“You may remove any of its movable assets to divide amongst yourselves before you finish either dissolving the company or removing its operations outside of my domain,” Duke Avery said, then continued silently to Gregor. None of them know anything. I suspect Alric, perhaps another collegium wizard, but I cannot know for sure.
Gregor sent back a mental shrug. I am in position outside the Taylor estate—no signs of activity here.
Edward Taylor’s hat flew off his head, drawing Avery’s attention back to his present surroundings. The air was calm, nearly stagnant, and the man’s hands had been clasped at waist-level, and the motion was unexpected. Avery stared at the hat as it landed in the mud.
Edward turned, one hand unconsciously lifting to his bare brow as he took one step in the direction of the fallen headgear, then halted as a hound rushed forward, barking. As two others followed behind, the leading hound sniffed at the ground, moving towards the dyeworks tower as the door swung open and then shut again.
“Who was that?” Avery said. He pointed at the tower, guards jogging forward to surround the wooden building. The dull rattling sound of bones in motion sounded from inside the low squat stone building on the other side of the site—likely just the working skeletons disturbed accidentally into motion by whoever had fled from one building to the other.
Edward smoothed back his thinning hair. “Your Grace, I have no idea. Perhaps a spy seeking to steal our trade secrets. But there is no exit from the tower.”
Thumping noises sounded from inside the tower as Philip pried at the door, the human guard confirming it had been barred from the inside. A voice shouted, a spray of sand flying out of the tower window, and Philip staggered, leaning heavily against the door as one of the hounds next to him yawned. Then a rectangular object, patterned in an exotic style, sailed out of one of the wide open windows beneath the curiously wide roof of the tower, a dent in the middle suggesting a weight.
Avery pulled the sword from his belt, hurling it after the retreating rectangle. The sword spun through the air and bounced, its path deflecting from a spot several feet above what could now clearly be seen to be a fringed rug. The rug jolted, flipping sideways and then curving as it flew in a wobbling westward path; the bloodied blade finished its arc, splashing down into the River Ouse. Then what looked like yellowish-green smoke began to pour out of the top of the tower, falling down on top of Philip and the hounds at the base of the tower.
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When the sand was flung out of the tower by an unseen hand, Simon started forward and then flinched as he felt a wave of heat ripple through the metal links on his chest. The duke’s guards swayed on their feet, several yawning, and the one making ready to break down the tower door collapsed against the tower, barely keeping his feet.
Edward Taylor suddenly sat down in the mud, slowly reaching for his hat and grabbing it with sleepy focus. A necklace sparkled brilliantly around the neck of the man in the very fashionable clothing—Guilbert de Lancaster—who looked left and right as he reached for the equally fashionable sword at his belt.
When the yellowish-green gas began to pour out of the tower as if it were water boiling over the edges of a pot, Simon stopped himself. Unlike natural smoke, the billowing yellowish-green gas fell downwards, and such an unnatural substance could only be the special alchemical solution used in the company’s proprietary bleaching process—all three hundred gallons of it.
“Run!” Simon shouted, putting action to words as he dashed up out of the muddy pit of the construction site, waving his arms. “Get back!”
Some of those standing nearby tried to obey; others gaped at him as if in a stupor as the yellowish-green gas flowed out from the base of the tower, racing across the surface of the River Ouse and crawling more slowly up to the street. A harsh biting sensation clawed at Simon’s throat, and he held his breath, eyes watering as screams surrounded him.
If this strange, unnatural smoke fell, then he could climb above it, Simon reasoned, clamoring on top of a cart and jumping, catching onto a sign with a loaf of bread painted on it. His lungs burned as he refused to open his mouth for a breath, pulling himself up and on top of the sign, screams sounding from the bakery below.
Standing precariously on top of a wooden beam with black spots appearing around the edge of his vision, Simon pulled his shirt and chain-link vest over his mouth and nose before allowing himself to suck in a breath. It stank of iron and sweat but did not burn. He looked back down at what had been meant to become a textile manufactory.
The duke stood at the center of a semicircle of fallen guards, some writhing and some still, his serpentine eyes and nostrils both closed tightly against the yellowish-green haze. Edward Taylor lay still on the ground, his hat in one hand, his mouth gaping open. William Taylor had pulled the hood of his robes over his head and was slowly backing up towards the river, his chest visibly heaving. Jacob Hebert was nowhere to be seen. Guilbert de Lancaster had dropped his sword and was fumbling with a potion as he staggered to his knees.
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And something was coming out of the low, squat building; Simon could see a pair of oversized skeletal arms, elbows pushing into the mud. Simon risked raising his chin back over his shirt collar and vest to shout.
“Your Grace! Get out of there! There’s an enhanced skeleton coming out of the repository to finish everyone off.”
Blindly, the duke cocked his head to the side, then took a step in the wrong direction, tripping over one of his fallen guards and falling to his hands and knees.
“Wrong way, Your Grace!” Simon shouted. “Up the hill, away from the river!”
Below, the duke grasped at the fallen body, pausing when his hand fell on top of the poleaxe carried by the guard. The duke grabbed the poleaxe, pushing himself to a standing position, and then slowly turned. Meanwhile, the enlarged skeleton, having finished its crawl through the doors, stood. Ten feet tall if it was an inch, it was smoking, fresh runes glowing in red and orange.
The hooded figure of William Taylor shook. He suddenly lay down, his hands briefly waving before becoming perfectly still.
“It’s approaching on your left side!” Simon shouted.
The duke turned to his left, blindly lifting the poleaxe amidst the yellow-green haze.
“Not that far! A little right!” Simon shook his head. “You should go away from it!”
The duke’s head shook minutely as he raised the poleaxe.
The skeleton paused, reaching inside of its ribcage. Flames spiraled between its fingertips and the ribcage.
“Fire attack!” Simon shouted.
The duke glittered for a moment as the skeleton withdrew its flaming hand, tossing a ball of swirling magical flames. The fire engulfed the glittering duke for a moment, and then the duke emerged, wisps of steam trailing behind him as he ran at the skeleton, poleaxe cocked.
“To your right!” Simon shouted. “Right!”
The duke swung the poleaxe, the shaft clattering and bouncing off the skeleton’s thick thighbone. The skeleton cocked its still-flaming hand back, raising it high in the air.
“Dodge!” Simon’s nose was starting to run.
The duke stepped to his right as the giant skeletal fist smashed to earth, mud sizzling from the fire, then swung in a wild, wide-armed uppercut of a blow that smashed into the skeleton’s left hip with a loud crack, the thighbone shifting in the socket. The skeleton tried to turn and take a step, its left knee pumping below the jammed thighbone as it leaned and then fell.
“It’s fallen down!” Simon’s throat hurt.
The duke stepped to one side and raised his poleaxe.
“No, further to your right!” Simon waved his hand.
The duke took a step to the right, swinging his poleaxe down an overhead blow that landed on the giant skeleton’s skull, shattering it. The runes flared and went dark, and the bones came apart as they shrank back down to a normal human size.
“It’s down! Get out of there!” Simon shook his head and coughed into his hand.
The duke risked opening one eye for a moment. Then, his eyelid clamped shut, he turned around in place and walked uphill, almost tripping when he reached the street and again when he stepped on a limp, unmoving body.
Simon coughed again, and below him, the duke’s eyes opened, then his nostrils. One eye looked bloodshot.
“Well spoken, Baron Simon,” Duke Avery said, then sneezed. He shook his head, looking back down at the wisps of yellow-green gas still churning on the surface of the river below. “Oh, no,” he said, horror tinging his voice. “No!”
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“And that’s about the shape of it, ma’am. Again, my condolences on your loss.” Gregor glanced down at the full cup of tea sitting at his right hand.
The Taylor matron shook her head minutely. “Are you sure?”
“He was very close to the center,” Gregor said. “As you will see when you come to fetch it, the body is very intact on the outside, but… it was probably not painless.”
The middle-aged woman sighed heavily, stirring her tea mechanically with a tiny spoon. “Thank you for informing me promptly,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like any scones? We have a proper necromantic breadbox; I can have some fetched.”
Gregor shook his head. “I am needed at the site—the hounds, you understand, the duke brought some with him.”
There was a regular thumping noise, growing louder, and then the door burst open without a knock or pause, a dark-eyed young brunette barging into the room—Beatrice Taylor.
“What’s the duke’s man doing here?” Beatrice asked.
“Nothing important, dearie,” Mrs. Taylor said. “He was just telling me about—telling me that your father has gone on a quite sudden business trip. There was a bit of trouble at the manufactory site, but nothing you should worry yourself about.”
Beatrice helped herself to a cup of tea and plopped herself down on the couch. “Does he… does he ever talk about me?”
“I can’t say,” Gregor said. “I am only the master of hounds—he tells me what to do, and I report to him on the well-being of the creatures in my care. Speaking of which, I really must be off. Thank you for the tea.”
As Gregor walked off, Beatrice stared down at the full teacup sitting next to the plush chair the duke’s man had occupied. She turned to her mother.
“Why would the duke’s man be bringing us a message from Daddy?”
“I didn’t ask, dear. I’m sure His Grace simply didn’t want us to worry unnecessarily at his sudden disappearance.” The Taylor matron put down her spoon. “Now, if you will excuse me, your father’s sudden departure means that I will need to go deal with a few things to arrange for dinner tonight and tomorrow—your cousins are visiting for the duke’s wedding festivities, and I wanted to pick up something special for our extended family to enjoy.”