by Ash, C. B.
“Drained dry,” the dockmaster explained, “throat torn out.”
A young man, human, dressed in a loose shirt, brown trousers and worn shoes skid to a stop along the boardwalk, calling out in their direction, "Oy! Ya the Brass Griffin?"
Krumer gave Pete a look. The dockmaster shrugged and puffed on his pipe. Once the gangplank was tossed down, the first mate walked to the dock proper and raised his voice in return.
"We're the Griffin. State your business,” Mr. Whitehorse replied.
The young man drug his eyes from the gaping wounds in the ship, then glanced uncertainly between the dockmaster and Krumer. "Ah'm from the Black Morgan. We picked up somethin' o' yers less’n a day back.”
"Picked up what? What's your name, boy? An where’s the Morgan tied at?” Krumer asked sternly.
"Name’s Johnny and we're at pier twelve. But wha' yer wantin's at the infirm'ry, backside o' the apoth'cary,” Johnny replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
The first mate raised an eyebrow, "indeed? Tell your Captain, the Griffin thanks him for the message. Fair winds to you, boy.” Krumer fished two pence out of his pocket and tossed to the boy.
"Aye!" The young man raced off down the docks the way he came.
Pete took another draw on his pipe. "Think it's Hunter?"
Krumer sighed, "Spirits willing."
Chapter 7
Krumer navigated through the maze of brightly-colored, squat buildings in the direction indicated by the boy from the Black Morgan. Initially, the first mate had no trouble finding his way along the ancient, damp cobblestones while he threaded his way through the town. It was not until he reached a fishmonger’s shop painted a cheery blue and aptly named ‘The Blue Fishery’ that Krumer realized he might actually be lost.
With a brief look overhead at the clear mountain sky, he set his jaw and quickly pressed onward. Krumer stepped around the corner of the fishmonger and set his course for the east side of the fishing town. His determination was rewarded a few minutes later when he saw a weathered sign for BeeBottles’ Apothecary. The first mate stepped through the door and inside.
Somewhere above the door, the jingle of bells stopped Krumer up short just inside the doorway. The apothecary was a modest, square building. Wooden shelves easily taller than Krumer’s height subdivided the room into narrow sections. On these, all manner of items from rope to pickled herring, and even a few cans of bicarbonate soda were neatly arranged.
An older woman, black hair shot through with streaks of gray all gathered into a proper bun atop her head, shuffled out in a blue gingham dress from behind the farthest shelf. She tilted her nose down to peer at the orc over her square framed glasses.
“And what can I do for you, young man?” she asked, her voice colored with a very faint French accent. “Be a dear and shut the door? We rather not let the stiff breeze in too often.”
The first mate shut the door behind him and fidgeted. “I was told you have an infirmary, madam? Also that you may have a patient? A rather determined man?”
A bemused smile spread across her face that seemed to warm the room. “Certainly! And if you are the ‘Mr. Whitehorse’ he keeps speaking of, your friend will be very pleasantly surprised. Step behind the counter, and take the hall to the back rooms. He will be eager to see you.”
Krumer nodded his thanks with a sideways grin, then vanished behind the counter.
A short walk later, the first mate knocked on the door frame of a long room that held a pair of beds. Each bed had its own nightstand and was separated by a cream curtain on a simple frame that ran the same length as the beds. Captain Hunter looked over from the first bed and smiled at his first mate in the doorway. The captain tried to rise, but winced instead and settled back onto the pillow. With a small shake of his head, Krumer walked into the room.
“Well, spirits do favor the foolish and Anthony Hunter. How are you?" Mr. Whitehorse asked with a smile that did not quite conceal his concern,
Hunter chuckled then winced in pain again. "Damnable cracked rib, hurts bloody awful. Aside from that, I’m alive. I don’t see me wrestling any more drakes soon, though."
“That would relieve the crew. Mr. O’Fallon, in particular.”
When the pain subsided, Hunter sighed. "Krumer, I know what stirred that drake to action. Sad to say, we helped irritate the whole thing."
The first mate pulled up a chair and took a seat next to the bed. "What do you mean?”
"When Broggins was aboard, he mentioned something about a prize. He boasted that it would set him up for quite awhile. I've a firm thought that he meant a drake egg. Skies above, it’ll be a hatchling if we're unlucky."
Krumer frowned. "Briggs' Reach isn't as wide as it is tall, but it's still a rat's nest enough when it wants to be. The egg of a lightning drake is valuable to the right buyer, despite how illegal it is to sell or transport an ‘animal dangerous to the general populace’ like a drake. Why Broggins, though? Not that I’d mind turning him in for it.”
"After the explosion, both the drake and I flew clear. As luck had it, I woke first, falling next to her. I quickly wrapped what was left of my rope around the drake's snout before she came to,” Hunter explained.
Krumer raised an eyebrow, "well, at least you weren’t about to say you rode on the back of flying turtles, I might not believe you. So the drake was a she?”
"Hold to, we're sailing towards that port," Hunter continued, "We struggled against each other a good bit, but that explosion took a lot of fight from her. She flew us back towards her roost and tossed me off on a ledge nearby. While I pondered where I’d landed, I noticed an old campsite. It had been used for observing the drake nests – I’ve seen those before. I was searching the campsite when the Black Morgan found me."
"I see, but how do you know it had anything to do with Broggins?"
“Hand me my coat, would you?” the captain asked.
Krumer handed Hunter his coat and the captain dug a weathered, but intact, brass pocket watch from a breast pocket. On the watch, an inscription of ‘A. Hunter’ was still clearly visible despite some tarnish and weathering.
"Even though it’s a bit battered, I’d know my pocket watch anywhere. There were bits and pieces of Wayfinder Guild gear about, as well. The kind used to capture a drake to tag them for study. Once I convinced the Morgan I wasn’t there to loot the camp – and that’s a bloody lively story for another time – they explained that they run supplies for the scientists when they’re out and about. Seems they remembered carrying a crate out from the camp many days back. They took it towards the Brittany coast.”
Krumer nodded in understanding, “which is where we picked it up with Broggins almost glued to it. It was carried in the wrong direction and he was trying to get it out here. But why?”
The captain shook his head. “Bloody hell if I know. Once we find Broggins, I plan on asking him straight away. The way I see it, we just need to get that egg out of town, and out to that clutch. Once she sees it, this all should solve itself. “
Krumer nodded and rose. "I've an idea where Broggin's would go, Anthony. There aren't many who'll traffic in drake eggs here."
"Get Townsend to put his pipe down and help you beat the bushes. There's no telling where he might've stashed it. Broggins isn’t the smartest man, but he’s not entirely a fool. He’ll keep it carefully hidden."
"Understood. Stay and rest. I'll send O'Fallon and Moira along to collect you. I will handle Broggins." With a feral gleam in his eye, Krumer left on his way. Captain Hunter settled into his own thoughts and gazed towards the partially open window through which the dim sounds of a dock, busy with the coming and goings of merchant ships, drifted into the room.
Chapter 8
“Beggin’ the Cap’n's pardon?” A voice said, breaking the stillness of the room.
Startled, Hunter opened his eyes. The mid-afternoon sun streamed through the narrow window near the captain’s bed. Dust danced in the sunlight. Anthony frowned as he sat up,
looking for the source of the voice. The speaker was a smallish man, dressed in worn but clean overalls and a coat. A speckle of gray decorated his hair and a twinkle shone in his blue eyes. He leaned on his broom for support. Captain Hunter nodded for the man to continue.
“Thankee Cap’n. My name’s Wilkins,” the small man said. “I’m the groundskeeper for the hospice here. Beggin’ ye favor but I couldna help but hear ya words with the big bloke a moment ago. Ye lookin’ for a drake egg, are ya?”
Cautious of his ribs, Hunter sat up slowly in bed, eyeing the man suspiciously. “Yes, I did say that. Why do you ask?”
“I might be someone who knows a bit about it,” the groundskeeper explained. “Yer first mate will be tearin’ up the waterfront, but he’ll not find a thing. The drake egg yer lookin’ for sits in a warehouse near the old dockmaster’s office where the old North docks used to be.”
The captain considered that a moment. “Mind you, I’m grateful for any words of help you might have but, naturally, I am suspicious. Drake eggs are valuable. In some places men would kill to have one of the blasted things.”
Wilkins chuckled and continued to lean on his broom. “What’s in it fer me ya might say? Good question Cap’n, and a sound one to be sure. I’ve my own business with the man ye named a bit ago.”
“Broggins?” Anthony asked.
“Aye, that’s the one. Cap’n, have ya stopped ta wonder where that dandy of a vampire got his funds ta even try most a’ his venture? Sure he stole from ya, but a body cannae steal all the way to a drake’s nest and back. That’s where the rub lies, ya see. Cheated me out of a good portion of ma savings in a game of poker, he did.” Wilkins explained. “I think he used some of that vampire mesmerism! Now, I’m not a man who owns much, nor oft do I care to, but what I do have I’d like ta keep and enjoy. The way I see it here? It’s only right that Broggins lose what he stole my money in the first place ta get.”
“If you have a grudge and know where it is, why not turn him in, yourself?” Hunter asked.
Wilkins chuckled again, “well Cap'n, my word isn't as good as it used ta be in many circles. Townsend would take some convincin' and then there's makin' it stick.”
Hunter eased himself from his bed and reached for his coat. He was suspicious of the man’s story, but if any of it was true, that meant the drake’s egg was within his reach. It was a chance he would have to take. At worst he would look foolish, something he had suffered before in his life and expected to probably suffer again in the future. Once he was fully dressed, the captain walked to the doorway and paused to look over his shoulder.
Captain Hunter frowned, “how can you be so sure it’s there?”
“Fair enough question,” the groundskeeper replied with a shrug. “I like takin’ a constitutional along the old North docks in the evenin’. The air comin’ in is cool, ya see, and helps ease me inta the evenin’. Well a night or so back, I’m walkin’ along and what am I seein’? Why the very man who cheated me outta my money!” Wilkins shrugged, “well, naturally, I followed him thinkin’ ta turn him inta Dockmaster Townsend. He lost me near the warehouses up there, but I saw he twas’ carryin’ a bag of meats and such. More’n his like would need. Now hearin’ yer tale, that bag makes sense ta me. He had ta been stockin’ up ta feed the beast when it hatched from it’s shell.”
“My thanks, Wilkins. I’ll see that any money I recover comes back to you,” Anthony replied with a smile.
A twinkle of mischief shone in Wilkins’ eye. “Kind of ye Cap’n, but nae necessary. I’ll know when ye’ve got the egg and Broggins be in the Dockmaster’s tender care. At times like these, the Reach does become quite a small little place.” Wilkins winked, “besides, a good drake shell’s worth it’s own bit o’ money.”
With a faint smile, Hunter nodded, “true enough. Luck, then.”
“Good trackin’, Cap’n,” Wilkins’ replied.
Anthony turned away, and with a fast walk marred by a slight limp, hurried out of his room. Quickly, he traversed the short wooden hallway that connected the apothecary from the infirmary proper. At the entrance to the apothecary, an older woman with black hair shot with streaks of gray held out a hand, and gave Anthony a stern look.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” She asked.
Hunter shook his head, “All due respect, Mrs. BeeBottles, to stop a bungler who has aspirations of being a very bad man.”
The proprietor’s wife folded her arms across her chest, doing her best to block the doorway. “You need to be in that bed, restin’ after what you’ve been through!”
Suddenly, Hunter gripped the woman by the shoulders. He winced, and moved her gently aside, ignoring her wordless exclamation of shock. The captain shook his head while he quickly limped past. “Madam, I only wish I could, but right now is not the time for this! I’ll rest later, you have my word!”
Once past Mrs. BeeBottles, he hurried through the shop then out the front where he stumbled into O’Fallon, who had just opened the door. O’Fallon stepped back in surprise, almost jostling into Moira, the Brass Griffin’s blacksmith, her brownish-red hair pulled back in a neat braid. The pair exchanged a glance as Captain Hunter caught himself against the doorframe and sighed, ignoring the sore stiffness that permeated his ribs and leg.
O'Fallon gave Hunter a surprised look. “Cap'n? What're ye doin'? We came tae help ye over tae the Griffin.”
“If at all,” Moira added with a narrow look at Captain Hunter’s slightly pale complexion. She reached for his arm, “we should be takin’ ya right to a bed, too. Ya look a few paces from death’s door. Here, lean on me while we go, Cap’n.”
Hunter waved away the man's concern and Moira's offer to support him on his wounded side. “I'm appreciative, but there's a last bit of business we need to see to.”
“That'd be?” O'Fallon asked curiously.
“Catch an egg thief or at least his ill-gotten egg,” Hunter replied. “I'll explain on the way.”
Chapter 9
The North docks, the original docks of Briggs Reach that had been ruined by a storm fifteen years before, sat draped in the late afternoon shadows. All that remained of the dock was a jumble of weathered and broken wooden pylons that thrust up out of the brown harbor water. The few original buildings, like warehouses and the old dockmaster's office, remained firmly intact despite the assault of weather and time. Outside the warehouses, Captain Hunter limped forward, followed by O'Fallon and Moira.
“This be the place, Cap'n?” O’Fallon asked, glancing around.
Anthony frowned while he, too, looked around. He finally replied, “yes, I believe so.”
O'Fallon nodded and gave the dilapidated building a measured look. Moira shook her head slightly. “Can we put trust in that Wilkins?”
“If we want to bring this to a close, Moira, this is as good a chance as any. O'Fallon, take the right side, Moira, the left. I'll strike in through here. Shout if you come across anything.”
“Cap'n? Ye'll be needin' this.” O'Fallon pulled a spare pistol from his belt and handed to Hunter.
The captain accepted the weapon. “True enough, I have felt a bit underdressed since I lost mine overboard. I’m sure they’re stuck in a tree by now somewhere.” He looked the pistol over carefully. It was an 1875 Remington Revolver, and well cared-for. He preferred his Schofield, but right now he had little room to complain. Captain Hunter gave them each a glance. “Good hunting to you both.”
Once the pair had hurried off, Hunter tightened his grip on the pistol and walked toward the warehouse entrance. The double wooden doors were closed, but the opened lock hung loose on the door hasp just below the latch. Hunter paused to listen. He could hear muffled sounds that seemed to emerge from deep inside the warehouse.
Satisfied the door was safe enough, he eased it open and slipped inside. The interior of the warehouse was in no better shape than the exterior. Stout beams still withstood the weight of a roof now dilapidated and weathered with age. A few dusty crates rem
ained, old shipments long forgotten by their owners. Hunter walked slowly around these and navigated the main warehouse in the dim light. Twice he heard birds stir overhead when they were startled by a noise from somewhere inside the building. Slowly, he moved farther into the building.
Once Anthony had come abreast of a cluster of rotten crates, the sound of wood sliding against weathered wood – like that of a window being opened slowly in hopes of not drawing any attention – caught his ears. The captain hesitated, crouching low against the crates, pistol at the ready. Birds stirred again in the rafters, and then he heard voices in whispered conversation. Hunter relaxed slightly; he guessed it was either O’Fallon or Moira taking advantage of a window in poor state of repair. The captain stepped beyond the crates upon hearing a faint, guttural snarl, followed by an odd scratching sound in the distance. He stopped and strained his ears. After a moment, he heard the sound again. Then a moment later, yet again. Setting his bearing on what he thought was the source, he eased deeper among the dusty shafts of light.
It was a few minutes more before the source of the sound appeared. There, in the back of the building sat the squat, winged figure of a small drake, only a foot or so taller than a large dog. It was a hatchling. Given its size it could not have been more than a few days old. The drake was intent on something above it. Every few minutes it would take a deep breath, gather its strength, and with all the clumsy grace of a youngling, leap up with a mad flutter of immature wings. At the peak of its jump, it would snap at a wiggling object that hung from a rafter. The object – a thin, pale man dressed in workman denim with a threadbare coat – swung like a worm on the end of a fishing line, his eyes wide with frustration and panic. Hunter stepped forward carefully to not startle the hatchling. He smiled thinly at the figure on the rafter.
“Bit of trouble, Broggins?” the captain asked, amused.
