Von Adin was appalled at New Town, his Germanic sense of orderliness was being assailed on all sides. By the time the refugees had arrived here, the tents, building materials, goodwill and supplies had well and truly run out. Here people were living in conditions that would give barbaric a good name.
He looked around and was surprised to see what looked like a farmhouse amidst the tents. “Smythe, what’s this farm doing here?”
“It’s the sprawl. It swallowed up everything in its path. Hamlets, farms and villages, all just gone. You can see that this one is a garrison.”
Von Adin looked again, annoyed that he hadn’t spotted the tell-tale signs before. The stone walls surrounding the farm were clearly newer than the original buildings, the gates were reinforced with bands of iron and a member of the militia stared out from the converted clock-tower, forever on the lookout for aether-born drawn to the misery, squalor and plentiful food source.
The Sanction members crested a small rise and looked down from the hill towards a small independent settlement. Von And could see that it had been built to support the mill sitting on the banks of the canal that cut through the valley below, and indeed it seemed to him that it still did. He could see people bustling through the streets, on the dock and barges lined up to either load or unload goods.
“Very good. This is the spot that the faerie projected Clara?” Von Adin was scanning the area with a pair of small but powerful opera glasses. They weren’t nearly as effective as a telescope or real binoculars but they were easy to hide and made things clear enough.
“Here old chap, have a pinch.”
He lowered the glasses to see that Smythe was holding a small tin of snuff out to him.
“Shouldn’t we be smoking cigars and drinking port?” Von Adin took a pinch and put it into the crook of his thumb. Gently he sniffed the snuff.
“Mein Gott! What is this stuff?” The hit was instant, it was far stronger than anything he had tried before and he shook as it coursed through his brain.
“Take a look at the Mill and focus. Truly focus.”
Von Adin cursed softly under his breath as his eyes took in the village and the mill it supported. All around lay the improvised shelters. The clarity that the snuff gave his sight was something that he had never experienced before in his life.
“Gentlemen, I think that you should be concentrating on subjects nearer to hand. It appears that we have company. Punchers by the look of them.” Lady Ashdown’s voice was mildly rebuking, as was the smirk on her face.
Von Adin turned slowly in a circle. What she said was true. From between the shanty buildings and tents, a number of tatty-looking men and women emerged, circling them.
He could not for the life of him tell whether the pounding of his heart was caused by the imminent action, or the fact that Punchers were the worst sort of street scum there were. Most robbers would strike quickly, overpower you and rob you. Punchers were known for their ruthlessness, punching a one-way ticket to the pearly gates for their victims, robbing them of literally everything. No quarter asked or given.
He suddenly noticed the lack of noise on the street. He had been so absorbed in studying the mill that he had completely missed the fact that what passed for normal life had disappeared from the street.
“A rank novice’s mistake! My apologies, it appears that this bloody snuff can be somewhat distracting.” Von Adin was livid with himself. He prided himself on his situational awareness and knew that he still had to make his mark. A crass mistake such as this could undo all his hard work and completely undermine his reputation.
Thank God, Willoughby was caught out as well.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen. How can we help you?” All three of them had moved so that they were back-to-back.
The punchers were eerily silent, standing stock still, barely blinking. Von Adin looked around, trying to pinpoint the leader, but it was impossible to tell. Then he saw a tell-tale glint of silver from around the neck of one of the men.
“Torques, they’re wearing torques.” He kept his voice low, not wanting the punchers to hear.
“No point in wasting time then”, and with that the temperature plummeted as Lady Ashdown drew the maximum amount of aether that she could. As one, the punchers surged towards them. Smythe drew his pistols and started firing, dropping a brace with his first few shots. Lady Ashdown sent a stream of aether-fire from her fingertips, cooking three punchers in their tracks. The air filled with the smell of burnt flesh, hair and excrement. Aside from the sound of the shots and the crackling of the flames, there was no sound from the punchers at all.
Von Adin blocked a club angled at this head and punched his attacker solidly in the face. There was a muffled crack as the woman’s cheekbone shattered and her eye protruded horribly. She staggered back a pace or two with the blow and then came straight back at him with a clumsy overhead attack. He blocked with his glove hand, angling the attack down and away, and rammed his hunting knife downwards behind her hip and into her lower intestines. The blow forced air from her lungs, but that was the only sound as she dropped bonelessly to the floor.
“Pain! They feel no pain.” He had little time to say anything else as another puncher rushed forward, stamping his right leg down and thrusting with the short sword he had. This one’s clothes were in slightly better condition than the other’s and Von Adin realised with a shock that he was facing a former officer from the Coldstream guards.
He barely managed to avoid the thrust, and lifted his arm, opening up the side closest to his attacker. The former soldier fell for the bait and thrust again. Von Adin was ready and grasped the blade with his glove. A burst of aether flowed down the metal and into the officer. He stood, silently juddering as the current cooked him from the inside. His eyeballs burst, brains and steam spewing out as the pressure in his skull finally worked its way out.
Breathing deeply, Von Adin took advantage of a momentary lull to check on his friends. Smythe was also being kept busy. His attacker was using a short stick and a claw hammer combination, forcing him to reverse the grip on his revolver, drop the Mauser and use his walking stick as a club..
That was all he managed to see, a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye was the only warning he had as a horizontal strike from a hammer smashed his revolver out of his hand. His attacker over-committed, the swing going too far past the centreline of his body. Von Adin did not hesitate, he shunted forward, palming his opponent’s arm and trapping it against his body. He followed this with a powerful rear knee to the thigh and slammed his head into his attacker’s face, the reinforced brim on his bowler cutting the man’s face open to the bone.
Again, the force of his blow drove the attacker back and Von Adin launched a sidekick down on the man’s knee, pushing it back further than nature had intended, bone and ligament breaking with a stomach-wrenching crunch.
The chap’s head came forward as his pelvis bowed back and Von Adin dealt him a telling blow to his nose with his elbow, sending him sprawling into the dirt. He glanced around again to check on his friends. His heart nearly stopped as he realised that Lady Ashdown was nowhere to be seen.
*
Lady Ashdown found herself running for her life. It appeared that the force coming up against them had been put together in a hurry, as none of their opponents seemed to have either aethermancer or guns. If they had, the fight would have ended much sooner and much for the worse for the Sanction agents. As it was, she had been hard pressed to defend herself let alone her cell members. The press of bodies had pushed her away from the rest of the team, the punchers concentrating their efforts on attacking her.
Her chest hurt as she tried to draw the fetid air into her already tired lungs. Her eyes stung as sweat ran into her forehead and her legs felt as though she wore lead boots.
“Damn, damn, damn!” Her run ended just as suddenly as the alleyway she was running down, a turn to the left and there was nothing but shanty wall. A foot scraped on the ground and she spun around the outstretched arm of a woman who was determined to mate steel with skin, pushed aether into her hand and ripped the woman’s throat out with the claws that appeared to replace her fingers. This gave her just enough space to send a ball of fire into the chest of a man behind the woman. The ball splashed over him as if a water bomb had gone off, setting his beard a hair alight in seconds. Unfazed he punched her in face, eliciting a yelp of pain.
“Fucker! You fucking torqued up cunt! You’ve cut my FACE!” Shocked, she reached up and felt the gash on her cheek. Snarling she plunged her claw hand into his chest, punching through the ribs and with a quick wrench she ripped his heart straight out. That more than did the job and he too dropped to the ground, adding to the growing pile of corpses and body parts at her feet.
Her hands shook as she drew her revolver. More feet pounded down the alley way and she popped her head quickly around the corner.
Oh, for God’s sake! Three more punchers were running towards her. Too tired to waste her aether she popped back around the corner. Sighting carefully she squeezed the trigger. Her first shot took the lead punching dead centre in the chest, dropping him like a marionette with no strings.
The puncher behind did not even pause as she vaulted the body. Lady Ashdown’s second and third shots shattered her skull and her body slammed face first into the ground. One more shot and the last puncher was dead.
She pushed up on legs that did not want to support her and slowly made her way back towards her friends, reloading as she did.
Her friends were stood, back-to-back in the centre of a circle of bodies. Although they were still standing, she could see just how exhausted they were. Drawing a deep breath, she readied herself to join them.
*
Every fibre of Smythe’s body ached. His lungs heaved as they tried to draw breath into his battered body, and pushed the air back out again quicker than he absorb it. Sweat streamed down his face and he blinked at the sting of the salt in his eyes. Bodies lay all around his feet. He slammed another magazine into his Mauser and turned in a quick circle.
“Where the bloody hell’s Clara!” he practically screamed the words at Von Adin, who looked in no better shape.
“I’m not sure, they got in between us.” Von Adin’s face was stricken, a great cut had been opened on his forehead.
“I think she went that way.” He raised a shaking hand to point at the alleyway down which Lady Ashdown had run.
Just then they saw her exit the shadows cast by the tightly packed buildings.
“Watch out, there are more coming!” She launched a stream of lightning from her each of her fingers, each stream striking and killing or maiming another attacker. Smythe snarled as they jigged a merry dance to her tune, flesh cooking and pressurised bodily juices forcing their way out of various orifices. The smell was worse than anything Smythe had ever smelt and he quickly swallowed down a surge of bile
God, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. But it scares the shit out of me to know that she deals death and destruction as easily as she breaths.
“We can’t hold them! Can we push through and make our escape that way?” Smythe could not believe how bloody painful everything was. His face felt like it had been laid onto an anvil and pounded with the biggest hammer in the smithy. The vision in his left eye was blurred and he found he could not even blink. A quick glance down showed that blood covered the front of his normally spotless clothes, and there was a rent in his waistcoat where a knife had got through.
Smythe desperately looked for a way out but all he could see was more punchers joining the fray.
“We’re bloody well trapped, we need... .” his voice trailed off as he realised the punchers joining the fray were actually fighting those attacking them. He roared with newfound enthusiasm, adrenalin surging back into his veins as he realised that not all was lost. Ignoring the tiredness and pain seeping like water through his limbs he leapt back into battle with a vengeance. Lady Ashdown and Von Adin were equally invigorated, joining in with a will.
“Well that’s that then,” he said cautiously less than thirty seconds later, “thanks for the help.” Despite the bone-deep fatigue that was being carried around in his veins at that moment, he stayed in a defensive stance, feet positioned so that he could move in any direction quickly, with stick in low guard – to the uninitiated it looked as though it was just resting on the ground – and pistol lowered, pointing to the ground.
“Danke, my thanks also.” Von Adin was actually swaying on his feet as spoke and Smythe was surprised that the German did not just pitch onto his face there and then.
“Looks like we have a Hun here, lads. Never seen a Hun, let alone helped him kill good English lads. “I’m Mr Smith.” The speaker was a heavily scarred bruiser of a man, nowhere near as tall as Von Adin, but just as broad and bulging with muscles. His clothing was of a slightly finer cut than most and, despite a strong cockney accent, his diction was concise.
“An educated puncher, will wonders never cease? Better keep an eye on this one.” Smythe was never one to underestimate potential allies, or potential enemies just because of their accents, backgrounds or professions.
There was a high-pitched whistling in the distance. The pitch was so high that it made him want to dig his fingers into his ears in an attempt to clear them. It was like having a mosquito hovering just outside of them.
“Shit, she doesn’t have a licence does she?” asked Smith, at Smythe’s head shake he frowned, “Bollocks, that means the Fourth Hussars and bloody Lieutenant bloody Churchill are going to come galloping to the rescue. Right lass, come “ere.” He beckoned Lady Ashdown over to a short boy of no more than twelve. She struggled to stay still as the boy started to sniff at her, slowly walking around her as he did so. He beckoned her down and, with a frighteningly quick motion, he cut a lock of hair from her.
Smith reached out to stop her as she made a grab for the boy. “Careful missy, Master Smith “ere knows what he’s about.”
The air chilled briefly and then the lad shot off, followed by a small group of children.
“He’ll lay a false spoor trail, lead the poor Hussies a right game of hunt-the-witch he will. They’ll run themselves ragged and earn the five pounds you’re going to give me. For safekeeping of course!” He held his hand against his heart as Lady Ashdown looked at him sharply. His teeth flashed as she relented and passed over the note.
“Right then, if you’ll follow me the boss would like to discuss certain matters what you have in common but which I am not privy to. So don’t go bloody asking.”
Their helpers quickly led them away from the site of the fight. Smythe turned as he heard the patter of feet. Behind them, the locals were already busy stripping the bodies. He winced in disgust as he saw a golden tooth being pulled from a mouth. No matter how much it disgusted him to see people acting like vultures, he realised that they lived a hand-to-mouth existence, they needed to do this. Any elation at having survived the fight was quickly replaced by sadness at just how low the arrival of the Horde had taken Great Britain.
Stolen story; please report.
“Don’t worry sir, they’ll leave the torques, everyone hereabouts knows to leave them.” Smith placed a guiding hand on Smythe’s shoulder, he was too tired to shrug it off or waste any more time thinking and let himself be led away. “Clara, send a whisper, let the Hussars know that the bodies are to be left as they find them and that not one torque should be missing when we come to collect them.” Smythe felt a tightening in his chest at that thought that a moment of greed from one of the troopers would end in catastrophe. Although the British army was professional, it was still very much a case of finders keepers when it came to corpses and valuable goods.
Mr Smith nodded his approval, “We lost fifty good people when one of those bastards got his throat slit trying to take a kiddie. We soon learned to get rid of the bodies in ways that did not mean removing them fancy necklaces neither. Took a bit of careful experimenting I can tell yer.”
As they walked, Smythe found himself becoming increasingly confused as by a myriad of twists and turns, at one point entering onto the cobbled streets of a former village. He sighed in relief as they walked along the hard ground, the sucking of the constant mud had made his legs add their voice to all the other aches he was feeling.
He bumped into Lady Ashdown, who had suddenly stopped, muttered an apology and looked around. He realised that they had arrived at a set of decrepit-looking docks and mould-ridden warehouses.
With a sigh he followed Mr Smith as he led them to an imposing warehouse, the tattered and peeling sign on the front advertising it as “Frobisher’s wine emporium for the discerning gentleman”.
“Good god, Frobisher’s. He was one of the best wine merchants in the whole bally country. The Empire even!” Smythe’s spirits perked up, he remembered more than one night in the officer’s mess, partaking of a Frobisher’s special. Saliva flooded into his mouth at the thought and he realised with a shock just how hungry and thirsty he was.
Smith laughed, “Well we might be able to cobble up the odd bottle or two I’m sure!”
They went through the double doors and down a flight of stairs into a many-vaulted cellar. Cut from limestone they kept the perfect temperature the whole year round.
At every vault they passed Smythe let out a little yelp or gasp of excitement as he spotted the huge barrels and the writing that told of their contents. The warehouse was everything he could have hoped for and he silently marked bottle after bottle as a must-have. Good God! Just that one bottle costs more than I earn in a year. He wiped his lips as he salivated at the thought of drinking such a wine.
Finally, they reached a door. Stepping through it Smythe realised that they were in a much more open area. A table stood in the middle, with a solitary candle burning.
“Ah, the Government’s people are finally here. I suppose it takes a torque-controlled ghoul to finally get them to enter New Town!” the voice came from the shadows beyond the table.
“You’re saying that you’re the one responsible?” Smythe desperately scanned the darkness to try to spot the speaker. He could feel the others tensing next to him, and Mar. Smith was wearing a frown which could only be described as being disapproving.
“No, I’m not saying that I’m responsible! Merely that it seems it takes a ghoul running through the streets of the Old Town to get real government people - not those officious prigs who call themselves soldiers - to even come and see how We’re being forced to live. No doubt you’ve seen the good areas as well. People are living in far worse conditions now than they used to. Did you know we have even had a couple of cases of the plague? Black Death!” The speaker left the shadows, stepping to a side table surrounded by a number of comfortable-looking chairs. Considering how Smythe felt at that moment, they could have been uncomfortable chairs and he had still have paid a year’s salary to just sit down.
“And who helped us - no don’t bother answering, it was rhetorical - we did. Not one member of the government bothered to lift a finger. We had to board them up in an old house and pass food through a slit in the door. We lost eighty people that time and it was only through the grace of God that we didn’t lose more.” The speaker paced back and forth as he spoke, waving his hands in agitation, and giving Smythe a good chance to size him up.
“We didn’t even know that there was plague here. You honestly think that the government wouldn’t help, that Her Majesty wouldn’t help if people started to get the plague?” Lady Ashdown’s voice trembled as she spoke.
The speaker laughed, a short snort of contempt.
“No, I bloody well don’t think they would have helped us. Those bastard Hussars didn’t. And now We’re losing people to these damn torques. They turn them into mindless automatons.”
He wiped his mouth with his hand, pausing for a moment as he scrunched up his mouth.
Lady Ashdown stepped forward and gently laid her hand on his arm.
“I’m truly sorry, if I’d known I would have helped. But we need your help, we need to stop these torques being made and used on innocent people.”
“Ja, we haven’t had an opportunity to study them. Any information you might have would be of great,” Von Adin paused, looking the speaker straight in the eyes, “value. What can you tell us? “
There was a moment’s silence as the man looked at them. His eyes shifted from one to the other, as if he was sizing them up. Finally, he nodded, decision made.
“They’re immune to the effects of pain. Worst is that they keep doing what they’ve been ordered to until they’re dead. You yourselves saw how they just keep attacking.
“We had a couple as prisoners. When we realised that taking the torques off wasn’t a good idea we decided to see how long they could last without food and water. It seems that they require nourishment in order to remain hale and hearty. Aside from that, death is the only way to ensure that you stop them.” He paused and poured wine into four glasses.
“Please, you look like you’ve been to Hell and back, sit down before you fall down. I believe that you’ll enjoy a glass or two of Paps Neuf, eighteen-eighty vintage.” He smiled at Smythe’s gasp of joy, “The names Frobisher.”
Once they had been seated, and exchanged long overdue introductions, they got down to business.
Smythe took a sip of the wine, his tongue felt like angels were walking on his taste buds, a sense of wellbeing flooded through him when he swallowed, God he loved good wine.
“What can you tell us about these torques? The ghoul that we killed near to Quay Street was completely different to any other ghoul that I have had the misfortune of facing. It was calm and controlled and left hundreds of potential victims alive.” He watched Frobisher closely, looking for any sign of surprise.
Frobisher nodded, “Controlled is the right term to use. The torques seem to override any sense of self-worth or individuality. Those with them on are completely subservient to whoever is controlling them.” His hands gripped the arms of his chair as he said that, it was clear to Smythe that Frobisher cared very much for the people within his domain.
Frobisher relaxed his grip and took a moment to light a cigar, not bothering to offer one to the others. “As to who is doing this, well we managed to capture a chappy who seemed to stand out. Didn’t look right. Just like you lot. Oh, you did a good job on the disguises but you’re too well fed to be from these parts. You, Mr Smythe stand far too straight-backed, and none of you has the air of a beaten spirit about you. The only people that are like you are government, and mine. And since you’re not mine . . .” he tailed off and shrugged. “We had you pegged the moment you came through the gate and followed the entire way.”
“It was the same with this man. He was a rum old cove and no matter how hard he tried to blend in, he couldn’t. We took him as he tried to collar one of our own. The bastard had a bag full of the bloody things so he did.”
Smythe started to lean forward, desperate to ask questions. His mouth snapped shut with a click, when Frobisher held up his hand. He could definitely feel some loose teeth. Bastards.
“No you can’t have them. They’re ours fair and square, and I think you’ll agree that the government has enough of a leash on us as it is without us giving them another tool.”
“You sir, sound like a bloody separatist, another one of those damned traitors, whining about how we should join with the aether-born, signing treaties that undo years of hard work.” Smythe jabbed his finger at Frobisher, his lip curling as he spoke.
“No, I’m not a bloody Separatist! I’m loyal citizen of the British Empire. A very disappointed loyalist however. I’m also a realist. If the government doesn’t act soon We’re going to be facing an uprising that Britain can ill afford. We can’t fight a war on two fronts.” Frobisher’s face was flushed, his eyes narrowed and Smythe realised with a flip of his stomach that he might have pushed the man too far.
“Is that what you believe is happening?” Lady Ashdown tilted her head and smiled gently.
Frobisher sighed, settling back into his chair once more. “What I believe is irrelevant. What I know is what our prisoner told us. He works for someone calling himself Torquemasta.” He laughed, a quick, chopped off bark, “Quite a pun if it wasn’t so bloody awful. This “master” appears to have worked out how to craft the torque and how to use them to control others against their will. Imagine what such a man could do with an army like that. He would be unstoppable.”
Von Adin laughed. “Ach, there is no such thing. We will make sure that we stop him much sooner than he expects. Surely that much silver would be easy to trace?” Von Adin took a large gulp of the wine, reached for the bottle and, after looking at Frobisher for permission, poured himself another glass.
“You are correct my Germanic giant. We know that the silver isn’t being imported. One of the only other places that it can be coming from is Bere Ferrers, down in the wilds of Devonshire. Now, if you’ll forgive me I believe that I’ve given you much more information than I normally do. You can repay us by getting the bastard soldiers to let more supplies through without nicking from them. Do that and we’re square.” He stood up and gestured towards Mr Smith “Help our friends leave safely please Mr Smith.”
The meeting clearly over, the Sanction levered their battered and exhausted bodies out of the almost too comfortable chairs and followed Mr Smith out of the room.
The Professor looked at the refreshments he had asked the stewards to prepare for the returning team. His stomach rumbled, aching with a hunger that was more cerebral than truly physical. He picked up a roast beef and horseradish sauce sandwich, savouring the bite of the sauce and the delicate taste of the raw beef.
If they’re anything like me, Von Adin and Lady Ashdown will be bloody knackered from using so much damned aether these last couple of days. I’d be dead on my feet if I was drawing that much power into myself.
He drifted around the room he had chosen for the meeting. Reading the titles of the books on the shelves, he stroked the smooth leather covers of some of his favourites fondly. Wish I had time to read all of these again. Wish I had time to enjoy actually take pause and enjoy life once again. He found himself at the one section that he was truly only able to justify reading now, Aethermancy.
Sighing he picked up one book, The Aethermancer Journal Volume 12, and flicked through the pages. As usual there was yet another article that tried to fathom out where aether came from. Even now, even he could not be sure how aether came about. He snapped the covers shut, revelling in the sound such a volume made when closed that way.
All that the Royal Society knew was that aethermancers Pulled aether through their bodies. It was this act, the turning of their bodies into conduits that made aether use so damned tiring, and so bloody exhilarating. He smiled, pulling just a little aether and relishing the way it made him feel. It was literally like passing a current through the body, and was taxing both spiritually and physically, yet caused everything to tingle, brought everything into focus, brightened the colours, made everything seem to be so much more real. Even now, he struggled to control the urge to keep drawing the power in. He yearned to unleash it, to blast away at anything, just so that he could draw more, use more and repeat the process.
“Ha! You old fool, addicted to aether and bloody well talking to yourself.” Shaking his head ruefully, he pushed the aether from his body, sending a stream of fairy lights up to the ceiling and set them dancing in a complex pattern.
A knock at the door caused him to turn, a smile lighting up his face as he saw the members of his best cell enter the chamber.
His laughed softly at the state they were in. Their clothes were ripped, Smythe’s faced looked like he had done ten rounds with a professional boxer, and Lady Ashdown - ravishing as ever! – looked positively shattered.
He looked with interest at Von Adin. Despite being battered as much as Smythe, he appeared in no way to be as tired as Lady Ashdown. Good to see our Prussian friend is still with us. Would have been damned embarrassing if he had caught a bullet on his first mission with us.
“My friends, good to see you, good to see you.” He crossed the room and pumped their hands vigorously, looking each in the eye and noting Smythe’s wince as he gripped a broken hand too tightly.
“Karl, I see you’ve suffered less than Lady Ashdown, good to see that the glove is still passing the aether through your arm and into the glove.” The mechanics of aether-gloves meant that the user didn’t have to Pull the aether through their bodies, using the technology to generate a charge or using a battery pack instead.
“When you have time, I want you to get your glove checked, make sure the dynamo and aether generator haven’t been damaged.” Von Adin’s glove was truly a marvel of modern-day Victorian engineering. Using a dynamo to power the aether generator he carried on his hip, every time he moved his left arm, it created a store of energy that he had to either use or dissipate. In the hands of someone less skilled or disciplined, an aetherglove and its less advanced electroglove could be unintentionally deadly. They were sometimes referred to as Midas gloves for that exact reason.
He shuddered as he remembered the very first electrogloves. Storing the power generated by their user in an acid battery, they were particularly prone to damage in battle. Many users had died screaming as the acid ate its way through their bodies. The death toll had got so high that users had more often than not taken to wearing a steel plate on the hip that carried the glove, giving them that that extra bit of time to extricate themselves from it when required.
Dextor waited until they had all helped themselves to some food and taken their chairs. Confident that they were comfortable, and sure that they had enough food, he asked them for their debrief.
*
“And that’s about it.” Said Smythe as he leaned back into his chair, nearly two hours later.
“You’ll have to catch the atmospheric down to Exeter and from there take a horseless over Dartmoor. I’d advise you to stop over at that point. The trip over Dartmoor can be ... exciting to say the least.”
“Surely you don’t believe the stories, professor!” Lady Ashdown covered her mouth as she laughed incredulously.
“I assure you my dear that I am damned serious! I, and my colleagues in the Royal Society, believe that aether has been part of life on earth before and will be now and again.” If there was one thing Dextor hated, and that was being mocked by younger members of the Sanction that did not have the same depth of understanding or intellect as he. Leaning forward he pointed a finger at her, keen to make his point.
“How else my dear, do you think that so many cultures have recurring themes the world over? Dragons for a start. In addition, I do not believe that the report by Dr Watson about Dartmoor was a fantastic story. The Sanction doesn’t deal with fantasy, just reality.
“So, I’m sorry to repeat myself, but I order you to rest in Exeter and gather your energy for the trip over Dartmoor. Do I make myself clear?”
They all knew that it was rare for the professor to become impatient, let alone as visibly angry as he was now. Lady Ashdown wisely acquiesced, thanking him for the food and leading the party from the room.
“The professor is truly worried. I get the feeling that he’s been receiving reports from other cells.” She spoke in a low voice as they walked down the corridor.
Smythe sighed deeply, “I think that we are in the middle of something much bigger than we previously thought. From being tasked to eliminate one rogue ghoul, we find ourselves facing someone who has the power to control people against their will and who seems to be making a power grab. You do realise that the mine We’re going to is a former Royal mine?”
“Ach, they certainly don’t lack confidence! Perhaps this confidence might work to our advantage. I imagine the person we are facing might be a bit too arrogant for their own good!” Von Adin was clearly looking forward to seeing more of the legendary Dartmoor.
*
Two hours later they were stood on the platform at London Road station. Sanction medics had healed them and Smythe felt positively full of energy. The others looked just as refreshed as he felt, and, by the way Lady Ashdown kept looking down at her dress and smiling, felt all the more better to be in decent clothing.
“All passengers embarking on the Atmospheric to Exeter St David’s should proceed to platform five, platform five.” Smythe winced as the particularly loud whisper continued to blare out its message.
“Bloody hell! Damned thing near scared me out of my own skin.” His heart was pounding, but he joined in with the others as they laughed . Aethermancy, technology, everything’s bloody changing too fast. Too fast. He hated the way things were constantly changing and he hated the new-found reliance on technology and aethermancy.
He beckoned over a couple of porters and had them lead the way to the atmospheric platform. Leaning over he looked down at the ceramic pipes, still gleaming as if they were brand new. There was a loud humming and he glanced up just in time to see the atmospheric arrive.
Engineless, it glided to a halt almost silently, the magnets that pulled it along adding their humming to the harmonics that made atmospherics so unique. In no way did it compare to the audio and visual spectacle of a steam engine pulling into a station.
Rather like the bass string on a cello he thought as he watched the porters loading their luggage into the guard’s carriage.
“I hear that the magnets mean that this train can reach nearly eighty miles per hour in some places. Eighty!” Von Adin was uncharacteristically jigging around.
“I take it that you approve of this technology then Karl?” Lady Ashdown looked just as excited and Smythe – if he was honest with himself – also felt a thrill at the idea of being in a train that could do eighty miles per hour.
Half an hour or so later, the three of them were settled comfortably in a first class carriage, taking the professor’s orders to heart and ensuring that they got as much rest as possible. For Smythe this meant cigars, port and a plate of roast beef, horseradish sauce and vegetables. His tastes were simple. Food had to be well cooked, flavoursome and plentiful. There was nothing he hated more than paying for a meal that had left him hungry. Yet at the same time, he hated having such large portions that food was wasted. His time in India had taught him that vital lesson.
I must admit that the visit to New Town hammered home just how much food is wasted by people who don’t even truly understand the feeling of hunger.
As he ate, he watched Lady Ashdown through lidded eyes. If he was honest with himself, he had been truly scared by the sight of her killing so many people with such ease. Yet that power also excited him. He knew that she was damaged goods, but having been part of the mission that had accidentally saved her he felt very protective towards her. Now, as his eyes moved from her thick hair, over her full lips, down her straight and unblemished neck, coming to stop at her full, creamy-skinned breasts he realised that he might actually feel something more than protective towards her. With a rush, he realised that he wanted her.
Cursing himself for his weakness, he took a deep drink of red wine and tucked into his meal. He promised himself that the next three hours would see his feelings being put into a box, ready for when he had time to indulge them.