Stepping out of the Royal Clarence, one of Exeter’s finest hotels, Smythe sighed in resignation as he watched the horseless ground to a hissing, spitting and popping stop. He rolled his shoulders in agitation and tried not to look startled when the driver pulled on the whistle’s chain. The screech was ear-piercing to say the least and he rubbed at his throbbing head, spitting to clear the foul taste of last night’s Port from his mouth. The steam-powered horseless were the poor man’s alternative, though Smythe reflected that poor was a relative word, as most people still had to put up with the usual horse-powered transport used for aeons previously. Needless to say the horseless carriages often scared the wits out of horses. Not that horses have many wits to being with.
It had been agreed that using an aether-powered horseless to travel through the wilds of Devonshire would draw too much attention. Only the richest or most powerful could afford such luxury and word of such people would spread like wildfire, certainly faster than the actual transport.
A steam-powered carriage would draw much less attention but also lend them the gravitas required should they need to use status to achieve their goal.
This horseless came with a Sanction driver, a stoker and driver’s mate, both of whom were ensconced up on the top of the horseless. The driver sat at the front whilst his mate and the stoker were at the back next to the coalbunker and engine.
“Sir,” the driver had opened the passenger door and was looking at Smythe expectantly, “if we depart now we should be able to reach Waystation Five in time for dinner.”
Frustration at being forced into such a monstrosity made his neck unbearably tense and he rolled his shoulders and neck once more, cracking them and stepped up into the dark interior, passing his bag up to the mate who stored it alongside his companions”.
He found Von Adin and Lady Ashdown comfortably seated in the horseless, having been picked up from other locations in the city. It was often common practice to split up cell members when in a new location as it allowed them to speak to a wider range of people and source information. It also meant that should someone be out to assassinate them, it was much harder to get them at the same time.
Smythe sat down with a grunt and narrowed his eyes as even more hissing and popping came from the boiler and fire behind them. One bonus of the steam-powered horseless was that they were much warmer than the traditional stagecoaches. Smythe shivered, on a cold day such as this, and especially up in the wilds of Dartmoor, the warmth was more than welcome.
Lady Ashdown smiled showing her perfect white teeth, leaning forward as she passed him a class of port. “You’re going to have to get used to the horseless at some point my dear Willoughby, as with the aether-born they’re here to stay whether we like it or not.”
Looking at her and hearing her call him “My dear”, Smythe felt a fluttering in his stomach. It was something akin to fear or excitement. She’s a damn fine looking woman, intelligent and very handy to have in a fight. He found himself stroking his moustache and, as he caught her eyes and the small look of amusement on her face, jerked his hand away as if he had been burnt.
“Bloody hand still hurts from those damn punchers.” He made a show of working it for a couple of seconds whilst inwardly cringing at how he must appear. He leant forward and took the glass from her still waiting hand, “Thank you my dear,” he took a sip and sighed again, this time in satisfaction.
“The perks of working for the Sanction are often far and few between but the simple pleasure of dashed fine Port and good company will always be one of the greatest. To Her Majesty and the British Empire, long may they prevail!”
Taking another large sip, he settled back into the comfort of the plush leather seat. The journey from Exeter to Bere Ferres was roughly forty-five miles. Although the horseless was capable of an amazing thirty miles an hour, coal supplies and - more importantly - the terrible state of the roads meant that they were usually reduced to no more than ten miles per hour, which was still a drastic improvement on the more traditional modes of transport. Add to this the fact that they would be travelling through some of the most inhospitable and hilly countryside in England and they were facing a long journey indeed. Waystation Five was in Postbridge and they would rest there for the night in order to refuel, take on water and prepare for the journey ahead.
Lady Ashdown jolted awake as a wheel hit a particularly deep rut. Stretching, and revelled in the feeling as her joints stretched almost to the point of tearing. She glanced at her companions, both of whom were also asleep. Despite the Professor’s insistence, she still could not take what she had heard about their destination seriously.
Dartmoor had resided in the public’s eye as a place of legend since time immemorial. Ever since the aether-born had poured through into the world, Dartmoor had continued to live up to its reputation with the stories becoming more and more bloodthirsty and with more and more stories being told as unwary travellers fell to the dangers of such a remote place.
Although Lady Ashdown had a healthy respect for the Professor, she still felt that many of the stories had been invented by bored locals eager to make their lives just that little bit more entertaining. Despite the reality of Vampyres, Faeries and Aether, she just could not bring herself to believe in pre-Horde legends. In a world that demanded an open and honest mind, hers was in danger of being closed and dishonest.
“Bloody roads, don’t they have any straight sections?” Smythe was looking distinctly carriage-sick, a slight sheen covering his forehead. The constant surging, stopping, jouncing and bouncing of the horseless was playing merry hell with all of their stomachs. Just the thought of the breakfast she had eaten that morning made her mouth salivate in a very unpleasant manner.
“Dash it all!” he roared as the horseless jolted to a sudden stop, propelling him forward into the seat opposite, “Damn bastard driver! What the hell does he think he’s playing at?”
He snatched at the window release and leaned out. Lady Ashdown tensed, feeling her heart speed up as anticipation of a fight sent her blood racing through her veins.
“I say, driver, what on earth are you doing? I nearly knocked myself stupid!” The cool, fresh air was soothing to say the least, and she found it particularly refreshing compared to the smut-laden air of Manchester. She opened the other window, cautiously leaned forward. It was then that she saw the driver’s feet drumming the floor in front of the horseless.
There was a crack and they both jerked their heads back into the carriage, “I do believe that We’re being accosted.” She watched as Smythe drew and cocked his Mauser in one smooth motion whilst Von Adin punched the air, building up a charge as quickly as he could.
“Oi, you'm lot in ‘orseless. OI’d be march obloiged if you and yars would step owt now. It’s none too code roight now.” The speaker was clearly from Devon, the rich accent making it hard for them to understand the exact words.
“Owt!” A bullet punched its way through the side of the horseless and they all flinched as it ricocheted off a metal stanchion on the inside. Spent, it dropped to the floor.
“Gentlemen, I do believe that they mean business. I also believe in Ladies first.” Before either Smythe or Von Adin could act, Lady Ashdown was up and out of the coach.
“Oh my goodness! Please kind sir, don’t hurt us! We’re no match for five such strong men as yourselves!” She fluttered her fan in front of her face before laying it across her heaving bosom.
Smythe grinned, as he watched from within the horseless. As she had known they would, all five of the highwaymen in front of her allowed their eyes to fall upon her breasts, pushed up as they were by the tight bodice she was wearing.
“Now!” she Pulled hungrily on the aether as Smythe and Von Adin burst out of either side of the horseless, pistols roaring. The highwaymen barely had time to take their eyes off Lady Ashdown’s breasts before the first rounds started to hit them.
*
Smythe had found himself facing two mean-looking men in their thirties and a young, fresh-face boy in his early teens. Surprisingly the boy had been the faster of the three to react and started to bring his blunderbuss up to bear. Smythe’s first shot took him in the thigh, his mouth opening in a wide “O” of surprise and pain.
Adjusting his aim, Smythe fired another two shots. The first hit the boy in the lower abdomen and as his leg started to give way he pitched forward and took the second through the top of his head. Brains and bone flew in all directions as he collapsed facedown onto the ground.
Barely pausing Smythe tracked his pistol to the right as he stepped left. Three more rounds took the first of the men through the throat and he dropped to his knees, hands clutching vainly at his throat as he tried to stop the blood fountaining from his neck. Gurgling he folded backwards, hands dropped to his side as blood loss took away any remaining strength.
The third man was still screaming with fear when Smythe shot him through the mouth, blowing the back of his head all over the road and pitching him onto his back. Pistol still up Smythe rounded the horseless in an attempt to flank any remaining highwaymen, only to see Von Adin grab the last man standing with his glove.
Smythe had enough memories and experiences he wished he hadn’t , and turned away to avoid seeing what was coming next. As soon as Von Adin had a grip, he loosed the stored up energy of the glove straight into the man’s head. A high-pitched wail came out of his victim’s mouth, quickly choked off as the aether superheated his brains. Von Adin release the body and the skull split with the sound of a breaking egg as it hit the ground. Steaming brains spread slowly over the ground.
“Where’s the last one?” Smythe still had his Mauser up and at the ready, looking into the high hedges as well as he could in case there were any more highwaymen.
“Clara got to him before I could. You can see pieces of him all over if you look hard enough. She burst him from the inside out.”
Smythe continued around the front of the horseless and look down at the driver. The man was clearly dead, a ragged hole in his chest showed the yellow of his shattered ribs and various internal organs sagged inside the opening.
“Oh for God’s sake! Anyone know how to drive this blasted thing? Where’s the driver’s mate?”
The mate had also been shot, although thankfully the bullet had only grazed his skull and knocked him out. Lady Ashdown was busy attending to him, pouring aether into him in order to make the flesh knit and for any bruising of the brain to go.
After ten minutes, she let the man sit up and take up position in the driver’s seat. Von Adin offered to take the mate’s position and seemed to relish the chance to help the stoker keep the firebox full. After they had stripped the dead highwaymen of their weapons and dumped them into the ditch by the side of the road they were ready to continue.
“How old do you think he was?” Lady Ashdown’s eyes glistened as she looked at Smythe, her lip trembling, “The boy I mean. The one you killed. How old? Thirteen?” A solitary tear rolled its way down her cheek.
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“I’m not sure. Probably. He wasn’t a boy. Dammit, he was man enough to get his weapon up before the others. I didn’t have a choice!” Smythe yearned with all of his heart to dab the tear from her face, but anger at what he had done, what he had been force to do, and the way that she was castigating him for it stopped him. “I’d appreciate it if you would not bring up the subject again.” He snapped the last sentence out between gritted teeth and turned to look out of the window so that he would not see the tears continue to roll down her cheeks.
Waystation Five was an outpost just outside of Postbridge. The town itself was dull and grey, blending into the mist that rolled down off the surrounding tors and the dim oil lamps failed to lighten the mood. The Waystation itself was a former coaching inn that had been strongly fortified with a water tower and coalbunker built into the internal courtyard. Garrisoned by local Yeomanry it offered a place of security should there be an attack.
The reinforced gates swung smoothly inwards, steam hissing into the air as they followed the tracks laid into the ground. Looking out of the window, Smythe nodded back as a Yeoman put two fingers to the brim of his helmet.
As soon as the horseless ground to a hissing and popping stop, Smythe practically dived out of the horseless. He gulped down the fresh air, revelling in the fact that he was out of the stuffy horseless.
I’ll never understand why Karl likes garlic so much. He stood aside to let the inn staff gather their bags and then lead the others into the inn. Still relishing the fresh air, he stood for another minute and followed them in reluctantly. Previous experience the world over had taught him that whilst garrison food was far better than campaign food, it never matched the high standards he enjoyed.
Speaking to the publican, Smythe learned with relief that he was the original owner and, by the look of the barrels behind the bar, that he still served some of the finest ales, and cyder the region had to offer.
After finding the commander of the Waystation and requesting a new driver he hurried back to the bar. Still rattled by killing the boy, he made for the bar, slapped a ten-bob note onto the counter and proceeded to drink his way through the selection, ignoring any attempt by his colleagues to talk. Leaving him to it, they made their way to their beds.
*
The next morning the mist still clung to Postbridge for which Smythe was heartily thankful, any sun would have made his pounding skull unbearable.
Why the Hell do I do this to myself? He burped, swallowing down the bitter bile that had risen into his mouth. As the newly requisitioned driver drove the horseless clanking and jolting its way out of the village, he looked out of the window, drinking in the fresh air as greedily as he had drunk the alcohol last night. He groaned as his head pounded in time with his heart and swallowed down a rush of saliva as his stomach gurgled. Wincing he barely noticed the little girl at the side of the road making the sign of the cross, reversed, followed by the evil eye.
Charming little shit he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing and nothing else.
“Smythe!” He started and realised that he must have fallen asleep. Blushing he wiped at the sticky saliva which had been dribbling out of his mouth.
Von Adin was pumping his hand in an effort to charge up his glove and Smythe noticed that the air was decidedly cooler. His pulse quickened as he automatically started to check his own weapons.
“What’s occurring?” Thankfully the pounding in his head had ceased although the queasiness still remained.
“Hounds, to either side of us. They’ve been pacing us for the last five miles. No hound I know of can do that, and we grow them big back home.”
Lady Ashdown nodded. “I’ve asked the driver and he said that the local hunt stopped going out when it was misty because they were losing too many hounds and members.” The emphasis on losing clearly implied that the hunter had become the hunted.
Smythe reached into his pocket, took out his snuff tin and took a pinch. Gazing out of the window, he scanned the land for the hounds. The Draw slammed into his skull and the hounds leapt into clear focus. Covered in dank, mud encrusted hair, they were the biggest dogs he had ever seen.
“Good God, the damned things are bigger than bloody donkeys! Who the hell breeds dogs that big?” He dived to the other side and did a quick count.
“Eight of them. Six on the right and two to the left. No sign of riders though which is good. Relatively speaking that is.”
Lady Ashdown reached for the speaking tube. “Driver, find a suitable place to make a stand. I want you and your crew to stay on top and engage the hounds from a distance.” She nodded as she heard a muffled acknowledgement and settled down to wait, taking a nip from a dainty hip flask. “Might as well have some Dutch Courage.”
Minutes later, the horseless stopped on a patch of road that gave good visibility for miles around. The hounds were a good half a mile off. Smythe gestured at the road.
“We’ll make our stand here. It will take them a good couple of minutes for them to reach us through the heather. We should be able to pick off a number of them as they come. Once they close with us, you three,” he pointed at the driver and crew, “will stay on the roof of the horseless and we will retreat inside it. We should be able to deal with them then.”
He turned to look for the other hounds and cursed as he saw a bank of fog rolling rapidly towards them.
“Clara, we need Sprite Lights and bloody bright ones at that.” He turned once more and saw that the fog was rolling in towards them from all sides.
“For God’s sake! We’ll never see the buggers until they’re right on us.” He pounded his leg in frustration, knowing that ranged combat was the only safe option when it came to fighting animals such as these.
“It’s a sidhe casting. There’s someone with a lot of power out there. Some thing actually.” Lady Ashdown shivered as the damp cloud enveloped them. She pushed the sprite lights out, sending them to stick onto the hounds. Even then the fog dampened the glow from the sprite lights, and visibility grew worse. Even the sound of the hounds coursing towards them was muted.
“Driver, Any chance we can escape them in the horseless in this fog?” Smythe was desperate to see he got his people out of this ambush. I’ve lost too many people. Too many.
“No sir, not a chance. I can’t see more than ten feet in front of my own face. We’d either lose our way or come off the road and that doesn’t bear thinking about here!” The driver had a tight hold of his rifle, his head constantly moving, covering all angles.
Finally the time came for the crew to open fire with their rifles. Smythe watched as they tried to hit the moving sprite lights. He cursed as he realised that the fog was blurring outlines , gaps appearing and disappearing randomly.
“Cease fire! You can’t even tell if you’re hitting the damn things. Save your ammunition for when they get closer.” Taking a deep breath, he readied himself for what was to come.
*
Von Adin saw his breath start to mist in front of his face. “Clara, is that you doing that or should I be really worried?” The sound of a horse snorting caused him to spin around. Nothing. Another snort, and another spin. Nothing.
“Are you hearing this?” Von Adin hated not being able to see anything and he hated the fact that the hounds still had not sounded. The sprite lights continued to glow brightly in the mist as they approached and the air remained chill.
“Calm down and keep quiet. They’re trying to spook us. The chill isn’t me.” Despite her words, Lady Ashdown’s speech was clipped. The fact that the often unshakeable Lady Ashdown was feeling the strain had a strangely calming effect on him.
He drew upon the teachings of Knight-Sergeant Geyafor, breathing deeply and slowly, forcing the fear that threatened to throttle him back down to his stomach. Slowly he started to repeat the Hymn of Resolve, a mind-strengthening exercise designed to help Knights overcome their fears when facing the aether-born.
He was mid-way through when the first hound finally sounded. The noise was the worst sound he had ever experienced. His veins vibrated with bass notes that he could not even hear and with a shock he realised that he could feel piss running down the inside of his leg. He hadn’t pissed himself since his first battle.
The nearest hound came bounding out of the mist. Its eyes glowed a blood red, matching the colour of its fangs. Its coat was black and matted with what looked like mud, shit and blood. Worse than the howl was the stench coming from its mouth. Vomit shot from his mouth and down his nose. He blew, shaking his head in a desperate attempt to clear the vomit from his passages. Shots rang out from behind him and he felt Lady Ashdown unleashing her power. Screams rang out, fear and pain beyond belief mixing into an anguished howl.
All of this paled into insignificance compared to the beast before him. Blood-like saliva dripped from its maw, and it growled in confusion as the sprite light on its nose suddenly glowed as bright as a street lamp. Its eyes crossed almost comically and it batted at it with a paw bigger than a man’s hand. Taking advantage of the sudden opening, Von Adin stamped forward and slashed down with his great sword in a two-handed diagonal slice. The sword lodged into its muzzle, buried deep in the cartilage, and he sent a pulse of aether from his glove into it.
With a high-pitched yelp the hound pulled back, black ichor spurting from its muzzle as the blade slid free. The sprite light continued to glow, semi-blinding it and the beast opened its mouth to howl again. Closer than before the, howl made Von Adin feel as if the very marrow in his bones was vibrating. He reeled away, shaking his head, very nearly falling to his knees.
“Fuck you!” he screamed back, thrusting forward, trying to cut through the hound’s mouth into its brain. He had barely cut its palette when its mouth snapped shut, trapping the blade. With a sudden shake, his blade was wrenched out of his fingers. He screamed in pain as he felt the bones in at least two fingers snap with a wet, stomach-churning snap.
Suddenly the beast lunged forward and a huge paw battered him across the face. There was a burning sensation quickly followed by intense pain. Just from the sensation of claw meeting bone he knew that he had another scar to add to those already tracing their way across his body.
The blow spun him around entirely and instinctively lashed out with his glove, smashing it in the face with a spinning hammer fist. The suddenness of the blow rocked the hound’s head to the side. Seeing an opening he threw a wild hook with the same hand. With a speed he would never have believed if he hadn’t seen it the dog snapped, trapping his arm in its mouth.
“Schweinhund! You stupid fucking animal!” he snarled and unleashed the full power of his glove into the animal’s head. One second there was a donkey-sized dog in front of him; the next there was a burning heap of flesh at his feet. The head itself had exploded covering him head to toe in gore.
The pain on his face and hand was intense and his legs like felt jelly as he tried to pick up his sword.
“Clara! Smythe! Wo ist du?” all was silent bar the sound of the dog he had killed slowly cooking. He made his way to where he thought the horseless was.
His foot slipped and be cursed, looking down. He recoiled in disgust as he realised he had slipped on the entrails of their new driver. The rest of the man was scattered around as if he had been shaken apart.
He beard sobbing above him and looked up. The tear streaked face of the stoker looked down at him, rivers of snot flowing from his nose as he blubbed like a baby.
“Shhhh. Where are the others, man?” Von Adin held a finger to his lips and walked off towards where the man was pointing. As he did so he realised that the mist was lifting.
Finally, he saw Smythe and Lady Ashdown. They were standing before a giant of a man who sat upon a horse that would have made a Clydesdale look small. Cautiously he joined them.
“You gave me fine sport.” the man’s voice felt like fire and brimstone and Von Adin felt sweat start to profile on his forehead. “Never before have mortals bested more than one of my pack. Never have they killed three of my pets.”
The mists were suddenly back, so thick that Von Adin could not see his hands in front of his face. Just as quickly the mists were gone and so was the rider. He turned back towards the horseless and saw that the bodies of the hounds they had slain were also gone. A chill ran down his spine as he realised that they had been taken without a sound, without him even sensing something behind him. With a flip of his stomach, he saw that the remains of the hapless driver were still scattered around like so much rubbish.
When they had gathered their breath, Smythe set about burying the driver, once Lady Ashdown had managed to cajole the still sobbing stoker down from the horseless, digging deep into the peaty soil with his help.
Whilst they dug, Lady Ashdown set about healing Von Adin. Her eyes had narrowed with obvious concern when she saw the yellow of his cheekbone and the huge flap of skin that was peeling away from his face. Clucking like a mother hen she had hushed him as she pressed the flesh back into place and streamed aether through it. Gradually she made the flesh knit and the chipped bone regrow, ignoring Von Adin’s roars of pain. Finally, just as he thought he could take no more she stepped back and stared sharply at him.
“Well you’re no uglier than before but I can’t work miracles so you’ll have to be content with being as good as you were. The scars will be totally gone in a few days. Now, let’s look at your arm and no roaring like a big baby. You practically deafened me with that last one.”
He gathered his strength for the pain that was to come and tried to think of anything but the sudden burning in his hand.
“Does anyone know who that was?” He hissed as sudden pain flared in his hand. Lady Ashdown had grasped a finger and was slowly pulling it back into position. The stoker looked up from his digging, “Aye, We’re not too far as the crow flies from Dewerstone. Legend says that Dewer is a devil. The devil actually, and that he hunts the moors with a pack of hounds. It was always a story to scare travellers with. Until the Horde came that is. I was having a chat with Denbigh last night. Didn’t think anything would come of it.” He ducked his head and continued digging. The driver’s mate was quiet, his eyes red from crying.
“Probably not the Devil, but based on the amount of power he was drawing, he was most certainly a Vampyre of some sort. I’ll send a whisper to the Professor to let him know.”
*
Once back on the road, it took another hour before the horseless stopped at the next Waystation on the road that circled the fringes of Dartmoor.
Tired beyond belief, and knowing that the others much surely feel as he did, Smythe decided the companions needed somewhere safe and official to rest up. He knew that staying in an ordinary coaching inn was out of question due to the fact that the state that they were in would have set too many local tongues wagging, potentially warning the forces in Bere Ferrers of their presence. So it was that he sank into the comfort of his bed with gratitude in every ounce of his being. His head barely hit the pillow before he was asleep.