Metal and Magic

by Chris Paton

  “Damn yard-arm,” he said. What will I do when you're away? Who is going to fix it?”

  “You must have it serviced, and then I will see to it when I come back to England.”

  “Yes,” said Egmont. He stared out to sea for several minutes before turning to Luise and taking her soft hand in his own weathered and wrinkled one. “I am pleased we talked on The Amphitrite, and that I told you about my feelings for your mother, and the time I spent with her.”

  “So am I,” said Luise. “But that is not what troubles you Admiral. Is it?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Then you had better just say it. The Tanfana was all but loaded when we walked away from the siding shed, and Khronos has a head start, and...”

  “You can't return to Britain, Luise.”

  “What?

  “When you have found this fellow Abraxas, and you have stopped Khronos...” Egmont paused. “I admit, that won't be easy, but when you have done all that, you must promise me never to return to Britain.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because of your name.”

  “My name?”

  “Hanover.”

  Luise shifted upon the bench and frowned. “Whatever is the problem with my name?”

  “Unfinished business,” Egmont said and sighed. “It will be the death of me, but not you.”

  “You are not making any...”

  “Sense? There is nothing sensible about it. Britain is on the brink of war with the German Confederation. There are rumblings, at least. And, in an effort to distance herself and her family from any connection with the Germans, the queen ordered me to remove any trace of the name Hanover that could be connected to her. She has, as you know, changed her own name.”

  “Smith mentioned this in London. Is this the great secret that has been bothering you, Admiral?” Luise said and laughed. “Oh, to think that is all it is.”

  “But it is not all, Luise. I was instructed to remove all trace. It was me that sent your brother to Afghanistan on a potentially suicidal mission. And it was me that was instructed to make sure you didn't survive your encounter with the demons in London.”

  Luise let go of the Admiral's hand. She clasped her hands together in her lap and stared at him. “Are you saying the queen ordered you to kill me, Admiral?”

  “Yes,” he said. “That's exactly what I am saying. And that is why, when you find Hari in Russia, I want you to stay with him, and I want you to disappear, Luise. Forever.”

  Luise stood up and took a step towards the dockside. She looked down at the dead below her and turned to face Egmont.

  “So this is goodbye?” she said as the first tear ran down her cheek.

  “Yes,” said Egmont. “Our last goodbye.”

  Chapter 10

  The Great Southern Plain

  Arkhangelsk Oblast

  July, 1851

  The mist hung over the Laya River and reminded Stepan of gunpowder clouds. It clung to his jacket in tiny beads as he drank black tea from a tin mug. The thick crust of bread in his hand sagged beneath the slab of salted pork. There was no butter, but Stepan chose not to complain when the cook had spread the fat of the pig over the bread with a broad-bladed knife. If this was how the Cossacks had started every morning of the campaign, Stepan thought, it is little wonder it dragged on for as long as it did. He took another bite, chewed and washed it down with a slurp of tea.

  The Cossacks around him stirred at the sound of a horse on the far side of the river. The rapid beating of its hooves upon the ground suggested an urgency that encouraged one of the men to wake Ivan and Lena. Stepan smiled at Ivan's belligerent response to being woken, and he added a few more choice words to his personal Cossack dictionary. Ivan staggered from the campfire to the breakfast table and grunted as someone pressed a mug of tea into his hand. He took a long draught, slapped the mug into the man's hand and walked down to river bank. Stepan and a small group of Cossacks followed him.

  The horse slowed, tossing its head from side to side as it emerged through the mist. The rider slid out of the saddle and let go of the horse's reins. The beast continued down the bank to the river and drank.

  “What news?” shouted Ivan.

  The rider cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Russian troops are approaching.”

  “How many?”

  “One company...”

  “That's one hundred and ten men,” said Stepan.

  “...with four walkers and the rest on horseback.”

  Ivan turned from the bank and looked for Stepan among his men. “How many men in a walker?”

  “Twenty, perhaps,” Stepan said with a shrug. “They were dismounted when Lena and I met them.”

  “And the rest on horses,” Ivan said and wiped the previous night's stupor from his face with a dirty hand. “Fifty horse. Hm,” he grunted.

  “There's more,” the scout called from across the river. “Kapitan Bryullov leads the company.”

  “Bryullov?” said Ivan and laughed. “Now this is interesting. What do you say to that Stepan Skuratov?”

  “Say to what?” said Lena, stifling a yawn as she passed through the men gathered around her father.

  “Our friend, Bryullov, has followed our trail,” said Stepan.

  “He took his time,” she said and took a mug from the Cossack closest to her.

  “How far away?” Ivan asked the scout.

  “Bryullov sent a platoon to the east, the south and north. The one that went north will find our camp in an hour or less.”

  Ivan yawned and shook his head. He stepped into the river, the water lapping the toes of his leather boots. He crouched and splashed several handfuls of cool water upon his face. As the water dripped through his beard he gave the first orders of the day.

  “Mishka, mount up and take your men to meet that northern platoon. Stop them or slow them down while we get organised here.”

  “Da, it is done,” said Mishka. He slapped the man next to him on the arm and they ran back to the stockpile of ammunition and weapons to prepare.

  “I want a patrol going west and east to stop us being flanked.”

  “I'll do that, Ivan,” said the large Cossack standing next to Stepan. He had spent the night watching Stepan become familiar with the long rifle. Stepan was impressed that the man did not yawn once.

  “Good, Yurii. Send young Andrei to the west. It will be good for him, and have Kateryna Shkuro lead the patrol to the east.”

  “Da,” said Yurii. “Consider it done.”

  As Yurii left to organise his patrols, the Cossacks crowding the river waited for further instructions. Ivan ordered the scout to cross the river and eat before turning to the men.

  “Our friends have not arrived yet, so we will have to deal with these Russians ourselves,” Ivan said. He grinned as the men cheered. “I will lead, together with my good friend Bohdan,” he said and slapped the small Cossack standing next to him on the back. The man reeled and spilt his tea on the ground. The men laughed and cheered again. “Friends, we have a sniper among us.” Ivan pointed at Stepan. “My daughter will ride with him, and they will make mischief from somewhere high up...”

  “Difficult on the plain,” said Lena to Stepan.

  “Today marks a new dawn for Cossacks. Today we ride with the Wolf of Arkhangelsk and not against him. May his teeth flash twice as sharp as they did when we saw him last and we were the prey.” Ivan clapped his great hands together and the men hurried from the river to prepare for battle. Ivan strode up the bank and spread his arms wide to grip Lena and Stepan around the shoulders. He steered them towards the activity around the supplies and horses.

  “Daughter,” said Ivan. “Keep this man alive. I don't fancy telling the beautiful Anna that her man is dead.”

  “Da, father.”

  “And Stepan?”

  “Yes, Ivan?”

  “Watch my daughter. Don't let her do anything foolish. She can be...” Ivan paused as he searched for the right
word.

  “Impetuous,” said Stepan.

  “No, that's not it,” Ivan said and frowned. “Hotheaded, is what I mean.”

  Stepan smiled as Ivan let go of his shoulder and gripped his daughter in a powerful embrace. Lena rolled her eyes at Stepan and waited for her father to let go.

  “I only have one daughter,” Stepan heard Ivan say. “For once, child, don't do anything stupid. Listen to Skuratov. Do what he says.”

  “Father?”

  “I know,” Ivan said and let go. “Humour me?

  “Da,” said Lena and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on both cheeks.

  “You can tell me more about this Russian man when we are finished with Bryullov,” Ivan said over his shoulder as he walked over to his men.

  “I promise,” she said.

  Stepan was quiet as he admired the ease with which the Cossacks prepared their weapons and horses. The mood was high as they joked, but Stepan caught the serious undertone when an experienced Cossack checked the straps of a young man's horse, or when a female rider secured her musket in its saddle holster and then tested how quickly she could draw it, repositioning her saddlebags when she discovered a hindrance. My men were never this disciplined, he mused, and yet we considered the Cossacks to be drunken fools. Perhaps that is why we never truly beat them?

  “Come, Kapitan. Let us find you a horse,” said Lena. She led Stepan between the men to a clearing in the trees where Bryullov's horse was tethered to a tree beside Lena's mare. The horse snorted at their approach only to settle as the mare rubbed her head against its neck. The black sock markings on the horse's forelegs contrasted sharply with its chestnut flanks. Stepan approached the horse and smoothed his hands over its nose and whispered words from the song he used to sing for Nikolas when he was small. The horse flicked its brown eyes from Stepan to Lena and back again. It lifted its left foreleg and tamped the ground with its hoof. Stepan smoothed his hands down the horse's neck, rubbing his palm up and down until the horse stopped fidgeting. Stepan continued to whisper and pat the horse as he checked the saddle and found his long rifle secure in a holster on the right side of the horse. The horse's ears twitched and Stepan reached up to stroke them.

  “You will need a name,” he said. He thought for a moment and then walked around to the horse's head. “Bystro, is what I will call you.”

  “Quick? Da, it is a good name,” said Lena as she climbed into the saddle of her mare. “It will bring you luck.”

  “Yes,” said Stepan as he mounted. “I believe it will.”

  He turned in the saddle to look at Lena. Two huge flintlock pistols were holstered either side of the saddle pommel, a short rifle poked out of a holster on the right, and a sword hung from the opposite side. Lena flexed her arm and tightened the bandage. She nodded to Stepan that she was ready.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked and pointed at her arm.

  “I can fight, Kapitan,” she said.

  “I don't doubt that. But does your arm hurt?”

  “Listen, Kapitan,” Lena said and leaned forwards to stroke the side of her mare's head. “Your job is to shoot Russians. My job is to keep you alive while you shoot Russians. Nothing else matters. I can do my job. Can you do yours?”

  “Yes,” Stepan said.

  “Good. Then we can go.” Lena urged her mare forwards with a gentle kick of her heels. She walked the grey mare past Stepan. “And yes,” she said when she was ahead of him. “It hurts.”

  Stepan smiled and flicked the reins for Bystro to follow her. He could hear the three small patrols as they splashed across the river. Ivan's main force of twenty Cossacks and horses, waited for the patrols to clear the river before they crossed to the other side. Ivan stopped to wave to Stepan and Lena.

  “Good hunting,” he said as he let his hand drop to the reins and led his men up the opposite bank and onto the plain.

  “Are you ready to shoot some Russians, Kapitan?”

  “I am ready to make things right,” Stepan said. And if that means shooting Russians, he thought, then I guess I am ready to do that too.

  The river reached as high as Bystro's belly, and the heels of Stepan's boots. He urged the horse through the river and up the bank behind Lena. The dust of Ivan's Cossacks billowed into a cloud and Stepan called Lena to a halt as he surveyed the plain. He pointed at a low knoll to the southeast of the river. Several miles away, it was a good position from which to spot Bryullov’s men, and, depending upon where the Cossacks engaged the company of Russians, it was within the range of Stepan's long rifle. He said as much to Lena and she nodded.

  “Da. It is good enough. Maybe we will find something better when we get to it?”

  “We might. As for now,” Stepan said and smoothed his hand along Bystro’s neck. “Let's ride.”

  Lena grinned and whistled her mare into an explosive start. Before Stepan could react, Bystro leaped after the grey mare and chased her into the dust cloud in the wake of the Cossacks. The first rumble of the Russian's mammoth walkers trembled through the dry earth of the Great Southern Plain, and Stepan Skuratov prepared himself for the first steps in his mission to free the city of his birth, and to find his son.

  Chapter 11

  The Hindu Kush

  Afghanistan

  July, 1851

  For as long as Hari could remember, djinn had been a part of his life. His mother had told him djinn tales at night before he went to sleep, the sound of the River Indus rushing past the village. The villagers had blamed djinn for failing crops and goats gone missing. On his first hunting forays in the mountains above the village, the men had shown him djinn scratchings on the rocks and talked of djinn battles in neighbouring lands. The men thanked the gods there were no living djinn in India – there were enough devils to deal with, but the light in their eyes around the campfire when they talked of djinn convinced Hari that every one of them wished for just one chance to see one for themselves. Hari did too. And now I have two of them, he thought and craned his neck upwards as he slipped his hand inside his shirt and ran his fingers around the tattoo on his chest.

  Smith, the head of the Indian Bureau of Cartography, had been the only one of Hari's English masters to condone the tattoo and to understand its meaning.

  “You are alone out there in the wilds, Hari,” he had said all those years ago when Hari had begun his training as a pundit for the East Indian Company. “I think it prudent that a man consider all eventualities, and,” he had whispered, “it mystifies the British and distances you from them. That makes you even more valuable to me, Hari.”

  It was on his first mission inside Afghanistan that Hari had been marked with the anti-djinn tattoo. An old woman had painted the azure blue spiral on his chest with the end of a short stick, flattened and bashed into a brush. The woman's sons had gripped Hari by the arms as their mother daubed the caustic paint upon his chest. Hari could still remember the smell of burning flesh and powerful magic, but it had been years later, when the mark had fully healed, when he discovered the key to unlocking the djinnlight. The mark became more than just a defensive charm when Hari realised it was a weapon he could wield. The first wild djinni that had attacked Hari on a narrow goat tracks in the Himalayans, had created such a fire upon his chest that Hari had tried to smother the mark with his hands only to draw a small ball of djinnlight into his palm. He had thrown it away in terror, only to find the djinni was even more terrified of it. A month later, in the old woman's hut, Hari had asked if every man and woman so marked could wield the djinnlight?

  “No,” she had said and cast a disappointed glance at her sons. “Only the few.”

  She had said no more, and died the following winter, leaving Hari to discover the powers and limitations of djinnlight by himself, in the mountains, in secret.

  So much of my life has been secret, in the shadows, he mused as he drew a ball of djinnlight into the palm of his left hand. He turned to look at Najma and nodded for her to prepare herself as the djinn above them shrieked towards the
village locked in a deadly embrace.

  Najma loaded the Lightning Jezail and ran to the ruined building to her left. She stumbled as the djinn slammed into the packed earth of the village square, picked herself up and ran through the cloud of dust. Hari drew his kukri with his right hand and pointed the tip to the top of the building when Najma waved to say she was ready. He lowered the blade and circled the djinn as they wrestled in the dust, exchanging clawed punches as they hissed at each other.

  “Why do you fight me?” said the djinni. “Are we not brothers of the pit?”

  Jamie, his skin flickering between hues of blue and the fiery flames of orange, pierced his opponent's chest with the claws of his right hand. “I thought we were brothers, kin perhaps, but my master says otherwise.”

  “Your master?” the djinni laughed as it gripped Jamie's hand by the wrist and wrenched the claws free of his chest. “That puny man in the dust? Why do you shackle yourself to him when you could be free?”

  “He saved my life,” Jamie said and whirled within the dust of battle to grip the djinni from behind. He turned the djinni's great body towards Hari. “And he pulled me from the pit.”

  Hari cast the djinnlight at the djinni's chest at the same time as Najma fired from her position on the building. The bullet crackled with static and punched into the side of the djinni's head as Hari's djinnlight pummelled the air from its lungs. The djinni reeled and Jamie pressed its body into the dirt, holding it as it withered into the skinny frame of a wizened old man. Jamie relaxed and returned to his natural form.

  “Well done, British,” said Hari as he pressed a ball of unspent djinnlight into the tattoo on his chest.

  “I am hungry now,” said Jamie. “And I really need some clothes. And so does he.” He kneeled to check on the old man at his feet. The copper-infused bullet from Najma's Jezail fizzed in the dirt until the energy was extinguished and it spun in a slow circle. Jamie picked it up. “It didn't penetrate the djinni's skin?”