up with an audible whine as it charged the resonance field coils, priming the gun for several shots. Get out of my way you idiot, before I splatter your brains all over the room, he rasped.

The stoker took a sharp breath as his eyes widened, then narrowed again, but his hand dropped back to his side and he edged out of the way.

Anyone else going to try that? Nigel asked, his voice ragged and painful. Only cold silence answered him. He stepped forward and the crowd parted before him.

Nigel made his way across the room to the front door, keeping his pistol out and pointed at anyone who dared get in his way. He opened the door with his left hand and glanced out into the dark street beyond. No one was in sight. He slipped out, closed the door and paused for a second to shove his pistol back into his belt.

He took another quick look around. The Great Revolution had seemingly reached out to even small towns in the countryside like Neston. The main street and the common were dotted with newfangled electric lights.

The sky pulsed with the reflected glow of the coal fires in the many boiler houses that powered the mills and factories that had taken over the town, pushing aside small workshops in the name of progress. Nigel could hear the huffing of the large pistons and feel an unnatural vibration through the ground at his feet. A thick cloud of black smoke belched from a towering brick chimney that loomed over the older, more traditional buildings of the town.

He started up the main street, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, when he heard dozens of angry voices coming his way. He ducked into an unlit doorway at the side of the street and craned his neck to look toward the noise. He instantly began choking and coughing from the pain in his injured throat.

This way, Darren shouted at the head of a dozen or more torch carrying Wanderers. They were armed clubs, knives, and even a few guns. Nigel edged back into the darkness, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his right fist over his heart. You do not see me. You do not see me, he desperately whispered again and again, casting a spell of hiding over himself.

The angry mob stalked right by, one man passing less than a yard from him. Their blazing torches flared in the night, but the doorway beside them was empty except for the faintest shadow against the planks of the locked door.

Nigel, one of the Wanderers shouted, his face streaked with tears of rage, You’re a dead man.

Nigel opened his eyes, his body relaxing slightly as the spell dissipated. He slumped back against the door, took a ragged, painful breath, then stepped out into the street and made his way out into the darkness beyond the glow of the boiler fires and the lights.

His fate was far worse than the banishment from which he had fought to save Darren. He was now marked as a murderer, a man who had killed his own chieftain. Word would spread from clan to clan and soon every Wanderer he met would be honor bound to kill him or die trying. No good deed…, he muttered angrily.

He rounded a corner and carefully made his way out into the open. No one else was out and about at this hour. He took one last look back towards the cluster of buildings below the towering black chimney, then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness beyond the town.

CHAPTER THREE

The few late afternoon regulars in the Pipe and Keg Inn were scattered about the common room nursing pints of ale or beer and smoking ornately carved pipes. A couple of mechanics sitting at a table near the coal-burning fireplace were deep in conversation, but they kept their voices low, as if afraid to disturb the enormous man hulking behind the bar.

Ponder stuffed three fingers of his ham-sized right hand into a pewter mug to wipe it dry with a dingy rag while surveying the tavern with a sour expression on his face. He shook his head, set the mug down, and pushed it away. Always the same people, never any more, never any less, and never, ever, anyone new, he mused. In an hour or so the evening crowd would filter in, eat a little; drink a lot. Some of them would get lucky in games of chance or of lust. Others, not so lucky, would find themselves fighting each other or going home alone and miserable. After almost three thousand long nights in this place he could just about tell who would win and who would lose the moment that they came in through the front door.

Ponder sighed and poured himself a mug of cold ale. He drained half of it in one long pull and set it aside, then absently started drumming his huge fingers on the bar, feeling restless and irritable. He ran his left hand through his close-cropped hair and scratched his head before returning to his absent-minded drumming on the bar. He stifled a yawn and blinked his eyes as his mind began to wander.

The door to the kitchen opened behind him and his wife, Mercy, stepped out. She was a short, stout woman with a blotchy complexion and curly salt and pepper hair stuffed under a pale green scarf. She glared at the mug on the bar and snapped, Drinking already?

What of it? Ponder countered, jerked out of his daydreams.

You know I don’t like you drinking, she said, anger rising in her voice. I don’t need a drunk working in here. I expect you to keep your wits about you.

Like him? Ponder sneered, pointing his deeply cleft chin at a whip-thin old white haired man slumped over an empty stein nearby. Four other mugs and steins lay scattered about the table and two more lay on the floor at his feet. The man was snoring loudly.

Leave my father out of this, Mercy said hotly. This is his pub and he can drink if he wants.

Wrong, Ponder corrected her angrily. "It’s our pub: His and mine. Not his and damned sure not yours. If I want a pint or two, I’ll have it. Now shut up and get yourself back in the kitchen. I’m sure you’ve got work to do in there before the guests arrive. Dinner ain’t gonna cook itself, you know."

Mercy glared at him for a long moment, then turned on her heel and marched through the door, letting it swing back and forth in her wake. Ponder watched her go, feeling angry, miserable, and a little guilty. He picked up his mug, drained it, then slammed it down on the bar, making his father-in-law jump awake for a second before slumping again.

Goddamn it, Ponder swore. He turned and looked up at the powerful rifle hanging on the wall above the large mirror behind the bar. How long had it been since he had last handled it? He reached up and gently took the weapon down from its mounts, watching in embarrassed disgust as cobwebs pulled free from the wall with it.

The whole gun was covered in a thick layer of dust. Its twin copper colored barrels were tarnished, as was the long, brass telescope mounted over the left one. Even the fine wood of the stock and forearm looked dull and dingy.

An old Rigby & Walls steam over magpulse rifle, it was one of the most powerful weapons of its day. The left hand barrel was a deadly accurate needle gun. The right hand barrel could fire all manner of rounds, so long as they were sixty caliber. A set of express sights was mounted between the barrels, allowing them to instantly be put on target. The gun had two magazines, one for each barrel. The needle gun magazine was set behind and to the left of the other. The twin triggers were protected by a tarnished, but shapely, brass guard.

Both of the rifle’s pressure gauges read zero. The steam tank and the self-heating zarbarrium gas cylinder that powered it were cold to the touch. A row of five dark vacuum tubes ran along the right side of the receiver, opposite the copper tanks.

Ponder’s expert eyes swept the length of the weapon, instantly noting the faint remnants of old scratches and notches in the wood and a dent in the right