CHAPTER 4: THE WHISKY SUNDAY

The first thing Bolton heard was the steady clinking of glass, the scrape of metal on wood, and a low hum that seemed to vibrate deep in his bones. His eyes fluttered open, the dim glow of lanterns casting soft shadows across a rustic ceiling. Where am I?

His body felt leaden, every movement met with resistance from the dull ache of his bruised ribs—a brutal reminder of the assault beneath the sewers, just below the hull of the Akiyoma Airship. He tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his side, forcing a groan from his lips. Blinking hard, Bolton struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

This isn’t the sewers.

The air here was different—warmer, almost stifling, filled with the sweet tang of puffed smoke, rich mead, and roasted meat. The subtle sway beneath him hinted at something in motion, though he couldn’t quite place it. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light from flickering lanterns that lined the walls. Shadows played across thick wooden beams, giving the place a rustic yet oddly comforting feel. Long, winding nets adorned the walls, barrels stood taller than him, and the room was dressed in riverboat charm, as if it had been plucked from a world far removed from the one he knew.

Vermolly? Panic jolted through him like lightning. “Vermolly!” Bolton shot up, but the sudden movement sent a wave of pain crashing through his body, forcing him back down. He winced, groaning. “Vermolly…” he whispered, feeling the sting of his wounds.

His heart pounded as he scanned the room, eyes flitting from shadow to shadow. Where is she? But no sign of her. Just the haze of his pain and the steady click of train tracks below.

Looking down, Bolton noticed the worn bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. He tugged at them, momentarily lost in thought, before realizing his arms were bandaged as well. He lay in a narrow cubby, the bed bolted to the wall, with a small table attached by a sturdy metallic arm just to his left. The soft, rhythmic click of train tracks rumbled from below. A faint sound, but unmistakable.

I’m on a train? His pulse quickened, a rising sense of dread knotting in his stomach. How did I end up on a train? More importantly… how am I still alive?

Fragments of memory fluttered back to him—the fight, the desperate struggle beneath the airship, the crushing blows dealt by the Quadrant Leader. His body had given in to darkness then, hadn’t it? He had felt it close in. But something, or someone, had saved him. Someone with a strange, otherworldly presence... and a foul scent of oil and sewage.

But who?

Bolton’s breath quickened, the realization settling like lead in his gut. He wasn’t safe. He was far from the sewers, far from the fight, but that didn’t mean anything. Whoever saved me… they’ll know. They’ll find me.

A creak from nearby snapped him back to reality. He wasn’t alone.

Across the cart, a large, round-bellied man with a wild, white beard stormed toward the far end where a bar stood beneath the glow of lanterns. His boots clunked against the wooden floorboards with each step, shaking the glasses hanging behind the bar. The man’s voice boomed, echoing off the walls as though it were meant to shake the very structure of the train.

“Pistol! This is yer brilliant Midnight Train, and brilliant for certain!” The man bellowed with laughter, his voice rumbling through the car like thunder.

Bolton’s heart thudded in his chest, his mind racing. I can’t be here. They’ll see me, they’ll know. He tried to sit up again, but the sharp pain in his ribs flared, keeping him pinned. His hand instinctively moved to his side, fingers brushing over the rough, makeshift bandages. The memory of the Quadrant Leader’s assault came rushing back in vivid flashes—the fight, the desperation, and then… nothing. Blackness.

But someone had saved him.

Who?

His head swirled with fragments of thought, fear clawing its way up his spine. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to move, to get out, but his limbs refused to cooperate.

The gruff voice of a man at the bar cut through the din. It was dry, gravelly—seasoned by years of rough work, full of grit and character.

“Just boarded and already makin’ noise, Chief Hogswind,” the bartender muttered, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen far better days.

Chief Hogswind. The name hit Bolton like a punch to the gut. He’d heard it before—stories, rumors of a legendary miner turned leader, a rough man who commanded respect in the New Dwardian Kenton Mines of Quadrant 9.

The steady rumble of the train beneath Bolton reminded him he was far from the sewers. But how far? And why?

Hogswind’s voice filled the cart again, raucous and full of wild energy. “Oi, every young’un and ol’ beard here’s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world!”

The crowd cheered. Bolton’s heart thudded against his chest, louder than before. They’re all here… and they could find me at any moment.

Bolton’s pulse quickened even more. Can’t they find me? Can’t they see?

Hogswind’s voice filled the cart again, raucous and full of wild energy. “Oi, every young’un and ol’ beard here’s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world! But what do we see when we arrive? A fancin’ five-cart train with a tavern, a bath cart rivalin’ the Springs of Veranus, and a whorehouse to boot!”

The patrons erupted in cheers, their soot-covered faces breaking into grins as they raised their drinks high. “Yardrats! We’ve earned this! Workin’ the hardest mines in all the thirteen Quadrants!”

Bolton’s head throbbed. It felt like he was sinking into the fog again, the haze of exhaustion threatening to pull him back under. His eyelids drooped, but he couldn’t afford to slip into unconsciousness—not again. He forced himself to stay alert, his mind racing through fragments of memories, half-formed plans, and a creeping sense of dread.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

With effort, Bolton tried to focus on the conversation happening at the bar. The bartender—an older man with gray-streaked hair and a face weathered like old leather—glanced in his direction, his eyes narrowing as if sensing something was off.

Bolton’s pulse quickened. “Damn it. What kind of mess…?”

He shifted, trying to move, but his limbs refused to cooperate. His vision blurred, the dim light of the train car mixing with the haze of pain and exhaustion. He couldn’t stay here. He needed to escape—but how?

“Pistol!” came a voice—a woman’s, firm yet gentle. Bolton’s ears perked up, catching the tone beneath the words. “We’ve got a small, tiny problem we need to talk about after these guys leave.”

Pistol. That must be the bartender’s name. Bolton glanced toward him again, noting the way Pistol’s eyes darted to the woman before narrowing in thought. Something was off.

Bolton’s pulse quickened further. His skin prickled as if something cold and sharp was creeping up his spine. I need to get off this train. Now.

The scrape of a rickety wooden stool from the far side of the cart made him freeze. Then, the heavy thud of worn leather boots echoed across the floorboards. A voice followed—a primal shout, deep, gruff, and hoarse, breaking through the low clatter of the train.

“Pistol!!!”

Pistol barely turned his head, wiping his hands on a dirtied rag. “How’s it I’ve got a shelf of ale behind me, yet I can smell Nicholas Hogswind all the way from here?” he thought with a wry smile. “Like the damn mines of old. By the blessed, time passes right through ‘em.”

He caught sight of the man approaching—a ragged, smoky-white beard above a protruding belly. Chief Hogswind. There was no mistaking that booming voice or the swagger in his step.

“Pistol!” Hogswind shouted again, dragging out the L’s in his name. “This is yer’ brilliant Midnight Train! And brilliant for certain!” He laughed, each step shaking the glasses behind the bar. “Oi, how’s one come about getting a job on this train? HOLD ON! Don’t answer! Politics,” he whispered with a devious grin. “I hear… that’s how we got in the mines too. POLITICS!”

Pistol smirked as Hogswind’s voice filled the cart. Roaring laughter and chaotic murmurs rippled through the train as soot-covered miners crowded every corner. Dusted hardhats, sooted overalls, and blackened boots lined the booths from end to end, adding to the hearty chorus of cheers greeting Hogswind’s bombastic arrival.

“We drink to Chief! Chief drinks for us! In our moment of death, we wish for a moment of luck. To drink again, oi, a request for our life. To drink som’ more, lest we return to our wife!”

Hogswind raised his arms, a grin spreading wide across his face as his loud, raspy hum reverberated through the car. With dramatic flair, he belted out his response:

“I drink for life, I drink for you. Chief Hogswind arrives, insane it’s true. What’s crazier than me is the job that I love. We drink to my death, our moment beloved!”

“Chief Hogswind! Chief Hogswind! Chief Hogswind!” The crowd erupted, chanting until Hogswind hushed them with a thunderous “Halt!”

Bolton’s mind raced. I have to move. I can’t stay here. He tried again, struggling to shift his weight, but his body felt sluggish, pinned down by a force he couldn’t fight.

“Pistol!” whispered a soft voice beside him.

Pistol didn’t respond at first, focused on cleaning his barrel-shaped mugs, paying little mind to the chaos around him. But the footsteps grew closer. The voice called again—softer, more insistent.

Finally, Pistol turned, glancing toward the sliding wooden door at his side. Two glowing orange eyes peered from the crack in the door, watching.

“We have a whorehouse!? Where is it?” the voice asked, filled with a mixture of wonder and amusement.

“No,” Pistol responded dryly.

“That’s rough,” came the reply, followed by a chuckle. “Two questions: who’s the injured guy? And who’s this Chief guy? Looks like you, but somehow has a bigger belly.”

“The boy... A powerful favor. Nicholas—or Chief—is an old beard like me,” Pistol muttered, turning back to his work. “Now close the door. You’ll spoil the food.”

“Okay. But there’s a tiny problem we need to talk about. After these guys leave,” the voice said, a playful note creeping in before fading into the shadows.

Pistol sighed, continuing his work. He glanced at the sliding door with its intricate circular window, which separated the bar from the dimly lit storage room. Enough provisions to feed a small village sat inside, and tonight, they’d need every last bit of it.

“Oi! Close the door! Fruit’s gonna rot right outta the baskets!” Pistol barked, looking toward the darkened doorway. “Sarah!?”

There was no reply. Frowning, Pistol brushed past the swinging waist-high doors and peered into the storage room. The absence of lit lanterns sent a chill up his spine.

“Sarah? Where the hell’s that girl?”

Before he could take another step, Sarah appeared, rushing in with her fiery red hair catching the dim light.

“The Moonfruit creature’s at it again! Turning off the lights and scurrying through the train like it’s a sweet shop!” she huffed, snickering as she caught her breath. “I was tryin’ to catch the little bugger.”

“Moonfruit? By the blessed…” Pistol groaned, shaking his head. “That thing’s still scuttlin’ around? A problem for another hour. Close the door and get Grissm’ ready—we’ve got orders coming in fast.”

Sarah’s eyes flickered toward the passengers, narrowing as she spotted the rowdy crowd. “Yeah, I see him. Thunder boots and his rock brigade back there, huh? What happened to this train, Pistol? It used to host royalty. Now it’s all miners and muck.”

Pistol’s gaze followed hers. “I wouldn’t dismiss it just yet. That boy over there? Royalty. And we may or may not have a New Dwardian Quadrant Leader somewhere in these cars.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Royalty? A Quadrant Leader!? What happened to predictable clientele?”

Bolton felt the conversation between Sarah and Pistol like sharp, whispering knives, prodding him to his feet. Danger seemed to lurk between every cheer and roar of the crowd, which only grew louder around him.

Pistol glanced over at Bolton, finally noticing him awake before dropping his voice into an even lighter whisper, his words firm. “Speculation leaves our mouths open in the rain, Sarah. Keep the boy safe and serve the everyday workin' man—that’s our job tonight. More important now, considerin' life back home in Dwarden.”

Sarah sighed, nodding as the reality set in. “As you put it, Whisky Sunday doesn’t run on two hands,” she muttered in a raspy mimicry, knowing there wasn’t time for argument.

As Chief Hogswind’s heavy boots echoed closer, Pistol squinted down the train’s aisle. The lanterns cast a warm, fire-lit glow across the car, bathing the rustic interior in an almost enchanted light. The Whisky Sunday felt alive, its atmosphere thrumming with energy. But something darker loomed on the horizon—Pistol could sense it like a drunkard ready to brawl at any moment.

“Miner Company #32! Settle and beg me an ear!” Hogswind’s voice growled.

Pistol’s heart quickened, the familiar chaos of the night just beginning. He didn’t know then that something far more dangerous than miners or muck was about to breach the safety of his Midnight Train.

“I just heard—Bolton Woltwork is in the train car tonight!” Chief Hogswind’s voice boomed, stirring excited murmurs from the crowd. “And look at him now, crawling out of his cubby like we all should be doing in a couple of hours! That’s the spirit, Woltwork. Lead. By. Example.”