by Chris Paton
June, 1851
With both hands on the levers of the control box, the operator commanded his emissary to climb the iron rungs of the ladder at the rear of the mammoth walker. Two more mammoths, walking side by side, pulled the catapult sling tight as the mammoth with the emissary moved into position in front of it. If they get the angle wrong, Luise mused, the catapult will drive that walker straight off the dock and into the sea. She watched as the operator positioned his emissary at the very rear of the mammoth walker, one step at a time, until the base of the globus tank was nestled in the leather bucket of the catapult. Each emissary was built around a large round boiler with a comparatively small cylindrical head on top, and powerful arms and legs poking out of the sides and beneath the boiler. Without its appendages, the emissary resembled a large, round missile. In effect, when the boiler was fully stoked, each emissary was a ball of fire encased in a brass shell.
“Be sure to have your emissary tuck its knees up and lock its elbows tight against the boiler,” Hannah said to the operator of the first emissary missile. “Have it hold the broad sword straight in front of its chest plate, like a lance. Remember, it needs to puncture that energy field.”
“Ja, Fräulein,” said the operator and gave the necessary commands. The emissary drew the broadsword from the scabbard bolted to a plate at the rear of the tank. The exchange of energy between the steamjammer and the airship was forgotten for a moment as the emissary's sword screeched out of the metal scabbard as it described a perfect arc above its head.
“And just what are you doing with my emissaries?” said Schleiermacher as he marched up to the base of the derrick. His gaze flicked between the activity on the docks and the battle on the water.
“We need a diversion,” Hannah said and pointed at Luise. “It seems, as much as I am against it, we need to take sides and help the demon Khaos, if we are to defeat the greater enemy.”
“By launching emissaries like shot into the sky?”
“Ja,” Hannah said and nodded. “Basically.”
“And you are ready with the first emissary?”
“We are,” said Luise from her seat in the steamchair.
“Miss Hanover, are you recovered?”
“Enough, for the moment at least. I will ask your doctor to assist me once the outcome of the battle at sea has been decided.”
“Fräulein von Ense,” shouted the lead engineer from the top of the left hand derrick. “We are ready.”
“Good. Fire at will.”
The engineer lifted his hand, as did another engineer on top of the right hand derrick. Using the arms of the cranes as cross hairs to which the ends of the catapult were attached with huge maritime bolts, they signalled the men to open and close the cranes. At the base of each derrick, emissaries turned great iron wheels, inches at a time, until both engineers were satisfied. They clambered down the derricks, seeking shelter from the crane's skeleton. An officer, standing astride the two mammoth walkers used to stretch the catapult, lifted his arm and gave the command to clear the mammoth walker in front of the sling. He lifted both his arms.
“On my command,” he said.
“Ja,” said the men standing by the quick release straps holding the catapult. The sling quivered as the emissary settled within it.
From her position on the dock below, Luise could just see the emissary's head, and the glow of the lodestone behind the grille in its faceplate. She gasped as the emissary caught her eye and winked.
“It can't be,” she said and looked around for the operator. The man was deep in concentration and, his hands poised on the controls, seemed incapable of expressing emotion of any kind. Luise focused on the emissary once more, but it had shifted its gaze and was now locked on target and staring at the forward deck of The Flying Scotsman.
“Fire,” the officer said and snapped his arms to his sides in a swift arc.
The catapult launched the emissary high into the sky above the port of Hamburg. The wind shrieked through the gaps in its brass armour, creating a sharp whistle as it flew toward the airship. The operator ran between the derricks to ensure contact with the emissary via line of sight, as the engineers and the firing officer set up the next shot.
The emissary, for its part, maintained a perfect poise, locked in position with the very tip of its blade like a lance protruding from a cannonball. It slammed into the column of energy pressing down from the airship and onto the dome of demon energy protecting the steamjammer directly below it. The emissary's sword tore a rift in the column of energy as it slipped and sprawled onto the polished surface of Khaos' demon shield.
“It cannot grip the shield,” the operator said as he stared at the emissary. “We are going to lose it.”
“Use the sword to cut a hold in the shield,” said Hannah.
“I cannot. He is slipping too fast.”
Luise pushed herself out of the steamchair and walked to the edge of the dock just as the emissary slid off the bottom of the dome and over the side of the steamjammer. A plume of white water was the last they saw of it.
“Damn,” said the operator and closed the lid of his control box.
“Fire,” shouted the officer from the mammoth walkers behind Luise. She looked up as a second emissary whistled through the sky.
“It is higher this time,” Schleiermacher said and pointed at the emissary's trajectory.
“Ja,” said Hannah. “It is much better. Where is the operator for this one?”
“Here I am,” said a young girl as she ducked between the legs of the derrick. She hurried across the cobbled dock to stand at the edge. Luise smiled as she watched the girl let go of the controls to tuck her long brown skirt beneath her bottom and sit with her legs dangling over the side of the dock.
“She is just a girl,” said Hannah and waved her hand at the male operator. “Take her control box.”
“No, Hannah,” said Luise. “Just wait a moment.”
The girl stuck out her bottom lip and puffed her hair from her eyes and squinted at the emissary.
“Good trajectory,” Schleiermacher said again. “I think it is going to strike right on the foredeck.”
“Ja, and what good will that do if it is up to this girl to choreograph a fight with a super demon?” Hannah ran her hands through her hair. “Set up another emissary,” she said. “And send a real operator this time.”
“You know I can hear you,” said the girl. “Don't you?”
“I don't care if you can hear me, little girl. This is not a game.”
“I agree,” said the girl. “So stop distracting me. My emissary needs me.”
Luise covered her ears as a sudden screech of rending metal cut across the water as the emissary punctured the blue column of energy and crashed into the bridge of The Flying Scotsman. The girl tweaked the control levers once, and then lifted her fingers. She placed her hands either side of the control box and started to sing.
“What on earth are you doing?” said Luise as she walked across the cobbles to sit by the girl.
“Kettlepot likes it when I sing. It helps him concentrate,” said the girl.
“Kettlepot?”
“Yep. That is what my emissary is called.” The girl turned to look at Luise and smiled. “Don't think I am rude, but it is best if I keep singing. I don't want him to feel all alone over there.”
“No, of course not,” said Luise as a smile teased at the corners of her mouth.
“I can see the emissary,” said Schleiermacher as he pressed the Severinson telescope to his right eye. “There are huge splinters flying out of the bridge, and, wait, yes, I can see a flash of broadsword. He is putting up a terrific fight.”
“The energy column is failing,” said Hannah. “Look.”
Luise flicked her head in the direction of the airship. The column of energy pulsed once, and then a second time, stronger than the first. The steamjammer leaned heavily to the port side as the column flattened into a palm of intense energy that hurt Luise's eyes. The R
egal Giant listed and the protective shield dissipated as the demons on deck lost their footing and began to slide toward the railings.
“The passengers are falling overboard,” said Schleiermacher. “Will they survive?”
“The demons die like humans,” said Hannah. “I watched Herr Bremen die as the demon in his body was killed. If they cannot swim, they will drown before we can get to them.”
“Then we must hurry,” said Schleiermacher. He handed the telescope to Hannah and ordered the men on the dock to organise as many boats as possible. “And quickly. Find Romney Wallendorf, and bring her here alive.”
The energy emanating from the airship crackled once and was gone as The Flying Scotsman resumed its dive toward the surface of the sea. Luise held her breath as the bow of the airship lifted in staggered increments, juddering through the air until it was skimming along the water, and heading toward the dock. The bow began to lift higher and higher as the airship powered over the dockyard, heading for the clouds. At the last moment, just as the very tip of the bow was about to pierce the clouds, a bronze figure was cast from the bridge.
“Kettlepot,” said the girl and stood up.
“He has thrown the emissary overboard,” said Hannah as she followed its descent through the telescope.
“And distracted Khronos long enough to break his hold on the steamjammer,” said Luise. “I would say the diversion worked. The girl got the job done.” She shrugged at Hannah.
“We'll see,” said Hannah and lowered the telescope. “Let's see what we drag out of the water first.” Hannah folded the telescope and walked in the direction of the boats.
Luise turned to see the emissary as it cannoned into the protected waters of the docks. Spray from the geyser drifted on the breeze and she tasted salt on her lips. The girl stood up and gripped the controls as she ran back and forth along the dockside in front of Luise.
“What are you doing?”
“Hush,” said the girl. “It is only a matter of time before the sea gets inside the boiler and floods it. I need to walk Kettlepot to the ladder over there,” she said with a nod of her head toward the rungs of a ladder bolted into the dockside. “You can come with me and I can introduce you.”
“I would like that,” said Luise as she followed the girl along the docks.
Flecks of black charcoal and wet splinters of wood bubbled to the surface in a line from the point the emissary had splashed down, and all the way to the ladder. Luise hurried after the girl as the bronze fingers of the emissary's right hand gripped the lowest rung of the ladder and it pulled itself up, one rung at a time, climbing hand over hand until it could press its cloven feet into the rungs. Water gushed out of the boiler door in the globus tank, and squirted from the puncture wounds and joints in the emissary's amour.
“There you are, Kettlepot,” said the girl. “I was so worried. I thought I had lost you.” The girl let go of the controls and hugged the emissary's leg as it climbed onto the dock. Luise stood back and waited, a frown creased her brow. “You did well, Kettlepot. And now we will have to get you cleaned up, oiled, and back in business.”
Luise stared at the dents and rifts in the emissary's armour and wondered just how long that would take. The emissary turned its head and the glow of the lodestone eye flashed for a moment before it dimmed and the emissary sank to a dormant position.
“The furnace is flooded,” the girl said and removed the control box and the harness. She reached up to open the furnace door and let the seawater drain out of it. She fumbled in her pockets for kindling and the means to make a small fire once the furnace was drained of water.
“Tell me something,” said Luise as she walked around the emissary. “How much did you control Kettlepot?”
“What do you mean?” the girl said and tilted her head to look at Luise.
“I think you know exactly what I mean. You sang when the emissary was fighting on the airship. You didn't even touch the levers on the control box.”
“There was no point. I couldn't see what was happening.”
“But you knew it would be fighting.”
“Yes.”
Luise paused for a moment to study the girl, the smudges on her cheeks and her hair, hacked into a simple fashion, probably with shears from the workshop.
“The other emissary was used like a cannonball.”
“Yep. That's a shame. He was just emerging.”
“Emerging?” Luise remembered the wink she thought the emissary had given her.
“Yep,” the girl said and frowned. “You're a maker, aren't you?”
“Part maker, part scientist, yes.”
“And you've never heard of Şteamƙin?”
“No,” said Luise, “I have not. Perhaps you had better tell me all about it, Miss...?”
“Ardelean. Emilia Ardelean.”
Chapter 5
The Hindu Kush
Afghanistan
July, 1851
The wooden cart creaked beneath the weight of its passengers as the caravaneer drove the two donkeys forward with a swish of a thin switch upon their hindquarters. The trail was rough and dusty in the heat of the Afghan summer. The peaks of the distant mountains of the Hindu Kush sparkled with fresh snow, but there was no relief for Hari and his travelling companions. He sat with his back against one side of the cart and smiled at Jamie as the young man, djinn-scarred as he was, struggled to make conversation with the beautiful woman sitting beside him. Hari banged the back of his head against the cart as the caravaneer led them across yet another stony section of the path. He rubbed his head and continued to observe the romantic tragedy unfolding before him.
“I have not always been this way,” Jamie said as Najma fiddled with the Lightning Jezail in her lap.
“I know. Do you not remember? I was with the Russian when he captured you?”
“Bryullov. Yes, of course. But he knocked me out rather soon after I saw you.”
“Yes,” Najma said and nodded. “I helped him drag your body onto the back of the horse. You were fatter than you are now,” she said and lowered her eyes quickly.
“Truly, British, you were fatter then,” Hari said and smiled at Najma’s blunt English.
“The Shah has kept me weak for too long. If I was as strong as I was in the beginning, we could fly to Russia.”
“Shh,” said Hari as the caravaneer's ears twitched. “Not so loud. But a good idea all the same. We must find more for you to eat.”
The cart jolted to a stop and the caravaneer put down his switch to check the hooves of both animals. Hari stepped down from the cart to stretch his legs. In the near distance, less than a mile from the path, the first buildings of the next village stood proud between the brown boulders and straw-coloured brush dominating the landscape. Hari walked to the head of the cart and pointed at the village.
“What is this place?” he asked the caravaneer.
“Sast.”
“Is it prosperous?”
The caravaneer shrugged and gestured at the land surrounding the village.
“You don't do any trade here?”
“I do not travel this path, unless for money,” he said.
A low wail rose from behind the walls of the compound closest to them. Jamie lifted his head as Najma cradled her Jezail and leaped onto the path. Jamie followed.
“What is it?” said Najma as she joined Hari where he stood a few feet in front of the donkeys.
“It is nothing,” the caravaneer said. “Ignore it.”
“Ignore what?” said Najma. “Clearly, it is not nothing.”
“You would do well to pretend not to hear such sounds as we pass the village. That place,” the man said and spat, “is cursed.”
“Cursed?” said Jamie. He leaned against the cart. “How cursed?”
The caravaneer paused as he studied Jamie. He reached for his switch and gripped it in one hand. “They say there is a djinni trapped in the village. It has been there for many years. Perhaps centuries.”
<
br /> The caravaneer started as Jamie pushed himself off the cart and strode down the path toward the village.
“British? Wait.”
“Should we go with him, Nightjar?”
“I will not wait if you go to the village,” said the caravaneer. “I would not be cursed, not for all the money in the world.”
“Coward,” said Najma and spat on the ground. She slung the Jezail across her shoulder and hurried to catch up with Jamie.
“And you, Nightjar? Will you go with them?”
“I am thinking?” said Hari. “Do many people live in the village?”
“Some, yes.”
“Then there must be food. There,” Hari said and pointed. “I see a goat.”
“Yes?”
“Then perhaps we will fly after all.” Hari turned to shake the caravaneer's hand. “Thank you. Here is the rest of your money.”
“But we have not reached the mountains,” said the caravaneer and nodded towards the snowy peaks beyond the village.
“Take it, and go back to your family. We no longer require your service.”
“You are sure?”
“Truly,” said Hari as he retrieved two sling packs from the cart. He waved to the caravaneer and set off down the path to the village. He found Jamie and Najma waiting by the side of a compound of packed-earth at the corner of a large dusty square. In the middle of the square was the unmistakeable raised wall of a round djinn pit, piled high with so much rubble and timber that the lid was hidden from view. The low wail of the djinni inside pierced the cracks in the pit wall. Jamie clenched his fists and took a step toward the pit.
“Take care, British. Look at the lid of the pit.”
“I cannot see the lid.”
“Truly, that is my point.”
Najma lifted the Jezail from her shoulder and pressed a copper-infused ball into the barrel. She removed the ramrod and tamped the shot all the way before winding the charging handle at the base of the stock.
“What?” she said and frowned at Hari.
“Is that the same Jezail you used when you shot me?”
“Yes,” Najma said and nodded. “It is a good weapon. Very accurate.”
