Francis spent the hour of dwindling daylight digging his shell scrap, three feet wide and three feet deep. The rock above curved over it, creating a natural roof. From his satchel, he removed a glass bottle of ointment. Confident he’d made a complete circle, he finished tapping the crimson liquid around his camp. A one-eyed city herbalist recommended it; the cheapest he could find in the three Middle districts. The smell stuffed the air with burning and quickly found its way to the cavities of the assassin’s large protruding nostrils, and hopefully the nasty creatures would pick up on the scent rather than the aroma of his rabbit stew he had boiling down in his pit. He tied a rag around his face and slid down into the hole, ready to prepare for the final day of his mission. He placed the map, tracker and winder next to one another, then lined up his poisons, razorblades and knife.
Francis Barknuckle wasn’t some bruiser who beat you to a pulp with his bare-hands for fooling around with his client’s wife. He calculated everything and planned far in advance. Unlike the rest of Seagraves goons, naïve buffoons using what little violence they had left in them, Francis would drill a hole in the ceiling of your sleeping babe’s nursery, dangle some string in their mouths and pour a drop of poison down the line so perfectly you’d think it was cot death. His deep tan, under certain lights, made him look African, and drew all his breath in near silence as though the city spell had never touched his lungs. It made a perfect combination when out late at night on the city streets slitting throats. Bound by the laws of his employer, like all the retired air dogs of Seagraves, this was his fate – the hand of his master’s dirty work.
Moorland wind raged above him; he was deep enough for it to pass over, keeping him out of sight of the largest of the wild beasts. The Herbalist’s ointment can repel many of the world’s nasty creatures, but head-to-head with Moorland rainwater, you’d soon be on the dinner menu for many of the stalking monstrosities waiting to grind down on human bones. But it was the Rabids who were the worst. Infected men, infected by a Wiccan curse they unearthed. Before the city walls were erected, before men conquered the skies, before the great fires changed the world, raging at every compass point, and even before the holy reign of the Mothers, men had mined madness.
Francis didn’t know how many there were. He had heard they lived far away from Britannia’s civilised folk, in caves, near the higher peaks in the North. They only ventured to the moor in the turning storms, slouched forwards, rotten skin draped off their bones like severed wet sails over a boom, gaps of blooded sores and pockets of puss landscaped on thin pink flesh. A series of ticks and clicks made up their primitive language. Slow creatures, until the signs of settlements, of humans and their children. Such sights gave them a mad power, sent them into an erratic and excited frenzy. When they had hold of you, it was the fear first, terrifying enough, even for the most hardened Moorlander. With machine strength driven by its livid hunger, the Rabid pinned you and the bites begin. Clothes ripped away, your underwear ripped away, the Rabid eats and enjoys whatever flesh it can find.
There were other stories, tales and folklore haunting the Moor. Sunday school stories warning of Wiccan women who summoned demons to savage and plague men’s minds if they ventured too far into the wilderness. The Middles conditioning taught everyone to stay away from the large sticks poking out of the ground at crossroads, where ancient peoples buried the suicidal, confused enough never to find their way back to the living. Tiny flowers at every solstice appear at the tip of each grave; no one knew who left them, but herbalists suspected local witches.
The lanterns flicker interrupted Francis’ thoughts, as it claimed another bug to death. The insects, more revolting than he had ever seen were rude enough to interrupt his meal times with displays of mass suicide. A hive mind set on genocide, drowned drones of its army in his bland rabbit-paw stew, they’d march in regardless of the heat and tasteless death awaiting them. It added a little entertainment but in some rare cases extra flavour.
The last village to search waited in the morrow, before heading out to the forgotten plains – it was a futile search, Francis decided, groaning to himself. The lantern dimmed and he gave it a shake, rattling a trickle of oil. Several worms wiggled out the muddy walls and fell onto his bed, looking for a cuddle. No sign of any ant’s nests which might want to give him a tickle, or, thankfully, those moorland spiders you hear about, with their paralysis fangs. It’s poison powerful enough to convince you the walls of the world were closing in and everyone, including your employer, wanted you dead. If you could catch them and extract the poison, a vial would make for a handy weapon when contesting for promotion.
Francis collected the worms and placed them inside his tin pot, ready for breaking his fast when the sun rose. He reached over his cocooned mass of fabrics and furs to his feet and removed a few extra pelts he’d bought at the last village. Poorly skinned, shabby cheap examples, he tucked them inside his sleeping blanket.
The signal from the radio tracker had stopped two days ago and this Moorland, as any plonk worth his salt knew, was unforgiving even for the most advanced tech to come out of Seagrave Corp. The drones might as well have been animals, lost out here or smashed open with their combustible parts cooking in the moorland sun on some rock while brainless creatures lapped away at the liquid hydrogen.
The weather in the days he’d travelled had been as wild as the terrain. Maybe they’d exploded from a lightning strike? Either way, they were useless brass balls of metal, if he couldn’t find the location of his targets.
He produced a newspaper clipping and unfolded it. Two men and a woman; one of the men wore a top hat, his face distorted by the paper’s crease and the other held a baby, stood cheerfully next to his wife. Perhaps these Nightingales, Francis hunted had become mad, or better yet, dead already – save getting his hands dirty.
‘Please don’t rain again.’ Francis repeated the words and tucked himself in, closed his eyes and prayed the Mother hold back for one more evening, seeing him right. His rags lay under the pelt, ready to fool another village, so charitable, these Moorland folk. He needed to come out here more often dressing like a madman, many cheap deals and free offerings from Moorlanders convinced such donations would give them a good harvest – such idiots, Francis decided.
II
The Orb lay butterflied across Baxter’s workbench. Three compartments housed the mechanics relying on one another to function. It was a harmonious family, each played its part and had its place in Baxter’s newly constructed clockwork system. He adjusted its angle slightly to allow the daylight from his chamber window to cascade sunlight across the unit’s body. The newly replaced parts shone and flickered yellow and orange beams of light onto the walls and nearby window. With his hands pressed firmly on his hips, Baxter held a deep breath. Should he show his father? The book his uncle had reluctantly lent him had played its part. He used it to marry up the clockwork and hydrogen, creating a relay system, self-regulating the heat transfer through the various compartments. The book was a day late, and his uncle hadn’t chased him up for it.
Baxter hesitated to get his father. The last time he presented the old drunk with one of his projects, Alfred erupted into a raucous of criticism. Granted, his points were spot on, they always were. But they never came with any balance of encouragement. Baxter had made a promise to himself, the last time was going to be the last time.
He stood closer to the device. In the upper compartment was a relay switch, a red glass dome, no bigger than a fifty pence coin, accompanied by a simple flint-to-flint spark warning light. Next to the clockwork housing was a compartment of coiled wire wrapped around a brass rod. Baxter tested it with one of his trackers, zeroed out both the village and the city. The needle pointed at the rod. He moved it around to be sure; the needle fixed its position, no matter where he laid it. The rest of the unit appeared damaged, the heat had escaped. ‘Surely they’d have noticed the fault in the testing phase?’ he said aloud.
He replaced the shell back on the Orb�
��s auxiliary section, held it there and wondered if he’d ever see the internals again – were other engineers like this? He almost certainly knew his father wasn’t. Alfred’s joy came in the completion of projects and the foundations of new ones. His projects rarely gained an actual usage, at least not in the years Baxter had seen his father construct anything beyond a wall clock, automated bird feeder, water hose and grass cutter. If a clock was a minute slow in their house, by a fraction or less, Alfred would smash it to pieces.
Baxter held the image of his father inside his mind and looked at his hands. He wore thick leather gloves. He clapped both hands together in a muted thud, lowered his welding mask, lit the tip of the torch and placed the brass rod over the seams. The case gleamed like freshly blown glass as the flame etched along the line. He exchanged several gas propulsion parts for metal rods dipped in sealed cambers of acid. His father had built many of his machines this way, tricky to maintain the charge, but with enough motion fuelled to the turbines from the clockwork engine, the unity they each shared would bring any engine to life. Baxter cradled the orb and turned it gently.
He gave it one last check and a blast of compressed air to clean away any moorland dust settled on the joins, and smoothed flush the seals. He’d fixed the radio compartment but still no sign of a switch, or what it even did. He placed the pre-winder on the freshly welded face, and locked it in. As the cogs ticked over each ridge of the winding wheel, he could already feel the energy rumble inside the unit.
Ready to begin work on the next section, outside came a series of shouts. He ignored them, just some villagers having another go at one another over one of their petty disputes. Baxter re-lit the torch and continued his work.
A pepper of stones hit his window. Another large clank and another, the last being loud enough to break the glass but thankfully did not. Baxter turned off the torch. Tabitha no doubt bored of the other village boys who greatly enjoyed pestering her – ironically, she now pestered him. ‘How’d you get over the wall?’ he shouted from his desk at the newly cracked window. There was no answer from Tabitha. Instead a man’s voice shouted, ‘Mr Nightingale?’
The name cut through the sound of the village crowd, the sound of animals, birds and the powering down hum of his welding torch. A moment passed, perhaps he was hearing things.
‘Nightingale Brothers?’
Baxter looked at the window and a lump appeared in his throat. Not another one, he thought. He stood and approached the opening, reciting the words his uncle had told him to say with every careful step closer. At the open window, he stuck his head out.
A man rested against the wall by the gate. He was average build, with greying hair perhaps dark in his youth. His tan complexion a contrast to the filthy rags hanging from his sloping shoulders. A collection of stones in his hand, he tossed them into the field with an odd confidence, Baxter wondered if the tramp was plagued with madness.
‘Hello there.’ The man stood straight upon spotting Baxter’s head in the window frame. ‘I’m looking for the Nightingale brothers, do they live here in this village?’
He recalled the words recited by his uncle for when foreigners came asking for Nightingales. Baxter replied, ‘Apologies, traveller; never heard of any Nightingales in the Beechcroft village, have you tried Cliffenfort?’
‘Just come from there,’ said the man. ‘They told me this village.’
‘You’d be better off trying Sandbrook, it’s by the coast, head west beyond Orgotten.’
‘What’s the Orgotten?’
‘Orgotten Forest. It’s west of the gate, same road you came in on, can’t miss it, the largest of the woods it runs between the two Naple Valleys. About a day’s riding.’
‘Not got a horse.’ The man squinted up at the window.
There was a pause. Baxter could hear his uncle moving about a floor below.
‘Walking, you’re looking at several days. Good day, sir, and sorry I couldn’t help you further.’
‘My boy, wait, is your father there?’
Baxter closed the window, muted the man.
Beneath him, the old stone bricks flexed, groaning under movement as faint footsteps in the house depths moved slowly from one side of his quarters to the other. Several floors beneath Baxter, the main house lock clunked and twisted, and metal on metal creaked as the door opened.
Baxter watched by the closed window as his uncle marched to the gate – He was standing tall with his black cloak around his triangular torso, his white ivory pipe hung out his mouth sideways, ablaze. Baxter couldn’t see his uncle’s expression but due to the strangers retracing posture like a well-oiled telescope, Baxter imagined Nicholas to be snarling in a way his uncle did when faced with someone he considered to be a nuisance.
The two men exchanged pleasantries, Baxter barely heard, even with one ear pressed against the glass. He made out parts of his uncle’s muffled introduction and decided to carefully increase the window’s crack.
‘What do you want, shouting about Nightingales outside of our home in this late afternoon?’ Nicholas used his pipe to gesticulate the time of day around them both.
Baxter had guessed a few of his words based on those gestures.
‘After the brothers, Nightingale,’ the man produced a folded sheet of paper and passed it to Nicholas, and then got closer to him and both of their voices dimmed.
Baxter pushed the window wider. The rusted iron made the deep screech it always did.
Nicholas shot around to look directly at the window. ‘Close it, Baxter, and get back inside.’
Baxter slammed it shut and spirited down the corridor. He leaped the first three stairs and hurried down the rest. Ahead, the backdoor was ajar; he burst through it and dashed around the side of the house, hurdling over a group of chickens and two geese. Another man, he thought, coming to the house asking for the Nightingales. Baxter contemplated the punishment his uncle would give him as he slowed and stopped for breath. He crept around the final corner of the house, careful not to startle any of the sheep grazing in the side field enough to give away his stealthy attempt at eavesdropping.
‘Dear sir, I fear you’re terribly lost,’ Nicholas said in a tone sounding both kind and stern simultaneously. ‘Take your noisy industry elsewhere, please.’ He tipped his head and headed back to the house.
Baxter ducked behind the rose bush, but Nicholas hadn’t seen him.
‘My name is Francis Barknucle, I mean your family no bother,’ Francis said, calling after him. ‘I have been tracking this vast unforgivable moorland for weeks locating the whereabouts of the brothers.’
‘There are no such men here with bird names,’ Nicholas stopped. ‘We’re Beechcrofts.’
‘I see–’
‘Yes, our family built this village from the ground up. You’re welcome to stay the night in the square. Help yourself to the fresh water and however many hay bales in the streets, at sunrise be on your way.’
Francis pushed his sour face between the gates. ‘I know a district boxer when I see one.’
Nicholas slowed his pace back to the door. Baxter studied his uncle’s expression; he looked proud, almost happy.
‘I don’t know what etiquette regulations you abide by in your City’s district, but out here, when addressing a Lord you address him by his title.’
‘My apologises, Lord Beechcroft. And who be the handsome young man in the window? Your son, is he? He’s a strapper, much like his old man.’
‘As I said, in the morning be on your way,’ said Nicholas, closing the manor door behind him.
III
Baxter ran back around the side of the house and then slowed, knowing his uncle would be making his way back inside, he stopped and waited by the backdoor. He could hear him walking through the downstairs corridor. Baxter ran through the door, shot up the stairs three steps at a time and as he closed his quarters door he heard his uncle thumping up the staircase. Baxter sat on his bed, picked up a nearby book and pretended to read.
; The door flung open and his uncle’s finger led the charge, pointing purposefully at Baxter. ‘Never again, when you hear someone cry out Nightingale, do you respond. Ignore it, I am clear?’
Baxter tossed the book to one side and got to his feet. ‘Uncle, this charade...’ His palms faced the ceiling. ‘Perhaps if I knew what you and father we’re running from, I could help.’
‘Running? Who ever said anything about running?’ Nicholas picked up the book Baxter had held and tossed it back, quickly scanning the other surfaces of the chamber. ‘Where’s the book I gave you?’
‘It’s here.’ Baxter raised his mattress and handed it over.
His uncle’s tensed body relaxed as he took the book from Baxter. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘you’re too young to know about why we’re here. There will come a time when…’
‘Nicholas, I’m eighteen years old.’
His uncle’s face reddened. He could feel the heat emitting from it. ‘Are you planning to act like it?’ The sudden outburst looked as though it had even startled Nicholas. ‘I’m taking the sheep out for a graze,’ he said slowly, ‘so stay here and…’ Nicholas noticed the Orb on the desk. Baxter panicked, would he know it was from the Moor?
‘And carry on with whatever project you’re building, I’ll have supper ready before nightfall, but under no circumstances do you leave this house.’
‘I understand,’ Baxter said.
‘This is for your own good.’
As his uncle left the room, his words evaporated behind him, and the hunger for knowledge returned to Baxter. Another man, he thought. The last one came over in the spring. He remembered because he’d cornered his father at the market and asked if his name was Nightingale. Baxter knew his father had been a great mechanic, an inventor of several life improving instruments back at the City where they used to live. But neither his father nor his uncle ever wished to talk about it. Baxter shuffled through his toolkit and tried to steady his mind. But the name of his uncle, of his father and of himself played over and over together with the strange man’s words, he needed the Nightingale’s help.
Dark Age Page 11
