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

by Jon Messenger

  The werewolves stormed the courtyard, surprising the thralls who stood guard at the estate’s front gates. The chieftain led their charge, rushing across the open field with all haste toward the line of gubernatorial guards who stood watch at the mansion’s entrance. The guards raised their rifles in unison and fired, sending a barrage of lead bullets through the air. Wolves faltered and fell around Kidnip. She offered them a sympathetic glance over her shoulder, but their injuries merely fueled her anger.

  With long strides, she covered the last of the distance as the guards reloaded their rifles. She crashed her massive bulk into their line, tossing aside the significantly smaller men. The rest of the werewolves reached the guards, and the previously organized combat descended into chaos.

  Far below the battle, Simon and Luthor reached the tunnels, which branched into a multitude of directions so close to the estate. Luthor scratched his head inquisitively as he perused the many tunnels, trying to find landmarks that would seem remotely familiar.

  Simon, in contrast, wasted no time at all turning toward one of the smaller branches. He entered the tunnel without hesitation, despite its relative gloom compared to the more mainstream thoroughfares.

  “It’s here,” the Inquisitor remarked.

  “How can you be sure?” Luthor asked as he hurried to keep pace with his mentor. “They all look the same.”

  Simon smiled knowingly. “When am I ever not sure? It helps that I have an impeccable sense of direction.”

  Luthor stopped and stood at the entryway to the darker tunnel. “You once got lost while attending a formal dinner invitation only a few blocks from your house. I had to roam the streets of Callifax just to find you.”

  Simon ran his hand along the wall as he continued walking. “In my defense, I had been drinking heavily that night.” He paused and turned toward his companion, flashing a broad smile. “Regardless, the passage is right here.”

  Simon stepped around a nearly invisible corner and disappeared from sight. Luthor sighed and rushed after the man, lest he invade the estate alone.

  The tunnel was very familiar, narrow and dark as it led to the secret doorway into the estate. After a brisk walk down the passage, it ended in a nearly perfect stone edifice, one that blended seamlessly into the surrounding rock walls.

  “The entrance is here somewhere,” Simon remarked quietly. “Help me find the release lever.”

  Luthor stepped beside his friend and felt along the rough wall. “This would be far easier if the access on this side was as obvious as the wall sconce was within the fencing room.”

  “When are we ever so lucky, Luthor?”

  Luthor was forced to shrug in agreement. Simon’s hands moved impossibly quick as he searched every protruding stone and pressed every indention along his part of the wall. The dead end appeared as crudely worked stone, which left the face of the wall coarse and rough. There were far too many individual indentations.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Simon swore as he struck the wall with his open hand. “Our diversion on the surface will only last so long. We need to find our way inside!”

  Luthor glanced at his infuriated friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, step away for a second and take a breath. Sometimes, situations like these require space and perspective, perspective you just can’t attain while staring at the same unchanging wall.”

  Simon sighed but nodded. He walked away, throwing his hands above his head.

  Luthor glanced quickly over his shoulder to ensure Simon’s back was turned. The apothecary touched the frame of his glasses and a soft green light poured over the lens. Immediately, an innocuous stone by Luthor’s right hand glowed with an unearthly light. Reaching down, he pressed the stone and a series of clicks sounded from behind the false wall.

  “What did you do?” Simon asked as he rushed back to the secret entrance.

  Luthor lowered his hand and the light faded from his glasses. “I told you, sir, it’s all about perspective. I found it much easier to peruse the wall without your constant complaining.”

  Simon patted Luthor on the back. “Remind me to berate you for your obvious lack of respect later.”

  The Inquisitor placed his hands on the wall and pushed. The stone wall, which had seemed so solid and heavy moments before, swung easily aside on well-worn hinges.

  The dark tunnel was flooded with light as the door opened to the wide, square fencing room. The electric lamps burned brightly across the ceiling and within sconces across the walls, illuminating the six men who stood in the center of the broad dueling mat.

  Simon paused at the doorway, warily eying the assortment of swords held in the men’s hands. “It appears that Gideon Dosett shrewdly anticipated this course of action.”

  The two men stepped through the doorway and spread apart, granting both the space necessary to draw their weapons. Simon pulled his saber from its sheath, as Luthor released the narrow blade concealed within his cane. Only after they were in position did Simon recognize the man standing at the forefront of their adversaries.

  “Mr. Mulvane,” the Inquisitor said. “It’s been some time since last we met.”

  The governor’s assistant nodded slowly. “Sadly, this will be the last time you and I meet, Inquisitor. Truth be told, I never much cared for you. You’re far too arrogant a man.”

  “I look forward to making you regret those words,” Simon replied.

  Mulvane chortled and glanced at the five swordsmen standing behind him. “Those are brave words when you are so clearly at the disadvantage.”

  “I agree that the fight is far from fair, but we hardly have time for you to call for more reinforcements.”

  Simon could see the anger blaze in Patrick Mulvane’s eyes at his blatant mocking. Though Mulvane was correct that Simon portrayed arrogance, it was mostly for show, as a way to unnerve his opponent. An angry opponent was a careless opponent and easily defeated.

  “I look forward to presenting your head to our master,” Patrick hissed.

  He rushed across the room, the other guards in tow. Simon sidestepped Patrick’s charge and drove his shoulder into the man as he passed, sending the assistant sprawling to the ground. He turned his attention instead to the two other guards who rushed at him.

  From his periphery, Simon could see Luthor similarly detained. The apothecary removed his bowler cap and threw it into the face of one of the guards, distracting him as Luthor parried the first swing from one of the remaining swordsmen.

  The two men before Simon were skilled at swordplay but clearly faltered when fighting as a team. As one thrust, the other hesitated for fear of striking his partner. The man’s hesitation created openings that Simon exploited; the Inquisitor drove first his knee into the man’s exposed hip before following with an elbow to the side of the man’s head. The guard crumpled, but Simon had little time to savor his victory before he had to parry another frustrated swing from the other swordsman.

  Though disoriented, Mulvane quickly regained his feet as well. Simon backed away from the two men, giving himself more room to maneuver. Patrick placed his hand on the guard’s back, practically shoving him forward to engage the Inquisitor. The man staggered, his swing coming without finesse. Simon blocked it, their blades ringing as metal struck metal. Simon slid his sword downward until their hilts struck one another. He grabbed the swordsman’s wrist to keep him from pulling away before rearing back and slamming his forehead into the guard’s nose. He rocked backward as Simon released the man’s sword. The Inquisitor followed with a kick to the man’s chest, which sent him sprawling onto the mat.

  Patrick Mulvane watched the guard fall before hesitantly stepping backward. Simon angled his blade toward the governor’s assistant, pointing the tip of his sword toward the slowly retreating man.

  Luthor stepped behind Patrick and struck the man across the neck with the haft of his cane. Mulvane lurched in surprise and stumbled forward. His feet tangled over one another and he tumbled forward far quicker t
han Simon could anticipate. The assistant struck the tip of Simon’s saber and slid painfully down the length of the blade. As he slowly came to a stop and his knees buckled, he looked up pleadingly into Simon’s surprised face.

  Before Simon could respond, Patrick’s eyes fluttered closed and he slumped heavily, his ability to remain upright possible only by the support of the sword piercing his chest.

  The Inquisitor turned his blade, and Mulvane’s body slid free before collapsing limply to the ground.

  “Sir, I didn’t—” Luthor began.

  “Duck!” Simon yelled as one of the guards regained his feet behind the apothecary.

  Luthor immediately dropped to his knees and Simon flung his sword like a projectile, striking the guard in the chest and driving him to the ground. The swordsman lay unmoving, the hilt of Simon’s saber protruding skyward from where it had pierced the man.

  Luthor slowly stood and looked behind him. “I thought you were hesitant to kill those enthralled by the demon.”

  Simon knelt beside Patrick’s body as he felt for a pulse that was no longer there. “I was and still am. However, you were right before and though I was loathed to admit it, sometimes the ends truly do justify the means. When we kill Gideon Dosett, and trust that we shall, at least some small part of these two men’s deaths will be redeemed.”

  Simon walked past Luthor without looking at his friend. He paused beside the prone body of the guard and pulled his sword free from his chest. Kneeling again, he placed his hand on the man’s chest before taking a piece of his tunic to wipe the bright red blood from the saber. Wordlessly, the Inquisitor stood and sheathed his sword once more.

  “Come now, Luthor,” Simon said flatly, though his lack of emotion merely betrayed the flurry of anger barely concealed beneath his surface. “Let’s find Mr. Dosett and repay him a thousand fold for everything he’s made us do in his name.”

  There was blood in the autopsy room as they walked past, fresh blood that streaked beyond the darkened doorway as though something had been dragged inside. A part of Simon wanted to explore, to find out the most recent of Gideon’s victims, but a greater part of him realized it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered aside from destroying the demon and severing his abyssal control over Haversham.

  The light flickered to life in the autopsy room as Simon walked past, and he spun rapidly. Luthor stood in the doorway, his hand frozen against the inner wall, his fingers still grasping the light switch. The apothecary tensed and made a retching noise before bringing his arm to his mouth and backing out of the room.

  Curiosity getting the better of him, Simon returned to the doorway and peered within. He understood Luthor’s revulsion. What remained of a man was pinned to the metal table with hooks pierced through his wrists and ankles. The once-obese man had been vivisected, carved upon until he was properly autopsied. The spray of blood that marred the walls and the smear that led from outside the room to the table itself told Simon that the man was most likely alive when the surgery began.

  Arching his eyebrow curiously, Simon stepped over the trail of viscera and approached the side of the table. The smell was hideous, a combination of feces and gore. He wasn’t sure if the man defecated himself during the torture or if the smell merely exuded from the piercing of the man’s bowels, but it lingered in the air like a noxious cloud.

  Simon arrived beside the table and turned the deceased man’s head toward him for identification. His fears were founded as he finally caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Though he had always seemed jovial during their meetings, the horror now permanently cast on the governor’s face barely concealed the man’s features.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Luthor asked, covering his nose to block the atrocious smell.

  “Governor Godwin,” Simon confirmed. “Mr. Dosett is truly becoming desperate if he’s begun eliminating his closest allies. He must realize that his plan for control of both Haversham and the crown is unraveling quickly.”

  Simon walked out of the room, turning off the lights behind him as he exited. “He’s growing desperate, which means he’s growing equally dangerous. We have to put a stop to him with all haste, which means we no longer have time for petty distractions.” He turned toward Luthor and stared intently at the apothecary. “Next time I avoid a room, do me a favor and leave the light in its original off position.”

  Before Luthor could reply, Simon stormed toward the staircase at the end of the hall.

  They walked up the stairs slowly, weapons drawn as they listened intently for any noise from above. The stairwell ended in a narrow hallway, one direction from which led to the kitchen while the other led to the foyer.

  Simon stole a glance around the corner but found the first floor abandoned. He motioned for Luthor to follow as they crested the stairwell. The soles of their shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as they entered the foyer.

  “Where is he hiding?” Luthor whispered as they rounded the corner and stood before the stairwell leading to the familiar second floor landing.

  “Up, most obviously,” Simon replied, equally quietly.

  “In his office, you presume?”

  Simon shook his head. “Potentially, or perhaps he’s in the ballroom. It’s impossible to tell in such a grandiose mansion.”

  Luthor tightened his grip on his blade. “Then shall we separate and explore as much of the mansion as possible?”

  Simon turned toward the apothecary sharply, a look of absolute horror portrayed on his face. “Split up? That is one of the worst possible plans I’ve ever heard you offer. You never split up, certainly not when hunting a demon. There is strength in numbers.” Simon huffed in disgust. “Split up, indeed.”

  Luthor clenched his jaw, uncertain if this ridicule was merely retribution for his earlier disrespect or if Simon was genuinely disappointed. “What would you have us do then, sir? Shall we slowly and deliberately search every inch of the estate until we uncover where he has concealed himself?”

  Simon’s features relaxed and he smiled softly. “Of course not, Luthor. You are correct, of course, that would take far too long.”

  The Inquisitor sheathed his sword and cupped his hands against either side of his mouth.

  “Gideon Dosett!” he yelled, startling Luthor badly enough that the apothecary stumbled away. “How dare you wallow in your cowardice, sending minions instead to fight your battles? You’re an abysmal demon, and I don’t mean that in the slightest bit as a compliment. Show yourself. Come and face me!”

  Luthor regained his composure and clenched Simon’s arm tightly, pulling his hands away from his mouth. “Have you taken a leave of your senses?”

  Simon raised a finger to his lips, encouraging silence on the part of Luthor.

  The sound of heavy furniture being tossed aside echoed from high above them. They craned their necks backward as they sought the source of the noise, but they saw nothing on the landings above them.

  “You have been a thorn in my side for far too long, Inquisitor,” Gideon’s voice boomed from the floors above them. His voice sounded deeper and more malicious than it had been during their previous encounters. “I should have killed you when I had you alone in my office, rather than bending you to my will. I see my error now, one that I don’t intend to repeat.”

  Simon and Luthor looked at one another.

  “The ballroom,” Simon confirmed. “Now wasn’t that far easier than searching the entirety of the estate?”

  “You’re a fool,” Luthor scolded, “and you take far too many liberties.”

  “I do what is necessary, as I have always done,” Simon retorted. He placed his hand on the small of Luthor’s back, guiding him toward the stairwell. “Now let’s make haste before he has a chance to set a trap for us.”

  Simon and Luthor rushed to the stairwell and bounded up the marble steps, their footfalls echoing through the vaulted central passage. They quickly reached the second-floor landing. Though both men still felt the need to rush, they slowed their pa
ce as they examined the hallway and rooms that extended from the wide landing. They could see the doorways to their previous rooms in the distance, the doors ajar and assorted broken furniture strewn into the hallway.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Luthor remarked.

  Simon nodded and pointed toward the next stairwell, the one that concluded on a landing before the ballroom. “Then let’s not delay the inevitable. I would so hate to keep him waiting.”

  Luthor nodded and rushed toward the base of the next stairs. He ascended two stairs at a time, his hand clenching the pommel of his cane tightly and the tickle of magic coursing through his free hand.

  As he reached the third-floor landing, the burning in his forearm returned with a vengeance, sending searing pain through his bicep and into his shoulder. Without pulling up his sleeve, he knew the dangerous black tendrils had already reappeared around the edges of the inflamed rune. Simon’s estimation had been correct; Gideon Dosett was evidently in the ballroom.

  The door was open, offering a clear view across the expansive formal hall. Luthor lowered himself, using the top stair as protection as he examined the room beyond. Gideon Dosett stood in the center, without any attempt to conceal himself.

  Luthor turned toward Simon, ready to describe the scene before him, only to find the stairwell behind him empty. Simon was nowhere to be seen.

  “Simon,” Luthor hissed. “Simon?”

  He strained to hear anything coming from the floors below, but the mansion was blanketed with utter silence.

  The silence was shattered by a frighteningly commanding voice that rolled from the ballroom. “Mr. Strong, I know you’re there. Please do come and join me.”

  Luthor turned his attention slowly back toward the ballroom, his eyes widening as he saw how much closer Gideon now appeared. The man stood just within the doorway to the hall, a broad smile cast upon his face as he extended his arms in invitation.