by Keith Walter
The soldiers quickly separated themselves, likely along lines of true battle experience. Of the fifteen that came to investigate, ten ran toward the next explosion without thinking. Five hesitated, trying to assess the threat first. Another soldier starting shouting from behind the group—a squad leader trying to organize the troops—but it was too late. The Fog was mixing with the smoke from the burning buildings and spreading through the docks.
From the silent flight of another black arrow, warehouse twenty-one on the opposite side of the docks erupted in a thunderous explosion. This was the opportunity Barclay had planned for. He slipped the bow over his shoulder and dove into the water, swimming across the little bay to warehouse thirteen. Halfway there he stood, willing the water to solidify under his feet and provide easier footing. He pulled the bow and rifled off three more arrows. Despite the years since he had used the old weapon, he was pleased to see he hadn’t lost his touch. Three more fires lit up the docks.
By the time he crept to shore, the scene was utter chaos. Disorganized groups were running from one fire to the next trying to put them out, while those hit hardest by the Fog were sitting on the ground dazed. The small side door to warehouse thirteen was wide open, and most of the guards inside had poured out to assist. The trouble with the Fog was that it wasn’t a clean agent. For some, taking a deep breath left them with the feeling of a long night of drinking, while others were knocked out at a mere sniff. Holding his hand to his mouth, Barclay felt the pulse of his mask’s rune filtering out the red smoke, and he hoped there weren’t many guards left inside.
He raced to the back of warehouse thirteen, cautiously remaining in the shadows. Magic welled up from within him as his right hand froze a large chunk of the back wall. A swift kick later, and the wall shattered into a million tiny pieces. Excitement boiled over as Barclay recognized that this was as far as his plan took him. From here on out it was a simple race to escape. The remaining guards inside rushed out to meet their attacker, but Barclay was one step ahead. Chanting a spell under his breath, he condensed the red smoke into balloon-sized balls that sought out and engulfed the unprepared guards. They fell softly, and Barclay was relieved to see they were weak enough to not get back up.
He waited three long beats, scanning the inside as best he could for any stragglers. Satisfied, he ran inside and grabbed the first prisoner. Shoving the bewildered man toward the hole he yelled, “Escape now or die trying!” The haggard people reeled back skeptically until a tall, dark-skinned woman leapt to her feet and started pushing the rest forward.
Barclay nimbly dodged the rushing bodies as he kept a close eye on the front door. The tall woman led the group through the open back wall. He waited for everyone to exit, but a shorter woman with auburn hair refused to leave. She stood in the hole and locked eyes with Barclay, tilting her head toward the exit meaningfully. “I’m coming,” Barclay assured her. “Make sure you have everyone.” The woman nodded and disappeared behind the back wall.
Alone now, Barclay let his attention center on the giant metal cage. In the chaos, the thing had been knocked on its side. He took a step toward it and saw the wards fade ever so slightly. It had never occurred to him that the Fog might be able to affect wards that powerful. For a moment he thought about trying to free whatever was inside, but then took the idea back. There was no time for that level of magic and no telling what would come out of it. It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to weigh the life of one against many, but it never got easier. He already had several dozen lives to worry about now, and if Barclay wanted any of them to survive, he knew he couldn’t waste another second. He shot his last arrow at the main rune and saw the others flicker. That was all the help he could manage before he raced outside.
The group of escapees was huddled together tightly and, thankfully, silent. The dark-skinned woman stood at the front, her long arms being held by half a dozen hands and acting like a steering wheel for the group. The auburn-haired woman stood slightly apart, her eyes constantly scanning the group and her surroundings. Well, well, Barclay thought, his little plan was working better than expected. This kind of sneaky hiding-and-distracting wasn’t really his forte. But no matter how angry he’d been when he was looking at the docks map, he wasn’t fool enough to take on an entire battalion of soldiers alone.
In the back of his mind, Barclay knew this would permanently burn every bridge he had within the Union, marking him a criminal of the highest order. His only regrets were for Ulsimore and the workers who weren’t going to be able to come back to work. Still, he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He hoped they understood. The commanding officer in him raged against all those who sought to oppress those weaker than themselves.
Barclay made a waving motion toward the dark-skinned woman, and the huddled mass of prisoners moved as one with her. The auburn-haired woman immediately moved to the rear, keeping watch for following soldiers.
All the warehouses were fully engulfed in flames within minutes. Shipping containers littered the grounds behind them and provided the only unlit pathway around the frantic soldiers. Barclay weaved the escapees through the maze of rusted and dirty steel in complete silence. Stopping at a particularly derelict container, he yanked open the door. This was the low-grade attempt Ulsimore had made at hiding contraband. It was nothing more than a stairway and small basement, but it would do. He ushered the converts inside before pulling the metal door closed behind them.
“There is no way out!” a young man, dressed in oddly pristine formal attire, yelled in panic.
“Quiet!” Barclay whispered back before pressing his ear to the metal doors. Hearing nothing, he traced a rune and turned back to the group. The young man had pushed his way through the crowd and was now fidgeting nervously at the bottom of the stairway.
“Good sir, your actions are noteworthy. If…” the man stumbled on his words. Taking a slow breath, he stilled his body and held out a hand shake. “If you are looking for compensation, I assure you I can reward you suitably.”
Barclay didn’t respond as he took a hard look at the group. There was no way he could do this all himself. He needed to assess what type of fey he had just rescued. Everyone reacted to this type of situation differently. What he needed at this moment was one or two of them to have kept some sort of composure or focus. He noticed the auburn-haired woman break off from the group again and saunter toward the stairwell. She threw a disdainful look at the pleading young man, and Barclay couldn’t help but smirk as his first asset found him.
“We can’t stay here. They’ll eventually find us,” the woman said defiantly as she crossed her arms.
A reflection of light caught his eye, and his attention was drawn to the obsidian manacles on her wrists. All converts wore silver collars, standard tools for suppressing their transformation. But those manacles had a different meaning all together. He glanced at the crowd and saw both the nervous man and the tall woman also wore them. His eyes snapped to their faces—it seemed not everyone here was a convert. Those three were purebloods.
Walking to the bottom of the steps, he held out his arm toward the woman who had spoken, a formal greeting common amongst the fey. Barclay waited impatiently before muttering, “Damn kids.” These were young fey with no respect for proper etiquette. To not introduce oneself, especially to a benefactor, was the height of disrespect. Barclay fumed momentarily, but decided to ignore the sleight. He pushed aside the thought that they could be of much help and pulled a frosted mirror from his pocket. “This is our ticket out of here,” he said dismissively.
The pair looked at the mirror and he could tell they weren’t impressed. “Just watch,” he ordered and pushed his energy into the mirror. Yellow runes came to life and the frost cleared. Instead of showing a reflection, however, the mirror held an image of somewhere outside. Barclay turned the mirror around and the image began to move in sync. His plan had been to use this little portal to take everyone a mile or so away to where he had trucks at the ready for land-boun
d contraband. Unfortunately, the image in the mirror wouldn’t move farther out, and he nearly cursed when he realized. The Fog must have been of much higher quality than expected—it was creating a wall his portal couldn’t pass. He turned the mirror slowly, but the farthest point he could see was the dock by the old sloop.
The young man seemed to recognize the tool, but frowned. A note of condescension touched his voice. “Such old portals are often unreliable, are they not? Could you not have afforded something better?”
Barclay was already sure he didn’t like this man, both his tone and his ignorance had solidified that. He aimed the mirror as close to the sloop as he could before stepping into the jerk’s personal space. “Remind me again how you were planning to get out of that warehouse?” Barclay snapped. “Maybe we should just go with your plan instead, eh?” He didn’t give the man a chance to reply, just invoked the portal to the end of the graveyard dock and walked through.
Once through, Barclay surveyed the fiery wreckage of what he had built and now destroyed. The first case of Fog was all but cinders now, and only slight hints of red smoke still hung around the area. He could see soldiers running from building to building, trying to put out the fires with wind spells but doing as much harm as good. He considered it lucky none of them were water spirits, as that could have really put a hitch in the plan. The purebloods appeared behind him and he held the portal open until the converts followed. He was unsurprised to see the dark-skinned woman leading and the auburn-haired woman trailing behind.
He considered trying to crack the manacles, get a little more magical help, but he knew better. Those locks would take time to pick. A loud thud like a tree falling pulled his attention back to the entrance. A large wave rose from the lake and washed over the first warehouse. “Shit,” he cursed in a whisper.
The majors had returned, and one of them clearly knew his way around water. Concealing spells would be pointless now; it was going be a true race. Turning around, Barclay was about to order a full retreat, but stopped when he realized the condition the prisoners were in. Soot-stained clothes and faces; most were roughed up, and some looked as if they could barely keep their eyes open. A few even swayed just to keep their balance. Barclay knew there was no way they would make it in an all-out run.
Images flashed in his head from the war and the atrocities he had seen. He was frantic, turning back to see if they had been spotted. A slight blurring of light caught his eye next to the old ferry. Maybe, just maybe, he could get them to the pocket without being seen. It was the only option he had left, even if it was a temporary one at best. With a battalion of soldiers searching every nook and cranny, one was bound to walk into the pocket eventually, even if by accident. Maybe, just maybe, he could finally get those engines going.
“All right.” Barclay spoke low, but firm. “I need everyone to get low and hide your presence. Follow me close.” He crouched low himself and moved slowly, fluidly, toward the ferry.
“Wait,” the tall pure blood woman cried in a harsh whisper. “That’s back toward the soldiers! We should be going the other way.”
Barclay stilled, but didn’t turn around. “We have more than just those soldiers to worry about now. I got you out when I did precisely because their masters were away. They’re too powerful to fight.” He took a deep breath before adding, “You run, and I can guarantee they’ll catch you. But if you come with me, you’ll at least have a chance.” He didn’t wait for a response, simply continued his slow creep down the dock. He was relieved, however, when he heard a shuffling of feet following behind.
CHAPTER THREE:
Sail Away
Charles had been rudely awakened by the force of his cage upending. He had no idea how long he had been out, and without sunlight or stars to see, he had no idea what time it was. Something was off, that much he knew. The wards on the ceiling—or wall, now that it was on the side—seemed to be flickering. The chains that had been draining him were now muted. Taking a deep breath, he winced with pain from the injuries that hadn’t healed.
Pulling himself up from the floor, he realized there was much more slack in the chains to work with. By stretching the links, he could just barely reach his right fingers to the lock on his opposite wrist. Rummaging through his pockets, he pulled out an assortment of change. Carefully, he focused on moving just a trickle of magic into his hands, and the resulting strength let him twist and bend the metal coins a few times before dropping them into the manacle and getting to work. It always amused Charles just how arrogant the fey could be.
These chains were designed to withstand the strongest magic a fey could muster. But the actual locks were mere child’s toys. Magic was so ingrained into society that it wasn’t conceivable that simply picking them would be an option. He eyed the runes closest to his wrists, waiting for the hue to dim before manipulating the mechanism. In seconds, the lock clicked and the manacle fell away. He repeated the process for his other wrist and then his ankles, relieved to be free of the restraints.
Charles stood and turned slowly, watching the remaining runes. Something must have damaged the main rune on the outside of his box, as it seemed the spells had become erratic. The fading was most prominent on one corner, a corner he realized now was also getting hot. In his brief excitement at removing his shackles, he hadn’t noticed just how warm his prison was becoming. Pushing his senses outside the box, he realized whatever had helped him disrupt the runes seemed to be clouding his abilities, as well. He couldn’t feel anything. Seconds passed, and Charles became acutely aware that whatever was happening outside was going to cook him if he didn’t get out.
Taking a step toward the weakened corner, he hopped backward when he felt his feet start sizzling. He turned around, trying to figure out something with the cooler corner, but the runes were an unfortunate bright red. Even at his best, there was no way he’d be able to break through. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. He tried to condense magic into his fist, hoping desperately it wouldn’t betray him. He turned and jumped at the burning corner, throwing his fist forward.
He was almost sure he heard the crunch of bone before he felt the pain. The burning in his feet reminded him to pull back, now cradling his broken hand. He cursed, but never took his eyes off the corner of his cell. He readied himself, broken hand pulled back like an arrow. He pushed magic into his fist again, angered at his own inability to pull more. One good hit, that’s all he needed.
Again and again and again, Charles threw everything he had at the wall. Here and there, he managed a good hit where his power didn’t entirely fail. Large dents now peppered the corner, and he could see cracks forming where he must be just millimeters from breaking through. He had switched hands when it became clear his first fist was shattered. And now his second wasn’t much better. He pulled back and dropped to the ground. The heat had spread, and even with his back to the far corner, he could feel the air beginning to choke his lungs and the ground hot under his rear. He heard a crash and felt everything shake as something heavy collapsed onto his box.
He dropped his head, awaiting the inevitable. He’d thought he was dead back in Detroit, and he’d been at least a little upset. Now, he just wished it was over. After a lifetime of battles and running, it seemed almost fitting that he should die broken and alone. He welcomed more loud crashes and the shaking of his cell as, he guessed, the roof outside his box caved in. Sadly, it wasn’t enough to crush him. He lifted his head slightly when the shaking stopped, peaking at the far corner of his box. To his surprise, whatever had crashed into it had bent the corner and opened more small cracks. Through that space, Charles fell a call.
It was nighttime, and there was no roof above his small prison, Charles realized. The faint glow of moonlight filtered in with the promise of power. Charles knew the strings attached to that particular promise, and if it were any other situation he would have fought it. Staggering to his feet, he placed one burned heel against the back corner of his box and dashed forward, throwing his bo
dy at the wall. The charge wasn’t enough to completely open the box, but his hands had pushed through. He was only vaguely aware of the fire licking his skin as the moonlight took over his vision and everything went white.
Charles was transported to a memory from another life. He saw Alistair between him and a cadre of elite soldiers. There was a time when he could count all as friends, but in this memory he was down to just Alistair. “Run Charles,” Alistair whispered as magic built up in his fists. Charles hesitated, ready to fight to the end alongside the only one who ever truly believed in him. “It has to be you,” Alistair reminded him softly. Spinning around, Alistair grabbed his friend by the front of his shirt and yelled, “You gave your word!” before throwing him out of the dream.
Charles gasped as his mind returned to the waking world. He was falling through the night sky, though he couldn’t remember leaving the cage. One moment he was inside, basking in the touch of moonlight and dreaming. Now he was suspended above the chaos. He saw the burning buildings, the soldiers scurrying to and fro, and he smelled the rancid smoke surrounding it all. Gravity took over, and he thumped to the ground feeling stronger than he knew he should. There was an electricity in his blood, and he realized quickly just how bad an idea it had been to give in to the moonlight. Immediately he focused on the runes carved all over his skin, trying desperately to suppress the new power. Dozens of shapes pulsed against the force of the moon threatening to burst out.
When the spell took hold, Charles fell to his knees, his body coming down from the rush of the magic. Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt a flicker. He didn’t recognize it, and he knew it wasn’t from his own thoughts. After decades of training, he couldn’t believe someone was able to invade his mind without his knowledge. He looked around, noting none of the soldiers seemed to have caught his escape.
