by Keith Walter
The Entregon was more than just a transport ship. It was a demon, an insatiable beast with the will and power to wipe this entire port off the map. In the whispers of old soldiers, it had another name: the Ship of the Damned. Rumor was that the Entregon, through some dark magic, was able to consume fey like a spider. She could drain their power until they were nothing but a dead husk. A noble and a demon would be meeting at his dock tomorrow morning, gods help him.
Barclay was pulled from his trance by the sound of the last transport passing. The truck was laboring to get up to speed. Under the dock lights he could see that this one wasn’t like the others. Instead of a fabric-covered troop transport, this last truck pulled a flatbed carrying an ornate metal box. It was a perfect cube, with six hooks on each vertical corner attached to chains holding it tight. The runes shone brightly. He could tell they hadn’t been applied as an afterthought, instead they seemed carved into the sides of the box itself. With everything he had learned tonight, Barclay didn’t want to imagine what was inside that box. And yet, memories from long ago pulled ideas up from the depths of his mind.
Time seemed to fly past as he gathered the supplies the soldiers requested. Before he realized it, afternoon had turned to evening and there was still much that needed to be done. He cursed under his breath, forced to seek out the quartet from earlier and announce that the next work shift would be showing up soon. They told him in no uncertain terms to close the port to all business until they left, which left Barclay to spend the next half hour on the phone cancelling shifts and promising bonus pay the following week. Thankfully no one asked any pressing questions—they were smart enough to know communications were being monitored.
Most of the men and women in his employ had no other options. The fey cared about castes, family names, and strength more than ability or loyalty. Barclay couldn’t stand that world. He regularly sought out the weak and underserved, offering good pay and a chance to learn. Many had never been properly trained in magic, some were even half-humans born outside the fey world, but it didn’t take a rune master to load cargo.
He taught them spells and skills they could one day use to build a life outside the docks. And in return they gave him unwavering loyalty. It was the only way he could run a business like this, without fear of his people selling him out to the Union. He liked it better this way. Even though many had gone on to bigger things throughout the Union, they remembered their roots. It was almost like a proper clan.
With just himself manning the docks, the soldiers seemed to recognize and dismiss him quickly. The moment he was sure the soldiers were ignoring his comings and goings, he visited the warehouse right next to the office. It was easily the oldest and shabbiest warehouse around. Customers avoided using it, which was by design. As he walked through the sparsely filled wood structure, he tapped his feet on inconspicuous boards and walls. As expected, everyone had secured the trap doors and hidden compartments within moments of hearing the alarm. All that was left was to power the emergency spells, ensuring all contraband would be destroyed if found.
Ulsimore was an excellent boss, all things considered. He understood numbers, he was extremely disarming and likable, and he had connections that even Barclay couldn’t trace. But he was no sailor. When he had first opened this port, it had been the failure one might expect from a manager of people trying to play with toy ships. The only thing that kept it afloat was Ulsimore’s connection to the black market on the infamous Wolfe Island. When the ships were off schedule and the sailors poorly chosen, it was the influx of special jobs that kept the doors of the port open. So when Ulsimore reached out to Barclay, it wasn’t just for his ability to captain a ship, it was for Barclay’s own back-alley dealings after the war. It had taken Barclay years to fix Ulsimore’s fumbling attempts to set up both a functioning shipping port and discreet operations. If he survived the morning, Barclay didn’t want his work going to waste.
Once he was satisfied prying eyes wouldn’t catch a glimpse of anything, he walked to what was commonly called the graveyard. Ulsimore was a wealthy man, having established several businesses over the years, and fancied himself a collector. There were about a dozen ships from various eras lining an unused dock on the far end of the bay, well clear of real business. Barclay walked by each one, wondering briefly if the entire port idea hadn’t been an excuse for Ulsimore to hold his treasures.
The first ship he passed was an old ferry from an adventure park, and at 190 feet long it was the biggest ship in the collection. A Roman Penteconter, with its large eyes, sat next to a Viking longboat and privateer sloop, each one listing hard to one side or another. Each floated, but only just, as the maintenance runes hadn’t been renewed for decades. Barclay had been forced to post small signs to keep anyone from wandering too close. Next, an old barge sat low in the water filled to the brim with rusted metal, one of Ulsimore’s initial business plans that didn’t pan out.
The last ship was easily in the worst shape, or so it appeared. It was a wooden sloop whose aft was partially submerged and stuck firm in the mud of the lake. The odd location of a stony ridge seemed the only thing keeping the front above water. Frayed lines and sails clung to what was left of her mast and deck boards gave way to large holes in her superstructure. It barely looked strong enough to hold up its own weight, but Barclay just hopped from the dock and headed down below.
As he closed the soft wooden door to the lower deck behind him, he tapped a series of nearly invisible runes with his right hand, and the interior lit up. The glamor of a wet, dilapidated interior washed away, replaced by a clean, well-used sitting room with a desk and dozens of unmarked boxes of varying sizes. This was Barclay’s real office. He reached into the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a pair of faded opera glasses.
He jammed the glasses in his pocket and strode back outside, the glamor reactivating the moment he touched the doorway. Seconds later he was back on the dock, casually strolling down the row of ships. There was still plenty of room between Ulsimore’s treasures. It made the dock look all the more barren, but who knew what might strike the boss’s fancy in his travels. As Barclay approached the ferry, he paused, glancing around for what seemed like the twentieth time. Confident no one was looking, he took a deep breath and walked off the side of the dock. Anyone looking would have immediately understood that something was amiss as Barclay vanished into thin air.
The truth was this: the world had more than just the three dimensions humans experienced, and for the most part they existed completely separate. However, every once in a while the lines between them blurred, spilling one dimension into another. The result was a pocket, a bubble of jumbled dimensions both part of and apart from the rest of the world. From the outside, one could only see the extension of their own dimension, a mirage of their world. On the inside, however, one was hidden within that mirage and invisible to everyone outside. Naturally occurring pockets could be rather annoying, a good place to lose something and never find it again.
Barclay’s favorite souvenir from Ulsimore’s collection was a golden key, supposedly forged almost a thousand years ago. It created a pocket space on demand, needing only a magical anchor in the dimension in which to spread. He’d never actually touched the key, but he’d advised Ulsimore where to use it. And use it he had.
Barclay’s foot touched a metal rail just off the dock. This was the anchor, a magic-infused vessel perfectly hidden within the pocket. The moment he stepped across the edge of the pocket, he disappeared from all that might be watching, and the great ship inside was his to behold. Leaping forward and landing softly, Barclay mused on the times he’d been less careful. The ship was just as invisible to him as anyone else from the outside, and on no less than three occasions he’d slipped on the rail and tumbled oafishly into the lake.
Tension was released from his muscles for the first time all night as Barclay stood on the deck of another ship from a bygone era. It almost seemed a shame that those outside couldn’t see the 1920’s super ya
cht. It remained in miraculous condition, suffering from none of the deterioration of the other ships. True, she was dusty and dated, but she had a presence to her that Barclay couldn’t quite pin down. The fact she was the only thing around that was strong enough to act as an anchor for the pocket made Barclay appreciate the old ship immensely.
Ulsimore had given Barclay the pocket key the last time he had visited, impressing upon his subordinate that such a relic was worth more than the rest of the business combined. Barclay hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t even known Ulsimore might own something so rare. But the moment Ulsimore mentioned it, Barclay understood the enormous potential—and trust—it represented. Being able to hide anything in plain sight, even from the best sensor-types, meant there was nothing too dangerous to handle now. Of course, Ulsimore wasn’t lying when he said the key was worth more than the entire business. Entrusting Barclay with something like that was the ultimate sign of respect, and Barclay had spent the last few months testing it before he put it to real use.
Barclay walked down toward the rear of the ship. He passed the cockpit and strode around what must have once been a luxurious lounge enclosed with glass windows. Frowning, he crouched low before leaping fifteen feet into the air and landing easily on the top deck. A single folding chair awaited him, and he heavily slumped into it. Spying would have been nicer from the lounge, but this yacht held its own secrets. Outside of the cockpit and lower bunks, he hadn’t been able to open a single door. He couldn’t turn the damn thing on, and he couldn’t get into the engine room to see what was the matter. Still, she was extremely valuable in times like these.
From inside the pocket, Barclay could look out over the whole of the port. The dozens of soldiers walking the docks and waiting had no idea. Pulling the old opera glasses from his pocket, he looked out at warehouse thirteen. The glasses were fogged and cracked, but once he pushed a little magic in them, they became clear as day. This was why he kept them, they could zoom in on anything up to a mile away and maintain perfect clarity. Even better—he tapped the side of the frames as a group of lounging soldiers came into view—they allowed him to hear anything within their sight.
“We have to unload the big one and get it inside,” the first soldier said.
“Why?” a second chimed in. “The thing weighs a ton and we can’t even touch it without getting knocked on our asses.”
“I don’t know. But it has to be covered at night. This is from the majors directly. They said it can’t be exposed to the night sky for whatever reason.” The first soldier saw the uncomprehending look on his companion’s face and shrugged.
“That thing is airtight. What does it even matter?” the second questioned again.
“Yeah,” a third jumped in. “Shouldn’t we be prepping the prisoners instead? The Entregon is on its way, and the only thing it’s going to care about is our offering.”
“Look,” the first fey shouted, clearly frustrated. “You can either get your squad and get this thing inside the damn building, or you can go take it up with the one of the majors.” The other soldiers immediately stopped resisting. It wasn’t hard to guess that the quartet Barclay met earlier were the majors. Judging by these men’s reactions, they were all terrified of their superiors.
The second man turned and hit a button on the right wall of the warehouse. The twenty-foot wide mechanical door lifted up halfway, revealing two dozen soldiers standing at attention, backs to the door. Zooming in, Barclay could see another group of haggard men and women huddled together away from the soldiers. Each one had a shiny metal collar, glowing red with runes. Anger rose up inside him; this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go.
These were the converts he had fought to protect and who the Union said would have a better life after victory. Instead, he saw the heads of the converts lower as one. One of the majors Barclay had met earlier appeared from the back of the warehouse. In his element now, the major was less rigid, almost floating across the floor.
The major circled the group brushing his hand against those closest. Several staggered after the touch, one even falling to the ground. The nearest soldier leapt from the line, kicking the prone man and dragging him back to his feet. Barclay was quickly reaching the end of his rope, unable to contain the power gathering in his fists. All of a sudden the major raised his head and stared directly at Barclay.
“Oh. hell,” Barclay let out as he looked around for something to hide behind. He nearly kicked himself when he heard the squawk of an angry seagull making an aggressive scene on the way to the warehouse. “He can’t see you, idiot,” Barclay whispered to himself. He watched the bird dive-bomb the soldiers before bursting into a spray of ash. He pulled up the glasses again and zoomed in on the major, who still held up a finger pointed where the bird had been flying. Smoke lifted from the finger and Barclay smirked. “Fire. Good to know.”
He settled his emotions and headed into the cockpit, sliding a map of the docks and warehouses out on the navigation table. Centuries ago, when he had first found himself on a ship escaping from his problems, he had viewed the navigation table with respect. During the war he had made some of the hardest choices of his life at a table with a map in front of him. One simple motto rang out in his mind: a plan is only as good as the intentions behind it. Even in this place so far from the fighting, he knew that his intentions would never change. For a moment, he considered making a call to someone with a better head for strategy, but quickly nixed the idea. He couldn’t take the risk of involving anyone else. He poured over the map for what felt like hours before returning to the deck.
In the far corner, just a hop from the dock proper, there were a dozen wooden crates. He grabbed the top-most one and left the pocket altogether. For the next hour, he made sure to look busy, finishing up the Union’s list of supplies and moving quickly from warehouse to warehouse. What the soldiers never picked up on was that every other load or so he would carry another of those unassuming crates, leaving them almost randomly around the docks.
Where humans had just started exploring the chemical properties of their world, the fey had been researching and practicing for millennia. Coincidentally, Barclay had just received several crates of Fog, as it was known. When Fog was set alight, it had explosive results and produced a thick red smoke. The smoke scrambled spells and runes in the area, and inhalation could stunt the ability of a fey to utilize their magic. It wasn’t particularly dangerous, and could only cover a small area, but it was widely used by thieves and malcontents to screw up security and cover an escape. No surprise, then, that the Union had eliminated all legal development and sale of the product.
It took him all of three hours to place the crates in the precise locations. Luckily, none of the soldiers knew what went where around the warehouses, so none of them questioned him. Barclay waited until another half hour for dusk to turn to night, and watched the four majors get into a truck and drive off. As he hadn’t seen nor felt their master since their first meeting, he suspected the majors were heading out to give a status report. It was standard procedure even when he was in the service. Nobles would never lower themselves to mingling with the common troops, so the superior officers would report each day. Too proper to stay at the port himself, and too arrogant to accept reports over communications, this particular noble had played right into Barclay’s hand.
Giving the majors a fifteen-minute head start, Barclay sauntered back to his true office to pick up the last supplies. A familiar coldness crept into his hands as he pulled out warn wooden case. His movements became stronger, more confident as he opened the latch and surveyed the contents. As much as he wanted to forget those memories of war, of sacrifice, he couldn’t deny that this was where he felt most comfortable. In war, there was no time to ponder, no time to feel afraid. There was no good, no evil—only what you were willing to do to survive. There was something simple there that he missed.
Barclay threw the last supplies into a duffel bag and crept back to the pocket. Leaping up to his c
hair, he set out the final preparations. First, he pulled out a large conch shell with intricate carvings and wards etched all around. Putting it to his lips, he blew with everything he had. No sound came out but the runes began to glow a brilliant green. The shell was standard equipment for any smuggling port. Once activated he had about an hour and a half of “quiet time,” which was a spell that would make communication impossible in the general area. Placing the conch down, he switched to the opera glasses and watched for any signs of alarm.
Minutes passed slowly and he felt assured that no one had caught on. Next, he pulled out a grimy red bandana and a small mirror that seemed to have frosted over with age. Barclay tied the bandana around his mouth and nose, then activated the small rune in front of his mouth. It wouldn’t do to get hit by the Fog himself.
The last thing in the duffle bag was an ornate recurve bow and a quiver of black arrows. The wood was worn and familiar in his hand, even after the decades it felt like an extension of himself. He pulled back the bowstring twice, activating the magic inside and remembering the feel of the weapon in battle. The night had grown silent, as if waiting with baited breath for what was to come. Barclay tugged a thin wooden arrow from the quiver and notched it on the bowstring. “This is a bad idea,” he mumbled as he pulled back on the string.
The first arrow hit a crate of the Fog all the way across the docks. Fire erupted and red smoke billowed from the area. Per the plan, most of the soldiers outside ran to see what happened. Barclay then waited for them to get closer to the fire before he let loose other arrows aimed at the crates around the warehouse closest to the office. Ulsimore had been good to him. He would make sure no evidence remained to implicate his boss.
