by E. C. Jarvis
“If these are the devices that control this illusion, the whole town will become rather suspicious if I turn them off and the mansion disappears,” she muttered quietly to herself. “I don’t fancy our chances at having to fight off the town guards as well as Orother’s men.”
She stood up, frowning as she realized she’d been talking aloud to herself. Not the best idea when infiltrating a dangerous compound. She left the orbs in place and passed through into the small structure. Inside was a wide staircase leading directly down, apparently without any other guards on watch.
She removed the goggles for a moment, a breathy sigh catching in her throat as the mansion in all its glory reappeared—luscious, dark green drapes hanging down the tall windows, a grand staircase leading up to a second and third floor above, beautiful artwork hanging in golden frames. It looked to be a masterpiece of a building, but all of it nothing more than an illusion. She eyed the row of doors to the left and right, leading to non-existent rooms, and further up the hallway a single open door caught her attention. She wanted desperately to explore but had to remind herself that all she would find in reality would be a pile of rubble.
Pulling the goggles back on, a slight movement caught her eye by the open doorway—a flash of dark red robe disappearing through the gap. She froze, flicking her vision between the filtered goggles and the naked eye, unable to see the movement ahead through either and unsure how to follow. There appeared to be a pile of stone in place of the illusory doorway. A deathly female scream echoed through the building below, and Larissa swayed a little as her legs turned to jelly.
“Narry didn’t say anything about illusions that you can hear,” she whispered as she attempted to force her legs to regain their strength. Ignoring the nagging voice inside her head that grimly warned against moving on, she began the descent down the stairs.
. . .
Holt stood beside the clock shop, leaning his shoulder against the building corner. He’d watched Larissa walking away, watched her closely as she rounded a bend ahead out of sight. He continued to watch the bend intently for five minutes, counting the time in his head. It seemed more soothing to do so than to simply look at the clocks in the shop.
“How long should we wait?” Goodson’s voice cut through the silence between the group of men who stood behind Holt, watching the same bend.
“Not much longer,” Cid answered. “Another minute perhaps?”
“Longer,” Holt said, his voice even more curt than usual.
“What if she gets caught by the guards?” Goodson asked, unconsciously dancing from foot to foot.
“That is the intention.”
“What if she gets into trouble?”
“This is Larissa, trouble is inevitable.”
“But what if she—”
“I will decide when it is time to leave,” Holt barked. A movement ahead caught his attention. A man flashed into view, falling forwards with a knife sticking out of his neck. The body fell down and disappeared out of sight.
“Was that what I think it was?” Cid asked.
“Shit, she’s in trouble. We should go now,” Goodson said, panicking.
“She is fine. She has not yet entered the building,” Holt responded, chewing on his lip to suppress the grin that threatened his face.
He tried not to wonder if Larissa had been a quick learner or if he was simply a good teacher. A few moments later, after listening to some stifled muttering from the men behind, two figures emerged from the bend. The soot-covered men stepped over the corpse and headed down the street.
“Gods, who are they?” Cid yelled.
“The men from the pirate ship,” Holt answered.
“You can tell that from here?”
Holt did not reply. Instead, he marched down the street towards the two men, and the others followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Orother stood over the basin, watching the crystal clear water gushing out from the copper pipe. He reached up, turned off the faucet, and held his arms out over the water as it settled into a calm pool. He spent some moments admiring the drips of blood that fell from his elbows and fingertips, tainting the water as they hit. His arms were covered in gore up to the elbows, right where his white overcoat sleeves were rolled up.
Over the years he had become incredibly proficient at keeping the overcoat spotlessly clean during his more gruesome sessions, and yet the walls, floor, and instruments in his workshop were as tainted as his forearms. With a sigh he dropped his arms into the icy cool water and watched with mild amusement as the liquid turned a deep shade of blood red. Yet he wasn’t finished; in reality, he had barely even begun.
“I really wish you wouldn’t wriggle so, my dear,” he called out, his voice peppered with a thick Eptoran accent. “I prefer to wait until I’m finished to wash up.”
Behind him, splayed out upon a shining metal table, lay Serenia, her wrists and ankles tied down at each corner. Beside her, on a similar table though without the ropes to pin him, lay the lifeless body of Hans. Hans had been sliced open from navel to neck, his innards strewn about haphazardly, the top of his skull removed, brain open to the world.
Serenia had the start of a similar treatment, her body bleeding from the beginning of cuts with a scalpel blade. She twitched and thrashed against the bindings, fighting to break free. Orother returned to the table with clean hands and set to adjusting the ropes that bound her.
“I see you have too much slack. Perhaps one for the neck, too,” he suggested to the two young male assistants who stood beside the tables, scribbling notes onto their clipboards.
“Fuck you,” she spat.
“Now, now, no need to be crude.” As Orother waved an arm at one of his assistants to retrieve more rope from a pile of crates stacked in a corner, a figure appeared in the doorway—the Cleric.
“The female has arrived.” The Cleric’s voice was soft yet deep, his pale green eyes seeming to glow in contrast to the dark red robes he always wore. His expression was blank.
“Ah, shame, I thought I’d have a little more time. Have the guards bring her down.”
“She has killed two guards.”
“Oh? Well that is interesting. I thought I told them to double security and put them all on alert?”
“Some of your guards have abandoned their posts. A military contingent would have been preferable. The men you hired are too squeamish,” the Cleric said, looking around at the pool of blood and guts on the floor and regarding the assistants with suspicious eyes. The two men averted their stares, apparently terrified that making eye contact with the Cleric would cause them to evaporate into flame or suffer some other mysterious and painful punishment.
“How about the engineer?” Orother asked, returning to tie rope around Serenia’s neck. The mercenary had virtually given up the fight and appeared to be resigned to her fate, though she listened intently to the two men talking.
“The female is alone.”
“How frustrating. Never mind, I’ll discover his hiding place once I have her. Your devices will alert us when she’s near.”
“She is aware of my devices.”
“What? How?”
“She has had help. It is likely there are other men who will follow. I will take some of the remaining guards and stop them.”
“Very well.”
The Cleric disappeared from the room and Orother turned his attention back to Serenia. He stared at her quizzically for a moment and reached for a scalpel blade from a nearby tray.
“It seems our time is done. You will escape lightly after all.” He stepped toward her, knife raised, his eyes flashing wildly. Serenia let out another scream of terror that echoed through the room.
. . .
Holt listened carefully as the two soot-covered men relayed in great detail the story of how they’d hidden in the coal and found Larissa, though his patience wore thin when Goodson began chatting inanely with them.
“You have orders. We have work to do,” he state
d plainly and the two men begrudgingly headed further down the hillside to search for supplies for the ship.
“So, we’re going in there now?” Cid asked.
“Not yet. She needs more time. Perhaps you should go with the other two.”
“Not bloody likely,” Cid scoffed.
“Goodson, you go.” Holt gestured towards the two coal-covered men. Goodson looked as though he were about to argue. The young man thought better of it and did as he was told, leaving Holt, Narry, and Cid.
“I’d have thought it would be better to have more men for this battle plan,” Narry said, “especially as I have no intention of fighting anyone.”
“I work better alone,” Holt said, narrowly eyeing Cid. “Besides, the corridors belowground are likely too tight for a group of men to successfully fight together.”
“Perhaps I should stay out of your way?” Narry suggested.
“Agreed.”
Narry handed his spyglass to Holt and Holt headed up the staircase. Cid turned to Narry, his face slowly growing pale as the reality of the situation dawned upon him.
“You still look a little lost,” Narry said, “though I’m not sure whereabouts you would look at home.”
“That makes two of us, Friar,” Cid said with a sigh.
“Well, I’ve no doubt you’ll figure it out. At the least, it seems she needs you, more than either of you realize. Perhaps that’s somewhere to start. Go well, my son, and Gods be with you.”
Cid nodded and followed after Holt, and Imago the cat padded along behind him.
Holt stared up at the mansion for several more minutes, occasionally looking through the spyglass.
“There aren’t any more guards?” Cid asked eventually, stepping over the dead body.
“Not outside, it seems.” Holt marched through the gate and straight for the airship, heading up to the deck with ease and leaving Cid to stand at the gate, feeling surplus to requirements. Cid leaned against the stony wall, trying to ignore Imago, who wrapped his tail around Cid’s ankles.
“Fucking cat,” he muttered, but as his gaze shifted back to the mansion entrance he caught sight of a hooded figure in a red robe—the Cleric.
Cid froze, his breath catching. From his position he couldn’t be sure, but he thought the man was looking at the ship rather than at him. Slowly, he sunk to his knees and rocked backwards out of view, lifting the cat across his chest and depositing him to the side.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered as the Cleric disappeared back inside the mansion, mere seconds before Holt reappeared on the ship deck and jumped down to the ground, heading directly to the mansion entrance.
“Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?” Cid looked down the stairs for Friar Narry, but he was nowhere to be seen. As he turned back, the cat stepped over his feet and headed into the gardens, padding with speed towards the mansion. Cid rolled his eyes and growled under his breath.
“Fucking cat,” he said, and he followed.
. . .
Larissa found herself heading down an impossibly long set of stairs on quivering legs. The staircase followed a slight curve in a constant, long spiral, and she spent an inordinate amount of time stopping and listening for footsteps, expecting to meet a guard or some other nefarious character at any moment. Her palms grew sweaty, and every time she adjusted the goggles to check for devices, the leather straps slipped in her hands. At first the way was lit by gas lamps, but after a while the lamps turned to burning torches set in iron brackets. Try as she might, she struggled to erase the vision of ancient torture chambers and dungeons plaguing her mind.
Eventually she reached the bottom, coming into a cylindrical room which opened out into a set of tunnels, like an underground burrow. Still, there was no sign of anyone else, nor any device. She leaned her shoulder against the cool stone wall for a moment, listening for any sign of life or hoping for perhaps some divine inspiration to guide her directly to the Professor.
She felt her body shaking from tip to toe, riddled with nervous energy, all too aware that her plan was incredibly flawed. She felt this way despite the fact that Holt was supposed to be following her down. She started to wonder if it was best just to wait here for him. She leaned her head against the wall and heard a click and a whirring behind the stone. She leapt away from the wall as the ground beneath her feet shook and the entire room broke away from the staircase and twisted around. Larissa dropped to her knees, grabbing for a knife before realizing she wasn’t wearing the goggles.
“Shit.”
She pulled the goggles down and the filter revealed the wall was filled with switches and levers, though she had no idea which one of them she’d actually pressed.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
The room continued to spin, blocking out the tunnel exits, revealing large cogs and chain mechanisms which controlled the room as the stairwell also disappeared behind a wall. Finally a single tunnel opened up as the spinning room ground to a halt. The room echoed with the sound of a ticking clock, the noise thumping inside her head as she started to panic. The tunnel was as plain and non-descript as the others had been, and still there was no sign of anyone or anything, either in plain sight or with the goggles. She stood dumbstruck, listening to the ticking clock as it gained speed.
“Shit,” she whispered, her eyes welling up with tears. “Damnit.” She dove forwards into the tunnel just as the ticking ceased and the room swiftly curled back around, blocking her exit.
“Well, I guess that decision was made for me.” A laugh spluttered from her lips but was cut short as she spotted a trail of blood trickling along the corridor towards her.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Holt regarded the mansion illusion with minimal appreciation. Though it was no doubt a marvel to fool an entire town into thinking such a grand structure existed, and extra attention had been paid to the illusory inside entrance hall, to him it was really nothing more than an inconvenience. It took enough effort to fight against real enemies; he wasn’t so sure his skills would hold up against magical foes. He discovered the spherical stones that seemed to power the illusion and checked them carefully with the spyglass, concluding that it would be better to leave them in place. Destroying the mansion illusion may make for a useful distraction during an escape, if they were lucky enough to make it out alive.
He slipped inside, immediately spotting the staircase that led down. An almighty rumbling noise, like the sound of heavy machinery rolling along, echoed up from below, followed by a plume of thick smoke. Holt grabbed a pistol from his belt and raised the spyglass to his eye with the other hand. Immediately the smoke disappeared from view. A wry smile trickled across his lips as he detected the ruse. He slung the spyglass over his shoulder, latching it into a makeshift holster on his back, and proceeded down the stairwell with caution.
. . .
Cid reached the entrance to the mansion and found himself staring up at the great hallway in awe. He’d looked through the spyglass once or twice from a distance and seen the reality of the situation, but now Larissa had the goggles and Holt had gone off with the spyglass. Cid was left with no way of seeing the truth of things. He also had no idea which doorway Holt had taken, or if he’d gone up or down the staircases.
As he stood for a moment, chewing on his lip, Imago padded around in front of him. The cat sniffed at the floor, flicking his tail side to side, stalking along as though he hunted a bug. Cid watched as Imago passed by one door and another, and finally the cat turned around and backtracked toward him.
“Well, bloody hell, animal, if you don’t know where we’re going then we’re stuck, aren’t we?”
A plume of smoke came up from the open stairwell leading down, and Cid immediately started to panic, thinking Larissa was in trouble. Imago, on the other hand, paid no attention to the smoke at all. Instead, he had found an interesting piece of floor slab and patted at it with his paw.
“You know something I don’t, cat?” Cid asked, joining Imago on his hands and knees
to feel around the sunken slab edge. To his surprise it shifted with the slightest pressure, and with one almighty shove the entire slab lifted out of place to reveal a secret ladder leading down.
“Hmm, I wonder if Sir Hot-Shot-Knife-Killer found this?”
Imago sat back on his hind legs and gave Cid an impassive stare.
“Right. Holt doesn’t care about secret tunnels, he can just go in and stab everyone to death. I, on the other hand...am talking to a fucking cat. What is wrong with me?” Cid rolled his eyes and slipped down onto the ladder.
“A secret tunnel beats a smoke-filled stairwell in my book.” He looked up at Imago, and the cat carefully stretched out his front paws, climbing onto Cid’s shoulder. “I’m glad you agree.”
With one hand Cid pulled the slab back into place over his head and began the descent down the ladder towards the distant speck of light below.
. . .
Larissa stalked along the rocky corridor, her back to the wall, a knife in each hand, following the trail of blood to its source. She reached a gap in the rock, which seemed the source of the trail, and curled her head around to peek inside. The sight that greeted her was gruesome to say the least, and her first reaction was to turn away and lean back against the wall to stop herself from retching.
After taking a moment to catch her breath and calm her nerves, she turned again to survey the room. There appeared to be no one alive inside. There were, however, two dead bodies laid out on metal tables. She knew instantly who one of them had been; there was no mistaking Hans from the size of his body, though his chest had been opened out like a bull carcass at a butcher’s shop. The top half of his skull was missing, brain scooped out and deposited neatly in a jar on a shelf.
