Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1)

by Jon Messenger

  Orrick frowned and grasped his glass a little tighter between his long boney fingers. “The werewolves, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Simon replied. “In the report the crown received, you were both listed as the biggest opponents to the idea that there were werewolves beyond the city walls.”

  Orrick and Tambor exchanged knowing glances, but it was the heavyset man who spoke. “I fear the intent of our objection wasn’t made clear in the report. We believe there are werewolves.”

  “Yes,” Orrick agreed. “Of that, there’s little doubt.”

  Simon sat back surprised. He drummed his fingers on the table as he collected his thoughts. “Perhaps I do not understand. The report said that you two opposed the idea that the city was under siege by these supernatural creatures.”

  “Exactly,” Tambor said, nodding enthusiastically.

  “Precisely,” Orrick added.

  Simon looked over at Luthor perplexed. “I’m not sure I fully understand.”

  Tambor leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I assume the governor let you see the body of the werewolf, did he? There are more where that one came from, of that I’m sure. The difference is that I don’t think they pose a threat to the city. We’re not ‘under siege’ as you put it, which was why we objected to the exaggerated report submitted by the governor.”

  “By Mr. Dosett, you mean,” Orrick corrected, nearly spitting the name like venom.

  “But there have been numerous attacks,” Luthor said.

  “On oil refineries and drilling stations out near the lake,” Tambor said.

  “Owned by Mr. Dosett,” Orrick added.

  Simon raised a finger, silencing the group. He turned the index finger to his mouth and tapped his lips thoughtfully. “So your issue isn’t with the werewolves, who you believe exist? Your issue rests solely with—”

  “Mr. Dosett,” they said in unison.

  “Interesting,” Simon said, as he motioned toward Luthor.

  His assistant reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a notebook and pencil. Luthor began furiously taking notes as the conversation continued.

  “Please explain,” Simon said.

  Tambor cleared his throat. “Every attack so far has been confined to property owned by Mr. Dosett. If the werewolves exist, and we have no reason to assume they don’t, they have never bothered any of my mining operations.”

  “Nor have they bothered any of my artisans,” Orrick said. “Leatherworking, cobbling, tailoring, and architecture all continue unabated and unhindered. Whatever the complaints of the werewolves, they reserve their bile solely for Gideon Dosett.”

  Simon felt mildly exacerbated. The two men at the table seemed oblivious to the issue at hand and the sole reason for Simon and Luthor’s presence in town, which was the investigation of magical outbreaks. He was faced with one of the largest infestations identified to date, yet these two gentlemen treated it like it was nothing more than a general inconvenience, and one reserved for someone else.

  “These are magical creatures beyond the walls of your city,” Simon began, trying to keep his frustration in check. “As Luthor is keen to point out, these monsters seem to be based on the legends we all heard as school children. If they are to be believed, then these creatures are carriers of lycanthropy, which is highly contagious and transmittable through their saliva. You may not see them as an issue, but your entire town is teetering on the brink of destruction, especially if this infection spreads.”

  “Then we’re correct in placing our trust in you, Inquisitor,” Tambor said with a smile mostly concealed by his bushy moustache.

  Simon sighed. “What is your issue with Gideon Dosett?”

  “Where to begin?” Orrick said with a huff. “He came to town only six months ago and started buying property both within and outside of the city. It wasn’t his purchases so much as the way the transactions occurred. He bought businesses that had been in families for generations and paid a few coppers for every gold piece the land was actually worth. I don’t know how he did it, but he swindled good men out of their livelihood.”

  “Did he strong arm them?” Luthor asked, looking up from the notebook. “Did he threaten them with physical harm or extort them? How come no one reported his behavior to the governor?”

  “Because the governor is in his pocket?” Tambor said. When he noticed everyone’s surprised expressions, he lowered his eyes. “It’s the truth. Everyone’s thinking it; they just don’t have the fortitude to admit it to strangers, much less an Inquisitor.”

  “Making allegations of corruption against one of the king’s cousins is serious business,” Simon warned. “I’m assuming you have proof?”

  Tambor refused to look up and meet Simon’s stern gaze. “No, other than the man lives in the governor’s own home. It’s indecent, especially considering Dosett is clearly more than capable of purchasing his own home here in town.”

  Simon stood and retrieved his top hat from the table. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your time. Sadly, my associate and I must attend to other matters pertaining to our investigation. Please excuse us.”

  Luthor tucked his notebook and pencil into his coat and stood, nodding politely to both men before hurrying to catch up to Simon.

  When the door jingled shut behind them, they stepped onto the street and started walking back toward the estate. Simon was visibly upset with the two businessmen, though he remained silent as they walked.

  “They were merely speaking their mind,” Luthor offered, breaking the silence. “We should be encouraging behavior like that.”

  “They weren’t speaking their mind,” Simon said. “They were expressing their petty jealousy and wasting our time. We have supernatural occurrences to investigate. We hardly have the time to listen to complaints about shrewd or even unethical business practices conducted by Mr. Dosett. If they think something immoral or illegal is happening, call a constable, not an Inquisitor.”

  Luthor nodded and let the issue drop as they walked. They passed back through the open marketplace and passed the dry fountain. As they intersected another major street, Luthor noticed a building on the corner that he had overlooked on their way to the tavern. He tapped Simon on the arm and pointed.

  “It’s a telegraph office. Do you need to send a report to the crown yet?”

  Simon considered it. He was required to send regular updates to the Inquisitor head office as his investigation progressed, but he found it difficult to formulate a decent message just yet. Aside from the corpse, which he still wasn’t entirely convinced was authentic, there was nothing worthwhile to tell.

  “No, not yet,” he said. “Though it’s good to know where the telegraph station is located. I believe we’ll be putting it to good use before all this is said and done.”

  “Then where shall we go from here?” Luthor asked.

  “We try our best to get our investigation back on track. We came to investigate werewolves and by God, that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “What other evidence is there? We’ve seen all there is to see in the city.”

  “Exactly,” Simon said. “If the city has failed to definitively prove the existence of werewolves, we’ll go find evidence elsewhere.”

  Luthor frowned. “Would this ‘elsewhere’ be beyond the wall, in the territory of the werewolves?”

  Simon smiled at his friend’s discomfort. “Indeed it would be.”

  “I’m going to need a thicker jacket,” Luthor sighed.

  The two men entered the mansion and shook the snow from their coats. The footmen appeared at their return and took their jackets before disappearing through the parlor door.

  Mr. Archibald, the butler, approached and nodded to the men. “Would either of you care for a warm drink or perhaps something to eat?”

  Simon shook his head and answered for the both of them. “Thank you, but no. I actually have a need to speak to Mr. Dosett. Is he in his office?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Dosett is downstairs a
t the moment.”

  “Downstairs?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe he is currently practicing his fencing. There is a stairwell down the hall just past the foyer. I can take you there, if you wish.”

  “No need,” Simon replied. “We can find our way.”

  Mr. Archibald nodded and spun on his heel before disappearing down the hall.

  The two men found the stairwell easily enough. The natural sunlight that filtered through the large windows on the house’s main level slowly faded, replaced by the sterility of overhead electric lights. The stairs leveled, turned, and descended further as the pair walked toward the estate’s lower level. When they finally arrived at the bottom of the stairwell, they were into the bedrock on which the mansion had been built.

  A long hallway stretched before them, ending in ornately carved double doors. From behind them, Simon could hear the clash of blades and grunts of pain. Quietly, so as not to disturb the combatants, he pulled open the double doors and stood in their arch.

  Two men, garbed in protective padding and wearing full meshed facemasks, slashed and parried one another in the center of a broad room. A blue sash hung from the belt of one of the swordsmen, while a red hung from the other. They wielded thin, metal epees, which clashed together as they parried.

  “They’re remarkable,” Luthor stated quietly.

  Simon stroked his chin as the two men engaged one another again. They quickly broke apart after a dizzying display of parries and ripostes.

  “They’re good,” Simon whispered, “but the man with the blue sash is the far superior swordsman.”

  Luthor furrowed his brow and watched a second longer. The man in red thrust with his epee, which was turned aside at the last moment by the man in blue. A circle parry pushed the red man’s epee wide, but he recovered quickly enough to block a thrust by the man in blue. To Luthor, they seemed evenly matched.

  “I don’t see an advantage one way or the other.”

  Simon pointed to the man with the red sash. “Watch him after their next engagement. The man in the red sash will immediately retreat, keeping their duel at a longer distance.”

  “He has the reach,” Luthor noted. “Distance seems like the correct course.”

  “It would be, if the man wasn’t scared. The man in blue is toying with him, closing the distance with every attack and working inside the red swordsman’s defenses. The technique of keeping his distance is a sound epee technique if you can control the duel, which the man in red cannot. Instead of watching his sword, watch his feet during the next engagement.”

  Luthor watched as the man in red lunged forward, driving his epee toward the man in blue’s heart. The blade was turned aside again, passing harmlessly over the blue man’s shoulder. As Luthor watched, the man in red shifted his weight and hastily retreated as the man in blue pressed the offensive. The red swordsman’s feet came dangerously close to the back line of the dueling ground.

  “He’s not trying to win by strikes,” Luthor remarked of the blue swordsman’s technique. “He’s forcing the man in red backward until he crosses the back line.”

  “Exactly,” Simon said with a smile. “Points are points in a competitive duel where your life isn’t on the line. Whether it’s through a strike on the body or forcing them past the line, a smart swordsman garners his victory through any means necessary. The man in the blue sash is a calculated fencer. This match will be over soon.”

  Seconds later, the swordsman with the red sash tumbled past the back line and raised his hands in defeat. The blue man turned his blade down, placing it against the padded floor. He reached up and pulled his helmet from his head, shaking his head as he did so. Gideon walked back to his own line and removed his blue sash, using it as a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “Well played, Jack,” Gideon said as the other man removed his helmet as well. Jack’s breath was labored as he walked toward the businessman. “You nearly had me a couple of times.”

  “Almost doesn’t constitute a victory, sadly,” Jack said.

  The two men shook hands and stepped off the dueling mat. As they turned toward the door, they noticed their unexpected guests and paused. Gideon smiled broadly, as he patted his dueling partner on the shoulder dismissively. The man bowed and hurried toward the door. Simon and Luthor stepped aside, letting the man pass.

  “Gentlemen,” Gideon said as he approached. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “We came to ask your permission—” Simon began.

  Gideon raised his hand, stopping him in mid-sentence. “Do you duel, Inquisitor?”

  Simon frowned, irritated at being interrupted. He wasn’t used to people stopping him during an investigation, even those who come from the kingdom’s aristocracy.

  “I’ve practiced,” Simon replied.

  Gideon pointed to the wall to Simon’s right. As the Inquisitor looked, he saw gear neatly folded on a bench. A series of blunted swords were hanging above the bench on pegs. Gideon walked to the wall and ran his fingers across the blades.

  “What is your preference? Epee? Foil? No, you appear to me to be a man who prefers the elegance of the saber.”

  Simon looked at Luthor helplessly, knowing it would be impolite to refuse the man’s request for a duel. It was further complicated by the fact that he needed Gideon’s blessing to go investigate the refineries that had been attacked. Though the businessman was charismatic and had been nothing but polite thus far, Simon hated being at someone else’s mercy.

  With a sigh, he removed his outer coat, handing it to Luthor. He undid the cufflinks, handing them to his friend as well before rolling up his sleeves.

  “I have protective equipment that you could wear,” Gideon said, realizing that the Inquisitor intended to duel without it.

  Simon shook his head. “I watched you duel in your last match. I trust that you have the control not to stab me in the eye.”

  Gideon stiffened for a second, but he quickly relaxed and his smile returned. “Of course. Please, choose a weapon.”

  Simon walked to the wall and pulled down a pair of sabers. He swung them with practiced swings, feeling their weight and balance. The one in his right hand was too heavy, so he quickly replaced it on the wall. The other blade was lighter and sturdy with its weight centered just above the hilt. It was comfortable in his hand, and he slashed a few more times through the air before nodding appreciatively.

  “I’m assuming I can trust you to do the same?” Gideon said, as he set his meshed helmet on the floor beneath the practice blades. “I am the face of my business. I would be most offended if you left a scar on that face.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Simon replied.

  The two men walked to opposite ends of the dueling mat and took their places behind their respective lines. Simon raised the flat of his blade to his face in a salute, which was returned by Gideon. The businessman dropped into a wide-legged stance, turning his body sideways to provide the least amount of exposed torso for Simon to strike. He raised his rearmost hand into the air.

  Simon tucked his left hand behind his back, placing it in the small of his back. He, too, turned sideways, though not to as severe a degree as the businessman.

  “En garde,” Gideon said.

  Gideon lunged, driving his blunted blade toward Simon’s chest. The Inquisitor shifted his weight and parried the strike, letting it pass inches wide of his shoulder. Though Gideon braced for a riposte, Simon let the strike go unanswered.

  Stepping back, Gideon nodded appreciatively. The first strike was a test of one another’s skills and he was pleased with what he saw, even if there was no counter. Simon watched the businessman settle back into his stance, awaiting the Inquisitor’s response to his attack.

  Simon feinted left before hooking his blade back toward Gideon’s armpit. The businessman leapt backward, sweeping his epee in a circle and knocking Simon’s saber to the side. He immediately shifted his weight to his back leg and lunged forward, thrusting back toward Sim
on’s stomach. The Inquisitor was forced to take a couple steps backward as he parried back-to-back thrusts from the businessman.

  Despite not connecting solidly, Gideon stepped back with a confident smile and settled back into his stance.

  “You’re talented with the blade,” Gideon complimented.

  “It appears as though I’m facing someone better than myself,” Simon lied.

  Gideon shook his head. He relaxed momentarily and pushed his hair out of his face with his free hand. “I don’t believe that for a second. You’re holding back. Don’t, at least not for my benefit. I choose my competition carefully and consider myself a very good judge of character.”

  He raised his blade and saluted again. Simon returned the salute, and they both settled back into their stances.

  “So is your investigation going well?” Gideon asked. “I’m assuming you at least now believe that the werewolves are real.”

  Simon shrugged and flexed his fingers on the grip of his saber. “To an extent.”

  The tip of Gideon’s blade dipped slightly before righting itself. “I’ve provided you a corpse. What more do you require?”

  Simon could hear the faint irritation in the man’s voice. “Forgive me if I gave you the impression that I don’t believe you. As an Inquisitor, I don’t believe anything until I have seen it living and breathing with my own eyes. The advances in taxidermy make anything less than skepticism foolish for someone in my line of business.”

  As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, Gideon attacked. He shifted his weight to the right in a feint, but Simon read his attempt. As the blade came from the left instead, Simon was already waiting to knock the blade aside. Instead of the normal single strike before they separated, Gideon shifted his grip and slashed toward Simon’s shoulder. Despite the epee’s thin blade being designed for piercing, Simon knew even the blunted tip could tear his skin. He spun his saber and blocked the second attack.

  Gideon pressed the advantage, thrusting the blade forward. Simon was forced to take a step back. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the back line of the dueling mat and dug in his heels before he was forced to concede defeat. Turning Gideon’s blade aside, Simon slashed forward in a wild swing. The businessman easily dodged it but in his haste to avoid the blade, he staggered backward. Simon took a couple steps forward, giving him space from the edge of the mat.