by Ed Zenith
The Crimson Blade
(A Steampunk Novella Series)
Part III: It All Ends Here
By Ed Zenith
© Word Nerd Publishing
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
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Table of Contents
Before We Begin 4
About the Author 4
Other Works include: 4
1. 6
2. 12
3. 14
4. 17
5. 21
6. 29
7. 33
8. 37
9. 38
10. 46
11. 54
12. 66
Want more? 73
Before you go... 74
Before We Begin
Thanks for downloading this ebook.
For more information on stories by Ed Zenith, click the link in the back of this ebook to sign up to his mailing list
About the Author
Ed Zenith is a multi-genre writer residing in the South West of England and living in his own mind.
Find him at https://edzenith.wordpress.com/
Or on Twitter: http://twitter.com/edzenithwrites
Other Works include:
The Crimson Blade (A Steampunk Novella Series):
The Providence Engine
The Rail Pirates
It All Ends Here
Cyberkillers (Techno Novella Series)
Creation 1.0
Cerebrum Validis
1.
Acton practically threw Ash down the spiral staircase as they left the office.
“Frampton, get her started. We’re taking this one back where he belongs.”
Ash scampered down the stairs and had to run to keep up with Acton, who was striding briskly to the Horton. Frampton set about uncoupling the trailers from the engine, knowing better than to question Acton’s orders. Ash however, did not.
“What’s happening? Are you just going to do what they say?”
Acton looked away, seething.
“They’re just bullies! You and Frampton could handle them!”
Acton’s patience was waning now, his temper just one degree below boiling.
“You could take him! You can do anything! You’re Iron Acton!”
Acton exploded.
He grabbed Ash by his shirt, lifted him clean off the floor and threw him into a pile of packing boxes. Ash recovered quickly and rose unharmed but shaken.
“I said never to mention that name again!” Acton bellowed. “You want to know why I’m going to obey that piece of scrag? ‘Cos he’s evil. He’s honest too. The most honest dishonest evil wretch I ever met. If he says he’ll slit her throat, he’ll do it and he’d enjoy it. He’s sleep well that night, like a baby. Then he’d find someone else to torture and do it to them, until that bloody knife of yours ended up in his lap.”
Ash stared on at Acton, ranting like a maniac and saw the fear behind his cries. “So I’m - you’re - going to find that knife and hand it over, so you can save that girl’s life and probably a load of other people’s.” Acton was calming down slightly, his voice at least back to normal volume. “You see the way he got the belt? Went through the trouble of getting her to travel hundreds of miles, just so it would come to him? He enjoys it. It’s all a big game to him.”
“Turville!” came a voice from high above them. They turned and saw Milbury Heath standing at the top of the staircase grinning. “I think we’ll throw in a deadline, to spice things up? Shall we say two days?”
Acton turned back to Ash.
“See?”
*****
The crew passed the majority of the journey back down to Wiltshire in silence, all too aware of the severity of their mission. While Frampton and Ash stayed on the footplate, Acton chose to spend the journey in the carriage. He sat at his desk with his log book open, but stared into space, alternately blaming himself and Ash for their current situation.
Ash meanwhile did not have time to enjoy the ride, instead wallowing in guilt. Were he a harder, less caring person, he may have been able to shrug off his feelings and the harsh words Acton had spat at him, but Ash felt it all too clearly - a deep pain, empathy for the fear that Sandy must be feeling at that moment.
*****
After a brief detour around Swindon and a less-than-official route to avoid customs, the Horton arrived, more or less, exactly where Ash had found it. In fact, Frampton had found a track that ran closer to the Great Western Home for the Unruly and Damned, though they had to be careful not to travel too close, for fear the guards might notice the smoke rising from the engine.
Acton appeared at the footplate.
“Off you go then.”
“Me?” said Ash.
“Who else? You know exactly where the knife is and you’re small enough not to get noticed. You were canny enough to break out of the place. Now you’re going to break back in.”
Ash was about to protest when he realised that Acton was right. He knew the Home inside out, he could slip in and out in a matter of minutes and what’s more, the whole situation was his fault. If he had just shut up and not harped on about the knife so much, Sandy would be safe.
“Right. Get out of my way then,” he said and jumped off the footplate down to the track. He took a few deep breaths and after a reassuring nod from Frampton, took off into the night back towards the Home.
*****
Undercover of darkness, Ash managed to scrape through one of the fences in the farm area and plod through the familiar sticky mud to the main building. Security was obviously lax now the destruction of the Providence Engine had left much of the Home open and vulnerable. He had to calm his breathing, as his heart was racing with fear. The Home was the place that he had lived for his whole life and dreamed of escaping from every night. He must be crazy, he thought, to go back there. He forced his way in and used all his usual tricks to move about the Home unnoticed. The few guards that were on duty at this time of the night were either asleep at their posts, or simply not prepared to roam the halls in search of wayward prisoners. Ash reasoned that in any case, the last thing they expected was for someone to break in.
Slipping down a corridor, as quiet as a whisper, Ash came upon the Providence engine, or rather, the site of the once-great contraption. The main body of the Engine was scorched and blackened, the ceiling above it empty, exposed to the stars. The many feeder pipes that ran off the centre of the Engine were mostly fractured, hanging limp so the whole construction looked like a dead spider, its legs plucked off by an unruly child.
Ash allowed himself to smile.
The most disconcerting thing about returning to the Home however was the noise. There wasn’t any. For every hour of every day of Ash’s miserable life, he had heard the Providence Engine hiss and puff and whine and whistle. Even as he slept, the din of the infernal machine had infiltrated his dreams. Now, there was complete silence. It was beautiful, thought Ash, but it did make sneaking around a whole lot trickier.
He rounded the corner and came to the corridor that lead to the Bishop’s quarters, deep in the centre of the Home. He took a few steps down the corridor, his back pressed against the wall, sticking to the shadows. As he came close he saw that the door was unguarded, but the bloodstain from the guard’s beating a few nights before remained on the floor.
Ash felt the Home closing in a
round him. He had the all-too-familiar feeling of being imprisoned, owned and punished. It was so different to the taste of freedom that he had felt aboard the Horton and he knew which he preferred. He had to get back out and soon. He told himself to calm down and not to make any rash movements, otherwise he’d be caught and never see the Horton again.
He steadied his breathing and waited for a moment outside the door. He listened for any sign of movement inside and when he was sure there was none, he entered.
He swung the door open slowly without a sound and eased it back into its frame, squeezing it closed, careful not to let the lock click. Ash stared about the place and saw everything in its rightful position, untouched by the Engine’s explosion. The globe of the world sat untouched. The Bishop’s desk was static, strewn with papers and stationary. The chair was turned away from him, towards the window and the moon, unnaturally large and glowing red tonight, as if it were an omen, warning Ash to get a move on.
Ash turned to the wall and saw his bounty. The knife sat in its display, presiding over the room. The crimson blade in the moonlight seemed to shimmer and subvert the air around it. Ash grew entranced by its effect, aware of how much power the small object held over his friend’s life. He shook off the knife’s spell and reached up to it, removing it from the display case and turning to leave.
As he tiptoed across the luxurious rug, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The chair facing the window turned to reveal Bishop Cannings, absolutely still, his eyes glazed over in the same way Ash had seen before, after he had drunk his laudanum. His heart racing, Ash stood still, hidden in the shadows.
Perhaps, he thought, he’s under. Perhaps he’s so intoxicated he can’t see me, or at least recognise me.
His eyes locked on the Bishop’s bulk.
Perhaps he’s dead.
Although that thought should fill his heart with cheer, Ash saw the danger here. What if he was discovered with the dead body of the Bishop? He’d be strung up for sure, with no hope of a fair trial. Whether Cannings was drugged or sober, alive or dead, Ash had to make his move, a fast one, towards the door and back to the Horton.
He dived for the door and found the adrenalin he needed pulsing through his veins, giving him energy. Too much energy, he found, as when his hand reached the door knob, he saw it was shaking and failing to unlock it properly. This cost him precious seconds and he turned to see the prostrate Cannings rise from his chair and take one giant stride towards him.
Ash froze.
Cannings’s circular bald head loomed over him, his eyes vacant and bloodshot, his glare deathly.
Fear gripped his body and he felt all will and energy leave him as Cannings swung his weighty fist towards Ash’s skull.
2.
Brittany, International Celtic Alliance, 1839.
The woodsman whistled happily as he walked among the trees in the spring sunshine. His axe was slung casually over his shoulder and a saw from his belt. Today he was after some young saplings, still supple and thin. He planned to fell them and make an arbour, a sheltered place for his daughter to sit, as she had just given birth to his first grandchild. He was going to make it so that she could sit in the garden and watch her children playing on the grass. Though he was aging, he did not care for sitting still, or retirement. He loved to walk in the woods, as he had done all of his life and nothing beat the good hard work of tree felling.
He came across an area of the woods that was usually in full bloom, especially in the spring, but at this moment it looked as though the ground and the trees around him were sick in some way. The young shoots of fresh saplings and bluebells did not grow here and the atmosphere seemed heavy and dark.
He saw their feet first.
Two men, Englishmen, he guessed from their clothes, lay dead on the ground. They had been there for some time by the look of them and hunting knifes lay on the ground around them, suggesting a fight had broken out. They were dressed the same, could almost be brothers, but they had killed each other. Over what?
The old woodsman saw a wooden box out of the corner of his eye and knew at once that this was the treasure the men had come to blows over. He moved over to it as if in a trance and opened it.
The crimson blade lay in the box, surrounded by its companion, the jewelled belt.
He felt its power at once. He was a god-fearing man and knew there and then that the thing was evil, that no good could come from it. He also knew that the knife had a power over him now and he would never be free.
He buried the men where they lay, using his axe and bare hands to dig the earth. He disposed of anything that may identify them and took the box and its contents to a barn he knew of, deep in the woods.
He never made the arbour for his daughter, but instead gave her the jewelled belt, which she wore with pride, until a rich Englishman, years later, offered a small fortune for it.
The woodsman insisted on going to the woods everyday after that. His family thought it strange that he did not come back with any wood anymore, but the walks seemed to calm him. He visited the barn every day and stared at his treasure. He died soon after and his treasure lay in the barn for decades, until another Englishman came searching for it…
3.
Ash slowly regained consciousness. His head was throbbing, his eyes slow in adjusting to the gloom.
He had expected to find himself in one of the cells, or solitary confinement, guards surrounding him and watching his every move. Instead he found he had moved only a few feet. He remained in Cannings’s office, now bound to a flimsy chair, the Bishop leaning casually against his desk, opposite Ash.
“You could have got away with it you know,” slurred Cannings, obviously under the influence of his beloved laudanum. His eyes were drooping and his speech wavering. “When you made your spectacular getaway, everyone assumed you had been killed in the blast. When no body was recovered, they said you’d escaped. You’d die out on the downs, they said. But no. I should have known you’d be back to haunt me.”
Ash shook his head to try to regain his consciousness fully and looked up. In his hands the Bishop held the crimson blade, turning it around and around, filling Ash with fear.
“We burned your records. Better to deny all knowledge of you than to admit an escape. So you see, no one was looking for you. No one cares about a scraggy little orphan criminal.”
Ash was suddenly seized with anger. Anger at the Bishop, at his upbringing and his current situation. He yelled and started towards the Bishop, ready to throttle the very life from him, kick him, scratch out his eyes, anything. But his ties were bound tightly and he only succeeded in toppling his chair to the floor. Cannings laughed.
“Pathetic.”
“I know about the knife!” blurted Ash. “I know you killed to get it! I know what you were going to do with it!”
Cannings looked shocked and vaguely impressed.
“Really? Then you have just made yourself all the more expendable,” he said, lifting the knife in to the light, admiring it. “It is a beauty isn’t it? And fearsome. You know, it is far from a decorative item. The jewels were added for effect, of course, but the blade itself is a rather effecting hunting design.” Cannings circled him like a vulture, turning the blade over and over in his hands, the light jumping off the scarlet dagger. “The huntsman would use it to slit the throats of their prey and later gut the animal and skin the hide from its flesh. I’ve never done it myself, perhaps I might try it out tonight.”
“But…” Ash’s voice shook with fear as he saw the delight in Cannings’s eyes.
“But nothing!” boomed the Bishop. “You don’t exist anymore! Your fate is my will. I will do with you whatever I please.”
Cannings dropped to his knees and knelt beside Ash. He gripped Ash by the hair tightly with one hand, forcing his head back, exposing his throat. With the other hand, he lowered the knife slowly towards Ash’s bare neck.
“Goodnight, sweet prince…”
The window beside
Cannings’s desk shattered. Shards of glass rained down on Ash and the stunned Bishop as Acton swung into the room on a rope and landed atop the mahogany desk. His body glittered with tiny shards of glass. Cannings raised himself off the ground and stood dumbfounded in front of Acton.
“Good evening, my Lord,” said Acton. He raised his foot and gave the Bishop a swift and powerful kick to the face, knocking him out cold. “Long time no see.”
4.
Fitz and his ragtag regiment of lunatics had spent the night amassing the equipment they would need for the mission in hand. The mission was simple enough; dispose of a rogue Bishop and recover the rightful property of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, leader of the Glorious English Empire. In truth, it didn’t need all five of them to go, but to send just one or two would be foolhardy. Fitz was capable of the mission himself of course; he had once smuggled the stolen Bayeux Tapestry out of France and back to English shores by wrapping it around himself and pretending to be a fat monk, so the mission would be a breeze, but what sort of Captain would he be if he didn’t let his men train for more important missions? Sending both or either of the Wick brothers on their own would be deadly. Both were loose cannons and Fitz wasn’t sure he could trust them not to kill each other. Thrubwell was a nice enough lad, but he would inevitably blow something up, which wasn’t quite as subtle an outcome as the mission required. Marston Meysey was an excellent spy, but from his briefing, Fitz assumed the Bishop would play dirty and Marston had yet to take a life in the course of duty.
No, the whole regiment would go together, Fitz had decided. Besides, they didn’t get a lot of missions nowadays. KRUM existed to protect the Crown using discrete, deniable and deadly methods. With England being world leaders in industry and commerce, the Royal family was not threatened as much as they were previously and so KRUM spent a great deal of their time in their Swindonion bunker, playing endless rounds of rummy and three-card brag.
