“We’re ready,” Parrish called to the two workers. “Open the doors.”
The workers gripped a long, metal bar that protruded from one of the doors. Their hands were covered with heat-resistant gloves that still sizzled as they came in contact with the metal. They pulled firmly against the door. Slowly, they began to separate and a sliver of light could be seen from the far side of the gate.
Parrish pulled his goggles into place on his face and both Simon and Luthor hurried to follow suit. As the crack widened on the door, the light pouring from the other side was blinding. The sun reflected off the smooth sheet of virgin snow, reflecting its brilliant white light onto the trio.
“Climb aboard,” Parrish said to the gentlemen. He motioned to the two seats on the sled, as he climbed onto the protruding ends of the metal skis behind the seats.
Simon and Luthor took their seats just as the door was pulled fully open. As they sat in the wicker chairs, the full force of the arctic wind struck them. Their exposed faces went immediately numb from the chill and despite their thick parkas, they both shivered from the cold.
With a loud yelp, Parrish drove the dogs forward. The animals gleefully bounded through the gate, throwing Simon and Luthor into the backs of their respective seats. The dogs raced out onto the snow and turned slightly to the left, tracing the edge of the frozen lake against which the city had been built.
In the distance, Simon could see the tall, blackened spires of the oil refinery. Spouts of flames leapt from the stacks, rising high into the air before falling apart into black soot.
With the cold burning his cheeks and lips, he buried his face in the thick fur of his collar. The flames belched again from the pillars, and Simon regretted his presumptuous conversation with the governor. Perhaps waiting out his assignment within the warmth of the estate wouldn’t have been a bad plan after all.
The sled dogs barked happily, as they bound through the thick, powdery snow. The metal skis on the bottom of the sled carved through the dunes of snow like a skiff through ocean waves, riding up the crest of the snowy hill before careening wildly down its leeside. Simon held his breath as he felt the sled slide unabated across an icy patch. As quickly as it slid, the dogs pulled the ropes tight and the sled lurched forward once more.
Simon didn’t care for this mode of transportation. Looking at Luthor’s pale expression in the seat next to him, he assumed the apothecary would agree with his assessment.
“How far is it to the refinery?” Simon called back over his shoulder.
The sled master bent his knees and lowered himself until his face was mere inches above the backs of the wicker seats.
“Say again, sir?” he asked.
Simon cleared his throat and felt the burn of the cold air against his dry esophagus. “I asked how much longer the trip would be.”
The Inquisitor looked at the refinery in the distance. It had grown closer during their trip but still seemed an eternity away. With the brilliant glare of the morning sun reflecting off the ocean of snow before them, he had no way to tell the passage of time. He assumed their trip had already been a few hours at least but was relying on an unreliable internal clock.
“About an hour,” Parrish replied. “Maybe a little longer if the ice along the edge of the lake has weakened. Our path is the most direct but relies on the flightiness of the shifting ice floes.”
“An hour,” Simon muttered. He turned back toward Parrish and spoke loud enough for the man to hear him. “How long have we been traveling thus far?”
Luthor turned his head at the question, clearly eager to hear the answer as well.
Parrish shrugged. “Thirty minutes? Maybe a little less.”
Luthor practically melted into his seat. Simon turned back with a huff and felt his stomach churn in response to the answer. Though he felt nauseated before he spoke to the sled master, the man’s response seemed to cause a revolt in Simon’s gastric tract.
He felt a large lump form in his throat and tried unsuccessfully to swallow the queasiness. As he felt the urge to vomit growing, he turned back to Mr. Parrish.
“Would you mind terribly if we stopped for a while?” he asked.
He couldn’t read Parrish’s facial expression behind the thick hood and tinted goggles, but the man’s frown was unmistakable. Simon expected to hear the man’s disapproval but was surprised when the sled master stood to his full height and barked unintelligible orders to the sled dogs. The animals rushed over a few more snowy mounds before their quick sprint became a slow cant. Eventually they came to a stop, panting and glancing around curiously.
“Mr. Dosett said that I was to follow your every request during your investigation,” Parrish said, no longer having to yell to be heard. “If you gentlemen would like to stop, we’ll most certainly stop.”
Simon tried to stand, but his legs felt weak and unsteady. He pushed off from the armrests of the wicker chair, managing to rest on his knees in the snow. Simon finally managed to roll out of his seat and sat for a moment on his hands and knees in the snow. Though it never happened, Luthor watched him intently from the far side of the sled, expecting his associate to vomit into the pure white snow.
“I thank you,” Simon said as he climbed to his feet. “It seems my intestinal fortitude isn’t what it should be. I’m surprised, to be honest. I’ve ridden in autobuses, zeppelins, trains, and many other forms of conveyance. It surprises me that the sled ride would be so detrimental to my constitution.”
Parrish shrugged. “Some people just have trouble when their conveyance, as you said, is being pulled by living creatures. They’re unpredictable and have a tendency to pull you from side to side a bit more than you’re used to. I would be lying if I said you were the first to grow ill on one of my trips.”
“Well, I appreciate your honesty,” Simon replied.
He turned toward the frozen lake, the edge of which began just down a gentle incline from where he stood. The snowy bank led seamlessly onto the crystal blue, icy surface of the lake. As he watched, Simon could see dark shapes moving beneath the ice, though it was hard to tell if it was something living or just blocks of ice trapped beneath the frozen surface.
He lifted his gaze and looked out over the frozen tundra. The lake stretched across his vision with the far shore barely visible in the distance. Beyond the shoreline, the ground rose toward mountain peaks to the north. The arctic wind rolled down from the mountains and poured unhindered across the flat ground. The realization that the wind was still blowing strongly across him made Simon shiver.
He was about to turn away when his eyes fell to the foothills across the lake. Small tendrils of smoke rose from the valleys between the rolling hills, rising up like black pillars into the frigid air. Simon raised his hand over his eyes, blocking out a little more of the glaring sunlight and stared toward the rising smoke.
“Mr. Parrish?” Simon called.
The sled master climbed down from his perch and walked around the sled. Luthor followed the sled master; he was suddenly interested in Simon’s observation.
“Sir?”
Simon pointed toward the smoke. “I see smoke rising from across the lake, as though rising from campfires or the like. Are there people living out here?”
Parrish nodded. “There are indigenous tribes that still live in this inhospitable land. They’re uncivilized brutes, living in portable leather homes and surviving off the land by hunting the few wild animals that survive in the tundra. I wouldn’t give them too much of a thought, sir.”
Simon shook his head. “The werewolves live out here as well, don’t they? How is it that the tribes haven’t been slaughtered by the werewolves?”
“Nothing is saying they haven’t been, sir.”
Simon pointed to the smoke. “They’re clearly still alive. If you were being hunted by werewolves, would you light campfires and draw the attention of every predator in the area?”
Parrish shrugged unconvincingly. “Mayhap they’ve found a way to live i
n peace with the monsters.”
“Magical creatures don’t know how to live in peace,” Simon replied flatly. “That’s why they’re considered monsters.”
Parrish sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. I haven’t had much interaction with the natives. All I know is that the werewolves prefer to attack Mr. Dosett’s businesses. What they do on their free time in between ruining Mr. Dosett’s factories, I couldn’t tell you.”
Simon stared at the smoke and struggled to see any movement. He wanted to see signs of life, proof that the indigenous tribesmen were still alive.
“Come, sir, we should be off,” Parrish said as the man turned back toward the sled. “We still have a journey ahead of us, and I’d like to have us back in the city before nightfall. If you think it’s cold now, you won’t want to get caught in the tundra overnight.”
Simon nodded and reluctantly turned away from the view of the foothills. Walking back to the sled, he stopped beside his wicker seat. He stared across at Luthor, who blanched at the thought of being flung around by the sled dogs once more.
“I hope our pause gave you a chance to steel your resolve,” Simon said with a laugh.
Luthor frowned and climbed into his seat without a reply. Simon took his seat beside his friend, but his gaze fell back to the wisps of smoke rising from the foothills in the distance.
“Did you find something worth your time?” Luthor asked.
“Like I’ve replied many times during this short investigation,” Simon said, “I don’t know. I have, however, discovered yet another mystery. This whole area seems like an onion. Every layer peeled back reveals another layer and another obstacle.”
“Like an onion,” Luthor said, “every layer peeled away is giving me another reason to cry.”
With another sharp shout, Parrish drove the dogs forward. The sled lurched and began its endless bouncing as they raced toward the refinery.
The refinery was far more intimidating the closer they got. The snaking pipes and hoses looked like a myriad of limbs from a demonic abyssal creature, forcing its way from the depths of the frozen earth. The belching flames from the tall smokestacks sounded like horrific roars of anguish.
Simon pulled his collar tighter over his nose and mouth as he began smelling the smoky scent in the air. He frowned as he noticed the dark discoloration on the snow, growing more marred and stained the closer they got to the refinery.
The sled dogs weren’t keen on approaching the factory either. They threw their heads from side to side and began sneezing. The sled jerked with each sneeze as the dogs pulled awkwardly on their harnesses. The Inquisitor felt for the animals. They longed to run freely across the frozen tundra rather than be confined near the industrialized structure. As much as Simon loathed riding any longer on the sled, he agreed with the dogs. Between the two options, the choice to ride along the tundra was much preferred to standing in the ashy shadow of the serpentine building.
Parrish pulled the dogs to a stop as a parka-covered man emerged from the main entrance of the factory. He had a handkerchief pulled up over his nose and mouth and a pair of goggles over his eyes. Simon couldn’t see any of his features. Not even a wisp of hair was hanging free of his deep hood.
“This is as far as I go,” Parrish said as they came to a stop. “My dogs don’t like being too close.”
“Understandably so,” Simon replied. “How will we contact you when we’re done here?”
“I’ll be watching. Once you come outside, I’ll come and get you both.”
Simon and Luthor climbed free of the wicker seats and stepped aside as Parrish turned the sled around. The dogs grew visibly more excited as they turned away from the refinery and faced the open snow beyond.
“Best of luck to you both,” Parrish said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
With a yell, the dogs began running, pulling the sled far away from the falling soot. Simon and Luthor watched the sled hurry away before turning back toward their liaison.
The man reached up with gloved hands and pulled down the handkerchief, revealing the thick beard beneath.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, wringing his hands uncomfortably. “I’m led to believe that you are the Royal Inquisitor?”
“Even in a thick parka, it appears my reputation precedes me,” Simon joked.
“I’m Mr. Tanner, the refinery foreman. Why don’t we head inside where we can talk in some warmth?”
Simon couldn’t remember the last time he heard a better idea. He nodded enthusiastically and followed the foreman as he led them through the doors and into the dark interior.
As soon as he crossed the threshold into the building, Simon felt blanketed by the warmth. Potbellied stoves burned brightly on either side of the doorway, cutting through the chill of the invading winter breeze. The smoke pipes leading from the stoves glowed cherry red from the heat, radiating across the three men as they paused in the doorway.
Simon sighed blissfully as he pulled down his goggles and pushed the hood from his head. Snow dropped from his hood and piled on the floor at his feet. He shook his shoulders, dropping free the remaining powdery accumulation from his parka.
“If only all of Haversham were this warm,” Simon remarked. “You have made this whole trip worthwhile with this single moment.”
The foreman laughed nervously. “Then let’s call this inquiry concluded and be on our way.”
Simon looked over to the man in surprise. “Is that what you think this is? Do you worry that this is an inquiry?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you are a Royal Inquisitor.”
“True, but this is an investigation, not an inquiry,” Simon corrected. “You are hardly on trial. I merely want to inquire…” He paused and frowned at his own choice of words. “I merely want to ask about the most recent werewolf attack on your facility. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Mr. Tanner cleared his throat and forced a smile. “Forgive me, sir. We don’t always receive the timeliest reports so far removed from real civilization. There is—“
“A reputation amongst the Inquisitors,” Simon interrupted. “We’re horrible men; reapers encased in petticoats, carrying notepads instead of sickles but no less deadly. Is that about right, Mr. Tanner?”
The foreman blushed. “That about sums it up, sir.”
Simon and Luthor both laughed. “Again, you have nothing to fear. While I would be lying if I said that there weren’t Inquisitors that lived up to that retched reputation, my associate and I are hardly those types of men. Show us what we want and we will be on our way with the least of interruptions to your work.”
Tanner seemed visibly relieved. He motioned toward a steel staircase leading up to an upper office. Simon and Luthor followed him, letting their boots clank loudly on the metal stairs. In stark contrast to the freezing cold outside, the factory was overtly warm. He even felt sweat beading on his brow with the parka becoming burdensome as they walked. Despite the pungent aroma in the air, he was glad to be indoors.
They entered the foreman’s cramped office. Tanner closed the door behind them, though large pane glass windows offered a broad view of the factory floor below.
“Can I take your jackets, gentlemen?” Tanner offered. “You will both die of heat stroke if you stay in those massive parkas much longer.”
He stripped off his own jacket, hanging it on a peg beside his narrow desk. He took both their parkas as well as they pulled them free and hung them beside his own. Simon took a seat on the hard chair across from Tanner, feeling like himself for the first time since leaving the governor’s mansion.
“I’m sorry,” Tanner said to Luthor, who still stood by the closed door. “We don’t have much of a budget, or need to be honest, for furniture in the refinery. Please take my chair. I don’t mind standing while we talk.”
Luthor dismissed his offer with a wave of his hand. “Don’t be silly. I’ve just spent far too much time seated during the world’s most uncom
fortable transport from Haversham. If I don’t sit for the next century, it’ll still be too soon.”
Simon retrieved a notebook from his jacket pocket while Luthor did the same. The apothecary also pulled out his glasses and placed them on his face, frowning as the lenses fogged over in the warmth of the office. Retrieving a pencil from the book’s bindings, Simon tapped its graphite tip against his tongue in anticipation of answers to his questions.
“Mr. Tanner, I know you’re a busy man. I’ll try to keep my questions brief so that you may return to your work.”
“I thank you, sir,” the foreman replied.
“Your factory has been attacked recently by these purported werewolves, is that correct?” Simon asked.
“Twice.”
Simon looked up from his notepad. “Twice? They seem to have a keen dislike for your specific refinery.”
Tanner laughed derisively. “It’s not just my refinery, sir. Every refinery and drilling operation has been attacked numerous times by these creatures. We’re actually lucky, being the closest operation to the city. The guards respond the quickest to my needs, meaning that the beasts seem hesitant to do more than passing skirmishes.”
“Have you seen these beasts?”
“With my own two eyes,” the foreman said. “Terrible beasts, they are.”
“In your own words, please describe them to me.”
Tanner sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re werewolves.”
Simon frowned and set his pencil on the top of his notebook. “Mr. Tanner, please refrain from such generalities. Assume you’re speaking to a man who knows nothing of mythology or creatures of legend. Assume that speaking a simple word like ‘werewolf’ would mean nothing to me. Describe them as you would to a child.”
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 8
