“Were it only the proof of their existence that I needed, then I would gladly take you at your word and enjoy another snifter or two of brandy in my suite,” Simon joked. “Unfortunately, the matter is far more serious than that. If these werewolves are real, then I must know how they got into our lands. If they slipped through our sea defenses, then there’s a weakness that must be closed before it’s exploited further. If the werewolves are real, then are they the vanguard for a larger invasion? For what purpose have they come here, of all places? No insult intended, of course.”
“Of course,” the governor replied.
“These are the questions that must be answered before I can satisfactorily conclude my investigation. It’s not merely a confirmation that magic has infiltrated our lands. It’s answering the question of why magic has infiltrated our kingdom.”
“Then let me ensure you are safe and expedited on your journey,” Gideon interjected. “I have a sled master in the stables near the northern gate. There’s no one quicker in Haversham. I’ll send word for him to be at the ready. He is at your disposal and will take you wherever you need to go.”
Simon nodded. “You are most kind.” He took his napkin from his lap and neatly folded it before setting it on the table. “I guess we really must be off. I’m sure Luthor and I will have an exhausting day ahead of us.”
The governor and Gideon rose from their seats politely as the Inquisitor and apothecary excused themselves from the breakfast table. Walking out of the room, they let the door close softly behind them. They walked into the foyer, and the butler appeared with their coats and hats. After collecting their garments, Luthor walked to the front door and retrieved his cane from a rack. The apothecary patted his inner pockets, ensuring the vials he had retrieved from his doctor’s bag that morning were properly secured.
With Luthor out of earshot, Simon turned to Archibald. “Forgive me for bringing up a difficult subject, but it appears your maid staff is doing an inadequate job with their cleaning.”
The butler arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed, sir? Please let me know what shortcomings you’ve noticed, and I’ll ensure they are rectified immediately.”
Simon leaned in closer and glanced to Luthor as the apothecary affixed his bowler cap on his head. “My associate spilled some caustic-smelling chemicals in his room, and the scent lingers despite numerous attempts at cleaning it.”
The butler cleared his throat hoarsely. “That’s impossible, sir. Mr. Strong has strictly forbidden any of my maids from entering his room without his expressed permission, which he has yet to give.”
Simon furrowed his brow and stared at his friend. “My apologies, Mr. Archibald. It appears there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Think nothing of it, sir.”
“Are you coming?” Luthor asked from his place by the door.
“On my way,” Simon replied.
He joined Luthor at the door before they walked into the wintery outdoors. As they walked down the building’s front steps, Luthor stifled a yawn. Simon arched his eyebrow toward his partner.
“I hope you’re not tired as a result of my intrusion last night,” he said.
Luthor shook his head as he finished his long yawn. “If only I could place the blame solely on you. Sadly, I had trouble sleeping even after you left. It seems I had quite a bit on my mind.”
Simon stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and lowered his head against the biting breeze. Despite the tall walls around the city, the wind was still strong enough to threaten to pull his top hat from his head. Luthor, who wore a bowler cap with a far shorter profile, merely pulled down the brim to keep his eyes from watering in the cold.
“What’s on your mind, pray tell?” Simon asked as they walked toward the front gate of the estate. Not for the first time, he wished Haversham had some of the autobuses that had become the technological rave in the capital city.
“I wonder about the truthfulness of the werewolf mythology,” Luthor replied. “Everyone knows the story of silver being the bane of werewolves. There’s also the more alchemical myth of Wolf’s Bane being harmful to the monsters, though I have yet to discover the best way to administer the proper dosage, or if there is a proper dosage at all. It seems so simple to call a plant Wolf’s Bane and assume everyone knows its uses.”
Simon laughed. “Always the scientist, aren’t you?”
Luthor frowned. “So says the trained medical doctor and forensic scientist. In this regards, I prefer to think of myself as a historian. While most of the texts pertaining to werewolves have been nothing more than horror stories used to scare children, they were clearly based in some sort of truth. More importantly, most stories refer to werewolves as people who were infected with lycanthropy. If true, that would mean that it’s an infection rather than a state of being. Perhaps there’s a cure somewhere in the natural world for their disease.”
Simon ran his hand across his thin moustache thoughtfully. “Perhaps the cure resides in the Wolf’s Bane?”
“Perhaps,” Luthor replied thoughtfully, “but I have only a small amount of Aconitum root with me. If there are as many werewolves as Mr. Dosett claims, the quantities I have would hardly be enough to treat the entire population, even if a cure could be devised from the plant.”
“Then perhaps we could use a small amount merely as a test, if we captured a live creature.”
Luthor nodded. “Perhaps, though I would need time to purify the root.”
They passed through the estate’s main gates. “Would it not be effective as it is now?”
Luthor shrugged. “It would be effective, but not for what we want. Pure Aconitum root is lethal even in smaller doses.”
“I guess ‘Wolf’s Bane’ is an accurate moniker, then.”
The wind kicked up again as they passed beyond the estate, and Simon found himself clinging both to his top hat and to his coat as it threatened to fly away. He looked to his associate, who was similarly huddled against the biting wind and using his cane as support on the cobblestones.
“The weather seemed to have turned against us,” Simon remarked. “Perhaps we’d be better suited in the tunnels.”
Luthor nodded his agreement, and the pair made for one of the cavern entrances. The street-level entrance barely resembled a cave opening. It looked far more like an autobus stop, with glass doors framing the front of a squat gray-stone building. It was fairly nondescript, and Simon would have potentially passed right by it unaware had it not been for the handful of people that entered and exited the small structure.
Simon held the door for the apothecary before following the diminutive man inside.
The entrance to the tunnels was the same they had exited from earlier. They soon found themselves in the expansive underground hub and were once again surprised by the mercantile world that existed just below the barren surface streets.
The hub was a chaotic whirlwind of noise and activity, with people hurriedly arriving and departing down the myriad of interconnecting tunnels. Simon felt temporarily overwhelmed until he caught sight of a carved stone sign protruding from one of the side tunnels. It read—Western Gate. Simon followed the curve of the cavern until he found the next major tunnel to the right and led Luthor in that direction. He nodded happily when he read, “Northern Gate” on the carved sign.
Once beyond the hub, the din of conversation died away. They passed a few other pedestrians and even a wagon clattering along the hard stone and packed dirt floor. They nodded politely to the people they passed but continued strolling toward the distant gate in relative silence.
Simon felt genuinely apprehensive about their trip beyond the wall. Though the trip itself would be arduous, it wasn’t the strain of the journey that had him concerned. He knew that one way or the other, he should be able to confirm the presence of werewolves by the time they returned to Haversham. Though he had trained for years as an Inquisitor for the sole purpose of identifying and eliminating magical threats, the idea of coming
face to face with one was almost horrifying. More than that, he knew that confirming the identity of the werewolves was only the beginning of his mission. If they truly were the spearhead of a much larger invasion, then he knew just how dangerous today could be for both Luthor and him.
Lost in his reverie, he didn’t notice they had arrived at the spiral staircase leading to the northern gate until Luthor tapped him politely on the arm. Simon looked up at the natural sunlight filtering down from the man-made shaft to the surface and smiled. Whatever was to come, he knew he had no choice but to face it with a smile on his face. It wouldn’t do at all for a Royal Inquisitor to appear scared in the face of a paranormal threat.
Their booted feet clanged on the metal spiral staircase as they climbed toward the surface. Simon made the mistake of placing his hand on the railing and immediately regretted that decision. It was colder than ice and seemed to sap the strength from his hand. Even the short grasp of the frigid metal left his fingers stiff. He flexed them cautiously as he continued to climb.
By comparison to the streets in front of the gubernatorial estate, the streets where they exited near the northern gate were considerably warmer. The arctic wind that seeped over the top of the tall wall surrounding the city drifted down and over the streets this close to the wall. They were happily protected from the cold breeze. Even so, Simon still noticed the puffs of warm air escaping his lips with every breath.
“It’s impressive,” Luthor said, craning his neck to see the top of the city wall.
Simon followed his gaze and admired the height of the stone barricade. Though most of the houses within Haversham were at most two-stories tall, the protective barrier towered over them at nearly forty-feet high. He performed some mental calculations as he examined the size of the supporting base stones and realized that the manual labor required to move the thousands of tons of stone to such a remote location must have been an incredible feat. He mentally catalogued it as something of interest he’d have to research after he returned to the capital.
As they were admiring the wall, a fur-cloaked man approached the pair.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the gruff man said. “Would you be the Royal Inquisitor and guest?”
Luthor smirked. “I’m a guest.”
“Meaning no disrespect,” the man quickly added.
Simon smiled politely at the man, immediately understanding that proper etiquette was clearly not the man’s forte. His exposed face was lined and weathered from exposure to the howling winds beyond the wall. It was deeply tanned except for rings around each of his eyes that matched the circumference of the dark-tinted goggles dangling from around his neck. The coarse growth of a beard was unkempt but, Simon surmised, probably incredibly warming while moving along the frozen tundra.
“He took no disrespect,” Simon replied. “Would you be the sled master that Mr. Dosett sent us to find?”
“Aye, that would be me.” The man pulled off a thick mitten that covered his hand and extended it. “Theodore Parrish. I’m the sled dog master for Mr. Dosett’s businesses beyond the wall.”
Simon shook the man’s hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Parrish. I’m—”
“I know who you both are, begging your pardon for the interruption. Everyone in town knows about the Inquisitor and the apothecary that have come to take care of the werewolf menace.”
Simon and Luthor exchanged pleased glances. The more word spread of their presence in Haversham, the easier it would become to interview people and conduct their investigation.
“Well then, Mr. Parrish, it seems that we are at a disadvantage. This seems to be your area of expertise, so we defer to you. What do we need to do first for our trip outside?”
The sled master looked over the two impeccably dressed men. “The first thing you’ll need is warmer clothes. You’ll freeze to death wearing those fancy threads.” He jutted his thumb over his shoulder. “I have some winter jackets, extra gloves, and goggles you can use during the trip. Just follow me, if you will.”
Parrish led the two men down the street until the massive northern gate came into view. The two metal doors stood impractically tall, towering nearly a dozen feet over Simon’s head. Thick metal studs protruded from the door’s frame at regular intervals, fastening the immense metal crossbeams in place. Fingers of ice crept through the seam between the doors, reaching half a dozen feet into the near side of the doorframe.
A pair of workers stood at the base of the door with heavy packs slung across their backs. Simon had seen similar contraptions earlier when they disembarked from the zeppelin. As he watched, black smoke belched from the tall smokestacks that rose above the men’s shoulders. The nozzles in their hands hissed for a brief moment before flames erupted to life. The warm flames poured onto the protruding ice between the doors, instantly turning the icy tendrils to water.
“I told them we were coming,” Parrish explained without prompting. “They’re getting the doors ready to open so we can leave.”
“Metal doors seem like an odd choice,” Simon remarked, “especially since they seem so prone to freezing.”
Parrish looked over his shoulder as they passed the gate. “Have you ever seen a wooden door on a cold, cold night? They seal shut tighter than a virgin’s…” He glanced back and forth between the two curious gentlemen. “Well, let’s just say they seal real tight. There isn’t a flamethrower in existence that will get them pried apart.”
The sled master led the two men to a sturdy, wooden barn not far from the northern gate. It was a stout building with narrow, horizontal windows near its insulated tin roof. A door was closed along the front of the building; it was large, though the massive gate doors dwarfed it.
Parrish pulled open the barn’s front door, and the three men were greeted by the barks and yelps of the sled dogs within. Simon stopped at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting within. He could see an oil lantern hanging from a post to his right, but it was unlit. The only light filtered through the narrow windows up high.
The barn was partitioned, with a dozen pens lining either side of the building. The wooden doors that separated the pens from the main thoroughfare were short, stopping just above Simon’s waist. Hounds’ heads peered from above the doorways as they rested their paws on the top of the wooden planks, alternating between panting enthusiastically and barking incessantly.
The sled master led the two men past the kennels to where heavy, knee-length winter parkas hung from hooks. He pulled the coats from them, revealing a pair of thick mittens and tinted goggles beneath.
“You’ll need these for the trip,” Parrish said. “I recommend leaving behind your fancy hats. They won’t do you any good once we’re past the gate. You’re far more likely to lose them in a snow drift.”
Simon reluctantly removed his top hat, placing it on the wooden table before him. Luthor followed suit, placing his bowler cap beside it.
“You might want to leave behind the cane as well,” Parrish offered to Luthor. “It won’t do you any good in the snow or on the ice.”
The apothecary looked down at his cane and shook his head. “I think I’ll keep it, but thank you kindly for the offer.”
Parrish shrugged. “Suit yourself. You gentlemen get dressed while I get the dogs hitched to the sled. I’ll come get you when we’re ready.”
As Simon and Luthor slipped on the thick parkas, Parrish manhandled a long, wooden sled from a storage closet at the end of the kennels. It had a pair of thatched seats on its frame and shiny metal skis attached to its underbelly. Though the sled appeared handmade, it also seemed extraordinarily sturdy and well maintained.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, sir?” Luthor asked as he fitted mittens over his hands. He struggled to grasp his cane after his hands were bundled against the cold, eventually settling for holding the haft under his arm.
“Are you asking if I’m prepared for the cold or the werewolves?” Simon asked as he slid the goggles over his head, letting them rest at his
neck in an imitation of Parrish.
“Either or both.”
“I believe it was you who said you’d much prefer an assignment to the beach resorts than one to the arctic western shore,” Simon said. “After spending some time in Haversham, I’m far more prone to agree with you.”
Luthor laughed and pulled up his own hood. The fur lining seemed to disappear against his thick muttonchops. “If we encounter the werewolves?”
Simon shrugged. “It’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it.”
“I don’t think the werewolves, if they are real, will appreciate the bridge we’re offering.”
Simon grew intensely serious. “Then we’ll burn the bridge to the ground… with them on it.”
The yipping and barking grew in intensity as the sled master began hooking up the dogs to the harnesses. The distraction broke Simon’s intense mood and brought a smile to his face. He noted the irony of the situation. The dogs they were using to pull the sled were all descended from wolves. It seemed a slight conflict of interest that they should pull a Royal Inquisitor as he investigated proof of their kin.
“We’re just about ready,” Parrish called from the front of the barn. “If you gentlemen would like to join me, we’ll be on our way.”
Simon pulled up his fur-lined hood. He looked back longingly at his top hat.
“My hat will be fine if I leave it here?” he asked.
Parrish shrugged noncommittally. “No one in their right mind would steal from Mr. Dosett. It’ll be fine here.”
The two men walked to the front of the barn, as Parrish led the dogs through the front door. The sled was already attached and bounced along the cobblestone street. Simon kindly closed the barn door behind them before catching up to the others as they headed toward the northern gate.
By the time they arrived, the gate was unfrozen. Water pooled on the ground at its entrance like a lake, though the liquid was already refreezing into a sea of ice. Steam rose in waves from the heated metal as it cooled quickly in the frigid air. The workers with their now-quieted flamethrowers stepped aside and absently wiped black soot from their cheeks and foreheads. Simon nodded appreciatively to the men but paused when he reached for the brim of his hat. He frowned disappointedly at the lack as the sled stopped at the door.
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 7
