by Ian Whates
Very slowly, Ethelynne got to her feet, every breath hurting as she dragged air down a ravaged throat. A deep, worrying pain lingered in her belly but her limbs still worked enough for her to limp towards Wittler, and the small White drake crouched amid the remnants of the egg.
It stared up at her with bright, slitted emerald eyes, mouth opening to issue a faint hiss. Although a new born, Ethelynne knew on meeting those eyes she gazed upon something ancient, something that understood. It knows what I am, she thought, her gaze going to Wittler as his scorched, lipless mouth issued a final, rattling gasp and he lay still, flames dying to embers on his blackened flesh. I ain’t gonna burn…
She looked again at the White, watching it cock its head in apparent curiosity, wings spreading into an experimental flap. “The future,” she said. “That’s what lies in your blood.”
The White hopped forward, wings flapping with greater force, a screech issuing from its mouth followed by a gout of yellow flame. It met her gaze a final time with its terrible knowing eyes, then turned about and leapt nimbly onto Wittler’s corpse, head bobbing as it began to feed.
Ethelynne turned away and hobbled to the barge. It took a while to haul up the anchor, but when she did the current began to take the craft downstream. It would follow the river south then west, skirting the badlands and winding back into the jungle where, she knew from Clatterstock, another trading post waited. She allowed herself one last look at the White. It sat with head raised, serpentine neck bulging as it swallowed a chunk of Wittler’s flesh, then gave an appreciative squawk before returning to its meal, paying her no mind at all as the barge drifted on and she saw it no more.
Smokestack Lightning
Gavin G. Smith
Mississippi River, 1875
Sabin Revere stretched out and laced his fingers behind his head. He was lying on the bed in the lavishly appointed cabin on the Texas Deck of the paddle steamer the Pride of Jupiter. The elf was watching his lover as ‘she’ spun around the room. She was beautiful, but as attractive as the body was, the beauty was behind the violet coloured eyes. As the warm afterglow of their lovemaking faded, the way she looked just made him sad.
“Well?” she asked, raising her arms and turning around for him. “You didn’t say anything when you saw me.”
“I had little chance,” Sabin said smiling. “You all but leapt on me.”
“I did leap on you. I know you like variety.”
Sabin forced a smile. “You are always beautiful, no matter your form,” he said. He took a packet of cards from the bedside table and started shuffling it one handed. Her arms dropped.
“What is it?” she asked. Sabin did not answer. She lay on the bed next to him. “What?” more softly now. Sabin did not look at the beautiful blonde haired elven women now lying naked next to him. Suddenly Sabin was very much aware of the humidity, the motion of the river craft, the vibration of the throbbing engines that powered the three hundred foot paddle steamer, and the sound of the paddle blades, or buckets, dipping into the shallow turgid river. He felt a hand on his arm.
“I think someone lies dead,” Sabin said and cursed himself inwardly for saying it. She rolled off the bed and went to the mirror on the dresser and sat down.
“She was not a very nice person,” she told him. “And you know I have to hide.” Sabin said nothing for a moment. He just kept on shuffling the cards.
“What name will you give yourself?” Sabin asked. She told him the name grinning, grinning into the mirror.
“The gods will curse you,” Sabin said shaking his head.
“Sigrid Freysdottir?” It was clear that Renoir Bourbonne had not quite meant it to sound like a question. Sabin wondered if the owner of the Pride of Jupiter’s scepticism came from his own name. He was clearly trying to imply a connection to the Bourbon dynasty. The Confederate State’s southern gentry may not have been actual blooded aristocracy in the eyes of European old families, that didn’t stop them behaving as such in the new world. Even so, ‘Sigrid’ implying that she was descended from one of the progenitors of the entire elven race before they had been banished from Ālfheimr, was pretty bold. Though Bourbonne obviously followed the Olympian pantheon. The elven tycoon, like the majority of highborn elves, had long since turned his back on the Aesir and the Vanir for more civilised gods. Sigrid’s Norwegian accent, real, and the easily assumed bearing of an European aristocrat, fake, made the charade a little easier to sell. Sigrid just smiled as Renoir leaned down and kissed the back of her lace covered hand.
The elven tycoon had shoulder length silver blonde hair and was tall, with high cheek bones that made his face look somewhat angular, as had most of their race. It was difficult for elves to go to seed, they tended not to age or grow fat, but there was a softening around the otherwise angular lines of Bourbonne’s cheek bones that suggested the tycoon enjoyed indulging his appetites. He wore a light grey summer suit with a long jacket, and loose bow tie that Sabin decided was only a few steps away from a ruff.
Bourbonne wasn’t heeled. He didn’t need to carry a gun, visibly anyway. On one side of him stood the tall figure of something that had once been a man. It was dressed in the black Confederate uniform of one of the Cerberus units. The tight skin stretched over emaciated flesh, the black eyes, and the sewn-together lips told Sabin that the revenant had probably been raised by Bloody Bill Anderson himself. Nobody had been able to work out where the Confederate guerilla fighter and high priest of Hades had found so many hydra teeth to sew into his raised men’s mouths. The dead gunfighter had a Le Mat pistol at each hip. Sabin really didn’t want to tangle with the revenant. If he had to it would mean that their plan had already gone very badly wrong.
“This boat is beautiful, sir,” Sigrid said. Bourbonne beamed and she was right. The paddle steamer’s saloon was as plush and well-appointed as any fine hotel, well any fine hotel in the New World. There was just a little too much gilt and ostentation on display for Sabin’s taste. “Like a floating Versaile.” Bourbonne’s smile faltered. Too much, Sabin thought. Bourbonne was doubtless the younger son of a lesser family, but to accrue this much wealth and power in the Confederate States he would be no fool.
“And you, sir?” Bourbonne asked.
“Sabin Revere,” Sabin said. “A pleasure.” Swapping his cane from his right to his left, Sabin profferred his hand. Bourbonne took it. His grip was strong, assurred, it was not the soft grip of a pampered aristocrat.
“English?” Bourbonne asked.
“Indeed!” Sabin said, smiling.
“May I introduce you to the star of the show?” Bourbonne asked, the smile back on his face now. His Creole drawl was probably an affectation that he had become used to, Sabin decided. Bourbonne turned to the massive figure stood at his other shoulder.
“This is Spiculus,” Bourbonne said. The ogre was eight foot of muscle piled on muscle wearing only a subligaculum. His deep brown, almost black skin told of the slave’s African origins and glistened from where he had been oiled. His eyes were a light brown colour beneath a heavy ridge of bone. Sabin was surprised by the intelligence he saw in those eyes, but then he found that what he thought he knew about the various races often proved to be nonsense upon meeting said races. The ogre’s heavy jaw jutted forward, though his bottom incisors protruded only a little. Large, curled, ram-like horns grew from either side of thethick skull. Sigrid stared up at the ogre pretending to be entranced, at least Sabin hoped she was pretending. She reached up to touch one of his pectoral muscles.
“Miss...” Bourbonne warned. Sigrid stayed her hand but did not retract it.
“Sigrid, please,” she said. Spiculus had shown absolutely no sign that he was even aware of their presence.
“Siculus has been oiled for the games. I would hate for you to get it on your gloves and perhaps stain that pretty dress,” the tycoon said. Sigrid smiled at him and lowered her hand.
“Slavery, gladitorial combat, such things would never be allowed back home,” she turned to
look at the revenant, “even necromancy is frowned upon, you truly are very daring Mr Bourbonne. Like the emperors of Rome.” Bourbonne’s smile wasn’t quite making it to his eyes.
“Well some of these boys just don’t want to stop serving their country,” he told Sigrid. Sigrid opened her mouth to say something else.
“River pirates?” Sabin blurted. Bourbonne turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. A state of war between the Confederate States of America and the Union was still in effect, but major hostilities had stopped more than ten years ago. Now most of the fighting tended to come down to government supported cross border brigandage. “This man Murray?”
“No man,” Bourbonne spat. “He’s a godsdamned orc. This is what happens when you let slave stock think they are the same as civilised races. He’s no pirate either.” The tycoon’s accent was slipping slightly but Sabin couldn’t quite trace it. “He’s a union privateer. The Mississippi has a lot of places to hide, but he can’t hide forever. You saw the ironclad escort?” Sabin had seen the squat, angular, low form of the CSS Redeemer gunboat, bristling with cannon that was escorting them up the river. “Orcs are a cowardly and low people, as are the race traitors that run the Union. They would not dare attack a fully armed ironclad, we are perfectly safe.”
“Well I’m certainly pleased to hear it,” Sabin said.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more guests to greet before the games begin,” Bourbonne said.
“Godsdammned whoreson,” Sigrid said through gritted teeth as Sabin all but led her away.
“Will you calm down,” he hissed but he understood why ‘she’ was upset. Sigrid knew what it was to be hunted for the colour of your skin. Still, Bourbonne was about to become considerably poorer.
Sabin wasn’t trying to lose exactly, though he certainly didn’t want to be winning with such totality. The people he was playing were making it difficult to do otherwise, however. There were four of them, he suspected they were related. They were well dressed but their manners spoke of a rougher upbringing. Close to where Sigrid was leaning on the bar, smoking a cigarette in a holder, sat a fifth cousin or brother. He wore the grey dress uniform of a Confederate officer.
“You’re winning a lot, English,” one of the cousins sitting at the table said. He’d heard the others address him as Jimmy. He was the biggest, and the oldest looking with the exception of officer at the bar. His broken teeth, broad shoulders and powerful build running to fat suggested a dockside thug to Sabin. He had lived in enough port cities to know the type. The four of them had sat down at the table with the view to working together to fleece the ‘fancypants’ foreigner. They were lamentably bad at doing so.
“Sorry?” Sabin suggested absently. Both himself and Sigrid had been checking out the other guests in the saloon and Bourbonne’s security. There were a number of obvious gunmen. Older gentlemen, mainly human, though a couple of dwarves and a half elf. They wore their guns as if they knew what they were doing, and many of them bore scars; that, and the way the surveyed the room suggested that they were ex-military.
“Are you getting smart with me?” Broken-tooth Jimmy demanded.
“Hmm?” Sabin asked, turning back to the angry man he was playing cards with. “No, I’m trying to avoid any sort of smartness in this game. My deal?” He collected the cards and started to shuffle, continuing to look around the room. He felt someone grab his wrist. He was aware of the fifth brother/cousin at the bar taking an interest. At the same time he was aware at the periphery of Sigrid ferreting around in her purse. Sabin looked down at the thick fingers that had grabbed the cuff of his shirt.
“I don’t think you should deal,” Broken-tooth Jimmy said.
“Fordhams,” Sabin said evenly. “Of Saville Row. That’s in London.” He peeled Jimmy’s finger from his cuff.
“I don’t give a good godsdamn. I think we’d all be a lot happier if we done the dealing,” Jimmy spat. Sabin shrugged and handed him the pack and resolved to do his best to lose the next few hands.
“Hey, English,” the Confederate officer said from the bar as Jimmy shuffled the deck. He had relaxed a little when Sabin had handed over the cards. Sabin sighed and turned to face him, made sure that the confederate officer could see the two .45 calibre, silver-plated, pearl handled, single action, quickdraw model Colt Army revolvers in the crossdraw holster he wore over his crimson waistcoat.
“Either Sabin, or Mr Revere, please. And you are?”
“The name’s Major Tobin Larouxe, reckon you’ve heard of me,” the Confederate officer said.
“Sorry, no,” Sabin said. “But then I am not from here.” He saw the human’s face harden.
“I was wondering something,” the man growled. “When’s England going to get round to recognising the CSA?”
Sabin stared at him. He could see Sigrid trying to stifle a smile.
“Well funnily enough I was discussing that very matter with Mr Disrelli only yesterday.”
Tobin Larouxe was on his feet. “Are you making fun of me?” he snapped.
“Well I’m trying not to but you’re making it very difficult.”
“You better watch yourself, English,” Broken-tooth Jimmy said. “You think those fancy guns scare us?”
Sabin sighed. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps we should go our seperate ways?”
“First you owe me an apology,” Tobin Larouxe said. Sabin sighed.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Sabin offerred. For a moment Larouxe seemed taken aback by the apology. Then his eyes narrowed.
“You funning me again, boy?” Larouxe demanded.
“Ain’t healthy to go funning Tobin like that,” Broken-tooth Jimmy said. There were nods of agreement from the other brother/cousins.
“Fine, you tell me exactly what it is that you want from me so that I may extricate myself from this situation,” Sabin said. He wasn’t certain but he was pretty sure that Sigrid was trying to stifle a smile at his predicament.
“He’s yeller,” one of the younger members of the Larouxe clan said. Sabin turned to look at him.
“Is that it, boy, you yeller?” Tobin Larouxe demanded.
“Let’s say yes,” Sabin and stood up, reaching for his winnings. A number of the obviously wealthy guests in the salon were paying attention to the altercation, as where a number of the guards, but it was clear that nobody was going to intercede.
“Now just a second,” Broken-tooth Jimmy said. “You cheated us.” The rest of the Larouxe clan were nodding in agreement. “You just leave all that there.”
“Fine,” Sabin said and turned to move away from the table.
“You really are a coward ain’tcha boy?” Broken-tooth Jimmy said. There was laughter from the other Larouxe family members at the table. It was the word boy that made him stop.
“No,” Sabin said. “I was a boy before your first ancestor had coitus with the diseased slug and begat your fetid line, and given your collective stupidity I feel that it behoves me to explain that you have just been insulted.” He was aware of Sigrid slumping as the words came out of his mouth.
“Why you...!” Tobin was already drawing the .44 at his hip. Sabin acted instinctively. He drew one of the Siblings from its quick release sheath at his back and sent the throwing axe tumbling through the air. There was a gunshot. Guns! I have guns! Sabin thought too late. It felt like a hammer blow in his side, then burning. Sabin grabbed for his cane. Broken-tooth Jimmy was reaching for his pistol, the rest of his clan were doing likewise. Sabin drew the rapier blade from the sword cane and plunged it into Jimmy’s chest. There was another gunshot. The youngest Larouxe, the one who had called him yellow, had his pistol in his hand but he also had a red spot in the centre of his forehead. The back of his head and his hat were missing. Tobin Larouxe was staggering backwards, a smoking pistol in one hand, the throwing axe embedded in his head. Sabin finally had the presence of mind to draw his two Colts. The hard metallic clicks as his thumbs pulled back the hammers on the twin revolvers brought the
two remaining Larouxes up short. They froze. Broken-tooth Jimmy sat down hard and coughed blood down himself, the rapier still imbedded in his chest. Tobin Larouxe toppled over. Sigrid walked forward her derringer still smoking.
“Are we learning about the difference in the ballistic properties of a bullet, compared to flying ironmongery?” Sigrid asked.
“I forgot,” Sabin said apologetically. His side felt curiously numb and wet. He had the strong urge to sit down.
“Two hundred and fifty years since you started using firearms,” Sigrid said looking around. Sabin was aware that a number of the guards had their hands close to their weapons but none of them had drawn. There was the sound of clapping as Bourbonne made his way through the crowd towards them the revenant at his side.
“Well it seems like the games have started early.” The elven tycoon stood over Tobin Larouxe’s body and looked down at the axe embedded in the human’s head. “And someone invited a Viking.” He turned to one of his guards. “Remove the bodies and get this scum off my boat.” Several of the guards moved to grab the two remaining living Larouxe brothers/cousins. They started whimpering as they were hauled away. They didn’t seem keen to be left stranded so far from New Orleans and out amongst the bayous. “Please accept my apologies for this terrible lapse in hospitality.” Sabin heard screaming followed by splashes from outside the saloon. “But let me assure you that they will have a very difficult journey home.” Sabin sat down hard and touched his side. His hand came away wet and red. “But Mr Revere you are shot.” He beckoned over one of the slaves who had been serving some of the other guests in the saloon. “Boy, take Mr Revere here to see Doc Cole.” The slave bowed. Bourbonne turned to Sigrid. “My dear would you do me the honour of being my personal guest, at least until Mr Revere has been patched up? The games proper will surely begin soon, and I should hate for you to miss anything.”
